by John Glasby
The other nodded. Waiting until they had pulled aside the screens, he motioned Carradine forward, following close on his heels.
The man lying on the bed seemed so still beneath the thin sheets that for a moment it seemed difficult for Carradine to believe that he was still alive. Then, looking closer, he saw the sheet rising and falling slowly and shallowly.
The doctor checked the man’s pulse, lifted one of the closed eyelids, let it drop back into place. He sighed softly. “I’m afraid you're going to be out of luck, Mr. Carradine.”
“Can you give me any idea at all when he is likely to come out of this coma?”
“None at all, I'm afraid. It could be an hour or so, or perhaps days before he is in any fit condition to talk coherently.”
“This drug you think has been used on him. Would that have the effect of taking away his memory?”
“Partial amnesia? Somehow, I doubt it. We can only wait until he comes round and then—”
“Doctor!” The nurse, standing beside the bed, spoke sharply. Carradine turned his head. The patient’s eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling, wide, curiously flat and empty.
The doctor moved forward, bent over the other as Carradine moved to the foot of the bed, watching closely. Slowly, the patient’s eyes moved, not in the direction of the white-coated man standing over him, but downward so that his gaze travelled across the length of the bed, locking with Carradine’s. There was no recognition in them, but quite suddenly, Carradine saw the expression that gusted over the man’s face, the look at the back of the wide-open eyes.
It was an expression he had seen many times before, on countless faces. The hunted look, compounded of fear, terror and the knowledge that from this particular nightmare there was no possible escape. Thrusting down with his hands, he started up from the bed, a faint, low cry escaping from his grimacing lips.
“Take it easy,” said the doctor in a soothing tone. “This is a hospital. You’re quite safe now.”
The look of terror did not ease as he tried to force words from between his trembling lips.
“The Red—” The hoarse voice faded into silence as the other’s head fell back onto the pillow. He seemed utterly spent by the effort.
“What was that?” asked the doctor. He bent lower, trying to pick out any further words.
Brushing past the nurse, Carradine moved to the man, placed his face close to his. “Go on with what you were trying to say,” he said forcefully, urgently. “The Red Dragon. They did this, didn’t they?”
With an effort, the other nodded his head. On the top of the sheet, the fingers curled into taut talons, nails biting deeply into the flesh of the palms but he did not seem to notice it.
“Now try to think carefully. What happened? Who did this to you? Do you know any names. People, places—anything?”
The other squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to keep out the sight of something unutterably horrible. The doctor who leaned over and caught Carradine by the arm. “It’s no use. Either he can’t recall anything, or he can’t tell you. I think we had better let him get some rest. Maybe in a day or so, he will be able to tell you all you want to know and—”
“In this dirty business, doctor,” Carradine said tightly, “even a day or two can be too long. We are fighting a dangerous enemy. Once they discover that he is still alive, they’ll find a way to silence him—permanently.”
“He’ll be quite safe so long as he is in hospital and under our care,” said the other stiffly.
“Don’t you believe it,” Carradine said with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “I know these people and it’s evident from that remark that you don’t. They can get a man anywhere. Even here. Now—” He turned his attention back to the man in the bed, shaking off the doctor’s restraining grip. “Tell me what you can. For God’s sake—try!”
At length the lips moved again, eyes still wide and staring. Then the words, spaced and slurred, the syllables all running together came out through the shaking lips. “Socorro...careful, man called Cornish...top secret information. Urgent see Dean...” The voice trailed off into silence and the other lay back, his eyes closed, seemingly exhausted.
The doctor said sharply: “I’m afraid I shall have to insist that you let him rest now; I’m not sure that I ought to have allowed you to do that.”
“I had no choice,” Carradine said shortly. “This is something far bigger than you can possibly imagine. Even the life of this man here is nothing compared to it.”
“So?” The other looked at him in mild surprise. “And what does that piece of information convey to you? Anything at all?”
“I’m not sure. At least it gives me something to go on.”
*
The city of Socorro in central New Mexico lay on the west bank of the Rio Grande River, some seventy-five miles south of Albuquerque at the junction of US Highway 85 and 60. Carradine motored comfortably along the broad highway in the light afternoon sunshine. He kept his eyes open as he drove, knowing that this time he could not afford to make any mistakes. Even though Dean seemed sure that he would not be recognised by any members of the Red Dragon organisation operating inside the United States, Carradine did not deem it quite certain. That poor devil back in the hospital in New York. He let his mind linger on that for a moment.
Why hadn’t they killed him while there had been the chance? Evidently the pentothal type drugs had been used to obtain information from him. Now the Red Dragon would know everything that had been tucked away in the security of that man’s mind. But why let him remain alive? Carradine found himself worrying over this point, incongruous as it seemed. There was one answer, nibbling away at the edges of his brain like a tiny grey mouse; but it was one he did not want to admit.
Just suppose that these people were one jump ahead of the FBI. Suppose they had already figured out that they might send for someone known to no one in the States. One way of discovering his identity would be to lay a trap for him, lure him down here after implanting this information in the mind of that man who had been found in the alley out in the Bronx...
Better keep his eyes and ears open once he arrived here. Dean had warned him over the telephone that the nearest American defence site lay less than fifty miles from Socorro and that it had been less than ten miles north of the city that one of their security men from the missile base had been found in a wrecked car, his briefcase containing several important, vital documents, missing.
He drove now along the bank of the wide river, glinting in the sunlight. Far off, in the distance, over to the west, he could make out the tall, undulating peaks of the Socorro and Magdalena mountains. It was a peaceful scene, totally unlike that which he had been imagining in his mind as he had driven down from Albuquerque. Socorro was evidently in the centre of a grain and dairying region. There was little evidence of any military establishment close by. He drove through an area of orchards, stretching away on either side of the broad horizon, the trees now showing a red and gold in their autumn attire. Sitting back a little in his seat, he relaxed, playing with his thoughts, still not having made up his mind on the line he intended to take once he reached the city.
There was his man Minden who seemed to be the mastermind in this part of the country. He had already decided that Cornish was merely an operator, possibly in a high position of trust, able to get information without giving himself away or arousing any suspicion.
The Red Dragon would undoubtedly have worked with the patience characteristic of the Oriental mind. They would move so slowly and carefully in the beginning that no suspicion would be formed in the minds of anyone. Only now, when they possibly considered themselves strong enough was the any urgency in their dealings. Maybe it all had something to do with the disturbing fact that China had now exploded her second atomic bomb and there seemed little doubt that they had mastered the technique of evolving and building atomic weapons. How long it would be before they reached parity with the West was problematical. But in the meantime, they need
ed to know every detail about the Western defence system, the exact whereabouts of their missile sites and methods of operation. Then, when the time came, and they were ready to put into operation their plan for world conquest, they would be able to strike first and destroy the American capacity to retaliate.
It was a numbing and terrifying thought. How soon would that day come? The trouble was that they were getting very little reliable information out of China. If they only had an idea what they were doing, they might know just how much time they had.
The Section had one or two men working inside China at the present time, but their difficulties were, quite naturally, virtually insurmountable. He, himself, did not envy any of those men.
Carradine stepped on the accelerator. There was a sudden sense of urgency in his mind. He could now make out the city in the distance. In the yellow glow of sunlight it all looked peaceful enough. A ripple of grim amusement went through him at the thought. It was the places that looked so quiet and peaceful that turned out to hold the most danger for him.
The feeling persisted, grew stronger, as he drove in through the open outskirts of the town.
On the face of it, Socorro was just a normal, average American city—he guessed the population was somewhere in the region of five thousand—the city dominated by the fine buildings of the New Mexico Institute of Mining and Technology. It was plainly an agricultural city although it had become the largest city in that New Mexico Territory during the 1880s because of the silver, which had been discovered close by. Mining had become intermittent after the steep drop in the price of silver at the end of the last century and now there was only a little done, mainly for hydrocarbons and zinc.
He located a five-storey hotel halfway along the wide thoroughfare and pulled into the parking lot alongside the building. There was plenty of room for the car, there being only four others in the lot and he guessed that there would be very few visitors here at this time of the year. He had felt a little surprise, driving into the city, at not seeing any sign of military personnel. Since this was one of the largest cities in the vicinity, he had expected to find it well patronised.
The hotel was all that he had expected—reasonably cheap, modern and clean, with excellent service. Carradine had a hot bath, changed, and then made his way downstairs and ate an excellent meal. His room was on the third floor. Why they had put him there when it was obvious there were scarcely any other guests in the hotel, he did not know. Possibly, he thought, it was something to do with keeping all floors occupied during the slack periods. Still, he did not grumble. The view from his window was magnificent. For several minutes, he stood and stared out towards the west, to where the sun was beginning to dip towards the mountains that stood out on the skyline in a wide band of blue and purple, with the reds and golds lying stretched out behind them, a perfect contrast in colours.
Inwardly, he felt tense. Perhaps if he took a walk around the city until it got dark, it might help. He made his way downstairs, handed his key to the clerk behind the reception desk, and walked over to the wide, glass doors. The sunlight laid a red glow on them, almost as if there was a huge fire burning outside.
Pushing them open with the flat of his hand, he was on the point of letting them swing back into place when he caught the faint scent of perfume behind him, turned sharply. The girl stood a few inches away, her gaze cool and speculative on him. He had noticed her at dinner, seated at one of the tables near the wide windows that overlooked the ground at the rear of the hotel. Stepping aside, he held the door open for her. She gave a sideways, appraising look, paused on the wide steps.
“Thank you.” Her voice was soft, with the faint drawl of the South. “You arrived this afternoon, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “From Albuquerque. The end of a long drive from New York.”
The delicately pencil brows lifted slightly. “Then you must be a long way from home. Do you know Socorro?”
Carradine shrugged. “Only the part I saw on the way in. I was going to take a look around before dark.”
“There’s really very little to see.” She looked at him gravely, evidently considering him. “Would you think it forward of me if I offered to show you the few sights worth looking at in the city?”
“Not at all. I can’t imagine a more charming guide.” He fell into step beside her, watching her most closely now. Although she was an exceptionally beautiful girl, she was the kind who did not need to watch her beauty, which came quite naturally to her. The dark hair provided the perfect contrast to the pale oval of her face;
Her skin glowed with a healthy tan, the red blood pulsing under the flesh. There was too an air of self-reliance about her stance and the way she walked, determination and independence in the set of her jaw and the high cheek bones
They turned into the main street. The first of the inevitable neon lights were flicking on along the storefronts.
“My name is Candy Vance—it’s short for Candida.” A pause, then she glanced at him impishly. “Are you here on business, Mr. Carradine? Or is it pleasure. New Mexico can be very beautiful and relaxing at this time of the year.”
He tried to show neither surprise nor alarm. Instead, he said quietly: “And how is it that you know my name?”
“Quite simple. I looked in the register at the hotel. There are only a few others there. The elderly married couple I noticed at once and you don’t look like a Mr. Schwartzheimer. So I put you down as Mr. Carradine.”
“I see.” Her explanation was so simple that he told himself it had to be the true. Yet that little germ of suspicion was still running around the grey edges of his mind. “Business and pleasure,” he said, wondering inwardly how much he could trust this girl. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. Last I heard of him he was living here, told him I’d look him up if I ever came to these parts.”
“Perhaps I know him.”
It was all said so quietly and innocently that there seemed to be no other reason behind the question than a mere genuine desire to help. He shrugged slightly. “His name is Cornish. I don’t suppose that—?”
“Albert Cornish?” There was a sudden sharp edge to the girl’s tone. Then she controlled herself. “Of course. He’s one of the top officials at the Institute.”
CHAPTER 4 - KILL OR CURE
It was the sort of office usually reserved for the presidents of large American business corporations or film magnates. Of large, but pleasing proportions, with plenty of glass to admit and reflect the sunlight, the deep purple carpet sat at least three inches beneath Carradine’s feet as he walked in. The pert secretary flashed him a quick smile, then backed out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Carradine looked about him in faint surprise. The paintings on the walls were obviously originals. He had, on a few occasions, seen canvasses such as these auctioned at Sotheby’s for several thousand pounds each. Evidently Albert Cornish was a man with very expensive tastes and the kind of money with which to pander them. The sixty-four thousand dollar question was: By what means did he get the money that enabled him to live in this luxury?
The broad mahogany desk stood just in front of the wide window and looked out over the rolling green orchard country to the south-west of Socorro. The air in the room was fresh, cool and slightly scented and there was a very faint hum of air conditioning fans whirring softly in the ceiling somewhere out of sight.
While Carradine was taking in the scene, there came the soft click of a door opening and turning swiftly, he saw the man enter the room, move forward.
“Mr. Carradine?”murmured the other quietly. He held out his hand, shook the other firmly, then moved around the side of the desk, motioning Carradine to the other chair. “lease sit down. I’ afraid I’ not quite sure of the exact nature of your business.” He pushed the box of cigars across the desk, waited until Carradine had taken one, and then lit one for himself, blowing the smoke high into the air, his head thrown back. The friendly smile was still there on his lips, but it had not pen
etrated to his eyes. They regarded Carradine closely from beneath lowered lids, wide and empty, devoid of all emotion.
“It’s of a rather confidential nature,” Carradine said soberly. “I trust that you will keep everything under your hat.”
“That goes without saying,” said the other, his features still expressionless.
“Briefly, I’m carrying out a broad survey of this area for one of the Government departments. Naturally, I am not at liberty to say which one, but I came to you since I understand that in your capacity here, you were of great help to them on some previous occasion.”
Cornish’s eyes widened a fraction, but this, and the very faint tremor of his hand as he leaned forward and gently tapped the length of grey ash from his cigar were the only indications of his thoughts at that moment. He said very cautiously: “Obviously you have a great deal of information about me which could be known only to a very few people.” He pushed his chair back a couple of inches, rose to his seat and paced towards the window, standing for a few moments with his back to Carradine, staring intently out of the room, down into the gardens below. At length, he turned. “I hope you will forgive me asking this, Mr. Carradine,” he said smoothly. “But do you mind showing me your credentials before I answer any more of your questions? Not that I am doubting your statements, of course, but in this business one has to be very careful.”
You’re damned right on that point, thought Carradine grimly. He fished inside his pocket, brought out the carefully prepared documents with which he had been provided by Dean’s office. Cornish took them, studied them with a thoughtful glance, then handed them back, clearly satisfied.
“I must admit to being surprised, but I shall do anything in my power to assist you. What is it that you want to know?”
Carradine sat back. He had of course no way of telling whether the other would be lying or not. His only course now was to go on probing until something clicked into place. Inwardly, there was a feeling that Cornish was beginning to become uneasy. It was visible in several little things. The faint twitching of the tiny muscle high in his left cheek just below the eye and the way in which he flicked the grey ash from his cigar more frequently than was necessary. Maybe he could push the other to the point where events would force him to a rash decision. Already, he guessed that Cornish was only a middleman in this vast organisation, this network of men spread through the entire length and breadth of the United States. He was important because he could get his hands on confidential information regarding the men who worked at the secret missile base in southern New Mexico, and do so without arousing the slightest suspicion. If that drugged man back in New York had not muttered his name and that of this town, he might have got away with it for long enough.
