Then for the first time Cowan heard a pounding in his ears. Off to his left a puff of smoke flowered. Glancing down, he realized with a shock that the destroyer’s anti-aircraft guns were opening up on him.
He pulled the stick back and shot up into the sky, reaching for all the altitude he could get. He was still climbing in tight spirals when he rolled over a little to obtain a better view.
It was like that, with Steve Cowan watching the scene below, when it happened. He had forgotten the time bomb. He had forgotten everything in the rush of action. How it had been set, he never knew. But suddenly, it turned loose with a tremendous detonation.
A PYRAMID OF FLAME shot skyward until Cowan thought his own wings, hundreds of feet above, must be singed. The puff of explosion struck his ship and sent it staggering down the sky. He got it righted, banked steeply, and circled slowly over the roaring fire below.
The Parawan was gone. Where it had been was a mass of flaming wreckage. Beside it settled the Japanese destroyer, ablaze from stem to stern, with the bay around it for many yards a furnace of burning oil.
Steve Cowan leveled off and then pointed his ship south.
“Better have a look at Joe,” he said to Ruanne. “He may be hit bad.”
“Aw, it’s nothin’,” Joe protested, blushing. “Take me somewhere where I can join the Army. Boy, what I just seen! And me, I thought Brooklyn’s ‘Murder Incorporated’ was tough!”
Down Paagumene Way
Steve Cowan leaned back against a packing case on the jetty at Paagumene Bay, New Caledonia, lazily watching the shipping. It was growing dark, and would soon be night.
Five ships were anchored in the harbor, all of them with cargoes for American troops. One, her freight discharged, was loading chrome from lighters.
The last rays of sunshine tipped the masts with transient gold. The freighter loading ore would sail tonight. In a few weeks she would be tying up in an American port.
Steve Cowan’s eyes strayed to the amphibian, riding lightly on the darkening water. A little refitting and he could fly her home on furlough, his first since being assigned to Army Intelligence. She was a beautiful plane, resembling the Grumman “Widgeon” but built to certain unusual specifications, laid down by Army designers. Because of that she was much faster and more maneuverable than any ship of her type. Moreover, she was armed like a fighter, and had a small bomb bay, so far unused except for freight.
Four years ago he had come out to the Pacific, and they had been four years of unceasing activity. Years that culminated in the Japanese invasion of the East Indies, ending his express and mail-carrying business suddenly and dramatically. Since being commissioned, he had acted as a secret messenger and undercover agent for the Allies.
It would be good to be back in the States again, to walk down the streets, to get away from the heat and humidity, eat a cheeseburger, and have a cold soda or beer.
A boat bumped alongside the jetty and two men clambered out.
“You just get that chrome to the right place at the right time. You get it there, or else.”
Abruptly, Steve Cowan stiffened. He knew that voice! Instinctively, he shrank down further behind the packing case.
“You don’t understand!” the second man protested. “This job is a cinch. It won’t interfere with the chrome deal. We can pick up the classified sailing list from the butler in Isola Mayne’s place. With those Jap credentials we got, nobody’d be the wiser. The Japs’ll pay heavy to get it back. They got to have it for their subs!”
“Yeah?” the voice sneered. “You pull something like that, Meyer,” an odd inflection was put on the name, as if Meyer was being taunted, “Koyama will cut your heart out. Try it and see what happens.”
Something in the tone of that ugly, domineering voice rang a bell of memory in Steve Cowan’s brain.
Mataga!
Recognition brought a start of dismay. Not twenty feet away, on the edge of the jetty was a man sworn to kill Cowan on sight. And Cowan was unarmed.
Mataga was speaking again. “You do what you’re told. All you have to worry about is getting this cargo of chrome to the Japs.”
“Besi John” Mataga in New Caledonia! Steve Cowan’s eyes narrowed. The renegade from the waters around Singapore was not one to stop at anything. Deadly, brutal, and efficient, he had been working with Jap and Nazi Fifth Columnists for several years. When Singapore fell he went to Saigon. When Java succumbed, he appeared in Batavia. Now he was here, in New Caledonia!
As their footsteps receded down the jetty, Steve Cowan got to his feet. If Besi John was here it meant something big was moving. Something infinitely more important than a shipload of chrome. If he was working with Koyama it meant even more, for the Japanese was a leader of the powerful and notoriously evil Black Dragon Society, which had many underground members in the South Seas. And “Meyer”? Could that be Captain Peter Meyer…?
THE EYES OF M. ESTEVILLE were amused when Cowan met with him the next day. “But, m’sieu,” he protested gently, “it cannot be! The vessel you speak of is the Benton Harbor, well known to us.” He sighed gustily. “As you say, it is true her master is Peter Meyer, a native of Holland, but he is highly respected here. Your story, if you’ll forgive me, is utterly preposterous!”
“I know Mataga,” Cowan persisted. “And I know what I heard.”
Esteville shrugged. “Undoubtedly Mataga is a dangerous criminal. But here? I think not. It would be too dangerous. A fancied resemblance, no more.”
“Bah!” Steve Cowan’s voice was flat. “I know Mataga. Last night I heard him speaking. As to the other man, he may be your Captain Meyer, or he may not. I know Mataga is here and something’s in the wind.”
“We will investigate.” Esteville stood up, plainly annoyed. “But you are mistaken. Nothing is wrong with that ship. As for your wild tale about the shipping lists, that is fantastic. Even if such information could be obtained, there are no spies in Paagumene.”
Cowan’s eyes hardened. The man’s indifference annoyed him. “I’ve told you. Now do something, or I will!”
Esteville’s eyes blazed. “Remember, m’sieu, that New Caledonia still has a government! We are capable of handling our own affairs. Any interference from you will bring a protest to American officials—a protest too strong to be ignored.”
Cowan turned on his heel and walked out. He could scarcely blame Esteville for being doubtful. Cowan’s connection with Army Intelligence was secret and, because of strict orders, Cowan did not dare tell him. After all, Captain Meyer, master of the Benton Harbor, had an excellent reputation and Esteville might feel justified in rejecting such a wild story without proof.
THOUGHTFULLY COWAN PAUSED under a tree and considered his next step. Summing up, how much did he actually know? That the Benton Harbor was the only ship in the roadstead being loaded with chrome, a vital war material, and that she would soon leave for the United States. Also that Besi John, a notorious criminal and Fifth Columnist, was here on shady business.
A shipping list had been mentioned, too, and enemy agents. One of whom was evidently working in conjunction with Japanese submarines, plying along the southern route to Australia. Esteville had said there were no spies and that such a list would be impossible to obtain. Yet Besi John had spoken of both agents and list in a matter-of-course manner. So they did exist. How could Cowan find out more about them?
Then he remembered Isola Mayne.
He had never seen her. Pictures, of course. Everyone had seen pictures of Isola Mayne. She was more than a beautiful woman, more than a great actress. She was a legend.
Three years before, she had abruptly retired and, going to Singapore, had settled down, apparently for life. Then came the Japanese invasion, and Isola, in her own plane, had flown to Palembang, and next to Soera-baja. When she arrived in Sydney she moved the war off the front pages. Then she was gone. She vanished into nothingness.
A few days the world wondered, but with the war, they soon forgot.
Yet Steve Cowan knew where she was. He knew, because he had flown supplies to her plantation on New Caledonia. He had not seen her, but knew she was living there in seclusion. And Isola Mayne’s brother was Port Captain! Married to a French woman, he, too, had spent time in Singapore, before that La Rochelle, and then relocated to Paagumene. In these places he had held prominent maritime positions. The spy must be one of the servants of his household, one who had managed in some way to steal a copy of the sailing list.
Unconsciously, Cowan had wandered back to the jetty. He stopped, staring at the dark blobs—freighters on Paagumene Bay. Much more was at stake out at the Oland Point home of Isola Mayne and her brother than appeared on the surface. A sailing list, in the hands of the Japanese submarine commanders, might disrupt the whole military line of supplies with the Far East. Whichever enemy got it—either the Japanese or Besi John Mataga—did not matter much with Cowan. Either way it would be disastrous.
Mataga was on the island, and somewhere nearby was Koyama. Mataga’s apparent lack of interest in the list had not fooled Cowan. He knew the man too well. Besi John, besi being Malay for “iron,” would make his own attempt in his own way, and Mataga would strike with utter ruthlessness.
Cowan took his cigarette from his mouth and snapped it into the bay. He could do nothing here. Oland Point was where the answer would be.
He dropped into the rubber boat and paddled out to the amphibian.
Opening the door of the cabin, he stepped in. A light flashed suddenly in his eyes and a fist smashed out of the darkness and knocked him to his knees. Someone struck him a vicious blow on the head, then another.
Through a fog of pain he struggled to hold himself erect, he heard Mataga’s harsh voice.
“Lash the beggar!” Besi John growled. “We got a date at Oland Point.”
Cowan struggled, trying to shout. Then something crashed upon his skull and he fell forward into a foam of pain that ate into and through him.
IT WAS ALMOST day when he opened his eyes again. The plane was still in the air. Struggling to master his nausea, he tried to reason things out. Still in the air?
He struggled to rise, but an arrow of torment from his head made him fall back, helpless. But not before he had discovered that he was tied hand and foot.
His brow furrowed, he tried to grope his way back along the trail of semiconsciousness. Something had happened—
Memory of it was veiled in the mists, in the half lights of awareness after he had been struck down. How long, he could not recall, yet something had happened. There was a dim recollection of lapping water, a strange dream of firelight dancing upon a dark hull, a mutter of motors, aircraft engines, and the murmur of voices.
He remembered, vaguely, through darkness and clouds, a round hump, like that on a camel’s back.
Somehow, that dark hump stood out in his mind, forcing itself always into the foreground. He had a feeling of having seen it before.
Finally he opened his eyes, and knew that he had passed out again. The plane was resting on the water. He could hear waves lapping against the hull.
He rolled over, and tipping his head back, Cowan looked around the cabin of the plane. Sitting in the hatchway, with his legs dangling toward the water was a huge and heavily tattooed Malay. Seeing that he was, for the moment, unobserved, the pilot tried to move his hands. They were bound beneath him and the tightness of the ropes was cutting into his wrists but more painful than that was a seam in the folded metal of the aircraft…a seam that just might have a sharp enough edge to free him!
Moving with the slight swell of the water under the craft, Steve Cowan shifted until the ropes lay across the seam, and then, very slowly, he began to saw up and down. How long he worked he did not know but the progress was horribly slow. He felt strands of the rope part, but when he twisted his wrists they seemed just as tightly held. Dispirited, he glanced up and noticed the native in the door watching him with a knowing sneer on his face…and the Malay watchman was a man he knew!
Yosha was a tough from the oil fields in Balikpapan, a man noted for his viciousness and dishonesty. With a war on, it was not surprising that he and Besi John had washed up on the same shore.
“So, y’get away, eh?” Yosha stood and started aft, his blocky body filling the fuselage of the plane almost completely. “We see about tha’.” He drew a parang from its bamboo sheath and took a step toward Cowan. In that instant, a woman screamed. Wildly, desperately, a cry of mortal anguish came from somewhere on shore!
Yosha stiffened, glancing back toward the aircraft hatchway, startled.
Steve Cowan lunged. He hit the Malay with his shoulder, toppling him over backward. Yosha swung but the plane was too small a space to effectively wield the machete-like parang and the blade scraped sparks along the aluminum skin of the craft. The tip hit a rib in the metalwork and the weapon jumped from his grip.
Yosha’s big hand grabbed for the handle of the weapon, as his other clutched at Cowan’s shirtfront.
Cowan jerked back, tearing the thin garment from the grasping hand. Both men lunged to their feet. Steve Cowan, quicker in reaction, smashed his head forward into Yosha’s face in a frantic “Liverpool kiss.” Yosha stumbled back and Steve jerked at his bindings, growling in frustration and fear.
A cord parted as the Malay stood up. Cowan jerked and twisted, one hand coming loose just as Yosha rushed. Cowan lashed out with a right, his wrist still wrapped in hemp, and the blow set his adversary back, but it was weak, the wrist and hand still numb from being bound. Fighting for his life Cowan swung a wicked blow to the brute’s middle. Then he lunged into the Malay, his fists slamming the big muscle-corded body.
Yosha flinched away, staggering across the cabin. Yet now he held the thick-bladed knife ready, his teeth bared in a grimace of ferocious hate. Then, his feet wide apart, he started creeping along the narrow cabin toward Cowan. Cornered, desperate, Cowan feinted a blow as the islander lunged. Risking everything, the American hurled himself against Yosha’s shoulder, and thrown off balance, both men toppled through the open hatch and struck the water.
Down, down, down! Then, somehow, Cowan discovered he was free and began desperately to swim for shore with powerful strokes.
As Cowan’s head broke the surface, he glanced back. The plane rode gracefully on the blue water, not far away. But with the woman’s scream still ringing in his ears, Cowan made no move to find out what had become of Yosha. He continued to swim swiftly toward shore. In a short while Cowan reached the shallows and splashed to land. He crossed the beach at a run. When the jungle had closed around him he felt safe.
Moving swiftly and silently, he worked his way toward the rambling plantation house, stripping the remains of the rope from his wrists. He was unarmed, and none knew better than himself the foe he was facing.
Ahead of Cowan was the wall of the Port Captain’s house, and in it an open French window. He crossed the garden swiftly, moving from one clump of shrubbery to the next. Flattened against the wall, he peered in.
Isola Mayne was standing by a table. Her dress was torn. Masses of red-gold hair had fallen about her shoulders. Yet despite these things, never before had Cowan seen a woman look so regal, so beautiful, so commanding.
“You tell me!” Besi John Mataga’s voice carried a soft but deadly threat. “If you don’t, we kill the maid. Your butler was a fool. He gave us no time to explain.” He gestured at the body of a man which Cowan noticed, for the first time, lying in the shadows. “I’ll kill you or this woman if I have to. Now, where’s your brother’s safe? We know he has one. Tell us, and we’ll let you go.”
“So that’s what this is about.” Isola Mayne’s voice was low, and it made Steve Cowan’s nerves tingle. “You want the shipping list? And my butler was a traitor, too? Well, you’ll never find the list because it isn’t here.”
Mataga’s face flushed and his eyes glinted with anger. But he merely turned away.
“Go ahead!” he told his men. “We’ll see if s
he’s as brave as she pretends.”
Isola Mayne’s face paled. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said, but Steve Cowan detected the resolution draining from her voice, and he saw how her eyes widened with horror. The men with Besi John were savage beasts.
Leaning further, he could see the two men holding the maid, a native girl. They had bent her arms cruelly behind her back. The girl’s face was white, but her eyes were fearless.
“Don’t tell them!” she cried. “They’ll kill us anyway.”
“Shut up!” Mataga whirled and struck the girl viciously across the mouth.
Instantly, the room burst into a turmoil of action. Isola Mayne, seizing a paper knife, was around the table with a movement that took the renegade by surprise. Only a quick leap got him away from the knife. Then he caught the wrist of the actress and with a brutal wrench, twisted her to her knees.
In the same instant that Isola moved, Steve Cowan had plunged through the door. He hit the room running. The nearest of the men holding the maid dropped her arm and wheeled to face him, grabbing for his gun, but he was too slow.
Cowan went at him with a roundhouse swing that started at the door. It knocked the fellow sprawling into a corner. Springing across the fallen chair, Cowan leaped to close quarters with the other man. A shot blazed in his face, then the American’s fist drove deep into the softness of the man’s body, and he saw the fellow’s face turn sick.
Someone jumped on him from behind. Dropping to one knee he hurled the man over his shoulder, then lunged to his feet just as Besi John Mataga whipped out a gun.
For a second Steve looked straight into the gun barrel. Lifting his eyes he could see death in Mataga’s cruel face.
Then Isola Mayne twisted suddenly on the floor and kicked out with all her strength. At the same moment Mataga’s pistol roared but the bullet went wild. Cowan moved. He hit Mataga in a sudden lunge and Mataga fell, cursing viciously.
Catching Isola’s wrist, Cowan lifted her from the floor, and seizing the automatic from the table where it had fallen, charged for the door and the maid came stumbling after them.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 81