by John Blaine
Santa, standing, was no higher than Rick’s shoulder. He wouldn’t have needed padding under a Santa Claus suit, but the boy realized the Dutchman’s rotundity wasn’t soft fat. He had wide shoulders, and his hands were muscular.
Scotty gave Rick a grin and followed Santa out into the big loft. It was cold by comparison with the heated office. Johann brought up the rear, just out of reach, his pistol ready.
“Wait!” Santa ordered.
They stood in silence until Kurt and Gretchen emerged from the second room. Gretchen carried two lights, modern, sealed-beam battery-powered utility lamps. Kurt carried a heavy machinist’s hammer, a crowbar, and some chisels.
“Lead the way, Kurt.Gretchen behind him.”
Kurt opened the door at the stair landing and went down, the girl behind him. Santa followed, then Scotty and Rick. At the street level, Gretchen switched on a light. Kurt went into the narrow passage under the stairs and opened a door. He went down a flight of stairs, the others following.
The stairs were of rough lumber, and Rick saw from the girl’s light that they led down into a basement.
He realized that it must actually be below canal level. At the bottom, on a rammed earth floor, he paused to get his bearings. Kurt was walking to the canal side of the basement, at the rear of the warehouse.
Gretchen had turned on the second lamp, and was shining one for Kurt, and the other for her uncle and the rest.
Rick saw that a wall divided the basement. It was of wood, covered with flaking whitewash. The canal wall was of heavy masonry, large bricks of a size no longer made.
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Kurt didn’t hesitate. He walked to where the wooden wall joined the brick wall and put down his tools, keeping only a small chisel. He counted seven bricks up from the bottom, and then five out from the lumber wall, then scraped the mortar around the brick until it showed white in the light.
“Gretchen, hold the light so he can see,” Santa directed. “Go ahead, Kurt.”
Kurt took the hammer and used it to drive the chisel into the mortar. The chisel didn’t go in very far. The old builders had been good craftsmen, and the bricks were close together. The mortar had held up, too.
Rick wondered why they couldn’t see that the wall hadn’t been disturbed, for centuries at that point. His eyes wandered to the right brick, and he grinned. The wall was uniformly covered with a thin slime of dead algae, or so it seemed. It was obvious that Van Hooch must have scraped some of it away, but new algae had grown, and died in its turn, so there was nothing to give away the correct location.
Kurt was finding it heavy going. He substituted a smaller chisel and kept hammering. Little by little the dense mortar chipped out, until finally he could get the chisel tip of the crowbar into the crack. He heaved, and the mortar gave some more. He tried prying the brick out. It refused to be pried. The fit was too good. He went back to chipping.
Rick tried to see his watch in the backlight from the girl’s lamps, but couldn’t move his wrist into sight.
He thought it must be close to eleven-thirty. Surely more than an hour had passed since he had last looked. It felt more like six hours, but he settled for one. He whispered under his breath, “Slowly and carefully, Kurt, like a good Dutch workman.”
Scotty was standing as relaxed as anyone could with hands and arms tied behind him. Rick grinned at his friend. He and Scotty had played their roles as though they had memorized a script. That was from living, playing, and working together as a team for so long. Each knew the other’s every gesture, and almost every thought, at least in tight situations like this. Also, each knew how the other would react. He had known that Scotty wouldn’t resist a second longer under the threat to Rick, and Scotty had known that Rick wouldn’t let him be burned, even if it had meant handing the true message over.
The deadly Dutchman spoke. “Break the brick, Kurt.”
The brick was loose enough to be taken out in pieces, but couldn’t be pulled out whole. Probably there was mortar behind it, too.
Kurt lifted the crowbar and thrust. It bounced off the hard brick, chipping away only the front surface.
“Here. I will help you. Hold the bar in place.” The little boss took the heavy hammer and swung it like a feather, squarely against the end of the crowbar. The brick split. Kurt moved the bar, and the Dutchman swung again. Another split. Two more strokes and it was over. Kurt lifted the pieces out until a whitish layer of mortar showed against the back.
The deadly Dutchman walked over to Rick. He took the boy’s nose between the knuckles of his right hand and twisted.
Pain lanced through Rick’s head and blood spurted from his nose. He reeled back, groggily, and would have fallen if Johann had not pushed him upright.
“A sample,” Santa stated. He didn’t even sound angry. “Now we will have the correct answer. I give you a choice before we return upstairs to the fire. Tell me the right brick and I will favor you with a Page 61
painless death. If you do not tell me freely, you will tell under torture, and die anyway.”
Gretchen sucked in her breath.
“You don’t give us much of a choice,” Scotty said mildly. “We lose either way.”
“Can’t we talk this over?” Rick asked.
“The time for talk is past,” Santa replied calmly. His very lack of emotion was the most chilling thing of all. Rick knew that unless the police moved in quickly, he and Scotty would be dead or maimed, or both.
Santa continued, “We will begin this time with Brant. We will apply the poker, because he dared lie to me. Scott can decide how far to let us go. Will you let us destroy the tendons on both of your friend’s hands, Scott? Or will you give us the correct answer so that we can be merciful?”
“Funny you should use a word you don’t understand!” Scotty snapped. “How could you know about mercy?”
“Mercy is relative,” Santa said, unmoved. “I understand that a bullet through the head is more merciful than fire. That should be enough for you. Now move. Kurt, unless that hole is plugged, we will get seepage from the canal and rot away the mortar. Fill it. Join us later. I will handle the poker personally.
Gretchen, follow with the light. Leave one for Kurt. Brant and Scott, follow me.”
The procession went up the basement stairs, onto the first-floor landing, then up the stairs, Rick following the stocky boss, Scotty behind him, and Johann just out of reach with ready gun. Gretchen brought up the rear, and she turned off her light as they neared the landing.
The upper door had been left open. Santa entered the loft, Rick following like a man going to his execution-and the simile was accurate!
CHAPTER XVI
In the Canal
The deadly Dutchman walked purposefully toward the office torture chamber, Rick a few paces behind him. Sidneye was hanging onto the doorframe, shaking his head. He muttered in Dutch, and started forward.
It was a distraction, and Rick took advantage of it. He bent his knees, leaned forward, and charged like an offensive tackle, feet digging hard in the rough wooden floor of the loft.
His shoulder caught the deadly Dutchman in the small of the back. Rick kept charging, hard, shifting his feet to keep the Dutchman against his shoulder. Santa’s arms flailed as he fought for balance, and he tried to step aside. Rick shifted again, and again. He drove the gang boss in a weaving course all the way across the loft. With a final all-out shove he drove the Dutchman violently into the big double doors.
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The man’s belly saved him. He bounded back and started to turn. Rick dug in again, shoving, driving, punishing, grinding the Dutchman against the big doors.
The screws holding the hook and eye in place gave with a tortured screech. The doors burst open with a wail of rusty hinges.
Rick and his enemy plunged outward into space.
Somehow, Rick managed to throw himself into a half gainer, and landed almost feet first in the black waters of the canal. As he went under, he had a momentary t
hought that the ending would have been different had an old barge been tied up under the warehouse.
He hit bottom,a thick ooze, and his feet drove into the sticky goo . He pushed upward, and his feet held fast. For a second he almost panicked, then he forced himself to stay quiet. He loosened one foot at a time, and felt himself float upward. Bending forward, he propelled himself underwater, using only his feet and legs, the way he swam whenskin diving or scuba diving. He hoped to reach the side of the canal opposite the warehouse, but his breath wouldn’t hold out. He had to let out air, and then surface to breathe.
As he neared the surface, he saw that the light from the warehouse loft now played on the canal surface.
It was faint, but it was enough. If Santa hadn’t been knocked out by the fall, he would be waiting.
Rick raised his head above water and gulped air, turning to locate the Dutchman. He and Santa saw each other at the same time. Rick bent at the waist and went under, propelling himself downward, then turning underwater so he would emerge to breathe in a different spot next time. He wondered how Scotty was doing. He had expected to hear a shot, and realized any shooting would have taken place within seconds after his charge. He had known that Johann wouldn’t dare to shoot when his boss was likely to get it, too. Johann’s pistol carried nine-millimeter slugs, probably steel-jacketed. They would have gone right through Rick and into Santa.
He had to breathe again. He surfaced with infinite care, so as to make as little noise as possible. As he inhaled, he looked around. Santa was a dozen feet away. He yelled and headed for Rick like a charging sea lion.
Rick turned and dove, lashing out with his feet as he went under. He felt a hand brush his shoe and went deep, turning to pass under the Dutchman. He made his legs go as hard as possible, getting as much distance as he could. He kept going until he thought his lungs would burst and spots began dancing before his closed eyes. Then he let out air carefully and began to surface.
He knew he was tiring. The Dutchman had only to float. Rick’s dives would get shorter and shorter.
Then the Dutchman could move in.
Rick hoped Gretchen had taken a hand. She had been in position to bash Johann over the head with her light. Had she done so? If so, Scotty could have taken Sidneye out of play with a single kick, and now Scotty would have Johann’s gun and it would soon be over.
Rick’s head lifted above the surface. Santa had guessed right. He was even closer this time.
The boy gulped air and went under, feet first. He let himself sink straight down, knowing he would soon rise again as his bouyancy overcame the initial energy of sinking. When his feet touched mud he would go forward.
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Pain in his scalp matched the pain in his nose, and he felt himself pulled upward. The Dutchman had grabbed him by the hair!
There was only one thing to do. With powerful kicks, Rick shot upward to the surface. Between the kicks and the Dutchman’s pull, he lifted his body half out of the water. As he broke the surface he opened his eyes and saw Santa’s face inches from his own, and he caught the gleam of light on steel as the Dutchman prepared to thrust his knife.
But Rick’s sudden action had caught Santa by surprise, and his thrust was delayed a fraction of a second.It was barely enough. Rick brought his forehead down, using it like a soccer player heading the ball. The ball was Santa’s bulbous nose. Rick felt cartilage crunch and had time to realize that the Dutchman’s nose now felt like his own.
Santa fell back under the impetus of pain, and Rick fell back, too, but with a purpose. He lifted his legs, bent his knees, put both feet in the Dutchman’s belly and shoved.
The driving push sent them swirling apart. Rick turned on his stomach and began a fast flutter kick to increase the distance. He headed toward the canal wall. If he could reach it, he could put his back against the wall and have his legs free to kick with.
He was tiring fast, but he had managed to keep alive this long and he still had reserves left. Because of his years of skin and scuba diving he was thoroughly at home in the water, and he and Scotty always kept in top physical condition. Only his diving skills and strength had saved him so far.
Santa’s charge through the water, faster than Rick’s because he could use both hands and feet, created a shock wave that Rick sensed. The canal wall was a dozen feet away. He wouldn’t make itIf he tried to dive, Santa would have him by the legs. If he turned, he would get the knife in face or throat.
Rick had been too busy to be scared, except in the back of his mind, but now fear rushed through him.
He was caught, and unless something happenedquick , it was the end.
Desperate, he drew his knees up and turned over on his back, lifted his head, and lashed out with one foot as the Dutchman closed in.
Santa caught the foot. Rick drove the second one and managed to break the hold. He drew both legs up again. Santa moved sideways. Rick couldn’t turn easily on his back, but he tried, kicking out to the side.
The Dutchman caught the foot easily, and this time the other one wasn’t in position to break the hold.
Rick squirmed, got his thighs together, and lashed out with the free foot. Santa was no longer there. He had gone under, holding Rick’s ankle tightly. As he went down, he pulled Rick’s foot under the boy’s other leg, forcing him to turn over on his stomach. Rick’s bound arms and hands flailed futilely. Slowly, inexorably, he was turned until he lay face down in the water. He could breathe by bending his head back, but he knew, too, that he wouldn’t be breathing much longer. Santa had him. He was helpless.
But Rick was determined that he would not die easily. Oddly, words from a poem by Dylan Thomas flashed through his mind: “Do not go gentle into that good night . . .” Terror left him to be replaced by anger. He had done nothing to be killed by the cold beastwho held him. He would not go gently; he would go out fighting. He threw himself forward and down, driving against the restraining hands that now held both ankles, trying to make his torso do the work of his bound hands. As he drove he twisted, swinging his shoulders, writhing like a clutched eel. One foot broke loose from the grip and he flailed with Page 64
it, driving it through the water, reaching for the hated face of his enemy.
The oxygen in his lungs was almost gone. He could see bright flashes of light, and knew he would have to breathe air, or he would be forced to breathe water.
He threw himself upward, fighting for the surface, still flailing, twisting, kicking with the free foot. He felt his ankle twist in the Dutchman’s grip and instantly threw himself over, so that herose face upward. He broke the surface and gulped precious air, exhaled and gulped again and again, but never ceasing his driving kicks.
He had broken the Dutchman’s calm. The man was cursing in Dutch, in a steady monotone as he tried to get a lasting grip on the threshing boy. He stopped cursing, inhaled, and went under, forcing Rick to turn again.
This time, as Rick turned, the Dutchman clawed his way forward, thrusting a thigh between Rick’s legs.
Flail as he would now, Rick could hit nothing. The Dutchman leaned his weight forward. Rick’s face went under. He struggled, twisting. For a delirious moment he thought he had broken free, but his canny enemy had only released his leg grip long enough to change positions, straddling Rick with both legs.
Rick realized what had happened when the Dutchman inched his way forward, moving over Rick’s bound hands and arms, until he was in the middle of the boy’s back. His legs squeezed, driving air from Rick’s lungs. Simultaneously the Dutchman grabbed Rick’s hair in one hand and pushed his head completely under water.
Rick bucked, trying to throw himself over, to throw the Dutchman off. But the Dutchman had one hand free to balance himself. He would not be thrown. He held Rick’s head under.
Rick’s struggles grew weaker. The pain in his chest was growing intolerable. Only seconds remained before he would have to breathe, fighting not to, trying desperately not to inhale the dirty water of the dark canal
.
CHAPTER XVII
The Fight in the Loft
As Rick made a break for freedom in the loft, driving the deadly Dutchman toward the cargo-loading doors, Johann rushed forward, frantically trying for a shot that would not endanger his boss.
The guard’s momentary preoccupation was all that Scotty needed. Johann was beside the boy for a moment, and only a yard away. Catlike, Scotty moved. He took a half-step, braced, and lashed out in a snap-kick that caught Johann over the right kidney. The guard went down in a heap, gun flying. Scotty kicked sideways, the outside of his foot catching the guard at the junction of neck and shoulder with stunning force. Johann remained on the floor, a limp heap.
Sidneye was recovering rapidly. He made a slightly unsteady dive for Johann’s pistol. Scotty jumped, hoping to kick it out of the way, but Gretchen was there before him. She picked up the pistol and backed Page 65
away, her eyes on Johann.
“Give it to me,” Sidneye grated.
The girl ignored him. “Did you kill Johann?”
“He’s just knocked out,” Scotty told her. “But he’ll be out for quite a while. Gretchen, will you untie me?”
Sidneye had turned away when the girl scooped up the gun, and Scotty thought he had given up. Now his eyes widened as the whiskered Dutchman charged. In his hand he carried a cargo hook, a vicious, sharp-pointed question mark of steel with a T-shaped handle.
Scotty poised, ready. Sidneye jumped for him, the hook flashing in a wild swing toward the boy’s side.
Scotty moved back a single step and the hook missed. Sidneye swung around with the force of the blow, and Scotty launched a kick. It was only partially effective. It drove Sidneye forward, waving his arms for balance.
Kurt charged through the door from downstairs, took one look, and headed for Scotty.
“Stop, Kurt!” Gretchen held the pistol in both hands, pointing directly at the big man. The pistol was rock steady.