Nick Carter - The Terrible Ones

Tsing-fu Shu read on to the end, his lips curling with contempt as he read of the men’s departure from the scene and the “exceptional bravery” with which they had returned in the morning light. They had flushed out the cave with gas-bombs, incantations and smoke, but they had found nothing — not the slightest trace of occupancy, human or inhuman. Later in the morning the body of the dog turned up many miles away downstream, clawed practically to ribbons. Clearly all this was the work of some supernatural agency. Thus, the drums, to guard against a recurrence of the horror.

There was one final item in the STOP PRESS column. It said:

“The body of a bearded man in army fatigues was found by fishermen this morning near the rocks of Cap St. Michel. It was half-submerged and had been severely battered, but it was obvious at once that the main cause of death was the slash wound or wounds in the abdomen. The nature of the weapon is undetermined, but according to accounts of Patrol Squad Number Nine the wounds are similar to those found upon the dog. The victim has not yet been identified.”

Tsing-fu’s eyes narrowed. “So, Tom Kee. Mysterious howls in the night — a decoy, quite possibly — and today we find the body of a bearded man in army fatigues. But Haitian army men are seldom bearded, is that not so? Have you perhaps heard more of this than is in the paper?”

“I have Doctor. That is why I thought you might be interested in that account.” Tom Kee snapped his knuckles reflectively. “It is said in town that the body was that of a Fidelista. A big man, well-built with rotten teeth.”

“That sounds like Alonzo,” Tsing-fu said almost conversationally.

Tom Kee nodded. “That is what I thought. I can assure you that I was even more than usually careful not to be seen coming back here today. I also tried to find out if other Fidelistas have been seen. But I am told that, right now, they are all across the border in the Dominican Republic.” He smiled faintly and snapped another knuckle.

“Not all” Tsing-fu hissed. “What was he doing here? This is treachery of some kind, you can count upon it! Why did he not tell us he was coming? These people are supposed to be working with us, not against us. They must keep us informed as to their movements.” The smaller, catlike man shrugged his narrow shoulders. “We do not tell them,” he murmured. “That is not the point! When the time is ripe, we tell them what is needed. They work for us, not we for them.” Tsing-fu checked his angry stride. “But what is even more important is — who killed him? And why?”

Tom Kee smiled his crooked smile. “The djuba —” he began, and stopped. Tsing-fu was in no jesting mood today.

“The djuba!” Tsing-fu snarled. “That is good enough for primitive fools, but not for us. He was killed by some human agency, that is obvious. Obviously, also, we did not do it ourselves. Neither did the Haitians — they would have taken him in for questioning by the secret police. So who does that leave, do you suppose?”

The small man shrugged again. “It was Alonzo himself who told us about The Terrible Ones. Perhaps they are more terrible than we thought.”

Tsing-fu eyed him thoughtfully. “Perhaps they are,” he said softly, the sudden brushfire of his anger again under control. “Yes. You might be right. There may be much more to this than we know. I must take sterner measures. Later we will’ discuss more fully what we shall do about the Cubans. In the meantime you will go back into town and make further inquiries. When you are sure that this man was indeed Alonzo, or at least some other Fidelista, get in touch with their headquarters and tell them that their man is dead. You will assume that they sent him for a purpose and that he was unfortunately waylaid. Be sympathetic, be subtle, use no threats — but find out why they sent him. And come back after nightfall. We will be using the metal detector again and you must be here.”

Tom Kee nodded and took his leave. This was no time to argue about the long and dreary climb up and down the steep trail to the Citadelle. Tsing-fu’s vicious bursts of rage were well known to all who worked for him. He made his way to the tunnel pointed out to Tsing-fu two weeks before by a Haitian guide, who had died very soon afterwards of apparently natural causes, and came out in a palm grove outside the Castle grounds. He took the horse that was tethered there and began the long way down the hill.

Tsing-fu was striding down yet another passage in the maze beneath the Citadelle. His skin tingled pleasantly with anticipation. He had been patient with the prisoner for far too long. He walked past the storerooms with quickening step, jabbing his flashlight beam down the corridor toward the cells. The one he had chosen for the prisoner was perfect for interrogations. Unlike some of the others it had not even the smallest of barred windows, and it had an anteroom where Shang could sleep — or whatever it was that the creature did whenever he was alone — until he was needed.

He entered the anteroom and a vast shape stirred in the corner.

“Shang?” he murmured.

“Master.”

“You have obeyed my orders?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Your patience will be rewarded. Very soon. Perhaps within the hour.”

There was a low growl of satisfaction in the darkness.

“You will wait here until I call,” Tsing-fu ordered, and smiled to himself as he slid back the heavy bolt of the inner, cell. He was going to enjoy this.

He stepped into the pitch blackness of the tiny room and swung his flashlight beam over the stone cot and its occupant. Still there, of course. There was no way out. The lantern was hanging, untouched, from its peg high up on the wall, though he lit it only when he chose. Even that had only been in the bare cell for the past few days, after he had made sure the prisoner was too weak to reach for it. Tsing-fu lit it now and looked down at the girl with something like admiration. She stared back at him defiantly, her eyes bright and feverish in her gaunt face. Hunger, thirst, and almost perpetual darkness had done nothing to make her talk. Drugs to keep her awake, drugs to make her babble, drugs to sicken her and turn her body inside out — all these had done everything expected of them except make her tell the truth. Some of her finger-nails were gone and there were cigarette burns upon her body. But he had soon seen that they were having no effect on her. Oh, sometimes she had screamed and spat out words at him, but every word had been a lie.

And he no longer had time to check her lies out one by one.

“Good afternoon, Evita,” he said pleasantly. “Did you know that it was afternoon?”

“How could I know?” she whispered. Her voice was dry and hoarse.

He smiled.

“Perhaps you are thirsty?”

She turned her face to the wall.

“No, no, no,” Tsing-fu said gently. “Soon you will have water. We have had enough of this, I think. Today something has happened which somewhat changes things. An acquaintance of yours has given us much useful information. You recall Alonzo?”

He saw the flickering of her eyelids and the slight twitch of a facial muscle.

“No,” she whispered.

“What a pity. Still, I think he might be persuaded to help you. It is now only a matter of your confirming his story.”

“What story?”

“Ah! But that would make it far too easy for you, would it not?” It would make it a lot easier for himself, he thought grimly, if he had the faintest idea what Alonzo’s story might have been. He reached for a pack of slim cigarillos and began to play with it. “No, you will tell me your story once more, and then we will discuss the little discrepancies. This time I must warn you that the consequences will be very terrible if I do not hear the truth. Tell me what I want, and you are free. But lie again, and I will know, for as I say I need no more than confirmation. And then…” His smile was very sweet and full of sympathy. “And then you will face something that even you, my dear, will be quite unable to bear. Now begin, please.”