Читать книгу The Fighting Five - Noel Jr. Sainsbury - Страница 8

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As Charlie grabbed the gunman's wrist with his left hand, he jerked the arm straight, passed his own right arm over and under and grasped his left wrist with the fingers of his right hand. His right arm now had become a lever beneath the Jap's left elbow and the slightest pressure of Charlie's right wrist would not only cause his captor exquisite pain, but break his arm at the elbow.

No one knew this better than the astonished Number Two. He accordingly remained absolutely silent and passive.

"If that gun of yours explodes, you'll get a sweet compound fracture," Captain Minor promised grimly. "And don't let go of it till I give the word." Charlie then brought the man's arm across his own knees and exerted slight pressure. Number Two winced under the torture thus provided, the numbed fingers opened automatically and the revolver dropped on the seat to Charlie's left. Further pressure was applied and as his victim groaned in agony, Charlie released his hold, caught up the gun and rammed its stub-nosed muzzle into the Jap's ribs.

"Food for the goose, you know!" he said a bit breathlessly. "By the way, do you wear a belt or suspenders?"

"A belt, confound you!"

"Okay, brother. Produce said belt, if you please, and make it snappy. You might remember that if you try any tricks, this gun will surely go off. Use your right hand—I know your left is temporarily out of commission, as 't were."

The Jap made no reply, but he unfastened his fur coat, pulled the belt from about his waist and dropped it onto Charlie's knees.

"Thanks. Now turn sideways with your back to me. That's the boy! Now reach for the roof with your right hand and bring the left slowly round behind you. . . . Perfect! I fear I must work slowly, but that's out of compliment to you. You may not feel it, but your trusty weapon is still pressing the old bear-skin. By the way, that's not a bad raccoon—suppose you just slip out of it—I may need it later in my business. . . . Thanks. Now, up with the right arm again and bring the other round back as you were before. That's fine,—but please relax a bit. I've only one hand I can use on this job of making all secure. . . . The belt's round your left arm now, so lower your right and push it back toward me. . . . Slowly—that's it!"

Charlie belted Number Two's arms firmly together just above the elbows. "Let's see," he continued, placing the automatic on the seat within easy reach. "We need something for your wrists. Sorry, but I'll have to borrow your beautiful necktie, since my own still reposes in the State College gym. And that swank silk muffler you're wearing will be just the thing to keep your feet from misbehaving. Turn round now, so you're facing forward again. . . ."

Number Two was forthwith relieved of his haberdashery and soon his wrists and ankles met the same fate as his arms.

"There you are!" Charlie surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction and draped the fur coat over the Jap's shoulders, for the car was none too warm. "All dressed up and no place to go, what? Too bad I had to make you a little uncomfortable, but I'm just selfish enough to feel a whole lot cosier this way—and I know you won't mind bowing to the inevitable!"

"I've got to hand it to you, young man." Number Two appeared to bear no malice.

Charlie chuckled. "You thought I was something out of the flowerbed, didn't you?"

"Who taught you that armhold?" asked the Jap.

"Countryman of yours, name of Nugochi. Maybe you've heard of him?"

The Jap stared. "Every son of Nippon knows of the great artist," he said proudly.

"Well, he's sure a wonder. I've taken lessons from him for two years."

"I could see that you were well taught. You certainly caught me napping. The boss gave me no idea that you were an adept at our national sport."

"Guess somebody slipped up there," grinned Charlie.

Number Two smiled rather sourly. "Guess so. But now that you've demonstrated your skill, don't you think it's about time you untied me and handed back that gun?"

"Well, you've certainly got your nerve! What's the big idea?"

"The big idea is that all the trouble you've taken isn't going to do you one bit of good. You may not realize it, but I'm extremely uncomfortable trussed up like this, so be a good fellow and show some speed."

"Sorry you're uncomfortable, old chap, but the reply is, nothing doing!"

"Then it's nothing doing for both of us. What's more, young man, you're piling on the agony and storing up punishment for yourself."

"What in blazes are you driving at?"

"The boss won't stand for a breach of discipline like this; take it from me, he won't."

"Breach of discipline! Suffering snakes, that's a good one. Just because you're careless, I'm to be strafed, eh? I hate to hurt your feelings, Mr. Number Two, but you've certainly got your wires twisted. The boss will probably send you off to a nut factory and write me a letter of thanks for tying you up so you couldn't hurt yourself. Too bad I won't be with you when you meet him again. I'd certainly go to the bat for you and tell him you're just the sort of a kidnaper I've always hoped would kidnap me—that is, if fate decreed that I should be kidnaped!"

"Then," Number Two retorted, "your hopes are being fulfilled!"

"Do you believe in fairies?" was the polite rejoinder.

"No, but it's evident that you do. What's the sense of all this cockiness and bluff? You've tied me up, but you don't seem able to grasp the simple fact that the fate you laugh at has tied you to this car just as effectively. You can't leave it without my company to protect you from the bullets of those who follow us. Now laugh that one off, if you can, Mr. Smart American!"

"You mean, of course," said Charlie, "that the lights of the car behind us would pick me up before I could get off the road. Well, that may sound reasonable to you, but you see, old pal, they won't!"

"And how," asked Number Two, "do you propose to get away without being shot?"

"Well, I'll let you in on this, if you'll promise not to tell." Charlie dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper. "Santa Claus is coming with his sleigh and eight dear little reindeer to tote me off!"

Number Two suddenly lost his temper. "Cut it out, you silly fool!" he exploded. "You've done enough harm already, and if you keep it up you'll be a nasty looking piece of work when the boss gets through with you."

Charlie leaned over and tapped the angry gunman on the knee with his revolver. "Pipe down, bozo," he said affably. "What I intend to do is just nobody's business. Keep your hair on, you little palooka, and quit grousing or you're likely to get your picture in the papers along with the other dead heroes of the Japanese empire. I told you to pipe down a few minutes ago, so shut your ugly head and keep it shut unless you want me to put you out for good and all with the butt of this gun."

Having administered this rebuke, Charlie turned his attention to the window again and peered out at the blurred landscape. Swirling snowflakes and a jet black night obscured any extended view of the passing scene, but thanks to rays from lights of the car following he could make out something of the roadside. Here the snow was banked better than waist high where a snowplow had piled it earlier in the evening. Beyond the snowbanks he knew were the stone fences that line the roads in this part of New England, and now and again he caught sight of storm-buffeted trees bending before the wind.

The speed of a car under such conditions is deceptive, especially when one is seated in the rear, but Charlie guessed that considering the weather and the snow-drifted roads they had done no more than thirty or thirty-five miles per hour and, at times, their progress must have been much slower than that. He did not envy their chauffeur his job, for despite chains, the car slewed and skidded like a drunken thing. It was not pleasant driving.

A glance at the luminous dial of his wristwatch showed him that the hands marked ten to eleven, so he turned again to the silent Jap at the other end of the seat.

"According to your reckoning, old groucho, we must be nearing home—wherever that is. I hate to bother you further, but this is where we exchange overcoats."

"You're the boss," Number Two returned resignedly. "I'm glad that you plan to swap—and not leave me without a coat or a gun. I suppose you're going to make a dash for freedom in my fur coat on the chance that those behind us will take you for me?"

"Well, not exactly that," replied Charlie. "Though I'll admit I want your coat, both as a camouflage and to keep me warm."

"It's a cold, cold world outside," the Jap said. "And before you do anything you'll regret, please remember that even though you're lucky enough to fool those fellows behind us, it will be my duty to order the man at the wheel to use his gun just as soon as you leave the car."

"Why do you suggest that I gag you?" Charlie registered surprise. "That isn't playing the game as it's generally played. Is it, Mr. Kidnaper? Giving pointers to the enemy, I mean."

"Let's say friendly enemies, Mr. Minor. I confess to losing my temper a while back and I apologize for it."

"Well, I've got to hand it to you," said Charlie, as he donned the raccoon coat and slipped his own over his late captor's shoulders, carefully buttoning it about him. "You're a sportsman, Number Two."

"At least I harbor no grudges. And I appreciate the way you handled me on that armhold. Nine out of ten fellows in your position would have broken my arm. Jiu jitsu, as you must know, was invented by our old Sumari, so that a warrior who had broken or lost his two swords could cope with an armed man. There's nothing gentle about that form of wrestling. The holds were invented to maim and kill. But I mustn't keep you—Better take my tip and gag me now. Otherwise—duty is duty. I'd much rather have a comeback at you later on than see a promising young wrestler shot down in cold blood and know I was the cause of it."

"Say, you're a swell guy," Charlie declared. "But just the same a gag won't be necessary. I've worked it out another way. Come over to Clarkville sometime when this is all over. We'll have a go at each other on the mat, and I'll show you round the swellest prep school in America!"

He broke off as the car skidded round a sharp turn and passing between high brick gate-posts, rolled smoothly up a well-cleared driveway under electric lamps that lighted their circuitous way through woods of spruce and hemlock heavy with snow.

"Does the chauffeur speak English?" Charlie asked suddenly.

Number Two nodded. "He certainly does. We were born within a block of each other out in Los Angeles."

"Thanks. This is where I start the dirty work." Charlie picked up the speaking tube. "Don't slow down," he ordered crisply. "Just open the window on your left and toss your gun into the drifts. Make it snappy if you care for your health. I've got a bead on the back of your neck. Things have been happening in here and your side-partner is bound hand and foot."

The car swerved as the man at the wheel snapped his head about and, finding himself looking into the muzzle of Charlie's gun, snapped it to the front again and let down the window beside him. Half a second later Charlie saw the chauffeur's revolver go hurtling through the open window and into a drift at the side of the drive.

"Keep to the middle of the road," he commanded through the tube. "Slow down now and stop. . . . Atta boy!" The car came to a standstill. "Kill your engine, then hop out on your side and take a look at the motor. I hope you're a good actor, for I want those fellows behind us to think you've run into trouble."

"Which he most certainly has," interrupted Number Two.

Charlie went on speaking into the tube. "Don't forget to make it realistic," he cautioned the chauffeur. "If you try to pull anything, I'll drill you. Now, beat it!"

The chauffeur opened the door, got out, and stumbling forward, raised the hood and started to tinker with the motor.

Charlie dropped the speaking tube and opened the door on the opposite side of the car.

"So long, pal," he whispered. "See you at Clarkville!"

Number Two grinned. "If you do get away, I'll say you deserve it."

Charlie missed this remarkable tribute from his erstwhile captor, for he had closed the door and with body bent to breast the wind, was moving toward the front of the car. Then like a shot he turned and dashed to the side of the road. He took the banked-up snow in a flying leap and darted into the thick grove of evergreens.