For the Thunderbug could fly in the air, move underwater as a submarine, and speed across the ground as a fast tank. Only those who had inspected the fantastic craft could have explained how it was done, and they never did. It was a super-convertible, and a marvel of scientific engineering.
Just now Wade was whistling happily as he sprang out of the ricksha and tossed a coin to the native boy. He didn’t seem to mind the uncomfortable heat, though Dirk was sweating and pulling at his collar.
“I WANT a drink,” the little man growled.
“Kearney’ll feed you some n’g-ka-po,” Wade said, rather absently.
He was thinking how little this
street resembled the popular tourist’s version of Singapore. It might have been any Eastern city, and the hotel before whose glass doors he stood might have been lifted from the Riviera. No, Singapore was not merely a collection of dives, dens and huts. Comfort could be had here—if one paid for it.
He didn’t go into the hotel. He turned to a small antique shop nearby, and stood for an instant staring at the collection of bric-a-brac in the windows.
“The door’s locked,” Dirk said. “That’s funny.”
“Yeah.”
Wade hesitated, took a key-ring from his pocket, and selected the right one. Sometimes it had been necessary for him to enter Kearney’s shop after it had been closed, and so he owned a duplicate key. But now it was only afternoon, and the store was shut. Why?
Together the two men quickly entered, and went back through the maze of display cases to a curtain at the back. They went through this warily, and paused.
“Fight,” Dirk said tonelessly.
“Yeah.”
There was blood on the floor, and a table had been overturned. The wreckage of a chair lay in a corner. Wade hastily went to an alcove and pressed a concealed spring there. A panel set in the floor slid aside, revealing steps that went down into darkness,
“Wait here,” Wade commanded, and raced down the stairs. He came back after a few moments, frowning.
Dirk looked at him with silent inquiry.
“Nothing. Somebody attacked Kearney, of course. But they didn’t find the radio room down there. They took Kearney away with them.”
His dark eyes lightened suddenly. Wade took a hasty stride forward, peering at the wall. There were streaks of blood on it. Dirk followed the direction of his gaze.
“Eh?”
“Kearney’s left us a message. In Chinese—see?”
Translated, the message read:
Lao Chen. Guard Thunderbug
“Right.” Wade nodded. “I’ve heard of Lao Chen. He runs a dive down at the waterfront. Somebody’s trying to stop us, Dirk. And I suppose they’ll take a crack at the Thunderbug, Grab a taxi back to the airport. Tell Red, and see that nothing happens.”
“Like fun!” Dirk muttered. “I’m coming along with you.”
“No. If I don’t show up by morning, you’ll know where to look. Lao Chen’s.”
“Why not get the police?”
But Wade shook his head. “The way I figure it, our friends wanted Kearney alive, or they’d have killed him here. They want information from him.”
“Maybe they want that statue.”
“Could be. I know Kearney. He’s probably hidden it, and he’ll be tortured if he won’t talk. But if we get in the police and they raid Lao Chen’s—well, they won’t find Kearney. You know that!”
Unwillingly Dirk nodded. “Okay. Luck.”
They went out, Wade locking the door after him. He gave Dirk a casual wave and found a cab. There was no time to waste on rickshas. The auto shot off as Wade relaxed on the cushions.
He looked entirely different now, somehow. Lean, hard, dangerous. He looked like the man who had smashed a Turkestan opium ring, and blasted out a reputation for himself at the point of flaming guns. Rolling through the bumpy streets of Singapore, he let his mind wander.
First, Professor Galbraith had sent a message for help. That little statuette probably was vitally important.
And—where was it? Only Kearney knew.
The car threaded its way toward the ill-lit, bad-smelling waterfront district of Singapore, and Wade’s sense of imminent danger grew stronger. The sudden tropic night fell.
THE city wakened from its daytime drowsiness into roaring, lusty night. Men of all nations moved through the streets, seeking liquor, women, excitement, or trouble. Here the smooth face of a Lascar sailor gleamed under a lamp; there a bearded, turbaned Sikh strode with his regal, arrogant stride. Singapore, melting-pot and sink-hole of nations, resting like a blood-stained jewel beside an azure sea. City of contrasts, where men died by violence on beaches of enchanting loveliness, where every vice could be pandered to, and where there was no middle ground between squalid poverty and fantastic wealth.
The purple night darkened over Singapore. . . .
Lao Chen’s tavern took up only a part of the lower floor of a huge, silent warehouse near the waterfront. Yellow light flamed from the windows. A man came staggering out through the swinging doors and collapsed in the gutter. Nice joint, Thunder Jim thought. Quite a dive. He could vaguely sense the distinctive, sickly odor of opium, but that was nothing unusual in Singapore.
He paid the cab driver and got out. Alone on the dimly lit street, he felt for the snub-nosed little automatic in its shoulder holster under his white coat, and nodded briefly. He’d probably need that gun before the night was over.
He pushed open the swinging doors and descended a few steps into a large room that held curtained booths along the walls, a large bar, and tables. In the corner a juke-box was jangling unmusically. A few native waiters, in
grimy aprons, were moving about, and there were girls here and there. But they, obviously, were not customers.
Wade felt eyes on him. Well, he would have to take a chance that no one would recognize him. If his luck held—
With the painstakingly steady walk of a drunken man, he crossed the floor to a booth and lowered himself to the bench. A waiter was at his side instantly.
“Sair? Your order?”
“Rye.”
“Yes, sair.”
The man vanished. A native girl in a green taffeta gown rustled forward and hesitated by the table. Wade gestured invitingly.
“You buy me a drink, perhaps?” she asked.
“Sure,” Wade said, and waited until full glasses of rotgut were brought.
He didn’t touch his. He waited, eyeing the girl. Her liquid dark eyes were inquiring.
“A friend sent me here,” Wade said. “He said I could get”—he hesitated meaningly—“anything I wanted.”
The girl’s dark eyes were suddenly veiled. “Yes?”
“A smoke?”
The girl pocketed the folded bill Wade passed her under the table.
“You will excuse me?”
CHAPTER III
At Lao Chen’s
IT WAS surprisingly easy. A little too much so. Lao Chen must be very confident, Wade thought, not to have investigated more thoroughly.
But, after being taken along a long corridor to a stairway that led up into the depths of the warehouse, Wade realized that escape from this labyrinth would not be easy. Suppose he had been a government man? A body would be found floating by the docks the next morning.
Had he been recognized? He wasn’t sure. Glancing around the low-ceilinged room in which he stood, Wade sniffed the sickly-sweet odor of opium. Curtained bunks lined the walls, on which men lay in varying stages of stupor. A few dim lights glowed faintly. Opium smokers prefer shadows.
Wade turned to the skinny, mustached Chinese beside him. Lao Chen himself had offered to guide his guest. The butter-colored face was impassive.
“This way.”
Wade let himself be drawn to a bunk. He lay down, loosening his collar, and accepted the long pipe Lao Chen handed him.
His eyes searched the room. No one was paying any attention, apparently. Good!
“Draw
the curtain,” he muttered, and the Chinese started to obey.
They were in a shadowy corner. So swiftly did Lao Chen move that Wade was almost caught by surprise. But not quite.
Steel flashed as the Chinese’s hand dived into his sleeve. The wicked, short-handled knife shot down at the white man’s throat. But it did not find its mark.
For Wade jerked aside, feeling a sting of pain in his shoulder as the sharp point ripped through cloth and skin. His arms swept around Lao Chen’s body, dragging the killer off balance and into the bunk. Instantly Wade rolled over, slamming the Chinese against the wall so hard that he momentarily went limp. Then Thunder Jim had twitched the curtain back into place, retrieved the knife, and turned to his captive.
Lao Chen was wriggling frantically, his eyes popping. Wade’s hands tightened until the man relaxed, almost unconscious. There was a moment of silence.
Had anyone heard the sound of the scuffle? No noise came from beyond the grimy curtain. Wade waited a moment, and then whipped off the Chinese’s sash, ripping it in two to bind his prisoner’s hands and feet.
That done, he waited, one arm across Lao Chen’s throat, ready to tighten.
“Don’t yell,” he said gently. “Just whisper.” He put the point of the knife against the scrawny yellow neck. “You’re going to talk—understand?”
The steel drew blood.
Lao Chen gasped. “Yes,” he whispered. “I understand. I’ll talk!” Thunder Jim’s eyes were icy black, but he was smiling.
“You’re blamed right you’ll talk. Where’s Kearney?”
“On the next floor down.”
“Why did you try to kill me?”
“I—I recognized you.”
“Spill it. All of it.”
The Chinese moistened his lips. “I don’t know much. They paid me to let them use one of my rooms.”
“Nothing unusual, eh? Always ready to turn a dishonest penny. Spill it—go on.”
“A man came to me and wanted to rent a room in the warehouse. He—”
SLOWLY Wade pieced out the story. The man’s name had been Varden. He was known to the Singapore police as a killer who could be hired for any job and, apparently, someone had paid him to kidnap Kearney.
“Why?”
Lao Chen had made it his business to find out, scenting a possible profit. Kearney had in his possession a certain statue that Varden’s employer wanted. Kearney had been kidnaped, and was now in a room above Lao Chen’s tavern, stubbornly refusing to reveal the hiding-place of the statue, even under torture.
The Chinese, surreptitiously listening, had discovered that Varden had sent men to wait for the Thunderbug and sabotage it when it arrived. Knowing Wade’s reputation, he had put two and two together when Thunder Jim had arrived. He had recognized Wade.
Well, Jim Wade thought quickly, Dirk and Red were guarding the Thunderbug. Meanwhile, Kearney was a captive here. Varden himself Wade was inclined to discount. The man was merely a tool in the hands of some higher-up, paid to do a certain job. That was all.
“Where’s Varden now?” he demanded.
“Not here. At the airport, I think.”
Wade froze as the soft pad-pad of slippered feet came from beyond the curtain. But they passed by without pausing. The gleam of hope in Lao Chen’s eyes faded.
“But Kearney’s here, eh?” Wade pressed. “How do I get to him?”
The Chinese explained, somewhat too willingly. He mentioned that there was only one guard. Wade didn’t believe that, but he said nothing.
He had no intention of walking into a trap, as Lao Chen no doubt intended him to do.
He shifted his position and brought up a hard fist in a short arc. The Chinese didn’t even grunt. He simply relaxed completely, knocked out. It was the safest way. Had Wade simply gagged the man, Lao Chen might have rolled off the bunk and attracted attention and aid. As it was, he turned the Chinese to face the wall, and left the opium pipe where it could have fallen from a relaxing hand. Then, having arranged the embroidered red-and-yellow smock to cover the bound wrists and ankles, Wade slipped out of the bunk.
He didn’t look around. A boy was rolling opium gum on a needle for a drowsy Chinese, but he seemed innocuous enough. Simulating the walk of a drugged man, Wade moved toward the door, opened it, and went out into the passage.
He did not look at the man stationed outside. He walked on, lurching a little, but with every sense on j the alert.
Lao Chen had said that the prisoner’s room was on the next floor down. He found the staircase and descended the rickety steps. A few wan lamps scarcely dispelled the darkness. Movement seemed to lurk
in every shadow. But the feel of the automatic was comforting in its shoulder holster.
Wade paused at an open door. A musty smell of rats and dead air came out. He stepped into the unused storeroom and waited, but there was no sound of pursuit to be heard. Good!
From his pocket came a flat, compact kit—make-up. He didn’t use much of it, and when he emerged from the room he seemed unaltered, save for a vague trace of grease-paint on his skin.
But this was invisible unless one looked closely, as was the nose-putty that transformed that feature ever so slightly.
STILL, the trick had a good chance of working, Wade thought.
Fie found the right door, at the end of the passage, and paused outside, listening. If Varden were inside, in spite of Lao Chen’s insistence that the hired killer was at the airport, his trick was foredoomed to failure. But he would have to take the chance. Not for a moment did he believe that there was only one guard within.
First he loosened his shoulder holster and took it off. He laid it behind a pile of rubble in the corner, near a window that overlooked the water. Then he went back to the door and knocked, stepped aside instantly.
There was the sound of a chair being scraped back. A lock clicked, and a man hesitated on the threshold as the door swung open. He did not see Wade immediately. When he did, the gun in his hand jutted menacingly.
Wade had his fingers to his lips. He nodded significantly to the open door.
The other’s brows drew together uncomprehendingly.
“Thun—” he said.
Wade’s grimace stopped him.
“Shut up! Varden sent me.”
The other man didn’t look stupid, and for a moment Wade was afraid he might be Varden himself. But seemingly he was not. He drew the door closed, still holding the gun aimed unwaveringly.
“You’re Thunder Jim Wade,” the man said softly.
“Listen,” Wade said. “I don’t know what this is all about, but Varden told me to come up here, and not let the little guy see me. He said I looked like Thunder Jim, and that he’d pay me plenty for a job he wanted done.”
Cold eyes were fixed on him, searching his face.
“He took me into a joint and had me made up,” Wade went on. “Said I was a ringer for Wade, and that you’d know what to do.”
“Yeah?” There was suspicion in the low voice. “Step out here in the light.”
They moved dangerously close to the pile of rubble in the corner. The gunman peered closely at Wade. He put out an exploratory hand and touched Wade’s cheek.
“Careful. It’ll come off.”
“Grease-paint. Yeah.” Swiftly the gunman searched Wade. “You’re clean, too.”
He hesitated, obviously wondering if Thunder Jim would be crazy enough to walk into a den of enemies, completely unarmed. He couldn’t conceive of such a thing—and that turned the balance. Yet suspicion still lingered.
“I get the picture. Okay, I’ll get the boys out. You go in when we tell you, and get the guy to talk. He’s tied up in a chair.”
WADE watched his opponent back away without lowering the gun. The man looked like a sailor, burned almost black, with an undershot jaw and a scar that knifed from cheek to lip.
He thrust open the door and called, “Come on out. Something’s up.”
“Righto, Dinky,” a voice answered
, and feet thudded on planks. “What about our friend here?”
“Leave him,” Dinky said. “He can’t get away.”
Five men crowded out into the passage—ordinary specimens of dock-rats, they seemed.
There were startled looks among them as they saw Wade.
“What the—”
“Shut the door,” the man they had called Dinky commanded. “That’s it.
Now listen—this guy isn’t Wade. He’s a ringer, made up to look like Thunder Jim. The boss sent him around to get Kearney to talk. But he won’t do it if he thinks this fella’s a ringer. We’ll have to play up.” He turned to Wade. “So we’ll let off a few shots. Nobody’ll pay any attention around here. You dive into that room and lock the door behind you. We’ll hammer on the outside and make a lot of noise, but we won’t bust in till you get the guy to talk. He’ll talk to you if he thinks you’re Thunder Jim. And we’ll help make him think so.”
Wade nodded.
“We’ll be outside,” Dinky said. His eyelids lowered significantly. “Okay,” he said, and fired a shot into the floor.
JIM WADE instantly opened the door, sprang in, and slammed the panel behind him, locking it. His eyes were blinded by a blaze of lamplight. The little room in which he stood was empty save for a table and a few chairs, and the single window was covered with iron bars. No wonder Dinky had been willing to let him enter! For there was no possible way of escape save by the door, guarded now by armed men.
Or—the thought came chillingly to Wade—did Dinky feel certain that he was Thunder Jim Wade? Had this merely been a shrewd method of imprisoning him, too? Well, that could wait.
For tied to one of the chairs was a little man, short and thin, with a tangled mop of gray hair. It was Kearney.
“Thunder Jim!” he whispered.
Wade grinned. “Yeah. How—” he began.
He paused, noting Kearney’s bare feet. The little man had been tortured.
“I didn’t talk, Jim. They wanted to know where I’d hidden that statuette—”
CHAPTER IV
The Thunderbug
Collected Fiction Page 223
