The Devil—With Wings (2 page)

He leveled his .45 and squeezed. The captain was hastily throwing himself backward and out of sight. Forsythe's bullet sent the glass from the door in a stinging, glittering shower.

Forsythe had also forgotten his loaded chamber.

He whirled and raced down toward the steps. The officers by the car would be on the alert and he had to pass them. Behind him he heard a window crash open. The captain's shrill voice blasted a warning down at the sidewalk.

Forsythe took the steps four at a time, almost soaring through the blackness on the wings of his wind-harried jacket. He sped into the lower corridor and stopped just inside the main door, hastily loading his .45.

The two officers were stepping stiffly toward the entrance, watchful, guns in hand.

Forsythe leaped into sight.

One officer fired too fast, the other was too slow.

The .45 roared twice, the explosions blurring together. One Japanese sprawled out at full length. The other sagged slowly to his knees, still trying to bring up his gun.

The chauffeur leaped out of the car, stung to action by the yapping staccato of orders from the captain above. The chauffeur drew and chopped a frightened shot at the black terror which was streaking toward him off the steps.

Forsythe fired into the chauffeur's face and whipped around to stab two more bullets at the window.

The captain dodged back, shooting as he went at the small moving target under him.

Forsythe leaped into cover behind the car. He was waiting for the captain above to show himself again, but that intelligent intelligence officer was not given to foolhardy chances except when absolutely necessary. He made no appearance.

With a slow, amused grin, Forsythe drew out a poster and carefully slid it under the windshield wiper of the car.

He sent one more shot at the empty window and then rocketed down the street and out of sight into an alley. The sound of his boots faded out.

The chilly, hard light from the
arc lamp
beat down on three sprawled bodies and upon the white poster which read:

 

$50,000 GOLD
WILL BE PAID BY
THE IMPERIAL JAPANESE GOVERNMENT
FOR THE HEAD OF THE DEVIL WITH WINGS

Wanted for:

Shooting down
KDA-5
Pursuit plane at
Harbin
.

Derailing Imperial troop-train at
Mukden
.

Murder of Chinese advisor Shu-Sen.

Bombing Jelhi.

Killing government agent N-38 URGA.

High treason.

Espionage.

The murder of Robert Weston in Mongolia.

The killing of four…

 

Captain Shinohari stepped over the bodies on the walk and stood for some time looking at the poster.

He drew his lips back from his teeth and looked off into the northwest. A sign swinging in the wind against the cold moon made a silhouette like a
gibbet
.

CHAPTER TWO

Vengeance

T
HE
room was aloof from the rest of the café. The light which came from the table lamp did not reach higher than a man's thighs, leaving the odd impression that the room was only half-real, cutting the tables and chairs off at the halfway mark and showing up nothing above that point.

Forsythe's belt buckle was the only thing which marked his presence at a smaller table against the wall—the buckle and the toes of his outwardly sprawled black boots. Above that, Forsythe was a part of the dimness.

Through the partly opened door he could see the main room of the café. It was a smoky, blurred sight, knifed here and there by the colored gowns of the singsong girls who moved and made green and yellow and red patches against the somber gowns of the Chinese men.

A fife and a
fiddle with a snakeskin head
could be heard shrilly accompanying the high-pitched voices of unseen singers, who ranged up and down the Chinese music scale to tell a story of two warriors lost in a far country and dreaming of home.

The underlying buzz of conversation was as jerky as the music.

But that was in the main room. The sill of the door marked a boundary between the carefree drinkers and the silently waiting Forsythe.

A waiter cautiously slid into the cubicle and placed hot rice wine timorously beside the hand of the mute Forsythe.

Forsythe's hand moved into the light. It was a slender hand, suggesting in its quick strength a
Toledo
blade. He raised the glass up into the darkness and set it back again—empty.

The waiter sidled out. For an instant the door was thrown wide and the outside beams spread across Forsythe's features. He had removed his helmet and goggles and without their gruesomeness, he looked young, not more than thirty. His hair was sun-bleached and unruly. The eyes were deeply set into the striking face—eyes as pale as the silver of his buckle. Eyes which betokened crystal intelligence and capabilities.…

Few men were brave enough to talk about those capabilities.

The door shut and then burst open with a suddenness which sent Forsythe's hand stabbing toward his holster. The fingers relaxed and came back to the table.

“Forsythe!” said the newcomer excitedly.

“Shut the door, Ching.”

“Sure. You bet. I'm sorry. Looky here, Forsythe.…”

“Sit down and cool off.”

Ching was too excited to do that. He leaned across the table and stared through the lamplight with black eyes which snapped with eagerness. He was young, was Ching. He was an idealist. He had lost his Oriental calm at Yale.

“Forsythe, there's a woman looking for you.”

“What sort of a woman?”

“And the Japanese are spreading the net for you. We've got to get out of Port Arthur.”

“That's what they expect us to do.”

“Sure,” said Ching. “But, gee whiz, you can't stick around here and get yourself bumped off. I just passed a squad in the street. There isn't a place in town they'll leave untouched. What happened?”

“Never mind,” said Forsythe. “You mentioned a woman.”

“Sure. You bet. An American. She's been going all over Port Arthur asking everybody where she can find
Akuma-no-Hané.
”

“You've seen her?”

“No. Of course not. But a clerk from the steamship office told me that a coolie who knows a waiter in the All Worlds Café who—”

“The grapevine. Certainly. What have you found out about her?”

“Her room-boy told me she's behind with her bill and hasn't eaten for two days. She's high-strung, out of her head because her brother—”

“Why does she want to meet me?”

“Nobody knows. But with the patrols out, I don't think—”

“An American, stranded.… What's her name, Ching?”

“Patricia Weston.”

Ching thought he saw Forsythe give a start. “Gosh, you know her?”

Forsythe tossed the looted letters before Ching. Ching's eager black eyes soaked up the words, his mouth sagged. “They're nuts! You didn't kill any guy named Weston!” Ching scowled. “They're trying to hang one of their own blunders on you.”

“Shinohari never blunders,” remarked Forsythe casually. “He controls the Records office. He had a very definite reason for doing away with an American engineer, another reason for making me the goat.”

“Political?”

Forsythe was grinning balefully. “Shinohari's reasons in this must have been personal. Japan would not be interested in one lone American engineer, could not risk international complications attendant to his death. Ching, Shinohari is up to something and he's trying to keep it from his superiors. By pinning this killing on me with these false records—”

“Aw,” said Ching, “the more I hear from these Japs, the less respect I've got for their noodles. We're trying to oust the well-known son of the universe,
Henry Pu Yi
. And that hasn't got a thing to do with—”

“You grow careless,” said Forsythe. “Ching, I think you had better slip over to her hotel and say that I'm waiting here to see her.”

“Maybe she's lined up with the Japanese Intelligence. This may be just another clumsy trap to—”

“She would not be so blatant about contacting me if she was Japanese Intelligence. Bring her here.”

Ching shrugged. “Okay. You're the boss. But this is liable to bring our old pal Shinohari right down on our ears.”

He went out and closed the door behind him.

Forsythe sat for some time looking into his empty glass and thinking about nothing in particular. He was not a nervous type and the life he had been leading for the last three years had only schooled him into better self-discipline.

He got up lazily and walked to the washbasin and mirror across the room. He lit the lamp there and held it up at the level of his shoulder, looking at his reflection. The curiosity in his study faded to weariness. He set the light down and poured out some water.

Puzzled with himself, he shaved carefully and then changed his shirt. He raised the lamp once more and looked at himself. He was not very pleased. The black silk was wrinkled and the white ideographs over the pocket were suddenly distasteful to him.

His lean face tightened into a grimace of disgust. He said slowly and mockingly, “The Devil With Wings.”

When the door opened again, Forsythe was seated at the small table, his face little more than a white blur by the light which seeped in from the main room.

Silhouetted against the lamp and smoke and shrill music stood Patricia Weston. Not even the bulk of her
marten
coat could hide the tension of her shapely body.

She seemed to be making a decision and then, with determination, she stepped forward, holding a leather purse in both hands.

Ching followed her and closed the door. He drew out a chair at the main table and seated her in such a way that the light was in her face—making it necessary for her to stare through it to see Forsythe in the darkness beyond.

A chair had scraped and she knew the man had risen. Leather creaked and she saw the silver of his buckle. He was seated again.

Forsythe looked steadily at her, saying nothing. At first he thought he was trying to read the thoughts which might lie behind her eyes, but suddenly he gave up that pretense.

She was beautiful!

He had never before seen eyes like that. They were vivid and deep, the eyes of a woman capable of great love and fury. Looking at her, he realized with a shock that she was not very big. He had thought otherwise. She certainly made the most of her five feet three. Dark strands of her brown hair curled out from under her flippant hat to lie smokily against the paleness of her brow.

He could feel the intensity of her. She was like a swift storm or a blazing sunrise. Her mouth was full and sweet—and impetuous.

With a shock Forsythe realized that his hands were trembling unaccountably.

“You came to see me,” said Forsythe with disbelief. “Why?”

“I came to see a man and I find myself staring into darkness.”

Her voice was barely controlled and in it there was an undercurrent of anger and decision.

“Of course,” said Forsythe. “That's for precaution, you know.”

He leaned forward and slid one of the posters under the light. She glanced at it.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” she said bitterly. “Why do they add to your ego?”

“You are upset about something,” said Forsythe. “Perhaps something I have done?”

She was under a terrific strain as she looked up from the poster.

“‘The murder of Robert Weston in Mongolia.'”

“Oh, now, see here,” protested Forsythe. “You can't go around believing every impossible rumor you hear. When that happened I was—”

“No! You can't tell me where you were because you were there. You murderer! He was worth a thousand of you! Because you could not otherwise obtain the Confucius—”

“I keep hearing this thing about Confucius. What is it?”

“A smooth liar, too? In keeping with your horrible reputation.” Her hands still clutched the bag in her lap.

Ching came around the table to stand beside Forsythe. He was nervous. He had not suspected the vitality of this woman and he was overawed by the way she dared speak to a man who had become legend.

“You are upset,” said Forsythe. “I give you my word I had nothing to do with the killing of Weston. Is he your brother?”

“So you even know that!”

“I make it my business to know things. For instance, it would not be wise to take that .25 automatic out of your purse.”

Forsythe underestimated her. He had thought to frighten her into forsaking the mission which was now altogether too clear.

She suddenly brought the bag into view, her right hand deep within it.

In a low, throbbing voice, she said, “Don't move.”

Ching stiffened. His hand started toward his holster but Forsythe stopped the motion.

Patricia Weston gradually pulled the purse away from in front of the wicked little automatic.

“Robert was all I had,” she said. “It was to pay our way out of this country. And then you killed him and left him to the wild dogs. You left me stranded here without money or friends because your rapacious greed—”

“Wait,” said Forsythe. “You don't understand.…”

“Oh, I understand well enough,” she said, getting up slowly, centering the .25 until Forsythe could look straight down the muzzle of it. “But I've gotten past caring what happens to
me
.”

“Miss Weston,” began Forsythe. “If you thought the blood money—”

“Blood money! I care nothing about that. I would not dirty my purse with it!”

He saw she was going to fire, but he was more amazed at her courage and passion than he was afraid of the bullet.

Her face was a drawn mask.

Ching shouted, “Look out!”

Red sparks ribboned past the lamp. The explosion made the flame leap convulsively and the thunder of the small weapon in those close confines hurt the head.

Three times ragged flame thundered from the small gun and then, as though suddenly realizing the thing she had done, she dropped the .25 and whirled, almost falling to the door.

Light showed in the opening for an instant and vanished. The small patter of her footsteps melted into the far-off shrilling of the singers and the clink of glasses in the café.

Ching, coming out of his daze, rushed angrily toward the door to follow. He tripped over Forsythe's boots and went sprawling across the pool of light on the floor. He lay there, swearing weakly in a mixture of English and Chinese.