E. Hoffmann Price's Two-Fisted Detectives

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Blood splashed earth—an abandoned ghari—a Malay, his brown face frozen in a hideous grimace, and still clutching his stomach. The blue metal of a pistol gleamed from the gutter. Another Malay was athwart the road—the one Pâwang Ali had dropped. He viewed it all in the few seconds it took him to head his car into line for pursuit; and then, before he could shift into high, he jerked to a halt. He recognized the coolie lying huddled in the angle of the wall—one of his own men. He had been run through with a kris.

  Despite the blade that pierced his body, the coolie’s eyes shifted toward the familiar car, and the man at the wheel.

  “Tanjong—”

  He gasped, gesturing northward; but he slumped in a heap before he could say any more.

  “Have the assistant inspector follow us when he arrives,” said Inspector Kemp to the Sikh on the running board. “And let him send men to the house of Gomez—”

  Pâwang Ali let in the clutch before Kemp could add further instructions.

  “That dead coolie,” he said as they went roaring up the street, “is the one I detailed to follow Rankin. That proves we’re on the right track. He was trying to say either Tanjong Rhu or Tanjong Katong. It makes no difference which. They can not go beyond the ferry at Kranji. The assistant inspector will have it guarded. And unless my information about that cabin cruiser is wrong, we will get there before they reach it, inshallah!”

  Then as they headed for the northeastern limits of the city, Pâwang Ali covered the main points of his encounter with Gomez.

  “I met the Father of Dragons, face to face,” he concluded. “And I saw the dragon brand on the palm of his hand. The same stamp which marked the inside of the cover of the box in which I received the head of Hussayn. Also, the coolie in whose rickshaw Osborne went to his death was one of Gomez’s spies.”

  That convinced the inspector. He had no arguments to offer.

  The car screamed out Kallang Road at a pace that made it skid savagely around the gentle turn at the gas works, and then headed toward Tanjong Rhu, the tall headland that was the eastern horn of the crescent-shaped harbor. Inspector Kemp’s teeth were clamped down on his cigar; the bearded Sikh, imperturbable in the face of flood, fire, or massacre, muttered to himself as he hung to the coat rail. Pâwang Ali hurled the heavy car at the turns as though he were leading a cavalry charge instead of piloting two tons of vibrant steel. Native pedestrians scrambled for the ditch; gharis and rickshaws returning from the beach resorts left the narrow road like fleas dancing on a red-hot stove. Far in the distance Pâwang Ali spied a tail light. He fed the thundering monster more gas, and grinned as the speedometer needle jumped.

  Kemp’s eyes widened as he saw the dial.

  “Can do better,” Pâwang Ali reassured him through gritted teeth. “Saving some. Find pistols in side pocket—ya Allah!”

  A grating, grinding, steel-wrenching skid, and the splintering of wood was drowned in the roar of the exhaust; but Allah and Pâwang Ali made it by an inch, though a bullock cart was minus a wheel, and its driver cursed Shaytan the Stoned, and all maniacs speeding by night.

  Inspector Kemp hefted the automatic, and then remembered that if he brained the speed-crazed Pâwang, he would fare no better than if the outraged laws of dynamics sent them roaring into the ditch. The beach resorts flashed by in a blur of lights.

  “The Dragon’s men are in that car ahead,” said Pâwang Ali. “Else we would long since have overtaken it. But we are gaining.”

  The inspector wiped the sweat from his forehead, and Shir Singh muttered a prayer to Nanuk, who receives all good Sikhs into paradise. But Pâwang was right. They were gaining. The lights of Tanjong Katong blended into an unbroken streak of flame. Then the road wound through mangrove swamps. The Malay madman began cursing in Arabic, and alphabetically worked his way through Tamil to Urdu as the twisting road forced him to slacken speed; yet he gained, and was gaining fast. The inspector could now by the long lancing headlights distinguish the body of the open car ahead, and figures crouched at the back, and the dim flash of blue steel. They gained a few more rods. There was a spurt of flame from the rear of the fugitive car. A bullet spattered through the windshield.

  “Lower the accursed thing!” snapped Pâwang Ali. “Raise the spotlight and blind them!”

  The road had become a narrow tunnel that bored through the dense mangroves of the swamp. The car ahead was rapidly losing its lead. The inspector poured a stream of bullets at the fugitives. The distance was still too great for a shot at either tires or gas tank. Answering fire chunked into the cowl, and thudded into the cushions as Pâwang Ali risked capsizing and fed in more gas. But suddenly the fugitive car zoomed upgrade. Something was hurled from the rear. It dropped to the center of the bridge. A sheet of flame and a crashing detonation tore through the dense cloud of smoke that rose from the shattered bridge.

  Too late to stop. Pâwang Ali’s foot sank to the floor board. The car quivered from the sudden surge of power and fairly flew up the approach. During the instant in which their heads were at stake, the inspector’s eye caught the speedometer needle. He relaxed. They could clear a gap twice as wide as the one spanned by the demolished bridge. Splinters and bolts rained about their ears as the heavy car sailed into clear space.

  But the road curved sharply just beyond the abutment of the bridge. Neither brake nor wheel could combine to make it. Grinding—screaming—skidding—the car held the road for an age-long instant, whipped crazily, and hurtled clear of the embankment and into the swamp.

  CHAPTER X

  Before Rankin could begin to recover from the clubbing he had received in the melee in the alley, he and Irma Caradis were lashed hand and foot, and gagged. The first definite impression that seeped into Rankin’s numbed brain was the drumming of an engine, the sudden chattering of his captors, and a terrific explosion to the rear. He began to gather that Pâwang Ali had been pursuing, and that the blast had made rescue as remote as the pole star.

  They were now clear of the mangrove swamps, and thundering down a road that passed through rubber estates and coconut groves. And then the car braked to a screaming halt. Rankin heard the pounding of the surf. He and Irma were dragged out of the car and the bonds that secured their ankles were clipped. They were marched toward a narrow path that dipped sharply toward the phosphorescent water that churned against the black crags of a low headland.

  There was a command and a grunted acknowledgment. Gears lashed, and the car roared down the road. That would be bait to deflect pursuit. Singapore Island is scarcely fifteen miles from the harbor at the extreme south to Woodlands, on the north, across the straits from Johore Bahru; and its length, east to west, scarcely double that distance. Singapore Island was too small for Rankin’s captors.

  The point of a kris prodded him and Irma down the steep path toward a sixty-foot cabin cruiser. The exhaust of the engine and the long sleek lines of the boat testified to its speed. Irma and Rankin were marched to the cabin. All but two of their captors then went to the forecastle.

  The master of the show was awaiting his captive. Esteban Gomez was wearing the resplendent silks and cap of a Chinese mandarin. His finery was grotesque against the subdued luster of teak paneling, the modern appointments of the cabin and the chromium plate and cut glass of the lighting fixtures. He gestured toward chairs. The motion was deliberate. Rankin distinctly saw that the palm of Gomez’s right hand was adorned with a dragon drawn in fine, ivory-white, raised lines. A chill raced down his spine as he realized that he was in the hands of the Father of Dragons.

  “I wonder,” began Rankin, “if there is any use in demanding an explanation of this outrage?”

  Gomez’s face brightened in a feline smile. His slanted eyes for a moment shifted beyond Rankin. He addressed one of the two Malay guards at the farther end of the cabin.

  “Wan Chi!”

  “Yes, tuan?”

  “Those paper
s.”

  Wan Chi, resplendent in a yellow cap, green jacket, and salmon-colored sarong, advanced and presented the sheaf of documents which Rankin had asked Irma Caradis to reclaim from Inspector Kemp.

  “These have cost me considerable trouble,” said Gomez. “In our haste to intercept you, we had to dispose of Li Fat. That move has forced me not only to leave Singapore, but to abandon my headquarters in Johore Bahru. The sultan was unreasonably angry when Pâwang Ali convinced him that the Father of Dragons had roughly handled the precious Li Fat.”

  He spoke of the murder as impersonally as though he were mentioning drowning a litter of kittens. Irma shivered, and Rankin felt his flesh crawl.

  “And the worst of it is that these souvenirs of the late Mr. Osborne do not contain as much information as I need in my campaign to keep American corporations out of Asia. I explain this so that, knowing my urgent needs, you will be sure that I will not take halfway measures. The Dragon—”

  “And who the hell is the Dragon?” snapped Rankin. He knew, but he had to keep his courage from sagging.

  “I am. I am a man of no nation. A scorned Eurasian with no name. So I have named myself—and have made myself the hope of plundered Asia. In every country of the Far East there are secret armies awaiting the day for the brown and the yellow man to combine against the white.

  “Our first mission is to keep American corporations and citizens out of Asia. If they gain a foothold, our plans will crumble. We can cope with the present rulers of Asia. But if the rights of hundreds of American citizens become involved, as they inevitably will in case of a general outbreak, your country will intervene—and this we cannot afford.”

  “Very pretty,” scoffed Rankin. “And what can I do to assist?”

  But his voice rang hollowly in his own ears. The Dragon’s words were no pompous bluster. His rugged, bony face was grimly majestic. He radiated power, the will to do, the strength to resist, feline cunning and tiger ferocity.

  “Osborne’s plans require interpretation. Your eagerness to get those plans proves that you were either a well-posted rival or a secret partner. And the young lady here must have had his confidence. You two, therefore, will give me all the information I need for my secret agents in the United States to nip Clayton’s plans at the source and cure him forever of his ideas of Asiatic concessions. Is that clear?”

  Gomez’s jaw set with a click. His eyes blazed and he leaned forward in his chair as though ready to spring and rend them with his bare hands.

  “I’ll see you in hell first!” flared Rankin, instinctively struggling against the bonds that secured his wrists. “In the first place, I don’t know anything about his plans, and neither does she. And—”

  “You will remember many things,” was the retort. The Dragon’s voice was ominous in its sudden silkiness, “We are bound for an uncharted island off the coast of Sumatra. To aid your memory, you will both be tied, after the first rain, on a bed of young bamboo sprouts. They grow very, very rapidly. They bore their way into your flesh an inch every few hours. Rapidly, yet slowly enough—”

  Gomez smiled venomously, and his eyes shifted to Irma’s trembling body.

  “And you, Rankin, will not like it any better than she will. Will you wait until then to talk, or will you speak now, so I can instruct my agents in America?

  “As soon as I have verified your statements, I will release you and Miss Caradis, free and unharmed, on an island south of Singapore. Otherwise—”

  The deadly pause brought sweat to Rankin’s forehead. He knew that he could never convince Gomez of his ignorance of the Clayton Corporation’s plans; and he doubted that Irma, despite her position, knew enough to save herself, much less him. In Terengganu Rankin had seen the torture of sprouting bamboo. He knew the horror of irresistible upward growth of the horny shafts. Back in the hills where petty chieftains follow old customs, unhampered by British advisory officers, he had seen and he had heard.

  He paused as if waiting for Rankin’s response; but before either could speak, one of the crew came bursting in from the fantail.

  “Now what, Mong Loo?” snapped Gomez.

  The Chinese gestured astern. “The Pâwang! Overtaking us.”

  Rankin caught the distant note of an engine, then a shrill whining that ended in an explosion which shook the boat. Flame blazed near the stern. Fragments of metal screamed spitefully. Glass spattered to the deck. Then they heard the cough of a one-pounder.

  Gomez barked an order. The boat swung sharply to the starboard. Another shell whistled overhead; and a third tore through the cabin, bursting in the darkness beyond. The engine of the pursuing boat became more distinct.

  “Take them forward,” commanded Gomez, indicating Rankin and Irma. “And tie their feet so they can’t go over the side. They’re valuable. Put out the lights! Break out the machine guns! Full speed ahead, Wong Lung! They can’t overtake us.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Four Malays hustled the prisoners down the companionway toward the engine compartment.

  The cabin lights blinked out as Irma’s and Rankin’s ankles were securely lashed. The engines roared, and the boat quivered from the sudden surge of additional power. Locker doors slammed; metal clashed; bare feet scurried through the darkness of the topside; but Gomez’s commanding voice dominated the noise and bustle. Though a murderous fanatic, the Dragon was a leader.

  The engine compartment was illuminated by a single dim bulb. Irma and Rankin were unceremoniously dropped to the deck. Their captors broke out cases of ammunition which they opened, passing some aft, and carrying the rest of it forward to the engine room.

  The boat was now sharply zigzagging. Its erratic changes of direction jerked the prisoners about, first slamming them against the railing of the engine pit, then forcing them back against the ribs of the hull. Bullets rattled like a riveting hammer against the steel plates. A porthole glass spattered to fragments. The heavy, razor-sharp shards tinkled to the deck. And then all sounds were drowned by the chatter of the machine guns that had been unlimbered, fore and aft.

  The firing, however, quickly subsided. The engine, controlled from the wheel aft of the cabin, was crowded to the utmost. There were no more impacts against the side of the boat. The engine’s roar drowned the whistling of one-pounder shells.

  “Good Lord,” whispered Irma, “do you think they sunk him?”

  “No. We’re out of range of his guns. This boat is so fast Pâwang Ali can’t overhaul us.”

  “And so you think it’s Pâwang Ali?”

  “Sure I do,” affirmed Rankin. “Who the devil else could have tracked us so quickly? Say!”

  “Yes?”

  “Edge toward me,” whispered Rankin. “Inch along. Like a measuring worm. See that hunk of glass that shot out of the porthole? Grab it with your toes, and hold it so I can get my wrists at it.”

  Irma managed to capture the shard of glass; but her progress was slow and painful. Rankin, watching the companionway, worked himself toward her. And then came the infinitely tedious task of getting his wrists against the glass without knocking it from Irma’s uncertain hold. Time and again it slipped. She had to work it against the bulkhead, pick it up, and return.

  “Oh, what’s the use,” she groaned. “Suppose you do get loose? Even if you did find some weapons, you couldn’t stand a chance against this whole pack of assassins. Maybe we can escape later.”

  “True,” he admitted. “But you and I are in for a tough time. Being shark food is better than what he plans for us. And we could swim till we’re picked up.”

  “Aren’t those cords weakened at all?”

  “No, I’ve gouged my wrists more than the cord.”

  “Oh, if this engine would only break down! Pâwang Ali could catch up—”

  And that set Rankin thinking. Bound hand and foot, Rankin could not get at the ignition system, nor at the gas a
nd oil lines. No chance, unless Irma could continue to juggle a shard of glass. The increasingly heavy pitch of the boat made that more and more difficult.

  Then Rankin saw an approach. Tools hung along the bulkhead. In a corner was a long, heavy pinch bar. Rankin worked himself toward it and dislodged it. He gradually edged the bar toward the engine pit, inch by inch, sliding it through the railing to a vulnerable point. Finally the curved end was in place. He shifted, slipped the straight end between his bound ankles.

  “Pull over,” he said. “Hook your tootsies over this bar. Like I’ve got it. Now yank back—use your weight. Catch it on the next swing. Now!”

  The wedged end of the bar slipped, and they were both rolled crashing against the bulkhead, their weapon clattering after them. But their effort was not wasted.

  Rankin worked himself back to the edge of the shallow pit. Water was dripping from the flexible connection of the intake line of the pump that drew cold sea water from the outside, forced it through the cooling jacket of the engine, and ejected it, steaming hot, on the other side.

  The suction was broken. Though the pump was whirling, it carried no water.

  They did not have to wait long. The hot engine compartment became a sweltering, blistering oven. Dense, choking fumes began to trickle from about the head bolts, and the stench of overheated oil filtered from the breather cap.

  Full speed ahead—but not for long. Soon the engine began laboring and missing fits. Gomez thrust his head into the compartment, caught a whiff of the frying oil, felt the blast of hot air that billowed up the companionway to meet him.

  “Shut down, you idiot!” he shouted to the man at the wheel. “It’s burning up!”

  Gomez cursed furiously, stilling the helmsman’s protests.

  “But it’s your business to know!” he finally declared in a low, deadly voice. “Your business to keep it in order. Come here!”

  There was a rustling of silk, then a yell that was cut short by the crack of a pistol.