The Devil—With Wings (5 page)

Forsythe was not talking now. He had seen a bulge under the mustard-colored jacket. He ripped away the buttons and grasped the hard surface of a small doll.

He threw the captain backwards to the couch and went toward the light. He paused and looked closely at the image.

It was brown, pinpricked with wormholes. The shiny lacquer had worn away long ago, leaving the bare wood in patches like scars. Confucius had been carved holding his staff. A placid smile was on the bearded face. Forsythe gave the philosopher a cold grin of triumph in return. He thrust the image into his pocket and turned again to face Shinohari.

“High treason,” said Forsythe. “The penalty, for you, would be very severe. I think you would find that it hurt to be a figure of scorn where you have been such a hero. Had I better shoot you now out of kindness?”

Shinohari's nerve was coming back. He was trying to gather enough courage to bluster his way out.

“You have no evidence!” cried Shinohari. “You are trying to intimidate me. You know nothing about…”

Forsythe's grin had the freezing capabilities of
liquid air
, showering down upon the luckless captain.

“Shinohari,” said Forsythe, “we have matched wits too long to underestimate each other. You cannot help yourself by bolstering false hopes. From the moment I stepped into this Weston puzzle I knew your records were false. I have tried to find out why you hid truth from your own government. The only answer is that you did this for personal gain. Your pay is not high, your position makes large demands upon your salary. A less astute person would falsify his reports like a common burglar and rob the cash box with erroneous expense accounts. But not you.

“You have been playing your cards to make yourself wealthy. Oh, don't deny it. Robert Weston located a mineral deposit of great wealth. His find was immediately reported to you by your own agents. Instead of relaying this information to your government, you sidetracked it for your own interest, spiked all possible leaks. You did not kill Robert Weston because he was valuable to you personally.

“Greedy for the reward which you thought your work and position demanded, you have taken matters into your own hands. Somewhere near the Amur at this very instant, Weston is working for you under heavy guard—and your superiors know nothing about it. That, Captain, is treason. The reward for treason is death and disgrace.

“But have no fear about my reporting this to your war office.”

At this the wilted Japanese showed swift signs of hope.

Forsythe knifed them instantly. “No, not to
your
war office, but to the military intelligence of another nation.”

“You'll sell me out?” shrieked Shinohari.

“You have sold yourself out. Your price for being good is your life and your reputation. To cover this treason you pinned a crime on me—a crime which was never committed. Repaying that, I am holding your life in my palm.”

Shinohari was thoroughly beaten down. He was a pile of mustard-colored cloth, sagging hopelessly.

Forsythe clothed himself in the irregular officer's greatcoat, turning up the collar and pulling down the cap until they almost met in effective disguise.

He went to the door and halted there for an instant to turn and click his heels in a stiff and mocking bow. He stepped out into the thick gloom and was gone.

Shinohari sat shivering, yellow fingers pulling weakly at a loose thread on his jacket. Abruptly he was animated with mixed decision and terror. He sprang up and snatched the field phone from its hook.

“Colonel Shimizu!” cried Shinohari. “I have seen
Akuma-no-Hané
! Send out immediate orders to all troops and pilots to be on the alert! Give orders for them to shoot the renegade on sight and shoot to kill! HE MUST DIE BEFORE DAWN!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Secret of Confucius

M
ORNING
had come to spread its yellow flood across the restive reaches of the Amur River. The three huts which huddled close beside the muddy bank of the twisting stream seemed to be without occupants or hope of ever having any, so squalid was their condition.

A staccato sound grew in volume to mingle with the lapping rush of the river. A cloud was churning skyward from the trackless plain and a plunging dot grew in size as it approached the huts.

Forsythe slewed the mustard-colored motorcycle to a stop beside the stream and looked cautiously at the three houses. No shots greeted him and, reassured, he drew off the irregular officer's now very dusty coat and cap and lashed them to the handlebars close beside a small pennant there which, in Japanese, indicated the machine to be the property of “Staff Dispatch. Japanese Imperial Army Headquarters. Aigun.”

Forsythe kicked the stand up and twisted the grip. The engine raced wildly and he ran with it toward the yellow flood. At the bank he let go.

The motorcycle bellowed outward into the air, curved down and vanished with a dirty, spluttering splash. The river swept onward, leaving not a ripple to mark the spot.

Forsythe adjusted his goggles. What was visible of his face looked white and strained and weary. But as he walked toward the first hut he summoned up the energy to grin.

Before he reached the door it opened and Ching stepped out.

“The next time you beat it off like that,” said Ching, “I'm going with you, girl or no girl. I couldn't sleep all night! How did you make out?”

“I talked with Shinohari,” said Forsythe. “And he generously gave me…”

He hauled the Confucius from his jacket pocket.

“You got it!” cried Ching. “Quick! Lemme see!”

Forsythe gave it over, suddenly disinterested in it and very interested in Patricia, who was peering over Ching's shoulder. She showed the worry of a dangerous night but even this could not sap the vibrant vitality of her.

Forsythe thrust Ching aside and stepped into the room. He pulled off his gauntlets and cast them to the table. He turned, smiling, to Patricia.

“Your brother is alive.”

Her eyes on him were wide and blank as she tried to understand what he had said. She did not move or speak.

“He's alive,” said Forsythe, “and the key to his whereabouts is in that Confucius.”

He said it very casually and then turned away from her to give her a chance to collect her startled thoughts.

A North Chinese with a face as impassive and yellow as brass was standing beside a small
Primus
stove, waiting to be recognized by Forsythe. He was one of many such subagents and his position was that of caretaker for these huts which appeared so abandoned but which were, in reality, an outpost and fueling station and hangar.

“Lin,” said Forsythe, “do you think you could cook me up some ham and eggs? I'll need them before the day is out.”

Lin almost smiled but not quite. He was flattered by the request and went swiftly to work with the Primus and a frying pan. Forsythe walked through a curtained doorway and Patricia, looking after him at the swaying cloth, heard water splashing as Forsythe washed up.

She turned slowly to Ching and saw him still fondling the doll. In a small, wondering voice, she whispered, “Bob's alive!” The dawning realization had taken minutes to drive away the chill certainty of her brother's death.

Abruptly, she shouted, “He's alive!” She grabbed the startled Ching and hugged him. She danced around the table and gave Lin a giddy spin across the floor. And then she left them both and stood outside the curtain looking at it with glowing, excited eyes. In every flowing curve of her graceful body she showed thankfulness and admiration.

But Forsythe did not come out and Patricia danced back to the table and began to set his place for him.

While she was doing this, a small cloud drifted over the brightness of her face. She laid the plates more slowly and then stopped with one held in midair, looking oddly back at the curtained door. No thought could be dark enough to hide her jubilance, but still she was troubled.

Had
Akuma-no-Hané
gone to this trouble for her alone?

No. Everything she had ever heard about him belied the fact that he had.

The Confucius was valuable.

Yes, very valuable.

Suddenly it came coldly over her that she and Bob Weston were less than pawns in a struggle much greater than their own small triumphs and fears. And
Akuma-no-Hané,
obviously, had only availed himself of an opportunity to strike at Shinohari.

She sat down slowly and watched Lin frying ham and eggs.

Forsythe came out. Perhaps if he had returned in his shirt sleeves without his helmet, her reaction would have been different. But he evidently could not chance her seeing his face and though he smiled, the oval lenses, glinting at her above the smile, sent lances of misgivings through her.

Forsythe slid into a chair across from her, regarding her curiously. “What's the matter? Didn't you hear me? Bob Weston is alive and you'll see him before night.”

She managed a faint “Thank you,” and then averted her glance to her plate.

Forsythe shrugged and turned to Lin who was ladling out the food.

Ching, in the meanwhile, had been rolling the Confucius around and around in his hands, studying it with lowered brows and pursed mouth. He began a systematic tapping and, when that failed to bring anything important to view, carried the image over to Lin's larder. Ching took some flour and rubbed it on the ancient wood. Suddenly a white line appeared around the base where the detachable portion had made the smallest imaginable crack.

Excitedly he unscrewed the base and produced a small, tight roll of paper. He started to open it when he glanced at Forsythe.

“I believe,” said Forsythe, “that the letter is addressed to the young lady—if you don't mind, Ching.”

She took it from Ching's reluctant fingers. Forsythe gave his whole attention to his eating, quite as though the matter was of very small importance.

Patricia read it once to herself and then glanced sideways at Forsythe. She knew he would take it from her in any case despite his original politeness in the matter.

She looked back and read it aloud.

Dear Sis:

I think we've got a bonanza! I've gotten out something like eighty thousand dollars in two weeks' work and there's chances to get more. I found an old dredge which came from god-knows-where and a crew of Japanese colonists are working it for me under my direction. In case anything happens to me and should this ever reach you, I have buried the eighty thousand in dust at the foot of a white rock which has a profile like an old man's face. We won't have to worry about
anything
anymore!

She turned to Forsythe again. “You…you really think he's alive?”

“Certainly,” said Forsythe, pushing back his plate. “I've thought it all along.”

“But how could you know unless…”

“He's an engineer, isn't he? You also know of that dredge, Ching.”

“Sure I do,” cried Ching. “An American brought it upriver chunk by chunk and assembled it. But his men revolted and he had to skin out with nothing much more than his life. Why, that thing's been there for ten years!”

“We'll find him at the dredge,” said Forsythe. “Working.” He stood up and made a gesture toward the door. “Roll out the ship, boys. We've got to fly about a hundred kilometers. We'll start in a few hours and meantime we can check over the
crate
. You're through at this stand, Lin.”

Lin's brass face lifted worriedly. “You not come back? No wantchee this place no more?”

“No.”

“You…you got a dream?” persisted Lin.

“A hunch?” Forsythe laughed, but there was a false note in his voice.

Ching was alarmed. “Hey, are you kidding me or what? You've gotten hunches about getting bumped off before.”

“Not like this one,” said Forsythe quietly, lighting a smoke. “Never mind. Let's start working on the ship.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Wings of Death

T
HE
silver attack plane's engine battered the surface of the Amur, so low that the
slipstream
sent yellow waves leaping back from the blast of passage.

The yellow day was nearing a hazy close and long streamers of red had begun to creep toward the zenith like wounds in the cobalt of the sky.

The ship was badly overweighted and no one knew as well as Forsythe that an attack against it in number would result disastrously for himself.

Ching had rigged a board across the roomy gunner's pit and Lin sat there, eyes glazed, looking at the river lashing out behind them like a saffron snake.

Patricia and Ching were crowded together on the gunner's seat. The girl was so enrapt with the anticipation of seeing her brother that she did not mind being crowded—in fact she hardly noticed it.

Only Ching and Forsythe knew how they were raising the odds against themselves. But without beacons by which to land they could not go at night, and though they could feel the intensity of spying eyes behind every rock along the riverbank, and though they could sense the passage of radio waves which told of their going, it was for Forsythe to order and Ching to obey.

Suddenly a flash of light against the setting sun caused Ching to glance westward. He stiffened, eyes nailed to the far-off brace of dots which grew in size even as he watched.

He seized the inter-cockpit phone. “
Kawasaki
pursuits coming!”

Forsythe's goggles flashed redly as he glanced up. His black gauntlet yanked back on the stick and the attack shot skyward with diminishing engine pitch. It leveled out at two thousand. The Japanese ships were still boring in.

Forsythe gripped the phone. “Buckle your belts and leave your machine guns alone! I'll handle this from the front.”

Ching nodded though Forsythe could not see. Ching could not have said a word at that moment. Forsythe knew he was going to die. That time seemed to be coming all too soon.

“Do you think they'll attack us?” said Patricia, trying to appear calm.

Ching nodded and tightened his belt. He had Lin hold on solidly to the drum racks.

The Japanese ships were spaced one above the other. With the sun streaming crimson around them, they climbed steadily to gain the best advantage of their foe.

Forsythe clamped the earphones over his helmet and twisted a dial to get the Japanese signal band.

A falsetto voice shrieked in upon him. A pilot was calling his headquarters.

“He is sighted! Shall we attack or wait?”

There was a pause and then, “ATTACK! Captain Shinohari is taking off immediately and should be there within two hours.”

The phone clicked off but Forsythe let it crackle in case other orders whipped across the flaming sky.

The planes were high above them now, banking, starting to come over the top and down.

Patricia saw the blurring flash of the props stabbing straight at her. Above the roar of tortured steel she heard the shattering crescendo of machine guns.

The Kawasakis dropped like shot gulls out of a sky the color of flame, spattering long black lines which wove a spider's web about the attack plane.
Tracer
shredded as their props blasted through it.

Down, down, down, gun and engines going full and raving.

Forsythe held it until it seemed the Japanese would smash them out of the sky. And then, abruptly, Forsythe stabbed the nose of the attack skyward, straight at the nearest prop.

Louder guns battered at Patricia's ears and she knew they were Forsythe's. She looked straight ahead, conscious of the world upended crazily and twisting further yet.

In the blink of an eye the Japanese planes had vanished, but even before she realized it, the world had tipped over in the other direction like a mad compass being rocked wildly on its gimbals.

She had a sick sensation as the bottom dropped out. Centrifugal force crushed her into the pit, and then as they banked violently she felt herself flung against the retaining cleats of the Matsubi.

She had shut her eyes and now she opened them again to see the Rising Sun emblazoned on a fuselage straight ahead. The Japanese was rolling down and away, broadside to them. They spanned the distance like a horse taking a hurdle and suddenly the Japanese was gone.

Patricia lightened and pressed upward against the belt; the bottom was falling out again. Her ears ached to the screaming blast of engines and guns. She was choked with acrid
cordite
and felt blinded with noise.

Straight over her head she saw a Japanese plane. It was upside down. Straight over her head—and yet the earth was there and the Amur was a flash of yellow in the sun.

An unseen fist slammed her down again and the earth was gone, the plane was gone. She was clutching the cowl so hard that pain was white-hot in her fingers. But she dared not let go.

Slammed bodily against cowl, Ching, seat and belt, head whirling as she strove to keep her long-gone sense of balance, she glimpsed the tail of a ship straight ahead. She heard Forsythe's guns open up.

She was crushed downward once more. She looked up as they looped. There was the plane, inverted, overhead, against the earth. As she stared, it fell off on one wing. Streamers of smoke, like a stab of ink through white water, shot from the reeling plane.

She saw a Japanese with a parachute pack trying to get out and then sky had replaced the sight.

Far off she heard the triphammer chatter of machine guns. The horizons tipped smoothly and whirled like a merry-go-round. The remaining Japanese plane was coming head-on, trying for a last resort—a collision.

Forsythe hurdled it. The earth tipped the other way and then slid upward in a long sheet of brown and green and yellow until it was on top of them.

Machine guns were loud. Forsythe was firing once more. Patricia opened her eyes. The vision of a punctured Rising Sun fled across her sight, gone in an instant.

The world went right once more. The left wing slapped over to point at the earth and the attack flew smoothly around and around, seeming to stand still while the earth spun.

Forsythe stayed there for a full minute, turning, looking over the side with the dying sunlight crimson on his goggles.

Patricia followed his gaze. She could hear a screaming chant dimly through her engine-deafened ears. She had to look closely at the earth to see it.

Abruptly a whole hill exploded. Wings and tattered fabric blasted outward from a violent ball of smoke and flame. The concussion reached them like an easy bump.

Forsythe evened out the attack and started in a slow dive back toward the river. She could see his goggles flashing as he looked around the sky.

Suddenly she felt very sick. Weakly she steadied her head in her hands, sobbing.

Ching was beaming at the earth behind them. He turned with a grin and said, “No chance of him slipping,
yet
! He sure nailed those devils!” He saw her, then. “Hello, what's wrong? Yeah, I know. You can't tell which is up yet. Cheer up. We're almost there!”