A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

And jumped back.

  Many little things were moving in the base of the ulcer.

  “What—?”

  Sorenson’s expression was bleak. Brannigan could see he was trying to keep up a brave face.

  “Yeah. The bug didn’t poison me. I wish it had. Instead it laid a bunch of eggs in me, a thousand, maybe a million of them. And they keep hatching. I think they’re getting into my system, eating me alive from the inside.”

  “Can’t the doctors stop it?”

  He shook his head. “They’ve never seen anything like—”

  He clasped a hand over his mouth as he broke off into a fit of coughing. The harsh barks seemed to be coming from somewhere around his ankles. With a final wet hack he stopped.

  A look of horror twisted his features as he stared at his palm. It was filled with bloody phlegm, and Brannigan could swear he saw something wriggling within the glob, something with many, many legs.

  “Oh, God!” Sorenson wailed, his composure finally broken. “Call the doctor! Get the nurse in here! Hurry!”

  Brannigan turned and ran for the hallway. Behind him he heard the wrenching sound of a grown man sobbing.

  Jiang could not keep his body from shaking as he knelt with his forehead pressed against the cold stone floor. The Mandarin stood over him, eerily silent. Jiang had told him what had transpired on the street. It had been hours ago, but he had come as soon as he could get away.

  At last the master spoke, his voice soft, the tone sibilant.

  “So . . . Yu Chaoyang has disobeyed me and endangered all we have worked for here. I half expected this from such a man. The Japanese are overrunning our China, slaughtering its people, and Yu thinks only of adding to his already swollen coffers.”

  “Venerable, I tried to dissuade him but—”

  “I am sure you did your best, Jiang Zhifu, but apparently it wasn’t enough.”

  No-no-no! cried a terrified voice within Jiang. Let him not be angry!

  But Jiang’s outer voice was wise enough to remain silent.

  “However,” the master said, “I will allow you to redeem yourself.”

  “Oh, Illustrious! This miserable offspring of a worm is endlessly grateful.”

  “Rise.”

  Jiang eased to his feet and stood facing the master, but looked at him only from the corner of his eye. The man known throughout Chinatown as the Mandarin—even Jiang did not know his true name—was tall, lean, high-shouldered, standing bamboo straight with his hands folded inside the sleeves of his flowing turquoise robe; his hair was thin and covered with a brimless cap beaded with coral. He had a high, domed forehead and thin lips, but his eyes—light green, their color intensified by the shade of his robe—were unlike any Jiang had ever seen.

  “Where is the child now?”

  “Yu has her in the tonghouse, but soon he will head for his ship and set sail. Shall I stop him? Shall I see to it that he suffers the same fate as that too-curious detective?”

  The master shook his head. “No. Did the child see you?”

  “No, Magnificent. I took her from behind and she was soon unconscious.”

  “Then she cannot point a finger of blame at a Chinaman. Good. You will return to the tonghouse and light a red lamp in the room where the child is kept. I will send a few of my dacoits to see that she is returned to the streets. You must be present so that no suspicion falls on you. Then let Yu go to his ship and set sail with the rest of his cargo. He will never see home. He—Jiang, you are bleeding.”

  “It is nothing, Eminent. The child’s dog bit me as I pulled her into the car. It is nothing.”

  “The red-haired little girl had a dog, you say? What kind of dog?”

  “A scruffy mongrel. May this unworthy snail ask why such an Esteemed One as you would ask?”

  When the master did not answer, Jiang dared a glance at his face and saw the unimaginable: a look of uncertainty in those green eyes.

  “Exalted . . . did this miserable slug say something wrong?”

  “No, Jiang. I had a thought, that is all . . . about a certain little red-haired girl who must not be touched . . . ever.” He turned and stepped to the single high small window in the north wall of the tiny room. “It could not possibly be she, but if it is . . . and if she is harmed . . . all the ancestors of all the members of the Yan Yuap Tong will not save it from doom . . . a doom that could spread to us as well.”

  Brannigan leaned against the center railing of the hospital’s front steps and sucked deep draughts of the foggy night air.

  Sorenson . . . a tough, no-nonsense cop . . . reduced to a weeping child. It gave him a bad case of the willies. Who was this Mandarin? And more important, was he involved in Margot Kachmar’s disappearance?

  Feeling steadier, Brannigan stepped down to the sidewalk and headed for his radio car. He needed to call in. A catchy song by Frances Day, “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” echoed unwelcomed his head. From somewhere in the fog a newsboy called out the headlines of the evening edition. As he passed a silver Rolls Royce its rear door opened and an accented voice spoke from the dark interior.

  “Please step inside. Someone wishes to speak to you.”

  Someone? That could very well be the Mandarin. Well, Brannigan damn well wanted to speak to him too, but on his terms, not in the back of a mysterious limousine.

  He backed away. “Have him meet me down at the station,” he said. “We’ll have a nice long chat there.”

  Brannigan jumped at the sound of another voice close behind him, almost in his ear.

  “He would speak to you now. Into the car, please.”

  Brannigan reached for his pistol but his shoulder holster was empty. He whirled and found himself face-to-face with a gaunt Chinaman dressed in a black business suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. A black fedora finished off the look. His expression was bland, his tone matter-of-fact, but his features had a sinister, almost cruel cast.

  He held up Brannigan’s .38 between them but did not point it at him. He gestured to the car with his free hand.

  “Please.”

  Brannigan’s first instinct was to run, but he figured all he’d gain by that was a slug in the back. Probably better than a millipede in his bed, but he decided on the car option. Maybe he’d find an opening along the way to make a break.

  With his bladder clenching, he ducked inside. The door slammed behind him, drenching him in darkness. He could sense but not see whoever was seated across from him. As the car began moving—the thin chink was also the driver, it seemed—Brannigan leaned forward, straining to see his host.

  “Are you . . .?” His mouth was dry so he wet his lips. “Are you the Mandarin?”

  A soft laugh. “Oh, no. I would not serve that one.”

  “Then why do you want to speak to me?”

  “It is not I, Detective Brannigan. It is another. Hush now and save your words for him.”

  The glare from a passing streetlight illuminated the interior for a second, leaving Brannigan in a state of shock. The other occupant was a turbaned giant who looked as if he’d just stepped out of Arabian Nights.

  The car turned west on California, taking them away from Chinatown. A few minutes later they stopped at a side entrance to the Fairmont Hotel, perched atop Nob Hill like a granite crown. The driver and the giant escorted Brannigan to an elevator in an empty service hallway. Inside the car, the driver inserted a key into the control panel and up they went.

  After a swift, stomach-sinking ride, the elevator doors opened into a huge suite, richly furnished and decorated with palm trees and ornate marble columns reaching to its high, glass-paned ceiling.

  An older man rose from a sofa. He was completely bald with pale gray eyes. He wore black tuxedo pants and a white dress shirt ornamented with a huge diamond stickpin. Brannigan spotted a black dress jacket and tie draped over a nearby chair. A long thick cigar smoldered in his left hand; he extended the right as he strode forward.

  “Detective Brannigan, I presume. Thank you for
coming.”

  Brannigan, flabbergasted, shook the man’s hand. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected.

  “I didn’t have much choice.”

  He eyed his two escorts as they took up positions behind his host. The driver had removed his hat, revealing a bald dome; glossy black hair fringed the sides and back of his scalp.

  “Oh, I hope they didn’t threaten you.”

  Brannigan was about to crack wise when he realized that they hadn’t threatened him at all. If anything they’d been overly polite.

  He studied the bald man. Something familiar about him . . .

  “I’ve seen you before.”

  The man shrugged. “Despite my best efforts, my face now and again winds up in the papers.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m someone who prefers to move in and out of large cities without advertising his presence. Otherwise my time would be consumed by a parade of local politicians with their hands out, and I’d never get any work done.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “You were in Chinatown today asking about a missing girl, Margot Kachmar.”

  The statement startled Brannigan at first, but then he glanced at the Oriental driver and realized he shouldn’t be surprised.

  “That’s police business.”

  “And now it’s my business.” A sudden, steely tone put a knife edge on the words. “My daughter was abducted from that same area this afternoon.”

  “She was? Did you tell the police?”

  “That’s what I’m doing now.”

  “I mean an official report and—never mind. Are you sure she was abducted?”

  The bald man hooked a finger through the air and Brannigan followed him to the far side of a huge couch. Along the way he glanced out the tall windows and saw Russian Hill and San Francisco Bay stretching out below. This had to be the penthouse suite.

  The man pointed to a sandy-furred mutt lying on a big red pillow. A thick bandage encircled its head.

  “That’s her dog. She goes nowhere without him. He was shot—luckily the bullet glanced off his skull instead of piercing it—and that can only mean that he was defending her. He almost died, but he’s a tough one, just like his little owner.”

  Two in two days from the same neighborhood . . . this was not the pattern Sorenson had described.

  “How old is your daughter, and is she blond?”

  “She’s a ten-year-old redhead—her hair’s the same shade as yours.”

  Cripes. A kid. “Well, I’m sorry about what happened to her, but I don’t think she’s connected to the Kachmar girl. I—”

  “What if I told you they were both dragged into a black Packard sedan? Most likely the same one?”

  Katy Webber had described a black sedan. Maybe there was a connection after all.

  The bald man said, “I have men out canvassing the neighborhoods right now, looking for that car.”

  “That’s police business. You can’t—”

  “I can and I am. Don’t worry—they’ll be very discreet. But I’ll make you a deal, detective: You share with me, I’ll share with you. If I locate Miss Kachmar, I’ll notify you. If you find my daughter alive and well I will see to it that you never have to worry about money for the rest of your life.”

  Brannigan felt a flush of anger. “I don’t need to be bribed to do my job.”

  “It’s not a bribe—it will be gratitude. Anything of mine you want you can have. I’ve made fortunes and lost them, gone from living in mansions to being penniless on the street and back to mansions. I’m good at making money. I can always replace my fortune. But I can’t replace that little girl.” The man seemed to lose his voice and Brannigan saw his throat work. When he recovered he added, “She means everything to me.”

  The nods from the turbaned giant and the driver said they felt the same. Brannigan was touched. He couldn’t help it. And from the looks on all three faces he knew that if they were the first to discover the child’s abductor, the mugg would never see trial.

  He couldn’t condone or allow the vigilantism he sensed brewing here. And for that reason he couldn’t tell them what Sorenson had said about the Dragon Tong. He’d keep that to himself.

  “I promise you that if I find her, you’ll be the first to know.”

  The bald man put his hand out to the Chinese driver who placed Brannigan’s pistol in it, then he fixed the detective with his pale gaze. “That is all I ask. Can my associates offer you a lift?”

  “No thanks.” He’d seen enough of the old man’s chums for one evening. “I’ll grab a cab.”

  He took the elevator down to the lobby level, but before going outside, he stopped at the front desk.

  “Who’s staying in the penthouse suite?” he asked the clerk. He flipped open his wallet, showing his shield. “And don’t give me any malarkey about hotel policy.”

  The man hesitated, then shrugged. After consulting the guest register he shook his head.

  “Sorry. It’s unoccupied.”

  “Baloney! I was just up there.”

  Another shake of the head. “No occupant is listed. All I can tell you is this: The penthouse suite is on reserve—permanent reserve—but it doesn’t say for whom.”

  Frustrated, Brannigan stormed from the hotel. He had more important things to do than argue with some hotel flunky.

  Ten minutes later Brannigan was standing in the shadows across the street from the headquarters of the Dragon Tong. Its slanted cupola glistened with moisture from the fog. A few of the upper windows were lit, a pair of green-and-yellow paper lanterns hung outside the front entrance, but otherwise the angular building squatted dark and silent on its lot.

  What now? Sorenson had told him how to find it, but now that he was here he couldn’t simply walk in. Much as he hated to admit it, he was going to have to call Hanrahan for backup.

  As he turned to go back to his radio car he noticed movement along the right flank of the tonghouse. Three monkeylike shadows were scaling the wall. He hurried across the street and crept closer to investigate. He found a rope hanging along the wall, disappearing into a third-story window lit by a red paper lantern.

  Apparently someone else was interested in the tonghouse. He knew the three he’d seen shimmying up this rope were too small and agile to have been the bald guy and company.

  He looked at the rope, tempted. This was one hell of a pickle. Go up or get help?

  The decision was taken out of his hands when the rope snaked up the wall and out of reach. He cursed as he watched it disappear into the window.

  But then he noticed a narrow door just to his right. He tried the handle—unlocked—and pushed it open. The slow creaks from the old hinges sounded like a cat being tortured. He cringed as he slipped into some sort of kitchen. He pulled his pistol and waited to see if anyone came to investigate.

  When no one came, he slipped through the darkness, listening. The tong-house seemed quiet. Most of the tongsters were probably home at this hour. But what of the hatchetmen the tongs reputedly used as guards and enforcers? Did they go home too? Brannigan hoped so, but doubted it.

  He stepped through a curtain into a small chamber lit by a single oil lamp, its walls bare except for a black lacquered door ornamented with gold dragons uncoiling from the corners. The door pulled outward and Brannigan found himself in an exotic, windowless room, empty except for a golden Buddha seated in a corner; a lamp and joss sticks smoked before it, their vapors wafting toward the high ceiling.

  Something about the walls . . . he stepped closer and gasped as he ran his fingers over what he’d assumed to be wallpaper. But these peacock plumes weren’t painted, they were the genuine article. And all four walls were lined with them.

  Dazzled by its beauty, Brannigan stepped back to the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. No window, no door other than the one he’d come through. The room appeared to be a dead end.

  But then he noticed the way the smoke from the jo
ss sticks wavered on its path toward the ceiling. Air was flowing in from somewhere. He moved along the wall, inspecting the plumes until he found one with a wavering fringe. And another just below it. Air was filtering through a narrow crevice. He pushed at the wall on either side until he felt something give. He pushed harder and a section swung inward.

  Ahead of Brannigan lay a long, dark, downsloping corridor, ending in a rectangle of wan, flickering light. The only sound was his own breathing.

  He hesitated, then took a breath and started forward. He’d come this far . . . in for a dime, in for a dollar.

  Pistol at the ready, he crept down the passage as silently as his heavy regulation shoes would allow, pausing every few steps to listen. Nothing. All quiet.

  When he reached the end he stopped. All he could see ahead was bare floor and wall, lit by a lamp in some unseen corner. Still hearing nothing, he risked a peek inside—

  —and ducked back as he caught a flash of movement to his left. A black-handled hatchet whispered past the end of his nose and buried itself in the wall just inches to the right of his head.

  And then a black-pajama-clad tongster with a high-cheeked, pockmarked face lunged at him with a raised dagger. His brutal features were contorted with rage as he shouted rapid-fire gibberish.

  The report from Brannigan’s pistol was deafening as it smashed a bullet through the chink’s chest and sent him tumbling backward. Another black-clad tongster, a raw-boned, beady-eyed bugger, replaced him immediately, howling the same cry as he swung a hatchet at Brannigan’s throat. He too fell with a bullet in his chest.

  But then the doorway was filled with two more and then three, and more surging behind them. With only four rounds left in his revolver, Brannigan knew he had no chance of stopping this Mongol horde. He began backpedaling as the hatchetmen leaped over their fallen comrades and charged.

  Brannigan fired as he retreated, making good use of his remaining rounds, slowing the black-clad gang’s advance, but a small, primitive part of him began screeching in panic as it became aware that he was not going to leave the tonghouse alive. Not unless he reached the door to the joss room in time to shut it and hold it closed against the swarm of hatchetmen.