The Spicy-Adventure

by Robert Leslie Bellem

  The words died in his throat as the Manchurian leaped at him with an upraised, glittering knife!

  Shevlin’s hand dived for his Webley. Before he could draw the weapon, the burly Manchurian was upon him. The American grunted a snarling oath as his attacker’s knife descended—

  Grunted an oath, and swept aside the Manchurian’s arm with a crashing sweep of his left fist. The two men smashed together, locked in savage embrace. Shevlin felt the steel tip of the deflected blade slice through the shoulder of his linen coat, graze his skin. He grabbed for his adversary’s wrist, twisted with all the strength of his sinewy muscles. The Manchurian gasped in sudden pain; the knife clattered to the floor.

  “Now, you louse!” Tate Shevlin rasped out. His right fist thudded viciously against the other’s mouth, splintering teeth under the terrific impact of his iron-hard knuckles. The Manchurian swayed, spat bloody froth from between puffed lips. The American leaped in, fists flailing like steel pistons—

  The Manchurian staggered backward. Shevlin followed grimly. Followed—and stepped into a cunning Oriental trap!

  His adversary leaped forward with unexpected suddenness. The man’s hard arms encircled Tate Shevlin’s panting body. He lifted, grunted—and flung the soldier of fortune backward against the wall of the compartment. Shevlin’s head smashed against a steel bracket; a blinding cascade of pain coursed through his skull. For an instant, everything went blurry-black before his eyes. He pitched forward to his knees blindly, numbly—

  The Manchurian grinned bloodily and sprang for his dropped dagger. He grasped the weapon, poised it, sprang at Tate Shevlin with an animal snarl of triumph.

  The soldier of fortune pitched side-wise just as the glittering blade slashed downward. The knife missed him by the merest fraction of an inch. Shevlin went white. His hand darted to his coat pocket, snatched at the Webley. He fired through his coat, blindly, instinctively.

  The weapon’s barking roar was drowned out in a wailing blast of the whistle from the locomotive up ahead. The Manchurian stopped dead in his tracks, an expression of frantic amazement on his brutish Asiatic features. A dark, ever-spreading stain appeared on the center of his gray jacket. Abruptly the yellow man toppled and collapsed at Tate Shevlin’s feet. He gasped once; his huge body quivered sickeningly. Then he lay still.

  Shevlin stared down at the man he had killed. He shook his head to clear it of the raging pain where his skull had brought up against that steel bracket. Then be said, “By God—!”

  A thought had come to him. If this Manchurian had been a spy, an imposter—then how had he come into possession of the Golden Girl’s yellow silken mask? The answer leaped into his brain with stunning abruptness: the Golden Girl’s real messenger must have been somewhere on the train! And this Manchurian had, in some way, overpowered the true emissary, stolen the yellow mask—

  Tate Shevlin gathered his muscles under him, leaped for the door of the compartment, flung himself out into the swaying, dimly-lighted corridor that ran the full length of the first-class compartment-carriage.

  He staggered toward the front of the lurching car. And then, suddenly, he froze.

  From beneath the closed door of a compartment in the center of the corridor, he saw a trickle of crimson!

  Tate Shevlin backed off three paces. Then he launched himself at that closed door. It smashed inward under the rocketing impact of his hard shoulder. He stared.

  The compartment was similar to his own. The lights were on. A woman’s limp form sagged on the couch-berth before him.

  She was young, and she was Chinese. Her rounded body was clad in Oriental pajamas of flowered silk. Her face was flower-like, wistful, lovely with an arresting Asiatic loveliness. Her eyes were closed; and the haft of a knife protruded from her side!

  Shevlin leaped toward that still, exquisite form. He grasped at the knife, wrenched it out of the girl’s quivering body. Then he ripped away the coat of her pajamas, disclosing the naked beauty of her swelling, virginal breasts. With a handkerchief he stanched the sudden gush of blood that flowed from the gaping wound in her ivory side.

  His hand went to her left breast pressed against the mollescent ivory flesh. The girl’s heart fluttered faintly. Shevlin leaped for the wash-stand in one corner of the stateroom, doused a towel in cold water. Gently he held it against the Chinese girl’s forehead.

  She drew a sharp, painful breath; her long, curving black lashes trembled open. She stared up at Tate Shevlin. Her almond eyes widened. “You—Shevlin!” she gasped faintly.

  “Yes. I’m Tate Shevlin. What happened?”

  “A—a man—an enemy—a Manchurian—stabbed me. Then he stole the yellow mask which I was to have brought to you as—as a token—from the Golden—Girl—” Her voice trailed off weakly.

  “You were the Golden Girl’s messenger?”

  “Yes. But—but now there—is danger—from this Manchurian—”

  “Not any more!” Tate Shevlin answered grimly. “He’s dead. I killed him!”

  The Oriental girl sighed with sudden relief. “It—is good!” she whispered. Then she tried to struggle to a sitting posture. “Where—where are we?”

  Shevlin glanced swiftly at his wrist-watch. “We should be approaching Fungow-Lin, about two hundred miles this side of Linchow.”

  The Chinese girl clutched weakly at his sleeve. “We—must leave this train—at—Fungow-Lin!”

  Shevlin stared at her. “But—I thought I was to meet the Golden Girl at Linchow?”

  “No. The plans—were changed. That—was why—I was to come to you—and tell you—of the new meeting-place.” She swayed to her feet, clung to him for support. Her face was corpse-pale.

  Shevlin tried to push her back on the couch-berth. “You’re in no shape to get off the train!” he whispered harshly. That wound in your side—”

  “It—does not—matter. My hours are—numbered. But before I—go to my ancestors—I must finish my—mission! I must—take you to—Chen Tsing Gat and—the Golden Girl!” Her pale features were contorted with sudden agony; she clutched at the wound in her side.

  And at that instant, the locomotive up ahead whistled for the station-stop at Fungow-Lin. Shevlin heard the hiss of escaping air as the brakes bit into the car wheels. The train slackened speed.

  The American leaned forward, swept the Chinese girl into his brawny arms, lifted her. “I’ll carry you,” he whispered. “We’ll get off the blind side of the train; nobody will see us.” He held her close to him, gently, protectively. Her firm ivory breasts were bare and warm against his chest; she closed her eyes wearily, content to relax in his arms…

  The train panted to a halt at the tiny Fungow-Lin station. Shevlin stepped out into the deserted car corridor with his feminine burden. He came to the vestibule of the carriage, unfastened the door on the wrong side of the tracks. He leaped forward into the black and sinister shadows of the night.

  * * * *

  In the protecting gloom of a freight-car on a siding he crouched, waiting. In three minutes the Limited ground forward, away from the little station. Shevlin watched as the train sped westward into the distance like a many-eyed dragon. Then he lifted the Chinese girl once more into his arms.

  She opened her eyes mistily. “Go forward along that road, Tate Shevlin,” she whispered faintly. “At a distance of about two English miles you will come to a series of ancient royal tombs—” Her voice caught in her throat; she choked wetly.

  “The Golden Girl’s hiding-place is among those tombs?” Shevlin whipped out.

  “Yes. She—and Chen Tsing Gat—await you—in the middle tomb—” Abruptly the girl quivered, drew a deep, sobbing breath. And then she grew still and ominously silent.

  Tate Shevlin cursed, felt for her heart. No flutter answered his questing fingers as his palm flattened against her naked breast. “Dead!” he rasped…

  Very
gently he laid the Chinese girl’s body by the side of the road. The shadows of the night were to be her shroud; the soft earth her death-couch.

  Shevlin’s jaw was grim, his eyes smoky, as he left her and strode forward toward his meeting with Chen Tsing Gat and the Golden Girl…

  CHAPTER II

  Blackness enshrouded the crumbling stone tombs as Tate Shevlin approached them. Sinister and silent, they loomed before him like ancient symbols of death. Great carven pillars of marble jutted upward to support pagoda roofs worn and chipped with the erosion of centuries.

  Cautiously, silently, the soldier of fortune went forward toward the middle tomb. He gained the crumbling stone entrance, hesitated. He heard a sound.

  Footsteps!

  He clenched his Webley in his right fist, crouched in the shadows. And then, suddenly, his heart leaped into his throat. Through the gloom of the night he saw a figure—

  The well-remembered figure of the Golden Girl!

  Wraith-like, she had approached from within the dark interior of the tomb. Now he saw her; saw the lilting curves of her virginal body beneath her clinging robe of golden-yellow silk, the cascading gold of her soft hair as it tumbled about her warm shoulders… “Beloved!” he whispered, and went to her.

  She met him with a glad cry, melted into his arms, fused her soft body against him. His lips descended toward her waiting mouth, clung there for a long time. His hand sought and found her breast beneath the clinging folds of her silken robe. His fingers caressed her firmly-resilient flesh hungrily, avidly.

  At last she broke free of his embrace. “I have been waiting for you a long time, Tate Shevlin,” her bell-like voice was husky, warm, passion-stirring.

  “It has seemed ages,” he answered her slowly. And then he caught her, held her tightly in his arms. “Beloved!” he whispered. “Why can’t we put all this waiting behind us? Why can’t we go now—back to America? Back to safety? All China swarms with your enemies; and I have a premonition that danger lies in wait, unless we leave at once!”

  Slowly she shook her head. “It cannot be, Tate Shevlin—until my task is finished,” she answered gently. “As you know, Chen Tsing Gat once saved my father’s life. My father died before he could repay the debt. And to discharge the obligation, I vowed a year of my own life to Chen Tsing Gat’s service. That year is nearly over; but until its end, I must go on.” Her hand crept into Tate Shevlin’s hard palm. “You will stay with me until my work is finished, won’t you?”

  “Until the end of time!” Shevlin whispered tensely. “Then come. Chen Tsing Gat awaits us.”

  The soldier of fortune followed her into the dank, musty tomb. Downward they stumbled through the blackness, down a long series of broken stone steps. And at last they came to an open door. Faint light gleamed from within that subterranean chamber.

  The American blinked as his eyes grew accustomed to the illumination. An ancient, wrinkled yellow man came toward him. It was Chen Tsing Gat.

  “Welcome, my son,” he held out his gnarled hand to Tate Shevlin. “You are in time to learn of my plans—plans which must bear fruit within the next four days.”

  “You mean—you’ve located the fifth Claw?”

  Chen Tsing Gat shook his head. “No. I have decided that there is not time to attempt the recovery of the final jewel. Instead, I shall dispose of the four I already have. An army must be recruited and equipped immediately. Linchow Province grows restless under the iron hand of its corrupt military governor, Wu Shang. The time has come to strike. Wu Shang must be removed, and an honest government installed. No more days can be lost.”

  “Then you plan to—” Tate Shevlin’s question died on his lips as the Golden Girl suddenly cried out. Her voice held a note of horror, of abrupt fear—

  The soldier of fortune whirled, whipped out his Webley in unconsciously-reflex action. He was a split-second too late.

  Silently, unheard and unperceived by Shevlin, Chen Tsing Gat or the Golden Girl, a band of uniformed soldiers had crept to the doorway of the underground tomb-chamber. Now they smashed into the room with savage snarls, their rifles upraised!

  “Wu Shang’s men!” the Golden Girl cried out. And then two yellow soldiers grabbed her, pinioned her struggling form!

  Tate Shevlin’s lips drew back in a snarl of sheer fury. Lust of combat flared into his eyes as he launched himself head-first toward the Golden Girl’s attackers. His Webley vomited flame as he sent a crashing volley full into the faces of the advancing men of Wu Shang. Then the weapon’s hammer snapped down on an empty clip. Shevlin hurled himself full into the midst of the lunging soldiery.

  Arms flailing, fists knotted, he crashed against the hard body of an officer. The man grunted, staggered backward. Shevlin raised his clubbed Webley, brought it smashing down full into the slant-eyed features of his adversary. The man’s face disappeared in a gory welter of blood-ooze. He slumped to the floor.

  The soldier of fortune pivoted on his heel. He saw Chen Tsing Gat go down under the bludgeoning blow of a rifle-butt. Shevlin leaned forward, grabbed at the sword from the lifeless hand of the officer he had smashed down. He raised the blade, flung it—

  It whistled through the air, buried itself in the uniformed back of the soldier who had battered Chen Tsing Gat into unconsciousness. The man shrieked wildly, clawed at the point of the blade where it protruded from his chest. He pitched forward.

  The Golden Girl screamed as clutching yellow hands tore at the silk of her robe, ripped it from her perfect body. She was lifted in strong, buffeting arms—Tate Shevlin saw red as a surging anger mounted to his temples. Caution tossed to the winds, he lashed himself ahead in great, leaping strides. A yellow visage loomed before him. He smashed at it with his bare fists, battered the man to death. And then two other soldiers of Wu Shang catapulted into him, bore him backward. A rifle-muzzle smashed down against his skull; fists beat into his face. He staggered, stumbled, went to his knees. A heavy boot thudded into his groin, and a raging inferno of agony cramped at his muscles, sickened him.

  The blunt snout of an automatic was thrust against his temple. Weakly, ineffectually, he tried to smash it aside. A yellow finger tightened on the trigger—

  And then a commanding voice said “No! Do not shoot him! Wu Shang desires all three of these plotters—desires them alive!” Then Shevlin felt a crashing blow at the base of his skull and black unconsciousness engulfed him.

  * * * *

  When next he opened his eyes, he was in a softly-lighted room. His hands and ankles were roped; his body was a torturing hell of aching pain. Dully he stared about him. Similarly gyved and helpless, Chen Tsing Gat’s ancient form was stretched out alongside him on the floor. Just beyond Chen Tsing Gat, the soldier of fortune beheld the breath-taking nakedness of the Golden Girl.

  Her yellow silken robe hung in pathetic tatters about her virginal white body. She was fettered, hand and foot; and in her deep blue eyes Shevlin saw frantic fear. Her revealed, pink-centered breasts rose and fell sharply under the stress of her terror-stricken breathing.

  There was a desk at the far end of the room. Behind it sat a man, huge, almond-eyed, leering. He was clad in the field uniform of a general in the Chinese army; and his slanted eyes glittered with an unholy satisfaction.

  He spoke, and his voice was like the harsh rasp of a saw biting through living bone. “I am General Wu Shang, governor of Linchow Province!” he snarled. His lips drew back, baring yellow, fang-like teeth. “This is my headquarters; and my soldiers have accomplished a splendid task in capturing you three!”

  It was Chen Tsing Gat who answered him. “Yes, Wu Shang,” he said wearily, bitterly. “You have triumphed.”

  “Aie, dog! Verily I have triumphed. And I shall take great delight in watching you die—all three of you!”

  Chen Tsing Gat went pale. “One moment, General Wu Shang! It is fitting that you should kill me, becau
se I have plotted to overthrow your government. But these other two—these Americans—they have had no actual hand in my scheming. They merely aided me in the recovery of certain jewels which had been lost—

  “Yes. The Claws of the Dragon!” Wu Shang interposed swiftly. “l know all about that. Because I myself happen to possess one of the Claws!” He reached into a pocket of his tunic, withdrew a glittering coruscating diamond-and-emerald jewel of pulse-stirring beauty; a jewel whose diamonds glistened iridescently with imprisoned fire, whose emeralds were like congealed green flames. Wu Shang grinned. “I have had this a long time, oh Chen Tsing Gat; and long have I desired its four mates. And now I shall have them! Now I shall possess all five Claws!” He turned to one of his men; his harsh voice rose. “Search him! Bring me the four Claws he possesses!”

  Chen Tsing Gat spoke quickly. “Search me if you wish. But you will not find the Claws. The jewels are not with me, Wu Shang!”

  Wu Shang’s yellow face darkened thunderously. “Then where are they, son of an unmentionable tortoise?” he rasped.

  Desperately, craftily, Chen Tsing Gat’s eyes narrowed. “The time has not yet come to me to tell you that secret, Wu Shang,” he said softly.

  “No? Then perhaps I have a means of hastening that time!” Wu Shang barked. “When you have witnessed a little scene in my private torture-dungeon, your lips perhaps will unlock! Or it may be that you prefer to taste some of the torture yourself!” He turned to his men. “Take all three of these dogs down below, into the torture-chamber!”

  Tate Shevlin felt himself being lifted, carried out into a corridor, down a long flight of stairs into the bowels of the earth below the house. Then, at last, as he flung callously, brutally, into a corner of an underground chamber—a dungeon that smelled sickeningly of carrion, of putrescent flesh, of death…

  The Golden Girl and Chen Tsing Gat were brought into the dungeon, propped in the corner beside the soldier of fortune. Flaring, flickering torches illumined the place with ghastly, ghoulish light. At the far end of the room there was a torture-rack; nearer, Shevlin perceived other weird and diabolic engines for producing exquisite agony upon human flesh. He shuddered.