“They’re beginning to understand,” Woodley said. “They’re not savages now, of course. Your people are explaining, taking care of them. They’ll go back to their wrecked cities and take up life where they left off.
“It will be hard at first,” Sham murmured.
“Yes. But your people will help them, guide them till there’s some semblance of order. Mankind has intelligence again. And it will be easy to rebuild with the aid of your people. Some will remain here, isolated. But I think many will prefer to mingle with the world.”
Slow dawn was breaking over the eastern hills. Already vague figures were toiling up the slope. Sharn sighed.
“And our own future? Janet loves you, Kent.”
Woodley smiled.
“I got back my memories, all of them, when the ray was turned on a few hours ago. There was so much I had forgotten. Janet doesn’t love me, Sharn. She broke our engagement before the catastrophe, to marry someone else. My subconscious suppressed that memory till now. That was why I didn’t remember. I still thought I loved Janet, and didn’t realize it when she became only a symbol to me.”
“She married someone else! Who was her husband?”
“An aviator. He was one of those who attacked the city. Janet’s with him now. They’ll be happy together.” Woodley’s eyes met Sham’s. There was nothing more to say. All that remained was an unsaid message that was as old as mankind, but it was enough . . .
THUNDER JIM WADE
Follow a Mysterious Avenger of Wrong on a Trail of Death and Combat from Singapore to an Ancient Lost City of Treasure!
The Thunderbug Speeds to Answer the Challenge of Modern Plundering Pirates!
CHAPTER I
The Statue
SINGAPORE, being the fingertip of Asia, reaching down toward the equator just north of Sumatra, is a melting-pot in more ways than one. It is cosmopolitan—and it is tropically hot. From all over the Orient men of all types find their way to Singapore and, in that dazzling, quivering heat, they find their veneer of civilization melting away. Anything can happen between Bombay and Borneo, from Yogi magic to murder under the great docks in the brawling waterfront district.
Duke Solent, however, was not at the docks. He was relaxed on the cushions of a closed sedan—unusual in that climate—as it hurtled along under the shadow of lofty tamarinds that bordered the dusty reddish road. Sweat gleamed on his dark face under the cork helmet, though he was wearing only the lightest of white linen.
He turned to the man beside him—a gaunt, bald fellow, with the predatory face of a vulture.
“You have the chloroform ready, Quester?”
“I’ve got it.”
Again there was heavy silence, broken only by the hum of the car’s motor and the distant cries of coolies working in the flooded rice fields through which the road now wound. Ragged youngsters were driving buffaloes, whose enormous horns were silhouetted against the blazing blue vault of the sky. To the left, herons were circling above a clump of palms.
Solent’s manicured, fleshy hand brushed lightly across his forehead, as though to eradicate the cross-, shaped scar that was branded there. Save for that, he would have been handsome.
Solent was an Eurasian, with slightly slanted eyes in a strong, bronzed face. And as is so often the case, he had the vices of two races.
Two other men, big-shouldered and silent, were in the front seat. Solent nodded toward them.
“They know what to do?”
“They know.”
“We must be sure to get the statue,” Solent reminded.
“Don’t worry about Galbraith’s refusing to talk,” Quester growled, and for a second his mouth twisted unpleasantly. Solent looked at him with contempt.
“Professor Galbraith will give us the information we want,” he said, “but torture is quite unnecessary. We’ll use scopolamine—truth-serum.”
Quester patted his concealed underarm holster.
“Suit yourself. But I—”
“You depend on guns,” Solent said sardonically. “At times they are necessary. Later on”—he scowled—“we’ll need them. But not yet.”
“I don’t believe in buried treasure,” grumbled Quester.
SOLENT’S slanted eyes hooded.
“Your beliefs are quite unimportant, Quester. Galbraith is a well-known archeologist. Last month, when he was in Indo-China on an expedition, he caught fever and, in his delirium, talked about a lost city and a treasure. That was reported to me.” The Eurasian smiled. “I have many—friends. There are certain reasons why I’m convinced as to the truth of Galbraith’s words. This, I know definitely: Years ago, Professor Galbraith found a lost city somewhere in Africa. I checked up, and learned that he did go to Africa then—but never revealed his findings. He spoke of an immense treasure, and a promise he’d made never to tell anyone about it, unless the need arose. Well—the need has arisen.” Solent touched the scar on his forehead. “There is a fortune in what we plan to get, much more than the treasure alone. Though we’ll need it, as I’ve explained.”
“The statue?”
“Galbraith brought it back with him from Africa. He’s never let it out of his sight, even when he travels. Took it with him to Indo-China. And now that he’s returning to Singapore, it will be in his car. My man wired to confirm that.”
He was silent, peering ahead. A cloud of reddish dust hung in the distance, shrouding the road.
“I think—” He picked up his field-glasses. “Yes.” He leaned toward the driver. “Turn the car—mao!” he snapped.
The sedan slowed, maneuvered, and slowly retraced its path. “Let them overtake us,” ordered Solent. “Then—”
“The set-up’s screwy,” Quester muttered. “The treasure ought to be enough. You said there’d be gold—gems—”
“Those will be the means to the end,” Solent told him. “The real treasure is something else again. It’s more valuable than gold.” He hesitated. “To some people.”
“Okay. You’re the boss. The plane’s ready, the boys are ready, and we’ve everything from machine-guns to grenades. All we need is the dope from Galbraith.”
“You’ll get it,” Solent said, watching the other car overtake and pass them.
It was a rickety touring model, travel-stained and piled high with equipment. A native boy was driving, with reckless disdain for human life, and a linen-clad, dwarfish old man sat beside him.
“Galbraith,” Quester said under his breath.
“Yes. Wait till we get to a deserted spot.”
Solent’s car trailed the other back toward Singapore. Presently they passed across the bridge, where yellow flood waters were bringing down clumps of floating moss, and small sandalwood and tamarind trunks. A cormorant flew past, clacking its beak loudly.
“Now!” the Eurasian said.
Instantly the sedan leaped forward, overtaking the open car. There was a lurching skid, the scream of metal on metal, and Galbraith’s car slid into the ditch that bordered the road, coming to a precarious stop, tilted hood-down. Muddy water splashed up, and a cloud of midges rose.
It was, just as Solent had calculated it to be, an ideal spot for an abduction. The perfume of hibiscus and the purple flame-trees was strong, and the thickets effectually screened the road. In the sudden silence the chirp of crickets was nerve-rasping.
Solent waited in the sedan, one hand on his automatic. But he did not need to use if. Galbraith’s native chauffeur was disposed of by smashing a gun-barrel against his head. The scientist, curiously enough, made no move, but his bright little eyes were alert. He had realized at once what was happening.
“This stuff isn’t valuable,” he said to Quester, who was menacing him with a revolver. “Except to my museum.”
“Shut up and get out,” Quester commanded.
“Get the statue,” Solent called.
The scientist caught his breath. About to step out of the car, he whirled suddenly and snatched at the dashboard compartment. But a wad of chlorof
orm-soaked gauze was pressed over his face, and, after a few frantic struggles, he subsided.
“Is it in the compartment?” Solent called.
“No.” Quester held up a small, paper-wrapped bundle he had found in the front seat. “This it?”
Solent took the package and moved aside to allow the limp body of Galbraith to be shoved into the sedan’s back. Hurriedly he tore open the wrappings.
“Good! This is it. Come along now,—mao!”
Quester and the two others obeyed. Within fifteen seconds the sedan was racing along the road to Singapore, the scientist lying motionless under a heavy auto robe.
By the time they had reached their destination, the swift tropic night had fallen. Under the electric street lights a mob surged through the avenues. Autos blasting their horns, forced their way through rickshas and malabars. This was the fashionable foreign district, center of the shops and cafes.
Further on Singapore went native. It didn’t seem too unlike the Arabian Nights. The smell of food and sesame was everywhere. A soap peddler, with his two jars suspended from the pole across his shoulder, called his wares; a congai shouted shrilly the merits of the earth-nuts he was selling. Chinese in silk tunics, beggars, coolies, an Indo-Chinese in his lineo cai-ao . . .
Fifteen minutes later the occupants of the sedan were in a room four stories above the teeming street. The incessant noise was bedlam. Those who own radios in Singapore are proud of the fact, and advertise it. And in this noisy ramshackle hotel, catering to what was known as “the trade,” a cry would pass unnoticed.
Solent laid out hypodermic needle, and his other equipment while he waited for Galbraith to revive. The scientist lay on a dirty couch in one corner, breathing harshly. Quester was fingering the package.
The Eurasian took it from him and, with a peremptory nod, ordered the two others from the room. Alone with Quester, he found a hammer and chisel and unwrapped the bundle. The figurine that emerged was gilt-plated, and represented a bull having the head and torso of a man. The features were clearly recognizable as those of Professor Galbraith.
SOLENT fingered the statuette carefully. At last, with a grunt, he brought down the hammer upon it. Nothing happened.
Quester watched. The Eurasian tried hammer, chisel, and acid on the image, without perceptibly affecting it. He gave it up at last.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Galbraith’s waking up.”
He turned to the scientist, who was grimacing and rubbing his head.
“Sorry I had to use such tactics,” he said, “but it was necessary.”
Galbraith glared at him. “You won’t realize much on the things I found in Indo-China.”
“Oh—those!” Solent made a gesture of disclaimer. “We didn’t touch those.”
Galbraith’s gaze went to the little statuette. He moistened suddenly gray lips.
“I think you know what I want,” Solent murmured. “Some information about—”
“You’re crazy!” the scientist snapped. “That figurine’s worth not more than a few dollars.”
“Then you shouldn’t mind telling us where you got it.”
Galbraith frowned. His eyes went to the hypodermic on the table, and the vial beside it. He could read the label.
He stood up, swaying slightly, and went to the figurine. There he hesitated, as one quick glance shot toward the window.
“It’s a four-story jump,” Quester growled. “Don’t try it.” Nevertheless, he moved toward the window.
Galbraith picked up the image. “Very well. The information will do you no good, but—”
Solent cursed and sprang forward, but he was too late. The scientist’s fingers had moved with surprising speed. He had slipped something over the statuette and flung it straight at the window.
With a crashing of glass the image went out of sight. The roar of sound blasted in from the street below.
“Guard him!” Solent snapped, and raced for the door.
In a moment he was darting down the stairway. He plunged into the stream of humanity that thronged the avenue, fighting his way to where the image might have fallen. But, as he had expected, he was too late. Someone had picked up the—the thing.
Solent’s eyes were deadly as he went back up the stairs. Without a word he filled the hypodermic needle and approached Galbraith who, under the menace of Quester’s gun, did not move. But there was a glint of triumph in his eyes.
Then there was nothing to do but wait, while Galbraith lay motionless on the couch.
In a whisper, Quester asked: “Will he talk?”
“Yes. He’ll tell the truth, too. Wait a bit. He’s coming ’round.”
The scientist moaned and shivered. His eyes opened, blank and blind.
Over the broken window the shade rattled in a sudden gust of oven-hot air. Midges danced around the electric bulb. The roar of sound from below seemed to come from another world.
THE Eurasian’s voice came, softly commanding. And presently, in response, Galbraith began to talk.
“. . . pretending to be unconscious. While you were testing the image, I managed to get out a pencil and write a note. Then, when I had the opportunity, I fastened it to the Minotaur with one of my arm-bands and threw it out the window.”
“What did the note say?”
“I asked Kearney for help. I wrote that if the finder would take it to Kearney’s shop he’d receive a reward.”
“Kearney?” Quester looked at Solent, who shrugged.
“There’s a man named Kearney who runs an antique and curio shop uptown. Is that the one, Galbraith?”
“Yes.”
“Will he get in touch with the police?”
“Fie will send a radio message to Thunder Jim Wade.”
The reaction to these words was totally unexpected. Quester’s head swung around toward Solent. The vulture-faced man seemed suddenly strung on wires, tensely alert, and waiting for his cue.
Solent did not move at all. His face went completely blank. Then, slowly, he took out an enameled jade cigarette case and lit one of the small white cylinders.
“So Kearney’s one of Wade’s agents,” the Eurasian said, his voice toneless. He touched the scar on his forehead. “Well, then we must change our plans . . . Galbraith!” He turned back to the drugged scientist. “Tell me. . . .
It was nearly half an hour later when Solent straightened, sweat beading his bronze forehead. But he was smiling. Quester watched him in silent inquiry.
“We leave for Africa at dawn,” Solent said. “In the meantime, try and get hold of Kearney and the statuette.”
“What if—”
“We’re flying at dawn, and taking Galbraith with us. Can’t afford to wait. The police might come into the picture. If we fail to—to accomplish what we wish by morning, there’s a man named Varden in Singapore who’ll finish the job.”
“I can stay—” Quester started, but the Eurasian smiled and shook his head slowly.
“You’re coming with me. You know too much about this business. Varden can keep in touch with us by radio, and if he gets the statue, he’ll let us know. Meanwhile, there’s no time to waste.”
“How can we go without the statue? You know what Galbraith said.”
“We’ll get the statue.” There was a half-smile on the Eurasian’s face. “Even if Varden fails and it falls into Wade’s hands, he’ll follow to rescue the professor. Thunder Jim Wade! We shall discover whether or not his reputation is justified.”
At dawn a big cabin monoplane took off from the flying field, heading for Cairo.
Quester had failed, and the job of recovering the statuette was now in Varden’s hands.
But it was several days before the Singapore police were summoned by a riot call some blocks from Kearney’s little shop. In the commotion, no one noticed four armed men who entered the antique shop and reappeared presently bearing a mummy case, which they had conveniently discovered, and which now contained Kearney’s unconscious body.
The
sarcophagus was placed in a waiting automobile, and Varden gave swift commands. He had his orders from Quester.
“Lucky we managed it before Wade got here,” one of the men commented.
“There’s somebody watching at the airport,” Varden smiled. “When Thunder Jim does blow in, he’ll get a plenty hot reception.”
He leaned back on the cushions, feeling quite pleased. Why not? He had been well paid—and there would be more dough presently. All that remained now was a minor matter of murder, torture, and sabotage.
CHAPTER II
Man Missing
“THUNDER JIM” WADE arrived in Singapore the next afternoon. He’d had a long trip by air from his hideout in the South Pacific—the mysterious place where he vanished when he was not working on “cases,” as he defined them.
He called himself a trouble-shooter. But he had a habit of seeking trouble, and smashing it with a cold, ruthless fury that had given him both name and reputation. His past was shrouded in mystery. Years before he had flashed on the scene like a comet—a comet whose mission was to destroy such men as Duke Solent
Many had wondered whence Wade had come. But not even “Dirk” Marat and “Red” Argyle, Jim’s aides, knew that. Red was a burly giant with gnarled hands like knotted oak roots, and incredibly deft fingers. And Dirk was a small, innocent-looking chap with blond hair and black eyebrows, and one great passion. That was for cold steel. He could handle guns, but preferred to work with knives.
They helped Wade in his work—which was to smash crime and evil. Together they had wrecked opium rings, slave trades, pearl thievery, and a hundred other unscrupulous activities. Fighting always for the underdog, Wade had stationed agents in various parts of the world, each with a special powerful radio for getting in contact with him at his Pacific island hideout. Kearney was one such agent—and it was his message that had brought the Thunderbug to Singapore.
The Thunderbug was an impossible engineering marvel. That was agreed upon except by the few experts who had been allowed to inspect the craft. They had emerged shaking their heads, more than ever convinced that Wade was a scientific wizard.
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