He hailed a passing cab and gave the address of the building where Jee Kit King had her residence. As the cab swung into speed, Major Brane looked behind him.
There were two cars, following closely.
Major Brane sighed wearily. It was no surprise; merely what he had expected. He was dealing with men who were very, very capable. He didn’t know whether he had shaken off one of the shadows, or whether one of the following cars held two men, the other holding one; but he was inclined to believe all three were following, two in one car, one in the other.
He made an abortive effort to shake off the pursuit. It was an effort that was purposely clumsy. The following cars dropped well to the rear, however, and switched off their lights.
A less experienced man than Major Brane would have believed that the ruse had been a success, and that the shadows were lost. Major Brane merely smiled and sent the cab rushing to the address where the girl had lived.
He found her apartment without difficulty.
It was on a third floor. The lodgings were, for the most part, given over to people of limited means who were neat and cleanly, but economical.
The door of the girl’s apartment was locked. Major Brane hesitated over that lock only long enough to get a key that would turn the bolt; and his collection of skeleton keys was sufficiently complete to cut that delay to a period of less than four seconds. He entered the apartment, leaving the door open behind him; not much, just a sufficient crack to insure against a surreptitious bolting from the outer side without his knowledge.
When he had jerked out a few drawers and rumpled a few clothes, Major Brane picked up a jar of cold cream. A frown of annoyance crossed his features as he saw that there was only a small amount of cream in the jar.
But in the bathroom he found a fresh jar, unopened. He unscrewed the top, thrust the cellophane-wrapped check deep down into the greasy mixture. He let it remain there for a few seconds, then fished it out again. In taking it out, he smeared a copious supply of cold cream over the edge of the jar, and wiped his fingers on a convenient towel, leaving the excess cold cream smeared about the edge of the jar, a deep hole in the center of the cream.
Unwrapping the cellophane, he left it on the shelf over the washstand, a transparent oblong of paper smeared with cold cream; left it in such a shape that it was readily apparent it had served as a container for some small object.
Then Major Brane, pocketing the spurious check, wiped his hands carefully to remove all traces of the cream from his fingertips, but was careful to leave a sufficient deposit under the nails of his fingers to be readily detected.
He walked to the door of the apartment, peered out. The hallway seemed deserted. As furtively as a thief in the night, Major Brane tiptoed down this hallway, came to the stairs, took them upon cautious feet, emerged up on the sidewalk.
He motioned to his cab driver.
“Married?” he asked.
The man nodded.
“Children?”
Another nod.
“Remember them, then, if anything happens,” said Major Brane. “Your first duty is to them.”
“I’ll say it is!” agreed the cab driver. “What’s the racket?”
“Nothing,” commented Major Brane crisply. “I simply wanted to impress that particular thought on your mind. Swing toward Chinatown, and drive fast as you can. Keep to the dark side streets.”
“Whereabouts in Chinatown?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just in that general direction.”
“And drive fast?”
“Take ’em on two wheels!”
“Get in!” snapped the driver.
He slammed the door. The cab started with a jerk. The tires screamed on the first corner, but all four wheels remained on the pavement. The cabbie did better the second corner. Then he nearly tipped over as he cut into a dark side street.
Major Brane gave no sign of nervousness. He was watching the road behind him, and his eyes were cold and hard, frosty in their unwinking stare.
They were midway in the block when a car swung into the cross street. It was a low roadster, powerful, capable of great speed, and it swept down on the taxicab as a hawk swoops upon a sparrow. The head lights were dark, and the car flashed through the night like some sinister beast of prey.
The cab had just turned into the second intersection when the roadster drew alongside. There sounded a swift explosion that might have been a backfire. The taxicab swerved as a rear tire went out. Then it settled to the rim and the thunkety — chunk — thunk — thunk, marked the revolutions as the cab skidded to the pavement and stopped.
The cab driver turned a white face to Major Brane, started to say something, then thrust his hands up as high as he could get them, the fingertips jammed into the top of the roof. For he was gazing directly into the business end of a large calibre automatic, held in the hands of one of the figures that had leapt from the roadster. The other figure was holding a sub machine gun pointed directly at Major Brane’s stomach.
Both of the men were masked.
“Seem to have tire trouble,” said one of the men. He spoke in the peculiar accents of a foreigner whose language is more staccato than musical.
Major Brane kept his hands in sight, but he did not elevate them. “Yes,” he said.
The man with the sub machine gun grinned. His flashing teeth were plainly visible below the protection of the mask.
He spoke English with the easy familiarity of one who has spoken no other language since birth. “Better come ride with us,” he said. “You seemed to be in a hurry, and it’ll take time to repair that tire.”
“I’d prefer to wait,” said Major Brane, and smiled.
“I’d prefer to have you ride,” said the man with the sub machine gun, politely, and the muzzle wavered suggestively in a little arc that took in Major Brane’s torso. “You might find it healthier to ride.”
“Thanks” said Major Brane. “I’ll ride, then.”
The man in the roadster snapped a command. “Open the car door for him,” he said.
The one who held the automatic stretched back his left hand, worked the catch of the door.
“Okay,” said the man in the roadster.
Major Brane stumbled. As he stumbled, he threw forth his hand to catch his balance, and the other hand slipped the folded check from his pocket. He lowered his head, thrust check in his mouth.
The man with the automatic jumped toward him. The man with the sub machine gun laughed sarcastically.
“No you don’t,” he said. “Get it!”
The last two words were cracked at the man who had held the automatic. That man leapt forward. Stubby fingers, that were evidently well acquainted with the human anatomy, pressed against nerve centers in Major Brane’s neck. Brane writhed with pain, and opened his jaw. The folded bit of tinted paper dropped to the pavement. The man swooped down upon it, picked it up with eager hands.
A police whistle trilled through the night.
“In!” crisped the man with the sub machine gun.
Major Brane felt arms about him, felt his automatic whisked from its hoister. Then he was boosted into the roadster. The gears clashed. The car lurched into speed.
Behind him, Major Brane could hear the taxicab driver yelling for the police, so loudly as to send echoes from the sides of the sombre buildings that lined the dark street.
The roadster’s lights clicked on. The man who had held the sub machine gun was driving. The other man was crowded close beside Major Brane’s neck, the other jabbing the end of the automatic into Major Brane’s ribs.
The man at the wheel knew the city, and he knew his car. The machine kept almost entirely to dark side streets and went swiftly. Within five minutes, it had turned to an alley on a steep hill, slid slowly downward, wheels rubbing against brake bands.