Mr. Constance didn’t wait for his driver to open the door of the sedan. He jumped out and ran through the administration building at Ratmalana Airport. He stopped and stared. There it was. The plane that had been stolen. He saw the big arm for the snatch-up equipment folded along the side. He heard a footstep beside him and turned to find the polite smile of the airport manager beaming at him. “You must be Mr. Constance. The pilot from Hindustan Aircraft delivered it this morning. Told me to phone you.”
Mr. Constance glared at the little man. “You utter and absolute fool! That is the aircraft that was stolen, the one someone used to snatch up the political prisoner at Galle. He’s laughing at you right now. You better phone his description to the police.” The manager looked for a moment as though he were going to break into tears. Then he spun and hurried toward his office. Mr. Constance sniffed and walked out toward the Norseman.
Ken Harder shook his head slowly at Clive Grant and said, “I don’t like it, Clive. There should be some other way to get the information out of him.”
“Nonsense, Ken! I know these people. Besides you haven’t got time to try any other way. Appuhamy will handle him.” He poured out two more drinks and grinned through his beard at the depressed face of Harder.
At that moment a smiling stocky native stepped into the room and said, “Excuse, Master. The Indian says he will speak now.”
“Have him brought in, Appuhamy.”
The shambling figure of Haidari Rama, supported between two of the house boys, was brought into the room and dropped, shuddering, into a chair. His face looked gray under his brown skin, and his eyes rolled wildly.
“Now, Haidari Rama,” Harder said gently, “if you had kept your promise which you made to me in the visitor’s room on the island, all this wouldn’t have been necessary. But you had to be sly. You had to threaten me with exposure for my part in your liberation and refuse to tell me where the stocks of narcotics are hidden. You will tell us now, I understand?”
The Indian tried to speak, but he couldn’t control his trembling mouth. He shivered and looked over his shoulder at the grinning face of Appuhamy. “They will not touch me again, please? Not again?”
“Not if you tell the truth.”
Haidari Rama leaned toward Harder and the words came out with a frantic rush. “Man named Bailu — big house near Shwe Dagon Pagoda — garage back of house. It is made with concrete blocks. Blocks all hollow except top rows. Everything stored inside the blocks — waterproof — nobody could ever find it. The two coolies who helped conceal it are dead.”
Grant turned to Appuhamy and said, “He lies. Take him out again.” Haidari Rama screamed and slid off the chair in a dead faint. Grant grinned and turned to Harder. “Guess the beggar is telling the truth. Had to find out for certain.”
On instructions from Grant, the servants picked up the still figure of the Indian and carried him out to the room which had been prepared for him in the wing. “Well,” Harder said, “that appears to be that. Let me borrow your car and driver and I’ll go down to Kandy and send off some wires. I got the plane back okay, and with just a little more luck we can squeak out of this without a word from anybody.”
“I certainly am praying that the luck holds. I like this island, and I never realized what a stink grabbing that Indian would cause.”
In a few minutes the big car was roaring down the dusty road into Kandy. Harder sat in the back seat wondering where Brown was and what he was thinking.
The new Superintendent of Civil Police sat and stared at the yellow wire for many long minutes. Then he called in his brightest assistant and gave a few unbelievable instructions. A few minutes later two cars drew up in front of the bomb-shattered home of Mr. Bailu. The house was deserted, but the garage was intact. Several native families were living in it. They all screamed with rage when the husky policemen attacked the stone walls with sledges and crowbars. When the first heavy stone was pried loose and fell to the ground, the young assistant stepped up and picked up the small plump bag that had fallen out with the stone. He ripped it open carefully and fingered the crystalline powder. Then he gave instructions to have the families moved out. He told the men to halt further work until he had called the headquarters and reported.
Haidari Rama, feeling weak and upset, stood by the stern rail of the Talimannar Ferry. He saw the white-clad figure of Harder walk back the length of the dock. Harder’s last words resounded in his ears, “Haidari Rama, I should have turned you back to the authorities, because you tried to withhold the information you promised. But I am letting you go because I am confident that you will be picked up soon. If you went back to the island now, I believe that Brown would have you killed.” As he stood and watched the shore line recede, he heard a sharp noise and felt a blow against the railing on which he was leaning. He wondered what it was, and leaned over so he could inspect the other side of the rail. He never felt the rifle bullet which crashed into his skull, nor did he hear the distant crack of the weapon above the noise of the surf and the pulse of the heavy engines of the ferry. He slumped over the rail and stuck in a grotesque standing position, his brown hands hanging down toward the blue water.
J. Haggard Brown gave one last look through the telescopic sight of the hunting rifle. Beyond a doubt the man was dead. He climbed to his feet and walked back through the scrub palm and brush to the waiting car. The waiting driver smiled inquiringly, and then when he saw that the red-faced master was carrying no game, his face dropped into an expression of sympathy. In the back of his mind he had a wondering doubt at what the master could find to shoot at on a sandy beach so near the ferry landing, but he soon discarded it. Only a complete fool attempted to find reason behind the actions of a white man!
Brown felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The chance that Haidari Rama would unmask him was gone. But now there was another opponent who had grown greatly in stature since that breakfast in Galle. Undoubtedly Harder knew the location of the narcotics. Also, Harder would make a great effort to connect Brown with the dope, but Brown knew he had small chance of success. But the next time — if the occasion presented itself, Ceylon might be an excellent spot to avoid future trouble from a man who had the ability to follow a trail and formulate and execute plans which were startling in their boldness. He felt a sneaking admiration for a man who would steal a plane and lift a prisoner right off a prison island in broad daylight. If only one of the Spits from Ratmalana could have arrived in time with loaded guns, the two birds would have been killed with one stone. Too bad Harder didn’t seem the type who might be bribed to change sides. With a mind like that he could—
Harder found Clive standing in the shade of the bungalow. The bearded man looked up with a question in his eyes as Ken approached.
“Like clockwork,” Harder said. “Got him on the boat okay, and stopped off in Kandy on the way back. We did right to take a chance on it. The wire from Rangoon says, ‘Material found as per instructions.’ Now I can head back.”
“I’ll be sorry to see you go, Ken. It is going to be rather dull with no stolen aircraft on the place, no Indians for Appuhamy to work on, no arguments.”
They went into the house for a last meal and drink. Across the valley on the side of a small hill nearly several hundred yards from the front porch of the bungalow, J. Haggard Brown shifted to a more comfortable position and adjusted the rifle sights to the range. From the hill he could see the glint of the blue car which his driver had parked beside the dusty road. It had been no trick to follow Harder from Talimannar. He cradled the rifle against his shoulder, the smooth stock touching his florid cheek and sighted at the front door of the bungalow. He waited with the patience of a man who knew that his self-imposed task was worthwhile. While he waited he planned his next moves. A quick run down to the car. Explanations to the driver. A fast run to Colombo. Sata Airlines to Calcutta. Then Transoceanic Airlines to the West Coast. If he handled it right, he could be in New York before Lee found out that his man Harder was dead. Then there would be work to do. New methods of importing the stuff. A new collection base in the East. He sat in the hot sun and dreamed of a newer, bigger empire than he had enjoyed before the war. He even hummed a little.