CHAPTER NINETEEN
Shaw crossed the Domain and went along Macquarie Street into Martin Place and picked up a taxi, told the driver to take him over the harbour into Cremorne.
They drove out across the bridge, above sparkling blue water kicked up by a light wind into little ruffles. The Manly ferry, top-heavy looking as she started out across the harbour, pulled away from Circular Quay. The water, which seemed almost to wash the ends of Sydney’s main streets, was full of small craft with white wakes streaming out behind them, and the place was fresh and gay in the good keen air as they came into Milson’s Point and North Sydney. They turned right for Cremorne and Shaw stopped the driver some way before they got to the road where Tommy Foster had lived, paid the man off and told him not to wait. Then, getting his bearings from his mental image of James’s street guide, he walked quickly along to Hawks Street and Tommy’s flat, went up the stairs and let himself in. Tommy Foster, like Shaw, had been a bachelor and the flat had probably once had that kind of look about it—comfortable in a masculine sort of way, but bare and unimaginative.
But not any more.
The place was a shambles.
Shaw stared in dismay. The flat had been torn apart. The furniture was all upended, drawers hung out of the desk in the sitting-room, stuffing had been ripped wholesale out of chairs. Tommy’s suits, heaped near the wardrobe, had been torn into shreds. This obviously wasn’t the work of James’s department. There wouldn’t be much left now for Shaw to find, but nevertheless he went carefully through everything in the place, inch by inch, and it took him a long time to do the job properly.
And he found precisely nothing.
He was about to leave the flat when the telephone rang and he went over and answered it. Captain James came on the line, said:
“Still there—good. I rang on the chance. Save you coming back here. Look, I’ve fixed with the mortuary for you to see the body at three o’clock this afternoon. That do?”
“Yes, that’s fine—”
“You found anything meanwhile?”
“Not a thing, sir. Except a shambles—some one’s been through here like a dose of salts.” He described what he had found, and James gave a long whistle.
The Australian said, “I’m not sticking my nose in. Police job! Anyway, what are your plans now?”
Shaw hesitated. “Don’t know yet, sir.”
“Well, just let me know if there’s anything you want me to do. I can’t say much on this line, but I’m getting things organized—you know what I mean—and I’m standing by for any word from Canberra. Right?”
“Right, sir.”
“Good-oh! Well—see you here at, say, two-forty-five.” The line clicked off.
A feeling of utter hopelessness came over Shaw, the pain gripped his guts. He wasn’t going to get anywhere. . . .
And then, as he put the receiver down, he saw it.
A faint mark on the top of Tommy’s desk, near the knee-hole. It was no more than a scratch in the varnish, but. . . .
Shaw bent, examined it closely.
It seemed to be two capital letters: L I.
L I for Ling? Was this, in fact, where they’d got Tommy Foster, sitting at his desk? Held him up, unwittingly given him time to scratch that almost invisible warning with something he already had in his hand, then hustled him away to his death before he could finish it?
It could be. Shaw’s mouth hardened.
The lead to Ling was still pretty vague, but sometimes the vague leads paid off. This time it was all he’d got, so he had to follow it up. And if he didn’t get anywhere, then maybe he would have to ask for police help and accept all the consequent red-tape delays and infuriating official routines.
Shaw glanced at his watch. It was getting on for an early lunch-time anyway . . . he decided to get over to the Cross and take a look at Ling’s.
From a telephone box Shaw rang James’s office, spoke to Mary Harris, and told her what he was doing. Coming out again into King’s Cross he found the streets gay, noisy, colourful, crammed with little eating-places and snack bars and coffee bars, crowded with youngsters in jeans and a handful of arty-looking men and women. Juke boxes blared out from seedy dives. The atmosphere was cosmopolitan, and down-at-heel in an attractive kind of way. As Major Francis had said, the comparison was with London’s Soho. Shaw asked a man howto get to Ling’s and he soon found the place; he studied the menu casually, where it hung in a frame behind the steamed-up glass front. Ling’s, he saw, didn’t serve afternoon tea . . . Ling’s 4:30 . . . Australians were early diners, yes—but not that early. He walked in.
The place was crowded. Too few Chinese waiters in white coats and black trousers squeezed in and out of the over-closely packed tables. Although it was middle day the place was dim, lit with small, coloured wall-lights in brackets, and it was noisy and rather too warm.
With the assistance of a waiter, Shaw ordered.
While he waited, and later as he ate the Chinese food, Shaw watched his surroundings carefully. He noticed that there were no Chinese among the customers. It was all very innocuous, and there were none of the sort of people that Mary Harris had said Tommy had contacts among—and none of the sort who’d be a girl-friend of that body up on the Bandagong track either. As he watched, Shaw’s mind flew momentarily across the five hundred and seventy-six sea-miles to Melbourne. Soon now—to-morrow in fact—the New South Wales would be waiting for the tugs to take her off the berth, off from Station Pier, Port Melbourne. Sir Donald Mackinnon would be climbing to his navigating bridge and the New South Wales would move out past Gellibrand, and then out along the forty-mile stretch of land-locked water to Port Phillip Heads, and so to the Bass Strait—and Wilson’s Promontory. In less than twenty-four hours from there, she would berth at Pyrmont, here in Sydney.
Was Wilson’s Promontory, he wondered, to be the place?
Anyhow, according to Karstad, the point of danger to the world would come at any time after the liner cleared from Melbourne. At any time after to-morrow morning. He had to act fast now, not waste one precious minute. He ate quickly, finishing his meal so as not to arouse premature suspicion, and then, feeling for the comforting pressure of the revolver in his armpit, he signalled his waiter, lit a cigarette and paid his bill.
Then he asked casually, “I wonder if Mr Ling is free? I’d like to have a word with him. . . ."
Shaw was taken behind the counter and led down a long, dark passage into a back room which looked out on to a dirty yard littered with packing-cases and broken crates. The waiter went away and Shaw looked quickly round the room. In a minute or so a Chinese came in, a short, stout man with an over-large head and broad forehead, wiping his moist-looking hands on a white apron.
He said, “I am Ling. You wish to speak to me?”
Shaw nodded easily. “I think you may be able to help me.” He paused, looking straight into the man’s slit eyes. Then he asked directly, “Do you know a man called Lubin?”
The eyes shifted a little and there was a sudden tenseness. “Lubin? No. I know of no one called that. I have never heard of him. May I ask—”
Shaw cut in, “But you have heard of Commander Foster?”
“No.”
“I rather think you have, you know.” Shaw’s hand came away from his jacket; he pointed the revolver at Ling’s heart. The man didn’t move, his expression didn’t alter. Shaw said, “You’ll come back with me to naval headquarters, Ling, and when you’re there I believe you’ll talk fast enough. If you don’t, there’s ways of making you. You see, Ling, we know a lot about you already.”
He was watching Ling very closely, and he fancied he could see a sudden flicker in the man’s eye, a change of expression at last in the parchment-like features. But Ling said quite calmly and unemotionally, “You may take me to your naval base. I have nothing to say, no knowledge of what you are speaking of—therefore you will be disappointed.”
“We’ll see about that.” Shaw jerked the gun. “Come on now�
�get moving.”
It was while he’d been walking back along that dark passage with Ling ahead of him and his gun concealed but ready, that he’d just caught the rushing sound behind him, like slippered feet on linoleum. He’d half turned but he hadn’t been quick enough. Something had come down hard across the back of his skull. There was a blinding flash in his eyes, and he went down, stone cold on the passage floor.
It wasn’t so very long before he recovered consciousness. At least, he had the impression that he had probably done so because he could feel the intense pain which racked his head, a hammering which was splitting it cruelly in half. Lights still flickered in front of his eyes, and that was odd, for the place in which he was shut up was totally dark. It was the most complete darkness he had ever been in. And it was jolting up and down, throwing him from side to side sickeningly. There seemed to be very little air.
And it was bitterly, freezingly, wickedly cold.
Cold that racked and tortured him, shook his limbs, inhibited thought, cold that seemed to tear and rip at his throat every time he took a breath, cold that searched into his lungs and cut them like a knife. His teeth were chattering together, his legs and arms were shaking as though they would never stop again in this life. Each time the compartment gave one of its lurches he was thrown across a floor which was as slippery and slithery as ice, was thrown crashing into solid objects which felt cold and dead to the touch, so frozen that they were as hard as iron, iron which tore his skin.
Very, very dimly and faintly, street noises penetrated—muffled car hooters, bells, the sound of vehicles on the move. There was a feeling as of wheels beneath him too. Then the thing that he was in jerked suddenly, and he was thrown forward, cracking his skull on cold hardness. Groping with his hands, he felt the sheen of ice. Then he was jerked violently backwards again.
After that he understood.
He was in a moving vehicle, a vehicle carrying freight. A refrigerated vehicle, most likely a meat van. Those hard, frozen objects—they would be carcasses, sides of beef and mutton, and the van was the sort that did the long-distance hauls, taking the carcasses down to the cold-storage rooms of the liners, stocking up down at Pyrmont and Woolloomooloo. . . .
Shaw felt stifled, claustrophobic.
He staggered to his feet, propped himself against the carcasses and beat with bunches fists against the panel behind the cab. His hand smacked into a lever and he gave a cry of pain. He grasped the lever, tried to pull on it, for it must be a hatch lever and if only he could operate it, it would lead to warmth and the friendly summer, and men’s voices, and life itself. But of course it was locked . . . if they meant to leave him for long in this death-chamber, this moving mortuary, it would be the end. And if the end came for him, it could come for half the world as well.
Again and again he beat uselessly on the panel. His fists became torn, lacerated on the jags of ice and frozen snow. It was cold of such intensity that he didn’t feel a thing and the running blood soon slowed to a treacly mass . . . all he could feel now was the freezing agony, the blood-clotting agony of forty below zero which leads to drowsy acceptance and then to death. It was only the movements of his body, the movements which might soon become too much for him, that kept him alive at all.
It seemed an age but it was in fact very soon after that the van slowed and then took a right-hand turn very sharply. Shaw was thrown off his feet again, fell and slithered on the hard-packed ice. Then the van stopped, and lights came up in the tomb-like interior. Almost at once, the small hatch from the cab opened; it was little more than an inspection hatch really. No warm air came in, none could pass the cold-barrier which sealed off the outside atmosphere. Steam rose across the opening. Now any movement was becoming an effort to Shaw. Any movement beyond that dreadful trembling which he couldn’t stop.
A revolver jabbed through the hatch.
A voice—Karstad’s voice—said, “Out you come, Commander Shaw.”
He answered through the chatter of his teeth. “I can’t. You’ll have to help me.”
There was a muttered exclamation, then Karstad turned away. Shaw heard him say: “Hold the gun.” A moment later Karstad’s heavy body edged up to the opening and he reached through, laid hold of Shaw. Karstad dragged him easily across the ice towards the hatch and heaved him through, and soon the agent was sitting limply in the cab, trembling, but feeling warmth gradually sinking into his bones.
He saw that they were in a covered, untidy yard flanked by a raised concrete platform which looked like the loading bay of a warehouse. Karstad had his gun in his hand again now, and he kept it levelled at Shaw’s stomach all the time as he stood just outside the cab. He spoke over his shoulder to the driver, a big-boned Chinese in overalls.
He said curtly, “Go inside and prepare the cellar.”
The man went off and Karstad turned to Shaw. He said, “So you are back with us once again, my dear Shaw. This time, it is for good. Certain people are due to arrive here shortly, and they have some questions to ask you.” He yawned, lay back against the open door. “Take my advice— answer them!”
Shaw’s limbs were still trembling. Unsteadily he said, “You won’t get anything out of me, Karstad.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. In any case, you can’t stop our plans now, so you might just as well drop into line.”
Shaw licked his lips, thinking fast. Somehow, as soon as he was fit to follow up, he had to get Karstad to drop his guard a little. A few moments later he made a gesture of resignation, said: “There’s one thing certain. I can’t tell you anything till I’m warm.” He knew, indeed, that he was looking the very picture of misery, that he hardly needed to put on an act. Karstad scowled, seemed uncertain, swore briefly and then looked hard at Shaw. He couldn’t help seeing he was in a bad way and he said grudgingly,
“There’s a flask of coffee under the seat, just where you’re sitting. Get it. And be careful how you do it.”
Shaw reached down, fished out the flask. He unscrewed the top, felt the steam coming up to his face. Shakily he poured the coffee, hot and sweet and strong, took it gratefully. The cab itself was warm—almost hot after that cold chamber; as the coffee went down a glow came back to him and he was able to relax, to control the shake in his limbs. He sat there as his strength returned, cradling the flask in his hands, soaking up the remains of the heat as it steamed into his face, the pain in his head receding too.
After a time Karstad asked, “You are feeling better?”
Shaw nodded. “A little.”
“Remember what I said.”
“I’ll remember.” Shaw’s body had sagged; he tried to give the impression that that nightmare ride had finally broken him, that his will had cracked at last, that he was anxious only to be warm again, to be left in peace, to surrender to the inevitable. A little later his lips trembled, he raised a nicely-shaking hand to the lump at the back of his head. He said, “I suppose I haven’t got much option . . . but if I do talk, I’ll want a guarantee that—some friends of mine— won’t get hurt in what you plan to do.”
There was a curious look in Karstad’s eyes and Shaw wondered how far he had really deceived the man. But Karstad only nodded and said, “When you speak, my friend, make sure it is the truth. If it is, I have no doubt your wishes will be respected.”
Shaw gave a heavy sigh, rubbed his eyes. Then he bent down and put the flask under the seat, taking pains as though to wedge it up nicely so that it wouldn’t roll out. He took his time over this, and while he was doing it he glanced up quickly and saw, from beneath his eyebrows, how nicely Karstad was positioned, just outside the cab with one foot on the step. He fiddled about for a little while longer with the flask, and then, judging his distance as he did so, he straightened slowly and looked casually away from Karstad.
Then he went into action.
Very suddenly and at precisely the right moment he swung himself back on the seat, slewing his body and drawing up his knees to his chin. He lashed out savagely with
every ounce of strength that he could muster, sent both feet smacking into Karstad’s face. It was a split-second movement and his shoes caught Karstad beautifully, fair and square in the mouth and nose, sliding off to tear the man’s ear, a cruel, smashing blow. It made a shocking mess and there was plenty of blood about, but Shaw hadn’t time for a lengthy inspection of the damage. As Karstad reeled about, moaning and holding his face, Shaw was on top of him. He tore the gun away from the man’s limp hand; and then, remembering what Karstad has been going to do, what he had done to Gresham and indirectly to John Donovan, what he had probably been concerned in doing to Tommy Foster, Shaw’s head seemed to burst. He thrust the gun into his pocket and waded in. He lifted Karstad’s head up, gave him blow after blow, smashing his fist into that mangled, bloody face until Karstad sank to the ground, a mere moaning heap.
Shaw stepped back, chest heaving.
He said savagely, “I don’t like killing anybody, and I never kill a man who’s defenceless. That’s all that’s saved you, Karstad—for the time being. You’ll swing before long.”
He turned as he heard a sound from the loading bay, and he saw the van driver coming for him with a gun. Before the big Chinese could fire, Shaw had dropped behind the van and had brought out Karstad’s gun. Edging round, he fired. There was a scream and then the clatter of metal on concrete. Shaw came out from cover, saw the driver holding one hand in the other and looking murderous.
He snapped, “You’re not so badly hurt you can’t do a bit of work, chum. Now get that into the cab.” He jerked his smoking gun towards Karstad. “Come on—fast.”
He prodded the revolver into the man’s belly. Snarling, the driver bent down, picked Karstad up like a child, muscles rippling in thick arms. He put him into the cab. Blood was streaming from them both. Shaw ran round to the driving door and jumped in. He felt exultant now; all he had to do was to get to the base as fast as possible, with Karstad.
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