The last rays of sunshine tipped the masts with transient gold. The freighter loading ore would sail tonight. In a few weeks she would be tying up in an American port.
Steve Cowan’s eyes strayed to the amphibian, riding lightly on the darkening water. A little refitting and he could fly her home on furlough, his first since being assigned to Army Intelligence. She was a beautiful plane, resembling the Grumman “Widgeon” but built to certain unusual specifications, laid down by Army designers. Because of that she was much faster and more maneuverable than any ship of her type. Moreover, she was armed like a fighter, and had a small bomb bay, so far unused except for freight.
A few changes to accommodate more fuel instead of the load of bombs she was built to carry, and he could fly her home.
Four years ago he had come out to the Pacific, and they had been four years of unceasing activity. Years that culminated in the Japanese invasion of the East Indies, ending his express and mail-carrying business suddenly and dramatically. Since being commissioned, he had acted as a secret messenger and undercover agent for the Allies.
It would be good to be back in the States again, to walk down the streets, to get away from the heat and humidity, eat a cheeseburger, and have a cold soda or beer.
A boat bumped alongside the jetty and two men clambered out.
“You just get that chrome to the right place at the right time. You get it there, or else.”
Abruptly, Steve Cowan stiffened. He knew that voice! Instinctively, he shrank down further behind the packing case.
“You don’t understand!” the second man protested. “This job is a cinch. It won’t interfere with the chrome deal. We can pick up the classified sailing list from the butler in Isola Mayne’s place. With those Jap credentials we got, nobody’d be the wiser. The Japs’ll pay heavy to get it back. They got to have it for their subs!”
“Yeah?” the voice sneered. “You pull something like that, Meyer,” an odd inflection was put on the name, as if Meyer was being taunted, “Koyama will cut your heart out. Try it and see what happens.”
Something in the tone of that ugly, domineering voice rang a bell of memory in Steve Cowan’s brain.
Mataga!
Recognition brought a start of dismay. Not twenty feet away, on the edge of the jetty was a man sworn to kill Cowan on sight. And Cowan was unarmed.
Mataga was speaking again. “You do what you’re told. All you have to worry about is getting this cargo of chrome to the Japs.”
“Besi John” Mataga in New Caledonia! Steve Cowan’s eyes narrowed. The renegade from the waters around Singapore was not one to stop at anything. Deadly, brutal, and efficient, he had been working with Jap and Nazi Fifth Columnists for several years. When Singapore fell he went to Saigon. When Java succumbed, he appeared in Batavia. Now he was here, in New Caledonia!
As their footsteps receded down the jetty, Steve Cowan got to his feet. If Besi John was here it meant something big was moving. Something infinitely more important than a shipload of chrome. If he was working with Koyama it meant even more, for the Japanese was a leader of the powerful and notoriously evil Black Dragon Society, which had many underground members in the South Seas. And “Meyer”? Could that be Captain Peter Meyer…?
* * *
THE EYES OF M. Esteville were amused when Cowan met with him the next day. “But, m’sieu,” he protested gently, “it cannot be! The vessel you speak of is the Benton Harbor, well known to us.” He sighed gustily. “As you say, it is true her master is Peter Meyer, a native of Holland, but he is highly respected here. Your story, if you’ll forgive me, is utterly preposterous!”
“I know Mataga,” Cowan persisted. “And I know what I heard.”
Esteville shrugged. “Undoubtedly Mataga is a dangerous criminal. But here? I think not. It would be too dangerous. A fancied resemblance, no more.”
“Bah!” Steve Cowan’s voice was flat. “I know Mataga. Last night I heard him speaking. As to the other man, he may be your Captain Meyer, or he may not. I know Mataga is here and something’s in the wind.”
“We will investigate.” Esteville stood up, plainly annoyed. “But you are mistaken. Nothing is wrong with that ship. As for your wild tale about the shipping lists, that is fantastic. Even if such information could be obtained, there are no spies in Paagumene.”
Cowan’s eyes hardened. The man’s indifference annoyed him. “I’ve told you. Now do something, or I will!”
Esteville’s eyes blazed. “Remember, m’sieu, that New Caledonia still has a government! We are capable of handling our own affairs. Any interference from you will bring a protest to American officials—a protest too strong to be ignored.”
Cowan turned on his heel and walked out. He could scarcely blame Esteville for being doubtful. Cowan’s connection with Army Intelligence was secret and, because of strict orders, Cowan did not dare tell him. After all, Captain Meyer, master of the Benton Harbor, had an excellent reputation and Esteville might feel justified in rejecting such a wild story without proof.
* * *
THOUGHTFULLY COWAN PAUSED under a tree and considered his next step. Summing up, how much did he actually know? That the Benton Harbor was the only ship in the roadstead being loaded with chrome, a vital war material, and that she would soon leave for the United States. Also that Besi John, a notorious criminal and Fifth Columnist, was here on shady business.
A shipping list had been mentioned, too, and enemy agents. One of whom was evidently working in conjunction with Japanese submarines, plying along the southern route to Australia. Esteville had said there were no spies and that such a list would be impossible to obtain. Yet Besi John had spoken of both agents and list in a matter-of-course manner. So they did exist. How could Cowan find out more about them?
Then he remembered Isola Mayne.
He had never seen her. Pictures, of course. Everyone had seen pictures of Isola Mayne. She was more than a beautiful woman, more than a great actress. She was a legend.
Three years before, she had abruptly retired and, going to Singapore, had settled down, apparently for life. Then came the Japanese invasion, and Isola, in her own plane, had flown to Palembang, and next to Soerabaja. When she arrived in Sydney she moved the war off the front pages. Then she was gone. She vanished into nothingness.
A few days the world wondered, but with the war, they soon forgot.
Yet Steve Cowan knew where she was. He knew, because he had flown supplies to her plantation on New Caledonia. He had not seen her, but knew she was living there in seclusion. And Isola Mayne’s brother was Port Captain! Married to a French woman, he too had spent time in Singapore, before that La Rochelle, and then relocated to Paagumene. In these places he had held prominent maritime positions. The spy must be one of the servants of his household, one who had managed in some way to steal a copy of the sailing list.
Unconsciously, Cowan had wandered back to the jetty. He stopped, staring at the dark blobs—freighters on Paagumene Bay. Much more was at stake out at the Oland Point home of Isola Mayne and her brother than appeared on the surface. A sailing list, in the hands of the Japanese submarine commanders, might disrupt the whole military line of supplies with the Far East. Whichever enemy got it—either the Japanese or Besi John Mataga—did not matter much with Cowan. Either way it would be disastrous.
Mataga was on the island, and somewhere nearby was Koyama. Mataga’s apparent lack of interest in the list had not fooled Cowan. He knew the man too well. Besi John, besi being Malay for “iron,” would make his own attempt in his own way, and Mataga would strike with utter ruthlessness.
Cowan took his cigarette from his mouth and snapped it into the bay. He could do nothing here. Oland Point was where the answer would be.
He dropped into the rubber boat and paddled out to the amphibian.
Opening the door of the cabin, he stepped in. A light flashed suddenly in his eyes and a fist smashed out of the darkness and knocked him to his knees. Someone struck him a vicious blow on the head, then another.
Through a fog of pain he struggled to hold himself erect, he heard Mataga’s harsh voice.
“Lash the beggar!” Besi John growled. “We got a date at Oland Point.”
Cowan struggled, trying to shout. Then something crashed upon his skull and he fell forward into a foam of pain that ate into and through him.
* * *
IT WAS ALMOST day when he opened his eyes again. The plane was still in the air. Struggling to master his nausea, he tried to reason things out. Still in the air?