by John Blaine
“Don’t be a fool, Gretchen!” Kurt snarled. “Your uncle will beat your for this!” He started for Scotty, then stopped abruptly as Gretchen fired. Even Sidneye was distracted for a moment.
“You missed my ear by an inch,” Kurt bellowed. “I’ll beat you myself.”
Gretchen kept the pistol pointed at him. “I missed on purpose. That was a warning. I’ve shot bigger game than you, Kurt. I’m not as good with a pistol as with a rifle, but I can’t miss holding with both hands like this. Now get over in that corner and sit down.Now!”
“Your uncle will kill you!” Kurt roared.
The girl was perfectly calm now. “I may decide to kill him first,” she retorted.
Scotty stared. She wasn’t joking! With the pistol in her hands, a change had come over Gretchen. She was cool as a shooter with a paper target, and all her former uncertainty and fear had vanished.
He was so surprised that Sidneye almost caught him unawares. Scotty danced back from another wild swing just in time, and from that moment he concentrated only on the whiskered Dutchman.
Sidneye stalked him like a panther after a juicy antelope. Scotty kept turning, always facing Sidneye, ready to leap in any direction. He was hampered by his tied hands, and he knew he would have to watch his balance. Once down, he was finished.
The Dutchman moved in and feinted with the hook, then reversed direction in a vicious upward swing for Scotty’s stomach. Scotty jumped clear, but he felt the wind of its passing.
Sidneye circled, crouched low, ready to take advantage of any opening. Scotty backed away, slowly, and Sidneye followed. Sidneye circled again, and Scotty understood the man’s tactics. He was trying to Page 66
force the boy against the wall.
Scotty ran lightly a few steps and stopped. He needed a new tactic himself. Frantically he cast his eyes around the room, looking for something that could help him. He heard splashing from the canal below, and he knew the deadly Dutchman must be after Rick. Fear for his friend ran through him. But he couldn’t help Rick as long as Sidneye was loose with a cargo hook, and he couldn’t do much with his hands tied.
Sidneye charged. Scotty waited until the last moment, then jumped aside, like a matador playing a bull.
Sidneye’s momentum carried him onward, and Scotty helped out with a kick that sent the Dutchman sprawling. The boy leaped forward, to get in another kick, but Sidneye rolled, grabbing at the boy’s leg with the hook. Scotty pulled his kick just in time. Now he stalked Sidneye. He couldn’t move in while the man was facing him with ready hook, but he could give him a few bad moments. If the Dutchman tried to use his hands to stand up, Scotty was ready. Sidneye knew it. He was in a sitting position, and he began to slide back. Scotty advanced, watching for the slightest opening.
Sidneye kept sliding back on the seat of his pants until his back was against one of the posts that held the tie rail with its iron bar for securing cargo ropes. The man never took his eyes from Scotty, and the boy saw that the grogginess from Rick’s blow was gone. Sidneye’s reflexes might not be as fast us usual, but he was no longer dizzy, and he was getting stronger and faster minute by minute.
The Dutchman pushed his back against the post, braced with his legs, and pushed himself upright. For a moment he was still, recovering from the effort, then he sprang. Scotty danced out of the way. Past the Dutchman, he saw the tie rail and its iron bar, and an idea took shape. He flexed the arms tied behind his back, then opened and closed his fingers. He thought he could get a grip. He would only need to hold it for a moment. He began to circle around Sidneye. The Dutchman turned with him, then advanced slowly.
Scotty could almost read Sidneye’s mind. To the Dutchman, his prey was too fast on his feet for a direct frontal assault. He had to corner the boy, get him into a position where he couldn’t retreat, and couldn’t dodge fast enough. Then the hook would rip in, and it would be over.
Sidneye smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. Scotty knew why. It was because he was backing slowly toward the rail. To Sidneye, it was a good move because it put Scotty against the rail. That suited the Dutchman just fine.
But to be crowded against the rail too suddenly, with no time to get set, would be fatal. Scotty lunged forward suddenly, and Sidneye, caught by surprise, backed off. Scotty continued his slow backward movement, his eyes on Sidneye’s. He could see thatold whiskers was happy. From Sidneye’s viewpoint, the boy who had knocked him down for trying to hit Gretchen was slowly being backed into a vulnerable position, and soon he would have his revenge. The Dutchman had no doubt about the outcome. It was only a question of time.
Scotty wasn’t at all certain that his plan would work. But he had to do something. He could still hear the splashing in the canal, but only intermittently. With his hands tied behind him, Rick must be finding it hard going. If his hands had been free he could have settled with Santa very quickly.
Scotty danced sideways, then feinted forward.
Sidneyeretreated a step. Scotty moved back, and this time his forearms touched rusty metal. The iron tie bar along the rail He bent his elbows and fumbled for a grip. He managed to grab the bar with both hands.
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Sidneye stopped his advance and stood upright. He had Scotty where he wanted him now, and he intended to savor the moment.
“So you slap me, eh?” He grinned evilly. “There is always a time of retribution. For you it is right now.”
Scotty put his weight on his toes, ready to lift. He said calmly, “With those whiskers you look like a mangy billy goat, and just about as bright.”
Sidneye stopped smiling. He crouched low, the hook held close to the floor, point upward, ready to swing up into Scotty’s stomach. The Dutchman moved in, slowly and carefully, intent on the kill.
Scotty had earned a black belt in judo while in the Marines, but had only advanced to brown belt status in karate. Even so, he was reasonably confident. Achieving a brown belt was no mean trick, and it had involved learning to use his feet in attack. Lacking the use of his hands for balance, he had to depend on the iron bar to give him stability. He prayed the bar would hold, if only for a few seconds.
Timing was critical. He must not make his move a fraction of a second too early, or he would miss. A fraction of a second too late and he would die with a hook in his belly. Every bit of his mind and body was concentrated on the advancing figure of the Dutchman. The feet were the key. The feet would tell him. He inhaled deeply and held his breath.
Sidneye’s left foot shot forward. His right hand swung upward like a striking snake. At the instant the Dutchman moved, Scotty shifted his weight to his hands. Both feet were free to use.
Scotty bent his knees slightly, and both feet shot out. His left moved to the side, knocking Sidneye’s hook arm away. His right foot, toes extended, hooked upward with all the force of his powerful leg, driving deep into Sidneye’s diaphragm.
The bewhiskered Dutchman flew backwards, arms outstretched, and skidded to a stop on the plank floor. He didn’t move.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Showdown
Scotty ran to the open cargo doors, then whirled as a shot blasted through the loft. Gretchen had just fired again, this time over Kurt’s head. He could see the yellow of splintered wood where the slug had hit. Apparently Kurt had started to get up. Now he subsided, glaring.
Scotty turned and looked down at the canal. He saw Santa, sitting in the water, hands holding something, and he saw water splashing weakly behind the Dutchman’s back. Scotty leaped far out, intending to land on the deadly Dutchman, but he was short of his mark. He hit the water feet first and plummeted to the bottom. Like Rick before him, he felt his feet drive into clinging ooze. He worked his feet free and propelled himself to the surface. He saw the Dutchman holding Rick under a few feet away and churned frantically toward them.
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Sometime during the fight with Rick, Santa had lost his knife, but he still had two strong hands. He held Rick’s head under with one hand
and lifted the other, ready to drive his fist down on Scotty.
Scotty wasn’t about to let the Dutchman club him. He bent at the waist and went under, straightening out about a foot under the surface. He had no hands to fight with, but he had the most primitive weapon of all. His feet drove him straight ahead until his nose bumped painfully. He wanted to be sure. He moved his head from side to side, and his hurt nose traced a big cylinder that could only be the Dutchman’s thigh.
Scotty made his feet go, pushing him forward. He opened his mouth wide and clamped down on the pudgy thigh with all the strength of his jaws. He held on like a bulldog, working his teeth deeper into the flesh. Even under the water he could hear Santa scream. He felt blows against the back of his head, but they were softened by the water. Scotty held on, grinding like a mad terrier.
Santa couldn’t take it. He released Rick and rolled, his hands seeking the throat of the demon whose teeth sent agony through him. He got a partial grip and his hands moved, seeking the windpipe.
As soon as Santa rolled, Scotty released his grip and rolled, too. He felt the hands clutch his throat and threw his body over. The hands slipped away. Scotty rolled, felt cloth against his face and bit again, hard.
He had to rise to breath, and as his face broke water, Santa’s fist slammed into his forehead, the force only partially broken by the water. The punch drove Scotty back. He breathed deeply, exhaled, then breathed again. He could see the Dutchman, and beyond him, Rick turning over in the water. Scotty made his legs go. He drove forward again. The Dutchman dodged, but not soon enough. Scotty sank teeth into his arm. Santa howled with pain, but his free hand found Scotty’s face, the fingers groping for the boy’s eyes.
Scotty squeezed his eyes shut. Holding on with his teeth, he brought his feet forward. He brought one around Santa’s body, put the other one in his stomach, and shoved. The hold on his face broke, leaving fingernail scratches down his cheek. He backed off to breathe again, and as he turned his face upward he saw Gretchen in the doorway above, glancing down at him.
The girl yelled, “Get him, Scotty!”
Scotty shook his head. She baffled him. But there was no time to ponder the mystery of the girl now.
Santa was charging him, taking the offensive, ready to use both hands in an unequal fight.
Scotty dove, turning away from the Dutchman, but the distance was too short. Santa dove with him, caught his belt, and heaved. Scotty shot upward, gulping in more air. Santa kept his grip from behind.
With his other hand he reached for Scotty’s face. The boy shook his head frantically. His legs thrashed as he tried to break loose. Now he knew how Rick had felt, and for the first time, Scotty felt fear rush through him. The deadly Dutchman clung like wallpaper, and his hand crept steadily into position. The base of his palm cupped Scotty’s chin, the fingers extended upward to the boy’s eyes. He began to press, squeezing so that Scotty couldn’t open his mouth and bite, bringing pressure against the closed eyes.
It hurt. Scotty saw brilliant flashes of light as the pressure increased. He fought silently, writhing, throwing his legs from side to side, doing everything he could to get rid of his nemesis. The Dutchman held on. The pressure grew unbearable. Pain drove through Scotty’s head. Another few seconds was all it would take and he would be blind.
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Rick had felt the Dutchman move. He was almost unconscious from the strain of holding his breath and the lack of oxygen, bare fractions of a second away from breathing in water and drowning. He popped to the surface as Santa rolled off, and found strength to turn his face upward. The exhalation of pent breath was almost agony. He gulped air and retched helplessly, then gulped air again. His chest heaved as oxygen reached his starved lungs in great breaths. For a long moment he just lay in the water, face tilted to the sky, feet dangling, then beginning to move slightly to help support him. He knew he could float that way almost indefinitely. The air in his lungs would keep him afloat if he didn’t struggle. He couldn’t struggle. He was half dead. He had nothing left. If Santa reached him now, he couldn’t even resist.
As oxygen reached into his brain in normal quantities he began to realize that he had been snatched from death by a miracle. What miracle? Surely the deadly Dutchman hadn’t relented.
A movement overhead attracted his attention. He saw Gretchen standing in the loft cargo doorway, and she was looking down. Where were the others? Where was Scotty?
Rick turned in the water and lifted his head upright, moving his feet faster to keep afloat. He saw the Dutchman, busy at something, back to him. He couldn’t see what Santa was doing, but he knew the deadly Dutchman was still the enemy. Rickcame alive, rage flooding through him. Adrenalin flowed into his blood stream, bringing new energy. But rage didn’t blind him. He propelled himself forward slowly and cautiously, letting himself float to a stop almost within touching distance of the Dutchman’s back.
Careful not to touch the deadly Dutchman, he lifted his weary legs and let himself lie backward in the water. Then, with a lunge, he lifted his legs clear. His face went under, but he was ready with full lungs.
He extended his legs then brought them together, and felt the Dutchman’s head between them!
Relaxing his legs a little, he dropped them until they rested on Santa’s shoulders, then he bent his knees, brought his legs together and squeezed with all his strength. He felt hands clutch his legs and try to pry them apart, but he held tight. Santa’s struggles brought Rick up to a sitting position long enough for him to gulp air, then his face went under again. He put new effort into the lock around the Dutchman’s throat, straining every muscle in a great try to disable his enemy.
Scotty surfaced, his eyes paining and his face burning. He couldn’t see very well, but he could make out the white blur of the Dutchman’s face. He threw himself on his back, lifted a leg and kicked at the hated face, recovered, rolled over and maneuvered into position, and brought a foot in a wide sweep from the side against Santa’s temple. It was hard to get any force in the blows, but he was willing to keep trying.
Scotty backed off and breathed deeply, getting ready for another maneuver that would bring his feet into position. His vision had cleared a little and he could see that the Dutchman was fighting for breath, and clawing at something around his throat, a dark mass. Scotty realized suddenly that it must be Rick’s legs!
He let out a war whoop. His pal was all right and back in the battle! He rolled on his face, made his legs churn, and steered past the fight. As he passed the deadly Dutchman, he kicked with one foot and felt his heel drive into flesh with an underlayer of bone. Scotty turned again, ready to make another pass.
A body dropped into the water under the open cargo door. Instantly Scotty rolled, ready to take on a new enemy.
The body popped to the surface.White collar, black tie, shiny buttons and shiny ornaments on the shoulder.
It wasn’t one of themob !
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A whistle blew from overhead. The boy glanced up. Inspector Vandiveer stood in the doorway. He called down in Dutch. The man in the uniform swam to the deadly Dutchman. A policeman came to stand next to Vandiveer, a powerful light in his hands. The beam hit Scotty, then switched to the Dutchman and Rick.
Vandiveer called, “Let go, Mr. Brant! Let go! My man will take him.”
Rick heard. His legs relaxed. Santa was almost beyond struggling. He moved feebly, and the officer lifted one wrist at a time above the water and snapped handcuffs on them, then he towed the deadly Dutchman toward the canal wall.
Rick and Scotty saw each other for the first time. They faced each other, hands still tied, legs moving to keep them afloat, grinning like a pair of idiots.
CHAPTER XIX
The Right Brick
The ceramic stove in the deadly Dutchman’s office served a useful purpose after all. Rick and Scotty’s clothes steamed in front of it, drying rapidly. They sat in the armchairs they had first occupied, wrapped in blankets obtained by Gretchen from Jo
hann’s bed in the room next door. The warmth felt good. They were exhausted and chilled.
Gretchen had busied herself at a hot plate kept in a cupboard, and within a short time she had thick mugs of steaming chocolate ready, complete with a topping of whipped cream from a pressure can.
The only other occupant of the room was a uniformed police officer, who also accepted a mug of chocolate, but said nothing except “Thanks” in Dutch. He spoke no English. Inspector Vandiveer had left him as a guard, just in case other members of the gang arrived unexpectedly. A second police officer was at the door downstairs.
Inspector Vandiveer, with instructions to the boys to dry out and rest, had gone off with a load of prisoners. Johann had to be helped. He was still groggy. Kurt, of course, was not injured at all. The deadly Dutchman, whose name was Adolph Rokin, had limped to the police wagon under his own power. Sidneye had been carried out on a stretcher and taken to the hospital in a police-guarded ambulance. The ambulance doctor’s initial diagnosis was a ruptured diaphragm.
Vandiveer had promised to return within a half-hour. He intended only to get the questioning of Kurt and Johann started, and to have them booked on a number of charges ranging from disturbing the peace to attempted assault with a deadly weapon. The charge for Rokin would begin with forcible restraint and end with attempted murder.
Gretchen pulled a straight-back chair to a position in front of the boys, fetched her mug of chocolate and sat facing them, primly upright and ladylike. Rick marveled at her. Scotty had told him very briefly about what had happened after he and Santa had dropped into the canal, and Rick couldn’t square Scotty’s report on Gretchen with the pretty, demure miss who sat so ramrod straight in front of him.
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Scotty was watching the girl, too. He asked, “Why did you take a hand, Gretchen? Why didn’t you let Kurt take me?”
“Then my uncle would have gotten you, too,” she explained.
“But you’re part of your uncle’s gang,” Rick protested.
