Redcap (29 page)

“We’ll see about that.” Shaw jerked the gun. “Come on now—get moving.”

It was while he’d been walking back along that dark passage with Ling ahead of him and his gun concealed but ready, that he’d just caught the rushing sound behind him, like slippered feet on linoleum. He’d half turned but he hadn’t been quick enough. Something had come down hard across the back of his skull. There was a blinding flash in his eyes, and he went down, stone cold on the passage floor.

It wasn’t so very long before he recovered consciousness. At least, he had the impression that he had probably done so because he could feel the intense pain which racked his head, a hammering which was splitting it cruelly in half. Lights still flickered in front of his eyes, and that was odd, for the place in which he was shut up was totally dark. It was the most complete darkness he had ever been in. And it was jolting up and down, throwing him from side to side sickeningly. There seemed to be very little air.

And it was bitterly, freezingly, wickedly cold.

Cold that racked and tortured him, shook his limbs, inhibited thought, cold that seemed to tear and rip at his throat every time he took a breath, cold that searched into his lungs and cut them like a knife. His teeth were chattering together, his legs and arms were shaking as though they would never stop again in this life. Each time the compartment gave one of its lurches he was thrown across a floor which was as slippery and slithery as ice, was thrown crashing into solid objects which felt cold and dead to the touch, so frozen that they were as hard as iron, iron which tore his skin.

Very, very dimly and faintly, street noises penetrated—muffled car hooters, bells, the sound of vehicles on the move. There was a feeling as of wheels beneath him too. Then the thing that he was in jerked suddenly, and he was thrown forward, cracking his skull on cold hardness. Groping with his hands, he felt the sheen of ice. Then he was jerked violently backwards again.

After that he understood.

He was in a moving vehicle, a vehicle carrying freight. A refrigerated vehicle, most likely a meat van. Those hard, frozen objects—they would be carcasses, sides of beef and mutton, and the van was the sort that did the long-distance hauls, taking the carcasses down to the cold-storage rooms of the liners, stocking up down at Pyrmont and Woolloomooloo. . . .

Shaw felt stifled, claustrophobic.

He staggered to his feet, propped himself against the carcasses and beat with bunches fists against the panel behind the cab. His hand smacked into a lever and he gave a cry of pain. He grasped the lever, tried to pull on it, for it must be a hatch lever and if only he could operate it, it would lead to warmth and the friendly summer, and men’s voices, and life itself. But of course it was locked . . . if they meant to leave him for long in this death-chamber, this moving mortuary, it would be the end. And if the end came for him, it could come for half the world as well.

Again and again he beat uselessly on the panel. His fists became torn, lacerated on the jags of ice and frozen snow. It was cold of such intensity that he didn’t feel a thing and the running blood soon slowed to a treacly mass . . . all he could feel now was the freezing agony, the blood-clotting agony of forty below zero which leads to drowsy acceptance and then to death. It was only the movements of his body, the movements which might soon become too much for him, that kept him alive at all.

It seemed an age but it was in fact very soon after that the van slowed and then took a right-hand turn very sharply. Shaw was thrown off his feet again, fell and slithered on the hard-packed ice. Then the van stopped, and lights came up in the tomb-like interior. Almost at once, the small hatch from the cab opened; it was little more than an inspection hatch really. No warm air came in, none could pass the cold-barrier which sealed off the outside atmosphere. Steam rose across the opening. Now any movement was becoming an effort to Shaw. Any movement beyond that dreadful trembling which he couldn’t stop.

A revolver jabbed through the hatch.

A voice—Karstad’s voice—said, “Out you come, Commander Shaw.”

He answered through the chatter of his teeth. “I can’t. You’ll have to help me.”

There was a muttered exclamation, then Karstad turned away. Shaw heard him say: “Hold the gun.” A moment later Karstad’s heavy body edged up to the opening and he reached through, laid hold of Shaw. Karstad dragged him easily across the ice towards the hatch and heaved him through, and soon the agent was sitting limply in the cab, trembling, but feeling warmth gradually sinking into his bones.

He saw that they were in a covered, untidy yard flanked by a raised concrete platform which looked like the loading bay of a warehouse. Karstad had his gun in his hand again now, and he kept it levelled at Shaw’s stomach all the time as he stood just outside the cab. He spoke over his shoulder to the driver, a big-boned Chinese in overalls.

He said curtly, “Go inside and prepare the cellar.”

The man went off and Karstad turned to Shaw. He said, “So you are back with us once again, my dear Shaw. This time, it is for good. Certain people are due to arrive here shortly, and they have some questions to ask you.” He yawned, lay back against the open door. “Take my advice— answer them!”

Shaw’s limbs were still trembling. Unsteadily he said, “You won’t get anything out of me, Karstad.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure. In any case, you can’t stop our plans now, so you might just as well drop into line.”

Shaw licked his lips, thinking fast. Somehow, as soon as he was fit to follow up, he had to get Karstad to drop his guard a little. A few moments later he made a gesture of resignation, said: “There’s one thing certain. I can’t tell you anything till I’m warm.” He knew, indeed, that he was looking the very picture of misery, that he hardly needed to put on an act. Karstad scowled, seemed uncertain, swore briefly and then looked hard at Shaw. He couldn’t help seeing he was in a bad way and he said grudgingly,

“There’s a flask of coffee under the seat, just where you’re sitting. Get it. And be careful how you do it.”

Shaw reached down, fished out the flask. He unscrewed the top, felt the steam coming up to his face. Shakily he poured the coffee, hot and sweet and strong, took it gratefully. The cab itself was warm—almost hot after that cold chamber; as the coffee went down a glow came back to him and he was able to relax, to control the shake in his limbs. He sat there as his strength returned, cradling the flask in his hands, soaking up the remains of the heat as it steamed into his face, the pain in his head receding too.

After a time Karstad asked, “You are feeling better?”

Shaw nodded. “A little.”

“Remember what I said.”

“I’ll remember.” Shaw’s body had sagged; he tried to give the impression that that nightmare ride had finally broken him, that his will had cracked at last, that he was anxious only to be warm again, to be left in peace, to surrender to the inevitable. A little later his lips trembled, he raised a nicely-shaking hand to the lump at the back of his head. He said, “I suppose I haven’t got much option . . . but if I do talk, I’ll want a guarantee that—some friends of mine— won’t get hurt in what you plan to do.”

There was a curious look in Karstad’s eyes and Shaw wondered how far he had really deceived the man. But Karstad only nodded and said, “When you speak, my friend, make sure it is the truth. If it is, I have no doubt your wishes will be respected.”

Shaw gave a heavy sigh, rubbed his eyes. Then he bent down and put the flask under the seat, taking pains as though to wedge it up nicely so that it wouldn’t roll out. He took his time over this, and while he was doing it he glanced up quickly and saw, from beneath his eyebrows, how nicely Karstad was positioned, just outside the cab with one foot on the step. He fiddled about for a little while longer with the flask, and then, judging his distance as he did so, he straightened slowly and looked casually away from Karstad.

Then he went into action.

Very suddenly and at precisely the right moment he swung himself back on the seat, slewing his body and drawing up his knees to his chin. He lashed out savagely with every ounce of strength that he could muster, sent both feet smacking into Karstad’s face. It was a split-second movement and his shoes caught Karstad beautifully, fair and square in the mouth and nose, sliding off to tear the man’s ear, a cruel, smashing blow. It made a shocking mess and there was plenty of blood about, but Shaw hadn’t time for a lengthy inspection of the damage. As Karstad reeled about, moaning and holding his face, Shaw was on top of him. He tore the gun away from the man’s limp hand; and then, remembering what Karstad has been going to do, what he had done to Gresham and indirectly to John Donovan, what he had probably been concerned in doing to Tommy Foster, Shaw’s head seemed to burst. He thrust the gun into his pocket and waded in. He lifted Karstad’s head up, gave him blow after blow, smashing his fist into that mangled, bloody face until Karstad sank to the ground, a mere moaning heap.

Shaw stepped back, chest heaving.

He said savagely, “I don’t like killing anybody, and I never kill a man who’s defenceless. That’s all that’s saved you, Karstad—for the time being. You’ll swing before long.”

He turned as he heard a sound from the loading bay, and he saw the van driver coming for him with a gun. Before the big Chinese could fire, Shaw had dropped behind the van and had brought out Karstad’s gun. Edging round, he fired. There was a scream and then the clatter of metal on concrete. Shaw came out from cover, saw the driver holding one hand in the other and looking murderous.

He snapped, “You’re not so badly hurt you can’t do a bit of work, chum. Now get that into the cab.” He jerked his smoking gun towards Karstad. “Come on—fast.”

He prodded the revolver into the man’s belly. Snarling, the driver bent down, picked Karstad up like a child, muscles rippling in thick arms. He put him into the cab. Blood was streaming from them both. Shaw ran round to the driving door and jumped in. He felt exultant now; all he had to do was to get to the base as fast as possible, with Karstad.

He slipped in the gears and started to back slowly out of the yard.

He’d got about a dozen feet when he saw the long black car, its bonnet nosing into the gateway. There was the blare of a siren and then the men in the car must have ticked over. Shaw aimed Karstad’s revolver, heard the phut-phut of silenced guns and a stream of bullets zipped past the cab, smashed the mirror, smashed the gun out of his hand. He jammed on the brakes as he felt an impact at the rear, knew it was no good now. A car door slammed. Two men came up, guns smoking in their hands. One of them was an elderly Chinese, from his appearance a man of education and standing.

The other was small and thin, almost puny—and not a Chinese. He handled his gun awkwardly, looked nervous of using it. With a start, Shaw knew he had seen this man’s photograph. . . .

The Chinese bowed formally, graciously, as Shaw looked down from the cab into the muzzles of the two guns. He said, “Commander Shaw, I believe? Allow me to introduce . . . Comrade Lubin.” After that the suave politeness vanished. He said viciously, “Out. Into the warehouse. Soon we have a journey to make, so that you can see the
New South Wales
for the last time. But before that—some answers to some questions, Commander Shaw.”

Shaw sat on in the cab, looking down at Lubin. This insignificant little man, so close to him now, was the cause of all the trouble. Here, within three feet of him, was the key—the key to peace and security. What had got into that little round grey head to make Lubin take the wrong turning? He looked as though he wouldn’t kill a fly—but he still had that gun in his hand.

It didn’t make sense.

Shaw got out stiffly, almost literally feeling the hair at the nape of his neck rise as he walked past the contradiction that was Lubin—the man he had been sent to get.

Back in the Garden Island base not so very far from that yard, Captain James, who had been on the line to the Navy Board in Melbourne and to Canberra direct more than once that day, slammed down the telephone and gave a sigh of exasperation.

Mary Harris looked up through her spectacles. “No luck?”

He said angrily, “No luck at all. They won’t budge, Mary, they just won’t budge.”

“Well, gee . . . don’t they know where the flaming stockpiles are in this country, let alone all the other countries?”

“We’ll come off better’n most, Mary. There’s no stockpiles anywhere near the cities.”

She snorted. “Sure, we’ll come off better—until the invasion gets here! I reckon that’ll be the next step. Hasn’t Canberra cottoned on to that?”

“I don’t know, Mary, they don’t exactly open their hearts to me, you know. . . James broke off, looked at his watch. He said, “Shaw’s late. That mortuary appointment’s fixed for three.”

“Uh-huh . . . he’s quarter of an hour adrift.” She caught James’s eye. “All right to keep the mortuary waiting?”

“I don’t mind that. Question is, what’s happened to Shaw?”

Miss Harris said primly, “I told you. He was going to Ling’s.”

“Well, all right! So what? He’d have done lunch by now.”

She said meaningly, “Commander Shaw, he’s never been to Australia before, has he? Queer he should be interested in a small place like Ling’s, isn’t it?”

James looked at her, drummed his fingers on his desk. He said slowly, “Well, maybe it is, Mary. Maybe it is. Now why should he do that, then?”

She pushed things straight on her desk, pursed up her lips. “He told us about that note, remember? And it should have occurred to us earlier, I reckon. This threat’s Chinese backed, Ling’s is a Chinese place. Might be a natural rendezvous.”

James said, “Yes, but look. You’re only being wise after the event. Ling is a right enough bloke. Come to that, his place isn’t the only Chinese dive in the Cross.”

“No, of course it isn’t, Captain James. But it’s the only one Commander Shaw seemed interested in, and we do know he went there and now he’s overdue. He may have even got a lead in Tommy’s flat in the end, though he didn’t say so when he rang. And look, it’s better to be wise after the event than never at all, isn’t it?” The spectacles gleamed at him. “Well?”