10 Short Novels Magazine — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

Feil av 4) Ve a My EPL ae ere ALAe Fa As ee ek cher frais Pe Abby ' eel vee, | Y ryay vy Ne a eA Ave ea | riba ' : sa ne vA ek a knob of the bitintie aor. it jerked - open to meet him. Simultaneously, some- thing tripped him in midstride and a stick cracked down across his right fore- arm. His automatic slipped from numb fingers; yet swift as his headlong plunge was, he caught a glimpse of the short, moon-faced Chinaman who had lurked at the blind side of Kane’s desk. Only a flickering glimpse, as he des- perately struggled to regain his balance: an unnaturally stolid, immobile face whose only animated features were the eyes, black fires that blazed in that frozen, yellowish mask. Then, slipping on the tiles, Flint’s ef- forts to regain his feet sent him plung- ing headlong across the threshold and into the darkness from which the chok- ing sounds had come. A dobe wall checked his lunge. Re- bounding, he whirled to a crouch. But the door slammed, and a bolt snicked home. The solid panels fairly crushed his shoulder as he hurled himself against them. Silence, except for his own hoarse breathing. He struck a match. He was caged in a cramped, dusty closet. The Chinaman, crouched at the blind side of Kane’s desk, had by simple ventriloquism thrown his voice so that it seemed to come from beyond the door. And Flint had taken the bait. His hands were slick and greasy, and so were his knees, Butter! Taken from the square in the kitchenette. No wonder he had floundered on those tiles. And peeping through the keyhole, he caught a glimpse of a strand of wire on the floor of the study. That was what had tripped him. He shifted and saw that blank face averted as yellow hands opened desk drawers and probed the contents. With- out waiting to see what the raider was taking, Flint turned his back to the door. He braced himself against the knob, planted his feet against the closet wall, and heaved. The panels creaked as he _ slowly straightened his arched body. He heard a soft, mocking laugh. Another heave, and then Flint settled to the floor. There, lying on his side, he could apply pressure. But the groan of the wood was followed by the slip-slip-swish of shuffling feet and the locking of the outer door. And when the tongue of the lock finally tore the socket from the jamb, Flint was alone in a littered office. Escape was blocked by an iron-barred window and a. door as strong as the first. His gun was on the desk, every car- tridge removed. As he snatched a chair and began be- labouring the remaining barrier, he won- dered at the insane inconsistency of it all. Why such an elaborate trap when the Chinaman could have stabbed or brained him as he responded to ventriloquist’s bait? LINT finally shouldered his way through the shattered panel. Although he knew that his captor had made good his escape, he nevertheless dashed to the front. Robles’ touring sedan was still there; but the top of the trunk at the rear was now braced open. Three prints of felt- soled slippers had registered before the emerging stowaway had reached the harder ground at the house. There were no tracks to show what direction the Chinaman had taken in flight from the dobe. “That Chink followed me from Frisco!” muttered Flint. In trying to outwit the enemy, he had carried one of the Silver Dragon’s men with him for nearly seven hundred miles. Flint grimaced wryly and gave the sink- ing sensation at the pit of his stomach a chance to subside. Then he cursed wrath- - fully and strode back into the house. “Funny,” he pondered, stepping to the telephone to call the police, “that Kane didn’t have this instrument in his office instead of out here.” He mentioned only having found the dead soothsayer. But as he started to the rear to resume his interrupted search, he heard a car coming up the driveway. Flint turned again to the front. A tall, swarthy man with a waxed black mustache emerged; a Spaniard or a Mex- ican. He carried a black leather bag. Flint met him at the door. “TI am looking for Professor Kane,” the caller announced. He was sleek and well groomed, and his purposeful dark eyes regarded Flint with sharp, querying scrutiny as he added: “Tell him that Dr. Alvarez is here.” “Did he call you?” “Does it matter?” the doctor sciadiiased: Gomichbooks (E@)