China Marine: Tsingtao Treasure

by Buzz Harcus

  "Hot damn!" he exclaimed jubilantly. "Hot -" The word stuck in his throat. Standing in the bathroom doorway was a man holding a .45 automatic. It was aimed right at his head. Harry looked at the mans face, an Oriental. The Chink!

  "Harry Martin?" the Oriental asked knowingly.

  Harry nodded, watching the man closely. The Chink threw a folded copy of the Saginaw newspaper at him. Harry caught it and opened it. "Bottom of the page!" the Chink snapped in flawless English. Harry glanced down. Bold headlines leaped out at him. CHINA TO RECEIVE MICHIGAN GRAIN.

  He scanned the article quickly. It described the Otto J. Nurad's mission to carry grain to Shanghai and Tsingtao, departing on Sunday. But then, they had moved the sailing date to today, Saturday. He glanced at the date, Thursday's newspaper. His bowling night. He hadn't read it yet. But then, he hadn't read any newspaper in the last couple days. Hell, yesterday at this time the ship's sailing hadn't meant one damned thing to him. And then that damned phone call from Joe. Events had changed his life drastically in the past 24 hours.

  "So?" Harry responded, dropping the paper on the desk, looking back over at the Chink. How in hell did he sneak aboard, Harry wondered.

  "So this, wise guy," the Chink replied. "It was easy to put two and two together and figure out how you aimed to get to China. All I had to do was get on board and find you, and here we are."

  "Cozy, ain't it?" Harry snapped. "How'd you get aboard?"

  "None of your business! Your being here tells me you know where Joe's money is hidden. I want the information, now."

  Harry stood silently. If he told him, he was a dead man. He observed the Chink deciding to play a waiting game. Maybe Peter might return. Maybe they could overcome him. He noticed the Chink stood slightly stooped, his coat caked with what appeared to be mud. His left arm seemed to dangle freely. Harry suddenly realized it was dried blood staining the sleeve, not mud.

  "You look like you might have stopped a slug or two. You're bleeding." Harry motioned at his arm. "Either the cops got you or I did in Sandy's apartment —"

  "You got lucky," the Chink retorted. "But don't plan on pressing your luck. One false move and you'll be dead, too."

  "Where's Stan?"

  "I wish I knew!" the Chink hissed. "The bastard dumped me after I got hit. I don't know where he is, but I'll beat him to the money. He'll pay for this. I'll live, live long enough to get the money and kill that bastard!"

  Waving the gun menacingly, he moved across the room to within a couple of feet of Harry. "Now, where's the money?"

  "I don't know —"

  The gun smashed down across Harry's shoulder knocking him backwards to the bulkhead where he dropped to his knees. Harry grabbed at his shoulder, stifling a cry of pain. The Chink moved quickly, driving the point of his shoe into Harry's stomach. Harry gasped, then balled up on the deck, sure he was going to vomit. "You son-of-a-bitch," he hissed, barely able to breath. The Chink hit him a glancing blow across the back of his head with the automatic. Harry saw stars momentarily, then blackness.

  The feel of cold water on his face brought him around. Groggily, he looked about. His dresser drawers had been dumped and his clothing strewn about the cabin. Turning, he again faced the gun and the stoic-faced Chink.

  "Where's the money hidden?" the Chink asked in an even tone of voice.

  "Go to hell. If I tell you, I'm dead." Harry rasped.

  "You're just as good as dead, smart guy. You'll be as dead as Joe and that stupid broad; just as dead." He thrust the gun up under Harry's chin, forcing his head awkwardly backwards. "Now, for the last time," he hissed, "where is the money hidden? Where's Joe's black book with the information in it?"

  "I don't know," Harry gasped. "Joe was gonna tell me when I came back to let him know I was going to China. There's no book, either. You guys took all his possessions - everything he had."

  "You're lying!" the Chink hissed forcing the gun deeper into the soft flesh of his throat. "The only reason you're on this damned ship is because you know where the money is!" He jerked the gun away and brought it down sharply across Harry's face. Harry jerked, grabbing at his face, feeling warm blood trickling through his fingers.

  "Your last chance, tough man. Where's the money?"

  "Go to hell, you god-damned gook!" Harry spat. He pulled his bloodied hands from his face glaring at the Chink. "You can go straight to hell!"

  The Chink's foot suddenly snapped upwards catching Harry in the groin. Harry screamed, doubling over in pain. "You had it, tough man," the Chink said looking down at the writhing figure clutching at his groin. "Get on your feet. We're going for a walk."

  Harry rolled over onto his knees. Raising his head, he looked into the Chink's smirking face. The gun was still leveled at his head, right in the middle of his face.

  "On your feet, tough man. We're going for a walk."

  Harry rose unsteadily to his feet clutching at his groin. The sharp pain was now a throbbing ache. He caught a momentary glimpse of himself in the mirror on the back of the locker door. His face was streaked with blood.

  "We're gonna take a walk to the back of the ship, tough man, only you aren't coming back."

  "Why'd you kill the girl?" Harry gasped.

  "I didn't like the way she parted her hair! What are you? Dumb? She wouldn't talk. I tried to get her to talk but she wouldn't talk. So, I got rid of her,"

  "She didn't know anything about this."

  "She still doesn't."

  "Her gun," Harry said. "She had a gun. How'd you get the drop on her?"

  "She woke up with my .45 in her mouth, so no argument. We

  had a nice chat."

  "Chat! You bastard! You broke her fingers and arms -"

  "Part of my gentle art of persuasion. Wrong answer; snap!"

  "You didn't have to kill her!"

  "Nightie was up around her neck already. All I had to do was twist it. No more crying out. Incidentally, good body."

  "Bastard!" Harry screamed, angrily lunging for him, ignoring the gun. The Chink deftly stepped aside, slamming his weapon hard against his skull. A karate kick followed just as quickly sending Harry bouncing off the bulkhead onto the deck.

  "Now, get up and no more heroics," the Chink said motioning with the gun for him to rise and head for the door. "Open it slowly," he commanded. Harry opened the door; the corridor was empty. "Move out slowly and head for the back of the ship."

  Harry stepped into the corridor prodded along by the automatic pressing tight against his ribs. He had to make a move and fast, but how? The guy was obviously a skilled killer. One nervous twitch and he'd be dead. He kept walking.

  They stepped on deck. The temperature had dropped considerably. It was bitter cold with a sharp, biting wind. Harry shivered in the frigid night air. The Chink prodded him along, continuing toward the stern. Harry held onto the railing. The deck was still slippery in places.

  "Damn!" Harry cursed as he slipped, falling hard on his knees. Hurriedly, he regained his footing, glancing backwards just as the Chink lost his footing. As he rose, Harry spun about and gave a sharp left heel kick to the Chink's stomach. The Chink gasped and, as he started to crumple, Harry followed through in a fluid movement, with a thrusting upward kick to the Chink's head, snapping his head backwards. The Chink's body followed the momentum of the kick with an upward movement that carried him up and over the ship's railing. His screams were lost in the shrill wail of the wind and pounding of the engines.

  Harry steadied himself against the railing. There was no sign of the Chink, nothing but dark swirling water. "For Sandy," he whispered.

  Shivering uncontrollably, he made his way back toward his cabin. Luck was with him; there was no one in the corridor. Quickly, he returned to his cabin. Inside, he washed his face and checked the cut. It was superficial, just a lot of blood for the moment, but his face was swollen and tender to the touch. He dabbed at the cut with peroxide, and then covered it with an adhesive bandage. His stomach and shoulder ached, but nothing seemed b
roken. A couple of days would take care of the aches.

  In a matter of minutes he restored the cabin to a semblance of order as it had been before the altercation. It was clean, no sign of a struggle, no sign the Chink had been there, nothing. No sense in reporting a stowaway on board if there wasn't one, so no sense of reporting a man overboard either.

  He sat down at the desk running through the events of the last twenty-four hours. Now he was certain that Stan didn't know the location of the money, only himself. From this moment on, he knew he had to be on guard against Stan, or any of his hired thugs.

  Chapter 29

  ALMOST LOST OVERBOARD

  “What happened to you?" asked Peter staring at Harry's swollen face as he joined him on the bridge for the midnight watch. "I slipped on a patch of ice on deck and fell against the railing," Harry lied. "I'll be okay. Just a little sore now."

  "Vell be careful. Der deck will be getting slipp'rery even more now dat ve are moving. Vun hand for der ship, vun hand for yourself. You could slide right overboard und not be noticed."

  "Right," Harry grinned. "Don't worry. From now on I'll be super careful."

  "Good. Now I show you your duties," Peter said. He began a methodical, painstaking review of the complex responsibilities of the watch. Harry listened carefully, asked questions and generally familiarized himself with the job. When he took command of the wheel it gave him a momentary start; everything he had learned before as a helmsman flooded back and he felt a sense of ease, felt the ship respond to his touch as he followed the commands of the First Officer, Peter Selham, who checked his every move.

  "Ve pick up anodder pilot ven ve get to Port Huron," Peter said, when Harry asked what had happened to the other one. "Der odder vun got off ven ve cleared der river. You ver below decks at der time."

  Nurad continued in the channel created by the icebreaker Mackinac. Harry's eyes took in the various gauges and illuminated dials, as well as keeping an eye on Mackinac. He listened to the crackling communications between the two ships, kept an eye on the compass and followed orders. Soon, the monotony of the job came back to him. It was demanding, yet there was a certain monotony about it. It was the same as it had been on other ships. All jobs had a certain amount of monotony inherent in them. You just can't get the perfect job, he rationalized, or even if you did you'd soon find fault with it. Sameness and monotony were often interchangeable.

  Hot coffee was available and, over the next few hours, Harry drank several cups. As the night droned on he could feel stiffness overtaking his body from the beating the Chink had given him. He'd have to exercise when he got off duty, work out the kinks. Still, as he stood at the wheel, the events of the last twenty-four hours continually see-sawed back and forth through his mind. It seemed incredible that a simple phone call could screw up his life so badly, and in so doing, cause the death of three people.

  There was no doubt that Joe's hidden cache of money really existed from the way it was being pursued. Yet, thirty years was a long time ago; a lot of things could have happened to it. The way the Chink talked, apparently not even Stan knew the exact location.

  The Chink. Harry's jawline tightened at the thought of the man. He had no reason to kill Sandy, just killed her for the hell of it. The bastard! Vividly he recalled the Chink going over the railing. They might fish his worthless body out of the bay in the spring but there was nothing to tie him to the ship. Nothing. Besides, he might never be found.

  Off to his right along the Michigan shoreline he could discern small towns and villages, their clustered lights appearing like a swarm of fireflies in the darkness.

  Early on, Peter had struck up a conversation talking about a myriad of things relative to the operation of the ship but, as the night wore on, Harry sensed a change in the line of casual questions, that Peter was pumping him for personal information.

  He was persistent; questions, then more casual conversation, then more personal questions. Harry responded with some of the highlights of his business career, sailing experience and such. Nothing about his love life, which he sensed was kind of what Peter was interested in. Having seen Sandy's panties, he was sure Peter wanted to know more about the girl who owned the panties. Yet, he couldn't come right out and bluntly ask, or could he?

  "I am not trying to pry into your personal life, Harry," Peter said, sensing a hesitancy on Harrys part. "I just vish to know more about you so dat ve can vork better togedder. It vill be helpful to me. You do understand, yah?"

  "Sure thing. No problem," Harry replied making light of it. "Happy to oblige." A smile crossed his face. I suppose I'd want to know more about a new shipmate, he reasoned, especially a guy I picked up in a foreign port. But then, I don't suppose I'd want to tell him every minute detail about myself or my love life.

  At 0400 hours they were relieved by the next watch. Peter turned in immediately wanting to catch as much sleep as possible as they'd be needed on deck before too long if the storm continued to build. Harry agreed, and in short order, in spite of lingering pain, he was snoring in harmony with his cabin mate.

  Dawn broke ominously. Heavy-laden clouds blocked out the horizon. Rolling white caps crested across the cold, black waters of Lake Huron as far as the eye could see. Wind-whipped spray splattered the length of the ship freezing almost instantly. Railings, lifeboats and rigging were encrusted with ice. Across the deck ice grew thicker and thicker as the ship continued on course. The heavily laden ship labored, heaving and tossing, groaning under the incessantly pounding waves.

  Harry awoke finding Peter dressed in cold-weather gear, just leaving the compartment. In spite of his exhaustion, he knew he might be needed. Dropping lightly to the deck he hastily dressed in cold-weather gear and headed topside.

  Harry found himself humming a refrain from the song, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," as he stood in the back of the wheelhouse, as directed by Peter. The weather was as rotten as it was that cold November day when the Fitzgerald sank in Lake Superior with all hands lost. The story of the tragedy had soon turned into a popular folk ballad. Writers and sailors spent countless hours pursuing theories as to what caused the sinking. Of course, he told himself, there's a hell of a lot of ships that never made it across Lake Huron either. Hauntingly, the tune stuck with him.

  Nurad seemed to hug even closer to Mackinac as it made a

  compass turn heading in a more southerly course. Before too long the Blue Water Bridge at Port Huron came into view. It was a welcome sight. Shortly after, with another pilot on board, they were wending their way down the St. Clair River. The storm hit with gusting winds and a heavy snowfall. Within a short time a thick covering of snow engulfed the ship from stem to stern.

  At noon Peter took command of the watch, with Harry at the helm. Captain Andress joined them on the bridge. If he was concerned, it didn't show in his face or eyes. The challenge of sailing through the storm, beating the odds, was apparent as the captain looked forward through the huge windows, and then took in the ship from stem to stern. He motioned Peter to his side for a brief exchange, and then turned his attention to the pilot assuring him they would take the storm in stride. Both listened intently to the Coast Guard weather reports. The storm would be blowing over before too long followed by possible sunshine through breaks in the clouds. Captain Andress smiled. Turning, he switched on the radio.

  The sound of a familiar voice caught Harry's attention. Glancing about, he concentrated on the voice: Art Nathan, his favorite newscaster in the Saginaw market. Harry was surprised that the radio station's signal was so clear. Glancing at his watch he saw it was 1230. Art usually gave an update on all the news happening in the Saginaw valley at this time. Casually, Harry reached over and turned up the volume.

  "Police are continuing their search for the two men who wounded two Saginaw police officers Friday night. Evidence now links the two with the murder of a young Saginaw divorcee. A police spokesman said the two police officers were recovering. He added that one of the suspects is believe
d to be badly wounded from an exchange of gunfire in the slain woman's apartment. A bloodstained, bullet-riddled car pulled from the Saginaw river this morning is believed to be the fugitive's getaway car. However, the two suspects are still at large -" Harry gave a deep sigh of disgust, snapping off the radio as he did. Stan was still at large.

  Harry failed to notice the inquisitive glances from Peter and the Captain at the way he had abruptly snapped off the radio.

  South of Algonac, at the mouth of Lake St. Clair, Mackinac radioed it was turning about, heading northbound. It made a wide sweeping turn, bidding them fair weather and good sailing. The ships exchanged ear-piercing blasts from their whistles. Captain Andress thanked Mackinac for its assistance, slapped the pilot on his broad shoulders for a job well done, and said they were really under way now. Astern, Harry could see Mackinac punching its way northward, fading into the swirling snow.

  Soon they were down bound in the Detroit River. The down- bound and up-bound lanes were fairly clear of ice. Harry could see the curling smoke of at least three ships ahead of them. Detroit and Windsor lay under threatening storm clouds. Snow flurries continued. Peering through the huge wheelhouse windows, Harry could make out the Renaissance Center, the Blue Cross Building and Cobo Hall. Then they were sailing under the Ambassador Bridge. Ahead lay Lake Erie and the St. Lawrence Seaway. Captain Andress took command of the ship suggesting they leave the bridge, grab a bite to eat and prepare to clear ice from encrusted points on deck.

  Peter wolfed down his food, almost cleaning his plate before Harry got seated. "Sorry to rush you, Harry," he apologized, as he picked up his tray of dirty dishes. "Ve must get up on deck und vork vis der odder men to get rid of dat ice buildup. See you on deck." He took one last gulp of coffee before dropping his tray at the counter, and then left.

  "Slave driver!" Harry called after him, jokingly, as he turned to his food. Eating voraciously, washing almost each gulp down with coffee, he finished in short order, although it felt like the entire meal clogged up in his throat. Done, he dropped his dirty dishes into the tray and headed topside.