by Otto Penzler
“I agree,” he said, shortly. “But they will not be liberated in this country.”
“Very well,” Traile said. “Then here are your answers. There is no drug—I can’t sleep because of an accident. And there are no other Q-men.”
The Yellow Doctor stiffened, then the pupils of his queer eyes dilated with a violent passion.
“Do you expect me to believe such childish lies?” He whirled to the hatchet man, pointed at Eric. “Finish your work!”
“Wait!” Traile cried. “I’ve told you the truth!”
But the second hatchet was already whizzing through the air. Sonya screamed, and Traile turned cold with fear. Then, with a tremendous surge of relief, he saw that Eric fortunately had not tried to dodge. The hatchet had half-buried itself in the paneled wall, so that now the two handles kept his head from moving.
Yen Sin turned a look of icy hate on Traile.
“A last chance! Answer—or the third hatchet goes squarely between the others!”
Eric’s boyish face was white, but his lips were trying to smile.
“All right!” Trails said desperately. “I’ll tell you! Here in the back of my wristwatch…a supply of the capsules….”
—
Yen Sin’s tawny eyes lit with an eager flame. At his sharp command, the dacoit at Traile’s right loosened his grasp to unstrap the watch. Traile jerked his arm free, swung with all his might at the man on his left. The thug’s head snapped back from the blow, and Traile dived madly for the toylike gun on the stand. The first dacoit plunged after him with a snarl of fury. Traile snatched up the miniature weapon, but the Burmese was on him before he could touch the trigger. Three more of Yen Sin’s agents were racing to the spot. Traile slammed his fist into the dacoit’s throat. As the man’s clawing hands fell away, he pressed the stubby trigger.
Zip! A cartridge of tear-gas concentrate burst against the wall. The steamy vapor almost instantly filled the room. Traile had frantically rolled to one side as he fired the tear-gas gun. He could dimly see two of Yen Sin’s men pile over the one he had crippled.
He jumped up, trying to find Allen. Pandemonium had broken loose behind him. Suddenly, a hazy figure bumped against him. A wild blow scraped along his shoulder, and he heard the other man curse. “Allen!” he rapped out.
“Where’s the doorway?” the agent said thickly.
Above the clamor, Yen Sin’s choked voice rose with a note of rage. Traile pushed Allen in the other direction. He heard the door being opened, felt cool air on his face. The senior agent stumbled outside. He was about to follow when a vague figure lunged into view. There was a gun in the man’s extended hand. He sprang, tore the weapon away. The man struck blindly at him, missed. Traile landed a left hook, sent him reeling backward.
Three shrill blasts of a whistle sounded from outside on the roof. They were echoed almost at once from somewhere near. Trail dashed through the doorway, leaped to one side. A fan of white light was spreading from the top of the building diagonally across the street. It flashed toward the hotel roof, then the whistle blasts were drowned by the piercing shriek of a siren.
Chapter 10
Death Trap
Three or four staggering figures were brilliantly outlined in the glare which swept the garden. One of the spies dashed his hand across his streaming eyes. When he caught sight of a man crouching down by the guard wall, he fiercely lifted his arm. Traile fired as he saw the man’s raised hatchet.
The Chinese lurched back, and the weapon dropped from his hand. He doubled over and fell. At the same moment Allen’s whistle shrilled another signal. From behind the floodlight, a tommy gun began to chatter. The spies in back of the hatchet man wilted to the floor.
As the tommy gun ceased to pound, the siren on the office building roof lessened its piercing shriek. From four directions, down in the streets of Manhattan, that shriek was quickly answered. Traile plunged back into the penthouse. The tear gas was being sucked out toward the garden, and he could now see the spot where Eric had stood. The two hatchets still protruded from the wall, but there was no sign of the young Southerner.
He stumbled over Murdock’s body, felt his way toward the glass door. Panicky voices were audible from the direction of the elevator. He ran toward it, but the doors had clicked shut. Through the steamy whiteness of the tear gas, the observation panel was visible. He dimly saw the group which had crowded into the car. Eric was struggling in the hands of Kang Fu and Bannister. In front of Sonya and two Asian spies stood Doctor Yen Sin.
Traile leaped toward the switchboard, but the car was starting to move and the special switch had no effect. He had a last glimpse of the Crime Emperor’s malignant face, then the car dropped from sight. He dashed out onto the roof. Allen was shouting through cupped hands at the squad of F.B.I. men over on the other building.
“Come on!” Traile broke in. “They’ve escaped and taken Eric!”
They ran past the bullet-torn gate. The dying hatchet man cursed them in Chinese as they hurried by. Traile turned to the shrine.
“Why not the emergency doors?” exclaimed Allen.
“Bannister has the keys,” clipped Traile. He poised the automatic, went down the narrow stairway, with Allen close behind. They emerged in one room of a special suite. A faint odor of incense was perceptible. The windows were closed and shuttered.
There were signs of hasty flight as they rushed through the other rooms, but no one was to be found. Traile led the way into the hall, just as more Federal agents with drawn guns appeared from the main elevators.
“Three of you stay up here—hunt for Clark’s squad!” yelled Allen. “The rest of you come along!”
They ran to the first elevator. As it shot downward, Traile fired a query at the frightened operator.
“How many doors to the penthouse shaft?”
“Three beside the roof, sir,” gasped the man. “Top floor, main, and the garage in the basement.”
“Drop us all the way,” rapped Traile. He looked at the leader of the squad. “Are the police closing in all right?”
“Yes, but I heard some shooting,” the agent replied quickly.
When they reached the basement, they found a scene of wild confusion. An F.B.I. man dashed up to Allen, a bloody arm dangling.
“That Chinese and the bunch with him got away! They had a dozen men in cop’s uniforms hidden around, and we got mixed up.”
Traile ran toward the first car he saw, a big Duesenberg. Allen and three others tumbled in after him, and he sent the machine speeding up the ramp. As they reached the street, the senior agent called something to a policeman in a squad car. The police machine roared ahead, with Traile keeping close behind.
“They’re heading toward the East River,” Allen yelled above the howl of the sirens.
Traile grimly nodded.
“They’ll probably make for Bannister’s yacht on Long Island Sound.”
—
Three minutes later the cars halted by a small dock opposite Blackwell’s Island. Nearby, a motorcycle man lay dead under his wrecked machine. Another officer, obviously wounded, ran toward them, cursing and groaning.
“They jumped on an express cruiser! They’re going up the West Channel!”
A red-faced lieutenant ran for the nearest phone, but it was several minutes before a fast police boat swung in to the dock. Traile and the others jumped aboard, and the boat sped ahead in pursuit of the fleeing craft. As they approached Ward Island, the man at the searchlight gave an exclamation.
“There’s a cruiser runnin’ without lights!”
The darkened boat heeled to pass through the narrow channel. As it swung into the wider expanse of the East River, south of the Bronx, a green rocket flared up from the gloom beyond. It was answered by a red rocket from the commuting-cruiser. The searchlight man swerved the beam toward the spot from which the green signal had come. It fell on a trim white yacht some distance ahead.
“Hell!” he said, startled. “Why, that’s the Mah
ola—Mark Bannister’s yacht!”
“Keep your light on the cruiser,” Traile said hurriedly. “They’ll trick us if they get the chance.”
After one attempt to dodge out of the beam, the commuter ploughed straight for the yacht. Traile frowned thoughtfully at the smaller craft.
“There’s something odd about this,” he muttered to Allen. “Even if we can’t stop it, they must know that the yacht will be caught before it reaches open sea.”
“Maybe we’ve been fooled,” Allen said hastily. “They might not be aboard at all.”
Traile looked at the searchlight man.
“Have you a pair of field glasses?”
“Right back of you,” said the policeman.
Traile focused them on the cruiser. He could see several figures in the luxuriously-fitted cockpit at the stern. Doctor Yen Sin was looking back impassively. He saw Kang Fu, and he thought he glimpsed Eric lying helpless at the half-caste’s feet. Bannister seemed to be arguing with the Crime Emperor. Yen Sin shook his head, turned, and vanished within the cabin.
“Don’t let them out of your beam for a second,” Traile said to the man at the searchlight. “The most dangerous criminal alive is in that boat.”
“You don’t mean Bannister?” the cop gasped.
“No, but he’s mixed up in it,” said Traile.
“The yacht’s lights are going on,” exclaimed Allen.
Traile stared toward the vessel. Only the riding lights had been showing. Now, lighted portholes made two strings of yellow dots along the yacht’s side. Another light glowed, up on the bridge, then a powerful searchlight swept around toward the police boat. Traile shielded his eyes, tried to see ahead. In a moment the searchlight shifted, and he saw another police boat putting out from Flushing Bay. He raised the field glasses. Bannister and Doctor Yen Sin were now visible up in the deckhouse, as the cruiser slowed and turned in toward the Mahola. He saw Kang Fu and another man drag Eric to his feet.
The commuting-boat passed out of sight on the other side of the yacht. Traile put down the glasses, took out his pistol. Allen followed suit, and his agents made ready to board the yacht. It was almost two minutes before they reached the Mahola. The police boat quickly circled around to the starboard side, where the express cruiser rode at the gangway, empty.
Muffled voices could be heard aboard the yacht. Traile flung a warning to the agents and police as he jumped to the gangway.
“Be on guard every second! That devil’s up to something. And watch out for the girl and a prisoner.”
—
The deck was deserted. The boarding party spread out, covering port and starboard sides. Traile and Allen hastily searched the bridge, ran aft toward the main salon. The muffled voices seemed to come from below. There was a peculiar background of throbbing, metallic sounds which made the words and the source hard to determine.
Several of the others joined them as they stole down the main companionway. The dining saloon was as empty as the one above, but the voices were somewhat louder. Suddenly Traile heard Bannister’s grating accents.
“But it cost me more than a million!”
“What are a few millions compared with all there is at stake?” came the calm retort of Doctor Yen Sin.
Traile ran silently into the passage aft of the dining saloon. As the others followed, Bannister’s harsh voice was heard again in protest.
“I tell you this is madness! We’ll be trapped like rats!”
“Traile and those others will be the ones to die,” the Yellow Doctor’s response sounded from behind a closed door. “After that, no one will guess the truth.”
“You butcher!” Traile heard Eric Gordon cry out fiercely. “They’ll get you some day for—”
The sound of a blow cut off his outburst. Traile motioned swiftly for the agents and police to group themselves at the sides of the door.
“Is the device ready?” Yen Sin’s query came from inside.
“Not quite,” said a nervous voice Traile did not recognize. “We want to be sure.”
There was a sudden, high whine, like the whistle of a speaking tube. Then someone rasped a few indistinct words.
“What’s the matter?” Traile heard Bannister demand.
“It’s Fricht!” shrilled the man with the nervous voice. “The fool says he left his set on the—”
“Michael! Allen!” Eric’s shout rang out behind the door. “For Heaven’s sake get off—”
The words ended with a moan, then there was stark silence. Traile seized the doorknob, jumped aside and flung open the door. The agents and police sprang forward with guns leveled. Then they stared at each other in blank amazement.
There was not a soul in the stateroom.
The red-faced lieutenant jumped inside, yanked open the only visible door. Nothing but a small closet was revealed. He kicked at the back of it, looked around in bewilderment.
“Where th’ hell did they go? They couldn’t have got out that porthole.”
Traile gazed hurriedly around the stateroom. A box of long, black cigarettes lay on the lower bunk, near a small leather satchel like a man’s overnight kit. He bent over the partly open satchel. For a moment he stared, puzzled, at its contents. Then a dismayed look flashed across his face and he whirled around.
“Get off the yacht as fast as you can!”
—
There was a hasty exodus from the stateroom. Traile snatched up the leather satchel and dashed after Allen.
“What is it?” the senior agent said breathlessly.
“No time to explain!” snapped Traile.
As the police charged out on deck, the alarmed coxswain started his engine. The officers and F.B.I. men tumbled down the gangway. While the last ones were still scrambling aboard, the coxswain started the boat ahead. Allen made a flying leap and landed on the gunwale.
“Hold on!” he bellowed. “There’s one more man.”
The distance was already too great for Traile to hurdle. He turned and raced toward the bow. Gripping the satchel, he jumped. The impact tore one of the handles from his grasp. Before he could prevent it, the satchel opened and spilled its contents into the water. He let go of the bag, struck out toward the police boat. He was within twenty feet of it when a terrific explosion blasted the night.
The concussion, coming through the water, was like a sudden blow. The police boat rocked violently, and he saw several men thrown down. He dived to escape the heat of the blast, came up on the other side of the boat. As Allen helped him aboard he could partly make out the wrecked yacht through the glare of the flames.
The explosion had occurred amidships, and had practically blown the vessel apart. Even as he looked, he saw it break in two, and the blazing bow and stern sections begin to sink. He cast an anxious glance across the water.
“Where’s the boat that came out from Flushing?”
A grizzled harbor policeman shook has head.
“They were lying close by the port side. I’m afraid they’re done for.”
“Poor devils,” muttered Traile. He turned to the coxswain. “You’d better head for the darkest spot along shore. We may not be safe yet.”
The boat swerved. Allen stared at Traile.
“But what could happen now? Yen Sin and his mob are at the bottom of the East River—what’s left of them.”
Traile gazed toward the sinking wreckage of the yacht. He slowly nodded.
“I still don’t get all of it,” Allen said. “I can see that Yen Sin and those others must have been behind some secret door in the stateroom. But what was he trying to do?”
Traile looked at the listening policemen. “He intended to finish us, but the scheme backfired,” he replied briefly.
Allen shivered.
“That poor kid Gordon—and the girl! It’s hard, their going like that. But at least we’re rid of the Yellow Doctor.”
The grizzled harbor man eyed Traile curiously.
“What gets me, how did you know it was goin’ to happe
n?”
“I read the first lines of a message in that satchel,” Traile answered. “That gave me the hint.”
“Well, thank God for that!” said the policeman fervently.
But as he went forward, Traile drew Allen away from the other men.
“Can you stand a shock?” he said in an undertone.
“Huh?” said Allen. “What do you mean?”
“I want all the others to think that Doctor Yen Sin is dead.”
Allen started.
“But, good Lord, he couldn’t be alive! You yourself—”
“I admitted he was at the bottom of the East River. Unfortunately, he’s very much alive. The Mahola was torpedoed.”
“Torpedoed!” Allen whispered dazedly. Then he swore under his breath. “Jumping Jupiter! That lost-submarine business that’s been in all the papers!”
“Exactly,” Traile said in a grim voice. “I read about it myself, and never even suspected. But it’s a perfect means of escape for Yen Sin, if he’s too closely pressed.”
“I see it now,” Allen said savagely. “Bannister’s a director of the Lodin Submarine Corporation. He worked it so that a bunch of crooks were in the crew on the test runs, and they took command by force.”
“And they’ve simply been hiding somewhere, or lying submerged in the daytime,” assented Traile, “getting signals from Yen Sin or Bannister. Tonight, they evidently came up on the other side of the yacht and took off everyone from the express cruiser. Then they submerged to the periscope, eased off a little way in the dark, and waited until we were on board the yacht before firing the torpedo.”
“But how the devil did you get wise?” Allen queried.
“The man called Fricht was evidently on the yacht to maintain communication with the sub and with Dr. Yen Sin. That satchel contained a compact two-way radio. There was an extension cord for plugging in the transmitter, but the receiver was already switched on. Fricht must have left it that way in his hurry to escape.”
“So that’s how we heard them!” interjected Allen. Then he added excitedly: “We can still capture them. With your Navy connection, you can get some destroyers out in the Sound—they could drop nets or depth bombs, and bottle the sub up—”