The Devil—With Wings Read Free Page A

shooting as he went at the small moving target under him.
    Forsythe leaped into cover behind the car. He was waiting for the captain above to show himself again, but that intelligent intelligence officer was not given to foolhardy chances except when absolutely necessary. He made no appearance.
    With a slow, amused grin, Forsythe drew out a poster and carefully slid it under the windshield wiper of the car.
    He sent one more shot at the empty window and then rocketed down the street and out of sight into an alley. The sound of his boots faded out.
    The chilly, hard light from the arc lamp beat down on three sprawled bodies and upon the white poster which read:
    Â 
    $50,000 GOLD
WILL BE PAID BY
THE IMPERIAL JAPANESE GOVERNMENT
FOR THE HEAD OF THE DEVIL WITH WINGS
    Wanted for:
    Shooting down KDA-5 Pursuit plane at Harbin .
    Derailing Imperial troop-train at Mukden .
    Murder of Chinese advisor Shu-Sen.
    Bombing Jelhi.
    Killing government agent N-38 URGA.
    High treason.
    Espionage.
    The murder of Robert Weston in Mongolia.
    The killing of four…
    Â 
    Captain Shinohari stepped over the bodies on the walk and stood for some time looking at the poster.
    He drew his lips back from his teeth and looked off into the northwest. A sign swinging in the wind against the cold moon made a silhouette like a gibbet .

CHAPTER TWO
    Vengeance
    T HE room was aloof from the rest of the café. The light which came from the table lamp did not reach higher than a man’s thighs, leaving the odd impression that the room was only half-real, cutting the tables and chairs off at the halfway mark and showing up nothing above that point.
    Forsythe’s belt buckle was the only thing which marked his presence at a smaller table against the wall—the buckle and the toes of his outwardly sprawled black boots. Above that, Forsythe was a part of the dimness.
    Through the partly opened door he could see the main room of the café. It was a smoky, blurred sight, knifed here and there by the colored gowns of the singsong girls who moved and made green and yellow and red patches against the somber gowns of the Chinese men.
    A fife and a fiddle with a snakeskin head could be heard shrilly accompanying the high-pitched voices of unseen singers, who ranged up and down the Chinese music scale to tell a story of two warriors lost in a far country and dreaming of home.
    The underlying buzz of conversation was as jerky as the music.
    But that was in the main room. The sill of the door marked a boundary between the carefree drinkers and the silently waiting Forsythe.
    A waiter cautiously slid into the cubicle and placed hot rice wine timorously beside the hand of the mute Forsythe.
    Forsythe’s hand moved into the light. It was a slender hand, suggesting in its quick strength a Toledo blade. He raised the glass up into the darkness and set it back again—empty.
    The waiter sidled out. For an instant the door was thrown wide and the outside beams spread across Forsythe’s features. He had removed his helmet and goggles and without their gruesomeness, he looked young, not more than thirty. His hair was sun-bleached and unruly. The eyes were deeply set into the striking face—eyes as pale as the silver of his buckle. Eyes which betokened crystal intelligence and capabilities.…
    Few men were brave enough to talk about those capabilities.
    The door shut and then burst open with a suddenness which sent Forsythe’s hand stabbing toward his holster. The fingers relaxed and came back to the table.
    â€œForsythe!” said the newcomer excitedly.
    â€œShut the door, Ching.”
    â€œSure. You bet. I’m sorry. Looky here, Forsythe.…”
    â€œSit down and cool off.”
    Ching was too excited to do that. He leaned across the table and stared through the lamplight with black eyes which snapped with eagerness. He was young, was Ching. He was an idealist. He had lost his Oriental calm at Yale.
    â€œForsythe,