Dragon in the Snow

by Forrest Dylan Bryant

  Hank was positively beaming now. “Sonny, old pal, you intrigue me. Who’s the job for?”

  The chauffeur leaned in close, so only Hank, Sid and Rosie could hear. “I have been sent by the Baroness Angelica de Rothburg.”

  There were a few moments of awkward silence. Sid made a conspicuous gulping sound.

  “Pass the salt,” said Rosie.

  * * *

  The Baroness’s auto was a sleek blue-on-blue roadster, a custom-built Delahaye with left-hand drive, a racing engine and a cascade of teardrop curves sliding back in a streamlined symphony of speed. If the sky vixens of Venus had a car, this would be it.

  Sonny practically glowed with pride as he slid the glossy vehicle uptown, gliding along the city’s concrete canyons and breezing by hacks and buses as if they were horse-and-buggy rigs. Hank sat stone-faced, soaking up the whole story as Sonny told it: how the Baroness had rushed home from an archaeological dig when she heard the news about her father. How she found a window open and several rooms in disarray, as if they had been ransacked and carelessly put back together, but with nothing actually missing. How she wanted the police and especially the press kept out of it, and how Sonny had remembered his old buddy Hank Martin, who had helped him out of a tough spot when no other cop would give a black man the time of day.

  Sid and Rosie sat in the Delahaye’s back seat. Sid had produced a small notebook from his jacket pocket, and was scribbling random words with a stubby pencil: Baroness... crime... secrets?

  Hank had insisted Sid be allowed to come along, telling Sonny the writer was his “assistant” while promising Sid with a wink, “Now you’ll get a real story for dem magazines.” Rosie, who was examining the car’s interior with goggle-eyed wonder, had inserted herself into the adventure through sheer force of will. She was also taking notes, albeit mentally, as she memorized every detail of the blue-on-blue dreamboat. When her own ship came in, she thought, she was absolutely getting one of these.

  “Wait a minute,” Sid piped up suddenly, “I don’t get it. Why doesn’t she go to the police?”

  “And tell ’em what, ‘oh, this vase moved two inches to the left?’” replied Hank. “She’s right. Somebody’s snoopin’ around real quiet like. Makes sense to keep the investigation quiet too.” Hank wasn’t sure he believed any of this story, but he could smell a jackpot just around the corner and he wasn’t about to foul it up with too many questions.

  The de Rothburg mansion faced Central Park, just a few blocks south of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. To Sid and Rosie, who had spent their entire lives in cramped New York apartments, it might as well have been the Grand Vizier’s palace. “Bet they got hot and cold running servants,” mumbled Rosie. Even Hank, who had seen his share of Park Avenue penthouses, was impressed by the sheer bulk of the place. It sprawled behind an opulent courtyard, its windows shining brightly against the gathering night.

  As Sonny the chauffeur led the others inside, a taxicab pulled to a smooth stop at a nearby corner. A single passenger got out, looking up and down the street as if not sure what to do next. At the same moment, a black sedan parked silently about a hundred yards away. The man from the taxi took no notice.

  * * *

  If Sid and Hank were impressed by the house, they were flabbergasted by their first sight of the Baroness Angelica de Rothburg. The newspapers had made her sound like a tomboy. Sid was half expecting a child in dirty overalls, but the woman who rose to greet them was in her early twenties, with a knockout figure and a delicately featured face that reminded Sid of Myrna Loy, his favorite movie actress. She wore a stylish silver dress that emphasized her graceful curves while making her tanned skin and short black hair appear luminous.

  “Mr. Martin?” she said uncertainly as she stood, wondering why Sonny had returned with three people instead of one.

  “That’s me, miss, er... Baroness...”

  “Call me Angelica, please. Everybody does.” She spoke with a curious mixture of upper-class breeding and casual worldliness. Hank couldn’t tell if she was serious or kidding.

  “Oh, uh... yes, ma’am.” Hank fiddled with his brown Homburg as he spoke. “Sonny has briefed my... er... assistant and me on the case. You’re sure there was a break-in? What do you think they was after?”

  The doorbell rang in a low, calming chime, and the Baroness sent Sonny to answer as Hank began to examine the room for signs of disturbance. Sonny returned a moment later escorting a tall man with a stern, narrow face and Asiatic features. The man had a heavy-looking bundle under his arm, tightly swaddled in canvas and rope, but Sonny’s eyes never left the stranger’s expressionless face.

  “Miss Angelica, this gentleman says he has a package for your father.”

  Caught unawares, the Baroness flushed for a moment, but then her face darkened with suspicion. “This is a queer hour to be delivering packages,” she snipped. “Who sent it?”

  The stranger lowered his head respectfully, and then spoke slowly, in an exotic, thickly accented voice. His English was good but clearly not native. “Your father, miss. He entrusted it to me personally to deliver it to him. From Shanghai.”

  The Baroness still looked suspicious. “And what is it?”

  “That I do not know, miss. I am a simple businessman. I have ships. My ships carry many things, quietly. I do not ask questions. Your father was a man of great honor, and I am saddened to hear of his fate.” He paused and bowed slightly, then held the package forward. The Baroness’ face darkened at the finality of his last statement but she said nothing.

  “Your father was known to me, miss. I believe he found many things on his journeys, yes? Things of great value. These things might attract... attention. I am a simple businessman,” he repeated. “I ask no questions. I do not care what it is. But your father has given us a great deal. A great deal indeed. And that carries a debt of honor I cannot ignore.”

  Concluding his strange speech, the tall gentleman again held out the package, and this time the Baroness took it from him. Sid, Hank and Rosie watched with mystified interest from the far side of the room, while Sonny remained near the door. Sid was weighing twenty different ways to work the incredible scene into a story, while the Baroness tried to place the stranger’s accent. Most of those in the room would have called it Chinese, but Angelica de Rothburg had spent enough time in distant ports to know better. There was a high, clipped undertone to the man’s voice that didn’t fit Shanghai, or any other place she could name.

  The Baroness was just about to ask about it when the room exploded.

  A riot of broken glass shattered the moment as the window nearest the stranger burst apart. In the next instant, a black-clad figure hurled headlong through the jagged space, hitting the floor, rolling and coming upright in one fluid motion. The man wore a mask, also black, over the top half of his face. Only his eyes, mouth and jaw were visible, revealing a savage sneer. He raised his hand, and the room was enveloped in white flame as, with a hideous shriek, the tall stranger vanished into a cloud of dark smoke.

  The intruder whipped his arm around to take aim at the Baroness, but hesitated in confusion: he had expected to find only two people in this room, not six. Hank was across the floor and on him like a shot, striking out with a huge fist. The blow caught the masked man squarely, and something shiny flew from his hand, clattering across the floor to the far wall. The sudden light of the white flame had dazed Sid momentarily, but now his boxing reflexes took over and he too joined the fray, as Sonny ran in from the opposite side. The black-clad attacker found himself overwhelmed. He dropped into a crouch, sweeping his leg in a wide circle to keep the three defenders at bay, and leapt backwards through the window like an acrobat. He was gone as suddenly as he had arrived.

  Nobody moved for a second. Then Hank growled, his fists still clenched for action. “Lady, I think we found your burglar.”

  “Hey, you saps!” shouted Rosie. “You’re lettin’ him get away!”

  Chapter III

  A PAIR OF EN
IGMAS

  —

  HEARTS RACING, bodies operating on pure instinct, Hank, Sid and Sonny threw themselves into the courtyard in pursuit of the black-suited assassin. It was a brief chase. They had only a glimpse of the fiend as he reached the far side of the street, somersaulted over a low wall and disappeared into the deepening shadows of Central Park.

  By the time the three men reached the wall nothing more could be seen of their antagonist. But a moment later, they heard an engine rev to life somewhere behind them. There was a squealing of tires, and a black sedan sped past and away down Fifth Avenue. There was no chance of catching it.

  The trio made their way back to the mansion, eyes alert for any additional menace. All was quiet. Inside, they found the Baroness and Rosie sitting together on an overstuffed Chesterfield with the strange canvas-wrapped package lying on the floor nearby, untouched and all but forgotten in the excitement. Rosie jumped up and ran over to Sid, throwing her arms around him.

  “Oh, Sid! That was so brave! Why, that man was a murderer; you could’ve been killed!”

  Until she said it, the thought had not occurred to Sid. Suddenly his knees began to fail him. He staggered backwards a step, slid queasily into an armchair and began moaning to himself.

  “I think perhaps it’s time to call the police, Miss Angelica,” said Sonny. “A man has been murdered.”

  The Baroness set her mouth in a firm, straight line. “No. No police.”

  Rosie was shocked. “Why on earth not? You wanna get killed like that Chinaman?”

  “What Chinaman?” said Hank, surveying the room meaningfully. “Where’s the body? You gonna tell the NYPD that some circus acrobat in a black leotard came flyin’ in through dat window, threw fireballs out his hands and turned some other guy — who none of us can identify, by the way — into a puff of smoke? Oh, they’ll just love that. They’ll put the whole force on it straightaway. Right after they lock us all in the drunk tank.”

  “And what about those things he said,” Rosie added, suspiciously. “Ships, business, no questions asked... it sounded almost like he was some kind of smuggler. Say, are you sure your dad was on the up and up?”

  “You see?” snapped the Baroness. “I won’t stand for that kind of insinuation. My father is a great man! A great man!” Her voice began to crack a little. “And I won’t have the police and a bunch of two-bit hack reporters dragging his name through the mud! No police! If you can’t handle this, Mr. Martin, I’ll find someone else. This town is full of private detectives...”

  “Easy, easy...” said Hank. “The lady’s right. Let’s keep this to ourselves for the moment. There’s too much we don’t know. It don’t add up yet. We got no names, no motives, nuttin’ but a crazy story.” He began to assume an air of authority. “If you don’t want the police, dat’s fine wit’ me. But lemme use your telephone. I’ll make some private security arrangements until we can figure this out. Don’t worry, ma’am; my friends are very discreet. After that, I’ll wanna talk to the rest of the servants around here.”

  “There is nobody else,” said the Baroness. “Just myself and Sonny. There’s a maid and a cook, but they had the day off. I’m supposed to be in Montana, you know.”

  “Okay, but I gotta talk to ’em when they get back.”

  As Hank retired to the next room to place his telephone calls, Sid sat in a half-stupor, his elbows on his knees and his forehead propped in his hands. It was all too much. A beautiful baroness, a vanishing adventurer, smuggling, assassins... and what was that white flame? What had become of the body? Like Hank had said, it didn’t add up. This simply wasn’t the sort of thing that happened in real life. It was more like a pulp story.

  Sid sat up, his eyes widening. The nausea was gone; his head no longer swam. Suddenly, he saw everything with the clarity of ink on paper. A pulp. A real-life pulp! This wasn’t the ordinary, humdrum world of Sid Friedman anymore. It was the world of his literary alter ego Jackson Stone: the master of mystery, the man who wrote “Tomb of the Unknown,” “Mayhem on the Midway,” and “Sky Vixens of Venus,” whose tales had been immortalized in the pages of Two-Fisted Detective (once) and Weird Excitement (three times and counting)! He rose to speak.

  “What would Doc Savage do!” he exclaimed.

  Four pairs of eyes turned quizzically to him.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked the Baroness.

  “Doc Savage! The Man of Bronze!” There was no response.

  “Don’t you people read? Doc Savage is the number-two pulp character in America! Sure, the Shadow sells more, but Doc is the smartest, toughest hero of them all!” The atmosphere in the room was becoming uncomfortable, but Sid was determined now. He pressed onward.

  “Look, Doc Savage faces situations just like this every month in his magazine, right? So what would he do in a spot like this?”

  “Sid, honey, you’re overexcited,” said Rosie, a look of worry on her face. “Here, sit back down...”

  “He’d sweep the room for clues, that’s what. That killer must have dropped something. They always drop something!”

  Rosie was trying to guide Sid back to the armchair, one hand pressed against his forehead as she looked for signs of fever, but Sonny spoke up: “He’s right, you know. I believe that fellow did drop something. When Mr. Martin hit him.”

  Sonny dropped to the floor and crawled behind a settee for a moment. He emerged with an object nestled in his hand. It was a metallic globe, about three inches in diameter, with a smooth round depression on one side. The rest of the surface was covered with ornate decorations, an intertwined mass of scrolls, curves and lattices. The thing also gave off a strange odor, a little like sulfur but with a sharp, acidic tang.

  “Say, would ya look at that?” Rosie stopped and stared for a moment, then exchanged her worried expression for one of pride. “Okay, Mister Writer Man, I guess you win. We have the murder weapon. What next?”

  Sid pointed at the strange bundle, still resting by the Baroness’s feet.

  “We open that package!”

  * * *

  The thing was bound tightly in tough canvas, expertly secured by sailor’s knots. It took several minutes of strenuous effort to unwrap it. When the cloth finally fell away, the object on the parlor table proved more mysterious than anyone present could have imagined.

  It was a perfect cylinder, about fifteen inches long and five inches across. It was composed of some sort of green-black mineral, solid and heavy. The cylinder glistened on the surface as if wet, yet was cool and dry to the touch. And it was etched from end to end with a bewildering labyrinth of carvings: wild-eyed monsters danced amidst stylized flames, bearing spears and flowers in their multitudinous arms. Lines of exotic, indecipherable symbols ran around the circumference of the cylinder at intervals, and perfectly drawn spirals covered each of the flat ends.

  Yet the most remarkable thing about it was not what was on the surface, but what was underneath. A soft green glow was coming from somewhere deep inside the cylinder, filtering vaguely out towards the edges. As Sid stared at it, the glow seemed to shimmer, even pulse ever so slightly, almost as if breathing in sleep.

  “It’s beautiful,” whispered the Baroness.

  “It gives me the creeps,” said Hank.

  Rosie moved closer, running a finger along the surface. “Is this jade?”

  “I don’t think so,” replied the Baroness. “Not like any jade I’ve ever seen.”

  Sonny looked at the cylinder, then at the sphere beside it, and finally at Sid. “All right. So what would your Doc Savage do now?”

  Sid continued to stare at the cylinder as if hypnotized. He replied slowly, measuring his words.

  “He would take both of these things to his laboratory atop the Empire State Building. He has all the latest scientific apparatus up there. He’d analyze the stone and the metal, and figure out what they were and where they came from.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Rosie. “Mister Writer Man, I hate to break it to ya but we ain’t
scientists. We don’t have a super-duper laboratory, unless the Baroness here...”

  “I do not.”

  “Right,” said Sid. “But I know someone who does.” Sid was returning to earth now, the confidence flowing back into his speech.

  “Hank, you’d better stay here with the Baroness in case that spook comes back. Are your friends outside?”

  “They’ll be here any minute. Anyone comes near this place, they’ll grab him before he can say boo.”

  “Good. Baroness, we’ll need to borrow your car. Come on, Sonny...”

  “Oh no you don’t,” interjected the Baroness. “Whatever that thing is, it belongs to my father. That smuggler gave his life to bring it here, and I’m not letting it out of my reach. Sonny, you stay right here and make sure Mr. Martin gets whatever help he needs. I’ll drive.”

  A few minutes later, the Delahaye turned out of the courtyard and accelerated away into the night, with the Baroness at the wheel, Rosie and Sid in the back seat, and the strange cylinder glowing silently in the trunk.

  Chapter IV

  A VISIT TO PRINCETON

  —

  IN THE BOOK-LINED parlor of a small house in Princeton, New Jersey, the nightly argument between Professor Phillip James Armbruster and Captain Owen Doyle was just getting underway. Every evening for the past ten years, including Christmas, these two confirmed bachelors had met in Armbruster’s cozy home for a game of chess. In all that time, exactly six games had been completed. After one or two moves, Professor Armbruster would generally begin pouring drinks, the conversation would grow livelier, and before either man knew it, they’d be at each other’s throats, rhetorically speaking.

  Balding, mustachioed and disheveled at forty-five, Professor Armbruster was not a public figure like his old friend, the esteemed Einstein. But among certain circles in the scientific community his name was held in nearly equal reverence. In others, it was met with undisguised scorn. A physicist by training, Armbruster had steadily expanded his scope of inquiry over the years to encompass all the sciences, from astronomy to zoology, in a remarkable quest for what he called “pansyncretic technometry” — put simply, a theory of everything. If he ever achieved it, he’d put half the scientists in the world out of work. But that was a big “if”; for now, all he had was a massive laboratory in an obscure corner of campus, a library that spilled into his kitchen and dangerously close to the stovetop, and his nightly argument.