Behind Mt. Baldy (20 page)

The men were arguing. Roger made
himself go forward. His curiosity was so intense he felt that he just had to
see!  He found a place where he could see between two trees and through a
gap in the felled logs.

Beyond the logs was a muddy
clearing about twenty metres across surrounded by the tangle of logs and scrub.
In the centre was a large muddy hole like a bomb crater, half-filled with brown
water. There were several other holes nearby.

Digging in one, stripped to the
waist, was Bruno. Nearby stood the man with the glasses - or without at that
moment, as he was wiping mud or sweat off them while scowling. The blond man
was arguing with the old man. The blond man had taken off his jacket, rolled up
the sleeves of his black shirt and had a pick over his shoulder. Roger was
thrilled to see that both he and the older man wore black leather holsters on
their belts.

Even as Roger watched, the men
reached some sort of decision. He couldn’t understand what they said but Bruno
clambered out of his muddy hole, cursing and obviously not too happy.

‘It looks like they are packing
up. I’d better get out of here while I can,’ Roger thought. He turned and began
to move carefully back the way he had come.

Within twenty paces he knew he
had a problem as he could hear the murmur of voices moving to his right to
where the muddy clearing connected with the snig track. He walked quickly to
the next big tree and stopped to look that way.

Around the end of the tangle of
logs and scrub appeared the blond man and Bruno, walking side by side. They
were obviously walking along the track and were only fifty paces away. Luckily
they were engrossed in their conversation and busy watching where they put
their feet.

Roger bit his lip and stayed
behind the tree. The two men were carrying shirts and tools, and were muttering
angrily. All Roger could do was stay put and watch. They went past him towards
the car. Unsure where the other two men were Roger remained still.

The sound of a vehicle door
opening beyond the wall of scrub told him that the four wheel drive was parked
there. Roger looked around, wondering if he should try to rejoin Peter, or stay
where he was.

The sound of vehicle engines in
the distance came to him. Through the trees he glimpsed the blond man stop to
listen. He and Bruno were almost at their car. Roger could just see it. Then
the four wheel drive’s motor burst into life. A door slammed, gears grated and
the vehicle roared into view, churning through mud almost up to its axles.

Over the noise of its motor Roger
heard a shout and was dimly aware of other motors. He peered around his tree
and saw that a white Toyota Landcruiser had turned in off the main road and
pulled up right behind the black car. Then he saw that the blond man was
running back up the track yelling. Blue clad figures seemed to spring out of
the Landcruiser.

The police!

Things happened so fast that
Roger had trouble later sorting them out. He got a glimpse of Bruno dropping
the tools he was carrying and raising his hands; and the blond man diving behind
a tree. The four wheel drive stopped. Its doors opened. The driver went out the
far side and the old man scrambled out on Roger’s side.

A loudhailer boomed.

“This is the Police.
Stop!”

There was a sharp crack. Roger
winced and gripped the tree.

That was a shot!

Another shot!

The loud hailer boomed again,
telling the men to drop their weapons and to come out. For the next minute
there was a babble of shouts and more shots, some from different guns and not
all in the same direction.

Roger froze, unsure what to do.
He saw the old man’s face twist in fury as he pulled out an ugly looking black
automatic pistol. Roger gaped at him, transfixed with fear.

More shots.
The old man suddenly dived
behind a rotting log and lay flat, not twenty paces from where Roger crouched.
The loud hailer boomed again.
More shots.

A bullet struck a nearby tree
with a vicious thud. Roger went cold with shock and realised that the police
were shooting his way, but not at him. There were more yells and another shot,
followed by a cry of pain.

In spite of his fright Roger
peered around the bole of the tree. He saw the blond man lying on his back
twitching, his legs scrabbling at the leaves. Two police rushed forward. Roger
recognized them as the plain clothes detectives. They levelled pistols on the
blond man. One bent and scooped aside the man’s pistol.

Then two uniformed policeman ran
along the track to the other side of the four wheel drive and re-appeared with
‘Glasses’. He was spread-eagled on the bonnet, searched and handcuffed. One
policeman began hustling him towards the main road. The other, who Roger now
recognised as Sergeant Grey, came around to his side of the vehicle and looked
into it.

Aghast Roger realised that
Sergeant Grey didn’t know the old man was only a dozen paces behind him. Roger
looked and saw the old man had raised his head.  He had something in his
left hand and the pistol in his right. Fearing the old man was about to shoot
Roger yelled, “Sergeant Grey! Look out behind you!” He was frightened, his voice
a high-pitched squeak.

Sergeant Grey spun round and
dived behind a tree. The old man’s head jerked around in surprise. He saw Roger
at once. Their eyes locked and Roger seemed to be transfixed by the hatred
which blazed from them. The man rolled on his back and swung his pistol.

Roger dived flat.

Crack! The bullet splintered the
side of the tree only centimetres from Roger’s face. He lost control of his
bladder.

The loudhailer boomed again.
Inspector Sharpe’s voice, Roger realised as he writhed in the mud in fear and
humiliation. Still he managed to roll quickly aside and noted that the old man
had rolled back behind the log.

Inspector Sharpe’s voice boomed
and echoed through the forest. “Put down your gun and come out with your hands up.
You haven’t got a chance of escaping.  We have you surrounded.”

Roger lay flat, almost frozen
with fear. There was a moment of tense silence. Then the old man uttered a
curse in his own language before calling out in accented English. “Don’t
shooten. I surrender.”

The man scrabbled at the leaves
for a moment then put the pistol on the log and got to his feet with his hands
in the air. Sergeant Grey sprang up and doubled across to cover him.

Inspector Sharpe appeared, tie
askew, white shirt plastered with mud and sweat, pistol in hand. He took the
old man’s pistol then covered him while Sergeant Grey searched and handcuffed
him.

Then Sergeant Grey looked around
and called out, “Right, you can come out now Tubby.”

Roger rose slowly to his knees.
His legs felt weak and he seemed to see things through a haze. He stood up and
found he was trembling so much he needed to lean on the tree for support. Then
he remembered he had wet himself. He flushed with shame and looked hastily
down.

To his enormous relief the front
of his uniform was plastered with mud and was so soaked that it wasn’t obvious.
Sergeant Grey walked over to him and grabbed his hand.

“You saved my life then Roger
Dunning. That was a bloody brave thing to do.”

Roger got even more embarrassed
and hoped Sergeant Grey wouldn’t smell anything. He mumbled for a moment, then
shook his head and muttered: “It was nothing.”

“Nothing
be
buggered! I owe you son and I won’t forget. You OK?”

“Yes. I’m OK,” Roger replied. It was
only his pride that was hurt after all. Sergeant Grey turned and began walking
back towards the others. Roger followed, feeling as though things weren’t real.

As he reached the log he stopped
and looked down.

“Sergeant, the old man had
something in his left hand. He hid it here before he got up.”

Sergeant Grey spun round. He bent
and scooped at the leaves and picked up a plastic bag containing some notebooks
and other items.

“Ah!
Very
interesting.
Good boy!”

Roger looked at the old man and
was appalled by the look of pure hate on the man’s face.

Inspector Sharpe called. “Are
there any more of them Tubby?”

Roger blushed at the ‘Tubby’ and
felt a surge of resentment. “No sir, only four; and I am Corporal Dunning.”

He regretted his tone of voice
even as he spoke but was now shaking with emotion.

Inspector Sharpe looked at him
sharply,
then chuckled. “Sorry Corporal. It should be
Sergeant after this don’t you think Sergeant Grey?”

“I do indeed sir, although I
suspect he was exceeding his CSM’s orders a bit.  Weren’t you supposed to
be hiding safely the other side of the road?”

Roger bit his lip.
“Yes, Sergeant.
But I just had to know what the men were
doing.”

“And what were they doing?”

“Searching for treasure,” Roger
replied.

CHAPTER 14

THE IRON CLAW

Inspector Sharpe raised his
eyebrows. “Treasure eh!
You sure?”

“Well, er, no Sir,” Roger
stammered. He felt a bit silly. “But it must be. They’ve been walking up and
down with metal detectors and digging holes in the jungle.”

“Digging holes!
Where?”

“In there,” Roger pointed.

At that moment a loud groan of
pain interrupted them. Inspector Sharpe looked to where a Detective was
administering first aid to the man who had been shot. Peter knelt beside the
man, holding an open Medical Kit.

“How is he?”

“Not too good Sir. He’s hit in
the lung I’d say.”

“We’d better get him to hospital.
Sergeant Grey, get on the radio and call an ambulance. Tell them you will meet
them on the way,
then
get going. Use our car. 
Widmark, you drive. Stay with that fellow. I want him guarded. Does he have a
name?”

The Detective quickly searched
the wounded man's pockets. He extracted a notebook and wallet, then felt again
and slid his fingers in to a breast pocket. He pulled out a black and silver
metal badge.
“Another one of those badges with KSS on it
Sir.”

“Let me see,” Inspector Sharpe
ordered. He made his pistol safe and put it in his shoulder holster, then moved
over and took the badge. Roger followed him out of curiosity. Inspector Sharpe
turned it over.

Roger looked at the badge. “It’s
got a number on it too,” he said.

They all peered at it. The number
18041 was stamped into the metal.

“Sir,” Detective West called. He
held up the collar of the man’s black shirt.  Pinned under the lapel was
another badge. It was diamond shaped, made of black enamel about 3cm long. On
it was what looked like a silver hand.

They crowded to look.

“It looks like a gauntlet,” Peter
said, “An armoured glove like medieval Knights wore.”

“Yes. No! Look at the finger
tips,” Roger replied.

The silver gauntlet had its
fingers in a grasping attitude and the tips were sharp points.

“Like talons or claws,” Peter
commented.

“An Iron Claw,” Inspector Sharpe
said grimly.

“What does it mean Sir?” Peter
asked.

“I’m not exactly sure but I’ll
tell you what I know in a minute. What’s his name Crowe?”

“It says Helmut Boltoff here
Sir,” DS Crowe replied. He passed the wallet to the Inspector.

“Right, let’s get Mr Boltoff into
the car and off to hospital. Will you lads give a hand?”

Both Roger and Peter nodded and
moved to help lift the wounded man. At that moment two running figures thudded
into view. Sergeant Grey reached for his revolver.

It was Graham and Stephen,
both crimson with effort
.

“What
happened
Sir? We heard shots,” Graham gasped. They both looked down at the wounded man
in horror.

“Yes, but it’s all over,”
Inspector Sharpe replied. “Thanks for the call. We got here just in time. Sorry
we couldn’t give you a lift.”

“Why not?”
Roger asked.

“We came from Tinaroo. Your
friend there stopped us just in time,” Inspector Sharpe said, pointing at
Peter, who was helping to put the wounded man in the police Landcruiser.

For the next few minutes the
friends stood aside until the police vehicle drove off. Inspector Sharpe then
said, “OK Sgt Crowe, you and West caution these three, then search them one at
a time. Separate them and handcuff them.” He wiped sweat from his face with his
handkerchief then turned to face Roger. “OK
boys,
show
me where the men were digging.”

Roger slapped at a mosquito on
his arm as he led the way along the muddy track. Curiosity gnawed at him so he
asked, “Sir, what is the ‘Iron Claw’?”