10 Short Novels Magazine — page 122: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

as i—~ cats — 120 * * * Ten Short Novels Magazine =< ——d med — aS a2 xt apn” ats i -— ~ N front of the Fortress San Silvestre, on the landward side, was a small plaza, lighted only by the one feeble street-lamp and the sputtering arc light over the fortress gate. Across the plaza strolled unconcerned- ly a young man in the uniform of a ser- gent of the Regiment Miranda, pistol flapping on one hip, haversack on the other. From the corner of his eye, he noted the vigilance of the gate-guard, and saw how each person who entered was stopped and made to give the counter- sign. A searchlight raked along the sea wall of the fortress, outlining tower and battlement in its eerie glare. The cruiser was also vigilant, a gray embodiment of death and destruction. Frayne’s mind clicked faster over‘the possibility of get- ting the password to the dungeon. He watched the gate-guard, then smiled. He knew the ways of these easy-going = soldiers. They were not all so vigi- ant. Turning down a side street, he came presently on the inevitable sentry before the door of a dignitary’s house. The man leaned against the wall half asleep. Frayne crept up behind him, on silent feet. He had snatched the man’s rifle from his grip and was shaking him furi- ously by the shoulders before the sentry realized that anyone was near. “Sleeping on post, perro!” snarled Frayne. “You shall face a firing squad for this! rte the Americanos came?” The stri sentry began to tremble. His face was a pale, frightened blur in the gloom, from which piteous bleatings came, “Have pity, sargento! I but dozed a little. Do not report me!” “Bah! You’re drunk,” accused Frayne, catching the odor of raw native rum on the fellow’s breath. ‘“‘What use is a drunk- en sentry? You shall be made an ex- ample.” “No! Mercy, sargento!” “I take no risks with such swine,” Frayne grated. “Why, I'll wager your fuddiled brain can’t even remember the co ' “Ah, st, st, mi sargento!” cried the man eagerly. “It is ‘Santa Ana.’ Mira—do I not remember? Is that not right?” “Well, let this be a lesson to you,” grunted Frayne grudgingly, handing back the man’s rifle. “Don’t let me catch you sleeping again, understand?” : you, mi sargento. I will be very careful,” the sentry promised, with quiv- | ering gratitude. Frayne went on his way, suppressing a chuckle till he was safely round the next corner and headed for the little plaza again. Boldly, he walked up to the gate of the fortress. A sentry’s bayonet dropped to the charge, “Alto! Quién viva?” “Santa Ana!” he answered carelessly, never pausing. “Paso!” The sentry came to the order. The corporal of the guard barely glanced at Frayne. There were many new faces in the Serrano regiments these days. Frayne drew a long breath. He was inside the Fortress San Silvestre—but he was still a long way from the dungeons of the Torre Blanco, The courtyard was full of soldiers and policemen in uniforms, most of them lounging about as though waiting for some order. Before the iron door of the Torre Blanco, in the far corner of the yard, a watch-fire burned, and two senti- nels paced up and down. There was no chance of getting in that way. Frayne ascended the steps of the main keep. A servant, hurrying through the great doors bearing a bottle, stared at him curiously, but no one stopped him as he passed on into the entrance hall. Di- rectly in front of him were the doors lead- ing into the great sala. They were closed. A line of light showed beneath. Frayne strolled toward them, intending to listen for sounds within. He was within five paces when one of the doors suddenly opened and Uriarte stepped out. RAYNE had just time to step into the shadows of a curving staircase. Uriarte passed him, head down, deep in thought. He went to the great front doors, closed them and locked them. Then he crossed the hall to a closet and dragged out a trunk, An empty trunk, it appeared to be, from the ease with which he handled it. He dragged the trunk into the great sala, and, under cover of the noise, Frayne slipped to the door, which Uriarte had left partly open. Uriarte was alone in the sala. He had opened the trunk and was looking into it. His face was alight, for a moment, with a mirth that was purely savage. “Close quarters for a great man,” he muttered. “But it will serve.” He walked over to a French window and looked out, parting the heavy cur- tains. Then he nodded, as if with satis- faction at what he saw. The nod became a jerk of furious surprise as he heard the soft click of the door Frayne had just closed behind him. He whirled, grabbing for his holstered automatic, but he had no time to draw the weapon. His teeth clicked together as Comicbooks: com