Rick Brant 8 The Caves of Fear Read online

  “We don’t know,” Rick answered. “We’ve no idea.”

  The young man’s face expanded in a pleased smile. “Don’t suppose you’d consider substituting a pink rabbit? We have a restaurant of that name. Haw!”

  Rick hid a grin. “Very kind of you,” he said. “I’m afraid my friend and I are allergic to rabbit fur.”

  With a perfectly straight face, Scotty added, “Haw!”

  The young Englishman shook with laughter. “You know, that’s really very good,” he said. “Allergic to rabbit fur! Very good! I’m sorry, fellows, but I’m afraid I can’t help locate your Golden Mouse. Why not try a bobby?”

  “Bobby sox or bobby pin?” Scotty asked.

  The bank officer’s eyebrows went up, then he smiled. “Oh, I see what you mean. No, it’s not a joke this time. Bobby is what we call policemen. You know?”

  “Thank you very much,” Rick said.

  “Not a bit. By the way, I can make a few inquiries of the chaps who have been here for some time. They may know. If you have no luck, drop back.” He offered his hand. “My name is Keaton-Yeats. Ronald Keaton-Yeats.”

  Rick and Scotty offered their names in exchange. “We’ll come back if we can’t locate it,” Rick assured him.

  Outside, Scotty laughed. “Haw!” he said.

  Rick grinned. “That’s the famous English sense of humor, I guess. He’s a good scout.”

  Scotty nodded his agreement. “Funny thing about these English. They do things that seem silly to us, like wearing tweeds in bathing-suit weather and cracking bad jokes. But when the chips are down, they can fight like wildcats.” Suddenly he pointed. “There’s a policeman.”

  “Let’s tackle him,” Rick said, and led the way across the street.

  The officer was evidently a lieutenant or something of the sort, because he had impressive-looking shoulder tabs on his uniform. As they came up, he was inspecting the papers of a small, hard-bitten character who wore greasy dungarees and a cap black with grease and grime. Evidently the papers were in order, for he handed them back and said curtly, “All right, my man. But remember we’ll have no doings from you or your like in Hong Kong. If you’re smart, you’ll stick close to your ship.”

  The man muttered, “Aye aye, Orficer. That I will.” He moved away.

  The officer was a tall, erect man with a cropped, gray military mustache. He saw the two boys and nodded. “Can I help you, lads?”

  “Perhaps you can, sir,” Rick said. “We’re looking for something called the Golden Mouse.”

  The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Are you now?” he inquired. “And what would you want with the Golden Mouse, if I may inquire?”

  “We’re to meet a friend there,” Scotty said.

  The tone of the officer’s voice told Rick that something was wrong. He asked, “Is something wrong with the Golden Mouse? We don’t even know what it is.”

  “A good thing for you not to know,” the officer retorted. “You’re Americans?”

  “Yes, sir,” Scotty said.

  “Then the Hong Kong force is responsible for seeing that you have a pleasant and safe visit. I warn you. Keep away from the Golden Mouse.”

  He turned on his heel and walked off. Rick and Scotty stared after his retreating figure, and then at each other.

  “How about that?” Scotty wanted to know.

  Rick frowned. “There must be something fishy about this Golden Mouse. From the way he talks, it’s a place. I wonder what kind?”

  A cockney voice spoke from behind them. “Now, that’s a thing I could tell you lads, always providin’ you was willin’ to part with ‘arf a quid or so.”

  It was the man the officer had warned to stick close to his ship. He winked at them. “Come over ‘ere where that blinkin’ peeler cawn’t see us.” He motioned to the shadow of a hallway.

  Inside, he grinned at them. “I ‘eard the line o’ garbage the copper was ‘andin’ you and I says, ‘ere’s a chance to do a bit o’ fyvor fer a couple o’ rich Yanks. And, I says, likely they’ll part with a few bob to buy ol’ Bert a bit o’ tea.”

  Rick pulled out a couple of Hong Kong dollars. “Well pay you. Now tell us what the Golden Mouse is, and where it is.”

  Bert pocketed the notes. “As to what it is, it’s a kind o’ restaurant, you might say. It ‘as entertainment and food and drink, and you’ll find a few o’ the lads there for company most any night. Aye, it’s a fair popular place, is the Golden Mouse.” He grinned, and there was a gap where his two front teeth should have been. “As to where it is, that’s not so easy to tell a pair what don’t know ‘ow to get around. But you just get a couple rickshaws, and you say to the coolies to take you to Canton Charlie’s place. They know it, right enough.”

  He spat expertly at a cockroach that scuttled past.

  “But take a tip from ol’ Bert and don’t go. Stay clear o’ Canton Charlie’s.”

  “Why?” Rick demanded.

  “Never you mind why. Just stay clear. Bert’s warnin’ you.”

  “We want to know why,” Scotty insisted.

  Bert grinned evilly. “Bjght-o. The lads wants to know, and Bert’s an obligin’ gent. You go to Canton Charlie’s and I’ll make a bet, I will. I’ll bet you’ll be outside again in ‘arf an hour, or maybe less.”

  His grin widened. “But will you know yer outside? Not you. And why? On account of you’ll be layin’ in a ditch somewheres with yer throats cut. That’s why.”

  He pushed past and left them standing in the doorway, staring at each other.

  CHAPTER VI

  The Golden Mouse

  Hobart Zircon listened to Rick’s report on the boys’ findings, then made an abrupt change of plans. Instead of eating in Hong Kong, they took the ferry back to the hotel and took from their suitcases the old clothes each had brought to wear on the trail, and to give them the look of experienced hunters. As Steve had pointed out, only amateurs go in for fancy togs as a rule. The experienced prefer tough, ordinary clothes like dungarees and denim shirts.

  As they unpacked, Scotty asked, “Is it safe to leave our rifles, and Rick’s camera and that scientific stuff you brought?”

  He referred to some delicate equipment packed in a special case that Zircon had brought from the Spindrift lab for investigating the heavy water they hoped to find.

  “Perfectly safe,” Zircon assured him. “In reputable hotels of this sort, the Chinese help is scrupulously honest. You could leave money lying about and it would never be touched.”

  He had already reported on his conversation with the consul general. There had been no word from Bradley, although Steve’s instructions to co-operate with the Spindrift party had arrived. The American official had promised to get in touch with them if Bradley turned up. He had never heard of the Golden Mouse.

  “I think we had better try to get in touch with Chahda right away,” the scientist said. “So let’s have a bite to eat here, then go have a look at this Golden Mouse, or Canton Charlie’s. From the description, I’d say it is typical of a certain kind of place where toughs hang out. Each city in the Orient has several. If we wear these old clothes, we’ll be less conspicuous.”

  In a short time they were in Hong Kong again. Zircon hailed three rickshaws and they got in. “Canton Charlie’s,” the scientist commanded. “Chop chop.”

  The rickshaw boys started off at a trot. The way led along the bay shore, past wharves and piers, until they were out of the central part of the city and moving into a section that was more as Rick had imagined an oriental city to be. The streets were wide, but lined with board-front buildings. The signs were all in Chinese, and usually painted in gaudy colors. There were no Englishmen in sight now, nor did they see any policemen.

  It was a long way. They had left their hotel in full daylight, but dusk had settled before the coolies finally turned off the main road. They went into a narrow street, then turned down another and still another. With each turn the streets narrowed and the light grew dimmer. How had Chah
da heard of a place in such a poor quarter of the city? Rick wondered.

  Presently the rickshaws drew up in a dismal comer of what was little more than an alleyway. They were in front of a low wooden building with windows that hadn’t been cleaned in years. Above the double door was a faded painting, illumined by a single electric light bulb. The painting probably was supposed to represent a mouse. Once, long ago, it had evidently been yellow. Now it was so glazed with grime that it was hard to tell.

  Rick stepped down from his rickshaw, sniffing the combined odors of garlic, pungent sauces, filth, and stale beer. Scotty joined him, and they waited for the scientist to take the lead.

  Zircon handed some money to the coolies and ordered them to wait. Then he motioned to the boys and led the way to the door. It opened on a large room dimly lighted by faded Chinese lanterns that hung over low-power bulbs. The walls were covered with a grimy paper of faded yellow on which unskilled drawings of mice at play were clustered. The floor was crowded with tables, each table covered with a yellow-checkered tablecloth. So far as Rick could see, there wasn’t a clean cloth in the lot.

  In front of the room was a long bar of scarred teak-wood. Behind it were row after row of ordinary ten-cent-store water tumblers. Rick guessed Canton Charlie’s clients weren’t fussy about drinking from fine crystal.

  Next to one wall, a white man in rumpled, dirty dungarees was sleeping with head down on the table. His snores were not musical. At one of the tables near the opposite wall, a dark-skinned man in a seaman’s woolen cap sat paring his nails with a knife easily a foot long.

  Zircon motioned to the boys and they sat down at one of the tables. “It’s too early for many customers, I suppose. But someone in charge must be here.” He banged on the table, then lowered his voice. “How do you like the customer over there? A Portuguese sailor, from the look of him.”

  In a moment dingy curtains parted next to the bar and a man emerged. At a guess, he was Spanish.

  “Bet he’s got a knife a foot long, too, under that apron,” Scotty whispered. “He’s the type.”

  Rick nodded. Scotty was so right! The man’s heavy-lidded eyes were set in a swarthy face whose most prominent feature was a broken nose, flattened probably with some weapon like a hard-swung bottle. A white scar across his chin indicated that it might have been a broken bottle. He was medium tall, and he wore a cap that might have been white once. An apron covered loose black Chinese shirt and trousers. Rick was glad big Hobart Zircon was sitting next to him.

  The man walked to the table and greeted them in a surprisingly soft voice in which there was an accent Rick couldn’t identify.

  “You’re a little early, gents. But I can take care of you. What’ll you have?”

  “Chalida,” Zircon said flatly.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You better have a drink and sit tight.”

  “Why?” Zircon asked.

  “You’ll see. What’ll you drink?”

  Zircon ignored the question. “Who are you?”

  “Canton Charlie. What’ll you drink?”

  “What have you got?”

  There was a ghost of a smile on the scarred face. “I’ll fix you up.” He clapped his hands. An elderly Chinese in dirty whites shuffled out. Canton Charlie spoke a few words of singsong Cantonese and the old man nodded.

  “Sit tight,” Charlie said again, and walked away.

  “Lot of fine, useful information we’re getting out of this,” Scotty grumbled. “I wonder how long we’ll have to sit in this flea bag?”

  “Hard to say,” Zircon replied. “But Charlie seemed friendly enough.”

  The old Chinese was shuffling across the floor with a tray that held three tumblers of dark liquid. “Wonder what he’s going to give us?” Rick said. “Probably dragon blood.”

  The Chinese put the glasses down in front of them and padded off again. Scotty picked up his glass and sniffed, and a grin split his face. “Dragon blood, huh? Ten thousand miles from home, in the worst dive in Hong Kong, and what do we drink? Coke!”

  Rick laughed. “American civilization and the mysterious East. But it suits me. Coke is probably the only thing in the house fit to drink.”

  The Portuguese finished the drink that had been in front of him, gave his nails a last inspection, stowed his knife in a leg sheath, and left. He hadn’t even looked at them.

  “He’s probably gone to find a blowtorch to shave with,” Zircon rumbled. He motioned toward the door. “New customers coming.”

  They were the first of many. Within a half-hour the room was filled with a strange assortment. There were British, American, French, Dutch, Portuguese, and Filipino sailors, and men of uncertain profession who ranged in complexion from pure Chinese to pure black. Many were Eurasians, and of the Eurasians, a large percentage were of mixed Chinese and Portuguese blood. Zircon reminded the boys that the Portuguese colony of Macao was only half an afternoon’s boat trip south of Hong Kong.

  By and large, Rick decided, Canton Charlie’s customers were as tough a looking bunch of pirates as he had ever seen. They applauded noisily by banging glasses on the table as a disreputable lot of musicians appeared and began to make the night hideous with what seemed to be a Chinese version of a Strauss waltz. By this time, the room was so blue with cigar and cigarette smoke and so noisy with coarse chatter in a half-dozen tongues that it was hard to see or hear one’s neighbor.

  Again Rick wondered. How had Chahda ever heard of this place? He sipped on his third coke and leaned over toward Scotty and Zircon. “Wonder what’s keeping Canton Charlie?”

  Zircon shrugged expressively. “Can’t do a thing but wait, Rick.”

  Fortunately, the wait was not much longer. A Chinese shuffled past and dropped a folded note on the table. Before they could question him, he had made his way among the tables and was gone.

  Zircon picked up the note, glanced through it, and handed it to Scotty. Rick read over his friend’s shoulder. The note was scrawled in pencil, as though written in haste.

  “To find the one you want, go to the end of the Street of the Three Blind Fishermen. Go to the junk with the purple sails.”

  “Let’s get started,” Rick said. He rose to his feet. Zircon tossed some money on the table. The three of them made their way through the noisy mob of roughnecks and out the door. Rick breathed deeply when they were out in the narrow street again.

  “Even with the garlic, this air smells better than what we left inside,” Scotty said. “Why do you think Canton Charlie didn’t deliver the message himself?”

  “Maybe he’s not mixed up in it,” Rick suggested. “Maybe he just had orders to let someone know when we showed up.”

  “We’ll soon know,” Zircon predicted.

  As the three rickshaw coolies materialized from the darkness where they had been waiting, the Americans climbed in. Zircon asked, “You know street called Three Blind Fishermen?”

  One of the rickshaw boys nodded. “Not far. We go?”

  “Yes.”

  The rickshaws lurched forward.

  Inside the Golden Mouse, Canton Charlie started for the table where the three had been waiting. He stopped short as he saw they were no longer there, turned on his heel, and hurried into an inner room. He spoke quick words to a slim Chinese-Portuguese half-caste who immediately hurried out the back door. Once in the open, the slim man ran as though devils were after him.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Junk with Purple Sails

  For perhaps ten minutes Rick, Scotty, and Zircon sat in the rickshaws while the coolies pulled them through dark streets with no more noise than the occasional creaking of a wheel or the slapping of bare feet on the pavement.

  There were houses on both sides of the streets, but only now and then did a light show through the impenetrable darkness. Rick finally sensed that they were near the water by a feeling of greater space around him rather than by anything he could see. A moment later he heard the lapping of water against a pier.

  He was
tense with excitement now. The first part of the journey was coming to an end. In a few minutes they would be hearing Chahda’s story.

  The rickshaws drew to a stop and the coolies dropped the shafts so their passengers could climb out. The coolie who spoke the best English asked, hesitantly, “You pay now, sor? We no wait here, yes?”

  “Very well.” Zircon paid the boys’ fare and his own. “I don’t suppose there’s any reason to have them wait, since this is our destination. Chahda’s friends doubtless will provide a ride for the return journey.”

  “I don’t like this,” Scotty whispered. “There’s something funny about the whole business. I feel it.”

  “Where’s the junk?” Rick demanded softly. “I can’t see a thing.”

  “We’ll wait for a bit,” Zircon said quietly. “And we’ll be on our guard, just in case Scotty’s intuition is right.”

  They waited quietly, leaning against what seemed to be a warehouse, for what felt like five minutes but was probably only two. Then Rick heard the mutter of voices and the splash of something moving in the water. The sounds were followed by a bumping and scraping against the pier that jutted into the water.

  “Be ready,” Zircon commanded in a whisper.

  As he said it, a bull’s-eye lantern made circles in the night, outlining the high stern and bow of a junk. The lantern swung upward, revealing the junk’s sails. They were purple.

  Zircon led the way down the pier to the junk. “Chahda?” he called softly.

  An accented voice answered, “Come aboard.” The lantern played on the pier’s edge to guide them. Following its light, they jumped from the pier into the litter of rope, boxes, and gear in the middle of the uneven deck. The stench that smote their nostrils was terrible. Probably the vessel hadn’t been cleaned since it was built. Rick coughed from the foul odor and then raised his voice. “Chahda? Where are you?”

  From somewhere the same accented voice replied, “We take you to him. Sit down and wait.”