Spy Killer (Stories from the Golden Age)

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “No, no,” whispered Varinka. “Let them take me. Take the letter and go while there is yet time.”

  The two men came on, skirting tables, eyes fastened upon the Russian girl. Kurt knew that he was in no position to involve himself in some political mess, but he was spoiling for a fight. He got it.

  Kurt stepped out, away from the table, as though about to leave the girl and make his escape. The Chinese on the right shifted his glance, hesitated, and then started after Kurt. The other man walked on toward Varinka.

  There was something horrible in the way the pair walked, something which suggested an executioner’s keen blade or perhaps a firing squad.

  Kurt stopped. The Chinese came on. Kurt began to advance. The Chinese hesitated briefly and started to pull an automatic into view.

  With an ear-shattering yell, Kurt dived in toward the gun. The blunt muzzle swept up. Kurt’s palm jabbed the slide back. The firing pin clicked a fraction of an inch from the cartridge.

  With an ear-shattering yell, Kurt dived in toward the gun.

  Kurt swung his right. The Chinese was lifted up a foot from the floor. Bent backward like a falling tree, the man crashed into a table and went down.

  The other man whirled about and whipped up his weapon. He fired, but the hand of Varinka was quicker than his trigger finger, and the shot furrowed the ceiling.

  Kurt stepped within two feet of the big Chinese and swung. The fist connected with a crack louder than a breaking staff. Kurt swung again and the Chinese folded into himself with a grunt.

  Varinka ran toward the entrance. Kurt paused long enough to pocket the two automatics and then he sped after her twinkling boots.

  They raced up the crowded street, Kurt spilling the crowd to the right and left as a cutter’s bow cleaves water. They dashed down a dark alleyway and through a garden.

  Breathless, they paused in the shadow of a wall. The girl leaned her head back and peered up at the muddy sky. She was smiling.

  “When . . . when Lin Wang . . . hears of this . . .” she chuckled. “How he’ll . . . pant for vengeance. The pick of his Death Squad knocked kicking by one man!”

  “Aw, they didn’t know how to box,” said Kurt, embarrassed.

  “Ah, but they do. You, American, were glorious. But come, my fine white knight—let me dispose of this letter another way. A block from here I have another man, one I should have contacted first. Come.”

  They picked their way through the littered alley and soon came to a low door on which Varinka knocked. A small, shaved head was thrust fearfully forth.

  “Ah, the white lady,” sighed the Chinese with relief. “Tonight Sing was taken and made to talk—we are no longer safe here. I waited another hour for your coming, against my will.”

  “They made Sing talk?” said Varinka, growing pale. “Then he is dead.”

  “Ai, dead. Lin Wang’s Death Squad strikes fast.”

  “But here, take this letter to the commander. I have not proof of it, but he will do well to watch Lin Wang.”

  “The commander left this for you,” said the Chinese, handing out a slip of thin paper.

  The girl pocketed the order, the door slammed shut. Varinka led the puzzled Kurt down another alley.

  “You are in trouble,” she said. “I might even guess who you are. Your name might be Kurt Reid?”

  He blinked at her.

  “And tonight, American, you found the cell door of the Rangoon mysteriously open?”

  “Yes, how—”

  “Never mind, American. Your destiny is written tonight. You can do one of two things. You can drift outward and try to lose yourself—which you cannot—or you can try to be of service to me.”

  “There’s no decision to make. Whatever I can do—”

  “Beware, think not fast, American. I am a dangerous woman.”

  Kurt laughed at her and followed her through the gloom.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Russian Disappears

  VARINKA SAVISCHNA took Kurt Reid through the back streets of Shanghai’s native city to another garden. They entered through a small door and walked across meandering paths, past pools where stone storks stood in one-legged sorrow. Paper lanterns cast their gay reflection in the water and lit up well-tended beds of flowers. This was a spot of beauty in a squalid settlement, as unexpected as a warm house in the Arctic circle.

  Through a broad blackwood door they entered a large, well-furnished room. The light was subdued, suggesting mysteries behind the walls and in the shadows. A thick Oriental carpet softened their footsteps.

  Varinka made Kurt sit down in a long chair. She did not remove her coat. She looked about her with an air of worry. “She should be here.”

  “Who?”

  Varinka did not answer that. She sat down and studied Kurt. “You have a reputation, American, one that I might be able to use if things go well. We know of you here in Shanghai and we know what happened to you. It will not be well for you to roam the streets of the city. Until I need you I shall have to keep you hidden. One flare of temper and . . . whack—off goes your head.”

  “You mean you—?”

  “No, no,” she laughed. “Not I. The authorities—and perhaps another. You must promise to stay here until I can tell you when to leave.”

  “Maybe if you let me in on some of this, I could help you better.”

  “No, I do not think I am at liberty to tell anyone.”

  “I trusted you,” he reminded her.

  “But my secrets are not my own. There is much to be done, American—things which are greater than ourselves.”

  “If this has anything to do with Russia—” began Kurt, suddenly waking up to the danger of his position.

  “Hah, you think that I am a Russian spy, eh? But no, I am a White Russian. This has to do with China and Japan. Great forces are at work. You will undoubtedly know of them soon enough.”

  Kurt sat forward. He smiled, displaying close-set teeth in a scimitar’s arc. “I have nothing to do but escape. The reason I talked to you at the tea house is easily enough explained. I thought I could do something for you and you could help me get out. But you seem to know more about the setup than I do. You seem to know more about me than my own mother. How is this?”

  “We watch everything, American.”

  “And who do you mean by ‘We’?”

  Varinka stood up suddenly. She touched his shoulder lightly. “You want escape. Perhaps that will come too. But first, help me. Stay here until you are wanted. She will be here soon. You will wait for her.”

  Abruptly she pulled back his head and gave him a hard kiss upon the mouth. Before he could voice his surprise she stood halfway through another door.

  “I hope to see you soon, American,” she said, and disappeared.

  He tried then to follow her, but he found that she had locked the door behind her. He tried another door and it, too, was locked.

  Suddenly something like panic came over him. He was a prisoner again, and although his captor was fair, and although he had no definite reasons for alarm, the late brig sentence had given him a taste for freedom he never again would forget.

  Kurt found that the windows had iron bars across them, though the bars were masked by carved sandalwood. He strode up and down the room. What a fool he was to let himself get taken in by a Russki spy! Perhaps she was even then going for the police—and it would be Chinese police, too. Not American or British. The Rangoon was under Chinese Nationalist registry.

  “Whack—and off goes your head,” muttered Kurt.

  He found a decanter and poured himself a drink. Then, peering into the glass, he decided that even a decanter could not be trusted. He set the drink down untouched.

  Funny girl, that Russian. She had kept him from questioning her by the sheer force of her personality. She seemed to have some numbing power over him which fell as tangible as a cloak.

  He felt angry at that. It didn’t make him feel strong or masculine. And now he was trapped again, waiti
ng for . . .

  What was he waiting for? What rubbish was that about China and Japan? Maybe this girl had a need of him. Maybe he was supposed to strong-arm for her in her work. Maybe she had had him released and had had him trailed to that tea house.

  And now that he thought about it, he had been released. Cell doors do not open by accident.

  And that sampan had been handy, too.

  But why should anyone take an interest in him? He wasn’t anybody but a bucko mate off a coastwise tramp. Plenty of available white men could speak Chinese and Japanese and more dialects than he could.

  He sat down in the chair again. Grinned, recovering his sense of humor. Here he was, and he didn’t exactly mind after all. Hadn’t the girl kissed him? Women didn’t kiss you and then go find a guy who would cut off your head.

  Or did they?

  A light footstep brought him to his feet. A key grated in a lock and the door swung inward. Kurt, who had been expecting the return of the Russian girl, gasped in surprise.

  “Anne Carsten!” exclaimed Kurt.

  The woman who entered was slender, well poised and very beautiful. Her hair was light brown, matching her eyes. Her face was aristocratic and well molded. Her body was sheathed in a satin gown which whispered as she walked. She had the air of one who is born to command, but her eyes were kind and her smile was gentle. She gave Kurt her hands and looked at him for many seconds without speaking.

  “I have not seen you for two years, Kurt,” she said. “Since that night you told me that you were just a bucko mate, destined for the sea, and left me so precipitately. Did I scare you badly, Kurt?”

  Surprise still held him motionless. His mind went back to a sailor’s holiday when he had been invited to a gay social function in the Concession. He had met this girl there, had met her amid the tinsel and pomp and dreamy music. Anne Carsten, then, had ruled the social world of Shanghai through the position of her merchant prince father, a man who had since died. Their interest in each other had been heightened by the romance of the night, until . . .

  “I could have given you so much,” said Anne, accusingly. “I could have made you a king of captains, but you were frightened, weren’t you?”

  Kurt laughed, embarrassed. “I didn’t want to be known as Anne Carsten’s husband. I wanted to be Mr. Reid, not Mr. Carsten.”

  “You told me that I had been made for silk and spice, that I belonged in luxury and that your path led through hardship, that you wanted your woman to be as bold as yourself. Silly thoughts, weren’t they? But then, it might have been the music.”

  “Or your eyes,” said Kurt. “You’re more beautiful than ever. I’ve thought about you—”

  “You never gave me another thought. Don’t lie for the sake of gallantry. How handsome you are and how rugged. Then you were dressed in a tuxedo. I never suspected—”

  “And now I’m a hunted killer,” said Kurt with a twinge of bitterness, dropping her hands and stepping back as though his presence defiled her. “I heard about your father. I wanted to return and tell you . . .”

  Anne Carsten smiled again. “I see that you know my friend Varinka well. Look in the mirror.”

  Kurt wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away smeared with lipstick. He had the good grace to blush.

  “Tell me,” said Anne, “do you love this Varinka now?”

  “No, no,” he replied hastily. “I only met her tonight. How is it that she comes here?”

  “She is my friend. An exotic creature, isn’t she? So mysterious. I never know when she will come or when she will go. But she is my friend, and whatever her business, my home is hers. Are you sure you don’t love her now?”

  “I respect her nerve,” said Kurt. “But tell me what you’re doing here, all alone in the native city.”

  “One cannot live cheaply in the Concession.”

  “Is it that bad? I thought your father had a great deal of money.”

  “He left little enough, Kurt. But somehow . . .” She moved closer to him and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes searched his face for a full minute, and then with a sigh she placed her head on his broad chest.

  He realized then that she was tired and worried, but he could find no words with which to comfort her. His own worries were forgotten for the moment. Funny how their paths would cross again after two years. Then she had been so arrogant, so satisfied with her station. And now she lived in the native city, probably broke, away from her friends.

  She thrust herself away from him with a smile. “But then, you probably won’t remember me tomorrow. You have Varinka to think about.”

  “No, listen, Varinka doesn’t mean anything to me. She’s a Russki. You don’t marry Russkis. And besides . . .”

  She laughed at his confusion and sank down in a long chair. However poor might be her pocketbook, she was rich in beauty and poise. Kurt felt a troubled stirring within him. He had come back to her and soon he would have to go away. To cover the thought he poured himself a drink and downed it.

  “I can’t stay,” he said at length. “I’m outward bound—God knows where. They want me for . . . for a murder I didn’t do.”

  “But I thought that you would stay for a little while. You are safe here. No one would dare molest me. You look haggard, in need of a rest. I thought—”

  Kurt never knew what she thought. The great blackwood door rocked on its hinges and thunder rolled through the room. Kurt froze.

  Anne Carsten stood up and motioned toward the door through which she had entered. The door shuddered and Kurt rushed into the other room and looked about him. He realized with a shock that there was no exit, unless one of the panels moved. He tried to find a compressed spring, but from the outer room he heard voices. Anne Carsten had opened the door.

  Kurt stepped into a clothes press and tried not to breathe. If they knew he was here, then . . .

  A booming Chinese voice said, “You have here a Russian woman. Varinka Savischna. Where is she?”

  Anne Carsten’s softer tones replied, “I know of no such woman. You must be mad.”

  “You think to fool the Death Squad, my lady? Oh, never fear, we respect the women of the Foreign Devils, even when they are not in their Concessions. But I must have this Russian!”

  “There is no one here but myself,” said Anne Carsten.

  “I am sorry, but we must search.”

  Anne Carsten’s voice was lost in the shrill babble of Chinese voices. From his place in the clothes press, Kurt saw men enter the bedroom. These men were not Southern Chinese. They were immense Northerners. They were all dressed in black, like so many oversized buzzards. They carried automatics in their hands and bayonets at their sides. Of the six men there, not one was less than six feet tall. Their eyes were flinty hard.

  The two approached the clothes press. Kurt braced himself for inevitable discovery. The two jerked back the fine gowns.

  Kurt, knowing that fighting was useless, nevertheless threw himself at them before they could set themselves. He rolled one back and sent the other reeling. He plunged out through the door and tried to get across the larger room.

  He had a vision of a massive face before him. He struck, but his knuckles received the only punishment. Men dived in from all sides and pinned Kurt down.

  The big one knelt on Kurt’s chest and lifted his automatic for a blow. Anne Carsten screamed. Kurt tried to roll away. The big one thought better of it and stayed his hand. Kurt was helpless, and the others were swiftly binding him.

  “For your knowledge,” said this big one, “I am Yang Ch’ieu, captain of the Death Squad. Of course you know why we are here, and you know what is about to happen to you. My master, Lin Wang, sees over all and allows no evil to escape. You are being taken to him. If I have bothered this lady of yours, I ask her pardon.”

  Yang stood up. He looked like some animated dark mountain. His arms and legs were as big as tree trunks, and his head sat oddly small on his great shoulders. But his head, on closer inspec
tion, proved twice as large as an ordinary man’s. Yang weighed three hundred and fifty pounds, and none of it was fat. His expression was one of proud disdain. The five others showed cruelty, but not Yang.

  They picked Kurt up, like so much straw, and started out. Anne Carsten cried out to stop them. Yang turned to her with a respectful bow.

  “You cannot do this!” cried Anne. “He is an American. The United States—”

  “Will be very glad to have him, madam. He is a murderer.”

  Anne Carsten looked beseechingly at Yang, and finding no hope there, stared down at Kurt. She touched his face lightly with her fingers.

  “I . . . I hoped . . .” she whispered, “to see you . . . again.” She was crying now. Kurt turned his face away.

  The Death Squad carried their burden through the garden and through the wall, toward the headquarters of Lin Wang. . . .

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Confession

  WHEN a man spends a month in jail, he is ready for anything, even murder. And murder was to be the task of Kurt Reid.

  The first week he spent worrying. No one came to see him, no one advised him of the exact nature of his arrest, he heard nothing of the two strange women who had indirectly caused his incarceration.

  A man can find a great deal to worry about when he is confronted with four yellowish walls and when the scurrying rats forbid his sleep. He was unable to pry information out of his black-uniformed guard.

  In the second week he began to suspect the Russian Varinka Savischna. At the end of ten days he received a short note via the one window of the cell.

  Kurt Reid;

  I have tried to find out about your case, but I am afraid to take my information to the authorities, fearing that the affair aboard the Rangoon would also be brought against you. I have tried to bribe Lin Wang, but he will have nothing of it, saying that you are an enemy of China. If fate brings you back to me, I promise that our next meeting will be far better than the last.