by Unknown
Everything seemed clearer. Venner’s mentioning qualifications for the job, and speaking of his Cairo work. What the devil, he’d been in Cairo many times and done much work, but he knew now that Venner had meant his work in Cairo when he had hunted incessantly for the focus, found it and destroyed it. The greatest rat catcher in Egypt, they had called him.
Nick had never liked working on plague. It was hazardous, its mortality breathtaking. He remembered when he had stood in a Cairo cellar and seen his covered legs swarming with fleas from the dancing, dying rats in that black hole.
Mr. Sze said suddenly: “Forgive me, sah, time passes, and you must reach a decision.”
“Get me the glass of water and put in your chloral hydrate,” Nick said. He rubbed his hands against each other hard, thinking, watching Mr. Sze with caution.
Mr. Sze did not have to leave the room. He poured a glass of water from the Bombay cooler on the side table and dropped the two pills into the water, where they dissolved. He was standing fairly close to the bed. Nick shifted his weight forward so that his feet, curling under the bed, would be able to raise him quickly. Then Mr. Sze, gun in his right hand, glass of water in his left, said: “Forgive me, sah, your potion is ready, if you please.”
“Can it be,” Nick remarked casually, “that you have canine blood, Mr. Sze? Are you related then to the Ming dogs?”
“Forgive me, sah,” Mr. Sze replied, mouth hard, “is it a poor joke?”
“A poor joke,” Nick said, and then he drove it home. “I just happened to notice the flea on your leg.”
he glass of water dropped with a crash. For the first time in their acquaintanceship, Nick saw expression on the face of H. H. Sze. A gnarled pattern of intermingled terror and repugnance broke down the passive structure of the Chinese’s countenance, and he threw his head and eyes down, without any thought but of his own survival, to see the flea—in his mind the only flea—the plague flea.
Nick thought, coming up from the bed, that he took an eternity. He had been tensed, tuning his body for just that moment. He put all pressure on the balls of his feet and shot up from the bed, his right fist out like a ramrod. He had meant to catch Mr. Sze on the jaw, but he miscalculated and struck the Chinese square in the face with force which drove a sharp pain through his hand, and lifted the man over backwards to the floor.
Mr. Sze made no sound, but Nick could see the Chinese had not dropped the gun.
Nick kicked at the gun hand, caught the barrel of the pistol with his toe, sent the gun spinning across the room. It struck the wall a savage blow and detonated. The sound was sharp and frightening. He did not see where the bullet went. He ran across the room, imagining he heard Mr. Sze coming to, for possession of the pistol. Nick picked it up, breathless, and wheeled. But Mr. Sze lay on the floor, on his back, where he had first fallen, his nose bleeding profusely, his eyes closed.
I’ve killed him, Nick thought, appalled.
There was, however, a strong pulse. Holding the gun and watching the Chinese, Nick picked up the telephone. “I want a policeman,” he said. It was a classic phrase in the forepart of every American telephone directory. He supplemented it. “Page a Sergeant Crowell; he may be in the lobby. Then call Army Intelligence, Captain Malta; I’ve caught a gunman in my room.”
The desk clerk couldn’t say a word.
Nick hung up, his hands shaking from excitement. He couldn’t catch his breath. Good Lord, it was a mess. It was no time to be respectable, even though he gave his respectability a momentary thought worrying about it. Someone called him from the door. “Are you all right, sir? Open up in here!”
He opened the door. Sergeant Crowell strode in, his face screwed tight, a revolver in his hand. “Heard the shot,” he said.
“You heard the shot? Then you couldn’t have been downstairs.”
“I was in the lobby,” Sergeant Crowell said. “Sounded like a blasted cannon. Is that the one, the sloe-eyed —— sir?”
“His name is H. H. Sze,” Nick replied. He gave Crowell the gun. “You can arrest him. I’ve no time to wait for details at this point. Please get in touch with Captain Malta and tell him to meet me at the home of Eddie Wing. Can you remember that? Wing’s home. And whatever you do, don’t let this man escape.”
Sergeant Crowell cocked his head grimly. “That point you don’t have to think about twice, sir. With me they don’t escape alive.”
Nick retrieved the vaccine carton, put it in his pocket, and fled. He took a cab and drove quickly to Dr. Wing’s home, which was located out in Nuuanu Valley not far from the Country Club. From the outside, the stucco house was ordinary, but its interior was carpeted with luxuriantly deep rugs, the walls studded with Hawaiian objets d’art, the furniture polished teakwood, the place alive with books of many languages. There was a musty richness about Eddie Wing’s home which did not match his youth. “Nicholas,” he said. “Welcome to Stony Broke. Come in, please, quickly—”
“It’s plague,” Nick breathed, unable to contain himself. “It’s plague, Eddie, bubonic plague. Look at this.” He thrust the carton at Wing. “Paul Cameron inoculated himself with this stuff tonight. It means he’s either working with plague or trying to break this thing himself, and the second possibility is an impossibility. I’m convinced. He’s been in and out of the thing vaguely ever since I found it. His signature was forged to the credentials Zeller used to get MacFerson and his nurse out of the hospital. Now I don’t think it was a forgery at all. His resigning his post here—leaving tomorrow himself—it all fits, don’t you see? He’s in it! My God, I can’t believe such a thing, but he’s in it!”
“Huapala, catch your breath,” Eddie Wing said, his voice a whisper in comparison with Nick’s hoarseness. “You’re too excited. Come upstairs quickly. Sergeant Woolton is here, and he has news. I don’t believe it’s plague. You can’t use plague in artificial fashion. Too dangerous.”
“Yes?” Nick said. “It’s plague, all right! If it hadn’t been plague, I might not be here. It was plague to the damned gunman who— Where is Woolton, Eddie? I’m out of hand.”
“Upstairs in the forward bedroom. Go ahead—scramble! Go right up and visit with him, but don’t let him get excited. He’s wounded.”
Nick nodded and ran up the stairs. He knew the guest-room well, had spent many nights in it. There was a faint scent of sandalwood upstairs. He opened the guest-room door, went in, and found Sergeant Woolton reposing in bed, a young man, brawny and huge, with a big face, big hands and wild hair. He sat up instantly, his face showing some pain, and he said: “Hello, pal, who are you?”
“I’m Nicholas Adams,” Nick said, “Woolton?”
“That’s the name, Doc. My friends call me Boitie.”
“You’re wounded?”
“Yeah, Doc, the —— slipped me one. Square in the groin, but that won’t stop me. It didn’t stop me when I caught it. I wish to hell you could patch me up for the final because I’m a fighting man, Doc, and I’d like to be in this thing for the windup.”
“You take it easy,” Nick said. “Let’s see it.”
It was a serious wound. Eddie Wing had already attended to the extraction of the bullet. If there was going to be peritonitis, Bertie Woolton was in trouble. But he didn’t seem to mind. His energy, under the circumstances, was amazing. “Will I make the grade, Doc?”
“Yes, if you give yourself a chance and stay strong.”
“Good. I’ll moider ’em when I get out.”
Nick replied: “How did you get shot and who shot you?”
“Jap named Kita shot me because I got too nosy,” said Woolton, his voice strong. “Oh, he was a sneaky little monkey. I never got a shot at him. I’m glad you came down, sir. I knew the colonel was going to wire you. That was the last I saw of him, when he went to R.C.A. on King. ‘Boitie,’ he says to me, ‘you keep your glimmers on Kita until you hear from me. Kita knows where the focus is and Kita will lead you there.’ ”
Nick said: “Now talk slowly and take it
easy. You’d better start at the beginning, Woolton.”
“O.K.,” Woolton said, nodding. He leaned back in bed and rested a moment. “Began yesterday morning. Punk named Robert MacFoison reported in at Stafford ill. Slinky little rat. Colonel Venner put him to bed. MacFoison was fulla lumps. Colonel got Miss Wilson, told me to get out. I ain’t a butcher, y’see.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Next thing, the colonel comes dashing out like an M-3 heading for Libya. ‘Boitie,’ he says, ‘hell to pay. We’ve gotta woik fast, lotsa woik, Boitie, before they toin this island into a pesthole.’ ”
Nick said: “Did Venner tell you what MacFerson had related to him?”
“If you’ll hold your hat, Doc, I’ll tell you exactly like I was told. And this man-hole in my belly hoits.” He stirred restlessly. Nick knew that Bertie Woolton couldn’t be killed by one wound. The fellow’s strength and sang froid were wonderful. “Now the colonel didn’t talk much. ‘What it is,’ he says, ‘I can’t tell you, Boitie. But in brief, this MacFoison was part of a plot to spread a lot of death around this island where it would do the most good. The punk was gonna introduce the Schofield Barracks to this screwy blitz. That was his job. And he came down with the same sickness he had planned for his pals.’ ” Woolton frowned. “It was a sickness of some kind.”
“I know what it is now,” Nick said. “I don’t like to be impatient under the circumstances, Woolton, but time is precious.”
“Sure, pal.” Woolton nodded. “I’ll blitz it. So the colonel says: ‘I’m going down for a snort with Doc Wing because there is only one mug for this job and that’s his pal Nicholas Adams’—you. ‘I’ve got to get Adams here at once,’ he says, ‘because MacFoison said inoculation has already begun, and they plan to loose the sickness on the island within forty-eight hours, when the rats are thoroughly infected.’ I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, I’m a fighting man, I ain’t a sawbones.”
“You’re making fine sense,” Nick said. “Keep going, Woolton. Did he know where the focus was?”
“Focus, focus, he said focus too. What’s a focus?”
“A focus is the center. It’s where they would have these infected rats.”
“No, my fran’, that he didn’t know. That yellow rat MacFoison got hold of himself, Doc. He’d been outa his head for fear and spouting all this dope, and all of a sudden, MacFoison got leery that the colonel wouldn’t save him. So he shut up like a clam and said he would give out no more singing unless Colonel Venner saved him from the lumps. The colonel threatened him with every torture this side of Canarsie, but MacFoison wouldn’t open up. Foist, he’d been afraid of what he had, then he was afraid of the colonel leaving him to die. Colonel Venner said there was nothing he could do anyhow.”
“What was MacFerson’s job in the thing?” Nick asked.
“He was going to infect Schofield Barracks.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know,” Woolton said. “How the hell would a man infect a barracks? You should know, Doc.”
“He’d have to transport infected rats by truck,” Nick said.
“Truck?” said Woolton. “You’re within a smell of it, Doc. Because MacFoison had raved about some people, see? He’d mentioned a man named Zeller and a man named the Chief, and a man named Kita. The colonel told me that I was to find Kita and that Kita was a trucker, and that I was to follow Kita until he led me to the focus.”
“And you found Kita?”
“He had a trucking agency on Chulia Street. There was a spot over the road from the garage and I hung in there with a bottle until it was a dead marine. Then the Nipper came out of the garage. He drove his own car. I chased him in a taxi. He went down to Bishop Street and stopped in front of a place called Laboratories, Limited. That was when I caught my slug. Kita saw me leave the cab, and if I’d not been in uniform, it woulda been different. I ducked into an alley and thought I’d lost the Nip, but I hadn’t. I was rounding the corner behind the stores when I caught one. I heard the shot and he just got me toining—see how it hit me—and I went down. Then I got up and I could still walk but I knew I couldn’t get far. There was a parking space behind the alley, and six trucks lined up with Kita’s name on the side of them. They had tarpaulin over the back so I crawled under there. The trucks was empty.”
“When was this?”
“Round noon, Doc, because the heat was filthy the rest of the day. The trucks stayed there. I could hear them looking for me, but I hadn’t bled outside my clothes and there was no trail. When it got dark, I managed to get out the alley, into a cab. I came right to Dr. Wing’s place, because I figured he’d know where the colonel was. Then I heard they’d bumped off the colonel. That’s all.”
Nick shook his head. “Woolton,” he said, his face alive, “you’re terrific.”
“I’m dead tired,” Woolton said. He smiled. “Thanks, pal. It’s your show now. Make it a lulu and slip the sloe a slug from his pal Boitie.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MEN BEHIND THE RATS
here was no time to waste. Nick was aware that Eddie Wing had been in the room with them for most of it, but had disappeared. Nick went downstairs to find Captain Malta in the hall with Wing, a Colt H-5 at his hip. “In a minute,” Nick said. “We can break it open if we’re not too late.” He picked up the telephone and called the Quarantine station in Honolulu. “This is Dr. Nicholas Adams of the Cardwell Institute,” he began formally, so that they would place him. He knew Dr. Jeremiah Riggs down there very well. He asked for Dr. Riggs, and they switched the call to Dr. Riggs’ home. It took some minutes, and Nick was in a nervous frenzy. “Hello, Riggs? This is Nick Adams! Yes, in Honolulu, but listen, Jerry, I haven’t time for amenities. I want you—please understand this, it’s most urgent—I want you to get together the fumigation equipment—yes, hydrocyanic gas and sulphur and anything you have, bring it all, I’m not sure what sort of situation there may be—to the Laboratories Limited on Bishop Street.… I mean every word, Riggs, there’s a bubonic plague focus there. Thanks, Jerry, thanks very much.” He hung up.
Captain Malta said: “Bishop Street, Doctor? The shopping center?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be damned!” said Captain Malta, his face red, and his eyebrows bristling. “Plague! This is out of my line, Adams!”
“No time to talk,” Nick said. “Let’s go. Do you have men?”
“Not with me.” Captain Malta telephoned headquarters. “Give me a company at once,” he said. “Laboratories Limited on Bishop Street. The men are to deploy with arms covering the entrance.”
“There’s a trucking exit in the rear,” Nick said. “That’s most important. Make certain the men who cover that section are protected on hands and legs from any flea bites. Make certain of that, Malta, or it may mean death for them.”
Malta relayed the information and received some in return. “He did? … I’ll leave word here then for him to follow. Yes, at once.” He hung up. “Sergeant Crowell brought in a prisoner at Central station and said that he had information for me. He’s on the way over. Dr. Wing, will you inform the sergeant that I’ve left with Dr. Adams for—”
“I imagine,” Dr. Wing said quietly, “your sergeant is just arriving. There is a car racing down the road.”
He was right. Sergeant Crowell was in the car, and he brought it to a roaring halt in front of the house behind Captain Malta’s car. Sergeant Crowell jumped out. Captain Malta said tersely: “Headquarters said you had important information for me.”
“Yes, Captain, I have. On that gunman—Mr. Sze, Doctor—I found these inter-island boat tickets for Lanai. He was taking the morning boat, two tickets.”
“He was to take me,” Nick said. “At least he said so.”
“Yes, sir, but it ain’t what I mean. Look here, on the other side is the address where the tickets were sent to him. Care of the Laboratories, Limited, Bishop Street. I thought—”
“Good job,” Malta snapped. “For
tunately, we’re a bit ahead of you, we already have the address. Let’s be going.”
Nick and Eddie Wing got in Malta’s car as the engine started. Nick shut out everything but the job. It came easily to him, he had done it often before when he had a patient. You could be thinking of a thousand important things, and suddenly you saw your patient, and in a twinkling, you had detached yourself from everything but the patient and your treatment of him. Oahu was the patient this night and, not unlike those distant days when he had interned at Lenox Hill in New York, he was answering an emergency call, and all that was lacking was the clanging bell of an ambulance.
“I can’t impress upon you the value of secrecy,” Nick Adams told Captain Malta, as they drove into town together. “I fully understand now why Venner was so mysterious. I don’t mind your knowing that we have bubonic plague in Oahu, Captain, and I pray to God we stamp it out before the night is over. Naturally Dr. Riggs and his disinfecting crew are going to know, too, and I suppose Intelligence will be informed. But other than that, I would hush any publicity on the matter, for it ought to be fairly plain to you that such a plot suggests itself again, or suggests others, and that isn’t so good. Also, the population might be too close to a panic line on any other incident, which may transpire, for war is war and other incidents will come along.”
“I understand thoroughly,” Captain Malta said. “I’m even inclined to think I would have acted as Colonel Venner did. It was just his own incredible bad luck in being murdered that prevented a successful conclusion to the thing, as he had planned it. Plague! I don’t know much of these things—that’s the one with rats?”
