Madame Atomos Spits Fire

by André Caroff

  Beffort sped up and after 20 minutes they came out on the farm. The six men searched the buildings, found the supplies and tire tracks encrusted in the dirt ground of the barn. Bernitz exploded, “She got away!”

  “Yes,” Beffort admitted calmly, “but this time she’s alone in a car and she can only take the 299. Besides, she can’t be more than 30 minutes ahead of us. Owen, I think she won’t get out of this one!” He pulled the antenna out of his walkie-talkie, got in contact with the other men and told them about Madame Atomos’ escape, asking for a car to come and pick him up with his team.

  Naturally, the HQ in Alturas heard the message. A general alarm was sounded within seconds. All the police, army, navy and air force that were waiting around, armed to the teeth, surrounded a large area extending form Alturas to Termo, from Termo to Redding and from Redding to Weed. Plainly, Madame Atomos could not slip through the net and would surely be captured. It was only a matter of time.

  Chapter XIV

  Madame Atomos drove fast all the way to Canby, in Oregon, and abandoned the Chevrolet in front of a truck yard before crossing the city on foot. She knew that Beffort had trailed her at least to the farm and that he was looking for an Asian woman in a sedan. Madame Atomos was wearing a black suit; she had no handbag or luggage; under her armpit she was carrying the fat wad of bills from the farm as well as her false identity papers. She went into a store, bought some light-colored clothes more suitable to the season and folded up her black suit, which she threw away behind a garage. Farther down the street she bought some dark sunglasses, a suitcase, a handbag and topped off her transformation with a wide-brimmed hat that was only good for casting a long shadow over her face.

  Around 6 p.m. there was a sudden flurry of activity in Canby. Police cars started patrolling the streets and newsboys ran around barking and waving a special edition of the local newspaper. Madame Atomos saw a police sketch of her on it and smiled—she looked much younger than she was in real life. Moreover, they thought she was fleeing to the west.

  Madame Atomos went to Chinatown and rented a room. The hotel was far from luxurious but it was convenient. Madame Atomos registered under the name of Kischi Nakajima and showed her papers printed with that name during a naturalization process seven years ago. Her residence was in Savannah, Georgia where she had an antiques store. In reality, Kischi Nakajima died two years ago and someone else was running the store, but this would only be discovered after an in-depth investigation if she were stopped and under serious suspicion.

  Madame Atomos settled in her room and got ready for the police, who would certainly show up. She was not acting like a criminal on the run, so she should have no problems. Few people knew her. For Smith Beffort or Dr. Soblen to meet up with her all of a sudden would take a series of extraordinary circumstances. The chances were one in a million.

  When night fell, nothing had changed as far as Madame Atomos. No one had found a trace of her, but they were certain that she had not managed to escape the wide net laid out by the police and army. They were checking identities everywhere and all Asian women, without exception, were being taken to the police headquarters where they had to show their credentials before being released. Yet, this took a lot of time. Many Asians had immigrated to California and though there were fewer to the far north than around San Francisco, for example, there were still enough to make the census last two or three days.

  Smoking his cigarette, Beffort paced nervously around the HQ in Alturas. Sitting comfortably in a large armchair, Dr. Soblen was watching him. “Stop, Smith,” he advised after a while. “You’re uselessly wearing out your nerve impulses.” Beffort crushed the butt in an ashtray and sat across from Soblen, who continued, “She won’t get out of the trap. I’m sure that she’s in desperate straits right now. Maybe she’ll last out the night, but first thing in the morning the police will find her.”

  “I hope heaven’s listening, doc! Personally I think we missed the boat in the hideout. She was at our mercy there! It’ll be a long time before we have such an opportunity again.”

  Soblen shrugged. “Don’t be too pessimistic, Smith. The events have proven that Madame Atomos is cut off from Atomia Island, otherwise a flying saucer would already have come to get her. Now that she’s alone, how do you think she can save herself? Madame Atomos exists only thanks to her demoniacal inventions.”

  Beffort stood up and buried his hands in his pockets. “I don’t agree with you. The woman is shrewd, imaginative and far-sighted. Breaking into her hideout was incredible, but she was prepared. A tunnel leading to a farm where a car was waiting for her… All alone, she’s been holding us in check for hours. We still think she’s a prisoner of this so-called net, but who can confirm it?” He walked up to the wall map and pointed to Alturas. “She was right around here when we attacked her hideout. Then I saw her and a good 30 minutes went by before we reached the entrance to the tunnel leading to the farm. It took us another 20 minutes to reach the house. That’s a plenty big head start. If we say that Madame Atomos was driving at 75 miles an hour, she couldn’t have gone much farther than Montgomery on this side of Redding. But remember that she had the choice of two directions at Canby. If she chose Highway 139, she’d be in Oregon right now!”

  “Ridiculous. The logical choice is 299. Madame Atomos should be trying to reach the coast so she can get to Atomia Island as fast as possible. This morning she gave in to an irrational impulse by running away from you so that the Great Brain is stalemated since the flames were being controlled by the machine in the shelter. Now the Great Brain is stuck, so Madame Atomos has to start it up again urgently.”

  Beffort shook his head, but the telephone rang and interrupted the fruitless discussion. He picked it up. It was Owen Bernitz calling from Canby. “Good news, boss. Witter and his G-men have dug up some wheels that look like they were used by Mama Atomos!”

  “Yeah?” Beffort could not believe it.

  “It’s a Chevy,” Bernitz was unfazed, “and its tires match the tracks lifted from the barn. And they found cans of food in the truck and dust from the farm is all over the floor. According to the lab experts, it’s flawless. The car is parked in front of a truck yard that’s been empty since the end of the afternoon. That’s why Witter picked it up so easily. You think Mama What’s-her-name was playing games or what?”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Yes, on the steering wheel, the door handle and the rear-view mirror.”

  “Good, I’m coming,” Beffort said. He hung up and swung around to Soblen. “You were right, doc, it looks like Madame Atomos didn’t get any farther than Canby.”

  “Ah!” Soblen said triumphantly. “You see, without flying saucers, she has to make do like everyone else. I’ll bet 10 dollars that we’ll corner her before tomorrow morning.”

  Beffort took the bet and headed for the door. Until Madame Atomos was sitting in an electric chair, he would never believe it.

  At 9 p.m. two G-men showed up at the front desk of the hotel, looked at the register and noticed that a certain Kischi Nakajima had recently checked into room 5. They went up to the third floor, knocked on the door and politely asked Kischi Nakajima to follow them. The woman, with a smooth Japanese face, whose age it was difficult to guess, agreed graciously and grabbed her handbag. During the ride, she asked no questions and sat completely still. Only once did she look at her wristwatch, which was too big for a woman, square but with a tiny face that was disproportionate with the size of its case. Naturally the two officers took no notice of this detail. It was maybe the hundredth Asian woman they were bringing back with no results. The routine was numbing a lot of their skills.

  At police headquarters Kischi Nakajima was led into a room where a group of Chinese, Indochinese and Japanese women were waiting. She did not mingle with the group, but sat alone on an uncomfortable bench and lost herself in a reverie typical of her race. Every ten minutes or so one of the women went to the other side of the glass separation where she answered a very detai
led questionnaire, verified her identity and residence and then was brought into another room where she waited for her information to be checked. After that, they gave her an attestation with her name and photo that would prevent her from being rounded up and interrogated again. The system was not bad, though a little slow, so Eddy Witter and Charles Hyde held to this traditional technique that had proven itself effective.

  At 10:35 Kischi Nakajima entered the office. Witter and Hyde cast a bored eye at her. They had never seen Madame Atomos, but they saw this respectable woman displaying a calm that Madame Atomos certainly did not have. Witter looked at the identity card, compared the photograph with the woman, read the note from the G-man doing the roundup in the west sector and looked up at the woman, suddenly suspiciously. “Mrs. Nakajima, the registration at the Hopkins Hotel says you checked in this afternoon. Where were you before that?”

  “Before,” Madame Atomos answered, “I was on the train. I live in Savannah, Georgia where I run an antiques shop.”

  “What’s the purpose of your visit, particularly to Canby?”

  The false Kischi Nakajima barely smiled and in a gentle voice said, “In truth, the final destination of my trip is Trinidad.”

  “Business?” Witter asked brusquely.

  “Health. My doctor advised me to get some Pacific Ocean air. I have problems with my throat and…”

  “Very well,” Witter interjected. “Why did you delay your trip?”

  Kischi Nakajima blushed a little. “Maybe you won’t believe me,” she was clearly embarrassed, “but in the Canby station I learned that Madame Atomos was being hunted in the area and I couldn’t help being curious to know how it would all end.”

  Witter raised his eyebrows. “You’re interested in Madame Atomos?”

  “Only as an onlooker. She’s a compatriot, you see. For us, Madame Atomos’ fight against your country means something that would be difficult for you to understand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m an American,” Madame Atomos answered with well pretended dignity, “and I hope that you will someday put an end to this woman’s exploits. You see, sir, I feel responsible…”

  Witter and Hyde glanced at each other. This was the first time tonight that they had heard such a declaration. None of the other women had mentioned Madame Atomos and had even pretended not to know why the police were questioning them.

  “Where did you reserve a room in Trinidad?”

  “I haven’t. I’m swamped with work all year long. When I travel, which unfortunately happens only once a year, I prefer to be a little spontaneous.”

  Witter closed Kischi Nakajima’s file. “You can go into the other room and I’ll bring your papers in a minute.”

  Madame Atomos followed a police officer into a tiny room where they photographed her face and profile. Then she was led into another room where a few women were still waiting. One of them explained to Madame Atomos that the photographs were used for their pass. She went on talking and criticizing the FBI who could arrest anyone on any useless pretext, etc. Madame Atomos was not listening. She was no doubt thinking that she would be free in a few minutes and she would not have to use the unimaginable method of escape that she had on hand.

  Chapter XV

  Smith Beffort and Dr. Soblen did not arrive at police headquarters until 11:15. Beffort had first wanted to go to the laboratory and the impound yard where the Chevrolet was held. When they finally entered the administration building, Beffort had a wonderful set of fingerprints in his pocket. Followed by Soblen, he went straight to the office where Witter and Hyde were stationed. The two G-men were questioning a frumpy old Japanese woman who was not very cooperative and who answered their questions reluctantly. When Beffort heard her voice, he knew right away that she could not be Madame Atomos: it was high-pitched and she spoke fast. Madame Atomos’ voice was deeper and she weighed her words.

  Beffort sat down and waited for the questioning to finish and for the woman to leave before showing his fingerprints. “From now on,” he said, “we just have to compare these with the women passing through this office. Where are you at?”

  Witter looked at a list. “We’ve questioned exactly 180 Asian women now.” He smiled lazily and added, “Given the fact that all the suspects in the area are going to be brought to Canby, we only have another 9,800 left to go.”

  Beffort winced. “Can’t we speed it up?”

  “Yes. Give us more manpower.”

  “Impossible and you know that. There are thousands of men working the roads, stations and airports and automatically holding back all Asian women. They have to stay where they are.”

  Witter raised his hands. “Then don’t ask us to go faster. Every woman takes us 10 to 15 minutes. Afterward she is photographed and stays in the next room while the ID service checks her information. For the moment, we have too much grunt work. The women coming here have all taken different hotels, boarding houses and means of transportation. They generally come from far away so the verifications are done by phone…”

  A policeman entered the office and handed Witter a typed paper with a 4X4 photo stapled to it. “For this nice lady,” he said bitterly, “it’s not so clear, but it’ll work. She lives in Savannah, Georgia.”

  “Well, what’s not so clear?”

  “Her store’s been closed for a month. Since she said she came straight from Savannah, I’m simply wondering what she was doing. Otherwise, it’s okay.”

  When he left the office, Beffort leaned over and swiped the file bearing the name and photograph of Kischi Nakajima. From the very first he knew that he had seen the woman before—she reminded him of someone. His reaction was normal since he had never been face to face with Madame Atomos long enough for her face to sink into his memory. Nevertheless, he was about to make good use of the mistake made by the sinister woman during her deposition. Madame Atomos lived outside of time, losing track of days and months. She had forgotten that it was August and the managers of the store in Savannah were on vacation. And that was not her only mistake. She had not imagined that they would find the Chevrolet or lift fingerprints from it. Regarding the details of a police investigation, Madame Atomos knew very little…

  “Is this Kischi Nakajima still here?” Beffort asked.

  “In the waiting room.”

  “Go get her. She’s going to tell us what she’s been doing since she closed up shop.”

  Charles Hyde got up, left the office and came straight back followed by Kischi Nakajima who sat down calmly in the chair Beffort offered her. Beffort himself looked in her eyes and felt a shiver run down his spice. The woman looked strangely like the pseudo Madame Atomos who had killed herself in San Francisco8 two years earlier. “Mrs. Nakajima,” he asked, “did you say you came directly from Savannah?”

  Madame Atomos nodded silently. She knew that Beffort would end up exposing her, but she figured she could delay the moment by staying silent.

  “Our office in Savannah,” Beffort resumed, “has informed us that your store’s been closed for a month. Is that right?”

  Madame Atomos nodded. Her right hand was placed on her wristwatch. By simply squeezing, she could escape, but this was a new technique and Madame Atomos was not sure what exactly would happen.

  “Well,” Beffort went on, suspicious of her silence, “can you tell us what you have been doing all this time? I warn you, of course, that your answer will be checked. In Savannah it will be relatively easy to find the exact date of your departure.”

  Madame Atomos smiled and simply said, “I don’t live in Savannah, Mr. Beffort. My real home is in the Pacific on Atomia Island.”

  The four men drew their guns and moved quickly. Witter jumped in front of the window, Charles Hyde blocked the door to the next room, Soblen barred the other door and Smith Beffort aimed his paralyzing pistol at the Japanese woman.

  A smile was frozen on Madame Atomos’ face. “So much trouble, Mr. Beffort? I’m at your mercy, unarmed and that’s why I revealed
my true identity. For the last few minutes I knew I would never leave this room in flesh and blood.”

  Beffort did not answer her. “Surround the building, Witter! Hyde, give me some handcuffs.” Then he addressed his enemy, “Madame Atomos, if you made the slightest move, I won’t hesitate to paralyze you. Stay seated and keep your hands still. Hyde, quick!”

  While Witter went to the phone, Hyde got his handcuffs out of the desk drawer and came back to Madame Atomos. He slapped the cuffs around the thin wrists of the sinister woman and they snapped shut.

  “There now,” Madame Atomos said calmly, “I’m your prisoner. Now I think we can talk in peace.”

  Beffort sat down slowly. In three minutes the police headquarters would be surrounded by powerful forces. For now, Madame Atomos could do nothing. Her hands were tied, the exits guarded and a paralyzing ray was threatening to immobilize her for 60 minutes if she tried anything. “I have no desire,” Beffort said, “to talk to you. You’re going to be arrested officially and then we’ll transfer you to a State Prison where you will wait for your day in court.”

  Madame Atomos shook her head. “On November 17, 1966,” she attacked, “an American scientist, Dr. John Lyman, head of the biotechnical laboratories at the University of California, made the following statement: In two centuries, around the year 2200, space travelers will be evaporated at departure and reconstructed on arrival. The entire world mocked him, Mr. Beffort…”

  “That’s not surprising,” Beffort said attentively.