"That's not the taxi," Tina Kellogg said. Her fingers bit urgently into my arm. "Who—?"
"I don't know, but I've got a good idea."
We both started to run. We had to stay on what was left of the road; the mangroves were a dense snarl of roots and underbrush, home of a hundred dangers including poisonous snakes. The oncoming car was very close now, and even though the grass was thick here, it wasn't tall enough to hide us. We were clearly visible in the bright moonglow.
Headlights stabbed on behind us; I heard the familiar pig squeal of brakes. A vine or creeper caught Tina's leg and she stumbled and fell. I hauled her up again, pulled her along to the left where the grass was thinner and there were more bushes to cast shadow. A hoarse shout cut through the insect hum. I half-expected a gun to start popping, too, but that didn't happen yet.
Ahead the road curled to the left, paralleling the airstrip and leading to the hangar and outbuildings. Vines and wildly tangled shrubs clogged it completely after forty or fifty yards. If we couldn't get through, we wouldn't stand a chance. And even if we could, needle-sharp thorns would shred clothing and skin, slow us down.
The only other way to the buildings was the runway. We'd be exposed up there, but no more than down here. And it was a straight line to the buildings, no more than seventy-five yards to the first of them. Find a hiding place over there and we'd have a better chance than floundering around in the jungle.
I plowed through underbrush and ground cover, half-dragging Tina along with me. Something ripped at my bare arms; something else brushed my face, whispering, cold. Then we were out of the bushes and at the base of the embankment. The mounded earth was a quagmire from the evening rain, but we managed to fight our way up onto the strip without losing balance. A gun cracked somewhere close behind us, but neither of us was hit.
"Run" I said to Tina. "Offto the left!"
We ran. Our muddied boots slapped wetly on the rough concrete. There was another shout, another pistol crack. I glanced back. Two men were scrambling up the embankment. A third stood in the headlamp beams of a small car slewed on the road where the taxi had let us off. He was doing the shouting. I couldn't see his face clearly, but I knew it was Van Rijk.
I turned my head, just in time to avoid stepping into a pothole and maybe breaking a leg. We were almost to the first of the outbuildings now. There were no more shots. They'd finally figured out that you can't shoot accurately while you're on the run.
The closest building was a long, low-roofed affair that had been used to quarter duty personnel. All the glass had been broken out of its windows years ago, and some of the side boarding had rotted or pulled away, leaving shadowed gaps like missing teeth. Off to one side was a smaller, ramshackle shed of some kind.
I steered Tina that way. We ran around the corner of the low-roofed building, along the side of the shed. At its rear, a jagged-edged hole above the foundation yawned black, like a small cave opening.
I pulled up, fighting breath into my lungs. "Through there!"
She obeyed instantly, dropping to her knees and scuttling through the hole. I followed close behind her.
Thin shafts of moonlight made a pale, irregular pattern on the debris-ridden floor inside. The shed was empty. It was close, humid in there—a pervasive heat like that in an orchid hothouse.
Tina's breath came in thick gasps. She crouched on her knees with her head lowered. I left her and crawled to the front of the shed. When I peered through one of the smaller gaps there, I had a full view of the airstrip and part of the access road beyond.
Two sets of headlights, one tight behind the other, were coming fast along the road. Seeing them eased a little of the tension in me. I could not see the portion of the road where Van Rijk and his car were, but the two orang séwaan-séwaan, on the runway and pounding toward the low-roofed building, had a good sidewise look at both Van Rijk and the oncoming cars. They pulled up and danced around some, then began running back the way they'd come.
"What is it?" Tina asked. She was beside me now, trying to peer out. "What's happening?"
The sounds of jamming brakes, doors slamming, men shouting carried to us on the still night air. I said, "The polis are here."
"The polis?"
Van Rijk's men were dancing around again, over at the edge of the strip. One of them went into a crouch and fired a round toward the glaring headlights. In response I heard a short, sharp burst from an automatic weapon. The man fell sprawling. The other one veered to his right and disappeared onto the embankment. A few seconds later there was another chattering burst, two pistol shots, a third burst. After that, silence.
I turned away from the opening. "It's all over now," I said.
Tina's fingers bit into my arm. "The plane!" she breathed. "There might still be time to reach the plane, get away . . ."
"There isn't any plane."
"What? I . . . I don't understand . . ."
"There's no plane here. Hasn't been one here in a long time."
She stared at me. Her face was shadowed and I couldn't see her eyes. I didn't see the movement of her hand, either, until it was too late to stop her from reaching under her bush jacket and drawing the automatic she'd had tucked into her belt. A shaft of pale moonlight glinted off the surface of its barrel. Small caliber automatic aimed right at my belly.
I said, "Is that the gun you shot La Croix with? After you tortured him?"
She leaned forward slightly, and I could see her face then. It was as cold and hard as white jade. "All right," she said. "So you know."
"I've known since this afternoon," I said. "It was a nice little act you put on, but I didn't believe it last night and I saw all the way through it at the godown. You said your mythical informant told you I keep a DC-3 out here. But damn few people knew it when I did keep one, for obvious reasons. My former partner was one and he's dead. Another is a German named Heinrich and he's serving ten years in a Djakarta prison. The only man you could've gotten the information from was La Croix."
Nothing from her. The gun was steady in her hand.
"After I finished work this afternoon, I went down to the government precinct and talked to a polis inspector Tiong. He did some checking with the Canadian consulate. They never heard of a Luzon import-export dealer named Kellogg, or a Tina Kellogg. But the American consulate has a record of one Tanya Kasten. So does Interpol, because of the art theft you were implicated in last year in Amsterdam. Is that where you met or got put in touch with Van Rijk, Tanya?"
"A trap. All a damn trap."
"That's right. To catch you with the Burong Chabak. Tiong figured you were in on the theft, found La Croix before Van Rijk did, and got it from him. But I don't think you did get it. No luggage, no figurine. What happened? You lose your temper and kill him too soon?"
"Shut up," she spat at me.
"I think La Croix hid the figurine out here. You think so, too. And you think I know where. If Van Rijk hadn't been trailing me tonight and started his boys shooting at us, you'd have thrown down on me as soon as we reached the hangar."
"You do know where he hid it, don't you? All right. You're going to take me to it, right now."
"Don't be a fool. Tiong and his men will be here pretty quick. You can't get past them."
"We'll get past them," she said. "With the figurine."
"If you're thinking about using me as a hostage, you can forget it. The law doesn't give a damn about me."
"We'll see about that."
"No," I said, "we won't."
She made an impatient gesture with the gun—just what I wanted her to do. I swept my left hand out and up, palm open and driving against her hand and the automatic's barrel, knocking them upward. There was a crack and a flash as the gun went off; I felt heat along my forearm, but the bullet thudded somewhere into the shed's roof. I caught her wrist with my right hand, pressured it until she cried out in pain. The weapon fell thudding to the floor.
I picked it up, sliding back away from her. She stayed put, holdi
ng her wrist and cursing me steadily and bitterly. I tucked the automatic into my belt, moved to the jagged wall opening, and squeezed through it backward. Outside I stood and went to where I could see the airstrip.
Half a dozen men were fanned out and closing in on the runway, one of them brandishing an automatic weapon, the others with drawn pistols. Inspector Kok Chin Tiong was in the lead. I stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight, my hands up in plain sight.
Tiong was out of breath as he came running up. "You are all right, Mr. Connell?"
"Yeah."
"The woman?"
"In the shed. I don't think she'll give you any trouble." Tiong said something in Malay and two of his officers went to take Tanya Kasten into custody.
I asked, "What about Van Rijk?"
"Shackled and under guard," Tiong said. "The other two are dead."
"You could've been saying the same about me. You took your sweet time getting here."
He smiled faintly. "At the Esplanade we saw that Van Rijk was following you."
"So you decided to nab him along with the woman. But did you have to give him such a bloody big lead?"
"We did not wish him to realize that he, too, was being followed," Tiong said. "Now, Mr. Connell. The Burong Chabak."
I'd told him that I had a pretty good idea where La Croix had stashed it—a drop point we'd used in my black market days, where he'd leave cash for me when I brought in a shipment of contraband. I led Tiong to the rear of the hangar, between its back wall and two big, corroded tanks that had once been used for the storage of airplane fuel. Set into the ground there was a wooden box housing regulator valves for the airstrip's water supply.
The Burong Chabak was inside the box, all right, wrapped in chamois and canvas and tied with string.
I had my first clear look at the figurine later that night, in Tiong's office. It was very old and beautifully carved in intricate detail, depicting a nightbird—a burong chabak—in full flight, wings spread, head extended as if into the wind. The bird itself was of white jade, the purest, most valuable of all jade; the squarish pedestal upon which it rested was of the dark green variety.
"Is it not beautiful?" Tiong asked.
I didn't agree with him. It looked and felt cold to me—as cold as Tanya Kasten's face in the moonlit shed.
"It is said to be worth a minimum of four hundred thousand Straits dollars. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars, American. Tanya Kasten's buyer in Luzon, whoever he is, may even have been willing to pay more. To some men, such a rarity is worth any price."
"I suppose so."
"The money, too, would tempt many men. Particularly one with a past such as yours. Yet you chose to come to the polis,to help us recover the figurine, instead of attempting to keep it for yourself. Why, Mr. Connell?"
"Does it really matter?"
"I would like to know."
"All right, then. The main reason is Larry Falco."
"Your former partner?"
"My dead former partner," I said. "A nice guy, with a lot of ideas about making an honest living from an air cargo company, who died because I had other ideas—like transporting a load of contraband silk to a treacherous jungle airstrip at midnight. He tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn't listen. I could land a plane anywhere, I told him, under any conditions. Well, I was wrong and it cost him his life instead of mine."
Tiong nodded slowly and said, "I see."
Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. I did not really care one way or the other.
Vanishing Act
(with Michael Kurland)
The three of us–Ardis, Cedric Clute and I–were sitting at a quiet corner table, halfway between the Magic Cellar's bar and stage, when the contingent of uniformed policemen made their entrance. There were about thirty of them, all dressed in neatly pressed uniforms and gleaming accessories, and they came down the near aisle two abreast like a platoon of marching soldiers. Most of the tables that front the stage were already occupied, so the cops took over the stack of carpet–covered trunks which comprise a kind of bleacher section directly behind the tables.
I cocked an eyebrow. "Most saloon owners would object to such an influx of fuzz," I said to Cedric. He owns the Cellar, San Francisco's only nightclub devoted to the sadly vanishing art of magic.
"Policemen have a right to be entertained," he said, smiling.
"Their lot, I understand, is not a happy one."
Ardis said speculatively, "They look very young."
"That's because they're most of the graduation class of the Police Academy," Cedric told her. "Their graduation ceremony was this afternoon, and I invited them down as a group. Actually, it was Captain Dickensheet's idea." He indicated a tall, angular, graying man, also in uniform, who was about to appropriate a table for himself and two other elder officers. "I've known him casually for a couple of years, and he thought his men would enjoy the show."
"With Christopher Steele and The Amazing Boltan on the same bill," Ardis said, "they can't help but enjoy it."
I started to add an agreement to that–and there was Steele himself standing over the table, having appeared with that finely developed knack he has of seeming to come from nowhere.
Christopher Steele is the Cellar's main attraction and one of the greatest of the modern illusionists. I don't say that because I happen to be his manager and publicist. He's also something of a secretive type, given to quirks like an inordinate fascination for puzzles and challenges, the more bizarre the better. Working for and with him the past five years has been anything but dull.
Steele usually dresses in black, both on stage and off, and I think he does it because he knows it gives him, with his thick black hair and dark skin and eyes, a vaguely sinister air. He looked sinister now as he said, "The most amazing thing about Phil Boltan, you know, is that he's still alive. He does a fine job on stage, but he has the personal habits and morals of a Yahoo."
Ardis' eyes shone as they always did when Steele was around; she's his assistant and confidante and lives in a wing of his house across the Bay, although if there is anything of a more intimate nature to their relationship neither of them has ever hinted at it to me. She said, "You sound as though Boltan is not one of your favorite people, Christopher."
"He isn't–not in the least."
Cedric frowned, "If you'd told me you felt that way, I wouldn't have booked you both for the same night."
"It doesn't matter. As I said, he is a fine performer."
"Just what is it that you find so objectionable about Boltan?" I asked as Steele sat down.
"He's a ruthless egomaniac," Steele said. "Those in the psychological professions would call him a sociopath. If you stand in his way, he'll walk over you without hesitation."
"A fairly common trait among performers."
"Not in Boltan's case. Back in the 40s, for example, he worked with a man named Granger–"
"The Four-Men-in-a-Trunk Illusion," Ardis said immediately.
"Right. The Granger Four-Men-in-a-Trunk Illusion premiered at the Palladium before George the Fifth. That was before Boltan's time, of course. At any rate, Granger was getting old, but he had a beautiful young wife named Cecily and an infant son; he also had Phil Boltan as an assistant.
"So one morning Granger awoke to find that Boltan had run off with Cecily and several trunks of his effects. He was left with the infant son and a load of bitterness he wasn't able to handle. As a result, he put his head in a plastic bag one evening and suffocated himself. Tragic, very tragic."
"What happened to the son?" Cedric asked.
"I don't know. Granger had no close relatives, so I imagine the boy went to a foster home"
Ardis asked, "Did Boltan marry Cecily?"
"No Of course not He's never married any of his conquests."
"Nice guy," I said.
Steele nodded and leaned back in his chair. "Enough about Phil Boltan," he said "Matthew, did you have any problem setting up for my show?"
"No," I told
him "All your properties are ready in the wings"
"Sound equipment?"
"In place."
"Ultraviolet bulbs?"
"Check," I said. The u.v. bulbs were to illuminate the special paint on the gauze and balloons and other "spook" effects for Steele's midnight séance show. "It's a good thing I did a pre-check; one of the Carter posters fluoresced blue around the border, and I had to take it down. Otherwise it would have been a conspicuous distraction."
Cedric looked at me reproachfully. "I suppose you'd have removed the Iron Maiden if that had fluoresced," he said, meaning the half-ton iron torture box in one corner.
"Sure," I said. "Dedication is dedication."
We made small talk for a time, and then Cedric excused himself to take his usual place behind the bar; it was twenty past ten. I sipped my drink and looked idly around the Cellar. It was stuffed with the paraphernalia and memorabilia of Carter the Great, a world-famous illusionist in the '20s and '30s. His gaudy posters covered the walls.
The stage was rather small, but of professional quality; it even had a trapdoor, which led to a small tunnel, which in turn came up in the coatroom adjacent to the bar. The only other exits from the stage, aside from the proscenium, were curtains on the right and left sides, leading to small dressing rooms. Both rooms had curtained second exits to the house, on the right beyond the Davenport Brothers Spirit Cabinet–a privy-sized cubicle in which a tarot reader now did her thing–and on the left behind a half-moon table used for close-up card tricks.
At 10:30 the voice of Cedric's wife Jan came over the loud-speaker, announcing the beginning of Boltan's act. The lights dimmed, and the conversational roar died to a murmur. Steele swiveled his chair to face the stage, the glass of brandy he had ordered in one hand. He cupped the glass like a fragile relic, staring over its lip at the stage as the curtain went up.
"Oh, for a muse of fire . . ." he said softly, when The Amazing Boltan made his entrance.
"What was that?" I whispered, but Steele merely gave me one of his amused looks and waved me to silence.
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