10 Short Novels Magazine — page 69: what you’re looking at

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

ay vey ’ : Tara hee th ; : a\'ha te, ; , ; reeyt i : ry on. The doctor himself came to the door. His greeting was suave, but his dark eyes expressed his unspoken query. “Sorry to bother you, doctor,” beamed Flint as he crossed the threshold, “but I’d like to use your phone. Yeah, I’ve been switched to the Kane case. The company disconnected the wire next door.” “A pleasure to oblige you,” assured Alvarez. Flint followed him through a vestibule and into an ornately furnished living room. A cigarette was fuming from the edge of a smoking stand at the arm of a chair just in front of an all-wave radio. “In the next room, Mr. Flint,” directed Alvarez. But Flint’s pause had been long enough for him to note that the radio dial was set for police wavelengths. On the mahogany desk of the doctor’s residence office was a single telephone. Flint had not expected to find two; but his stall would give him a chance to look for the marks left by a recently removed instrument. “Make yourself at home,” Alvarez con- tinued. “There’s a directory—and let me give you some more light.” As he spoke, he stepped forward to reach for the chain of the desk lamp. It blazed to life. Flint, picking the telephone handset from its cradle, saw the doctor pluck an oversize fountain pen from the blotting pad. Too late, he caught the meaning of the left-handed gesture. A blinding, chok- ing jet of vapor hissed from the black cylinder. Tear gas. Something had warned Alvarez. EFORE Flint could reach for his pistol, an uncontrollable cough and a devastating sneeze racked his entire body. He could not force his hand to his weapon. The involuntary catch of breath that followed drew in a gulp of the hissing vapor, It was more than tear gas. It was a searing and corrosive narcotic. His head was already spinning, and his legs were sagging. One more gulp of that deadly vapor and he would be out. For an age- long instant, he fought the spasm that would have drawn in the finishing breath of the drugging mixture. He flung him- self aside—anything to get clear of that hissing poison. As he plunged out of that venomous cloud, a racking sneeze jerked every fibre of his body. Somehow, he forced his hand to his pistol butt. The effort was wasted. Before the weapon cleared the holster, an attack from his right knecked him from his feet. . A curved knife, and a blank, yellow face identified Alvarez’ ally. There would be no. betraying pistol fire to make the execution conspicuous. The blade swept down. But that last inhalation of diluted gas stirred Flint’s muscles to a spasm that no conscious effort could have equaled. The descending point nailed his arm instead of sinking hilt-deep into his chest. The shock of that biting steel prodded his whirling senses. The knife rose again—but Flint’s free hand jerked his pistol clear. The blast was muffled by the yellow flesh it riddled. The Chinaman jerked back, then slumped forward. His wild thrust stabbed the floor. His dead weight pinioned Flint. Flinging aside the now emptied gas tube, Alvarez closed in before Flint could extricate-himselfor disengage his pistol. The doctor knocked the weapon from his hand, but as they grappled, the concen- tration of oily fumes thinned into an agonizing mist that leveled off the odds. The office became a hazy nightmare. Tear-blinded, sneezing, gasping, racked by coughs and seared by lung-corroding gulps of tainted air, they rolled and kicked and slugged. Flint, almost overwhelmed during those first instants, saw red spots dance before his eyes, and steel-bright flashes that became raking cuts. The doctor must have seized the Chinaman’s knife. He was no longer certain, but that warm flood that ran down his ribs and legs must be blood. Voice in that murderous maze—Al- varez yelling—and then a droning, dry voice, like pebbles rattling in.a gourd. “Calling all cars! Miguel Smith— Mexican Mike—wanted for the murder of Ramon Guevara—heading for Tele- graph Pass in a blue sedan... .” McDonald broadcasting to the prowl cars and highway patrol. Miguel Smith— engineered Valencia’s jailbreak and— Another slash. That one didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt. He found a man’s throat and hung on. His fingers were weakening. So was Alvarez. Maybe his teeth would do the trick—got to get a look at that Chink’s blank face. conmicaoolk Hell Tracks of F the a # te or ae COL