“The Seven Frightened Mandarins” — WALTER C. BROWN A long novelette of Halfaday Créek,— G B. HENDRYX
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CONTENTS
THE STORY TELLERS’ CIRCLE . 6
PARTNERS OF PERIL (First Part of Four) H. Bedford-Jones 8
The American Arrived in Sicily Just as the Fascist Secret
Police and the Gestapo, Who Worked Together, Struck. It Was His Good Luck They Missed Him—or So He Thought
PANHANDLE PETE’S VICTORY GARDEN
Frank Richardson Pierce 34 Molly Reagan’s Men Folks Were All Away, How Could She Get Any Ploughing Done? Well, She Was a Resourceful Woman
THE SEVEN FRIGHTENED MANDARINS
(A Novelette) Walter C. Brown 42 In the Hall of Ancestors Is a Lantern in Which Burn the Five Candles of the Five Tongs. But There Was a Sixth in China- town—the Once Powerful Mandarin Tong Still Survived
PEA-SHOOTER Lt. (j.g.) W. W. Robinson, U.S.N.R.
“Submarines!” Exclaimed Seaman Kelly. “I Like to See < What I’m Fighting!” Well He Saw Plenty Aboard That Bucking Bronco, the 446
69
t. o o AND PASS THE AMMUNITION”
George Armin Shaftel 80 For Fitteen Years Old Mike Had Waited to Strike a Bonanza; It Looked as if He'd Got It. Just Too Late for Himself and Just in Time for His Uncle
SHORT STORIES issued semi-monthly by SHORT STORIES, Inc., 9 Rockefeller Plaza, New York City, N. Y., and entered as second class matter, November 24, 1987, at the post office at New York,
N. Y., under the act of March 3, 1879. YEARLY SUBSCRIPTION PRICE in the United States, American Possessions, Mexico and South America, $5.00 Sy year ; to Canada, $6.50; and to all other countries, $6.60. Price payable in advance, September 10, 1943. Vol. CLXX No. 5. Whole Number 905.
WILLIAM J. ARE , President and Treasurer. \
cILWRAITH, . DELANEY, Secretary.
Editor. LAMONT. BUCHANAN, Associate Editor.
BIGGEST AND BEST—TWICE A MONTH
Stories 4
latest stories—no reprints
September 10th, 1943
CURIODDITIES Irwin J. Weill 91
A SWAMI VISITS HALFADAY (A Complete Novel) James B.Hendryx 92
What Black John Claimed Was What a Man Would Do His Ghost Would Do! “Cripes, a Mars Ghost Aint Nothin’, but Him with the Meat Gone!”
STRAYS Hapsburg Liebe 130
“Hes Been Minin’ Our Boot Hill, Prospecti“ Among the Graves of Our Dead—I Seen Him.”
THE DUDE TURNS LEFT William R. Cox 133 “It’s Our Last Year of Football, Maybe Our Last Year of Living .. . Let’s Make It Good” OVERSEAS MAIL DEPARTMENT 152 WINGS FOR VICTORY Jim Ray 155 THE SHOOTER’S CORNER Pete Kuhlhoff 156
COVER ~ E. Franklin Wittmack
Except for personal experiences the contents of this magazine is fiction. Any use of the name of any living person or reference to actual events is purely coincidental.
Title registered in U. S. Patent Office PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
The entire contents of this magazine is protected by copyright and must not be reprinted. Copyright, 1943, by SHORT STORIES, INC.
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EEA SETETE p
In Italy Ahead of the Troops
VERYONE knows about the invasion
of Sicily, but it took H. Bedford-Jones to tell us the story of a certain American who was in Sicily and Italy ahead of the Allied invasion troops. He did it in the epic “Partners of Peril,’ starting in this issue. About the story B-J tells us:
In presenting the narrative of Joe Casella, which I have edited arri brought up to snuff, so to: speak—yes, I made quite a few changes in his stery to suit the requirements of SHORT STORIES—I have labored under a lot of handi- caps.
_ First, while I don’t imagine that the Nazi high command is studying the pages of pulp magazines looking for informative military information, a
- lot of other people seem to imagine it; therefore,
I had to edit Joe’s narrative with an eye to giving pointers to the enemy. Further, I like the Italian people. And, to a certain extent, I used to like the Fascists. They did a lot for Italy, before
. Musso became a megalomaniac and then got
ousted altogether.
I once spent a nervous, highly nervous, week in Rome, because my pockets were filled with a lot -of anti-Fascist data I had undertaken to smuggle out of the country. It had to stay in my pockets as the only safe place for it, and I had a date for a private interview with Musso and had to hang around his headquarters talking with
his aides, and my nerves were getting worse every
day. Finally I threw up the private interview idea, to the utter amazement. of his secretaries, who said that nobody had ever done that before —he had already set the date. I pleaded urgent business in Paris and skipped, and my heart did not get back to normal until I was across the frontier.
A lot of us sneer at the Italians these days. We ought not; they’re the closest to us of any of the Axis crowd. After the war, we'll learn a lot of things that happened in Italy and parts ad- jacent, and we'll be properly surprised when we do.
_ So, if. there are some errors in Joe’s story, `,
blame me and not him. There are a lot of little points in it that may catch your eye if you’ve been in Italy, like for instance the dancing birds, and the aviator’s coral bracelet, and the Adriatic lobsters, and Alfredo’s fake golden spoon—the Kaiser was the real villain of that story, but Joe made it Hitler and I let it stand. I think some- body slipped one over on Joe there, but actually the author knows no more than you just what is going on in the Italy of today. If he dares to
r Te Soy Filles Cok
write a story about it, his story must be based on his imagination to a certain extent; it must also be based upon what he can gather from press reports; but it must, further, be based upon his own knowledge of the country about which he writes,
Another thing: From now until the war’s end, we in America are going to hear more and more of what figures in this serial as the “Waffen-SS” —just as we are going to hear more and more of the coming chemical warfare, foretold in fic- tion, scoffed at by theorists, and now being fran- tically prepared for by the Allied governments.
The Waffen-SS, which may be translated as the Black Guards in Arms, is no figment of fiction. It has been described in detail by what we may call the Free German or Anti-Nazi press, which flourishes in England and elsewhere. It has many branches. It is a recent development of the old SS, the political Death’s Head organization. This Waffen-SS or military organization was formed by Himmler to guard against rebellion within the German armed forces, by killing off all dissatis- fied customers from generals down to privates.
The military group, as used in the story, is not an organization with its own uniform. Those composing it are identified only by certain mark- ings on their regular army uniforms, so far as we know. To speak of Italians murdered by Nazis, or even of Germans wiped out by Ger- mans, is by no means an absurdity, Nazis and Fascists and Japs alike operate on pure gangster psychology, which has no logic whatever and no law except ferocity. :
`H. Bedford-Jones.
Communication from Halfaday
iy connection with his Northern story in this issue, Jim Hendryx sent us on a’ couple of letters he received lately. The first one is from Dr. Sutherland—Hendryx describes him as “the oldest practising physician in Alaska” and an old friend of his. The second one is from no less a per- son than Old Cush of Cushing’s Fort on Halfaday Creek.
Dear Mr. Hendryx:
I have been reading several of your sto- ries in the SHORT STORIES MAGAZINE and see you are still taking my name in vain.. Why in the devil when you have me at-
(Concluded on page 79) 10
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From a Mechanic in the U.S. Air Force to a Member of the Undercover Workers in Italy— a Long and Exciting Step!
PARTNERS OF PERIL By H. BEDFORD-JONES
Part I
HEY had poor old ‘’Gnuri Pezzo, or Signor Pezzo in Ital- ian, handcuffed, It was my hard luck that, so soon after I reached Palermo, the Ovra or Fascist secret police and the Gestapo, who worked together, should
have struck. It was my good luck that they missed me—or so I thought.
The first inkling I had of it was when I was on my way to catch the Monreale tram. I was standing at the corner of the
Piazza Bologni, I remember, outside Reber’s bookshop. Picture me there—a dark, skinny guy with a big nose and mus- tache, far too much jaw for beauty, and 10
plenty of ability to take punishment. I had a faded infantry uniform, a captain’s képi, an Iron Cross prominently displayed on my tunic, a bad limp and a heavy stick in my hand. My right foot had stayed in Africa and the substitute I wore was clumsy.
They came marching him along—four of those damned blackshirt hounds, with a Gestapo agent leading. He was in the center, arms twisted behind him and hand-
on his short-wave radio that a messenger from Rome would be here to meet me. At eleven this morning I was to go to the convent of the Cappuccini, and again at five in the afternoon if no one showed up the first time. But I must be prompt, prompt to the very minute!
And now, this moment, I was on my way there—when he came past, marching to his death with the marks of the torture on him. Brave old ’Gnuri Pezzo, musician
cuffed, so that he bent forward as he walked. ‘Gnuri Pezzo, a thin, gentle old man of eighty who gave music lessons. He had a Christlike look; his white hair and beard were smeared with blood. Ten hours previously I had sat in his library, wondering at his marvelous eff- ciency and quiet charm, as he gave me my instructions. He had just received word 19
and patriot and saint! His eye caught mine for a flash, but he marched on without a hint that he knew me. About his neck was a sign, rudely scrawled: “Death to defeat- ists, traitors!” Some women hooted, a few cursed the Germans, others cursed the blackshirts in dialects not known to the Fascists. But the sullen, cowed throngs dared do nothing. Their men were gone
10 SHORT STORIES
to prison camps in India or Russia, and _ the lordly blackshirts, in their stage cos- -tumes and cruel authority, were ready for mote victims.
But I stood there learning the eloquence and majesty of death—the same death that was so close to me. The horror of it ap- palled me; not the danger, but the horror for this splendid old man. I stood there quivering with the hurt of it, and knew there were tears on my cheeks.
An old hag in a smelly shawl crowded close to me and spoke in the Palermo dialect.
_. “No. tears, ‘gnuri! There is nothing terrible about it; rather, it is glorious! I was sent to find you and warn you.”
“Then you know me?” I asked, catching
a glimpse of a repulsive, vulture-like pro- file under the ragged shawl. Her voice -was a harsh croak.
“You are known by sight to all of us. Only two or three are left now. They raided headquarters and caught nearly everyone. Somebody must have talked under torture. We are helpless; no one is
left to direct us. However, someone will come from Messina. Get away from Pal- ermo as quickly as you can, and talk with nobody here. Understood?”
“Thanks, yes,” I said. main another day or two.”
The old hag—or so I thought her— moved away. The tragic procession had passed out of sight. I glanced at my watch, a beautiful gold Soligenes looted from a Fascist general in North Africa; too late, too late! This scene had taken time. I had been particularly instructed to be exact at the rendezvous. Now I must wait till five in the afternoon, or seventeen o'clock.
I turned, intending to make for my hotel, but someone glimpsed the Iron Cross that I wore, and a growl went up. Both the Nazis and the Fascist blackshirts were hated bitterly enough in Italy, but far more so here in Sicily. I have always thought it a great pity that the Allies did not pour all their Italian prisoners slap into Sicily—
“But I must te:
the war would have ended that much sooner,
Shrill curses rang out. A stone flew, and hit me. Then someone gave a yell.
“Leave him alone! He’s”a wounded veteran!”
“He has no business wearing that devil- cross!” came a snarling cry. “Any friend of the Tedeschi is our enemy! Stone him! _ Down with the blackshirts!. Death to Mus- solini!”
Poor desperate, starving folk! How were they to know that the Iron Cross I wore was the very token of my success as an Allied agent—that it would be a badge of — recognition to the unknown agent who was to meet me this very day! How were they to know that this limping veteran, Captain Giuseppe Casella, a respected friend of the Nazi high command, was actually Joe Casella from Fourteenth Street?
More stones flew. The maddened crowd of women were really ganging up on me when along came a German staff car. It scattered the throng and the driver halted at the curb, amid threats and curses from the women. In the back seat was Ober- Kapitan Fritz Ude, a lady at his side. He opened the rear door.
“Hop i in, Casella!” he exclaimed, laugh- ing. “Headquarters to the rescue! Can we give you a lift somewhere?”
“Anywhere away from here,” I said and got in. A shower of stones converged on the car, but the driver was already roaring away. Ude was keenly amused over my adventure with the women.
“Then come along with us to the Marina and see what's left of the old port after the visit of those damned American bomb- ers last night,” he said. “That appliance has come from Berlin, by the way; they flew it here. I'll send it to your hotel this afternoon.”
He turned to the lady. He was speaking Italian, of course, because I spoke no Ger- man, or pretended that I did not. So he
resented me, and I touched my lips to fingers. 10
“You should be able to write many stories about Captain Casella,” Ude went on. “The bravest .of the brave—one of the few Italians we hold in real honor and respect. It was thanks to him that my brother, in the air corps, got away from Libya, among others.”
You may think this a queer conversa- tion; so it was. Fritz Ude was really a swell guy; level-headed, quiet, capable, and not at all the Hollywood type of German, at least on the surface. He was not a Nazi, but head of the Army Intelligence here in Sicily. And Signorina Kettel, or Fraulein Kettel—well, she bowled me over and no mistake. She was on an Italian tour for some newspapers in Germany, and cer- tainly was none of your brazen Nazi hussies. She was beautiful—just beautiful!
ELL, we went down to the water- front, to what had been the Piazza Carbone, the ancient port of Palermo called the Cala, now used by small craft. Yester- day it had been surrounded by old palaces of the Saracens, filthy squalid tenements where princes once lived. Now the docks and installations and ships were gone in ruins, for a group of Liberators had come over during the night and early morning. Then we went over to what was left of the Marina. It was mighty little, but one of the old restaurants was in shape, and we stopped in for belated luncheon. And every minute, the more I saw of Elsa Kettel, the more I fell for her. That girl simply had everything. Captain Ude told me on the side that she was a particular friend of Der Führer, and belonged to an “old and noble family.,
We had a bottle of wine, real wine.
Over it, Ude asked what I meant to do now. “Go home,” I said. “Get out of this uniform for good and all. My family lives near Urbino, you know, up in Italy toward Rome. I'll get off in a day or two.”
“Travel isn’t very easy now,” he said, “with these cursed British and Americans
10
PARTNERS OF PERIL | 11
bombing trains and railroad centers. I might make things a bit easier for you. Suppose you drop in and see me in the morning. The high command is grateful to you, Casella. Would you undertake a little work for us?”
“For you, yes. Not for the Gestapo,” I said boldly. I could afford to speak my mind, with the good stand-in I had.
He laughed. “Right. I'll see what I can do.”
The fraulein questioned me; she did want to get a story from me, and I gave her a good one. And all the time I was thinking of that gentle old man with blood on his face and Gestapo bullets in his heart; and the instructions he had given me. We separated there, and I touched the fraulein’s hand with my lips, and they drove away. I headed uptown again, head- ing for the old but beautiful Hotel des Palmes, which the Nazis had taken over, and in which they had given me a room. But, as I turned into the Via Stabile and waited for a file of ammunition trucks to
` pass, an old man hobbled up and stood
at my elbow. I heard his voice and it startled me; it was like that of the old woman who had accosted me in the Piazza Bologni.
“I was sent to find you,” he said, pull- ing a threadbare old cape about his shoul- ders. “Keep away from the Cappuccini. A trap has been set there by the black- shirts; everything has been betrayed. You should get out of the city at once. Go to Messina.”
“Can't, until tomorrow,” I rejoined. Here was another member of the under- gtound. “What about the messenger who was to meet me?”
“He'll be lost; we can’t help it. Every- thing’s lost here. Pezzo and eleven others were shot. You may still be safe if no one has betrayed you. The rest of us are
He hobbled away, and I went on to the
hotel.
12 SHORT STORIES
Scared? Of course I was; so scared that my. back teeth were shaking. Ma Casella’s boy was in a jam and no mistake. Evidently the whole underground system in Palermo had been knocked out. This system was composed of Italians in general, with one of our own people here and there. The swaggering Fascisti party members were almost worse hated than the Nazis by the average Italian, who wanted only peace— at any price. i
Hitler had just clamped down on the Duce, . getting ten new divisions for the shattered Russian front, and sending more Gestapo into Italy to repress defeatist ac- tivities. Nazi forces wete pouring in too, and Sicily was practically a Nazi camp, to head off any attempt of our forces in North Africa to move in. Things were hot and getting hotter each minute.
Not go to the Cappuccini? But I must! The agent coming there was my sole link with all that lay ahead—my work ran up to Rome itself. Old Pezzo was dead. I knew nothing about this agent except that he was one of the best in Italy, bringing me vital information and risking his neck ta do it. :
And now I was warned to keep away; the enemy had set a trap. Before five o'clock I had to make my decision. Either sneak away somewhere to safety like a yellow cur and let a brave man be lost— or else put my neck in a rope and try to save him. Most likely he had sent word ahead to old Pezzo by short-wave radio, making the appointment; and the black- shirts had picked up the message. Well, it was not my affair. I could argue myself out of it very nicely; I was worth more to the Allies alive than dead, and so forth.
Be damned to all that! I was going, and knew all the time I was going,
It had taken a long, difficult build-up to get me here with my maimed leg and my knowledge of Italian dialects, ready to take up the work ahead. The war is not over, as I write, so I cannot tell you exactly how I reached Palermo; but when I got
there I was the white-haired lad with the Nazis, and no mistake.
You must go farther back to get the picture in its true light. I was Joe Casella from Fourteenth Street, New York City, when I got to North Africa with the first crowd of macs who came over to show the Limeys how to assemble U. S. fighting planes. I did not lose my foot in any heroic exploit. It got blown off when Rommel was kicked out of Egypt, beccause I found a swell Leica camera that turned out to be a booby trap. I was lucky at that; the two guys who were with me got their tickets West. 4
This was up ‘at the advanced base; they slammed me in the hospital there, and I had a lot of fun with the wounded Italian prisoners. You see, around Fourteenth Street I had grown up with all kinds of Italian accents. My folks were Sicilian, but I had learned the correct Roman speech from a professor, because my old man wanted me to be a gentleman, and his notion of a gentleman was one who spoke Roman. Yes, even in America! But on the street corners I picked up all the slang and argot and dialects the other kids knew.
To please my old man I studied the violin—arrgh! How I hated it! Those hours of scraping were endless torment. By the time I ended up a fair fiddler, I was learning to be a mechanic on the side. The war came along and—zowie! Me- chanic in the Air Corps, and then Africa away ahead of anybody else. That was luck.
And now I was Lieutenant Giuseppe Casella of the 31st Alpine. There actually was a Casella family near Urbino, too. When some of the Britishers heard about the success I had with the Italian prisoners, they got hold of me. With a foot gone, I was all washed up—unless I wanted to take a whirl at the secret agent business in Italy. One thing led to another, and here I was in Palermo.
The build-up in Africa was that I, sup- posedly an Italian prisoner of the Allies,
10
PARTNERS OF PERIL
had helped some Nazi officers to escape, and had saved a couple more from being shot by excited Aussies. All this was a frameup, of course, to get me in solid with the Nazis, and it worked like a charm. When I showed up in Palermo, after pre- sumably escaping with a couple more Nazis that the British Eighth Army de- cided could be spared, they hung the Iron Cross on me and sent all the way to Berlin for an artificial foot of aluminum, which had just arrived. Those Nazis were as grateful for a friend as a sick dog. They had mighty few friends in Italy.
Two strangers had now addressed me on the streets. Obviously I was pretty well known by sight to everybody in the under- ground; the Iron Cross did the trick. Once out of my uniform, with an artificial foot that worked instead of my rude wooden foot and stick, I'd be a different person. Also, Fritz Ude might fix things up for me in great shape, according to what he had said. And at five o’clock—the trap.
Damn it, I had to go! That unknown agent was depending on me. At four- thirty I was back in the Piazza Bologni where was the terminus of the Monreale tram. I stepped into the ticket booth, bought a ticket to Via Pindemonte, and limped aboard. the tram. I was on my way. My destination was just outside the Porta Nuova; once a suburb, now it was to all intents part of the city.
Far above, the continuation of the Corso tan on to the heights of Monreale; villas, hedges of gigantic cactus and scarlet gera- niums, orange groves, lemon groves, with the town and cathedral up there on the height above all. .No bombs had touched that place of historic beauty, and I hoped none would. I wanted to visit the Norman- Saracen church up there once more, if possible, before starting on my way, for its sheer splendor.
I HOPPED off the tram at my destina- tion and followed the diverging street. to the unadorned façade of the Capuchin.
10,
r3
A trap? There was no sign of any, as I walked along under the lengthy convent wall toward the arched entrance. A Ger: man armored car, not unlike one of our own jeeps, stood in the street; beyond it was hitched a donkey and a little painted cart of the kind peculiar to Sicily. Evi- dently other visitors were here, but not a - soul was in sight. A couple of Capronis droned overhead on patrol, and the palm trees rustled in the breeze; it was a south wind, the sirocco wind. That meant sand in the air tomorrow.
The appointed rendezvous was in the famous burial crypt of the convent. Ages ago the place had secured a lot of sacred earth from the Holy Land, and it was the fashion to bury people in this miraculous earth, which was supposed to preserve them; then dig them up and make room for others, and store the original remains underground. All that was long ago. Now those poor devils were on exhibition for tourists. Few tourists these sad days!
I yanked the bell-pull at the entrance. The door was opened by a cowled monk who took the ten-lire note I handed him and gestured me to enter. I followed him by flowering gardens where cypresses swayed heavenward and roses scented the air, and down old cloisters crumbling with age.
At the foot of a stairway I was turned over to another brown-robe who led me into the lantern-lighted corridors of their chamber of horrors.
Here I was not alone. Two groups of Italian soldiers were in sight, another group of German soldiers, and three nuns draped in black. You found nuns every- where in Palermo, so it was no surprise to find a party here. A guide was showing the visitors around, lecturing in a singsong voice, and nobody paid him much atten- tion. The wall of these subterranean cor- ridors were, actually, glassed show-cases, behind which were crammed the mum- mified dead. Sight of them drove every- ` thing else from my head for the moment.
t
i‘ SHORT STORIES . È
The eyeless sockets of past ages stared out at us in hollow agony. Monks and cardinals and gay dandies in court dress were crowded here. Some were in coffins, ‘some dangled from hooks like sides of meat, others were jammed into a horrible welter. Farther along were women in laces and shawls. and jeweled gowns, their with- ered faces simpering and gibbering. Then came children and babies, staring out with leering grins. I had seen some ghastly sights in Africa, but this place gave me the jitters.
‘I trailed along, looking for someone who might be the expected messenger, but _ fo. one seemed to fill the bill. One of the
„nyns, face hidden within a great stiff black ` hood, had fallen behind to study those God-awful babies. I passed her; as I did _so, I caught her voice and it fairly jerked at me.
“Chichiri, ’gnuri! A chi dici chichivi—”
Tt was part of a six-hundred-year old song in the Sicilian dialect, about the mur- der of the French rulers. Further, it was the password to be given me by the un- known agent. A nun! I was startled, then shocked. But I recollected the answer, ‘which had something to do with throat- slitting, and voiced it:
“Si chi tagghia lu coddu pri so’ gloria!”
No Germans, and mighty few black- shirts, could make head or tail of that Sicilian dialect; it was appropriately chosen for its present purpose, too. I pressed against the lighted showcase. The nun crowded close to me and slid a foot-long package from under her black robe, thrust- ing it at me and speaking.
“The bust unscrews. Where can we talk?
The Monreale Cathedral at one tomorrow
—thirteen o'clock, the siesta hour? At the staircase to the roof?”
“Right,” I said, “But look out for a trap here—”
“I was warned. They are waiting out- side,” she said, and went floating along to join her companions. Something in her voice went through and through me, as a
note of music will sometimes do; a most remarkable voice. So this sister was the secret agent from Rome! Well, nuns or priests or monks or kids from New York's 14th Street—we were all in the war.
I trailed along after the groups, vas | ing the package she had slipped me; it long and slender, and I knew what it was; a crucifix. A perfectly innocent object to be carrying in Italy. Indeed, just inside this convent entrance was a whole wall-sec- tion of crucifixes and similar objects on sale, which I remembered with a jolt.
The one in my hand was not innocent, as I very well knew. In it must be concealed my instructions and the other data I re- quired; dynamite or worse! She had passed me the buck and got out from under. And did it burn me, as I fingered the outlines of that crucifix! What a sap I had been, to get myself into a jam like this, Some of those soldiers or Nazis in the groups around were waiting to grab the spy—
When I had come here it was against my better judgment, with my nerves on edge, and those corpses jammed every- where had given me the jumps, I admit frankly. I just turned around and went away from there, saying I was sick. The soldiers laughed. Plenty of tourists must have got an upset stomach here.
Nobody followed me, however. I found my way back to the entrance and the monk- porter. I stopped and talked with him, told him what I wanted, and a few lire fixed things up. I had been doing some fast thinking ever since meeting that nun, because I was in a tight spot, a breathless spot, where rapid action was needed. -She knew about the danger here—and she had loaded me up with the hot stuff!
All set at last, I tucked the parcel under my arm and the porter let me out. I started back toward the tram-line, A ciba- rette felt mighty good, and so did the fresh air. The sun was just down, and every- thing shone in a reflected golden light from the clouds—
And then, coming from nowhete, two 10
PARTNERS OF PERIL 15
_-blackshirts approached along the convent wall. They had the complete getup—dag- get, black tasseled cap, Sam Browne belt and so forth.
“Ha! A soldier! An officer!” exclaimed one, nodding at me. “Your papers, my friend. Viva il Duce! Let’s see what’s in that parcel. Let’s see whats in your pockets.”
I showed indignation, and was told to come along elsewhere if I refused to be frisked here and now; so I let them frisk me. It was decidedly not my place to start any war with the blackshirts. A wounded officer fresh from the front—that melted them a trifle. I had nothing in my pocket but a packet of letters from prisoners in Afritayaddressed to their home folks, of which I had assumed delivery, and this melted them further. They had heard of me, I was evidently all right. But I was not a party member, and anyone not a Fascist member is just dirt to the black- shirts.
The package? They opened it together, dropped it, and broke it! a very fine plaster crucifix a foot long. With a laugh and a shrug, they bundled it up again.
“Who's going to pay for it?” I de- manded. “Now I must go back and buy another. I promised my aunt in Urbino to bring her one of these blessed cruci- fixes. This one cost me ten lire and you’ve broken it past mending—”
I set up such a wail that one of them thrust the money into my hand.
“Go and get another, then, and clear out of here,” he said impatiently. “Hurry up! We've no more time to waste on you.”
There were other blackshirts about; I could see two down the street, in the other direction. So I hurried back into the con- vent entrance, and the porter let me in. The other visitors were just coming from the catacombs, and I wanted to get off ahead of them.
Those blackshirts were watching for something, and were no fools. They were no longer worried about me, at least, so I
10
could take the chance now. The monk- porter must have thought me a bit cracked; no matter. He took the smashed crucifix I handed him, took from under his counter the parcel the nun had given me, and thrust it at me. I popped it under my arm and left, pausing to light a fresh cigarette.
The two blackshirts were sauntering along. I held up the parcel, so obviously a crucifix that they broke into a laugh and waved me on. Two others were half a block away, but having seen me thus passed, merely gave me a nod and a salute. I hobbled on past them. Presently, look- ing back, I saw the three nuns come out and climb into the painted cart. The two blackshirts spoke with them and evidently . passed them freely, for the donkey came to life and away went the cart.
At the tram line I waited for a tram, got one, made my way back to the hotel, and in my own room opened the parcel. There was a crucifix, quite an ordinary one. I tried the bust as ordered, and it unscrewed; from it came a little roll of onionskin paper.
That evening came my aluminum foot, a gorgeous affair of intricate workmanship, with Fritz Ude’s compliments. After a little practice, I was going to be able to walk once more and it almost made me feel grateful to the Nazis.
I enjoyed a very good dinner in vast relief. I had squirmed out of a bad fix, the future was opening up nicely, and by tomorrow night I should be on my way to Messina. Yet I could not forget the white- haired, bloodstained face of gentle old Pezzo.
And as I left the dining bom I found a visitor waiting for me. I turned aside into the smoking-room where he was waiting. We had it quite to ourselves, by good luck.
II
IGNOR VOLTORE, as he introduced himself in fluent Roman, was at first glance an old man with a hooked nose,
16 f SHORT STORIES
decently but poorly dressed, with an enor- mous gold-headed cane. The gold was, of course, imitation. There was a vague fa- miliarity about his features which puzzled me until, leaning forward, he spoke very quietly.
“So you do not remember me?”
The voice did it. I was startled, but thought it best to show off a bit.
“Of course I do,” I said coolly. “You are the old woman who spoke to me this morning as poor old Pezzo was led past. And you are the old man who spoke to me this afternoon in the Via Stabile. Now you ate a very different old man. You must be an actor.”
- He chuckled slightly. “Thank you. I am the makeup artist, or was, at the Teatro Massimo, the opera. Tonight I have given you my real name. Our organization here is smashed. I have no money. If I’m here tomorrow, I'll be shot; they’re hunt- ing down everyone of us. If I can reach Rome, I'll find friends. Can you help me?”
It was a bit ironical. I was the stranger here, the one who needed help and protec- tion; instead, I had to give it. This old fellow with his vulture’s beak and scrawny neck was certainly one of us, and a sharp one; he had twice warned me today.
“We can’t talk here,” I said. “Now, I’ve not been in Messina, but I’ve been told where to go there. Look up a dentist in the Via Garibaldi, an old man named Dot- tore Guido Morisani. He’s one of us. Do you. know him?”
The old fellow shook his head. “No. I have been here five years, never away once.”
“No wonder I thought you were a na- tive of Palermo!” I laughed. “Well, I'll be in Messina within a day or so. Wait for me there; you can be of use to me, I can help you.. Here’s some money, so get off tonight if possible.” = He took the money and thanked me
gravely. “Yes, Signor, I can be of use,” he said. “I shall become your servant at Mes- sina; I can play that part very well indeed.”
He departed. I was amused at thought of him, working here for five years and never once leaving the city; it was quite typ- ical. My amusement did not last long, however, for the alert sounded and I spent two hours in the bombproof while our planes pasted the docks and shipping and railroad termini once more. It was no fun.
Ww morning I forgot old Voltore and his apt name, Wearing my new foot, I went to see Fritz Ude, and soon had more important things on my mind. Ude was delighted with the way the foot worked; he was a Hamburg man, a sunny, pleasant man of thirty, thick in the chops and with a beaming smile. He vowed that he actually loved me because I had helped his brother escape from Africa. His quar- ters were in the Palazzo Sclafani, which the Nazis had taken over as administration building.
Complimenting me on the foot, he passed out cigars, leaned back, and beamed.
“Well, I have things fixed up for you, my friend! Elsa Kettel wants to get back north, and I’m sending her today in a staff cat to Messina. You shall go along.”
“You're giving me a charming compan- ion,” I said, smiling. :
He blew a kiss from his fingers. “You're telling me, Casella! Ah, she is magnificent! I’m giving you Sergeant Jarchov as driver; he knows the roads. At Messina, Colonel von Roden will take you both in charge.”
“You spoke of doing a bit of work for you,” I said.
He nodded. “We are teaching these Italians how to police their country,” he said. “It’s not my work, of course, but spies and defeatists do have a bearing on military intelligence. Weve just cleaned up a nest of those rats here in Palermo— rather, Baron Scalatti has.”
“Who is the worthy baron?” I asked.
He waved his cigar. “Oh, an Italian sectet agent belonging to the Fascisti. A marvel, they tell me; I never met him per- sonally. Yes, we cleaned them out here;
10
Ty
PARTNERS OF PERIL 17
got a short-wave radio station, too. Baron Scalatti and some of our Gestapo agents are working together. We simply must mop up the spies and anti-Fascist elements here and in Italy, you know. Pardon me—”
He answered his telephone. I leaned back, puffing luxuriously; it was a good cigar. And the prospect of going to the other end of the island in a Nazi staff car —well, that was luck! So was Elsa Kettel. I was glad now of my new clothes.
I was out of the dingy uniform and wearing a very decent suit of flannels. With this I could not wear the Iron Cross, of course, but its insignia was at my lapel— and I had a handsome Fascist party emblem to wear, once I got into Italy. A risky thing to do, in a way, but the advantages were many.
“Now, then!” His telephone conversa- tion finished, Ude turned to me again. “You're going to Rome. I may be trans- ferred there at any time, certainly before the end of the month. And Elsa will be there, too.” He winked and broke into a laugh. “Well, well! You're one of 7 muti- lati, the wounded veterans, and not a black- shirt, and back from Africa; everyone will trust you like a comrade. You can even indulge in anti-Fascist talk, quite safely.”
He handed me a slip of paper bearing some names and addresses.
“Baron Scalatti gave us these names of suspects between Messina and Roma—at Tropea, Salerno and elsewhere. He can’t trust his own Italian secret service, but you are ideal for the job. Stop off on your way and see these men, talk with them, feel them out. Any who are actually dan- gerous must be removed; so far, they're only suspects. Were particularly anxious to locate any short-wave radios.”
So was I. In fact, I knew of three with which I was to get in contact, to send out my own reports. I was glad to take over the job
“Splendid!” Ude beamed. “T'I! give you an identity card connecting you with us, and I'll have it stamped by Fascist head-
10
quarters also. That will help you in any contacts with our men or the blackshirts.”
Glory be! I could have hugged myself at this piece of luck. It did not occur to me that such an identity card would also put a finger on me whenever I used it.
After the bombing raid I had worked late into the night. The papers enclosed in that hollow crucifix were now destroyed. I had in my head the names and addresses of certain agents I was to contact, and in- formation about Nazi airfields and opera- tion to be sent from the first short-wave on my way north; it was across the straits at- Tropea.
“To Messina is only a hundred and twenty-five miles,” Ude said. “A pleasant afternoon’s ride. Be here at three; fifteen
o'clock. The sirocco will be all over by then. I'll have the identity card ready. Send your baggage here from the hotel.”
“Right,” I said, rising. “I'm merely to , investigate these suspects, eh?”
“And report to our Rome office—to me, I hope,” said Ude. “See you later!”
I shook hands and left. Back at the hotel I packed, and hugged myself anew. Did ever any secret agent—or spy, to use the right word—fall into greater luck? I was actually a Nazi and Fascist agent, with nothing to fear from Gestapo or black- shirts!
Well, it only goes to show that the big- gest sucker is the smart guy who thinks he knows all the answers.
When I looked at the paper Ude had given me, I got a bit of a shock. These sus- pects were all names of secret agents I was to see on my own account. That damned Baron Scalatti must be a wizard! And the first of all, across the straits at Tropea, was my short-wave radio agent, supposedly un- suspected! He was an Englishman who had lived in Italy for above fifty years and was naturalized here. Another old man. There were no young men left to play the game, unless they were crippled, like me.
My program was now clear. At Messina I was to contact Colonel von Roden, the
18 _ SHORT STORIES
Nazi intelligence officer, who would ar-
¿range my passage to Rome, probably by train. Also, I was to contact our Allied agent, the dentist Morosani, and pick up old Voltore; since he wanted to reach Rome, I could give him a lift and it would give me better standing to have a servant along. Italians pay attention to such de- tails.
How far Elsa Kettel would be mixed up with the trip, was uncertain. I did not par- ticularly care. Joe Casella was not the man to turn a cold shoulder to a charming girl, especially if she had the come hither look in her eye—as Elsa had. Yes, I was glad of my new clothes and fancy hat, and the new foot that let me walk like a man once more!
I GOT an early lunch and started for Monreale. The sirocco was blowing and everybody who could keep off the streets did so. White clouds of dust were adrift. The sky was like lead, but was a deep and ominoùs red from southern hori- zon to zenith—red African sand mounting -in a cloud on the hot wind. Just now it was hot as hell and equally unpleasant, but
-as Ude had said, it would be all clear later. The sirocco never lasts long, and ends in a refreshing rain.
It was a little before one when I reached
the glorious cathedral on its far height. Be- tween the sirocco and the siesta hour, every- thing was absolutely deserted. The big bronze doors of the cathedral and every- thing else that might be damaged by bombs were under walls of sandbags, but a tiny side door was open. Gasping from the sand-filled air and the heat, I ducked grate- fully into the cool dimness. A good place to meet a nun, this!
Although I had been here once before, the transcendental magnificence of the scene overwhelmed me anew. Floors and walls, steps and ceilings—everything was a glory of mosaic and gold, forming pictures and tapestries and lacework in cut stone of gorgeous colorings. A few people were in
sight, mostly women wrapped in shawls. However, I was here for a purpose, and with a sigh turned to the staircase entrance, at the beginning of the south aisle. No nun in sight, however.
Nobody at all, I thought. But, as I stood there, a step sounded; a woman ap- peared on the steep little staircase that wound to the roof. She halted and stood looking at me. No nun, either. She was smallish and brown of hair and eye; she wore a sort of half uniform with a large Red Cross badge on the left breast, and a dark veil framed her features. They were lovely, composed, sensitive features, touched with a singular nobility of char- acter; for an instant I thought her some painter's model for the Madonna, posed here.
“So you, too, have changed!” she said quietly, composedly. I knew her at once by the voice. It was the voice of my nun in the chamber of horrors. She beckoned me, and I followed her in upon the stairs. “We can talk here, Captain Casella,” she said. “Not too loud.”
“So you know me! And you're not a nun,” I murmured. “That’s good. Why did you go to so much trouble with that cruci- fix?” .
“I was searched twice,” she replied. “Too late, I was warned of a trap at the convent yesterday. They said you would not be there.”
I could not take my eyes from her face, so lovely was its composure. Her brown eyes were alight and laughing; but her voice, too, was utterly serene.
“Well, I thought you might fall into the trap, so I showed up.”
“That was good of you. Luckily all went well, What terrible things have happened here! Nearly everyone, they say, was caught and shot. I shall have to go back at once; I am in the service of nursing, you know.”
“Back where?” I asked impulsively.
A smile touched her lips. “First, to Naples. By air, I think. The messages were all that you sought?”
19
PARTNERS OF PERIL
“All correct,” I replied. “How did you
know my name?” - “One of our people here who escaped, an old man, told me yesterday. Voltore, I think his name was. Terrible things, yes, but that’s what we must expect, now and then. Things can happen to the other side, too. If Baron Scalatti can strike like a thunderbolt, so can we. Perhaps you'll see when you get to Salerno; a blow is being prepared there.” ` “Tm leaving this afternoon,” I told her. “And I shall be, in a way, a Nazi agent. Now, can I be of any service to you?”
“No,” she said. “My errand here was to bring you that crucifix; what it contained was vital. And I wanted to see what you were like, I think you may succeed, If you reach Naples alive, your chances will be good. z
“How much do you know about me?” I asked.
Her eyes leveled on mine. “As much as you know about me, except for my name; it is Francesca Conti. That makes us even. Those of us who are in this work should not know too much about one another.”
“Perhaps,” I admitted. But in her eyes was liking and acceptance; I could sense the intangible bond between us, the sym- pathy. “I intend to know more about you, Signorina; you are not just a woman. You are a spirit, a—well—”
“Angel,” she said, mockingly, laughter leaping in her face.
“No,” I said, though I knew my cheeks were red. “I’m in earnest. I want to see you again; I shan't let you go forever! You are like this glorious building, something to remember and come back to.”
I was awkward and gauche about it, of course, because I meant what I said. She
saw that I meant it, and her face softened a little.
“Once I lived for compliments and pretty phrases; now it is different,” she said gently. “I had a brother, whom I worshiped. He was in the aviation; he dis- appeared, Where? Hegi in our own coun-
“10 -
try; somewhere in the mountains, south of Naples. The plane was never found. That was over a year ago. Well, I believe Marco is not dead, but alive—somewhere. I go here and there. I look. I listen for some word, I think of nothing else. I do my work among the wounded and sick, and go on hoping and trusting. Some day I shall
get news of him, if God is kind—and God. -
is always kind.” She put out her hand to me. “Now we must part. I have work to do. We cannot leave here together. Good-by for this time, and good luck.”
It was her way of telling me, of coufse, |
that she had no inclination for flirting. “A rivederci,” I said, holding het hand. “Not good-by, but until we meet. again! Thank you; I understand your meaning, Signorina, but I, too, am serious. Wait! One thing—what’s this Baron Scalatti like? How can I know him if I meet him?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s a famous Sicilian family; but I never met the man and no one seems to know- just what he is like. A mystery, I fear.” “All right. Good-by—for this time.” I did not brush her fingers with my lips, as polite Italians do; I kissed them, Then I
turned and made off, and saw her no more.
My heart was thumping as I made for the tramway; the mere knowledge of this woman, the contact with her, was like a glimpse of heaven. I mean just that. She made the thought of any other woman cheap and ignoble and worthless. Fran- cesca Conti—I did not know, then, that in Rome this was a great and noble name among the ancient families. But I knew she was no ordinary woman.
And she, more than anyone else I had met or would meet, was vety much her qpa, serene self; this is an excessively rare
ing. The first detail to be learned in undercover or spy or intelligence work or secret service—anything you want to call it—the first and greatest instruction is that no one, absolutely no one, is what he ap- pears to be.
This is very largely true of life in gen-
=
20 SHORT STORIES
eral, too. Upon ignorance of this basic fact are founded most of the errors of our press, our police, our fnovel-writers. A person in a book or story is good or bad —is a doctor, therefore a kindly fellow— a Nazi, therefore a brute—a loving hus- band, therefore trustworthy. All baloney! Nobody is either good or bad. No one, man or woman, is what he or she super- ficially appears to be. All intelligence work is based on this fact, and in Africa it had been drilled into me by experts.
Indeed, it is easy to go a step farther and say that if a person appears to be some certain thing or type, the opposite is prob- ably true. This is easy but dangerous, be- cause it is true only part of the time. But in underground work nothing can be taken for granted because it looks that way.
I did not, for example, believe that Fritz Ude was just an open-hearted friend or that Elsa Kettel was a simple sob-sister for Nazi papers, or that old Voltore was a humble and very minor member of the un- derground because he was willing to pose as my servant. I accepted these evidences, yes. What the truth was in each case, I had no idea; but it was not what it seemed —any more than Giuseppe Casella was what he seemed. As long as I could make the enemy accept me for what I appeared to be, as long as I could make them forget this first rule of the game, I was safe.
With Francesca Conti it was very dif- ferent. She might not be a Red Cross nurse any more than she was a nun; but her character stood at full face value, per- fectly poised, serene, utterly efficient.
WAS back at the hotel in time to pack
and send off my bag by a porter to Ude’s office. Sure enough, the sirocco had blown itself out and a fine burst of rain had followed; there was just enough rain to paint the trees and buildings and streets red, as it precipitated the red sand from the air, but not enough to wash away the Stepping into the bar for a farewell
drink, I ran into two Nazi officers of the high command—colonels, I believe. I had met them both and they insisted on buying me a drink. I made no secret of my de- parture for Messina, When it was time to be on my way, they walked a little way up the street with me, enjoying the fresh cool air after the rain. We parted at a corner, but as we were shaking hands, one of the donkey-carts which had replaced taxicabs went past. :
Sitting in it was Francesca Conti.
“What a beautiful woman!” I ex- claimed. “Who is she?”
One of the officers smiled. “You may well ask! The Marchesa Conti, of Rome; she’s the head of some Red Cross organiza- tion among women of the noblest families. She’s everywhere—here today, in Naples tomorrow, in Genoa the next day. She does a splendid work, and I believe rates travel by air, which is rare. Well, all luck go with you!”
So we parted and I went my way. A marchesa, eh? Nobility. Well, she looked nobility if any woman ever did!
When I reached the Sclafani palace, Elsa Kettel had just arrived. Her luggage was being stowed in our car by Sergeant Jar- chov. He was a regular animal Nazi type, efficient and humorless and inhuman. The car was a small armored vehicle, heavily marked with the reversed Swastika of the Nazis. Captain Ude was talking with the fraulein at one side.
As I approached, the air-raid siren be- gan to scream and the whole landscape seemed to jump in nervous haste. Ude darted at me and thrust an envelope into my hand.
“Your identity card as I promised,” he cried, hastily shaking hands. “Get off, get off! The safest place is outside of town —off with you! See you up north—”
Amid hasty farewells Elsa piled in and I followed her. Jarchov slid under the wheel and saluted, and the engine roared. We, of course, had plenty of petrol. Next mo- ment we were on our way for Messina,
10
PARTNERS OF PERIL ‘ZF
through streets flooding with frightened people as the damned wailing siren pierced brains and nerves and souls.
How shall I describe that accursed ride? The motor road roughly followed the rail- road along the north shore of Sicily to Mes- sina; but for the past year this road had been chopped to pieces by army trucks, ar- tillery, tanks large and small, and all the motorized war heading for Africa. Luck- ily the rain had laid the dust, but it had not softened the ruts. From Palermo came the infernal racket of anti-aircraft guns. From high heaven descended the infernal roar of invisible plahes; some became visi- ble, and the railroad ahead was bombed and a train destroyed. An interminable file of army trucks on the road was also bombed and strafed.
We got through all this, some halfway on our journey, to be greeted by rifle fire from the rocks overhanging the road. Peas- ants, sniping at Germans! The bullets came close, but Sergeant Jarchov stepped on it and we went away fast, regardless of ruts.
Elsa Kettel and I were hanging on to the straps and to each other, dignity laid aside. She proved, indeed, to be a good scout, and while we had little opportunity to do any conversing, we got pretty well ac- quainted none the less. Once she got a bad crack against the top of the car that left her a bit dazed and knocked her hair loose in a red-gold torrent, but she only broke into a laugh and demanded a cigarette.
The only town of any size we passed was Cefalu, once a great city, now a pile of ruins for tourists and there were tourists on hand. American sky-tourists, giving their attention to a new airfield close by, and to the railroad and to a number of small ships in the harbor. There were bombers and Lightnings as well, and there had been some enemy planes, but two big gouts of smoke to seaward showed where a couple of these had ended,
What those boys were doing to the rail- road and the endless line of motor vehicles on the highway, was plenty, Trucks had
10.
exploded, others had gone off the road- and burned, others had been strafed into. bloody wreckage. Most of them were Ger- . man, I was glad to see. The Nazis were rushing all sorts of equipment into Sicily, expecting that we would attack there when we got Rommel cleaned out of Tunisia, « and were building airfields everywhere in the island. “i
However, we got through it all, hit some better road, and pulled into Messina: to- ward dark. It was an arrival to remem-. ber. The harbor, the straits, and Reggio across the way on the mainland were ablaze: with lurid fires; anti-aircraft batteries were pumping away full tilt and bombs were. dropping; there was a rustle and rattle: from the roofs where the flack shrepaal was coming down like rain,
Driving into town we passed an ex- ploded truck with a couple of wounded Germans beside it. I made Sergeant Jar- chov stop, much against his will neither he nor Elsa gave.a damn for their own wounded men, it seemed. We crowded both of them in, and since the big army camp and forts outside town were being bombed, they directed us downtown to the Nazi headquarters. These were located in the University buildings.
The show ended before we got into the city, and a good thing, because the railroad terminals lay on our way and they had. caught it heavy. We detoured and came to headquarters, where everything was as cool and orderly as though nothing were hap- pening. Colonel von Roden came out to meet us, seeming to pay Elsa no end of respect. He was a hard-eyed, fish-faced Nazi who heiled Hitler every five minutes. Our picking up the two wounded. men created quite a sensation, because my name and story had gone ahead of us; officers flocked around to shake my hand. They - called me the goog luck of the Swastika and so forth,
Headquarters was at mess, and Colonel von Roden took us right in with him as. guests of honor, We met a couple of Nazi
detained, pending my arrival!
A generals who made a fuss over Elsa, had a
good meal in spite of the candle-light, and I was glad to find that a room here in the block of buildings would be given me. The colonel said that Fritz Ude had phoned
-him about me and all was set. Then, the ‘meal over, he took me along to his office.
This was poorly lighted, because of the blackout.
He produced some good cigars, then uttered a sudden exclamation.
“Ha! I nearly forgot. Are you acquainted with a man name Vulture—Voltore?”
I had to think fast. If the old chap had been picked up by the Gestapo, any
‘knowledge of him might be dangerous.
Still, it might be still more dangerous to lie,
“An old rascal with a beak like the bird of the same name?” I said, and laughed. “Yes, I engaged him to meet me here and act as my servant. He had excellent ref- erences, and with my crippled leg I can
- use him.”
The colonel struck a bell. An orderly came in, saluted and clicked heels.
“The man Voltore,” said the colonel. “Free him. Bring him here and leave him.
“Will you excuse me for a few moments,
Captain Casella? TII return and settle everything with you—an important mes- sage has just come in for the general—” He departed with more heiling of Hitler, and I sat back enjoying my cigar. Better spend a day here, I reflected, and contact Dottore Morisani. He was supposed to give me the latest data concerning the new airfields being built in this part of the is-
land, which I would get off via short wave
from Tropea. Probably old Voltore had already contacted him.
So the old chap had been picked up and A good thing I had told the truth. There was a shuffle of feet and I looked up to see him brought in by two guards, who saluted and departed. With a cry of joy he came to me and fell on his knees, kissing my hand. He had a handkerchief wrapped around
22 SHORT STORIES
his bald head and smelled strongly of gar- lic.
“Careful, ‘gnuri,” he said, suddenly abandoning his pure Roman speech and failing into the Palermo dialect impossible for German ears to understand. “It is not safe to talk here! . They detained me when I looked up the friend you told me about; luckily, I made use of your name and they knew it.”
“Didn’t you find the dentist?” I asked.
He grimaced horribly. “Yes. You can find him, too, if you like, but he won't talk. He’s been hanging from the balcony of his own house ever since morning; the secret police did it. That accursed baron got to him ahead of us!”
Once more, Baron Scalatti had come close.
I
OTTORE MORISANI and a dozen
more citizens of Messina had been strung up this very day, it proved, as de- featists and anti-Fascist agitators. Colonel von Roden spoke of it quite frankly, after sending Voltore off to get my bag and take it to the room assigned me here. I asked him about picking up Voltore, and he grimaced. :
“He came to see a suspect who had just been hanged, yes. You've heard of Baron Scalatti? He was here for an hour and obtained results; gone now, no one knows where! Yes, the old rascal used your name. We would have let him go, otherwise—we don’t bother with scum like that. -The people who need hanging are the ones we hang; examples, well-known citizens. These filthy Italian swine—pardon me,” he broke off in confusion. “I meant no in- sult, my dear captain. I have been rubbing elbows with the filth of Messina lately.”
I smiled. “I’m a Roman, not a Sicilian; I can sympathize with you. These Sicilians are indeed filthy. Well, about my journey to Rome—I'd like to get off at once, since I must make a number of stops—”
I gave no sign of the shock I had re-
10
PARTNERS OF PERIL
ceived. My best bet was to clear out, quick.
The colonel swung around and jerked his finger at the big wall map of Sicily and Calabria, across the straits. For most of the two hundred and fifty miles up to Salerno, the railroad ran slap along the water; there were eighty tunnels in that distance alone. There was no space between sea and mountains for towns of any size. Calabria was a waste, repeatedly shattered by earthquakes, most of its people emi- grated long ago, or dead of malaria. The town for which I was headed, Tropea, was no more than a fishing village of a few thousand souls, or had been; now it was probably half depopulated.
OWN this railroad, which followed
the highway, poured men and guns and machines for Tunisia and Sicily. Those who went south by sea from Naples must run the gantlet of Allied ships; and those same ships came in along the shore to gun the devoted railroad, shelling the trains and blowing up tunnels.
“To keep the line open is impossible,” the colonel said. “To reach Salerno might take you days or weeks. I can’t spare a car and driver. Do you know what hap- pened today? Those damned Americans had learned where our armored vehicles were parked and camouflaged; they bombed them, destroyed nearly all! And the ferry from Reggio was also bombed, with its docks; the biggest ferry is sunk, useless! We are cut off from Italy, for the mo- ment.”
Inwardly, I felt like letting out a whoop. To think of that entire park of camouflaged tanks and cars and trucks destroyed! It was a tremendous blow. Word of the exact lo- cation must have been sent out by the old dentist, Morisani; he certainly had got in a body-blow before they hung him! And destroying the elaborate car-fetry system was another hard stroke.
Fraulein Kettel was being sent north by air, the colonel went on. Since I wanted to stop at Tropea and elsewhere, a boat
10
123
would suit me better. When did I wish to go?
“In the morning. As early as possible,” I said, little thinking he might take me at my word. I forgot German efficiency.
Settled, then; he said his orderly would call me for breakfast and see me off. The boat would be ready. Voltore was to ac- company me. I would find everything done < to further my comfort and safety.
Upon this we parted. I shook hands heartily with Colonel von Roden, not dreaming how soon I was going to kill him, and departed to my own room.
This was a clean, uninviting place, with ` |
a bunk for Voltore and a picture of Der Fuhrer on the wall above my bed. Vol- tore grinned at me, as I dropped on. the bed and lit a fresh cigar. What a loath- some old rat he was, with his scrawny neck and hooked beak and bright eyes! . But looks don’t make the man in the business we were in.
TOLD him about leaving early,.then asked about Morisani.. He knew little, but had seen Baron Scalatti. This news made me sit up with an eager word. “Quick! What’s he like? Did you. see him close?” Sh nes “He questioned me himself.” Voltore grimaced. “I pretended to be a Roman, so he spoke Roman. A small man, slightly hunchbacked, with two large moles near his right eye. That is all I remember. Per Bacco! I was frightened, let me tell you.” So here, at last, was a good enough de- scription of the mysterious baron! This de- lighted me. I questioned Voltore about what had happened at Palermo, and how poor old ’Gnuri Pezzo had been trapped, but he knew very little, or said as much. I doubted this. He was of sufficient im- portance to have been told about me, which very few were; he was immensely clever at disguises, had saved me by his warnings, and had known about that messenger meet- ing me—Francesca Conti. All in all, he was probably some big shot in the organi-
24
zation. Now, as we talked, he gave me a sharp look.
“You did not go to the Cappuccini to meet that messenger?”
“Yes, in spite of your warning,” I re- plied, smiling.
He grimaced in surprise. “Oh! And nothing happened?”
“Nothing,” I said laconically.
He rubbed his long beak. “And who
was the messenger, Signor?”
“Too much talk killed the monkey, said the crow.” With this country proverb I flung him a laugh. “Why ask me? You spoke with her and warned her; she told me so.”
“Right, excellency; forgive my silly ques- tion. I knew her by sight but not by name.”
I inspected my prize possession—the identity card Fritz Ude had given me. He had worked fast. It bore my picture and signature, both taken from my army papers; it bore seals and signatures, both Fascist and Nazi, and was an imposing ob- ject. I showed it to Voltore, who inspected it and held up his hands in mute amaze- ment, but said nothing.
Beyond the fact that we were stopping at Tropea, I gave him no hint of: my busi- ness ahead. Nor did I mention the beauti- ful artificial foot I now wore. I still limped and still used my stick, for I could not get the full advantage of the appliance at once.
He knew Francesca Conti, the Marchesa Conti, by sight but- not by name! Either Voltore lied flatly, or else he was remark- ably simple. Well, he was anything but simple, so he had lied. Why? To keep me aware of his humility. He did not want me to think him an important mem- ber of the underground. Why? No an- swet.
“The young lady who came from Palermo with you,” he said. “She likes
u.
What makes you think so?” I replied.
He shrugged. “Oh, one hears talk! I saw you with her in Palermo, and with Captain Ude,” he said with a shrewd glance
SHORT STORIES
and a wink. “When you reach my age, ex- cellency, you can read a woman’s eye. Yes, she likes you. We shall see her again.”
“To the devil with her,” I said, turning in. “Blow out the candle when you're ready.”
He did so, and I heard his cackling laugh in the darkness. But I wanted no more word or thought of Elsa Kettel; to think of her, so soon after Francesca Conti, was like an insult. Not that there was any- thing wrong with Elsa—it was simply that Francesca Conti carried an air of nobility, of high serenity, that banished any other woman from the picture.
It did not occur to me that Voltore might be a very wise man, far wiser than I could guess! I might have profited from his words, had I taken them seriously. Un- fortunately, I was absorbed in my visions of Francesca Conti.
For some reason her features lingered with me in the night. I might see her again at Salerno; she had spoken of a blow to be struck there at Baron Scalatti. And there the real business of my own job would begin. I had not been landed here at the cost of so much care and effort and money, just to piddle around saying hello to the organization. I had had definite business in Sicily, too, but Baron Scalatti had wiped that off the slate. I went to sleep with the uneasy certainty that there would have to be a showdown with the baron before long—and it would be bad luck if he caught up with me.
It was still dark when we were wakened; Colonel von Roden took me at my word with a vengeance. The orderly was a brisk young fellow, a machine like his chief. He woke us, lit a candle for us, and said to be ready for breakfast in twenty minutes. All was prepared for our departure, he said, but the colonel wanted-a last word with me before we left.
“He’s not up and around so early?” I said in surprise.
“He has not yet been to bed,” said the
orderly, and left us. Voltore wagged his 10
PARTNERS OF PERIL ss
bald head at me as I splashed water over my face.
“A worker, that man! A devil, some call him. He came down here from Turin; they say that up there he shot two hundred students in one day. They belonged to some secret order and planned an anti-Nazi
demonstration. That’s the sort of man he iSt-
“You seem proud of him,” I said sharply.
He nodded. “I admire an efficient man,
excellency. Too few of our Italians are efficient; that is why the Nazis and black- shirts rule us.”
I got out my Fascist party emblem and pinned it above the Iron Cross insignia, on my lapel. Voltore’s eyes bugged out when he saw it.
“Efficiency,” I said. “And you'd better save some admiration for me. From now on I’m just as efficient as any red-handed Nazi murderer. Don’t forget that you're my servant or TIl fill you full of castor oil!”
He grinned at my mock ferocity. It was to be put to the test all too soon, however. Before the twenty minutes were up I was ready and joined the orderly. He led me to the officers’ mess-hall; Voltore would be fed elsewhere. We ate a hurried breakfast by candle-light, in company with half a dozen other headquarters officers bound for early duty. German filled the air like a vast cracking of explosive nuts, and I got some information,
Big things were happening in Tunisia; it was the day, I later discovered, of Rom- mel’s last forlorn fight. That he would be utterly destroyed was freely predicted at the table. More, something big was happening here; no one was quite sure, or would say, what it was.
We finished breakfast and went to Col- onel von Roden’s office. He had just been supplied with a steaming mug of coffee ‘and was sipping it with appreciation when we entered. As he looked up, the tele-
phone buzzed loudly. He picked up the 10
receiver, answered, then leaned back and gestured at us.
“Sit down, Casella,” he said, and looked at the orderly, with a jerk of his head. “Go and have the car ready; be waiting in front. You know where the boat lies. Get away as soon as Captain Casella ' comes.’
The orderly saluted and went out. colonel gave me a grunt.
“Sorry. Long distance—an important call from Rome.”
I lit a cigarette; apparently he regarded _ me as one of the family. A silver candela- brum, probably looted from some church, was on the desk, half a dozen candles burning; it was not yet daylight. In front of the colonel, by the coffee mug, was a large envelope freshly sealed.
The call came through. Von Roden was speaking with some general; there were the usual heil Hitlers and sig heils and so forth. Probably he trusted in my ignorance of German.
“Tt is wonderful! Magnificent!” he was saying. “I have been working on it half the night. Scalatti was here, yes; you got my radiogram, eh? Well, he turned over com- plete evidence. I have just finished sealing it. I’m sending it by air this morning—we can give charge of it to Fraulein Kettel’s pilot. Not another soul knows about it—”
He broke off, listening. I could hear the sputtering accents of the German gen- eral. Von Roden shook his head. He spoke placatingly but firmly.
“T am sorry; it is absolutely impossible to breathe the name. The person is of such importance—Scalatti would go to Rome himself, but he is engaged on another job. The name positively must not be men- tioned. It is, I may say, that of a woman. Yes, absolutely the head and brains of the Organization against us! Scalatti has given me the evidence which will convict her of treason; no mercy must be shown. She is going from Palermo to Naples by air, I believe—yes, one of our own planes. A person whom you know well. No, I re-
The
f; io
Ce 26 1
«. gret; one mention of the name might be .. fatal. And I am not alone here in the - room, you comprehend.”
I felt a prickle steal up my spine and lift my back hair. That devil Baron Scalatti again—and this time I knew who was in his claws! Colonel von Roden’s words pointed to her with fatal precision. That sealed packet on his desk, so impor- tant that a special plane was to bear it north—that envelope held the fate of Francesca Conti.
‘There was no doubt of it. Scalatti, the mysterious and dread agent who was help- ing the Nazis enchain his own people, had swooped upon her, had discovered her
. activities, and had given von Roden the
evidence to send north. And she had come to Palermo to find me and give me the
- vital information I needed!
“Not another soul knows about it—” Those words burned into the back of my brain. The colonel was joking with his superior, finishing his conversation; the minute seemed like an hour. I lost track of time, My business, of course, demanded that I barge ahead and let the Marchesa
_. Conti suffer; this was impossible. “Not another soul knows about it—”
Baron Scalatti knew; he was off on some other job. Colonel von Roden knew; if he perished, if that envelope were de- stroyed—Francesca Conti would have time to escape. I could send the warning by
_ short-wave from Tropea. The whole pos-
sibility flitted across my brain. I was alone here with the colonel, the door behind
him was closed, outside the building
was waiting a car to whisk me to the boat—-my action would not be suspected, would not even be discovered for some
. time—
A paperweight stood on the desk, a long, conical, deadly Bren gun shell. I stood up, pressed out my cigarette in an ashtray, and took hold of this shell, just as the colonel put down the phone and looked up.
“A letter came in for you during the night,” he said. “From Fritz Ude in
SHORT STORIES
Palermo. It is here, under those papers— why, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” I said, “pro- vided that information about the Marchesa Conti doesn’t go any farther.”
Amazement flashed into his hard, in- human features.
“What! You know?”
“Yes,” I said. “One too many knows.”
He saw my purpose; it salved my con- science a trifle, to give him a moment's warning. But it was his life or hers, and the knowledge nerved my blow.
He was quick as a snake. He had a pistol out—but not quick enough to shoot. That pointed shell went through his skull like paper, and he crumpled forward with- out a sound, falling from his chair to the floor, half under the desk.
I snatched up the pistol, took a fat wallet from inside his tunic, and shoved his body farther under the desk; only a search would disclose it. Catching up the sealed missive from the desk, I found the letter addressed to me, and pocketed them with the pistol and the wallet. Then I blew out the candles; the first gray light was stealing in at the window.
(; the car was waiting; the orderly and Voltore were there, my bag was in, the driver under the wheel, and. we started as soon as I climbed in. There was no morning; a funereal pall of smoke hung over the city and harbor and straits.
The sickle of land that formed the port, holding the old citadel and strong fortifications, had been bombed to nothing but a fragment of hell.
Our car followed the Corso north of the harbor and drew up at a landing stairs and mooring along the sea-wall, where the boat was waiting, with a captain and two men. Five minutes later we were standing through the straits for the open sea, and Sicily was behind us.
Once out of that smoke-pall, we could see Etna lifting into the sky with it’s thread
10
iPARTNERS OF PERIL . Se 5
of vapor. Then we were out of the straits and pitching to the brisk wind and sea.
“Alas, excellency! Behold my devotion, dear master! For no one else would I have gone to sea; for no one else would I sub- mit to such tortures!”
That was Voltore groaning his heart out. No sooner did we head north along the coast than he went to the lee rail and stayed there, sacrificing to Neptune and bewailing his ill luck, while the crew grinned and cracked jokes.
The skipper and his two men were merry fellows, capable, without interest in politics. When they found I spoke Sicilian
as well as Roman, they liked me better.
The -boat was well stocked with food and wine and water, the weather promised well, and all was pleasant.
Although not fast, the craft was solid and there was a fairly decent cabin to which I retired when the sun came up and the smoke-pall of Messina was out of sight. By water, instead of the curving railroad, it was only thirty or forty miles to Tropea; we would get there early in the afternoon. I figured we would get away and be head-
ing north again with sunset, if I found my |
man without trouble. The cabin was large enough to sleep us all.
My immediate occupation was with my loot.
The pistol was a beautiful weapon of German make, not large, so flat that it could be carried neatly inside the shirt, and of sufficiently large calibre to serve its need. It carried nine cartridges and was full. I stowed it away, thankful to have a weapon.
The note from Fritz Ude merely en- closed a sheaf of hundred-lire notes “in case I needed money.” My first impulse was to bless his kind heart, then I looked again at the banknotes, thoughtfully. They were brand new. I compared them with some of the notes I had brought from Africa, taken from prisoners; they were the same, but bore series-numbers of a totally different type. New notes, of this
10
size, were vety rarely seen. I slipped them back into their envelope, for the present. I was not so sure about good friend Ude, after all.
Now for the sealed letter. It was ad- dressed to General von ‘Falkenberg, head of the Intelligence Service at Rome: I tore it open and found a letter from Colo- nel von Roden to his chief. My worst fears - were confirmed. The enclosed documents involved Marchesa Conti; and “our excel- lent friend and assistant, Baron Scalatti” requested urgently that the lady be arrested and publicly executed at once, as an ex- ample to the Italian populace. The docu- ments were letters of thanks from two English prisoners whom she had ‘helped escape, and a letter in her own handwrit-
ing—presumably—addressed to “Dottore
Morisani, the late unfortunate dentist of Messina. It thanked him for certain in- formation he had sent her, and warned him in future to use some other channel. If genuine, here was enough to condemn her before any Nazi or Fascisti tribunal. What incredible folly of Morisani in leaving this letter unburned!
I touched a match to the lot and watched them curl into ash, then turned my atten- tion to the colonel’s wallet,
This produced some remarkable Intelli- gence documents—a real haul of prime im- portance covering German activities which ought to reach our own side at once. Our man at Tropea was the person to handle them. It also produced some notes, made the previous day, regarding Baron Scalatti. This proved that the good colonel had lied like a trooper to me in saying that Scalattt had come and gone in an hour, no one knew where. He had gone north, accord- ing to these notes, to wind up a big case ` at Salerno; at least, he was to be at Salerno in four days’ time. I remembered what Francesca Conti had said about a blow there that would trap the worthy baron. The chief Nazi or Gestapo agent at Salerno was one Otto Hovek, a renegade Czech.
Beyond some identity cards and several
28 3 - SHORT STORIES
thousand lire, the wallet held nothing else. The money looked like that sent me by Fritz Ude but again had vastly different serial numbers. I tucked it away, put the wallet through the cabin window into the. sea, lit another cigarette and reflected on my loot.
At Tropea, I must turn over this stuff to our agent, Andrea Scotti—probably born Andrew Scott before he came to Italy. His short-wave radio would take care of every- thing and transmit a warning to Francesca Conti. Also, he must be warned himself. And he must get off my own information for Africa, in regard to German airfields in Sicily and ship movements. So far, so
Further, the safest thing for Captain Casella was to disappear at Tropea, if that were possible. To go on further by boat would be very bad judgment, in view of what had happened to Colonel von Roden. I had definite work ahead at Naples and Rome, and must stay alive to handle it.
This desolate mountain country was not going to be invaded by any Allied force, but things might well happen up in the north. The Nazis were in actual hard control of Italy, abetted by the blackshirts, who were struggling desperately for sur- vival. The Italian people hated both of them fiercely; revolt was everywhere, under the surface, but was being kept down with iron hand. And revolt in Italy meant finis for the Axis.
All this had taken time. I went out on deck to find the boat chugging merrily up the coast. Old Voltore was looking like a dying vulture and no mistake, but I spared little sympathy on him and kept company with the skipper, one Salvatore Patani. He was a shrewd fellow and very close- mouthed, but presently I got under his skin with a hint here and a smile there. He said very frankly that he was pro-nothing; he was for anyone who paid him. And in this case, the Germans had paid for the trip to Salerno. Including the telegram.
“What telegram?” I demanded quickly.
\
He showed white teeth in a flashing smile. “From the railroad station at Tropea, of course. To Captain von Ulm, at Reggio, telling him of our safe arrival.”
“Oh!” I said. “Write it out and TJI send it and pay for it myself. I must visit the railroad station in any case.”
I spoke with authority, and idly fingered my Fascisti emblem. The skipper took the hint and gave me Von Ulm’s address at Reggio. I jotted it down, promising to send the wire.
Here, across the straits in Italy, we would be in Captain von Ulm’s district. Why was he to keep an eye on us—on me? It might be quite all right, but it looked fishy. Perhaps my guilty conscience made a coward of me. Anyway, I took alarm then and there. Out on the wide sea there was no running away, no evasion. Fast craft could come after us, an airplane ` could catch us up—anything might hap- pen. It was more and more certain that I must somehow disappear at Tropea.
I handed the skipper a batch of my ill- gotten currency, and his eyes bulged.
“That,” I said, “is additional payment. Til go ashore at Tropea. My servant may also go ashore. If I’m not back in an hour, put to sea and continue your voyage to Salerno. Is that understood?”
“Continue?” he repeated. “Without you, signor?”
“Precisely.”
He winked at me and stuffed the money away. It was understood.
IV
T morning was sunny, the sea a trifle rough, the high coastline good to look upon. We had left a war-swept world be- hind, though I had a most uneasy convic- tion that there was going to be hell ahead. I sat beside Voltore and tried to get him talking, but he was too miserable. The old codger was green and yellow and claimed he was dying.
“You'll be all right when we land at
10
PARTNERS OF PERIL 99
Tropea,” I said, but he only groaned, so I left him alone.
For the life of me, I could not imagine how I could slip out of sight at Tropea, but perhaps Andrea Scotti might help in this, so I let it wait. In killing Von Roden I had burned my bridges, but it was worth it. That note and money from Fritz Ude worried me, too; I could not tell why, but it had a phoney ring, somehow.
It was close to noon when the skipper pointed to mountains ahead; we were five miles or so offshore. That was Cape Vati- cano, said he, with Tropea just around it; an hour would see us there. I suggestéd that the hour would be well spent in des- patching the grub and wine put aboard, so we went to it.
Voltore gulped down some wine, but a very ripe goat’s cheese drew a gasping moan from him, and he vanished in the cabin below. His mal de mer was, ulti- mately, a perfect godsend so far as I was concerned; but it did not seem so at the moment. Instead, I was irritated at the impossibility of consulting him about plans and schemes.
As we ate and drank and made merry, the two men of the crew exchanged a few words between them in their Messina dialect, which was almost Greek. They were talking about Voltore, and were as- tonished when I showed some acquaintance with their dialect and asked them to repeat. For some mysterious reason they seemed to dislike him intensely.
“Why,” said one, laughing, “I said he showed poor judgment when he selected this boat last evening! He said he was after speed, and he got it.”
“He?” I echoed. “My servant, Voltore? He didn’t engage you!”
“Oh, he was with the German who did. He translated, and made such a good bar- gain with the padrone,” he nodded at the skipper, “that he got twenty lire for him- self, eh?”
To this the skipper assented; it was a good joke. And I, like a fool, paid no more
10
heed to it; oh, what a ruddy fool and a blind one! In fact, I thought the old chap must have ingratiated himself with the headquarters crowd at Messina, and ad- mired his shrewdness.
The skipper knew Tropea well. Noth- ing but a fishing village, he said; since the railroad was built, a few good houses had been built because of the charming view. ` Since the war it had gone to ruin, like everything else. Long previous to black- shirt days, the government had tried to . people this bleak Calabrian country with
‘settlers from Albania; but not even Greeks
could live here. The fishermen at Tropea were of Greek extraction, said he. Signor Scotti? Why, yes, he knew of the man-= an old, white-bearded Englishman ~ by birth, who was now a fiercely fanatic Fas- cist, an ardent supporter of Mussolini. “A retired merchant who had lived on -his means before the war in a big house.
He had not been at Tropea for a couple of years, but vividly described the placeto me, and Scotti’s house, off by itself at the . end of the village by the cliffs. As we were talking, there happened one of those bizarre, incredible incidents that seem riore like dream-figments than bits of teal life.
enn the blue sky-depths came the sus- tained stridency of many motors. ` Al- though Captain Patani got out binoculars, nothing was visible; but the vibration filled the whole air. Fortresses and fighting planes, I could guess, going to raid Naples.
Then, unexpected, we heard a keener, more piercing sound—a diving plane, screaming down like a bullet from those in- visible heights and apparently trying to reach the coast. Behind and above it ap- peared two others—Lightnings, these, “as their twin-bodied shapes proved. The first was a Italian fast Caproni fighter; I had seen them at work in Africa. The two Lightnings were after it like hawks after a rabbit.
Curiously enough, the Caproni made no attempt to fight. It did things in its en-
Mee -© SHORT STORIES
deavor to escape, however; its pilot must : have been a wonder. It cut all sorts of ` capers, getting closer to the coast as it did so—now diving, now twisting and zoom- ing and flashing about, never fighting but intent upon eluding those deadly Light- nings: Through the glasses I could see and appreciate the magnificent work of that pilot. A lone Italian plane, caught in the stratosphere by our Allied fleet, and fol- “lowed down by the two killers—there was ‘something spectacular and dramatic about it. What had that plane been doing up there alone? Perhaps taking mail of pas- sengers from Rome to Sicily or vice versa. There was a good deal of official air travel. ` Elsa Kettel had gone north or was going by plane, and so was Francesca Conti—”
They had the Caproni! No, the pilot sideslipped and got away, coming down close to the water. He made a sudden zooming lift. Tracer bullets spurted; once more he slid away from them, lifting, gaining the line of coast—then they got him.
I saw something white flutter and fall, a parachute, a mere dot far to the north
-against the mountainous shore. The pilot? Not at all; a passenger, and no doubt a precious passenger. Almost instantly the pilot swooped, swerved, headed straight for the two Lightnings, and began to fight. He never had a chance; I felt like giving him a cheer. He emerged in a long sea- ward dive, afire and smoking; he went down at sea, far beyond sight and over the horizon, but for a while the smoke lifted into the sky. About twenty miles north, I thought. It was a better guess than I knew.
By this time we had passed around the point of the cape and were drawing in upon our destination, Tropea. This fish- ing and summer-resort hamlet was a little
place strung along under the cliffs, in a curving bight of the shore. It was beauti- fully situated, with orange and lemon
groves lifting along the hillsides, and the
deep richness of myrtles blending into the dusty gray-green of olive trees. A rich country, these highlands, but high or low, these coasts were deadly. Once they had been the fairest and thickest populated of the ancient world, until Hannibal’s Cartha- ginians brought the African mosquito, and malaria joined with earthquake to blast the land.
As we headed toward the fishing wharves, one of the men called me and I went below to find old Voltore lying on the cabin floor. He was hurt; he had ap- parently tried to get on deck and had fallen from the ladder, striking his head. He looked like a livid ghost, and seemed asleep rather than unconscious. I called Captain Patani.
He and his two men appeared, grinning and jesting. Again I noted their evident dislike of Voltore; not only were they quite callous as regarded his injury, but were enjoying some secret joke of their own. I pried it out of them at last; it had a cruel angle. One of the men possessed a bottle of laudanum, with which to dose an aching tooth. He had given old Voltore a dose of it in wine, and now the old fellow was snoring. ;
“No harm done,” said Captain Patani, with a shrug. “Your servant has ‘the evil eye if ever anyone had it! Let him sleep soundly till night.”
“Be sure and put him ashore before you leave,” I said. We went back on deck. “Give me an hour. If I’m not back, get off without me.”
“It'll be a fair wind,” said the skipper. “We can do without the engine and save petrol. An hour then, excellency!”
A throng had assembled to welcome us, mostly women and children.. Few men re- mained here; the fishing craft, unused, were drawn up high on the beach. A couple of the usual fussy local officials showed up —the agent from the railroad station and the local postmaster. I stepped ashore, with the customary Fascist formula and salute. When they saw by my badge that
' PARTNERS OF PERIL
f
I was a member of the party itself, they became subservient.
“I am here on party business, Signori,” I told them. “Are the trains running?”
“God knows!” said one. “They come and go. Nothing has come from the north for three days. The stoppage is up there. South to Reggio, the line is open.”
“T1 go with you to the station,” I told the railroad agent, for the benefit of Cap- tain Patani and his two men. “I must send a telegram back to Reggio.”
We left the townfolk crowding about the wharf, and walked toward the station, the postmaster stoutly asserting his own rights in the matter of the telegram. But, before we reached the railroad, I halted. . Ha! Before sending any messages, I must finish my business here! Perhaps you can tell me whether I'll find Signor Andrea Scotti at his home?”
I WOULD; he would be in his vegetable
garden at this hour, was the reply. So I said farewell and started off toward the upper end of town.
It had been a pretty place, until the war
ruined its prosperity. I passed a park, with some Fascist statuary, dying palms. and ja strip of wall erected for the purpose of carrying a quotation from Il Duce about
living and dying greatly. Beside it was a
dead fountain, and here was camped a queer outfit—a gaudy van painted with the name of Il Glorioso Circus and Carnival. Two scrawny mules were obviously the motive power; a safe bet, because all the horses were long since converted into food.
I saw a couple of slatternly women, a number of dogs, probably trained animals, and three men who were huddled under a big umbrella, playing with dirty cards. Some musical instruments lay in the shade; a huddle of big Japanese paper lanterns lay ready to be strung on wires with datkness.
It was one of those pathetic outfits which have their place in Europe, or had, giving simple amusement to simple people of the back country, who find a paper lan-
10
Times Square display.
31
tern as wonderful as we would find a The three men spoke civilly as I passed, and then their faces changed abruptly. They had seen my lapel pin. Evidently members of the Fascist party wakened no love in them, I smiled and went on.
Scotti’s house, detached from the aan. was before me, a garden to the side and rear with the figure of a bent old. man working at some tomato plants. As I ap- proached, I was again thinking of that dramatic air duel we had witnessed, and the unknown parachute jumper who had won to safety. I had not the least intuition ot warning that the incident might be vitally tied up with me; I just found it sicing hard in my memory. :
The old man came to meet me. He had white hair and beard and the gentle fea- tures of a dreamer, reminding me at once of old, Gnuri Pezzo, back in Palermo. I responded to his greeting by handing him my identity card.
“You are Andrea Scotti? I'd like a talk with you in private, Signor,”
He swallowed hard. A deathly pallor came into his face; his eyes lifted, touched my Fascist button, lifted to my face in piteous terrified shock. 7
“The police—the secret police—”-
“No! I didn’t mean to give you a jump,” I broke in. “That card is my camouflage; I’m one of our own people, Signor, with important information to be sent out, and even more important news for you person- ally.
He took a lot of convincing. His house- keeper was gone for the afternoon; he led me into the house, and over a bottle of wine I laid everything before him. - Not too much of my own story; just enough to let him know that I was okay. The main | thing was the warning to be sent out, and the information for Africa.
“Here.” He took me into the library, swung out some of the book-shelves, and showed me the radio knobs behind them. “It is all hidden here, all! I can only send
at certain hours, on certain wave-lengths— to the Salerno agent, and to a boat some- where at sea, an English boat. That will be tonight. About the Marchesa Conti— yes, Salerno must be warned. And your own work there for the damned black- shirts—ah, that Baron Scalatti! So he’s on my trail, eh? The murderous devil! And to think that I knew him well, twenty years ago!”
Between the wine and the realization that I was a friend, Scotti warmed up. He had forgotten how to speak English, ex- cept with difficulty.
He was not particularly worried about himself; the could, the said, take a donkey and be gone into the mountains, and wan- der there indefinitely without danger. He had known Dr. Morisani, the old dentist of Messina, quite intimately, and winced when I told of his murder and that of Pezzo. He had known Baron Scalatti in Messina, too, ;
“The baron comes of an old family; he has vast estates south of Messina,” he said. “A curious, evil man, a damned soul if there ever was one! So you came in that boat, eh? I saw it arrive. Train service to the north is cut off. There is no use trying to reach our agent at Salerno before five-seventeen o'clock. Too bad about my having to leave! This is the ideal spot for a short-wave set; isolated, far from anywhere, hard for the blackshirts to discover—”
His set did not reach far, but others picked up the messages and sent them on. Tt was not hard to guess that a British sub- marine, surfacing off the coast at certain night hours, could pick up anything meant for Africa. I jotted down everything for him to get off, and did not hesitate to trust him in regard to my own situation.
“To save her, my friend, you sacrificed your splendid chances of success—yes, but were they splendid?” He frowned, tugging at his beard. “I’m not so sure. That card, that money—hm! Perhaps it was desired to keep very good track of you. Perhaps,
32 SHORT STORIES
through you, to reach everybody connected with the organization! You do not know their tricks. The infernal cunning of that devil Scalatti would make anything possi- ble—well, well, let us see what news we can pick up. It is time for it.”
I glanced at my watch suddenly—the hour was up, and more. We went to the front of the house; sure enough, there was my sturdy boat, brown sails spread to the wind, heading for the north. I laughed.
“They put Voltore ashore and skedad- died post-haste, eh? Well, he'll be glad of it. The poor old rascal has been half dead with seasickness. Did you ever run into him?”
Scotti had not. We went back to his radio and got it to work. He ‘had never. heard that mere listening with such a ma- chine could be detected and its exact posi- tion tracked down; he had supposed that only when sending could his outfit be dis- covered. He was about ten years behind the times with his set. It had been a mere pastime before the war.
“Well, now I can tear it out and bury it, or send it up on muleback into the hills,” he said. “If Scalatti is after me, it’s safest to take no chances—ah!”
The news was coming in from`Naples. There had been an air-raid only an hour ago by planes from Africa; no damage done, said the report. I grinned at that. Then I lost my grin as the voice went on:
“Very sad news has been received. One of our planes bound north from Sicily was shot down by these pirates of the air, about noon. This happened off the Calabrian
coast, which our heroic pilot tried vainly
to reach, near Santa Eufemia. Among the passengers on the unfortunate plane was the Marchesa Conti, whose noble work among the sick and wounded—”
So that had been the plane we saw shot down! Nothing was said about anyone having escaped; perhaps that parachute had been imagination. I said nothing to Scotti about it. He switched off the radio, tears sparkling on his white beard.
10
PARTNERS OF PERIL
“I knew her, I knew her!” he said. “And to think you would have saved that sweet, gracious young lady! That it was for her you risked so much—”
“Never mind,” I said. “You get off the warning just the same. Let the under- ground have all the facts; keep them in- formed of everything. There’s some scheme to catch Baron Scalatti up north and finish him, though I know no details. Where, by the way, is the headquarters of our Organization?”
He shook his head. “Nobody knows. Catch Scalatti? Nobody ever will.”
“Td like the chance,” I said. “He should be easy to hunt down, with his hunchback and the moles—” —
“Hunchback? Moles? You have been misinformed,” he said. “No such thing.”
“But Voltore described the man! He knew him by sight!”
Scotti laughed, picked up pencil and paper, and sketched a head. He had the _genius of capturing a likeness and accentu- _ating it. Presently he swung the paper around to me.
“There! Do you know that man?”
“Absolutely!” I exclaimed. “I thought you didn’t know him?”
“Eb? That is Baron Scalatti, my friend—”" - “The devil! It can’t be—why, it’s my
man, Voltore! To the life!”
“I suspected as much,” he said gravely. “Voltore gave you the false description of Baron Scalatti, being no other than Scalatti himself! Now do you see? Making use of you to track down everybody in the or- ganization. You sent Voltore, you said, to poor old Dottore Morisani; and next day Morisani was hanged to his own balcony and a dozen more were shot. And Voltore had been at Palermo, where Pezzo and the others were tracked down. And those Nazi officers—” :
I heard nothing more. Even while he spoke, my brain was leaping to the truth of
33
his words. Voltore had, with the Nazis, engaged this boat—the telegram was to be sent to Nazi headquarters at Reggio, who would send a squad here by car to nab us, or at least Scotti—and I, Giuseppe Casella, who thought myself so damned smart, was nothing more than bait on the hook, a lure to catch every agent of liberty between Sicily and Naples! Just as poor Morisani had been seized and hung, because I talked too freely!
Anger and dismay and overwhelming shame seized me. `I caught up hat and stick and went out of the house, almost on the run. At least, I could haul in Scalatti here and now, and put a bullet in the scoundrel if he gave me a chance, to pay for Morisani! What a poor blind fool I had been!
Hurrying along as fast as I could hob- ble, I passed the carnival van, and the three men still playing cards, In my tumul- tuous emotion, in my haste and hurry to get along and reach the wharf, I paid them no heed; yet in this instant the great idea
` must have flashed upon me.
However, I was thinking only of Voltore now, as I clutched the pistol in my pocket. At the wharf, I could see nothing of him, or of my bag. Here were a group of peo- ple coming from the wharf, and I cried out at them.
“Where is the old man who came ashore from the boat? Where did he go?”
They looked at me, then at the speck on the horizon that was the boat, then at one another, and a woman broke into a laugh.
“No one else came ashore, Excellency. There was no old man. There was nobody. The men: said you had told them to go, and they went.”
And they had gone—deliberately taking Voltore with them, by way of a cruel jest. He had never wakened up at all, might stay asleep until darkness came. Gonel I had found Baron Scalatti only to lose him
again! And now Joe Casella was in a jam -
and no mistake.
(Part II in the next SHORT STORIES)
TAR Sr, ode
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OLLY REAGAN straight- ened up slowly, pressing her strong fingers into the small of her back, and groaning. “This weeding is getting me. First it was the spading and turning over the sod that stiffened me up, then it was the raking, and now it’s the
PANHANDLE PETE’s VICTORY
Cee DEAM Fkh
By FRANK RICHARDSON PIERCE —
weeds. I wonder now, if eating the peas and baking the spuds later on, will show me a new set of muscles to ache?”
Molly was talking to herself. She had no one else to talk to now that her three boys were in the Navy, and her daughter had joined the Waves. She had tried to hire a team to plow up the lot and then
Panhandle Pete Never Suspected the Part He Was to
Play in the War Effort 34
PANHANDLE PETE’S VICTORY GARDEN —
disc and cultivate. But everyone wanted a team for the same purpose and team- sters had to be wooed. Molly Reagan was a widow, but she was wooing no man. She had gone to work with a shovel and turned the sod over. And good sod it was. However, the acre of late spuds she had planned on must be given up. No woman could spade up that much soil, now that
the weeds and the bugs were moving in ~
on the fresh growing stuff.
She sighed every time she looked at the acre. Not only would a spud crop pro- duce food, badly needed in the shipyard ateas, but the extra money would come in handy.
“And a fine day it is,” Molly reflected the moment the kinks in her back stopped bothering her. Mount Rainier stood boldly a few miles distant, its snowfields and glaciers dazzling in the sunlight. Bold sweeps of timber covered the lower moun- tains, benches and ridges.. Everything was green and fresh. The last two days had been warm and things were popping up.
Molly’s bush peas were a half-inch out of the ground. Tomorrow she would prepare the ground for the tomatoes—ex- posing it to the air and sunlight. She went into the house, changed her clothes, got the evening meal, cleaned up the kitchen, then sat down to listen to the radio. When the ball game broadcast ended Molly turned in.
The crowing of the Rhode Island Red rooster awakened her. First she put over the coffee, then she looked out, confi- dent the peas had grown a quarter-inch during the night.
They were gone!
That is, almost gone.
Two Chinese pheasant roosters were c-‘ing the delicate green shoots. Molly Reagan blazed with fury. “Why you—” she began, then choked and groped for adequate words to express her feelings. There were none. Her first impulse was to go after them with a broom, then she realized they would either fly or run, es-
10
BS caping with ease. ‘Tomorrow they would come back again.
She had a better thought. She ran up- stairs to Jims room. His twelve-gauge shotgun stood in a gun case where he had left it. She had shot it a few times, at tin cans, to give the boys a laugh. Now she was. full of business. She opened it and looked through the bore. It was clear. She slipped a sheil into the chamber. _
“It’s pot-shooting,” she reflected as she opened the window a crack and aimed at the birds. ‘And it isn’t sporting, but this is war and peas are food. Now just get closer together. That’s it! Now. A
“Crack-wow!? The gun kicked and Mollys ears began ringing, but she peered eagerly at the. targets. The shot had patterned beautifully. The pheasants hadn’t moved. Then it was she recalled a number of things.
“I-can get life for this. First, I’m in the Rainier National Park game reserve. Next, it’s the closed season on pheasants. Also, I’m hunting without a license. Somebody will’ve heard that gun. It sounded like a cannon, what with the air being still, and all,” she mused. “Well, as the poet says, I might as well have the game as the name.”
She imagined people for miles around would be looking at her modest clearing. She put on an apron, a big one, pulled
‘shoes over her bare feet and stepped out-
side. A few quick strides brought her to the pheasants. “My lord,” she ex- claimed, “look at the feathers! ag
would have to fly about.”
She pretended to be looking at the peas as she slipped the birds under her apron then achieved what she hoped was non- chalance on the return to the house. She picked the pheasants and burned the feathers, ate her. breakfast, -hurried out- side and gathered up the feathers blowing about. “I guess I wouldn’t make a good criminal,” she said, “I panic too easily. I was all thumbs gathering those feathers.” ` At noon, Joe Lynch, a neighbor,
36
stopped. “Didn't I hear shooting this morning, Molly?” he asked. “Yes, I heard it too,” Molly answered. “Somebody knocked off a pheasant,” Joe continued, “because a gentle breeze came up a few minutes later and I smelled
. burned feathers.”
“So’d I,” Molly said.
“The game warden heard, and called me on the phone,” Joe explained. “I told him I wasn’t doing any shooting. It might be a good idea if you et the evidence and burned the bones. Otherwise he'll take it away from you.”
ao SUDDRETH, the game warden, -arrived in mid-afternoon. He found Molly in her garden, replanting the pea area. Molly was filled with indignation and pheasant. To this was added a touch of worry as the warden picked up several feathers she’d missed. “I kinda thought you were the guilty party,” he said. “I guess I'll have to take you in, Mrs. Rea-
“What're you talking about?” Molly demanded.
“Shooting pheasant,” he said. “Here you are planting pea seeds. Like as not the pheasants et ’em, and you lost your temper. And here’s a feather knocked out by a shot. See, there’s a trace of lead on it. Anything you say will be used against you. We got to enforce the law, Mrs. Reagan.”
“Mr. Suddreth,” Molly retorted, “now TIl talk, and just you try to use what I say against me. It'll be a boomerang.
The pheasants ate my peas. Food needed |
for the war. So I ate the pheasants. Now, if you want to take me in for trial, just hop to it.”
“If that’s the way you feel about it,” the warden said, “I’ll sure accommodate you.”
“Okay,” Molly continued. “My trial comes up, and you know what?”- She answered her own query. “TIL demand
a jury of my peers. And if ten out of |
SHORT STORIES
twelve of said peers haven’t broken their’
backs over victory gardens, then patriotism in these parts is below par. And do you know what kind of a verdict victory gar- den jurors would return, “Nort GUILTY!” Molly concluded with a roar. “And one more thing. Everybody knows that Pete Suddreth hates to lose a case. The next move is yours.”
Pete Suddreth scratched his head. He was a logical man. He loved to get convictions, but he knew when he was out-foxed. Molly Reagan would have public opinion, if not the strict letter of the law, on her side.
As a result of Molly’s putting it up to the warden, cold turkey, she ate cold fried pheasant that evening.
Standing in the fringe of the forest, Panhandle Pete, the buck deer that hung around Longmires, in Rainier National Park, took due notice of proceedings. The shotgun blast hadn’t frightened him. He had heard stages backfire as they came down the grade from Paradise Valley. He was used to people, and was constantly © bumming them for cigarettes. yi
Within the week, Pete, having a zest for fresh, young green things, had poked his head through a window in the Park ranger’s cabin and eaten the potted plants growing on a sunny shelf. Ranger Buck Seaton’s wife had given Pete a fine going over with a broom, and he was avoiding the area. Later, when instinct told him things had calmed down, he would return.
At dawn, ten days after the potted plant incident, Pete thrust his beautifully an- tlered head over Molly Reagan’s fence and gazed speculatively at the rows of growing things. He sniffed. “Nice people,” he thought, “they've put the eats down on the ground, and in orderly rows, All T have to do is start at one end and finish at the other. How long has this been going on? This is what comes of hanging around Longmires all the time. Well, kid, what .. are you waiting for?”
He started in on the lettuce.
10
Now he ..
PANHANDLE PETE’S VICTORY GARDEN 37
had eaten lettuce on many occasions— scraps from lunches left by the tourists in the park. But such lettuce was nothing like this—glistening with dew and ten- der as a lover’s kiss. The potato tops weren't bad, either, but after sampling a dozen plants, Pete finished up the lettuce and went after the cabbages.
“Good,” he thought, “but there aren’t enough of them. A deer has.to clean out a row to get a real taste.”
There was a good reason. Molly Rea- gan had transplanted them the day before. Pete was testing the beet tops, small as they were, when Molly awakened.
Day was breaking and the rooster was crowing lustily. It was shortly after five o'clock and Molly turned over for an- other forty winks, when she remembered the garden. “Like as not there’ll be pheas- ants scratching out the pea seeds,” she re- flected. “I suppose I'll be arrested if I shoot ’em. Wonder where I could get a silencer for a shotgun, or—a bow and ar- row might turn the trick.”
She rubbed her eyes and stepped to the window, then she fairly leaped for the shotgun. “Panhandle Pete—I know you!” She opened the window, aimed, but didn’t pull the trigger. Pete regarded her innocently. “No, I can’t do it. A
pheasant is a bird, but a deer is morten -
just a deer. Anyway, shooting Pete would bea hanging offense. All the tourists in the country would be after my scalp. But —my garden!”
She wanted to cry. Only last night she had resisted the impulse to pick a few let- tuce leaves to see what they tasted like. In the end she had concluded it wasn’t right to destroy several tiny plants, which in a few weeks would be forty or fifty times their present size. “It would be wasting food,” she had told herself.
“Pheasants and deer eat the stuff before it really is started,” she mused, “can’t get anyone to plow that acre for the spuds. Can't even hire a boy to help me. I don’t know the answer. I might fence things in
10
with chicken wire, but that’s rationed. Anyway, the birds would fly in.”
Coffee had often helped her solve her problems. She yelled at Pete, watched him retreat, then started the fire in the kitchen range. She checked on her ration card and decided to go all out this morn- ing—three cups.
The first two laid the foundation, but the third gave her the needed lift and her Irish mind started sparking. An idea came out of a clear sky.
“No,” she told herself, “you’ve got to be practical. It can’t be done. Still, Molly how do you know it can’t be done until you've tried. On the other hand, you might be killed in the trying.”
She viewed the wreckage of her garden, then struggled with her temper again. Panhandle Pete was beyond the fence, eyeing her with misgivings. “All I hope is,” Molly said, “—is that you can’t read my mind.” i
She repaired some damage and wrote off the remaindet as a total loss. She lit a cigarette, but didn’t inhale. She had never got around to really smoking, and was afraid it might make her sick if she actually inhaled. Panhandle Pete sniffed the tobacco aroma, and bit by bit desire overcame instinctive caution. He cleared the fence easily—a beautiful and graceful sight—and approached with hope in his heart.
“Have one—darling,” Molly invited. She applied sarcasm to the last word.
Pete chewed down the cigarette. It was old—from a carton overlooked by her de- parting boys—but it wasn’t bad. When Molly sauntered around the house Pete fol- lowed. She made her way to the barn. Its original purpose had been almost for- gotten. Part of it served as a garage; part as storage space and the rest, including one stall, was more or less neglected.
M2” scattered. half a dozen ciga- rettes along the bottom of a manger. Panhandle Pete lost all sense of caution at
38
the sight. He lowered his head, deftly lick- ing up two of them. And then it hap- pened. A rope went deftly around his neck and as he hurled his head backwards, it tightened. “There, my beautifully horned friend,” she said, “I’ve got you where I want you. I can’t eat you, brother. In fact I don’t want to eat you. But I can make you pay, and pay, and pay.”
Pete fought furiously, his sharp front hooves shredding the manger boards and splintering the floor. He snorted angrily, and at times his eyes rolled back in fury. She left food and water in the manger and departed. “You can think this over,” she told him, “and then I'l make the next move.”
Suddreth called that evening. “Looking for vension, I suppose,” Molly tartly sug- gested. “Well, Panhandle Pete ruined my garden, but I didn’t shoot him. After all ” She shrugged.
“I imagine that you felt like it,” the game warden admitted, “but even a jury of victory gardeners wouldn’t have freed you on that charge. Where did you last see him?”
“He was sniffing around my property the last I saw him,” Molly answered truth- fully enough.
“He's missing,” the warden said, “and I'm hunting him.”
“You know how deer are,” Molly said, “here today, gone tomorrow. And there's plenty of forest to roam in. Pete could disappear for days at a time.”
“Pete could,” the warden agreed, “but he wouldn’t. His habits are fixed. He likes civilization. He likes to loaf and live on the fat of the land.”
“In other words,” Molly suggested, “Pete isn’t contributing his share to the war effort?”
“Well,” Suddreth said uncertainly, “of course—a deer——” He laughed and con- tinued the quest.
Molly worked most of the night, with frequent trips-to the barn to make careful checks on what she was doing. She turned
SHORT STORIES
in at three o'clock and slept until seven. She awakened chuckling. “I don’t know what's going to happen, but I think it’s go- ing to be a lot of fun.”
Suddreth dropped in late in the after- noon. Molly beat him to the draw. “Seea anything of Panhandle Pete?” she asked. _
“No. Nobody's seen him.”
“He’s got into bad company, like as not,” Molly suggested. “Maybe he’s tun away from home.”
“Tt isn’t a laughing matter,” the warden grumbled. “People with vegetable gardens can get mighty mad. Somebody might've knocked him off. I ain't forgetting there's a meat shortage.”
“I couldn’t eat him,” Molly said, “and — I’m too tired to dig a grave. Let me know what you find out.”
A‘ ELEVEN o'clock that night when — most people were asleep Molly Reagan hung a pressure gasoline lamp in the barn. Under its white blaze the in- terior was as light as day. “This, Pete,” she said picking up'a heavy object, “is a collar. It goes around the neck.” G The buck snorted and tried to fight off the object that she dropped across his neck. She buckled the open ends securely, careful to avoid the tossing horns. “This is the rest of the harness,” she said. “These long straps are called tugs. They are for pulling. And this business I’m putting around your nose tells you which way I want you to go. We won't bother with that yet. There'll be too many other prob- lems all happening at once.” She herded the deer outside, When he bolted, the tugs stopped him with a jolt. “The ends are fastened to a rope that’s hooked onto a stump, darlin’,” she said, — “If you can pull that stump out I'll tura ~ you loose.” ý Panhandle Pete made several lunges and went sprawling. He reared on his hind legs and pawed the air, then came down, driving his hooves angrily into the sod. When he relaxed, Molly quickly hooked, 10
PANHANDLE PETE’S VICTORY GARDEN 39
the harness to a cultivator. The teeth were set, and promptly dug into the soil at the first pull. Feeling something give Pete took on new hope. He headed for the fence, with Molly holding the reins while she stood on the cultivator to give it weight.
Suddenly the deer turned, but Molly stayed with it, and again the teeth dug in. Under the light of a pale moon, the cul- tivator covered various sections of the place, including the victory garden.
In time, Pete stopped fighting and dragged the cultivator steadily enough. Molly headed him to the barn, led him to the stall and removed the harness. “You're sweating, darlin’,” she said, “and so am I. But we're getting places.”
Early the next morning Molly raked over hoof marks wherever they were visi- ble. Suddreth might be along and ask questions. When she looked at the strange pattern the cultivator had left she felt most anyone would be entitled to ask questions concerning the operator’s sanity. In the world’s history of farming, no cultivator had ever followed so erratic a course.
Panhandle Pete put up a fight that eve- ning when she harnessed him again. He kicked, bucked, snorted and tried to slash her with his horns. When he calmed down Molly gave him a couple of cigarettes. “If you'll just try to understand,” she said, “we'll get along fine. You ate up stuff that would be food in a few months, Our soldiers need it. Perhaps not the stuff I raise, but if I eat what I raise then I’m not dipping into the national supply. Now _ we'll try the cultivator again.”
Pete quieted down and permitted him- self to be guided when he was convinced he couldn’t run away from the contraption. Molly stopped at the acre of unplowed ground.
She hitched up to a light plow and started in. It turned over beautifully, the plow cutting through fern roots and knocking loose an occasional small stone.
- When she had gone around once, she stopped and let the buck catch his breath.
10 : 3
She gave him a cigarette and when he had chewed it up, she touched him lightly with the end of a stick. He snorted and tried to run. The plow went deeper and he quieted down again.
After a half hour’s work she said, “I guess this is enough for tonight. With luck, I'll get in my late spud crop.”
Molly fed Pete, rubbed him down and otherwise rewarded him. He lashed out a couple of times to let her know he had lost none of his high spirits, then resumed. his eating.
A neighbor dropped in on Molly Reagan the following afternoon. “Ah, haaa!” she said, “you've been holding out on me, Molly. You hired a team to plow your ground. Well? What’s his name?”
“You know how teaming is, Aggie,” Molly said, “every teamster is booked up to here, plus a waiting list. I made a little deal, But the party positively refuses to take on any more. In fact if I don’t handle him carefully he may leave me in the lurch at any time.”
“These temperamental teamsters,” Aggie said. “Of course, it was too much to hope, but you can’t blame a woman for asking. You'll plant spuds, of course. They're go- ing to be high this year, in my opinion.”
The woman departed, moving slowly down the dirt road in an ancient car. Seven miles from the Reagan clearing she met the game warden. “Oh, Pete,” she called, “you get around, do you know where I can hire a teamster for a day?”
“If I did,” Pete Suddreth answered, “‘I’d hire him myself. Say, you haven't seen anything of a tame buck deer, have you?”
“Not a sign,” Aggie replied. “Pd give a pretty to know where Molly Reagan got her team.”
“Her team?”
“Yes. She made a plowing deal. Part’s done already,” Aggie said. “But the party wasn’t taking on any more work.”
It had been Suddreth’s experience. that sometimes people will go out of their way to do a favor for a game warden, Even an
40 SHORT STORIES
up-stage teamster might be willing to plow a half-acre for him.
He planned to call on Molly about din- ner time, but was delayed. It was ten o'clock when he drove past her place. He wouldn’t have stopped but he saw a crack of light in the barn and concluded that she was up and about.
Molly was both up and about. She recognized the game warden’s car by a peculiar engine knock, and she said, “Heavens to Betsy, he’s back.” Pete had almost reached the limits of the acre, and
when he stopped, Molly kept him going. -
“Get into the brush, out of sight,” she muttered. “We don't want him seeing this layout.”
Pete stopped when completely hidden, then he turned his head. The game warden stopped his car, took out a five-battery flashlight to light his way, and stepped through the gate. He closed it behind him, then said, “She might’ve plowed up the old path. Better size up the situation before I step into a hole and break my neck,”
He turned the light around, found the ` path, then the white finger moved uncer- tainly beyond the path to the plowed ground. Quite by accident the beam lifted and flooded the woods. Branches and leaves completely concealed Molly, Pete and the plow, but the buck’s eyes reflected the light, forming twin, luminous pools.
> ee a a gs ee SEES ee a” ie:
“Well, I’m a son of a gun,” Suddreth explained. Any game warden or hunter would have recognized the flaming pools as a deer’s eyes. Their distance apart, and position above the ground was positive proof. “Panhandle Pete, sure as hell.” He headed straight for the buck. Molly < Reagan, who had had no experience in shining deer couldn’t understand why Pete was visible. There was a good, thick screen between them.
“Hello, Pete Suddreth,” Molly said, stepping into the open. “And what're the ` likes of you doing on a night like this?”
“Keeping my eye on things.”
“You're on private property,” she re- minded him.
“There’s a deer in that thicket,” he said, “and I’ve a right to look him over. It might be Panhandle Pete.”
“Or his son, Chiseler, or any one of a dozen buck deer, or none at all,” she said.
“I have aright to——”
“If you catch me or anyone else break- ing the law, then maybe you've the right to step onto private property and act,” Molly said, “but I’m not shooting deer. I’m just minding my own business on m own place.” 7
“What kind of business?”
“None-of your business,” she answered. “Now stir your feet and quit poking your nose into my affairs. Of course, if you get a warrant $
“I’m going to check on that buck deer,” he declared.
“Only with a search warrant—if there is
“There is, I saw his eyes. The light- reflected them.” He started to brush past, but Molly blocked the way. At the same time she drew a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and threw them in Pete’s gen- eral direction.
Luck was with her. The pack cleared the thicket and fell into a clearing beyond. A few moments later Pete caught the odor of tobacco. He acted instantly. The plow
10
; a buck deer.”
p=
EEEE A NE ASE E, EPE ET E EE AEI E ELES E ee ee S
PANHANDLE PETE’S VICTORY GARDEN 41
made a little noise, but his eyes, now turned the other way, no longer reflected the light. “He's gone,” Molly said, “if—there was a deer in the first place.”
“TIL get a warrant,” the warden de-
clared. “There’s something rotten and it.
isn’t in Denmark.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong,” Molly said, “the Nat-zees are in Denmark.”
The warden stamped away. He knew the law.
And so did Molly. There was some- thing about holding wild animals in cap- tivity. She half expected he would come snooping back from a different direction. Evidently he realized she would be pre- pared for any such move, because he drove away.
MOLLY headed Pete back onto the acre. Under the moonlight, she plowed hour after hour, with frequent rests for the deer. When she came to a hard spot she would say, “I'll break that up with a pick. There isn’t much of it.” Then she would plow around it.
The job was finished at four o'clock. She gave Pete a fine rub-down, fed him and stopped it off with a pack of cigarettes. She turned in and slept soundly until nine o'clock. As she was having her belated breakfast coffee the telephone rang. It was a neighbor. e
“Tim just telephoned out,” she said, '“and he said the game warden was i®town and got a search warrant. He’s going over your place with a fine tooth comb. I thought you'd like to know.”
Tim was the woman's husband. “Thanks, darlin’,” Molly said. “It is a good neighbor you are. And don’t worry. Suddreth can search and be darned to him. I wished his name wasn’t Pete, though. Pete happens to be the name of a very good friend of mine—a guy who helped me with my plowing, in fact.”
Molly hung up. She lost no time in
hurrying to the barn. Panhandle Pete re- garded her curiously, as usual. She fed
him lightly, then gave him her last. pack
of cigarettes. “Now, my fine bucko,” she ` said, “you're going to be surprised. She - removed the rope that secured the buck to the manger and opened the door. “Hurry up, you chump,” she said, “the warden’s coming. I hear his car.”
Panhandle Pete stepped arrogantly from the barn and looked over the situa- tion. He leaned forward, half expecting to feel the tug of the plow or cultivator. He had dragged both during the night. Suddenly he realized he was free. His legs fairly exploded as he got under way.
He crossed the remains of the garden. There were several tender young plants that he had missed. The dew was still on the leaves, but he wanted none of it. He was a panhandler and he did not believe in toiling nor spinning.
He gathered himself and cleared the fence easily. Molly Reagan’s place had loomed large in his plans a few days ago, but he would shun it in the future. If hanging around people’s gardens meant hard labor then people who owned gardens were to be avoided.
He crossed the road a hundred yards ahead of the game warden. Suddreth rec- ognized him, but nevertheless he stopped and stalked over to Molly Reagan who stood, with her hands on her hips, looking at her freshly turned acre. ;
“I have a warrant—” Suddreth began.
“Good. Now search to your heart’s con- - tent,” Molly invited. “It’s just that I want things done right.”
“What was that deer doing on your place?” Suddreth demanded. “TI bet you had him tied up in the barn all the time.”
“Oh, him!” Molly exclaimed. “Yeah, he’s been hanging around here, but what of it? Can’t a gentleman bum a cigarette ot two from a lady, and help her with her plowing, without causing a lot of fuss? .
—
10'
NE of the most famous
sights in Chinatown is the
Lamp of Peace, which
hangs in the Hall of An-
cestors at the Plum Blos-
som Joss House. It is a magnificent, jade-encrusted lantern in the Ming + style, with five tall candles that burn
42
night and day; each candle is marked withthe insignia of one of the Five Tongs.
But there were really six tongs in Chinatown, for the once-powerful Mandarin Tong still survived, al- though time had reduced its silken scroll of membership to a mere seven names.
The Mandarins were not swagger- ing fighters, like the Hung Teng tong- sters—the dreaded Red Lamps; nor did they boast impressive headquar- ters with gilded doorways and lac-
10
Frightened : Mandarins)
By Walter C Broun
‘Author of “The One-Eyed Mask,” “The Camphorwood Chest,” etc.
Ree eee Frightened of the quered walls, like the great Tsin Tien ` ison the Tong.
Blue Death, the — aes The meeting-place of the Man- Police Surgeon Said Didn't darins was a single room on the second Exist floor of the Little Shanghai Restau- rant—meetings marked by a brooding
and rather sinister atmosphere as each Mandarin surveyed the other with the sly, slantwise glance of secret enemies. Sergeant Dennis O'Hara, the famed.
“Sah-jin” of the Chinatown Squad, having a pungent sense of humor, al- ways referred to the Mandarin Tong as “the Graveyard Club.” And he called those strangely uneasy meet- ings of the Seven Mandarins “the Death Watch.”
10 ` 43
44
_ But both these phrases of O’Hara’s were no more than literal truth, for the found- ing charter of the Mandarins specified that if the membership ever declined until only five names remained on the scrolls, the Tong should be disbanded, and the long- cumulated surplus in the Mandarin treas- uty be divided equally among the five for- tunate survivors. The exact amount of that surplus was a secret known only to the Seven Mandar-
ins and to Lee Shu the Chinese banker,.
-but rumor whispered that it was a truly solid sum, so much so that each of the -Lucky Five could live out his years in the splendor of a genuine red-button man- darin.
But this stroke of good fortune waited only for five of the Mandarins—and they were seven. Two of them must pass into the Shadow-World to join their honorable ancestors before this fabled “Bone-Money” treasure could be broken up and divided. Who, then, would be the unlucky two? *
Who? That was the question the Seven Mandarins pondered uneasily as they watched each other and waited for the Lords of Destiny to set the Wheel of For- tune spinning.
“There’s dynamite in that Mandarin set- up,” Sergeant O'Hara remarked several times. “They meet and play fan-tan and wait for each other to die. Some day, one of ’em’s going to get impatient for his share of the money, and then hell will break loose.”
A very shrewd guess on the sergeant’s part, for on a certain moonless night a significant event took place in a well-known house on Lantern Court, and the black shadow of Yo Fei, God of Sudden Death, struck chill fear into the Seven Man- darins.
‘On this fateful night, a silent-footed thief broke into the house of Meng Tai the apothecary and stole a small crystal bottle containing a poison- powder known as Blue Death.
This Blue Death, as the greatly agitated
SHORT STORIES
Meng Tai explained to Sergeant O’Hara, is made from the blossoms of a certain creep- ing vine found high up in the rocky gorges of the Yangtze River. A few grains of the powder is valuable as a medicine, but a small pinch of it makes a deadly
poison. “Was there much of this stuff in the bottle?” O’Hara asked.
“Enough to send half a hundred Sons of Han to their ancestors!” Meng. Tai wailed.
“Damn!” O'Hara swore fervently. “That puts us in a hell of a spot—we sit around waiting for somebody to be mur- dered!” He paced to and fro angrily, then asked abruptly. “What are the symptoms of Blue Death poisoning?”
Te slant-eyed apothecary explained,
slowly and carefully. At first the un- lucky victim staggered about like one who had swallowed too much samshu, but un- able to cry out for help, because the poison clutches at the throat like a tightening noose until the unfortunate one collapsed as his strength ebbed away. Death was a matter of only an hour or so—
“Isn't there an antidote?” O'Hara de- manded.
“No, Sah-jin,” Meng Tai replied, shak- ing his head sadly.
“Well, Meng, spread the news around —warn everybody about this stolen poison —post some kind of a notice about it on the bulletin board at Long Jon’s Tea House.”
“Will do!” Meng Tai assured, and Ser- geant O’Hara took his departure, a thoughtful frown knotting his brows as he groped in vain for a method of heading off the stealthy terror that lay in wait for some unsuspecting Son of Han.
But several days passed, and the Blue Death failed to strike. Meng Tai had sptead the news of the robbery far and wide, and had posted words of warning in large writing on the south wall of Long Jon’s Tea House, where the crowds on
10
THE SEVEN FRIGHTENED MANDARINS
Mulberry Lane could not fail to see it. More days passed, and still no Son of Han had heard the black fist of Yo Fei come knocking at his door in a sharp sum- mons to the Shadow-World. Indeed, there were some who scoffed openly at Meng Tai’s sombre notice—notably Cham Kee, the ¢u-chun of the Seven Mandarins.
Sergeant O’Hara was sitting alone at dinner one evening in the Little Shanghai Restaurant, when he saw Cham Kee and his brother Cham Loh come down the nar- row side staircase that led to the meeting- room of the Mandarins on the floor above.
In height, weight and features the two Chams resembled each other almost as closely as twins. But Cham Loh, the elder, always wore a yellow shaam and a pait of dark glasses, for he suffered from an eye- ailment that left him half-blind. Cham Kee, the younger, was wearing his custom- ary blue shaam and the blood-jade ring that marked him as a tong chief.
“Ala wah, Sah-jin!” Cham Kee called out, and guided his brother toward O’Hara’s table.
“Wah!” O'Hara replied. “Are the Man- datins meeting tonight?”
“No, Sah-jin,” Cham Kee replied. “We come here to find my brother's word-glasses . he leave behind at last meeting.” He chuckled as he held up a pair of thick- lensed reading spectacles. “Two-three time every week he lose them somewhere, I think I fix them on chain around Cham Loh’s neck.”
“O’Hara’s eye was caught by the ornate, long-stemmed Chinese pipe in Cham Kee’s hand. Bands of engraved fei-tsui jade circled the long bamboo stem, and the solid silver bowl was mounted in a block of rare moon-jade. :
“That’s quite a fancy piper you've got there, Cham Kee,” O'Hara complimented.
“Aye!” the éz-chun beamed, holding it up proudly. “By Tao, there is no finer smoking-pipe in all Chinatown.”
Behind his dark glasses, Cham Loh’s eyes twinkled. “It is such Number
10 :
45
One pipe, Sah-jin, that my brother fears to smoke it, lest it become stained and dulled. Of what use is a pipe that is never smoked?”
~ “Not so, brother!” the tw-chun grinned amiably. “Is it fitting that a dish of Ming porcelain be used for plain boiled rice? I seek for a Number One tobacco worthy of my Number One pipe.”
They all laughed then, and presently Cham Loh said to O'Hara, “Sah-jin, have you found out the night-thief who steal the Blue Death from Meng Tai’s house in Lantern Court?”
“No, not yet,” O'Hara answeted. got away with the poison powder, all right, but if he tries to use it he’ll be putting a rope around his own neck. He can strike once, but that'll be his finish. We're wait- ing for him!” 7
A bland smile crept into Sham Kee’s face. Sah-jin.”
O'Hara threw a sharp glance at the /x- chun. “What do you mean, Cham?”
Cham Kee’s smile widened. “Sah-jin, since Meng Tai cried out in a loud voice about the stolen Blue Death, his-trade in pills and potions shows great increase. If any Son of Han suffers now from the small- est pain-devil he rushes with all speed to Lantern Court, shaking with fear that he is seized by the Blue Death.”
“I see,” O'Hara mused. “You think it was a fake robbery—that Meng Tai is just throwing a scare into everybody to increase his business?”
Cham Kee laughed softly. “I say noth- ing against Meng Tai, but I observe that his purse grows fat as a summer melon, so that he has wine-sauce for his meat, and tiger-bone wine for his drink, and is given the Number One place at the fan- tan table in every House of Chance!”
After the brothers Cham had taken their departure, O'Hara sat in deep thought, turning Cham Kee’s words over in his mind. Was Meng Tai’s tale of the stolen Blue Death only a publicity stunt, Chinese
He
“Maybe you going wait long time,- —
46
style? Was there, even, such a thing as this Blue Death powder? O'Hara had de- scribed it to Doc Stanage, and the police surgeon had given a scornful snort of dis- belief —
“Well. Time holds the key to every lock, as the Chinks say,” O’Hara reminded himself as he stepped out into the gather- ing darkness of Mulberry Lane.
Later that evening Sergeant O'Hara found himself in Long Sword Alley, a nar- row thoroughfare given over to Chinese wine-shops and gambling bongs. O'Hara made it a point to drop in at these places every night for a quick glance around, but
he was shrewd enough never to visit them_
at a set time, nor in fixed order.
On this night’s rounds he stopped first at the Black Peacock — then the Happy Door—then the Singing Turtle, which was notorious as a gathering place of the swag- gering Red Lamp tongsters.
Sergeant O’Hara’s lips tightened in a frosty little smile at the sudden silence which fell upon the slant-eyed patrons of the Singing Turtle at his appearance in the doorway.
“Mukee-kai, Sah-jin!” the beady-eyed proprietor greeted in a very loud voice, whereupon the lights in the back room went out suddenly, followed by the scur- rying retreat of slippered footsteps through the rear door.
“One of these nights, Charlie,” O’Hara said to the grinning proprietor, “I'll come in the back way, and break up that fan-tan game of yours for keeps.”
“No catchee fan-tan my place,” Charlie replied blandly. “Me savvy Rice Face Law.”
The sergeant’s glance flicked over the room, and came to a surprised halt at a mild-featured Oriental sitting alone at a table near the teakwood counter.
“Ala wah, Ah Kim,” O'Hara said pleas- antly, for the yellow man was one of his oldest friends in Chinatown,
But to his surprise, Ah Kim’s reply was an insulting “Yang kwei tzu!” as he ges-
SHORT STORIES
tured swiftly with his left hand and then ` spat over his shoulder to make the “finger curse” doubly effective.
A touch of angry color came into O’Hara’s cheek as he heard little snicker- ing laughs break out here and there among the lounging Red Lamp tongsters, de- lighted to see the dreaded Blue Coat Sah- jin in danger of losing face. = :
O’Hara walked over to Ah Kim’s table and picked up the thick-bottomed glass that held Kim’s drink. He swirled the pale white liquid around in the glass, sniffed at it, then put it back on the table.
“Better stick to rice-wine, Kim,” O’Hara advised in level tones. “This Chinese whiskey is too high-powered for you. You are drunk.”
The yellow man swayed to his feet, scowling. “Ah Kim take no order from Rice Face man!” he snarled belligerently, and lurched over to the counter, banging his glass down noisily as he shouted “Make full, Charlie!”
“No more, Charlie!” O’Hara counter- manded, pushing the glass aside.
“Wang put tau!” Ah Kim cursed, sud- denly snatching a double-edged knife from his sleeve. As the bright blade glit- tered in the light, startled Red Lamps has- tily backed away from the dangerous area.
“Put that knife away, Kim!” O’Hara or- dered, standing up straight, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the yellow man. For a moment they stood measuring each other, then O’Hara took one step forward—and another—
Ah Kim fell back, pace by pace, then stepped swiftly behind a table, standing at . bay, fiercely clutching his weapon, his noisy breathing plainly audible in the hushed room.
Without taking his eyes from the flash- ing steel, O'Hara grasped the table and hurled it aside, stepping back just far enough to let Ah Kim’s furious thrust slash harmlessly through empty air.
Before Ah Kim could regain his balance, O'Hara closed in, seizing Kim’s knife-arm
10
}
Í
ae
THE SEVEN FRIGHTENED MANDARINS
and pinning him tight against the counter. Then O’Hara’s right hand cupped itself under Ah Kim's chin, slowly forcing his head back.
“Drop that knife—quick—or I'll break your back!” O’Hara warned, holding him helplessly across the sharp edge of the
. counter as he increased the pressure.
A” KIM made gurgling noises in his throat, and the bright steel clattered to the floor. O'Hara eased the punishing hold, but he did not release his prisoner. Taking a firm grip of the yellow man’s shaam, he pushed him across the room, kicked open the front door, and thrust him out into the street.
“Get on home, Kim, and sleep it off,” O'Hara growled. “What~in hell's the idea, trying to pull a knife on me? If it was anybody else, I’d run ‘em in. Go on, now—beat it, before you get into trouble.”
Ah Kim stood on the pavement, sway- ing unsteadily on his feet and drawing deep, hissing breaths as he glared at the Blue Coat Sah-jin.
O’Hara turned on his heel and went back inside the Singing Turtle, where the excited chattering died away abruptly on his return. He picked up Ah Kim’s knife, turning it over curiously in his hand before thrusting it into his pocket.
“How many drinks did Ah Kim have, Charlie?” he queried.
“Only one drink, Sah-jin,” the propri- etor replied.
“Then he must have been half drunk when he got here,” O’Hara declared. “He couldn’t get that potted on only one drink.”
“Ah Kim never ask for whiskey before,” Charlie remarked. “Always he drink noth- ing more strong than Shao-hsing wine. If I know whiskey make him gżla, I not sell it to him—Hai-eeeee!”
The high-pitched scream was wrenched from the startled proprietor as the front window of the wine-shop exploded with a jangling crash that showered slivers of broken glass all over the floor.
10°
47
O’Hara ran for the street, shielding his face against flying glass as a second missile from outside.demolished what was left of the Singing Turtle’s front window.
“Kim!” O’Hara shouted angrily, rushing across the pavement toward the drunken Oriental, who had just pried up another - loose brick for hurling. He grabbed the yellow man, and while they were wrestling for possession of the brick, Charlie came bounding out, brandishing a stone wine- bottle and screaming “Tsai kwei tzu!” as he lashed out at Ah Kim's head.
O'Hara saved Ah Kim from the furious blow by jerking him aside. “Lay off, Char- lie!” he snapped. “I'll handle this.”
“He break my window!” the enraged proprietor screamed. “You take him poh- liss yamen chop-chop—keep him lock up plenty long time!”
“Calm down,” O'Hara said, tightening his grip on Ah Kim. “You'll get the money for your broken window.”
“Not so! I pay nothing for window!” Ah Kim shouted.
“You'll pay for window—not go poh- liss yamen!” Ah Kim snarled, struggling and twisting like a madman until O'Hara subdued him with a relentless wristlock. The Sergeant’s police whistle brought a squad car rolling to the scene. Ah Kim entered the car without further resistance, and O'Hara squeezed in beside him.
“Precinct!” O’Hara ordered briefly, slamming the door.
AS the car started up, Ah Kim stuck out his head and yelled “Hsiao! Ching!” as parting insults to the already furious proprietor of the Singing Turtle.
At the Precinct, Ah Kim stood sullenly before the railing as the desk sergeant en- tered O’Hara’s charge on the blotter. He had refused to answer any questions or make any statement beyond a snarling “Ah Kim will pay nothing!”
“TIl talk to you in the morning, Kim,” — O'Hara said as the turnkey led him off to the cell-block. “A night behind bars may —
48 SHORT STORIES
change your mind.” But Ah Kim shuffled out without even turning his head.
The desk sergeant looked at the blotter. “Ah Kim? Isn’t he the same Chink you got out of a tight jam with one of the Five Tongs a couple months ago?”
O'Hara nodded.
“Well, that’s the way with these yellow devils,” the desk sergeant remarked. “You go out of your way to do one of ‘em a favor, and all the thanks you get is a knife in the back.”
“Forget about the knife,” O'Hara said. “Ah Kim didn’t know what he was doing. _He was all hopped up with that white
Chinese whiskey. The damn stuff looks just like water, but it'll blow your hat off.” “This must be a Chink holiday,” the desk’sergeant said. “Officer Burke brought in another Slant-eye a little while ago, also loaded to the tars.” “What was his name?” O’Hara asked. The desk sergeant flipped over a page . of the blotter. “Dai Yao,” he replied. “Lives on Pagoda Street. Know him?” “Dai Yao!” O'Hara exclaimed. “Say, that’s a queer coincidence! Dai Yao is one
of the Seven Mandarins—and so is Ah-
Kim!” :
“Well, the Mandarins must've had a wet meeting tonight,” the desk sergeant grinned. “This Dai Yao is in worse shape than Ah Kim. He really had a load aboard —couldn’t walk—couldn’t even talk right. He kept making noises like a sick frog. Burke thought he was trying to say some- thing, but all we could make out was ‘eng eye—eng eye’—”
“Holy Cats!” O'Hara exploded. “Where in hell was Burke’s brains! Dai Yao isn’t drunk—he’s been poisoned! Poisoned! He -was trying to call out for Meng Tai— Meng Tai the Chinese doctor! Quick! What's the cell number?”
“We didn’t put him in a cell,” the desk sergeant explained hastily. “He passed out cold on us, so we carried him into the ‘quad-room. Doc Stanage is in there now, working on him.”
O'Hara strode down the corridor and burst into the squad-room, Dai Yao lay stretched out on a rattan settee, looking remarkably like a dead Chinaman, while Doc Stanage, the stocky, red-faced police surgeon, hovered over him, frowning.and visibly perturbed.
“Sergeant!” Stanage barked, turning about at O’Hara’s hasty entrance. “I’m afraid we've got a hospital case here. They told me this Chinaman was drunk—but it’s more than that. Offhand, I'd say he was under the influence of some powerful drug—”
“He’s been poisoned, Doc!” O'Hara cut in. “He’s got a dose of a poison-powder called Blue Death.”
“Blue Death!” Stanage echoed. “You mean that stuff you were telling me about—”
“Yes,” O'Hara snapped. “The poison you said didn’t exist. Better move fast, Doc. Meng Tai told me it causes death in about an-hour.”
Doc Stanage phoned the hospital for an ambulance, and while they were waiting, Officer Burke reported to the squad-room.
“Look here, Burke,” O’Hara stormed angrily, “I warned you to’ watch out for the Blue Death. I described all the symp- toms to you. So what happens? You bring Dai Yao in here and enter him on the blotter as a drunk!”
Burke’s rugged face reddened. “I’m sorry, Sarge. I didn’t forget. I was watch- in’ out for that Chink poison, but Dai Yao fooled me. I figured he was just liquored up—you could smell it on him strong enough.” =
“Well, what happened?” O'Hara snapped. “Why'd you run him in?”
“He came staggerin’ along Pagoda Street,” Burke explained, “wobblin’ all over the pavement. So I stopped him. ‘Better go on back home and take 4 sleep,’ I told him. I tried to turn him around, but he kept pushin’ and shovin’ to get past me—”
“Naturally!” O'Hara cut in. “Dai Yao
10
knew he was poisoned. He was trying to get to Meng Tai in Lantern Court.”
“Well, I couldn’t make out what he was mumblin’,” Burke declared. “Then he started swingin’ at me. By that time a bunch of Chinks had gathered around to watch the fun, so I ran him in.”
O’Hara stood frowning in thought. “All right, Burke. I think we’ll take Dai Yao’s keys and go have a look-see at his lodgings. Maybe we can find out how that poison was given to him.”
Dai Yao lived in one of the little, toy- like brick houses which lined both sides of Pagoda Street. O’Hara unlocked the front door with Dai Yao’s key, and they stepped into the dark, silent hallway.
“The light’s still omin the back room,” O’Hara remarked, and sniffed the air. “There's a queer smell, too—like hot metal.”
They entered the lighted room. A chair lay overturned beside a table which held a clay flagon, a porcelain wine cup, and a dish of moon-cakes. The scorched smell came from the gas stove, where O’Hara hastily turned off the blue flames under a tea-kettle that had boiled dry, and was beginning to crackle and smoke.
O'Hara lifted the half-filled wine cup and smelled the liquor. “Lung-shao,” he declared. “Chinese brandy.”
“Lights on, gas stove going, drink half- finished,” Burke said. “Dai Yao must’ve run out of here in a hell of a hurry.”
“So would you, Burke, if you realized all of a sudden that you'd swallowed a dose of the Blue Death,” O’Hara retorted. “The question is—was Dai Yao alone here at the time?”
“There’s only one wine cup on the table,” Burke pointed out.
“Yes, but there’s the overturned chair,” O'Hara replied. “Did Dai Yao just knock it over in his excitement, or did he have _ & fight with someone—someone who tried to prevent his running out for help?”
Burke glanced around the room. “Well, Sarge, if Dai Yao had a visitor, he must’ve
20,
THE SEVEN FRIGHTENED MANDARINS
= 49
come in by the front door. There are bar. on all these windows—good, thick bars.”
“I know that,” O’Hara nodded. “The bars were put up years ago. Mark Sin, the gambler, used to live in this house, before he got prosperous enough to move his fan- tan tables to Paradise Court. But poisoners usually enter by the front door, Burke. Poison is the weapon of treachery.”
“But who'd want to knock off Dai Yao?” Burke argued. “He’s a quiet, harm- less Chink. He’s got no relatives, and he’s not a rich man, with a lot of cash lying around—”
O'Hara gave a grim smile. “Dai Yao’ is one of the Seven Mandarins.”
“Oh-oh!” Burke exclaimed. “So Dai Yao belongs to the Graveyard Club, eh?
_It begins to add up, Sarge! One of the
Mandarins gets to thinkin’ it’s about time that juicy cash-melon was cut up, so he pays a nice, friendly little call on Dai Yao —and puts poison in his liquor!”
“So far it’s only guesswork,” O'Hara replied, “but TIl string along on that theory until a better one turns up.”
O'Hara sniffed again at the /ung-shao, both in the clay flagon and in the half- emptied cup, but could detect no unusual odor. He broke up several of the moon- cakes, examining the pieces for traces of discoloration.
“All right, Burke,” O’Hara said, “let's have a look at the other rooms.”
They made a careful tour of the little house, but found nothing of special in- terest, and finally returned to the room from which Dai Yao had fled so hurriedly. O'Hara put the stopper back into the clay flagon, found an empty bottle for the lung- shao that remained in the wine cup, and wrapped up the moon-cakes.
“Take these back to the Precinct, Burke,” he ordered. “We'll send ‘em to the laboratory at Headquarters and have them analyzed.”
“Okay, Sarge,” Burke replied. “You're stayin’ on here for a while?”
“No, I'll be leaving as soon as I jock
50 .
up,” O'Hara declared. “But I’ve got an- other stop to make on the way back.”
Burke left with the suspected evidence and O’Hara, having made sure that the rear door was locked and bolted, was walk- ing back across the room when something ctunched under his foot.
Looking down, he saw a little patch of crushed blue powder on the bare floor, and a name leaped into his mind. “Blue Death!” he thought. “This must be some of the stolen poison!”
Instantly he was down on his knees, brushing the powder onto a sheet of paper. And suddenly he caught sight of a similar blue patch, several feet away.
“TIL be damned!” O'Hara muttered. “I guess Burke stepped on that one, and never noticed. I wonder if there are any more around?”
Pushing the table and chair out of the way, O’Hara crouched down, running the flashlight beam across the worn floor- boards. A moment later he picked up a round blue pellet about the size of a dried pea. So the poisoner had shaped the deadly powder into neat, round pills, to make it easier to handle!
O'Hara continued his search of the floor, and turned up still another pellet, lying close to the baseboard. He stood up, star- ing at the pair of lethal blue pills rolling about in his palm,
“Then Dai Yao did have a visitor to- night—the poisoner himself!” he said half- aloud. “And he was nervous about his job—so damned nervous that he spilled his blue pills ali over the floor.”
But at once a puzzling objection to this theory presented itself to his mind. Why, then, had Dai Yao not spoken the poi- soner’s name when he encountered Burke outside the house? Had the Blue Death taken so tight a grip of him by that time that he could only speak in a useless mumble?
“Well, that'll all be cleared up in jig- time if Dai Yao pulls through,” O'Hara muttered. And with his dramatic new evi-
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dence carefully wrapped away in an inner pocket, he left the house of Dai Yao in Pagoda Street,
Crossing Mulberry Lane, he plunged. into a dark street of blank-windowed lodg- ing houses until he arrived at the number where Ah Kim had his quarters.
O'Hara looked up with an ironic smile at the painted advertising banner dangling limply above the shabby doorway. “Prob- ably calls itself by some fancy name, like the Priceless Haven of Heavenly Rest,” he thought as he went up the brownstone steps.
The outer door was unlocked, and he stepped inside, moving quietly, but at once a slant-eyed face popped out from the depths of the hall, visibly startled at seeing a White Devil enter.
“Hai!” O'Hara called. “I’m Sergeant O'Hara of the Chinatown Squad. I want to see Ah Kim’s room.”
“Ah Kim not here, Sah-jin,” the old Oriental answered. “He go out long time —his door is lock.”
“That’s all right,” O'Hara said. “I've got the key.”
A startled look came into the slant eyes.
“Hola! Ah Kim made trouble with poh- liss?” ~ . “Nothing to get excited about,” O'Hara explained. “Ah Kim had a little too much to drink, that’s all. Now show me his room —chop-chop.”
“Can do,” the yellow man replied, and led the way up the stairs to a room at the rear of the second floor. O'Hara turned Ah Kim’s key in the lock and entered, motioning to the proprietor to remain outside.
At first glance there was no sign of disorder in Ah Kim’s plainly furnished room, but O’Hara’s keen glance came to a sudden stop at a large wire bird-cage hang- ing beside the window. He crossed to the cage, staring intently at the green-and-red- feathered parrot which lay inside, lifeless, its eyes filmed over, its sharp claws crisped, its beak stretched half open. :
10
THE SEVEN FRIGHTENED MANDARINS ie
Poking his finger between the wires he
prodded the dead bird. Then he turned _
around, slowly surveying every corner of the room. A stone bottle of rice wine attracted his eye, and he went over and picked it up. The bottle left a wet ring where it had been standing, but it was quite empty of liquor, yielding only a stray drop or two when O’Hara held it upside down,
Frowning, he set down the empty bottle and walked around the room, examining one thing and another. Then he went to the window, raised the sash, and circled his flashlight briefly over the back room that extended out over the kitchen of the first floor.
A dark patch of moisture on the red tin roof just under the windowsill drew his attention, and he focused the beam on it, leaning far out over the sill and sniffing until he caught the unmistakable odor of rice wine.
“Now why the devil did Ah Kim empty that bottle onto the roof?” O'Hara asked himself as he closed and locked the win- dow. With a last look at the dead parrot, he left Ah Kim’s room, locking the door behind him and pocketing the key.
‘The slant-eyed proprietor was waiting quietly in the hall. “You make finish, Sah-jin?” he inquired.
“Yes,” O'Hara said, then asked abruptly “Did Ah Kim have any visitors tonight, either before or after he went out?” ~ “No, Sah-jin,” was the prompt reply.
“All right,” O'Hara said. “See to it that nobody gets into that room, unless I send a Blue Coat man with the key. And don’t tell anyone about my visit. Savvy?”
“Me savvy,” the old Chinaman an- swered,
ERGEANT O'HARA returned to the
x Precinct, where his first move was to phone Doctor Stanage at the hospital and inquire about Dai Yao’s condition.
“Not much change, Sergeant,” the police surgeon informed him. “He’s still
10
unconscious, but at least he’s not worse. I’m giving him a fifty-fifty chance to pull through.”
Then O’Hara sent for Detective Fara- day, his chief assistant, and showed him the evidence collected at Dai Yao’s house —the suspected Jung-shao, the moon-cakes and the Blue Death powder.
“Faraday, I want you to go to the hos- pital and stand by in Dai Yao’s room in case he recovers consciousness. If he does, question him instantly. I think he must know who poisoned him—if he doesn't, he can certainly tell us who has visited him lately, and so had an opportunity to plant the poison.” `
After Faraday had gone O’Hara ticketed the Dai Yao evidence and made it into a package for the crime laboratory at Head- —
uarters,
“Now for Ah Kim!” he said, opening a desk drawer and. taking out the knife he
had wrested from the berserk Oriental in
the bar of the Singing Turtle.
Ah Kim was lying quietly on his cot in Cell 8 when the turnkey opened the cell- door for Sergeant O’Hara. The Chinaman sat up alertly, putting on a sullen scowl at sight of his visitor.
“Go away! Ah Kim not want make talk!” he shrilled. “If Rice Face Law say Ah Kim must pay money for broken win- dow or stay thirty days in poh-liss yamen— Ah Kim still pay nothing!”
“Thirty days?” O'Hara repeated with a grim smile. “You tried to knife me, Kim. You can get a full year in jail for assault- ing an officer.”
Ah Kim’s head jerked back. He blinked at O'Hara, running his tongue across dry lips. Then he braced himself, a smoldet- ing gleam in his black eyes. “Wah!” he said defiantly.
For a few moments O’Hara studied him in silence. Then he reached into his pocket and held up the gleaming, double-edged knife.
“How long have you been carrying a knife, Ah Kim?”
52
“Carry knife long time,” Ah Kim de- clared.
“Not this one,” O’Hara contradicted. “This is a brand-new knife, with the orig- inal shine still on the blade. It’s never been used, never been scoured or polished. When did you buy it, Kim—tonighi?”
Ah Kim made no reply to the question, but O’Hara saw that his chance shot had struck home. Kim's black eyes had in-
-stantly turned wary, his face freezing into
a blank yellow mask.
“You might just as well spill it, Kim,” O'Hara said evenly. “You're not fooling me about what happened tonight at the Singing Turtle. You weren't drunk—you were just putting on an act. And why? Because you wanted to be arrested! You figured if you pulled a knife on me, I'd run you in. But I didn’t—so you picked up a brick and smashed that window to make sure you'd be locked up!”
Ah Kim made a swift gesture. “Tsai! You make gila talk, Sah-jin.”
“So I’m crazy?” O° said. “Al right, we'll just say you had*too much to drink and it went to your head. It's your first offense, so we'll forget all about the knife and the broken window. You're free, Kim —all you have to do is walk out through
that door and go on home.”
But Ah Kim did not accept the invita- tion. He stood as though rooted to the spot, staring at O'Hara and drawing deep,
__ hissing breaths. é
“So you don’t want to be a free man?” “O'Hara taunted. “You're afraid, Kim—
€ afraid the same thing’ll happen to you as
happened to Dai Yao tonight!”
“Dai Yao!" Ah Kim stared at him with concentrated intensity. “What happen to Dai Yao?”
“He drank a cup of lung-shao that had the Blue Death in it.”
* Ai-yee!” Ah Kim quavered, and sank down upon the prison cot, trembling.
O'Hara grasped the front of the yellow man's shaam. “Listen, Kim—I know what's going on! It was one of your
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brother-Mandarins who stole that bottle of poison from Meng Tai’s house. You know it, too, or you wouldn’t be trying to find safety in a police cell! So speak your piece chop-chop—or out you go, and take your chances of being next in line for the Blue Death!”
“Sah-jin, help me!” Ah Kim said shak- ily. “Already I am marked for the Num- ber Two death! It is only by the mercy of Tao that I have escape from the same Long Sleep which sent Dai Yao to his ancestors!”
“I didn’t say Dai Yao was dead,” O'Hara cut in. “We rushed him off to a hospital—we may be able to save him.”
“Dai Yao will surely die,” Ah Kim pre- dicted, shaking his head gloomily. “If not tonight, then tomorrow, or the day be- yond. And Ah Kim also will be dead man if you send me from poh-liss yamen. The Blue Death will strike at me again!”
“Again?” O'Hara echoed. “You mean one attempt has already been made?”
“Aye!” Ah Kim replied with a shiver. “The Blue Death was put secretly into a bottle of rice wine that stands upon a shelf in my lodgings. Tonight I stood’ with one foot across the threshold of the- Shadow-World, for I had poured myself a cup of this death-drink and had lifted it halfway to my lips when the Lords of Des- tiny whispered a warning to me.”
“What happened?” O'Hara asked.
“A life was lost, to save mine,” Ah Kim replied. “The life of my parrot, Shem. This feather-devil of mine has great liking for rice wine, so when I drink, it is my custom to pour a little of it into the water- cup that is fastened to the cage. Tonight, Sah-jin, Shem drank of the wine, then made strange sounds and fell down from his wooden bar. Almost at once Shem was dead!”
“What'd you do then?” O'Hara de- manded.
“Sah-jin, I knew it must be the Blue - Death, and I was stricken with Number One fear. With trembling hands -E
10
WHE SEVEN FRIGHTENED MANDARINS 53
snatched up the bottle and my filled cup and flung the death-wine from my win- dow. Then I burned a packet of paper prayers to Father Tao, Praying for wisdom in this hour of peril.”
“And then you hit on the idea of getting yourself arrested?” O'Hara queried.
“Aye!” Ah Kim answered. “An inner
“voice spoke to me, saying: Go forth and seek a quarrel with a Blue Coat Man. He will be angered and carry you off to the poh-liss yamen, where mu. will be safe from all danger.”
“Not a bad plan, Kim,” O’Hara said with a dry smile. “But the question is— who put the poison in your rice wine?”
Ah Kim shook his head. “Who can say? Yesterday I take drink from same boitle, and nothing happen.”
“Haven’t you had any visitors since then?”
“No one!” Ah Kim replied, ‘looking at O’Hara with haggard eyes. “Sah-jin, you will not send me away from this place of safety? I am marked for the Blue Death, even as the luckless Dai Yao! If you drive me forth upon the streets, how can I eat food, or take drink, knowing that each mouthful may contain the poison powder?”
“All right, Kim,” O’Hara replied. “You can stay here—at least for the time being.”
“Hsieh! Hsieh! Kan hsieh!” Ah Kim said fervently.
Returning to the Squad office, O'Hara found Cham Kee, the #a-chun of the Seven Mandarins, anxiously awaiting him.
“Sah-jin,” Cham said excitedly, “is there truth in the tale that Ah Kim has broken forth this night with deeds of unseemly and foolish violence? It is said that in a drunken fever he destroyed the windows of the Singing Turtle and fought against you with drawn knife!”
“That’s tight,” O'Hara answered. “Ah Kim is downstairs in a cell.”
“Ai-yah!” Cham Kee wailed. “He has put a stain upon the honor of the Mandar- ins! Sah-jin, if it is question of damage money, I will pay for Ah Kim’s release,
ie
lest all of us who are his tong-brothers suffer loss of face before the Sons of Han.”
O'Hara answered quietly. “There's some- thing a great deal more serious to be dealt with first. I’m glad you’re here, Cham. I was just about to send for you. Dai Yao is in the hospital—poisoned by the Blue Death.”
“Dai Yao! Poisoned!” Cham Kee ex- claimed, springing to his feet. _
“Dai Yao drank some poisoned /ung- shao,” O'Hara explained. “Cham, I want you to call a special meeting of the Man- darins right away—chop-chop. I'll come over to the tong-room at the Little Shang- hai in about an hour. I want to talk to them—warn them of the danger hanging over their heads.”
Cham Kee stared at him, round-eyed, the long-stemmed bamboo pipe clutched in fingers that suddenly began to tremble. “Sah-jin!” he gasped. “You think it is one of the Mandarins who give Dai Yao the death powder?”
O'Hara nodded gravely. “I think so. Now get going, Cham, and round up the members. I'll give you the details about Dai Yao at the meeting.”
“Sah-jin, I go with the speed of an arrow!” the t#-chun promised, hurrying from the Precinct.
A little later Detective Driscoll came back from his routine rounds, and O'Hara related the whole of the night’s events to him. Driscoll listened to the strange story in thoughtful silence,
~ “Sarge,” he said at, the end, “do you think Ah Kim’s story is on the level?”
“Yes, I do,” O'Hara replied. “It checks with everything I saw when I looked over his room—and Kim didn’t know I’d made that search.”
“Well,” Driscoll said slowly, “if Ah Kim’s story is true, he certainly had a nar- row escape. It just occurred to me that maybe he’s the one who stole the bottle of Blue Death, and made up this yarn to serve as a sort of smoke-screen. Kim could
54
have poisoned that parrot himself, you know.”
O’Hara nodded. “Suppose you go to work on that angle, Driscoll. Here are Ah Kim's keys. I want that dead parrot and the water-dish from its cage. While you're there, give the place a thorough going-over. But I'm pretty sure you won't find the rest of the stolen poison in Ah Kim’s room.”
“Why not?” Driscoll challenged.
“Because there are seven members left in the Mandarin Tong,” O'Hara explained, “Two of them must die before that money can be split up. Dai Yao's death alone wouldn’t turn the trick—one more Man- darin would have to be knocked off, and I don’t see how Ah Kim could accomplish that while he’s locked up in a cell.”
And Sergeant O’Hara’s prediction proved accurate, for when Driscoll re- turned from his mission he reported that his most painstaking search of Ah Kim’s quarters had yielded nothing to support his suspicions.
“But I’m still not quite satisfied, Sarge,” he added. “It strikes me as queer that Ah Kim should empty the poisoned wine out the back window.”
“The instinct of panic,” -O'Hara sug- gested. “Look, Driscoll, if Ah Kim poisoned his own parrot, as you seem to think, wouldn’t he naturally back up his own end of the story by showing us a bottle of poisoned wine?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to waste that much of the poison,” Driscoll countered.
“The poisoner has no need to econo- mize,” O'Hara said grimly. to Meng Tai, there was enough Blue Death in that stolen bottle to kill off fifty Man- darins. That reminds me, I'd better hurry over to the Little Shanghai, or I'll be late for the meeting.”
~ Soon Yet, the moon-faced proprietor of
the Little Shanghai, who also was one of the Seven Mandarins, was hovering anx- iously near the front door as Sergeant O'Hara entered.
“Ala wah, Sab-jin,” he greeted. “My
“According ~-
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brothers of the Mandarin await your pres- ence in.our meeting place.” He led the way up the half-hidden side staircase to the floor above, pausing at a locked door painted with the official insignia of the Mandarin Tong.
“I am Keeper of the Keys, Sah-jin,” he explained, unlocking the door and beckon- ing, his visitor to enter.
O'Hara threw a searching glance at the four slant-eyed tongsters who waited in that richly decorated meeting room— waited in an uneasy silence woven of mu- tual suspicion, doubt—and fear.
The sergeant knew them all by sight and by name. There was Bow Gat, with his sharp eyes and bristling gray hair— Ging Soo, lean and silent, with his deeply pockmarked face—pot-bellied Soon Yet— and the brothers Cham. $
“Which one? Which one?” O'Hara mut- tered to himself, letting his probing glance slip from one to another. Bow Gat was watching him with a peculiarly intent stare, and Cham Loh was removing his dark glasses, putting on the thick-lensed spec- tacles that gave his eyes a bulging, owlish look.
. Soon Yet locked the door from the in- side, whereupon the blue-robed Cham Kee stepped forward, bowing. “Sah-jin, as ta- chun of the Mandarins I give you honor- able welcome to our humble place of meet- ing. We await your words on the sorrow- ful fate of our brother Dai Yao.”
Sergeant O'Hara faced the five Mandar- ins, his face and voice equally stern. “I won't waste time beating around the bush. All of you know why I am here. Dai Yao has been poisoned with the Blue Death powder stolen from Meng Tao's house, and now I know that the man who stole it was one of the Mandarins.”
Cham Kee made a gesture of protest. “Have you proof of this, Sah-jin? True, Dai Yao is a brother Mandarin, but his death alone would not release the treasure money that is waiting to be divided. For that, two deaths would be necessary.”
= 10
THE SEVEN FRIGHTENED MANDARINS 55
“And that second death was arranged for!” O'Hara countered grimly. “Some of this same death-powder was put into a bottle of rice wine belonging to Ah Kim. Luckily, he escaped the trap. Ah Kim is now in a police cell, by his own request, because that is the only safe place of refuge he could think of.”
O’Hara lifted his hand to silence the storm of gasps and startled exclamations that followed his revelation of the attempt on Ah Kim’s life.
“The poisoner’s plan has failed,” he continued. “All seven Mandarins are still alive, but he has plenty of the Blue Death powder left, and it’s almost certain that he will try again!”
Those words brought.a profound hush upon the room—the taut silence of sharply caught breaths. The five slant-eyed faces stared at him—hblank, stolid masks now, except for their eyes, where a rising tide of panicky terror was plainly visible.
“I intend to find. that bottle of Blue Death,” O'Hara continued grimly, “and TIl find the man who stole it!”
Bow Gat was suddenly on his feet, his voice shrill, “Then you have not far to look, Sah-jin, for the cursed Master of the Blue Death is here in this room!”
“Who do you mean?” O'Hara ex- claimed.
Bow Gat swung around and leveled an accusing finger. “It is you, Ging Soo!”
The pock-marked: tongster sprang up, sputtering and stammering in the face of this sudden accusation. “By Tao—have you gone mad, Bow Gat?”
Bow Gat glared at him, then suddenly seached inside his shaam and produced a bottle with a red wax seal. “Do you not know this bottle, Ging Soo? Did I not receive it from your hands? Hoya! For Ah Kim it was poison in rice wine—for Dai Yao it was lang-shao—for Bow Gat it is shao-hsing wine!”
O'Hara grabbed the bottle. “You say Ging Soo gave you this bottle of shao- hsing? And you think it’s poisoned?”
10,
“Wah! Hearken to my words!” Bow Gat replied excitedly. “Today I had Ging Soo </