Dragon in the Snow

by Forrest Dylan Bryant

  The first dispatch was from his lead agent in New York. It reported that the missing item had been located, and the Chenggi traitor who carried it had been executed. The object would be recovered presently. This was good news, excellent news, but the Master was displeased: if the traitor had been killed, why had the cylinder not been recovered at the same time? He took up the second dispatch.

  This was a dossier, written in English. Not the Master’s first language, but he was fluent. It was a résumé of the dog de Rothburg, his family and holdings. If the cylinder had indeed been located, this would no longer be needed. The Master had requested it in order to divine where the cylinder might have been sent. But he read the dossier as a matter of course.

  “Corporate holdings in America,” he read on the second page, “consist of A-B-C Printing, the Adirondack-Poughkeepsie Railroad, American Bearing and Axle Company...” The list was long, but the Master’s piercing gray eyes missed nothing, his razor-sharp brain forgetting nothing.

  The third dispatch was a set of police photographs, taken by a spy in the NYPD and transmitted using a remarkable radio-visual technique invented by the Master. They showed a three-car wreck on a bridge. His lead agent and two lieutenants had been killed in the incident. Another lieutenant was critically injured.

  The Master was incensed; his insides burned with rage. Killed, and without the cylinder! This left him only one operative in all of New York, alone to manage an unreliable network of paid informants and hired local criminals. The Master would have to transfer resources from elsewhere, and quickly, or risk losing the cylinder yet again.

  Before issuing his orders, he opened the fourth and final dispatch. It consisted of two parts. The first was a report from his lone remaining agent, to the effect that the cylinder was already gone. De Rothburg’s daughter — Angelica, he remembered from the dossier, age twenty-four, highly skilled, possibly dangerous — had used a simple decoy trick to elude capture. There had been three vehicles. The agent chose to follow the Baroness’s personal car, but had lost the scent after leaving the city. Incompetent idiot! thought the Master. I shall kill him myself!

  But there was an addendum. The agent’s hired driver had heard an incredible story later the same night in a tavern: a cabbie, his tongue loosened by drink, claimed to have taken part in an elaborate deception that evening involving two taxis and multiple disguises, ending at Grand Central Station. He had received one hundred dollars for the job, a most handsome sum. The cabbie also mentioned that although his passengers claimed to be going to Florida, something they said made him think they were really going to a place called Poughkeepsie, wherever that was.

  The Master saw it all in a flash, his remarkable brain easily unraveling the plot. Their ruse had failed. He stood triumphantly, crumpling the thick paper in his strong, manicured hand.

  It was the hand of a prince.

  A prince soon to be a King.

  The Black Dragon.

  Chapter VIII

  GUNS AND FRANKFURTERS

  —

  HIGH OVER THE ROLLING hills of central Pennsylvania, the Baroness smiled. Her escape had been flawless. Riding away from the mansion in the northbound cab, she and Hank had sped uptown, crossed into Queens over the newly opened Triborough Bridge, and reached North Beach Airport in a matter of minutes. There was no sign of pursuit.

  They found the streamlined Hughes DR-2 — like the Delahaye, it was a custom model — already fueled up and ready to go. They were in the air just half an hour after fleeing the mansion, leaving the searchlights of North Beach behind and winging into the anonymous dark, with only the soft glow of the instrument panel to keep them company.

  Hank had never flown in an airplane before. The Baroness could hear him mumbling encouragement to himself as she completed her preflight checks: “Okay, here we go... nothin’ to worry about... hold tight...” He jumped a little as the engine spluttered to life and gripped the arms of his chair as the ground fell away, beads of sweat standing out below his mat of toupee-like hair.

  The little plane had a range of eight hundred miles, but to keep Hank calm — and to stave off her own fatigue — the Baroness made the westward trip in much shorter hops. They got only as far as Cleveland the first night, where Hank checked them into a downtown hotel as Leonard Colombo and niece. Colombo was an alias he frequently used on cases: he could even produce false identification in that name if pressed, although few people were willing to press Hank on anything.

  Hank was still rather nervous after his air voyage. At the hotel, the desk clerk noted his odd manner and the way his gaze kept darting to remote corners of the room. Weighing Hank’s agitation against the youthful beauty of his “niece,” the clerk soon deduced that the pair were traveling incognito. But he assumed a romantic situation. With an arched eyebrow and a chilly formality, the clerk handed over two sets of keys: he had given them rooms on separate floors in a silent moral protest.

  The next morning, Thursday, the Baroness treated Hank to a shopping spree at Higbee’s department store. This was not mere frivolity: poor Hank had not been back to his apartment in two days, and was still wearing the same dingy brown suit as when he first encountered Sid Friedman in Greenwich Village. At Higbee’s he acquired three more suits — all brown, much to the Baroness’s consternation — along with the necessary accoutrements for a long trip.

  As they flew onward to Indianapolis and then to Kansas City, Hank gradually adjusted to the physical sensations of air travel, becoming less nervous with each departure. By Thursday evening, he was his usual chatty self again.

  “What do you think, miss? What gives wit’ dat green dingus, anyway? The Professor talks a lot but he don’t know nothin’.”

  “Neither do I,” she said. “But it’s all I think about. That and my father.”

  “It must be worth a pile of money. Millions, even.”

  “Yes, I suppose so... But I think this is about more than money. Those carvings mean something. It may be a symbol of power, or a holy relic of some kind. Maybe even the totemic god of some lost tribe.”

  These were deep waters. Hank fell silent for a moment, and then changed the subject.

  “Thanks again for the clothes, miss Angelica,” he said. “I was startin’ to get a little ripe, if you know what I mean.” Unfortunately, she knew exactly what he meant.

  “It reminds me of this one time on the force, I had to investigate a murder at a circus. They found the poor sap in the elephant’s tent, see, wit’ a shiv in his back and him face-down in... er... well, you know how elephants are, miss, I’m sure.” This was not a conversation the Baroness wanted to have. She dipped the plane suddenly as if experiencing turbulence, and that shut Hank up for a while.

  As the plane touched down on a remote prairie tarmac, surrounded by enormous vistas of nothingness, Hank finally spoke again. “I wish I had a gun,” he said. There was an awkward pause.

  “I mean, miss, this is a dangerous spot we’re in. On the run and all. We should be armed. I got a heater back in my apartment, but...” He shrugged. “I don’t normally keep it on me.”

  “Look in the back,” said the Baroness, jerking her head towards the rear of the aircraft. Hank clambered into the hold for the first time, and was stunned by what he found: not just one but several guns, ranging from a tiny, single-shot Lady Derringer to a big-game hunting rifle. Ammunition for each. One briefcase stuffed with traveler’s cheques, and another loaded with bills in a dizzying array of foreign currencies. A complete medical kit with bandages, morphine, and something called penicillin, whatever that might be. Camping equipment. A portable radio. There seemed no end to it.

  Predicting his response, the Baroness held up a hand and explained before Hank could ask. “Ever seen the Rothburg Building on Wall Street? They have an entire floor there dedicated to making sure my father and I have whatever we need, whenever we need it. A sweet little lady named Mrs. Murphy runs it. She is very efficient. They never know when we’re going to run off to Tang
anyika or go dog sledding with the Eskimos. So they keep this plane ready for anything.”

  Hank shook his head in wonderment. “I’ll say. But you know what you ain’t got back there? Frankfurter sandwiches. I’m starving!”

  * * *

  “I still fail to see why they didn’t entrust the artifact to us,” grumbled Professor Armbruster, as the blue-on-blue Delahaye zipped southward along Manhattan’s west side.

  “I am the logical guardian of the cylinder,” he continued. “With a week to study it, there would surely have been a breakthrough.”

  “Surely,” replied Captain Doyle, barely listening. His eyes were fixed on the rear window — had been since the moment they left the mansion — watching for the inevitable black sedan to come bearing down on them once again.

  “And I might add,” the Professor huffed, “Our team is the only one with three men. We are in a much better position to defend the object from marauders...”

  This was too much for Doyle. “Defend the object from marauders? Are you serious? My dear Professor, when have you ever defended anything besides your own undeserved reputation? I for one will be glad if we reach San Francisco in one piece.”

  The car dropped once again into the Holland Tunnel, and Doyle let out a breath of relief.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been followed, Sonny.”

  The driver did not turn his head. “I regret to inform you sir, but we are indeed being followed.”

  Doyle turned again. “What, are you sure? I don’t see the black sedan...”

  “Maroon,” said Sonny. “Two door, convertible. Two men inside, and one is wearing a mask.”

  Doyle stared for a moment. Now he saw it, keeping pace about fifty yards behind them. He gave a low whistle.

  “I used to drive a taxi up in Harlem,” said Sonny. “A lot of mobsters run up there, controlling things. Nightclubs, reefer, the numbers, they have their hands everywhere. They are planters, sir, and Harlem is their plantation.” The Professor squirmed a little at the analogy.

  Sonny continued, “Pick up enough of them, and after a few months you learn to spot a tail from a block away. Drive a few months more, and you’ll also learn how to shake them off.”

  Once out of the tunnel, Sonny began to execute a remarkably complex series of maneuvers: lane changes, switchbacks on service roads, slowing, accelerating and turning unpredictably. It was a thing of beauty — where the Baroness had escaped danger through speed and daring behind the wheel, Sonny achieved the same results with serenity and finesse.

  The Delahaye was quite alone as it cruised through a rough-looking warehouse district in Elizabeth, New Jersey, and it rolled on to Princeton without further incident. The three men got a good night’s sleep at the Professor’s untidy little house, then rounded up a bizarre collection of equipment from the laboratory and the Captain’s infamous warehouse — Sonny didn’t know what any of it was and did not ask. They returned to the road at seven in the morning, beginning the long, winding path to the San Francisco rendezvous.

  * * *

  The Thursday editions of the New York papers carried an update to the story of the missing Baron. The front-page feature in the New York Reporter ran as follows:

  AUTHORITIES CALL OFF SEARCH FOR BAGS FIFTH AVE.

  By Don Madison, Society Columnist

  JANAIGAR, INDIA — Batty Baron Franz de Rothburg is presumed dead in his Himalayan gallivanting tour. Efforts to search for him have been called off by local hoo-hahs eager to get back to their yaks.

  — Beyond Hope —

  Darling of Park Avenue swells and the National Geographic set alike, de Rothburg was on a long hike in the high mountains to rub elbows with the lamas. He was last seen at his base camp in the Hindoo Kush in an excited state, claiming to have found the ruins of a lost tribe — the last of the Mohicans, perhaps? He stayed only long enough to gas up his plane, and then took off again. No trace of the man has turned up since.

  Talk in the taverns has it that Fearless Franz probably perished in an awful avalanche, or met messy murder at the hairy hands of an abominable snowman. We’ll take a pass on that one.

  — Mad as a Hatter —

  — Believes in Dragons —

  More intrigue turned up at the base camp when a native nabob found the Baron’s private diary under his pillow. According to one who knows, the mish-mash of fairy tales within shows the Baron had lost his marbles.

  Pages of nutty notes and diagrams go on about “singing stones,” antique booby traps and dragons. Yes, dearie, dragons. According to Bags, there are two kinds: green dragons that fly, and black dragons that can be in two places at once. If that isn’t enough for you, the black dragons keep the green ones as pets. Hello-o-o, Milly!

  — No Sign of Heiress —

  Also missing is the Baron’s dee-lish daughter, the reclusive Angelica de Rothburg. Reclusive is newshound speak for she pays to stay out of the papers. She was last seen digging for bones in Montana, probably to restock the family museum with fresh dinosaurs. Oh what fun to be rich!

  But Angelica may find a nasty surprise waiting when she gets back to the Apple. Word is that three cars, no doubt loaded with servants and the good silver, took off from de Rothburg’s tony shack on Fifth last night faster than you can say John Dillinger. Jeeves, we hardly knew ye.

  And that’s the news that matters.

  Your pal with the scuttlebutt,

  — Don Madison

  Chapter IX

  ATTACK OF THE SKY VIXENS

  —

  THE BARONESS’S PLANE reached San Francisco Municipal Airport on Friday evening, less than forty-eight hours after leaving New York. In that brief time, Hank had developed a fierce allegiance to his young employer, as evidenced by his use of language. He had progressed from calling her “ma’am” to “miss,” and then to her preferred “Angelica.” But somehow he’d overshot the mark.

  “So what’s the plan, Angel?” he asked as they rode a taxi into the city.

  “Sleep. Then in the morning we get to work. I’ll start arranging the Pacific passage; you go talk to those detective friends of yours and see if they can find out anything about the people chasing us.”

  “Okay. But if them spooks can follow a guy from Shanghai to New York, they probably got people in Frisco too,” he pointed out. “We’ll have to be careful. Are you gonna call yer Mrs. Murphy to get us on a boat?”

  “No. I’ve put her in enough danger already. If those men figure out we had help getting away, there’s no telling what they’ll do...” She paused, gazing at the inky bay and distant lights of Oakland.

  “No, from this point we’re on our own.”

  * * *

  Hank Martin had many friends, and not all of them were in the five boroughs of New York. In San Francisco he had two solid contacts. The first was a fellow investigator named Tony Mezzrow, like himself a former cop. Mezzrow had also done a stint as a G-Man during Prohibition, and that’s how Hank had met him, helping to bust up a bootlegging operation in the Bronx. Mezzrow was still a G-Man at heart, a stand-up guy who kept his nose clean, and he would be useful if Hank needed to tail a suspect, do some research, or get cooperation from the local authorities.

  Hank’s other contact was as different from Tony Mezzrow as oil from water. Hector Garcia was an old Army buddy: he and Hank had served together in France, and remained in sporadic contact ever since. They were friends, but Garcia was also the sort of contact who could be very useful in the more delicate aspects of Hank’s particular line of work.

  The Great War, Hank had noticed, could go two ways for the young men who fought in it: it either killed them or determined their future careers. Hank’s size and surly demeanor had made him a natural MP, and he’d taken that experience into the Police Academy. Garcia was a requisitions clerk and master hustler, acquiring whiskey, women and cigars for the colonel. Now he was a “finder,” an intermediary between respectable people who wanted things and the smugglers, dealers or thieves who could obtai
n them. Hank didn’t know if Garcia and Mezzrow had ever crossed paths, but if so, it may well have been at police headquarters, and sitting on opposite sides of the table.

  Explaining the situation was not easy. Hank had to omit the fantastical elements and speak in generalities: Wealthy client, menaced by an international gang with an interest in antiquities. Based in Shanghai but with friends in the States. Probably using local hoods for muscle. The Shanghai crowd does its dirty work in black outfits with masks. Willing to kill. Hank said he needed to know who they were and what their racket was. Mezzrow agreed to check with the D.A. and his contacts on the vice squad. Garcia, already smelling a lead, offered to sniff around Chinatown and the waterfront. But it would be a few days before either of them could report back. Hank arranged their next meetings for Monday, the same day Sid and Rosie were due to arrive on the California Coastliner.

  * * *

  While Hank and the Baroness bided their time in San Francisco, a lively tale was being spun in Kansas.

  It started innocently enough. The Delahaye was making excellent time despite the sometimes rough quality of Midwestern roads. Every tick of the odometer took Sonny, Armbruster and Doyle one mile farther from New York and increased their feelings of security. But as the road unspooled endlessly beneath them, the Captain and the Professor grew restless.

  Sonny wouldn’t let either of them near the steering wheel. “This is Miss Angelica’s vehicle and she has entrusted it to my care,” he declared. “If anything were to happen to it — anything — that would be a shame I’d carry for the rest of my life.” He didn’t fool either of them with this act, but they understood his reluctance: driving such an automobile was a rare and exquisite privilege. So Sonny did all the driving while the others watched the scenery roll by.