and then extended the thumb downward toward the compartment floor. The
gesture was more explanatory than words. Dave felt a tingling chill
ripple through his heart but he kept the grin on his face. After a
moment the Air Intelligence officer continued.
"You two will be reported as definitely dead," he said. "I'll make no
bones about being certain of that. I fancy we'll even drink a silent
toast to you at evening mess. You know, do the thing up right for the
benefit of listening ears or watching eyes. Meantime, you two will
proceed to Bukum Street and go into the Devil's Den. Both of you speak
German, and French, and, of course, English. You will have to decide
for yourselves what language you want to use. You'll be.... Well,
you'll be wharf rats to all appearances. Or you can be a couple of
French merchant sailors stranded in Singapore after jumping ship. You
can be a couple of Germans rescued from a China boat sunk off shore.
Fact is, you can be anything you like. It will be frankly up to you to
decide each move as you go along."
"Aren't you just a bit ahead of things, sir?" Freddy Farmer said as the
flush mounted in his cheeks. "I mean, how do we get ashore from this
Catalina? And what about clothes?"
"That's the easiest part of the whole thing," the other replied. "We'll
talk about that later. Now, the moment you enter the Devil's Den your
lives will be in your own hands. I cannot tell you what you will find.
I cannot tell you what will happen. I'd be a blasted miracle maker, if
I could. But, I can tell you this. We know the identification code word
of Nazi agents out here in the Far East. It's three words, as a matter
of fact. _Der Fuehrer's Tag._ Meaning, of course, The Leader's Day. How
and when you use it, I do not know. And...."
The Air Vice Marshal paused and groaned softly.
"And I have got to tell you this," he said presently. "The British
Intelligence agent who entered the Devil's Den two weeks ago, never to
be seen again, was _also_ armed with the code word, or words. I am as
certain, though, as I am that I'm sitting here, that the Nazi agent
identification signal has not been changed. They still use it, and you
two will have to decide the proper time, and place, to mention it."
"A salute when you take a sip of your coffee might be a good idea,"
Dave said, looking at Freddy. "Sort of say it under your breath, but
loud enough for anyone sitting close to hear."
Dave turned his head and looked at Air Vice Marshal Bostworth.
"Your plan is for us to be a couple of Axis agents reporting, isn't it,
Sir?" he asked.
The Air Intelligence officer gave Dawson a look of frank admiration,
and nodded instantly.
"Exactly that," he said. "I'm sure new agents sent out go straight to
Serrangi's place. Of course, there may be some one to whom they report.
I don't know. That's the risk you've got to take. But here's a plan to
cover that part. You can be a couple of Axis agents shipping from China
to ... say Australia. Your boat was sunk.... I can give you the names
of several ships sunk in the South China Sea recently ... and you were
put ashore in Singapore. You, of course, have known of the Devil's Den,
and you know the code words for identification."
"That's a splendid arrangement, sir!" Freddy Farmer spoke up excitedly.
"That way we won't have to show any papers. We can say we lost
everything at sea. But...."
The English youth stopped short and scowled.
"But what, Farmer?" Air Vice Marshal Bostworth prompted.
It was a few seconds before Freddy acted as though he had heard.
"I was thinking, sir," he said slowly, "what if nobody pays any
attention to us? What if we just go into this Devil's Den, and nothing
happens?"
"We've got to hope hard that something will," the Air Intelligence
officer said grimly. "And I don't think you need worry about nobody
paying any attention to you. You'll be strangers, and you'll look the
part of seamen put ashore from a lost ship. I'm quite certain that
Serrangi keeps a very close watch on everybody who comes into his
place. However, that's the blasted sticker about this thing. It's no
more and no less than a blind stab in the dark. It may gain us nothing,
and then again, it may gain us a lot. And ... it may get you both a
knife in your back before you've been in the place five minutes. I
pray to God not, but that's the chance you'll be taking. To sum it up
bluntly, you'll simply be grabbing at possible straws, and...."
"And there may not be any to grab," Dave grunted as the other hesitated.
"Precisely!" the senior officer said and made a wry face. "You'll be
taking a wild, blind shot in the dark to connect with something that
will lead you to the top rankers in the Axis espionage system working
in Singapore."
"It would certainly be a break if the spy you're gunning for at
Singapore R.A.F. Base uses Serrangi's as a contact place," Dave said.
"I think I could spot an R.A.F. lad with my eyes shut."
"Not this one, I fancy," the Air Vice Marshal said. "He may be R.A.F.
on the surface when he's on duty, but the blighter is Nazi at heart.
He'll be clever, and twice as cruel, too. But, if you should be lucky
enough to contact him ... rather, spot him ... a lot of my worries
would be over. Once I find out that beggar's identity I've got a very
neat little plan already to be put into operation. That, however, would
be like asking for a miracle on a silver platter."
"But, supposing we do tag him," Dave persisted. "How do you plan for us
to get word to you, sir?"
"I've arranged for that," the senior officer said. "In front of the
Raffles Hotel, which is perhaps the easiest thing to find in all
Singapore, there's always a gathering of peddlers and hawkers who will
sell anything to soldiers and civilians alike. In peace times they made
quite a good thing out of it from the tourist trade, but they are not
doing so well now that half the world is at war. However they still
cluster about in front of the Raffles hoping to make a few pennies.
Anyway, one of them is a horrible looking creature. He is not more than
five feet tall, and bent over at that. He wears a dirty white patch
over his right eye, and the thumb on the left hand is missing. He is
always there, and you couldn't possibly miss him. Put any message you
have for me in Air Intelligence Code Six-X-Seven, walk past the man
with the patch over his right eye, and toss the wadded message into
the gutter, as though it were a bit of paper you were throwing away.
And.... By the by, you know the Air Intelligence Code Six-X-Seven, of
course?"
"Yes, sir," Freddy spoke for both of them. "By heart, sir."
"Good," Air Vice Marshal Bostworth said and gave them a pleased nod.
"Well, do as I say, if you have any message you want transmitted to me.
However, be sure and just walk by the beggar, and toss the bit of paper
into the gutter. Do not turn to him or look at him. And for heaven's
sake don't speak to him. You'll probably lose the man his life if you
speak to him. And I hasten to tell you that he is one of the best
British counter espionage agents in Singapore. Well, so much for that.
Now, any other questions?"
Dave looked at Freddy Farmer and nodded.
"Go ahead with that question you asked awhile back," he said. "I guess
that's the important one, now."
The English youth looked blank for a moment, then his face brightened
as he realized what Dave was talking about.
"Oh, yes, quite," he said and turned to Air Vice Marshal Bostworth.
"It's that question I asked about getting ashore from this Catalina,
and clothes, sir."
"Simple, quite simple," the senior officer replied with a faint wave
of his hand. "I only hope the rest of this blasted business will be
equally as simple. Well...."
The man paused, looked at his watch, and then glanced out the porthole
at the blood red sun that was balancing like a ball on the western
horizon line. Its flaming red rays fanned out across the sky to bathe
everything in a pinkish glow. Even the wings of the Catalina were
touched by the glow that bounced off their glossy surfaces and seeped
in through the ports to the interior of the compartment. The dying sun
was a beautiful, breath catching sight ... but not right at the moment
for Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer. Their thoughts were not on beautiful
things, now, but on many other things, not the least of which was
possible death by tomorrow's setting sun.
"Well, in an hour it will be darkish, sort of," the Air Vice Marshal
continued speaking. "When it is we're going to head back toward
Singapore. I will have the radio operator send word that our search
failed, and that I'm having this flyingboat land in Keppel Harbor as
I wish to go direct to the Government buildings in the city. We will
land in the harbor and the crew will break out two of the collapsible
boats we carry aboard. I will go ashore in one. You two will use the
other. Under cover of darkness you can easily reach some section of
Singapore's waterfront undetected. Simply go ashore and release the
air valve in your boat. It will fill up and sink at once. As for
clothes...."
The senior officer paused and smiled faintly.
"This is not the first time I have used this Catalina for Intelligence
work," he said. "In fact, it is used almost exclusively for such jobs.
You'd be surprised the stuff we have aboard this craft. We carry all
kinds of clothes, from a German soldier's uniform on up to almost
anything you could mention. Don't worry, before you leave this Catalina
you'll look so much like a couple of rescued sailors from a China to
Australia boat your own families wouldn't recognize you. Later I'll
give you facts of an actual sinking to make your story ring true. Now,
what else, eh?"
Dave started to speak, but thought better of it after an instant's
hesitation, and closed his mouth. Air Vice Marshal Bostworth gave him a
sharp quizzical glance.
"Yes, Dawson?" he encouraged. "What is it? Ask anything you like.
After all, this is not going to be any tea party that you two are
setting out on. If you've got something to ask me, go right ahead.
Later on, you might regret not having asked it."
Dave hesitated a couple of more seconds, then shrugged.
"Well, maybe it's a crazy question, sir," he said slowly, "but somehow
I always like to be on the safe side. I mean, I like to be sure about a
couple of things in advance, when I stick my neck out, if you get what
I mean?"
"I think I understand, a little," the other said. "But perhaps you'd
better make yourself a bit clearer, eh?"
The American born R.A.F. ace took a deep breath as though he were about
to dive off into icy waters. Then he blurted it out.
"The crew of this Catalina, sir," he said. "You admit that there is
some Nazi agent at the Singapore R.A.F. Base. A lad you haven't been
able to lay by the heels yet. Well, what I mean is this. Those aboard
this flyingboat know who we are. The sergeant gunner asked us if we
were Dawson and Farmer when we came aboard. Well.... That is to say....
I mean...."
Dave stumbled to a halt and flushed a deep red.
"You mean, how about the loyalty of the crew of this Catalina?" the Air
Vice Marshal helped him out.
"Yes, sir," Dave said with a nod.
"A perfectly fair question," the other replied. "I'll describe their
loyalty in this way, then. _I_ would reveal your true identity to the
Nazi agents in Singapore before any one of them would."
"That's all I want to know," Dave said. "Fair enough. Any better
wouldn't do. How about you, Freddy?"
"Quite," the English youth said. "Oh, very definitely and absolutely!"
"Then what are we waiting for?" Dave said, turning back to Air Vice
Marshal Bostworth with a grin. "Let's get going and not keep old
Serrangi waiting any longer than we have to!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
_The Jaws Of Death_
Night had come again to Singapore. From one end of the Island to the
other all was cloaked in velvety darkness save where light made by
man thrust aside the shadows. At Raffles Hotel they still danced, and
at the famous city cafes they still drank and watched worn out floor
shows, even though the nearness of war in the Far East seemed to hang
in the very air like a shroud. Even in the poorer sections, and in the
slums, there were sounds of merry-making. It was almost as though rich
man and beggar alike were enjoying themselves as much as they could
before the sword of Mars came slashing down on that section of the
earth.
In the unspeakably smelly alley that is known as Bukum Street two
figures slouched along as though they didn't have an idea in the world
where they were going, and cared even less when they got there. At
every little opened front shop they paused and gaped vacant eyed at the
collection of wares on display. Sometimes they muttered things to each
other in low tones. Sometimes they said nothing, and just stared. And
more times than not the storekeepers instantly sized them up as very
poor prospects for a sale and waved them on their way.
Presently they both halted in their tracks as though by unspoken signal
and stared half a block ahead at a two story wooden building on the
other side of the street. It was much the same as all the others save
there was no shop on the lower floor of this building, and therefore it
had no open front. On the contrary, it had a front door and windows,
and hanging from a bracket that protruded from the door was a sign with
somebody's idea of His Satanic Majesty painted on it in red.
"That's us, Freddy!" muttered the taller of the pair. "A crummy looking
joint, isn't it?"
"Much worse!" came the half muffled reply. "And good Lord, this awful
smell does come from there! So blasted thick and heavy, I can almost
see it coming out the front door."
"Yeah," Dave Dawson murmured. "And if it's from the brand of coffee
they serve in there I'm afraid I'm going to be an awful flop before I
even get started. I couldn't keep anything down that smells like that
for longer than one millionth of one split second. Holy catfish! Do you
suppose this Serrangi runs a slaughter house on the side? Boy! That
stench almost bounces when it hits you."
"That's right," Freddy Farmer agreed. "We should have remembered to
bring clothespins. Well, worse luck for us, we didn't. But what do you
say, Dave? Shall we get on with it?"
"Why not, we've come this far," Dave grunted, and started slouching
forward again. "But, look, Freddy."
"At what?"
"No, I mean, listen!" Dave hissed out the corner of his mouth.
"Bostworth handed us a pip this time. Like trying to win a ball game
in the last of the ninth with your team a couple of hundred runs
behind. What I mean is, that anything can happen from here on. Just
like Bostworth said, when we go through that door we're on our own. We
may strike out on three pitched balls, and then again we may run into
something mighty valuable to him. But there's two guys we've got to
look out for all the time. You and me. Now, if by any chance things do
get rough, keep close to me. We make it or don't, together. Okay?"
"Absolutely," Freddy Farmer replied quietly. "Shoulder to shoulder all
the time, Dave, of course."
"Maybe in Serrangi's place we'd better make it back to back," Dave
said. "They're experts with knives in this part of the world, so I've
been told. So if we get back to back when things break bad, we'll at
least see who's doing what."
"I'd feel happier if we were armed," Freddy Farmer said. "I suppose
Bostworth was right when he said that carrying arms might get us into
trouble if we were searched. Just the same, though, I'd feel a lot
happier if we were armed."
"You and me each, brother!" Dave breathed softly as they neared the
front door of the smelly place. "You and me each! However, maybe we'll
live to bless him for that word of caution."
"Just so's we live will please me enough!" Freddy muttered. Then as
they came almost abreast of the door, he added softly, "I think it
would be best to speak bad French in this place. Much better than
English or German, don't you think?"
"Check, it'll be French," Dave said and gave Freddy's arm a quick
squeeze. "Well, luck to us both. And do I hope I can keep that coffee
down! Okay, follow me, my little man."
Dave hesitated a moment, took a deep breath, and then pushed in
through the front door of the Devil's Den. He was instantly smacked in
the face by a babble of sound, and a stench that almost made his nose
drop off. For a second he could see only blurred yellow shadows, the
place was so heavy with cheap cigarette, and water-pipe smoke. Then as
he spotted an empty table to his left he gave a jerk of his head to
Freddy, and shuffled across the filthy floor and sat down. Leaning back
he lazily surveyed the place with his eyes. He had seen an awful lot of
terrible places since the first day of war, but the Devil's Den topped
them all, and then some. It was half store and half coffee shop. Along
one wall of the room, that was some forty feet deep and three quarters
as wide, was a series of shelves filled with bins that contained
everything from spices, tea, and native coffee to pith helmets and old
army uniforms. On the opposite side was a row of battered tables so
badly stained it was impossible to tell the original color of the wood.
The sirupy coffee of the hot countries was spilled all over the table,
and it was quite probable that no efforts had been made to mop up the
sticky drippings in the last six months. And where there wasn't coffee
there was dirt or cigarette ash.
Seated at the tables was a mixture of all races from Suez to Saigon,
and from Hongkong to Borneo. There were Malays and Chinese, Sumatrans
and Tamils from India, Filipinos and Punjabis, Arabs and Siamese,
Persians, and a smattering that had once claimed kinship with the white
races but had sunk so low they were no longer any part of a white man.
Dave's heart looped over and his stomach churned as he let his sleepy,
seemingly uninterested gaze travel slowly about the room. Many of those
there looked at him in return, but only for the smallest part of a
second. It seemed to be sort of an unwritten law that you didn't stare
too hard or too long at your fellow coffee drinkers in the Devil's Den.
Some of them didn't so much as lift their heads when Dave and Freddy
entered. Either they weren't interested in newcomers or else they were
too full of the poison of the Far East to get up the strength.
There was one, however, who took real interest in the arrival of the
two slouching ones in dirty sea water stained clothes. He was standing
near the steaming coffee urns at the far end of the room near a door.
As Dave's eyes passed over the scarred face with the cast in the right
eye it was all the young American could do to check himself from
starting violently. Serrangi's face would certainly scare even Satan,
himself. The man was not very tall, and he seemed not to have much
flesh on his bones. Yet somehow he gave you the impression of coiled
steel springs ready to lash out in any and all directions. A scarecrow,
perhaps, but with the strength of a killer in his thin arms, legs, and
body. But it was the eyes. Particularly the one with the cast. That one
was a dirty grey white; a dirty grey white beam of light that seemed to
go right through you and read your innermost thoughts on the way. For
perhaps a split second Dave had a look at the mysterious Serrangi, but
in that brief period of time he saw all he ever wanted to see of the
man.
He let his lazy gaze travel on and then brought it to rest on an evil
faced native waiter sliding toward them. The man came to a halt at
Dave's elbow and hissed something in a tongue Dave couldn't catch.
"Bring coffee," Dave growled in heavily accented French. Then as an
afterthought, "And cigarettes, too!"
"So?" the native snarled right back in the same tongue. "Here one sees
the color of a man's money first."
Dave glared and reluctantly pulled a small silver coin from his pocket
and slapped it on the table.
"The color of a silver knife, eh?" he grunted and jerked his head
toward the urns. "Go bring us some!"
The native waiter half bowed, flicked out a grimy paw and the silver
coin wasn't there anymore. At the same time he slithered around and
glided away. Dave had the feeling as though a snake had just wiggled
across his chest, and it was all he could do to stop the shiver that
welled up inside of him. Instead he slumped over the table and rubbed a
hand tentatively up and down the side of his face. He did it to cover
up the movement of his lips as he whispered to Freddy.
"Nice joint!" he breathed. "I wonder if the floorshow's as good. Gives
you the creeps, doesn't it?"
"Goose pimples all over!" Freddy replied. "Am jolly well sure they'll
be permanent. Notice how our little friend gave us the eye? And is
still doing it? Rotten looking chap, for fair. Should jail him because
of his face alone. Horrible fellow. He.... Heads up, Dave!"
The last just barely carried to Dave's ears but there was a tremor in
Freddy's voice that was just as good as a wild yell of alarm. He cut
short what he might have said to the English youth, made a final pass
at the side of his face then cupped his chin in his hand and stared
moodily off into space. Every part of him, though, was on the alert,
and in less than no time he realized why Freddy Farmer had breathed the
warning. A filthy native who had been seated by the front door when
they entered was slowly edging toward the table next to theirs, but not
noticeably so, unless you were on your guard, which good old Freddy
Farmer was proving he was!
Still staring off into space Dave watched the native out of the corner
of his eye. The man finally reached the table, muttered what sounded
like an apology to two half cast Malays seated at the table, slid into
a chair and promptly to all intent and purposes rested his forehead on
his folded arms on the table and went sound asleep. Even the sound of
his breathing was like that of a half doped man, but Dave Dawson was
not fooled one single bit. And neither was Freddy Farmer. One of the
dirty native's ears showed and they both felt certain that every sound
they made was being registered by that ear.
Shifting his position to a more comfortable one Dave let his eyes
meet Freddy's for the fraction of a second. In that swift period of
time a world of understanding passed between them. That native who
faked sleeping off the effects of some drug at the next table was
unquestionably one of Serrangi's men. He was there to eavesdrop on
their talk. To listen to every word they said, and perhaps send a
signal to Serrangi that could well be their death warrant. However,
that thought cheered them rather than caused icy fingers to clutch at
their hearts. If the man _was_ one of Serrangi's spies he was playing
right into their hands. What better opportunity could they ask for
than this one to give the code signal revealing them as Nazi agents in
Singapore?
It was perfect. It was made to order. Yet, on the other hand, it seemed
so perfect that Dave caught his brain swaying way over the other way.
To the side of extra, extra caution. Was this in reality a trap? Would
it be wise to mention the code word when a total stranger was sitting
so close? Had Bostworth's agent made that mistake when he entered the
Devil's Den, and it had proved to be a fatal one? Would it not be
better to wait, to spend a while over their first cup of coffee before
trying to contact possible Nazi agents in the room? It was perhaps best
to....
Dave cut off the rest of the thought as the shadow of the filthy native
waiter suddenly appeared at his elbow as though by magic. Two dirty
cracked cups the size of thumb thimbles were placed in front of him
and Freddy. In the cups was a smudgy brown liquid that no white man
would even use to paint the side of a cow-barn. An acrid stench drifted
up from each cup. It made Dave think of burning sulphur and kerosene,
only not so sweet smelling. As a matter of fact, for one crazy instant
he wondered if it was some deadly chemical that was going to explode in
his face in the next second and blind him. He killed off that thought,
however, and whipped out his hand to grab the native's arm as the man
started to glide away.
"The cigarettes!" he growled. "I gave you enough to feed your filthy
family for years. Bring us the cigarettes!"