He also thought the entire affair was utterly ridiculous. Foulois had been assigned to Indiana Jones by none other then Henri DuFour, head of the French Secret Service. When he described to Foulois the crescentshaped machines and their huge mother ship, Foulois reacted with disdain. He simply did not believe a word of it, no matter what any eyewitness so claimed.
Yet he accepted his subordinate position without hesitation. DuFour had put the case convincingly. "It does not matter what we believe about these fantastic machines, Rene. What matters is that the war with Germany has been over only twelve years and we are faced with a Hun who is already rearming with a frantic pace.
You are aware of the training program in Russia for the Germans? For their navigators and pilots especially? Good; then you know how serious this may be. We must find out the specifics of what the Hun is doing. That is your task. You will work for this American fellow, and you will proceed as if you believe everything."
Foulois nodded. "It promises great sport. I understand they will modify one of their Ford aeroplanes. The trimotored machine. I look forward to flying it."
In the meantime, isolated in the lonely farmhouse, chafing at the bit, they all wondered what Jones could possibly be doing in Chicago that was so important to keep them on edge all this time.
They would simply have to wait.
4
The burly man wearing a heavy windbreaker and a seaman's cap snugged to his head walked briskly, with the sign of a slight limp, through the Chicago bus terminal. Anyone who saw the man would remember those salient points; the clothing, the cap, the aura of strength, and that slight odd walk tipping him to one side as he threaded through the crowds.
Outside the terminal he stood close to the building, watching lines of people disappearing within a slowly advancing stream of taxicabs. Soon the crowd had thinned, and he turned to walk along the line of taxis. He seemed casual or nonchalant in his movement, but his eyes moved carefully from one cab to the next until he saw the yellowandred markings of the vehicle for which he'd been searching. The seaman stopped, cupped a cigarette lighter between his hands, and pressed a button. No flame appeared, but a tiny bright light flashed rapidly. Almost at once the cab's headlights flicked on and off two times. The seaman slipped the
"lighter" back into a pocket, walked to the cab, and climbed inside. The moment the door closed the driver pulled out into traffic.
"Nice evening, sir," the driver said, studying his passenger through the rearview mirror.
"Except that the kitchen's too crowded," came the answer.
"More saucers than cups, I'd say."
"You prefer your tea hot or cold, sir?"
The passenger smiled to himself. "I like my coffee black."
That was the confirming line for Professor Henry Jones to make to the driver.
Now he had his final line to accept from the driver.
"As I do. Pour it into the saucer to cool it off quickly."
"Excellent," said Jones.
"Treadwell does overdo this backandforth a bit, doesn't he?" The driver laughed.
"Depends," Indy said noncommittally. "You know his routines. I hardly know the man. I didn't get your name," he added quickly.
"I didn't give it. Suppose you tell me what it is and we can dispense with all this secret palaver."
"Colonel Harry Henshaw, United States Army. Fighter pilot, test pilot, technical intelligence, experimental projects."
"Professor Henry Jones. Professor of Medieval Lit and Studies from dear old Princeton," the driver said. "How come they don't call you Hoosier instead of Indy?"
Indy laughed. No question now that this was the army officer Treadwell had set up for this meet. "Most people can't spell Hoosier, I guess."
Henshaw chuckled, then cut off his mirth as if with a switch. "Your plans still on for the train tomorrow night?"
Indy accepted the change in tone and attitude. They were down to business.
There was another confirmation that at this moment all was well: He hadn't told the driver —Henshaw—where he wanted to go, but Henshaw was making a direct line to The Nest nightclub that was Indy's destination.
"It is," Indy said brusquely.
"I'm supposed to ask you some questions," Henshaw said.
"Ask away."
"You've got a lot of people hanging on the fence, Professor, and—"
"Indy. No Professor."
"Okay. Like I said, there's a lot of fencehanging going on. Like what was so hot about that train cargo down in South Africa."
"Treadwell didn't explain?"
"No, sir. My instructions were to hear it from you directly."
"Colonel, let's start by your telling me what you've heard," Indy directed.
"Something about an artifact. The grapevine, which, by the way, is so hot the wires are glowing, has it that the artifact is either from an ancient civilization or,"
Henshaw hesitated, "I know this sounds crazy, but it may be extraterrestrial."
In the gloom of the cab's rear seat, Indy smiled. The plan he and Treadwell had put together well before this moment was working. Treadwell was a longexperienced investigator of both military intelligence matters and criminal activities. He believed firmly that it's easier to pass off a big lie than a small one, and when you combine skillful deception with the greed of others you can get people to believe almost anything you want them to believe.
Indy recalled what Treadwell had told him: "When there's a chance you may lose something very valuable, or it may be taken by force, you can't always defend yourself properly. So the trick is to put a tracer in with your valuables. In many cases you can't use chemicals or a radio signal. Distances, time, other complications; that sort of thing.
So you want to trigger an action in the people who've done you dirty, and that way they become the tracer."
Treadwell had also told Indy it was important for his cab driver—a.k.a. Colonel Harry Henshaw, U.S. Army— to be told the truth, that the artifact in the South African robbery had been engineered in concept by Treadwell. With Indy's unique talents in archeological mysteries, together they had masterminded a fake artifact that seemed to be of such extraordinary rarity that it was almost beyond price.
"Harry's a strange sort of duck," Treadwell had explained, "but the man is absolutely brilliant. Unique, too, in the way he works. He's like a, well, a walking encyclopedia of thousands of bits and pieces of information that he brings together to make sense out of things that baffle the rest of us. Tell him the truth about the artifact, but, please, Indy, do so when you two are very much alone and your conversation is secure."
Indy looked about him. Obviously the taxi in which he was riding didn't belong to any cab company. It had to be government property, used for just such "unusual transportation" as of this moment. And since Henshaw would be a very tight member of the group trying to find out what Indy was after, those incredible discs or crescents or saucers, or whatever they were, well, Treadwell was right. Get Henshaw started as soon as possible in his own special investigative way.
"Harry, is this cab secure?" Indy asked the man at the wheel.
"Secure? Indy, this thing is armored. So is all the glass. You could empty a Thompson submachine gun at this cab and the bullets would bounce off."
"I don't mean that," Indy said quickly. "Any recording equipment? Mikes, radios?"
"No, sir. She's clean."
"Harry, Treadwell wants you brought into the picture about that artifact."
The cab swerved suddenly; Henshaw was that taken by surprise. "I . . . I'm glad to hear that," he said. "I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't, well, hanging on the edge to know about it."
"Don't bother looking at the stars, Harry."
"What do you mean?"
"You know what the expression 'red herring' means?"
"Yes. A false lead. Something you plant to mislead other people."
"Well, that cube's a red herring."
The colonel kept his silence for a while
. "You're certain of that, Indy? I mean, we've been hearing such wild stories—"
"You're supposed to hear them," Indy broke in. "That's been the plan from the beginning. Of course, you do not repeat this to anyone else. Treadwell's convinced there's a leak somewhere in his organization, so he's playing everything close to the vest. But it was his decision you be informed as to what's going on. If Treadwell is right, that cube could give us some good leads."
Henshaw laughed humorlessly. "You know something? I was hoping, you know, a wild sort of hope, I guess, that it really was from, uh," he gestured with one hand, upward, "from out there."
"Not this time, Harry." Indy studied the scene outside the cab. "We're almost there. I want you to let me off about two blocks away. Around a corner so no one at the club sees me coming from this cab."
"Got it. You want a backup?"
"No. This is a solo job. You know where our group is staying, right?"
"We'd had the place screened and covered before you landed there."
"Thanks. It's good to know." Indy gestured to the next street corner. "Let me off just ahead."
Henshaw eased the cab to the curb. Indy waited until no pedestrians were near the cab. Before Henshaw realized what was happening, Indy had slipped away and was just turning the corner.
The burly man wearing a heavy windbreaker, scuffed boots, and a seaman's knitted cap shuffled clumsily toward the entrance to Chicago's jazz and blues club, The Nest. Indy limped badly in a lurching motion as he approached the brightly lit awning and an entrance doorman about the size of a small grizzly bear. Mike Patterson was all show as a doorman. An exprizefighter who failed to make the big time, he was big and tough enough to handle his real job as a bouncer, and as an entrance guard to keep out the bums and riffraff like this shufflefooted geezer trying to get inside.
"Beat it, ya bum," Patterson growled at the figure before him. "Y'know something, Mac, y'stink. I betcha ya ain't had a bath in a year of Mondays."
Not even Henshaw had seen the beard that appeared on Indy's face moments after he left the cab. It was a perfect fit that Gale had prepared for him, using theatrical glue to secure it to his face. Whoever saw this miserable creature would never think of Indiana Jones or anyone who looked like him.
Stooped over, wheezing, the old "seaman" tried to push past Patterson. "I ain't botherin' nobody," he whined. "Just wanna hear the music, y'know?"
A massive fist hung threateningly before the disheveled bum. "Ya don't get outta here, y'creep, all ya gonna hear is da birdies singing, y'get me? Now beat it before I whack ya into da middle of next week!"
"Don't hurt me," the old man pleaded, cringing.
Patterson guffawed. This was going to be a pleasure. The beefy fist closed around the windbreaker, hauling the other man from his feet until only his toes touched the sidewalk. The other fist drew back to deliver a pulverizing blow.
It never got started. The old man pushed his face close to Patterson's features. With little effort, he blew a cloud of powder from his mouth into Patterson's eyes. Fire seemed to erupt in the vision of the doorman. He howled with sudden agony, reeling backwards, tripping over an awning stanchion, and falling clumsily to the ground. "I'm blind!"
he screamed. "I can't see! My eyes . . . I can't see!"
Several men rushed from the jazz club. They stopped short at the sight of Patterson groveling on the sidewalk, knuckles rubbing his eyes frantically. Jack Shannon of the Shannon Brothers, club owners and managers, took swift stock of the situation. Immediately he grasped the smelly bum by the arm, as much to hold him upright as to keep him on the scene.
"What happened here, old man?" Shannon demanded an explanation. He gestured to Patterson. "Did you do that?"
"I didn't mean no harm," the seaman whined. "Want to hear the music, that's all. Gotta listen to this guy, Shannon."
"How do you know his name?" Shannon barked. The question came without thinking. Shannon was known through the nightclub life of Chicago. But this creature—Shannon stopped abruptly as the old man leaned heavily against him. There was no mistaking the muzzle of the heavy pistol pressed beneath Shannon's armpit.
The old man placed his mouth almost against Shannon's ear. The smell of fish and garlic nearly overwhelmed Shannon.
"Inside," wheezed the old man, coughing a spray of garlicky spittle across the side of Shannon's face. The pistol nudged just a bit harder. "We go in like we was old buddies, got it? Friend of the family. Then we walk to the back of the club, see?
We goes into your office and you close the door and you don't let nobody else come in. You got it?"
Shannon, tall and slender to the point of cadaverous, nodded. This was wildly confusing and he was sure the old man was crazy, but you don't argue with a gun barrel in your armpit. "Okay, okay," Shannon told him quietly. "But take it easy with the hardware, old fellow, all right? You won't have any trouble."
"Button it, mister." The gun prodded again. "Start walking and don't forget to smile."
Another wave of fish and garlic prompted Shannon into obeying this crazy bum. Club waiters stared as Jack Shannon, the immaculate highsociety blues club owner, waltzed arminarm with some derelict along the dim recesses of the back of the club, but nobody said a word. Shannon was one of the master blues musicians, and everybody knew how many band members were down on their luck in the depression gripping the country. Shannon was a soft touch for his buddies who were down and out. So you minded your own business. They'd seen sights like this before.
Shannon stopped short of his office door. The gun jabbed against his ribs.
"Remember, nobody comes in," came the hoarse whisper of a warning.
"No problem, oldtimer," Shannon said gently. The trick was to keep the old guy from getting excited. A good meal and a shot of whiskey would straighten him out.
Shannon looked to a large man who eyed the scene suspiciously. "Hey, Syd, this is an old buddy of mine,"
Shannon told him. "Do me a favor. This is sort of personal and I don't want anyone to bother us, okay?"
"Yes, sir, I got it," the man said. Something didn't seem right but orders were orders.
Inside the office the old man turned Shannon back to the door. "Lock it."
Shannon turned the lock.
"Now, sit down in that easy chair. Over there." The stranger stepped back to place distance between himself and Shannon. Now the weapon was visible. Shannon stared down the barrel of a powerful sixshot Webley .445. That thing could take down even a moose with a single round.
Shannon's brow furrowed. There was something strangely familiar about the weapon he studied. Guns in Chicago were as common as cigarettes. But who carried a Webley? A Smith & Wesson, sure. Or a Colt auto. Even a longbarreled Remington, but—
Shannon's eyes widened as the old man tossed aside the knitted cap. A moment later he tugged the false beard from his face, and broke into a huge smile.
The windbreaker was tossed aside, and the Webley disappeared beneath a dark blue suede sport jacket.
"Hello, Jack," the nolongerold man said.
Shannon was halfway out of his chair, eyes wide. "I don't believe this," he whispered. "Good Lord Amighty, I don't believe this. Indy!"
"The one and only," Indy grinned at him. Shannon was on his feet, rushing forward, throwing his arms about his closest friend, hugging him fiercely. They pounded one another on their backs.
Shannon pushed Indy back, staring at him. "Man, you're a sight for sore eyes," he said, his delight unquestioned. "But . . . but why the routine?" He held up a hand. "Just hold it a minute, Indy. After what you put me through, I need a drink." He half turned as he took a bottle and two glasses from a wall bar. "And you, old friend, need some mouthwash and a bath!"
"All part of the show, Jack. Let's have that drink. I can hardly stand this garlic and fish smell any more than you can."
Shannon brought the glass to Indy, his friend from longgone schooldays, the same man who'd been his closest pal for years. They clinked glasse
s and for the moment drank in silence. Shannon poured again, but this time Indy sipped slowly.
"You look great, Jack. Still thin as a rail, but—" He shrugged. "How's your playing?"
"Better than ever. We got a regular crowd now. Some people have the idea I'm setting a new trend with the blues."
Shannon finished the second drink, put aside the glass, and dropped back into the easy chair.
"But I still don't believe all this!" he burst out suddenly. "Indy, what is all this? You didn't need to go through a routine to come in here! We've been pals forever."
Indiana Jones & the Sky Pirates Page 6
