E. Hoffmann Price's Exotic Adventures

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Mr. Blount-Quinby was coffin-faced and skeptical.

  “Absurd! The Triad Society has been suppressed for a dozen years. Now, if you only had that Eurasian girl and those certificates. There’s been too much careless handling of explosives all over Malaya. But we’ll investigate, and you will benefit by whatever the commission finds in your favor.”

  An epidemic of accidents? The Triad Society now seemed part of a fake to hide Forest’s hand.

  Hartley returned to his hotel and bad his luggage transferred to a room across the hall from Forest. He left the door just ajar and waited.

  Presently a tall, ruddy man in tropicals emerged. Hartley had seen enough news reel views of Forest to recognize him.

  As Forest stepped into the elevator, Hartley phoned the desk.

  “Send the valet up to get the clothes I laid out. Have them back before I return for dinner. Right away. No, of course I can’t wait to let him in!” He gave Forest’s room number and hung up.

  Presently a Chinese “boy” was at Forest’s door. He turned the pass key in the lock. Hartley’s flying tackle helped him over the threshold. One gasp, and the Chinese was silenced by a popping fist.

  Forest had a luxurious suite. The sitting room contained a desk and a portable typewriter. Hartley pounced on a well filled brief case.

  He fumbled with the catch. Taking the stuff would warn Forest. Better go through it, and leave the contents intact.

  An instant later he realized his error. A pistol prodded his back.

  “Raise your hands!” A woman was behind the gun. Her voice was flat and tense. “Now step to the telephone and say exactly what I tell you.”

  Sweat trickled down his forehead. This would finish him in Malaya. Someone else was spying on Forest; but Hartley would take the rap.

  He lifted the receiver. He waited for her next order. From the corner of his eye he saw a slim chance. He side kicked, knocking over a tabouret and bottle of Scotch. Tray and glass clattered to the floor.

  She started. The pistol shifted. As Hartley whirled, a jet of flame seared his ribs; but he caught her wrist. The little .25 dropped from wrenched fingers. Hartley stared. The girl returned it. Recognition was mutual.

  “Irene—for God’s sweet sake—!”

  “Ken—” Her laugh was hysterical. “Since when have you gone out for housebreaking?”

  “Sit down. While I tell you things. And ask you a few. About your letter.”

  “When I wrote, I didn’t know he’d have me come along—”

  “Kind of clubby, hanging around his rooms, eh?”

  Irene’s lovely face flushed. “This is a four room suite. I was coding some cables when you broke in.”

  The Chinese was reviving. Irene convinced him he’d gotten the wrong number, and a five dollar note clinched that. Then she listened to Hartley.

  “Let’s go into my room,” she interrupted, leading him through the suite.

  Irene’s things were there. And she wasn’t wearing a negligee.

  “So I’m on the spot,” he concluded. “What are his plans?”

  “I can’t sell him out,” she protested. “I know he’s not behind those murders—”

  “Hell of a friend you turned out to be!”

  “Ken, darling. Let’s not quarrel,” she pleaded. “I’m so glad to see you—”

  “You act like it.” He thrust her from him.

  “Ken—” Her arms evaded his repulse and closed about him. “Do be reasonable. Don’t you see, I just can’t.”

  He compromised by drawing her to the couch beside him. He bent over and kissed the hollow of her throat. She tried to break away, but only succeeded in hitching her skirts well over her knees. He caught a glimpse of white flesh above her hose tops, and the froth of lace.

  He presently found that he could hold Irene with one arm. Her protests were now inarticulate. If her heart didn’t stop pounding, it would hammer something through her gown…judging from what was pressing his chest. His kisses smothered her objections. She was quivering now, and panting, with emotion.

  * * * *

  “That brief case,” she whispered, a long time later, “oh, help yourself. I’ve missed you so—”

  Hartley stepped into the front room; but he had scarcely opened the briefcase when a key grated in the door. He bounded toward the clothes closet. He made it just as Forest entered the room.

  “Irene!”

  The man glanced about, peeled off his coat.

  She emerged, drawing together the edges of her negligee. Her knees were dimpled, and there was an entrancing glimpse of white, between the folds of that froth of chiffon that clung to her hips.

  “I’m going to call on an important official,” said Forest. “Come along to draw up the contract when we decide the terms. Can you be ready by the time I’ve changed?”

  His hand closed on the knob of the clothes closet.

  “Must we go tonight?” she sighed, releasing the edges of the blue chiffon. Forest forgot the doorknob. When Irene sighed, she made a job of it. The lift of her bosom was—

  Just revealing enough to set him on fire.

  “I’m blue and homesick,” she murmured.

  “Poor little girl—”

  Forest caged an armful. But he could not see that Irene’s lips moved soundlessly as she looked over his shoulder. Hartley however did. He slipped from cover.

  As he moved, he caught a glimpse of Forest’s free hand. Though the sway of Irene’s hips was faked, it thoroughly burned him. He tripped over the bottle on the floor. It clattered against the brass tray.

  Forest whirled. His glance included the opened brief case.

  “So that’s why you suddenly got playful! Lucky I got wise to you before you learned something important, you damn’—”

  “And you’re another!” flared Hartley. The repartee wasn’t so heavy, but his fist was.

  “You’re fired!” croaked Forest, scrambling to his feet.

  “There’s a job waiting across the hall,” chuckled Hartley. “Let a bell hop move your luggage.”

  She followed him. But when the door closed behind her, she flung herself across a divan and sobbed. “Ken, we are in a jam! You should have left. Now he can identify you.”

  “Second guess is usually best,” he ruefully admitted. “But the way he was fooling around distracted me. Anyway, where was he bound for?”

  “Probably Hong Wu’s residence,” she answered. “The sultan’s financial secretary. Why?”

  “Something’s rotten, or he’d not have piped down so quietly. He should have hollered about sneak thieves—get it?”

  She did. Hartley headed for the door.

  He casually strolled out a side exit, then walked around to the rental cars parked at the main entrance.

  “Wait here,” he instructed the driver.

  * * * *

  Hartley was reckless and desperate. No use trying to evade the law. Hiding or slipping out of Singapore Island is impossible for any but natives. Hartley had to make his case in a hurry, or else—

  Half an hour later, Forest emerged; and hailed a rental car. Hartley’s chauffeur followed.

  Forest headed out toward Moulmein Road, beyond the gas house. That was odd. Hong Wu lived east of town. Maybe Irene had been mistaken. Lucky he had tailed Forest instead of going directly to his supposed destination.

  Hartley ordered his driver to snap off the headlights. They would betray him in the darkness.

  For half a mile he tailed Forest. Then came a screech of brakes, followed by a crash of metal and the splintering of wood. Forest had cracked up.

  Hartley heard a babble of voices, then a yell. Black figures were silhouetted against the headlight glow of the stalled car. Steel gleamed. A man in white bounded to the highway: Forest, attacked by natives.

  “Ste
p on it!”

  But Hartley’s chauffeur whipped the car about. Hartley jammed his pistol against the fellow’s back. That straightened him out. He tramped on the gas.

  Forest was running and making a job of it. A streak of steel flashed over his shoulder. He stumbled. Hartley leaned out to fire at the assassins. The chauffeur saw his chance and swung the car into the ditch. The impact flung Hartley over the front seat. The door swung open, piling them both into the swamp. A kick knocked Hartley’s pistol from his grasp.

  No time to dive for it. He snatched a the iron from the floorboards and scrambled to the road.

  Forest was surrounded. He had picked up a club and was flailing it about.

  Hartley, bounding into action, bent his iron across a skull cap. A hurled kris grazed his shoulder. Forest was down but still fighting. Hartley ploughed home, parrying a stab and hammering home with his fist. He knocked a Malay end for end. Then he lunged, his shoulder driving in like a battering ram—

  But not in time to check the kris that pinned Forest to the road. The surviving raiders fled. Their work was done.

  Hartley had instinctively rushed to defend a white man assailed by natives. Now he realized what a calamity Forest’s death was. At least a month must elapse before Transpacific Industries could send another agent to Malaya. Until then, Hartley could not continue his quest for evidence to offer the Warden of Mines; but desperation prodded his wits.

  He searched Forest’s pockets. He removed a thick manila envelope. In the back seat of the car which had crashed headlong into a carabao cart, he found a briefcase. By the glow of a surviving parking light he scanned the contents.

  “Got it! Better than trailing Forest—I’ll impersonate him!”

  The letter of introduction indicated that the sultan’s financial minister did not know Forest.

  He set out on foot. His chauffeur had fled. At the fringe of the native quarter he purchased a fresh suit of tropicals. He could not risk returning to his hotel.

  Presently he hailed a car and headed for Hong Wu’s palace.

  A Chinese servant admitted him. The Honorable Hong would be pleased to see Mr. Forest at once.

  A moon-faced dignitary in dove gray silk received Hartley. For half an hour they exchanged compliments. Then the American played his cards. They had to be good, and before Forest’s death was discovered.

  “Honorable Hong, my unworthy corporation authorizes me to bid three million dollars,” said Hartley.

  Hong Wu held out for five. They finally agreed to split the difference.

  “Since we agree, Elder Brother, let us draw up the papers.”

  Reasonable, but that sunk Hartley. His hasty scrutiny of Forest’s papers would not carry him through such a test. Then he snatched at his only chance.

  “But before we do that, Honorable Hong, tell me how His Highness, the Sultan proposes to confiscate all those small leases without running afoul of the British Government?”

  All he needed was the answer to that query.

  “Ah…that is relevant,” admitted Hong Wu. “I will ring for my secretary! Be pleased to send for yours. My car is at your disposal. While they are drawing up the papers, I will explain. The Sultan has arranged everything. Your company need not worry.”

  He tapped a small gong, then gestured toward a telephone. Hartley stepped to the instrument. With Irene as a witness, it would be easy to convince the Warden of Mines. He had it in a bag!

  He called his own room by number, not name. Irene answered. She recognized his voice. His claiming to be Forest left her puzzled, but she risked no questions. She sensed that a heavy game was on.

  “Very well, then, Miss Byrne. Be ready when Mr. Hong’s car calls!” he commanded, and hung up.

  “And now,” said the Honorable Hong, “kindly raise your hands.”

  His pistol covered Hartley. Half a dozen coolies emerged from behind the dragon-blazoned draperies. Something had slipped!

  Hartley ducked behind a table. Hong Wu’s shot shacked into the wall. Hartley catapulted his barricade athwart the rush of coolies. He flung himself toward the door.

  It was bolted; and the rush overwhelmed him. They trampled and booted him to the floor. Strong hands wrenched his limbs. Heavy bodies knocked him breathless. Finally they held him upright, battered beyond resistance.

  “Very clever imposture, Mr. Hartley,” mocked Hong. He turned toward an inner door and said, “That is the name, isn’t it?”

  “Just as I told you,” answered a woman: Dolores Wong. “But though Forest’s secretary warned him, this is more than I expected.”

  For a long moment Hartley eyed the Eurasian girl he had failed to kill with kisses. Hong Wu laughed softly and said, “One of the men you drove away returned just in time to see you go through Forest’s pockets. So we strangled the Honorable Hong. I took his place to find out how you fitted into this game. Imposture for an imposter.”

  “Who the devil are you?”

  “The grand master of the Triad Society. My borrowed identity should suffice during the short time names will interest you. I recognized you from Dolores’ description.”

  “How does my—his secretary fit into this?” Hartley demanded.

  “Very simple,” said the self styled Hong. “The girl’s letter to you betrayed her employer. You followed to slay him and take his place. This proves that you are no petty miner, but Forest’s rival. I am holding you and your accomplice for questioning.

  “Centuries ago, the Triad Society expelled the Manchu invaders from China. Today we are more ambitious. We now aim to expel all foreigners from every part of Asia. Our first move is to keep Americans out. Thus when the day of vengeance arrives, there will be no American intervention in their favor. Though Asia is rotten ripe, we can not survive if your country stepped in.”

  “Lovely,” mocked Hartley. “But where do I come in?”

  “You and the girl will explain Forest’s plans, so that I can notify my secret agents in America. Transpacific’s next representative will then die before he leaves San Francisco.

  “Tsang Lee, take him to headquarters. This house is dangerous.”

  Tsang Lee clubbed him across the head. Just once, but it sufficed.

  * * * *

  When Hartley’s wits returned, he was bound hand and foot, and lying in a gilt and vermillion apartment invaded by the stenches of the native quarter.

  Irene was beside him and regaining consciousness. She had been taken by surprise. Her garments were not torn.

  Hartley explained how he had been tricked into trapping her.

  “And we’re sunk,” he concluded. “Your letter—Dolores read it—”

  “Which was more than I expected,” Hong Wu purred from the doorway. “She made the most of your touching sentiment. Had I been your age, I would have kissed her to death.”

  And then Dolores, clad in Chinese silks, appeared beside her master. Her smile and Hong’s mockery gave Irene the story; but she laughed softly, and said, “It takes more than her to turn me against him.”

  “Ah…but bamboo slivers driven under your nails will make you talk,” murmured Hong Wu. “And you, Mr. Hartley—you will speak when you tire of her screams.”

  He clapped his hands. Two coolies entered with a stout chair, and a table equipped with a wooden vise whose horizontal jaws were grooved for the victim’s fingers. A third had fine slivers of bamboo that would torture sensitive flesh more than any needle.

  Hartley shivered, and wondered at the strange gleam in Dolores’ slanted eyes, his folly mocked him. She had kissed him to death!

  Hong Wu would never believe that Hartley and Irene did not know the intricacies of Forest’s plans.

  They bound Irene to the chair, clamped her fingers in the vise. Hartley sickened, watching her strain against her bonds as the savage little fibers slipped into the quick of her nails,
gently forced home—almost bloodless torment no man’s nerves could endure. But she would not speak.

  Before she fainted, Hartley’s sympathetic muscular contraction had stretched his bonds. Hong Wu did not realize that Irene’s agony was whipping him to inhuman strength.

  A draught of ng ka pay revived her. Then Dolores intervened: “Some women are that way, Honorable Hong. But I will make her speak…”

  She glided from the doorway, halting between Irene and Hartley. Then she stretched languorously, and peeled off her outer tunic.

  “He loved me when you scorned him,” she whispered. “He will love me again. Save yourself wasted misery… He will not die. Only you.”

  She shed another tunic, and her sleek silken trousers. What remained was a gauzy witchery, and though her breasts were bound flat in Chinese fashion, she revealed more than enough to compensate.

  Hartley was winning his fight against his bonds. There was a chance—

  “He knew I was his enemy, yet he loved me. Did he ever want to kiss you to death?” she mocked.

  Another heave—and then Dolores twined her gleaming self about Hartley.

  Hong Wu and his torturers were breathing audibly. Her exposure offended Chinese propriety, but at the same time its effect robbed Hartley of a chance to escape.

  “Tell, and you both live,” urged Hong Wu, reluctantly turning to Irene.

  Not a chance of escape until Dolores moved. Then Hartley felt the chill of steel between his wrists. The cords parted!

  “Tell him,” he croaked, catching Irene’s eye. He hoped to distract the Chinese.

  But Hong sensed the change. He whirled as Hartley seized the blade. He yelled. The torturers leaped, drawing knives.

  Hartley hurled himself, tripped, sprawled on the floor, helpless for the damning instant he needed to free his ankles. A streak of golden flesh blotted out a flash of steel. Dolores screamed. Long nails slashed Hong’s face, blinding him with blood. And then Hartley’s feet were free. He crashed home with shoulder and knife.

  Hong Wu collapsed, throat ripped open. Hartley’s next opponent was empty-handed. His knife was hilt deep between Dolores’ breasts. She had flung herself against its point. She was tugging at the haft as Hartley ploughed into the melee. She hurled the red knife, checking an armed assailant.