Tiger Milk

by David Garth

  “Ah, yes, my friend.” He spoke in soft English, heavily accented. “In sixty-pound concentrates. Two hundred of those sixty-pound gold concentrates.”

  “Ten million dollars in gold,” breathed Luce. “What I thought.”

  A person looked up at that fast, armed merchantman and realized that aboard was ten million dollars’ worth of gold, made up in sixty-pound concentrates worth fifty thousand dollars each.

  “Three U-boats brought it out to the Almaric off Cape Verde,” went on the young Czech. “That was how they beat the blockade. I came with the U-119. Those forged orders for me to join the Almaric’s crew as Ernst Velder, electrician’s assistant—Karl arranged them for me—they have not caught on to Karl, yet, I thank God.”

  “Good man,” said Luce softly. “Both you and Karl.” Duchnod raised a hand that trembled noticeably to his face. “Did you have any trouble ashore?”

  “They have a watcher ashore, I think,” Luce said. “Somebody playing the part of a derelict Englishman top-heavy with tequila. We each spotted the other—but I made up my mind first.” He bent forward. “Is everything ready, Duchnod?”

  The young Czech did not answer immediately. He brushed that nervous hand over his forehead, then looked at the intent shadowy man in trench coat and snap-brim. He nodded slowly.

  “I finished just today. It was hard. I had to be careful, eh? I stole one of our depth bombs that we carried should a British submarine try to stop us.” His voice was so low that it was almost inaudible. Plainly, the strain on him had become almost unbearable. “I secreted that depth bomb in the wing bilge of the engine room and changed it to a time bomb. There is a wire leader down the fire-room escape hatch to its firing pin. One good pull and the detonator starts—fifteen seconds, my friend, and—” he drew a long breath, “the side will be blown clear out of her.”

  He stared at Luce. “She will turn over completely,” he made the reflex gesture with his hands, “and in three minutes will be at the bottom of twenty fathoms. One hundred and twenty feet down—three minutes after the explosion—”

  Luce again gripped his shoulder. “Ten million dollars in gold one hundred and twenty feet down. And they won’t dare let it be known. Hell, that gold will be as good as in a bank vault.” He paused. “Ready to be about it? I’ll cover you.”

  Duchnod’s mouth worked spasmodically. He tried to speak and could not get the words out. Luce eyed him sharply.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “Luce—my friend!” The young Czech’s voice was racked with agony. He started to say something more, then suddenly buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

  “Steady!” said Luce in a low swift voice.

  Duchnod lifted his drawn face. “I cannot do it,” he whispered brokenly. “I cannot blast this ship open, send her to the bottom. Many will be drowned—men asleep in their berths, men below decks.”

  Luce took him by both arms, gripping them with fingers that bit with merciless grip. “Ten million dollars in good Czech gold. Your country’s gold taken over. Duchnod—that gold was stolen from your Czech banks. You know that.”

  “I know. I know. But—”

  His voice trailed off into silence and for a few moments there was no sound except the slap of waves against the rusty black sides and the monotonous spatter of the rain.

  “Listen to me,” said Luce in a fierce low voice. “This is a Nazi armed merchantman with a fighting crew. Whether it is blown up by a British cruiser or a Czech patriot makes no difference. That gold is not getting through.”

  “But there must be some other way—”

  “None,” said Luce. “Tonight we have a chance. But tomorrow they will unload it, heavily guarded, a legally consigned shipment to accredited Nazi officials in Mexico. It will be bought by the United States Treasury through some Mexican bank and the balance in dollars will be placed to the credit of a dangerous agent footloose in the United States right now. Placed in a special fund for a dangerous man to use.”

  The Czech shook his head in that same numbed way.

  “Listen!” said Luce crisply. “Tonight is our only chance. Tomorrow will be too late. They need this money badly, man! Who knows what it will be used for? Go on Duchnod. We spotted this gold shipment and it is going to be stopped! Nobody fails—do you understand? Move! I’m with you.”

  Ten million dollars in gold heavily guarded aboard an armed Nazi merchantman under false registry. The crackling strain of it tore at the young Czech’s nerves.

  “I cannot blast this ship to the bottom,” he pleaded. “I am not like these people—I find I cannot!” Again he buried his face in his hands.

  Luce glanced briefly at the night sky. The rain was nearly over and the darkness would be wearing thin now. There was not much time. His dark eyes concentrated on the Czech.

  “I’ll pull that firing pin myself. Where is the fire-room escape hatch? On the after deck, I suppose?”

  Duchnod’s mouth parted. “My friend—”

  “You heard me,” said Luce. “When they lose this gold shipment there is going to be hell to pay. Somebody’s hand may be tipped. Where is that wire leader?”

  The Czech was silent a moment, his anguished blue eyes resting in despair on the rangy American. Luce stood up and grasped the rope ladder dangling from the stern.

  “When those babies stick their chins out I swing.” In his snap-brim and tightly buttoned trench coat he gave an impression of a lean, professional gunfighter. “Come up, Duchnod, show me where it is and then jump.”

  Duchnod nodded slowly, mechanically. “I show you, my friend.” He listened briefly, then grasped the rope ladder and climbed up quickly. Luce saw him clinging close to the stern rail, then beckoning. He followed, kicking himself away from the stern as the rope ladder twisted and swayed, grabbed the rail and was over quickly, crouching near the anchor winch.

  A ship’s bell struck clearly from the direction of the bridge. Duchnod started perceptibly and then grasped Luce’s arm.

  “The explosion will be on the port side,” he whispered. “When you pull the firing pin remember to dive from the starboard. Fifteen seconds—”

  Luce smiled tightly. He would remember that, all right. Fifteen seconds to get to the starboard rail and dive overboard. This was going to be very, very close.

  “Most of the men are below,” the young Czech electrician continued. “But there is a watch. We must be careful. Come—Luce!” His whisper broke into a strangled little cry.

  A bulky figure seemed to have formed right out of he shadows. A great round flashlight beam seared into their fates. One of the deck watch had come upon them. And even as he snapped a curt command Luce plunged toward him with every ounce of power he could muster. He crashed against the bulky body and together they went hurtling headlong over a coil of rope. The watch started to shout and had the words choked at his lips as Luce gripped his throat. He swung his heavy flashlight viciously and caught the American a glancing blow on the forehead, but even that was enough to cause a sudden splitting pain to shoot through Luce’s head.

  With a tremendous effort he fought to his knees, yanked out his revolver and smashed straight ahead with a clubbing blow. The sickening impact of steel meeting flesh and bone was followed by a low shuddering groan of stark, blinding pain. Luce came to his feet, crouching lightly. He looked like some grim leader of a boarding party, hatless, his black hair tousled, and blood trickling from his temple.

  “Move, Duchnod!” His voice was an icicle snapped off short.

  And then the young Czech recovered some of the same driving and implacable resolution that was in the hard hitting American at his shoulder. He raced across the after deck, Luce moving swiftly beside him. At the narrow escape-hatch from the fire-room they knelt and Duchnod with shaking hand pointed toward the iron ladder.

  In the light from the fire-room below Luce could distinguish a thin wire leader cleverly strung along one of the iron ladder posts. He stripped off his trench coat and
turned Duchnod toward the starboard rail.

  “Good man,” he said tersely. “Now jump for it.”

  But even as he bent to take the wire in his hands he heard someone coming along the starboard deck by the superstructure. Duchnod hesitated, then raced for the rail. With a bound he climbed up on it and then a shot rang out suddenly. Duchnod crumpled, swayed as he clutched at the rail.

  Luce did not even look up. He loosened the noose that secured the wire leader to the ladder post and then pulled. He could tell by the release of pressure at the other end of the wire that the firing pin of the time bomb was out. Fifteen seconds while the fuse worked. Fifteen seconds to get off this ship.

  A sharp blast from the whistle of the anchor watch served notice that the shot had caused alarm. Luce leaped to his feet and raced across the slippery deck. Instantly he distinguished Duchnod sprawled half over the rail. With a running leap he flung himself across the rail, knocking the crumpled figure over with him, and together they plunged overboard, another revolver shot reverberating in his ears as the starboard watch fired at the racing, lean figure diving over the side.

  Clinging to Duchnod with one hand he plummeted down into dark cool water close to the ship’s side and immediately kicked away with all his strength. Suddenly he felt himself shaken as though he had been hit by a mighty breaker. The concussion of a terrific explosion almost deafened him, drove all the breath from his body. Duchnod’s body was nearly torn loose from his grip in the surge of a violent shock that shot them to the surface just as his lungs seemed ready to burst.

  The Almaric had been blasted. Luce could see what that explosion had done to her. Already she was listing terribly, the port side blown clear out of her.

  Taking a fistful of Duchnod’s wet blond hair he kicked away from that dangerous suction area, hauling the limp form along with him. The Almaric was beginning to go. Her whole port side was at the level of the water and her keel was coming up.

  She was almost ready to turn completely over. Ten million dollars’ worth of Nazi gold going twenty fathoms down, the siren of the Mexican gunboat at anchor sounded in a prolonged wail and her searchlight cut across the water.

  Luce fought to keep himself and Duchnod afloat and moving. The young Czech was a dead weight. “My friend,” he gasped weakly, “it is no use—save yourself.” Luce supported him by the shoulders, fighting for breath. “It will be all right,” he panted. “Can you swim at all?”

  “I am so much—a fool,” breathed Duchnod. “I stand up—on the rail—to jump—I am like a target—look!”

  There she went! Turning over completely, keel to the sky, settling swiftly, a maelstrom of bubbling loam hissing up from the depths as she sank.

  Duchnod lay back against Luce’s shoulder, the water close to his lips. “You are right,” he murmured. “You mus’ hit hard—and, oh, my friend, there will be the devil to pay—”

  Luce got an arm around his chest and then strained toward the shore. It was going to be a tough haul. The water was cold at his forehead and his heart pounded violently in his side.

  He forged off in the direction of the little cove and the two heads disappeared in a blackness that was relieved only by he stabbing searchlight of the gunboat speeding toward the floating bits of wreckage that marked the last resting place of a ship.

  CHAPTER 14

  Beneath the cigar smoke and boisterous joviality that constantly pervaded the Buckthorne headquarters was a quietly efficient, thorough organization. At the end of a week Berkeley had discovered that much even though she had learned little else. She so reported to her father by telephone over the weekend. “I’m not surprised,” he commented. “Anything that machine might wish to hide will take some finding.”

  “I still have time,” said Berkeley casually.

  Her father laughed and agreed to that. “Keep me in touch,” he added seriously. “And don’t forget whether you find anything or not you could be in safer places.”

  That was a hard thing to believe, on the face of it. The filing office was a straightforward, unexciting mechanism into whose smooth-running routine the other three girls and Talbot, the filing head, accepted her without question.

  She had learned pretty well just what the various steel cabinets contained. There were regular reports from county and town chairmen, from workers all over the state, all available whenever the Buckthorne board of strategy might call. There was a complete dossier of the lives and careers and political records of scores of politicians of the opposing camp. There was a huge newspaper file, cabinets of correspondence, statistics, campaign contributors, surveys, job applications, data for speeches, registration and caucus lists.

  But nowhere in that filing office was any indication that Sam Buckthorne was anything other than he was openly known to be—the personal candidate of the state machine run by a tough, capable little Irishman named Carney.

  It was maddening to sit at a table stapling letters into white correspondence files and feel that somewhere in this clicking political machine was a possible connection with that queer, unreal-sounding thing called an Ivory Tiger.

  She pushed aside a complete file and reached for another batch of letters. Canvassing report of a Mr. R. J. Torgblom. Total registration 2754. Party vote last election… the ringing of the phone in the filing office snapped her attention in the matter of Mr. R. J. Torgblom’s labors for Sam Buckthorne. She glanced up, saw that Mr. Talbot was not at his desk, and arose to answer it herself.

  “File E-24 to Mr. Edwards’ office,” came a succinct voice and then the receiver clicked.

  Berkeley obtained the file. It was, as she knew from its section number, a file relative to party finances. She hurried down the hall to the private office of the campaign manager. But when she entered, instead of seeing Edwards, Buckthorne was at the desk telephoning. The girl stopped short in sheer surprise. It was the first time she had seen Sam Buckthorne in person. He looked a little older than his campaign pictures, a little fleshier.

  “I’ve got to give a talk to that kid civic club,” he was saying over the wire. “In the ballroom of the Olympia. I can come up right afterwards, Art. Yes, I’ll skip the press and be with you in less than an hour.”

  He jammed down the transmitter and looked up at the tall girl. “What is it?” he said hurriedly. “Oh, that file? Take it up to Mr. Carney’s suite in the Olympia.”

  Berkeley withdrew and, just about to call for one of the office messengers, stopped suddenly and looked down at the file in her hands thoughtfully. This might be the first tiny sign of a break. At least, she would get a look at Art Carney, the boss. Anyhow, it was worth while chasing this little chance right down to its conclusion.

  With no further hesitation she departed for the Olympia. It was one of the large cosmopolitan hotels with its great lobby already thronged with the luncheon crowds. She did not even pause at the desk, but asked for the floor of Mr. Carney’s suite after she got into the elevator.

  His suite was on one of the higher floors and tucked away at the end of a corridor. Berkeley’s knock on the door was not answered immediately. She glanced again at the E-24 file in her hands. Evidently, Art Carney wanted a list of campaign contributors up to this point.

  She raised her hand to knock again when the door was opened to reveal a powerful-looking man in dark suit.

  “Mr. Buckthorne sent me here with a document for Mr. Carney,” she said.

  His eyes widened in interest as they rested on her. “From the office? Say, they’re ringing in some sex appeal down there.” He smiled and extended his hand. “I’ll take it.”

  Berkeley declined the offer. She stated that she would give it to nobody else but Mr. Carney.

  “Who,” she concluded, “are you?”

  “His favorite fly-swatter,” said the man, and she deduced that he was probably the boss’s bodyguard and general factotum. “Okay,” he added, “come on in, angel.”

  A small entrance hall in the suite opened to a sunken living room. Berkeley
followed the bodyguard and waited while he went into an adjoining room. She could see that it was the typical, expertly furnished living room of an expensive hotel suite, a tall fragile Japanese screen secluding it partially from the entrance hall. It would be interesting if these walls could talk. What conferences must go on in this room. There was even one due in just a little while when Buckthorne came up from his talk to “that kid civic club.”

  And then a wiry, compact little man walked quickly into the room and she found herself looking at Art Carney, the capable and hard little fighter who had taken over the old Tresh machine. He had thin gray hair and shrewd gray-green eyes in a lined, square-jawed face.

  “All right,” he said. “Just put that on the desk there, and thanks.”

  He watched her as she did so. “You work down at headquarters?” he said suddenly. “Doing what?”

  “Files, Mr. Carney,” said the girl.

  He regarded her intently, while his bodyguard leaned in the doorway of the adjacent room and grinned pleasantly. “All right,” the political boss said again.

  It was evidently dismissal and she sought desperately to find some way of prolonging the interview. This shrewd little gamecock knew something besides every political trick in the book. He knew whether he was leading a cause for Nazi interests or not, and that was something she would have given anything to know.

  “Mr. Carney,” she said impulsively, “I hope you don’t mind my insisting on delivering this to you personally, but I simply had to be sure it was in your hands.”

  He had started to walk away. Now he turned and again that gimlet, inspecting glance stabbed out at her.

  “You are a file clerk down there?” he said abruptly. “What’s your name?”

  “B. Britton,” said the girl.

  “Hell of a name, sister,” he said briefly. And as she looked at him in astonishment he went on, “You’re not English?”

  “No,” said Berkeley. “American, Mr. Carney.”

  He nodded. “Maybe you’re being wasted in files. We might see about that. Okay, you did your job right.”