by John Glasby
Turning, he motioned to the two men in the car. “Get him out of there,” he ordered harshly, “and be careful. I want him alive.”
Nodding, the men went to work. One of them, a veritable giant of a man gripped the twisted door that hung on smashed hinges in both hands and heaved, the muscles of his shoulders standing out beneath the cloth of the expensive, well-cut suit. Minden watched carefully. He was quite sure in his own mind that warped as they were, nothing short of a pull of almost half a ton would tear the door free of those hinges, yet slowly the metal was bending. Then, with a shriek, they snapped, the sudden release sending the other rocking back on his heels. He recovered his balance instantly, leapt forward and tossed the heavy door over the side of the precipice.
The other man squeezed himself into the small opening, ignoring the ragged slivers of twisted metal that tore at his suit. Reaching down, he pushed the seat back a couple of inches, just sufficient to withdraw Carradine’s legs from beneath the dashboard. Then, sliding out of the car, he joined his companion and together they inched the inert, unconscious body clear of the metal.
Minden lifted the wrist, felt for the pulse. It beat irregularly and weakly against his fingertip. Nodding in satisfaction, he motioned to them to carry the other back to the waiting car. “Be careful of him, but hurry. I don’t want anyone else coming along this road until we’re well away.”
“Where are we taking him?” asked the thin man harshly.
“Back into town. Cornish’s place is as good as any. Nobody will think of looking there. Besides,” he added with a vicious twist of his lips, “he won’t be there long enough for anybody to find him.”
The two men grinned as they thrust Carradine’s body into the backseat of the car. One went back to the wreck where Minden waited impatiently, came running back with Carradine’s Luger, handed it to Minden, then slid behind the wheel.
*
It was the lurch and sway of the car that eventually brought Carradine back to his senses; that and the terrible aching agony in his body. He lay quite still, not opening his eyes, gritting his teeth together to prevent any sound from coming through his lips, stretched tight with the pain that lanced into his limbs.
Very slowly, memory returned to him. He recalled the car spinning out of control as the sharp rocks tore and chewed the rubber from the tyres, the sudden lurch into the air as he hit the rock wall. After that, there was no memory at all. Mentally, he relaxed his limbs. As far as he could judge, no bones had been broken, although it was quite impossible for him to be sure of this without trying to move his arms and legs and feeling himself all over. There was a sharp, stabbing pain that lanced through his chest each time he drew in a breath. His chest must have taken a hammering off the steering column of the car, or the dashboard at the moment of impact. He could have cracked a couple of ribs, he thought tightly.
Still with his eyes closed, he listened to the muted roar of tyres on the road, felt the sway and jolt as they moved swiftly around sharp bends, guessed that they were on their way back down the mountain road, heading towards Socorro. There was the feel of something hard, but warm against his right leg where it was twisted up on the seat of the car. One of the men, seated next to him, maybe with a gun in his hand, ready to use it if he made one wrong move.
“Is he conscious yet, Marco?” asked a voice from the front of the car.
Carradine felt a sudden sharp blow in his side. It was only with a tremendous effort of will that he was able to stop himself from crying out loud with the agony of that skilfully delivered blow. Somehow, he managed to lie still, letting all of the life go from his body so that it flopped limply against the back of the seat.
“Still out,” grunted a thick voice nearby.
“Keep an eye on him. This man is dangerous from all we know of him. Extremely dangerous.”
Carradine felt weak and impotent. Even though he was conscious, the bruising, the battering, which his body had received when the car had crashed, had made it impossible for him to even put up any token resistance, even if he was able to take these men by surprise.
Very slowly, he opened his eyes to mere slits, not moving the rest of his body an inch. Now where would the men be? One driving. The other seated beside him and the third man keeping an eye on him in the rear seat. Gradually, he was able to focus his vision on his surroundings. He could make out the smooth metal of the seat within an inch of his face, then the back of the front seat six inches away. The gleam of the metal ashtray set in it was just visible at the very edge of his vision if he twisted his eyes to their fullest extent.
With an effort, he tried to look along the length of his own body, to judge the position of the man seated near him. All he could see however, was the tip of one brown shoe, thrust out beneath the seat. Too far for him to do anything, even if he felt up to it. Besides, if there was a gun trained on him, with an itchy trigger finger, then he would get a bullet in him for his pains, a split second after he made any move.
He lay still, breathing slowly and evenly, like an unconscious man might breathe. He needed time to think things out. His present position was precarious, but not hopeless so long as he remained alive. No doubt these men had searched him, although he doubted if they would have done it as thoroughly as they should in the short time that must have been available to them when they had dragged him out of that wrecked car. There were several very special weapons concealed about him, weapons constructed by the men in Division R back in London that even the American Secret Service probably knew nothing about.
There was the innocent watch on his left wrist for example. It told the time as any other watch, the date changed automatically, but a couple of twists on the winder in the reverse direction and then a micrometric movement outward forced a slender metal needle from the centre of the face, a needle tipped with a very special type of drug, a curare-type poison, very similar to that used by the South American natives on the darts they used. If used in sufficient quantity it could kill a man within seconds. This would paralyse the man within the same space of time once it was injected into the bloodstream.
There was the light, slender-bladed throwing knife that slid into a special pocket just inside the right-hand sleeve of his jacket. The gold cigarette case could squirt a nerve poison a distance of several feet, and it could be directed extremely accurately. At first, he had considered these weapons both bizarre and melodramatic. Now that he found himself in this predicament, he was glad he had them.
He realised that they were moving faster than before also that they had stopped the swerving, lurching motion that had evoked a feeling of sickness in the pit of his stomach. They had come down from the mountain road and were now driving along the main highway back into Socorro. And when they arrived there? What then? Would they take him into some dingy basement and try to beat the truth out of him? Would they use a drug on him to force him to tell them the truth as they had with that other poor devil who had set him on this trail?
Evidently their organisation was better equipped to discover things than he had given them credit for in the past. Cornish had moved fast to set these men after him so soon. They must have left Socorro within minutes of him, and they clearly knew who to follow. He tried to figure that one out. Just how had they known? How had Cornish been able to put them on to him so quickly? Mentally, he cursed himself for being such a stupid, blind fool as to think that these men would give him time before they acted. He had expected Cornish to make a move after what he had said to him that morning, but he had thought it would happen maybe two or three days later, once he had had time to get in touch with the men higher up in the Red Dragon and had received orders back from them.
Fifteen minutes or so passed. Then the car began to slow. He could hear the unmistakable sounds of the town traffic around them. There would be cars passing them every few seconds, people walking on the sidewalks, maybe within a few feet of the saloon, and no one suspected that he was lying there. It seemed incredible and yet these men had been
so clever that it was happening.
They turned a corner, slowed to a crawl, then moved on again with a smooth acceleration.
The clipped tones from the front seat said: “Go around to the rear of the building. No one will see it’s there. Once we get inside, force him to walk upright. I don’t care if it looks as if he’s drunk, just so long as one of you keeps a gun in his back.”
There was a harsh, throaty laugh from the man seated beside Carradine. He said: “This one of mine has a silencer on it. I’ll keep it against the bottom of his spine. If there’s any trouble, it’ll blow his backbone apart and it’ll just look as if he’s fainted.”
The car slid to a stop. Carradine tensed himself. Should he make his move now, before they got him inside this building, wherever it was? It might be the only chance he got. He tried to shift his feet, to get them braced under his body, to give him plenty of leverage so that he might be able to hurl himself forward, out of the car, before any of these men could make a move.
Scarcely had the thought flashed through his mind than he felt fingers clutching around his arms, dragging him face downward along the car seat. Warm air hit his face as he was lifted from the car. He tried to move, uttered a low moan.
“He’s coming round.”
“Keep a hold on him.”
The hard barrel of a gun was jammed into the small of his back. Flicking his eyes open, Carradine found himself staring at the broad, impassive face of the man standing near the car. It was a square, Teutonic face. His immediate reaction was that this was Minden.
Tightly, the other said: “Don’t try any wrong moves, my friend. We will not hesitate to kill you the instant you do.”
Carradine’s voice was little more than a mumble as he said: “Then why don’t you?”
Unhurriedly, the other went on: “Because there are some questions I should like to have answered. I have heard of you from various sources. They all say that you have a very high threshold of pain.” He smiled. “However, there are some new techniques which may have been specially designed for people such as you. I think I can promise quite faithfully that when they are applied in your case, you will talk, and you will tell me the truth of what I want to know.”
“I can quite imagine the sort of things men such as you have dreamed up,” Carradine said. “I suppose that you are Minden?”
“You are quite correct. I must confess that I had no idea my fame had travelled quite as far abroad.”
Carradine said tautly: “You would be very much surprised to know just how much I know of you.”
“Perhaps.” Minden waved his hand airily. “But enough of these pleasantries.” He motioned to the man standing behind Carradine. The front sight of the gun ground savagely into the other’s back, just above the kidneys and he stumbled forward, gritting his teeth as a red shaft of agony burned its way swiftly through the lower half of his body.
He was forced along the wide, winding drive. Lifting his head, he tried to push his sight through the blurring curtain of pain that shimmered in front of his vision. Only gradually was he aware of where they were. They were at the rear of the new Mexico Institute of Mining and Technology building.
CHAPTER 5 - STRANGE ALLY
As he was urged along the drive that led to one of the doors at the back of the building, Carradine knew that Minden had some motive for bringing him here. There were bound to be people, around in the corridors of the Institute, inquisitive people, yet the other showed no concern as the small party moved forward. Carradine suddenly made his decision.
The thin man opened the door, paused for a long second in the opening, his back to them, his head turning slowly from side to side as he surveyed the corridor which lay beyond. At last, he made a quick movement with his left hand, gesturing them inside.
“Move,” grunted the man behind Carradine. The gun pressed a little harder into his back, emphasising the command.
Carradine took a couple of steps forward, bringing him level with the thin man. Minden brought up the rear so that he was a short distance behind. With a wild, savage backward kick that struck the big man on the right knee, doubling him up with a harsh cry of agony, he hurled himself forward. The throbbing ache at the back of his eyes increased in intensity as he made his move, but he had to ignore it. He had to keep moving. To stop now would be to give these men a chance to get on balance again.
He caught the thin man with his shoulder, knocking him sideways against the wall just inside the door. A thin whistle of pain gushed from the other’s lips as he staggered. Out of the corner of his eye, Carradine saw him clawing for his gun, brought the side of his right hand down hard on the man’s wrist. With a yelp, the other fell back. There was no firm plan in Carradine’s mind as he lunged forward. His only hope was to put as much distance between these men and himself as he could before they came after him, hoping that he might be able to mix with some of the crowd in the Institute, making it difficult, if not impossible, for them to do anything. Whatever happened, he needed a little time to think out what to do.
Carradine had planned for the little man to fall, but he had not reckoned on the manner in which the other would go down. Whether or not the movement was deliberate, an out-thrust leg tripped him as he lurched forward, sent him skidding on the polished floor. Desperately, he tried to get his feet under him, to stay on balance. Behind him, there was a sudden yell from Minden, the sound of the big man pushing his way inside.
Rolling over, twisting like a cat in mid-air, Carradine saw, through a pale haze, the big man rushing towards him. He kicked out blindly as the man reached him. His shoe connected with the other’s thigh, bringing another grunt of pain from the thick, rubbery lips. Drawing back his leg, he aimed again at the knee, but this time the other was ready for him. Two hands flicked out, caught his ankle, and heaved violently, twisting at the same time. Pain jarred redly through his leg. Sucking in a sharp breath, he tried to twist over onto his side as the other applied more relentless pressure.
His leg was being twisted all the way from ankle to thigh. He could make out the savage grin on the other’s lips, the unholy light in the deep-set eyes. Soon, the other would pick him up and hurl him down again and it would all be over. Gritting his teeth, he hung on grimly. Sooner or later, someone must come along the corridor, even though it was at the rear of the building and therefore probably one of the least used.
As the other bent to obtain a better grip, his fingers scrabbled for a hold on the man’s coat. The other shook him off with the ease of a terrier shaking off a rat. All of the breath was knocked from his body as the man slammed him back on to the hard floor. A clenched fist crashed into the side of his face. Head ringing from the force of the blow, he tried to bring up his arm to block the second blow, but there seemed to be scarcely any strength left in his body.
Like lightning, moving quickly in spite of his bulk, the other hit again just behind the ear, then kicked him with a savage violence in the small of the back. His skull cracked against the wall. Dimly, he heard Minden say sharply: “That’s enough. We don’t want to damage him too much; not before he talks. Bring him along to the elevator. We’ll have to carry him now.”
Slowly, Carradine felt himself slipping into the engulfing blackness of unconsciousness. Only vaguely, did he know that arms gripped tightly, lifted him from the floor, holding him up with his feet dragging.
*
Harsh yellow sunlight, streaming through his closed lids, glaring redly into his brain, brought Carradine slowly, painfully, back to consciousness. He stirred feebly, tried to move. His arms moved slowly, sluggishly, as if they belonged to someone else, refusing to obey any conscious effort on his part. But his legs refused to move. He felt something warm trickling down his cheek. When it reached the corner of his mouth he tasted the saltiness of blood on his tongue.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes, stared dully about him. It was a large room, almost bare of furniture. There was not even a carpet on the floor. The criss-cross pattern of the wo
oden slats was clearly visible, with here and there a smear of white dust. The window, through which the streaming sunlight fell fall on his face, was dusty too and he guessed that he was in some storeroom of the Institute. He felt the skin crawl on his body. He could guess what lay in store for him here and he mentally cursed himself for his inexcusable folly in allowing this to happen. He had made an unforgivable, possibly even a fatal mistake, in underestimating these men.
He realised that this was not the time for self-recrimination. He had to try to think of some way of getting out of this devilish mess. Letting his gaze slide sideways, he saw the man who stood a little behind him, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. It was a big man and Carradine derived a faint sense of pleasure at the sight of the bloodied bruise on the side of the other’s face and the manner in which he favoured one leg. Evidently his knee was still giving him a little trouble.
Gently, he tried to move his legs again, found it impossible. There was a sharp pain around his ankles, due to the cords tied tightly around them, binding his legs to the chair in which he sat.
The door opened. Glancing up, he saw Minden enter. Behind him, Cornish stepped through into the room. There was a look of sneering triumph on the latter’s features. He walked over and stood in front of Carradine. Bending forward, he placed his hand under the other’s chin, jerked his head up and back. Lips twisted viciously, he said tightly: “You have been extremely foolish, Mr. Carradine. Apparently you considered that your veiled threats against me would be sufficient for me to act foolishly. Instead, as must be apparent from your present position, it was you who were acting foolishly.” He stepped back, no expression now visible on his face. Very softly, he went on: “Obviously you are working for the FBI, or one of the other departments. Consequently, there will be no need for us to pursue that point further. However, we do wish to know something. How much you know about us. Who your contacts are. Anything you may know of future moves against us.”
