KISS OF DEATH

Originally published in Spicy-Adventure Stories, November 1937, under the pseudonym “Hamlin Daly.”

A courier had carried the letter on foot through the Malay jungle to the Tuan Besar mine. Ken Hartley’s grey eyes narrowed as he recognized the familiar script and the New York postmark. His glance shifted to the photograph on the living room wall.

Why the devil was Irene Byrne writing now, after all these months? Why had they quarreled in the first place? Each time he tried to destroy her picture, those smiling eyes reminded him of kisses by moonlight. He cursed wrath-fully and opened the letter.

Irene, he read, had for the past year been secretary to Carlton Forest, vice-president of Transpacific Industries, Incorporated.

“…Forest is on his way to the Malay States to corner all the little mining concessions and plantations. I don’t know how he’s going to do it, but be on guard…”

She still cared enough to warn him—but not enough to hint that he could stage a comeback.

The snarl of the dogs brought him to his feet. He heard a woman in the compound, breathless and terrified. Ali, the labor foreman, was trying to question her in Malay. Hartley seized a flashlight and bounded to the veranda.

The girl was uncommonly lovely, a glamorous, dark-eyed creature. A crepe slip hung in tatters to a slender, amber-tinted body. Her black hair streamed to her hips, half veiling pert breasts that peeped from the remains of her only garment. She was barefooted.

Hartley’s long months of loneliness claimed their tribute. His blood raced at the sight of those sleek hips and shapely legs.

“Bandits!” she gasped. “Benson’s plantation—!”

Ali stepped aside. The girl crumpled, a pathetic huddle of thorn-raked flesh. Hartley carried her into the house. She was warm and soft and clinging. It was all he could do to keep his mind on his neighbor’s peril. A slug of brandy gave her command of herself. She was Dolores Wong, Mrs. Benson’s Eurasian maid: a new one, he thought, though he rarely saw his distant neighbors.

“They raided the plantation—I escaped to get help—hurry—!”

“Ali, saddle up! Turn out the mine crew!” commanded Hartley. Then, to Dolores, “I know the way. You’ll be safe here.”

He thrust on his boots, seized cartridge belt and rifle, and bounded across the compound. There he mounted his long-limbed chestnut and galloped down the wagon trail that wound through the jungle.

Half an hour later he reined his winded horse at the crest of a knoll. Down in the valley he saw a lurid glow.

The planter’s house was ablaze. The whiplash crackle of a sporting rifle answered the boom of muzzle-loading jezails. A horde of dark figures was swarming toward the palisade that surrounded the house.

Ali and his men clattered up the slope. Hartley yelled and charged on alone; but as the firing ceased, he knew that he had arrived too late.

The raiders were rushing the compound gate. Benson had run out of ammunition.

A woman screamed, just once. Hartley savagely spurred his chestnut gelding. Leaning across the beast’s neck, he hosed the straggling bandits with lead. They wheeled to return his fire.

Slugs nicked him, spears raked him, but he was going through. There might be a chance. Then his horse wavered, pitched in a heap—dead. Hartley flung himself clear. His pistol was empty. He jerked his carbine from its holster. He fired from the shelter of his dead beast. Seeing that he was alone, the bandits closed in.

He leaped up, firing from his hip. The hail of slugs beat them back; but he had no time to shove home a second clip. A long parang whistled down to split his skull. He struck it aside with the smoking barrel. He whirled the carbine, smashing the butt across a bandit’s head. It became a desperate slaughter by torchlight—

And then Ali and his men emerged from the clearing, yelling and shooting. That turned the tide. Hartley brushed the blood from his eyes and leaped into the compound. The raiders were in full flight. The Malays were cutting down the stragglers.

Hartley found Benson and his wife. The planter was hacked to pieces. The blonde woman near him still held an emptied pistol. Her other hand was clenched as if still trying to pluck the spear that projected from her breast. She was young, and shapely…like Irene…though Hartley had never seen as much of Irene as he now saw of that woman whose gauzy night gown was blood-stained and smoke-soiled. Horror mocked beauty.

Hartley carried the victims out into the open. It was only then he noticed that the raiders were Chinese. And when his victorious men returned to plunder the fallen looters, the tragic evening presented another riddle.

Each bandit carried with him three brass coins wrapped in red paper, and a square of red silk inscribed in Chinese.

Hartley mounted a laborer’s pony. Ali followed, bringing the bodies of the planter and his wife on a bamboo litter.

They had scarcely reached the mine when the earth shook, pitching Hartley’s nag to its knees. There was a heavy, sullen rumbling. Flame and nitrous fumes poured from the shaft. A blast had demolished the mine entrance. Falling rock spattered about him.

He dismounted at the powder magazine. The lock had been broken. It was empty.

“Good God!” he groaned. “That’s curtains!”

Unless Hartley could prove that the blast had not been the result of storing illegal quantities of dynamite in the drifts, the Warden of Mines would have to cancel his lease. But how prove his case? The ruin spoke for itself.

Asia was in revolt. First a planter, then a miner.

Once in the living room, he slumped into a chair and poured himself half a tumbler of brandy. His head was whirling. He ached from a dozen raking cuts.

He heard a stirring behind him. He turned. Dolores was emerging from the hall. She smiled somberly and said, “I heard. But you tried to save them.”

Hartley laughed bitterly.

Dolores seated herself on the arm of his chair. She wore borrowed Malay finery now, and her hair was piled high on her head.

“There’s something odd about that raid.” He caught her arm. “Tell me—did Mr. Benson have any trouble with Chinese laborers? What are these red silk tickets and coins?”

She shook her head.

Could this be part of Forest’s campaign to rout out small concessions?

“Did anyone try to buy Mr. Benson’s plantation?”

“How should a servant know his business?”

He poured himself another drink. The brandy burned into his black mood. He began to remember that a man’s life wasn’t made up entirely of mining. The woman who leaned against him was young and fragrant. She was half white, at least; and Hartley was beaten and lonely.

He drew her closer. Her gasp forced her breasts against him. They were firm and vibrant, reminding him of Irene, of what the jungle isolation had withheld.

For a moment her eyes widened. She tried to evade his embrace. But when he kissed her full on the mouth, she relaxed. Her lids drooped. He felt the sudden pounding of her heart. Her lips were warm and hungry now. The next kiss was long and clinging. She was trembling, and her breath came in short gasps…

Dolores slipped to her feet and took his hand. She knew her way about the house. But Hartley carried her in his arms.

* * * *

Dawn, and the splashing of water ladled from the earthen jar in an adjoining bathroom awakened Hartley. Presently Dolores entered his room, fresh and radiant. By daylight he could see more clearly where her soft flesh had been raked by thorns as she fled from the plantation.

Dolores had arrived barefooted—yet her feet were not marred or bruised!

He caught her arm, wrenched her bodice half off.

“Damn funny the thorns skipped all the soft spots! And your feet—they’re too small for any ayah that runs around without shoes.”

Her color faded. She ran to the door. There she halted, tense and desperate.

“By Allah, tuan!” rasped Ali, bounding from the living room. “Thou hast sharp eyes—”

Dolores screamed. Hartley leaped to the doorway. Ali was reaching for his heavy knife. No chance to stop him.

Hartley lunged for his pistol. The blaze of powder blended with the flash of steel. The knife was blasted from the wrathful Malay’s grasp!

“She’s worth more alive than dead!”

Hartley slapped her into a corner. “Who sent you to trick me away from the mine?”

She lay huddled on the floor, moaning and quivering. “Can’t talk, eh? All right, Ali. Maybe you were right. But take her outside to do the job. Don’t want blood on the floor.”

The hard-bitten Malay grinned, and retrieved his knife.

“Don’t let him kill me!” she pleaded. “It’s the Triad Society—trying to force mine and plantation owners out of the country—so an American—Carlton Forest—can buy up all the properties—they abandon. Those red silk squares are membership certificates.”

Hartley saw how he had been tricked.

But for hard riding, he would not even have had a chance to fire those futile shots in defense of the besieged planter. Dolores had skillfully timed her arrival so that the other party of raiders could stealthily destroy a place they could not capture by force.

His only move was to go to Singapore and convince the Warden of Mines that the blast had not resulted from criminal carelessness. Then land on Forest!

“Ali, pack up at once. This woman is going along.”

* * * *

It was forty miles to the head of the highway, and the village where Hartley had stored his car. That meant two days wallowing through the jungle.

At the end of the first day’s march, Ali led Dolores to Hartley’s tent. She could not escape, alone and barefooted, into the jungle.

“Allah forgive me, tuan,” he apologized. “But she has hounded me all day. And you forbade me to slice her lengthwise.”

She was an Eurasian, scorned alike by European and full-blooded native. The world forced her kind into trickery. Hartley was half sorry for her.

“All right?” he snapped. “Now what?”

“The Triad Society will kill me, even if I am in the hands of the police.”

“Am I supposed to cry about it?”

“Ken—I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t know they were going to murder those people. I didn’t know you—that I’d like you the way I do—.”

Her penitence was getting under his skin. He remembered those kisses and soft whispers in the dark. “I can’t let you get away with it. That makes me an accessory after the murder.”

“But you could forget it until we get to Singapore. You’re the only one who’s ever been nice to me.”

“Well…” He hesitated.

She turned toward the lamp and blew it out. She fingered the edge of her sarong. It seemed to slip, then lingered, but it would take little to make it cascade about her ankles. He could just distinguish her warm contours in the gloom. Her bosom was a shapely blur and her legs gleamed in a vagrant moonbeam…

He tried to thrust her away, but a resilient curve tricked him. He cursed his folly, and drew her closer.

If she insisted on his being affectionate though she knew he had full knowledge of her treachery, then putting her under guard in the morning—

“I love you.” She laced her arms about him. “They’ll kill me, anyhow. I only wish…”

“Yes?” He could no longer fight off this jungle madness, with her fluttering breath so warm on his face.

“I wish…you could kiss me to death…” she murmured.

He’d never heard of such a sentence, but he tried…

* * * *

Later she smiled and nestled close for a moment in parting.

“Tell Ali the prisoner is ready. Didn’t I promise you I’d not try to beg off?”

He rode at the head of the wagon train. He wanted to get as far from her as he could.

His problem, however, was solved that evening. Dolores was gone. On the bottom of the baggage cart was Hartley’s penknife, and the withes she had clipped from her ankles and wrists.

“The damn’ little tramp!” he growled. “That’s why she wanted to be kissed to death!”

And when he checked up he found that the brass coins and squares of red silk were gone. Not a bit of evidence to back his theory! He now had a pretty story to tell the Warden of Mines! With Forest’s powerful opposition, Hanley was well out on a limb.

Instead of resting in the village, he removed his car from storage and began the long drive to the railway.

* * * *

Upon arriving in Singapore he made a rapid tour of the leading hotels. Forest was at the Wellington. Hartley registered there, then called on the Warden of Mines.

Mr. Blount-Quinby was coffin-faced and skeptical.

“Absurd! The Triad Society has been suppressed for a dozen years. Now, if you only had that Eurasian girl and those certificates. There’s been too much careless handling of explosives all over Malaya. But we’ll investigate, and you will benefit by whatever the commission finds in your favor.”

An epidemic of accidents? The Triad Society now seemed part of a fake to hide Forest’s hand.

Hartley returned to his hotel and bad his luggage transferred to a room across the hall from Forest. He left the door just ajar and waited.

Presently a tall, ruddy man in tropicals emerged. Hartley had seen enough news reel views of Forest to recognize him.

As Forest stepped into the elevator, Hartley phoned the desk.

“Send the valet up to get the clothes I laid out. Have them back before I return for dinner. Right away. No, of course I can’t wait to let him in!” He gave Forest’s room number and hung up.

Presently a Chinese “boy” was at Forest’s door. He turned the pass key in the lock. Hartley’s flying tackle helped him over the threshold. One gasp, and the Chinese was silenced by a popping fist.

Forest had a luxurious suite. The sitting room contained a desk and a portable typewriter. Hartley pounced on a well filled brief case.

He fumbled with the catch. Taking the stuff would warn Forest. Better go through it, and leave the contents intact.

An instant later he realized his error. A pistol prodded his back.

“Raise your hands!” A woman was behind the gun. Her voice was flat and tense. “Now step to the telephone and say exactly what I tell you.”

Sweat trickled down his forehead. This would finish him in Malaya. Someone else was spying on Forest; but Hartley would take the rap.

He lifted the receiver. He waited for her next order. From the corner of his eye he saw a slim chance. He side kicked, knocking over a tabouret and bottle of Scotch. Tray and glass clattered to the floor.

She started. The pistol shifted. As Hartley whirled, a jet of flame seared his ribs; but he caught her wrist. The little .25 dropped from wrenched fingers. Hartley stared. The girl returned it. Recognition was mutual.

“Irene—for God’s sweet sake—!”

“Ken—” Her laugh was hysterical. “Since when have you gone out for housebreaking?”

“Sit down. While I tell you things. And ask you a few. About your letter.”

“When I wrote, I didn’t know he’d have me come along—”

“Kind of clubby, hanging around his rooms, eh?”

Irene’s lovely face flushed. “This is a four room suite. I was coding some cables when you broke in.”

The Chinese was reviving. Irene convinced him he’d gotten the wrong number, and a five dollar note clinched that. Then she listened to Hartley.

“Let’s go into my room,” she interrupted, leading him through the suite.

Irene’s things were there. And she wasn’t wearing a negligee.

“So I’m on the spot,” he concluded. “What are his plans?”

“I can’t sell him out,” she protested. “I know he’s not behind those murders—”

“Hell of a friend you turned out to be!”

“Ken, darling. Let’s not quarrel,” she pleaded. “I’m so glad to see you—”

“You act like it.” He thrust her from him.

“Ken—” Her arms evaded his repulse and closed about him. “Do be reasonable. Don’t you see, I just can’t.”

He compromised by drawing her to the couch beside him. He bent over and kissed the hollow of her throat. She tried to break away, but only succeeded in hitching her skirts well over her knees. He caught a glimpse of white flesh above her hose tops, and the froth of lace.

He presently found that he could hold Irene with one arm. Her protests were now inarticulate. If her heart didn’t stop pounding, it would hammer something through her gown…judging from what was pressing his chest. His kisses smothered her objections. She was quivering now, and panting, with emotion.

* * * *

“That brief case,” she whispered, a long time later, “oh, help yourself. I’ve missed you so—”

Hartley stepped into the front room; but he had scarcely opened the briefcase when a key grated in the door. He bounded toward the clothes closet. He made it just as Forest entered the room.

“Irene!”

The man glanced about, peeled off his coat.

She emerged, drawing together the edges of her negligee. Her knees were dimpled, and there was an entrancing glimpse of white, between the folds of that froth of chiffon that clung to her hips.

“I’m going to call on an important official,” said Forest. “Come along to draw up the contract when we decide the terms. Can you be ready by the time I’ve changed?”

His hand closed on the knob of the clothes closet.

“Must we go tonight?” she sighed, releasing the edges of the blue chiffon. Forest forgot the doorknob. When Irene sighed, she made a job of it. The lift of her bosom was—

Just revealing enough to set him on fire.

“I’m blue and homesick,” she murmured.

“Poor little girl—”

Forest caged an armful. But he could not see that Irene’s lips moved soundlessly as she looked over his shoulder. Hartley however did. He slipped from cover.

As he moved, he caught a glimpse of Forest’s free hand. Though the sway of Irene’s hips was faked, it thoroughly burned him. He tripped over the bottle on the floor. It clattered against the brass tray.

Forest whirled. His glance included the opened brief case.

“So that’s why you suddenly got playful! Lucky I got wise to you before you learned something important, you damn’—”

“And you’re another!” flared Hartley. The repartee wasn’t so heavy, but his fist was.

“You’re fired!” croaked Forest, scrambling to his feet.

“There’s a job waiting across the hall,” chuckled Hartley. “Let a bell hop move your luggage.”

She followed him. But when the door closed behind her, she flung herself across a divan and sobbed. “Ken, we are in a jam! You should have left. Now he can identify you.”

“Second guess is usually best,” he ruefully admitted. “But the way he was fooling around distracted me. Anyway, where was he bound for?”

“Probably Hong Wu’s residence,” she answered. “The sultan’s financial secretary. Why?”

“Something’s rotten, or he’d not have piped down so quietly. He should have hollered about sneak thieves—get it?”

She did. Hartley headed for the door.

He casually strolled out a side exit, then walked around to the rental cars parked at the main entrance.

“Wait here,” he instructed the driver.

* * * *

Hartley was reckless and desperate. No use trying to evade the law. Hiding or slipping out of Singapore Island is impossible for any but natives. Hartley had to make his case in a hurry, or else—

Half an hour later, Forest emerged; and hailed a rental car. Hartley’s chauffeur followed.

Forest headed out toward Moulmein Road, beyond the gas house. That was odd. Hong Wu lived east of town. Maybe Irene had been mistaken. Lucky he had tailed Forest instead of going directly to his supposed destination.

Hartley ordered his driver to snap off the headlights. They would betray him in the darkness.

For half a mile he tailed Forest. Then came a screech of brakes, followed by a crash of metal and the splintering of wood. Forest had cracked up.

Hartley heard a babble of voices, then a yell. Black figures were silhouetted against the headlight glow of the stalled car. Steel gleamed. A man in white bounded to the highway: Forest, attacked by natives.

“Step on it!”

But Hartley’s chauffeur whipped the car about. Hartley jammed his pistol against the fellow’s back. That straightened him out. He tramped on the gas.

Forest was running and making a job of it. A streak of steel flashed over his shoulder. He stumbled. Hartley leaned out to fire at the assassins. The chauffeur saw his chance and swung the car into the ditch. The impact flung Hartley over the front seat. The door swung open, piling them both into the swamp. A kick knocked Hartley’s pistol from his grasp.

No time to dive for it. He snatched a the iron from the floorboards and scrambled to the road.

Forest was surrounded. He had picked up a club and was flailing it about.

Hartley, bounding into action, bent his iron across a skull cap. A hurled kris grazed his shoulder. Forest was down but still fighting. Hartley ploughed home, parrying a stab and hammering home with his fist. He knocked a Malay end for end. Then he lunged, his shoulder driving in like a battering ram—

But not in time to check the kris that pinned Forest to the road. The surviving raiders fled. Their work was done.

Hartley had instinctively rushed to defend a white man assailed by natives. Now he realized what a calamity Forest’s death was. At least a month must elapse before Transpacific Industries could send another agent to Malaya. Until then, Hartley could not continue his quest for evidence to offer the Warden of Mines; but desperation prodded his wits.

He searched Forest’s pockets. He removed a thick manila envelope. In the back seat of the car which had crashed headlong into a carabao cart, he found a briefcase. By the glow of a surviving parking light he scanned the contents.

“Got it! Better than trailing Forest—I’ll impersonate him!”

The letter of introduction indicated that the sultan’s financial minister did not know Forest.

He set out on foot. His chauffeur had fled. At the fringe of the native quarter he purchased a fresh suit of tropicals. He could not risk returning to his hotel.

Presently he hailed a car and headed for Hong Wu’s palace.

A Chinese servant admitted him. The Honorable Hong would be pleased to see Mr. Forest at once.

A moon-faced dignitary in dove gray silk received Hartley. For half an hour they exchanged compliments. Then the American played his cards. They had to be good, and before Forest’s death was discovered.

“Honorable Hong, my unworthy corporation authorizes me to bid three million dollars,” said Hartley.

Hong Wu held out for five. They finally agreed to split the difference.

“Since we agree, Elder Brother, let us draw up the papers.”

Reasonable, but that sunk Hartley. His hasty scrutiny of Forest’s papers would not carry him through such a test. Then he snatched at his only chance.

“But before we do that, Honorable Hong, tell me how His Highness, the Sultan proposes to confiscate all those small leases without running afoul of the British Government?”

All he needed was the answer to that query.

“Ah…that is relevant,” admitted Hong Wu. “I will ring for my secretary! Be pleased to send for yours. My car is at your disposal. While they are drawing up the papers, I will explain. The Sultan has arranged everything. Your company need not worry.”

He tapped a small gong, then gestured toward a telephone. Hartley stepped to the instrument. With Irene as a witness, it would be easy to convince the Warden of Mines. He had it in a bag!

He called his own room by number, not name. Irene answered. She recognized his voice. His claiming to be Forest left her puzzled, but she risked no questions. She sensed that a heavy game was on.

“Very well, then, Miss Byrne. Be ready when Mr. Hong’s car calls!” he commanded, and hung up.

“And now,” said the Honorable Hong, “kindly raise your hands.”

His pistol covered Hartley. Half a dozen coolies emerged from behind the dragon-blazoned draperies. Something had slipped!

Hartley ducked behind a table. Hong Wu’s shot shacked into the wall. Hartley catapulted his barricade athwart the rush of coolies. He flung himself toward the door.

It was bolted; and the rush overwhelmed him. They trampled and booted him to the floor. Strong hands wrenched his limbs. Heavy bodies knocked him breathless. Finally they held him upright, battered beyond resistance.

“Very clever imposture, Mr. Hartley,” mocked Hong. He turned toward an inner door and said, “That is the name, isn’t it?”

“Just as I told you,” answered a woman: Dolores Wong. “But though Forest’s secretary warned him, this is more than I expected.”

For a long moment Hartley eyed the Eurasian girl he had failed to kill with kisses. Hong Wu laughed softly and said, “One of the men you drove away returned just in time to see you go through Forest’s pockets. So we strangled the Honorable Hong. I took his place to find out how you fitted into this game. Imposture for an imposter.”

“Who the devil are you?”

“The grand master of the Triad Society. My borrowed identity should suffice during the short time names will interest you. I recognized you from Dolores’ description.”

“How does my—his secretary fit into this?” Hartley demanded.

“Very simple,” said the self styled Hong. “The girl’s letter to you betrayed her employer. You followed to slay him and take his place. This proves that you are no petty miner, but Forest’s rival. I am holding you and your accomplice for questioning.

“Centuries ago, the Triad Society expelled the Manchu invaders from China. Today we are more ambitious. We now aim to expel all foreigners from every part of Asia. Our first move is to keep Americans out. Thus when the day of vengeance arrives, there will be no American intervention in their favor. Though Asia is rotten ripe, we can not survive if your country stepped in.”

“Lovely,” mocked Hartley. “But where do I come in?”

“You and the girl will explain Forest’s plans, so that I can notify my secret agents in America. Transpacific’s next representative will then die before he leaves San Francisco.

“Tsang Lee, take him to headquarters. This house is dangerous.”

Tsang Lee clubbed him across the head. Just once, but it sufficed.

* * * *

When Hartley’s wits returned, he was bound hand and foot, and lying in a gilt and vermillion apartment invaded by the stenches of the native quarter.

Irene was beside him and regaining consciousness. She had been taken by surprise. Her garments were not torn.

Hartley explained how he had been tricked into trapping her.

“And we’re sunk,” he concluded. “Your letter—Dolores read it—”

“Which was more than I expected,” Hong Wu purred from the doorway. “She made the most of your touching sentiment. Had I been your age, I would have kissed her to death.”

And then Dolores, clad in Chinese silks, appeared beside her master. Her smile and Hong’s mockery gave Irene the story; but she laughed softly, and said, “It takes more than her to turn me against him.”

“Ah…but bamboo slivers driven under your nails will make you talk,” murmured Hong Wu. “And you, Mr. Hartley—you will speak when you tire of her screams.”

He clapped his hands. Two coolies entered with a stout chair, and a table equipped with a wooden vise whose horizontal jaws were grooved for the victim’s fingers. A third had fine slivers of bamboo that would torture sensitive flesh more than any needle.

Hartley shivered, and wondered at the strange gleam in Dolores’ slanted eyes, his folly mocked him. She had kissed him to death!

Hong Wu would never believe that Hartley and Irene did not know the intricacies of Forest’s plans.

They bound Irene to the chair, clamped her fingers in the vise. Hartley sickened, watching her strain against her bonds as the savage little fibers slipped into the quick of her nails, gently forced home—almost bloodless torment no man’s nerves could endure. But she would not speak.

Before she fainted, Hartley’s sympathetic muscular contraction had stretched his bonds. Hong Wu did not realize that Irene’s agony was whipping him to inhuman strength.

A draught of ng ka pay revived her. Then Dolores intervened: “Some women are that way, Honorable Hong. But I will make her speak…”

She glided from the doorway, halting between Irene and Hartley. Then she stretched languorously, and peeled off her outer tunic.

“He loved me when you scorned him,” she whispered. “He will love me again. Save yourself wasted misery… He will not die. Only you.”

She shed another tunic, and her sleek silken trousers. What remained was a gauzy witchery, and though her breasts were bound flat in Chinese fashion, she revealed more than enough to compensate.

Hartley was winning his fight against his bonds. There was a chance—

“He knew I was his enemy, yet he loved me. Did he ever want to kiss you to death?” she mocked.

Another heave—and then Dolores twined her gleaming self about Hartley.

Hong Wu and his torturers were breathing audibly. Her exposure offended Chinese propriety, but at the same time its effect robbed Hartley of a chance to escape.

“Tell, and you both live,” urged Hong Wu, reluctantly turning to Irene.

Not a chance of escape until Dolores moved. Then Hartley felt the chill of steel between his wrists. The cords parted!

“Tell him,” he croaked, catching Irene’s eye. He hoped to distract the Chinese.

But Hong sensed the change. He whirled as Hartley seized the blade. He yelled. The torturers leaped, drawing knives.

Hartley hurled himself, tripped, sprawled on the floor, helpless for the damning instant he needed to free his ankles. A streak of golden flesh blotted out a flash of steel. Dolores screamed. Long nails slashed Hong’s face, blinding him with blood. And then Hartley’s feet were free. He crashed home with shoulder and knife.

Hong Wu collapsed, throat ripped open. Hartley’s next opponent was empty-handed. His knife was hilt deep between Dolores’ breasts. She had flung herself against its point. She was tugging at the haft as Hartley ploughed into the melee. She hurled the red knife, checking an armed assailant.

Then he understood Irene’s frantic cry. Her pistol—the tiny automatic her brassiere held in place. He made a dive for it. The vicious little slugs cleared the deck. The last of Hong Wu’s men collapsed in a doorway opening to a side street.

The arrival of a bearded Sikh policeman prevented a counterattack. Hartley ran back into the house.

“I had to give Hong Wu those things I took from you,” Dolores coughed as he knelt beside her. “So he would not suspect me. Then I could help you. But I didn’t expect this—trouble—tonight—no one else—ever was—nice to me—and maybe she—will forgive you—if you—kiss me to death…”

And when Hartley rose, wiping that red kiss from his lips, he knew that Irene had forgiven him.

“But I’ll love you at least half that much,” she whispered. “Now let’s see the Warden of Mines. I’m staying in Malaya.”