The Devil—With Wings (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Attacked!

T
HE
fresh coolness of morning spread clear wine across the awakening world. The bleakness of the rolling dun hills was enlivened by the long purple shadows which lay all out of proportion to their mass. In the extreme slant of the sun, ten-foot blocklike houses made dark patches a hundred feet long.

It was an odd world, yellow and immense and grotesque, which held the attention of Patricia Weston. For minutes at a time she stared down upon the weirdness of the shadows and the hazy infinity of horizons.

The hood of shatterproof glass dulled the engine's roar to a lulling murmur. There was no sensation of speed though they traveled at better than two hundred and fifty miles an hour.

She turned and looked questioningly at lean, slangy Ching.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Ask
Akuma-no-Hané.
He's taking us there.”

“Akuma-no-Hané?”

“The Devil With Wings. Don't you talk Japanese?”

“Of course not.”

“That's a hell of a note. How'd you get along in Port Arthur?”

“You've been in the United States, haven't you,” she decided.

“Sure. Can't you tell Yale's alma mammy when you see one?”

“Yale! I used to know Tommy Bronson.”

“You did!” cried Ching, interested. “He lived in the room next to mine. Boy, could he play football! Greatest star we ever had. A good guy.”

“He…he was a friend of my brother's.”

“Hmm. Say! Was your brother the tennis star at
MIT
?”

“Yes.”

Ching laughed delightedly. “I knew it! That name has been bothering me ever since I heard it. Why, I played Bob Weston for the intercollegiate tennis championship one year!”

“You did? Why, then you must be Ching Tze-chang, the lightning Oriental!”

“That's me,” said Ching. “I been swapping serves with these Japanese ever since. They got a return that smokes, too, let me tell you.”

That recalled her from the green courts of ten thousand miles away and settled upon her again the heavy, dragging weariness of her hopeless situation.

“Where is he going?”

Ching grinned at her and his gold teeth sparkled. “Oh, no use holding it out on you. He's probably going up to
Jehol
to see if he can get the facts about Bob Weston. What was he doing up there?”

“Prospecting.”

“An MIT engineer prospecting? Aw, you're kiddin' me!”

“No, that's the truth. He had strange ideas about what lay there. He would not even confide in me because he knew I would laugh at him—or he felt that I would. He made it very mysterious. And then this
Akuma-no-Hané—
”

“You're on the wrong track there,” defended Ching. “The Devil With Wings had nothing to do with it. Not on your life!”

She did not believe him and it was plain from her glance that she knew he spoke out of loyalty and not knowledge. She had seen
Akuma-no-Hané
in action.

“What does
he
do in this country?”

Ching stopped smiling and became interested in his Matsubi's belts.

“Is it as mysterious as all that?” she persisted. “Japan would not offer these posters with the reward unless there was some truth in it. They say he bombed—”

“They credit him with everything that happens.”

“Doesn't he do
any
thing?” she said scornfully.

“Sure he does. He
has
to!” snapped Ching in annoyance. “Sure. He's bombed railroads and shot down planes and killed men. But he didn't want to.”

“Then why did he do it? Is he freelancing this career of terror?”

“No!” said Ching hotly.

“There was some talk in the streets of Port Arthur that your Devil With Wings was intent on dethroning the sovereign of Manchukuo, Pu Yi.”

“How did you find that out?” exclaimed Ching.

She smiled and he knew he had dropped neatly into her trap.

“No fear,” said Patricia. “I heard a rumor that somebody would like to. Is it some huge espionage ring?”

“Nuts,” said Ching. “
Akuma-no-Hané
plays his hand alone.”

“I heard,” said Patricia sweetly, “that the Japanese and Russians had clashed on the banks of the Amur River.”

“Somebody is always clashing on the Amur.
Timur the Limper
started his career there.
Genghis Khan
… Aw, what're you pumping me for?”

“No reason. But if Japan and Russia let this squabble grow into a war, then the world will dive in and it seems to me that Henry Pu Yi and the Japanese hold on the northern border of China would best be gotten out of the way in the event of such a catastrophe. Japan is endangering the peace of the Orient as long as Pu Yi stays on the throne.”

“For a girl,” said Ching with grudging admiration, “you got brains. You'd make a statesman, sure as hell.”

“Thanks,” said Patricia. “But I would feel easier if I knew where this killer was taking me.”

“He isn't a killer!” cried Ching.

She smiled but small lights flared in the depths of her blue eyes. She had already formed her opinion of
Akuma-no-Hané
and it was not very nice.

Ching was sitting up straight, looking around the horizons for possible attack. It would come sooner or later. The communication of the Japanese was too swift and accurate to miss nailing them. Hidden
dromes
were scattered through this barren country like wasps' nests in the woods.

To confirm her disbelief, she said, “He wouldn't go through all this danger just because of me.”

“He's done crazier things than that.” Ching looked at her sharply. “What's all this monkey business about Confucius?”

She hesitated and then decided it would do no harm. “When…when Bob last wrote to me, he said that if anything happened to him I was to do everything I could to obtain a Confucius he was carrying.”

“He
wrote
to you,” said Ching.

“Yes. What's the matter with that?”

“Was there anything strange about the letter?”

“Why, no. Only that it was torn as though it had been censored.”

“It
was
censored. The Japanese censor everything through this country. I don't even understand why they forwarded it to you at all. And you haven't any idea of what this Confucius means?”

“None. But it would be valuable if he would take such care to write me about it.”

“Valuable enough to get him killed.”

“Evidently your friend thought so.”

“Aw, lay off
him,
” squirmed Ching. “Haven't you got any brains at all?”

“You said just now I should have been a statesman.”

“Sure, but you weren't talking about my boss. Besides, who ever heard of a statesman having any brains?”

Ching broke off and craned his neck nervously around the vast ring of the world, eyes probing into every cloud and trying to pierce each hill below.

“You don't look very much at ease.”

He shook his head. “If the Japanese bumped your brother for that Confucius, they wouldn't give it up again without a hell of a fight.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Me? Naw. But if they catch The Devil With Wings they'll…I guess we'd better not talk about that.” He was silent for a while, searching the skies. “I don't like this. They act like they're saving their strength for a good hard wallop later on.”

“Where?”

“Ask
Akuma-no-Hané.
”

CHAPTER SIX

Shinohari's Trap

I
MPERIAL
Japanese Army Headquarters at Aigun vibrated to the grumblings of trucks which paraded endlessly up the crooked dusty street outside.

Some of the dust seeped in to lay grittily upon the desk and papers of Colonel Shimizu, commanding the Amur River Patrol.

The colonel, neat until it appeared that he must change his clothes every five minutes, sniffed daintily into his handkerchief and curled his thin lips into a feline grimace of distaste for noise and dust and activity. A mustard-colored greatcoat bulked through the door and the colonel glanced up with annoyance which quickly faded into welcome.

Intelligence Captain Ito Shinohari was too important in his field to have to stand on courtesy with mere line colonels. His greeting was curt—for a Japanese.

“I trust you have been well, Colonel,” said Shinohari.

“Except for the noise and confusion, yes. And your own sacred health, Captain?”

“Excellent.”

“May the Divine Beings favor you as they always have, Captain.”

“May the Military Gods smile upon you, Colonel.”

That finished, Shinohari pulled off his flying helmet and began to strip the gloves from his thin, nervous hands. He lifted his pockmarked face and looked earnestly at Shimizu.

“Is there any news,” said the captain, “of he who is called
Akuma-no-Hané
?”

The colonel's face lighted with surprised admiration. “Captain Shinohari, you amaze me! Yesterday I knew definitely that you were in Port Arthur. Today I have tidings of the white renegade and instantly you appear like a magician upon the scene.”

“My business requires something more powerful than magic, Colonel.”

“Indeed! Indeed so, Captain. If you wish to keep trace of your
Akuma-no-Hané.
”

“And the news…?”

“A runner,” said the colonel, “reports that
Akuma-no-Hané
landed last evening near the river, some fifty kilometers to the northwest. He was in company with the young Chinese with whom he associates and a young white woman. But tell me, Captain, why did I receive orders not to follow up such information? I could have taken a patrol…”

“Of course. I am sorry for the orders, Colonel. They were necessary. This time, it is imperative that he does not escape us. By the end of this week we'll have the pleasure of hanging his head by its ear in the main street of Port Arthur.”

“Good! Good!”

“Before he has played his hand alone, Colonel. But this time he is encumbered with a young white woman, a Miss Patricia Weston.”

“Robert Weston's sister?”

“Yes.”

The colonel looked thoughtful and patted his stubby nose with the handkerchief. “Then you have spread the net of your entire intelligence force?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a ring of steel around him even now, I presume?”

“If,” said Shinohari, “your information about his landing is correct, he cannot escape by sky, land or water. The Gods of Destiny have ordained that his ruthless existence shall end in a matter of days, perhaps hours. You have my quarters ready for me?”

The colonel slapped his hands together and a short, smart orderly bounced like a
jujitsu
fighter into the room, to leap out of his final bounce into unbending attention.

“Take the Honorable Captain Shinohari to his quarters,” said the colonel.

Shinohari followed the brisk orderly from the room. They emerged into the gathering softness of dusk and made their way down a street painted with the nervous light of guttering lanterns. The jostling soldiery made swift way for Shinohari and followed him with whispers and pointing fingers.

The orderly came to a clicking stop outside a low house which stood back from the busy street as though hiding itself in the purple gloom in fear of the military bustle of activity which stirred the town of Aigun on the Amur.

“If the Captain wishes me to remain…” began the orderly.

“I want nothing. Return to Colonel Shimizu.”

The orderly saluted and Shinohari opened the door to step inside. He fumbled for matches and then touched flame to the wick of a table lamp. The saffron flood spread out through the darkness, pushing back the shadows and finally driving them shivering into the farthest corners.

The light blinded the captain for a moment or two and he wrestled irritably with his greatcoat, getting it off. Finally he managed all the buckles and buttons and cast the weight of it from him to a low sofa.

Shinohari looked around then and froze into the paralysis of shocked surprise. His obsidian eyes bored across the light.

The Devil With Wings was seated indolently in a soft chair against the far wall. He was carelessly turning his .45 around and around in his black-gauntleted hands. An amused smile played in the corners of his mouth—the only visible portion of his goggle-masked face.

If Shinohari had been confronted with death personified, the agony of his amazement could not have been greater. He felt hot sweat start forth from his body and run, chilly, down his yellow flesh.

He felt all his energy draining from him as the sawdust comes running from a doll, to leave it flabby and shapeless. He began to rock slightly, trembling with the onset of hideously nauseating reaction.

Abruptly he collapsed into a chair behind him.

“Didn't you expect me, Honorable Captain?” said Forsythe. “I hardly thought you could do less. The fine boasts you have been making about hanging my head in the main street of Port Arthur were not, I hope, without point. You appear pale. Do not alarm me by saying you are in poor health.”

“You…you are a
devil
!”

“Oh, come now. Can't I make a casual call…?”

“How did you get here?”

Akuma-no-Hané
smiled and the goggles flashed.

Shinohari's brain was beginning to function smoothly again. He glanced toward another red-covered couch and saw there the coat and uniform cap of a Manchukuo irregular officer. That took the superstition out of it.

“I am so sorry,” said Shinohari, himself again, “that I had no slightest knowledge of your arrival. Oh, of course I knew you were in the vicinity, but to come here to the center of our strongest military post… You wished to honor me by requesting some small thing?”

Forsythe stood up, a terrifyingly tall figure to Shinohari. He still handled the .45 with lazy assurance. He did not pay Shinohari the compliment of keeping steady watch on the belted Luger at the officer's side. A bottle and two glasses stood under the lamp and Forsythe slowly began to pour out the drinks.

Forsythe stood up, a terrifyingly tall figure to Shinohari. He still handled the .45 with lazy assurance.

“The patrol may look in,” said Shinohari. “Or headquarters may send a runner for me. Perhaps, for your own safety, you had best depart.”

“Thank you for your consideration,” replied Forsythe, knowing now that he ran little chance of being disturbed. He pushed a glass across the board to the Japanese. “Drink?”

“Certainly,” smiled Shinohari, the color almost wholly back in his pitted face. He took the glass delicately and raised it in solemn salute. “May I drink to your success?”

“And may I drink to yours?”

They drank.

“And now,” said Forsythe, “you are probably curious about my visit, wondering why a man would risk running the lines even if his goal was to talk to such an important officer as yourself.”

Shinohari acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow. “I admit there is some slight curiosity lingering in my mind. Won't you have another drink?”

Forsythe poured it out. “Again to your success, Honorable Captain.” He put the empty glass back on the table. “You are having a bit of sport with the Russians, I see.”

“Oh, not much more than usual. A few shots, a few men dead. Nothing of importance.”

“No, of course not. What is a world war to an intelligence officer?”

Shinohari smiled. “You are very quick, Honorable Sir.”

“If war does flare, Japan's position would be very admirable.”

“Naturally,” smiled Shinohari.

“Naturally,” echoed Forsythe, grinning. “And your own financial position, Honorable Captain, would also be admirable.”

“You allude to something definite?”

“I am not sure,” replied Forsythe.

Shinohari wanted to divert this trend in the conversation but he showed nothing of it on his polite face. “May I ask if you have made your lovely traveling companion comfortable?”

“Quite. It was about her that I came to see you tonight, Captain Shinohari. You know of her brother, of course.”

“Of course. A most regrettable situation, eh? And a most pitiable plight for the beautiful young lady. She has a powerful friend in you,
Akuma-no-Hané
!”

“Thank you. And while we are on the subject, would it be violating your military secrecy for you to tell me what you did with this brother?”

Shinohari's blank mask slipped for a fraction of a second. Blandly, then, he shrugged. “You flatter even me, Honorable Sir.”

“Nevertheless,” smiled Forsythe, spinning the .45 round and round until it was a glittering blue pinwheel in the yellow light, “nevertheless, I think it might be prudent for you to inform me of his whereabouts.”

“There are many unmarked graves in Manchukuo, Honorable Sir.”

“Ah, yes. And we have both had our share in filling them. But I do not speak of graves, Captain. I speak of a living man. Robert Weston. A young engineer of great promise…” Forsythe stopped, smiling placidly. “After all the favors we have exchanged, Captain, it would hardly be sporting for me to shoot you so ignominiously. Besides, once dead, you are not likely to talk. I regret the necessity of speaking about such crude things, but…” He shrugged and suddenly the .45 was motionless, muzzle centered on Shinohari's temple.

Shinohari studied the blankness of the goggles above the gun. There was something horribly unchanging about those lenses. They gave the impression that
Akuma-no-Hané
was capable of no feeling whatever. Shinohari's black gaze fastened upon the muzzle and he felt small hairs rise up along the back of his neck.

But the captain was calm. “I am afraid I must disclaim all knowledge of this young man, Honorable Sir. One in my position, even though lowly, cannot keep constant watch upon all persons in the land.”

“Pardon,” said Forsythe. “But you did not think for a moment that…” He drew the message from N-38 out of his pocket and tossed it down on the table. “…that I would believe this other than a misleading report destined for the files and the files only.”

“My dear sir,” said Shinohari complacently, “you are in error, I assure you. This you accuse me of is high treason.”

“Yes,” said Forsythe. “High treason against the Japanese government.”

Shinohari was almost chuckling. “You rave insanely,
Akuma-no-Hané.
There is the message. It is from N-38 here at Aigun, and you found it on file in Port Arthur. No signature, nothing to make it valuable or believable to any power under the stars.”

Forsythe was smiling broadly. Very softly, he said, “Only one thing has slipped your mind, Captain. Two months ago, here in the Amur section, your N-38 attempted to knife me as I slept. I shot and killed him.”

“Yes,” shrugged Shinohari. “But…”

Forsythe's voice became a monotone. “Yes, two months ago here on the banks of the Amur, N-38 died. And Robert Weston did not reach the Amur until two weeks after that event.”

A cold, sharp knife of realization went twisting through Shinohari's questionable heart.

“The report here,” said Forsythe, indicating the paper, “was never filed by N-38 but by the only man who had access to those files. Yourself, Captain.”

Shinohari said nothing. He could think of nothing.

Forsythe was not smiling now. “You wanted that report to be false because you have your own personal reasons for Robert Weston's drop from sight.

“Where is Weston?”

Shinohari was tense. His midnight eyes were set and staring, out of focus, at the gun.

“And while you are answering that,” said Forsythe, “you can give me the Confucius you took from him.”

Shinohari still sat without speaking. His nervous hands had frozen about the arms of his chair and he held himself partly pushed forward. Abruptly he sagged back, clawing at his collar with a long yellow finger.

“I know nothing about that.”

Forsythe paced around the table like a stalking panther. The black goggles were boring straight through into the captain's shivering brain.

Shinohari suddenly chanced a draw. The Luger rasped as he yanked it forth.

A clean blow to the yellow jaw, a splintering of wood and the crash of his body shook the room. Forsythe reached out and yanked the man to his feet.