Major Brane knew the method of attack well enough to know that there was but one possible defense. To resist would be to have his arm snapped. The hands of the other were in a position to exert a tremendous leverage against the victim’s own weight. Major Brane therefore did the only thing that would save him. Even before the last ounce of pressure had been brought to play upon his arms, he flung himself in a whirling somersault, using the momentum of his rush to send him over and around.
He whirled through the air like a pinwheel, crashed to the floor. But even while he was in midair, his brain, trained to instant appreciation of all of the angles of any given situation, remembered the gun which had been kicked from Brinkhoff’s hand.
Major Brane whirled, even as the flashing shape of his opponent hurtled at him. His clawing hand groped for and found the automatic. The other pounced, and the automatic jabbed into his ribs.
“I shall pull the trigger,” said Major Brane, his words muffled by the weight of the other, “in exactly one and one-half seconds!”
The, words had the desired effect. Major Brane had a reputation for doing exactly whatever he said he would do, and the figure that had been on top of him flung backwards, hands elevated.
Major Brane, still lying on the floor, thrust the gun forward, so that it was plainly visible.
From the yard, outside the window, could be heard the low voices of men who were closing in on the spot where the chair had thudded to the ground.
“Don’t move!” said Major Brane.
The man who faced him, twisted back his lips in a silent snarl, then let his face become utterly expressionless.
Major Brane smiled at him. “I wonder,” he said, “what you were searching for, my friend?”
The man made no sound.
“Back against the wall,” said Major Brane.
The man hesitated, then caught the steely glitter of Major Brane’s eye. He backed, slowly. Major Brane raised himself to his knees, then to his feet. His eyes were almost dreamy with concentration.
“You want something,” mused Major Brane, “that Brinkhoff is supposed to have on him; but you don’t want the rest of the gang to know that you want it. You’d yell, if you were really one of them, and take a chance on my shooting. — The answer is that you’re hostile. Probably the others don’t even know you’re here.”
The man who stood against the wall had been breathing heavily. Now, as Major Brane summed up the situation, he held himself rigidly motionless, even the rising and falling of his shoulders ceasing. It was as though he held his breath, the better to check any possible betrayal of his thoughts through some involuntary start of surprise.
Major Brane moved toward the unconscious form of the man who went under the name of Brinkhoff. From outside came a series of cries; rage, surprise, disappointment, shouted instructions. — The attackers had found that they had been stalking only a chair that had been thrown from a window.
Major Brane remained as calmly cool as though he had ample time at his disposal.
“Therefore,” he said, “the thing to do is to search until I find what you were looking for, and...”
His prisoner could stand the strain no longer. Already the thud of running feet showed that the others were coming toward the house. The man blurted out in excellent English:
“It’s in the wallet, in the inside pocket. It’s nothing that concerns you. It relates to another matter. My government wants it. They’ll kill me if they find me, and they’ll kill you. Let me have the paper, and I’ll show you the girl.”
Major Brane smiled. “Fair enough,” he said. “No, don’t move. Not yet!” His hands went to Brinkhoff’s inside pocket, scooped out the leather folder, abstracted a document. The man against the wall was breathing heavily, as though he had been running. His hands were clenching and unclenching. A door banged somewhere in the house, feet sounded in the corridor. Brinkhoff stirred and groaned.
Major Brane paused to cast a swift eye over the documents which he had abstracted from the leather folder. He smiled, nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s a go. Show me the girl.”
“This way,” said the man, and ran toward a corner of the room. He opened a door, disclosed another closet, pressed a section of the wall. It opened upon a flight of stairs.
Major Brane followed, taking care to close the closet door after him. He could hear the sound of steps dashing down the corridor, the sound of confused voices shouting instructions.
The man led him down a winding staircase, to a cellar stored with various and sundry munitions and supplies. The house was a veritable arsenal, on a small scale. He crossed the storeroom, opened another door; and Major Brane, half expecting that which he was to find, came to an abrupt pause and took a deep breath.
The Chinese girl sat in a chair. Her arms and legs were bound. The clothing had been ripped from her torso, and there were evidences that her captors had been trying to make her talk. But she was staring ahead of her with a face absolutely void of expression, with eyes that glittered like lacquer. She was not gagged, for the room was virtually sound proof.
The girl surveyed them with eyes that remained glitteringly inexpressive, with a face that was like old ivory; but she said nothing.
The man who had guided Major Brane to the room pulled a knife and slit the bonds.
“Devils!” said Major Brane. The man with the knife turned to him. “I have done my share. From now on, it is each man for himself. They have the entire block well guarded. I can’t be bothered with the woman. Give me the paper.”
Major Brane tossed him the wallet.
The man dashed from the room. “Each man for himself. — Remember!” he said as he left.
Major Brane nodded. He picked up a ragged remnant of the girl’s clothing, flung it over her shoulders, looked around for a coat.
From the cellar he heard a voice calling.
“He is down here, with the girl!”
It was the voice of the man who had just guided Major Brane to the torture chamber.
The Major nodded approvingly.
The man had warned him; it was to be each man for himself; and the devil take the hindmost. The one who had guided him to the girl felt that he stood a better chance to escape if he guided the enemy to Major Brane. That would lead to conflict, confusion and a chance for escape. It was the strategy of warfare.
Major Brane heard the men running, coming pell mell down the stairs which led to the room. And the block was surrounded, guarded. They were many, and they were ruthless. Here, in the heart of San Francisco, he had stumbled into a spy’s nest, perhaps the headquarters for the lone wolves of diplomacy, the outlaws who ran ahead of the pack, ruthlessly doing things for which no government dared assume even a partial responsibility.
Major Brane stepped out into the cellar. He could see a pair of legs coming down the cellar stairs.
Major Brane observed a can of gasoline. The automatic he had captured barked twice. One shot splintered the stairs, just below the legs of the man who was descending, caused him to come to an abrupt halt. The other shot ripped through the can of gasoline.
The liquid poured out, ran along the cement floor of the cellar, Major Brane tossed a match, stepped back into the room which had been used as a torture chamber, and closed the door.
From the cellar came a loud poof! then a roaring, crackling sound.
Immediately, Major Brane dismissed the cellar from his thoughts and turned his attention to the room in which he found himself. The girl had arranged the clothing about her, had found a coat. She regarded him with glittering eyes and silent lips.
Major Brane pursed his lips. There seemed to be no opening from the room; yet he knew the type of mind with which he had to deal, and he sensed that there would be an opening.