Wings Over Brazil

CHAPTER I

Ponga Jim Mayo walked out on the terrace and stood looking down the winding road that led across the miles to Fortaleza and the Brazilian coast. Behind him the orchestra was rolling out a conga. Under the music he could hear the clink of glasses and the laughter of women.

His broad, powerful shoulders filled the immaculate white dinner coat, and as he walked to the edge of the terrace, he thrust his big, salt-hardened hands into his coat pockets, bunching them into fists.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, “something smells.”

“What is it, Captain Mayo? What’s troubling you?” He knew, even as he turned, that only one woman could have such a voice. Señorita Carisa Montoya had been introduced to him earlier, but he knew well enough who she was. She was visiting from São Paulo, and he had met her ships in a score of ports, knew of her mines and ranches. He had been surprised only that she was so young and beautiful.

He shrugged. “Troubling me? I’m curious why the skipper of a tramp freighter is invited here, with this crowd.”

He glanced out over the spacious, parklike grounds. All about him was evidence of wealth and power. A little too much power, he was thinking. And the people dancing and talking, they were smooth, efficient, powerful people. They represented the wealth and ambition of all Latin America.

She smiled as he lit her cigarette. “You seem perfectly at home, Captain,” she said, “and certainly, there isn’t a more attractive man here.”

“At home?” He studied her thoughtfully. “Maybe, but being invited here doesn’t make sense. I had never met Don Pedro Norden before.”

“Possibly he has a shipping contract for you,” Carisa suggested. “With his holdings, shipping is a problem during a war.”

“Might be.” Ponga Jim was skeptical. “But with your ships and those of Valdes, he wouldn’t need mine.”

“You’re too suspicious,” she told him, smiling. She took him by the arm. “Why don’t you ask me to dance?”

They started toward the floor. “Suspicious? Of course I am, this is wartime.”

She glanced at him quickly. “But aren’t you a freelancer? A sailor of fortune? I hear you take cargo wherever you choose to go, regardless of the war.”

“That’s right. But I’m still an American,” he said simply. “Even sailors of fortune have their loyalties.”

Three men stepped out of a door. One was Don Ricardo Valdes, a shipping magnate from the Argentine. The other two were strangers. One tall, slightly stooped, middle-aged. His gray face was vulpine, his eyes intent and cruel.

The other man was slightly over six feet, but so broad as to seem short. His blond hair was trimmed close in a stiff pompadour, and he had a wide, flat face with a broken nose. He looked like a wrestler, and had actually been a top-notch heavyweight boxer.

“Captain Mayo?” Valdes held out a hand. “I’d like to present Dr. Felix Von Hardt and Hugo Busch.”

Von Hardt’s hand was what Mayo expected, careful, dry, and without warmth. Busch had a grip to match his shoulders, and when Ponga Jim met the challenge, strength for strength, the German’s face flushed angrily.

“If the señorita will excuse us?” Von Hardt’s voice was smooth.

“Of course.” Carisa looked at Ponga Jim. “But I’ll be expecting you later, Captain. We must have our dance.”

When she was gone, Valdes lit a cigarette. “Captain, we’ve heard you have an aircraft—an eight-passenger ship? We’ll give you fifty thousand dollars for it.”

The plane was stowed away on the Semiramis at Fortaleza. No one had been aboard but the crew and government officials, so how did these men know of the plane?

“Sorry.” Mayo’s voice was regretful. “It’s not for sale.”

Did they know where he got the plane, he wondered? He had taken it, as one of the fortunes of war, from Count Franz Kull, a German espionage agent and saboteur, in New Guinea. It was specially built, an amphibian with a few hidden surprises that the agent had paid dearly for.

“I’ll double the price,” Valdes said. “One hundred thousand.”

“Sorry, gentlemen,” Mayo repeated. “That plane is one of my most prized possessions.”

“You’d better take what you can get,” Busch said harshly, “when you can get it.”

Ponga Jim measured the German. “I don’t like threats, friend. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Valdes halted him. “Think it over, Captain,” he suggested. “We can turn a lot of business your way. Especially,” he added meaningfully, “after the war.”

Ponga Jim’s fists balled in his coat pocket. “I’ll take my chances, Valdes,” he said coldly. “I don’t like the odor of your friends.”

         

Señorita Montoya was dancing. For once Mayo would have liked to cut in. But it was a practice he had never cared for, and everywhere, but in the United States, was considered grossly impolite.

He had taken but a few steps when she was beside him. “Have you forgotten our dance, Captain?”

Ponga Jim looked at her and caught his breath. She was radiantly beautiful. Too beautiful, he thought, to believe. He remembered that again, a moment later.

“I hope you made the deal, Captain,” she said, “it would be wise.”

“Why?” Over his shoulder he saw Von Hardt talking to Don Pedro. The big Spanish-German was a powerful man physically with a domineering manner thinly veiled by a recent layer of polish.

“Because I like you, Captain,” she said simply, “and these are dangerous times.”

His eyes narrowed. Another threat? Or a warning? “Think nothing of it,” he said, smiling again. “All times are dangerous in my business. I play my cards as they fall, the way I want to play them. I’ll make my own rules and abide by the consequences.”

He knew Busch, at least, was a full-fledged Nazi. Von Hardt probably was. Scanning the room, Mayo noticed at least a dozen others with a pronounced military bearing.

Don Ricardo, he knew, was hand in glove with the Falange. Just before the war, on a visit to Spain, the man had spent much time with Suner, the pro-Nazi foreign minister. If ever a room was filled with Nazi sympathizers, this was it.

He was startled from his meditations by a sudden stiffening of Carisa’s body under his hand. Her eyes were over his shoulder, and turning, he glanced toward the French doors.

A slender, broad-shouldered man stood there alone. He was undeniably handsome, but was only a trifle over five feet tall. One hand touched the neatly waxed mustache, and the other was in his coat pocket. He surveyed the room with all the sangfroid of a ringmaster watching a group of trained horses perform.

A subtle change had come over the guests. Men had stopped talking. Faces had stiffened. Mayo glanced at Norden and saw the multimillionaire’s face slowly change from rage to a cold, ugly triumph. All evening he had felt the charged atmosphere of danger at Castillo Norden. Now for the first time, it had centered on one object. However, the small man in the door was undisturbed.

Then Mayo saw something else. A dark form flitted past the French doors behind the man and faded into the shadows beside the window. Then another. Two more men, hard-looking customers in evening clothes, were walking toward the window, talking quietly. Another man left his partner and lit a cigarette.

They were coming, closing in. Slowly, casually, as in a well-rehearsed play. And the little man kept watching the room with an air of blasé indifference.

Carisa’s face was deathly pale. “Please!” she whispered. “Let’s go to the conservatory. I feel faint.”

He was fed up with wondering who was on what side and pretending that he had an open, cosmopolitan attitude about such things. He had been invited here so that he could be conned into selling his aircraft by a bunch of Nazis and he was expected to politely not notice.

“Sorry,” he said. “You go. I want to talk to that man.” He was startled by the fear in her eyes.

“No!” she whispered. “You mustn’t. There’s going to be trouble.”

He laughed at her. “Of course,” he said, “that’s why I’m going.”

Casually, he walked over to the man standing by the windows. The musicians were playing another piece now, a louder one.

“Hi, buddy,” Mayo said softly. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re right behind the eight ball. There are four or five men on the terrace and more here in the room.”

The smile revealed amazingly white teeth. “Of course.” The little man bowed slightly. “They do not like me here. I am Juan Peligro. Your name?”

“Mayo. Jim Mayo.”

Peligro’s eyebrows lifted. “So?” He looked at Ponga Jim thoughtfully. “I have heard of you, Captain. Have they made an offer for your amphibian yet?”

Ponga Jim glanced at Peligro quickly. “How did you know?”

“One learns much. They need planes, these men.”

A burly man with a square, brutal face suddenly stood beside Mayo. “Captain Mayo? Don Ricardo wishes to speak with you.”

“Why not let him come here?” Ponga Jim said. “I like it in this room.”

The man’s face darkened. “You’d better go,” he insisted. “This man does not belong here. He is going to be dealt with.”

Ponga Jim grinned suddenly. He felt amazingly good. “I like him,” he said. “I like this guy. You deal with him, you deal with me.”

The man hesitated. Obviously, they wanted no outward disturbance. “We don’t want any trouble,” the man said, “you—”

His right hand dropped to his pocket too slowly. Ponga Jim’s left hand closed on his wrist, and his right moved also, in the form of a fist. That punch struck the man in the solar plexus and knocked every bit of wind out of him.

As he started to fall, Ponga Jim caught him by the shoulders and spun him around. Using the man as a shield, he started for the door. “Let’s go,” he said over his shoulder.

Don Pedro Norden and Dr. Von Hardt were standing at the door. Von Hardt’s expression was stiff. Norden was purple with rage. “You fool,” he snarled angrily. “I’ll have you bullwhipped.”

“Try it,” Ponga Jim said, smiling.

At the outer door, the man Mayo was holding made a sudden lunge. Instantly, Mayo pushed him hard between the shoulders. As the man fell down the steps, the two made a dash into the shrubbery beyond the drive.

Running swiftly across the grass, Peligro spoke to Ponga Jim. “Gracias, amigo. But you make trouble for yourself.”

“What would I do? That gang was tough.”

Behind them Mayo heard running feet. Somewhere a motor roared into life, then all was still. But he was under no illusions. The pursuit would be swift, efficient, and relentless. Worst of all, it was more than ten miles to Fortaleza.

They had started across another curve of the drive when a car rounded a bend and they were caught dead in the headlights. Before they could get off the drive, the car swept alongside.

“Quickly!” It was Carisa Montoya at the wheel, and Ponga Jim did not hesitate. Peligro was in beside them and the car rolling almost as soon as she had spoken.

Miraculously, the gate was unguarded. The broad highway to the port lay open before them. Yet before they had been driving more than two minutes, Carisa slowed and sent the big car into a side road that led off down a steep grade through clumps of trees.

She slowed down. The car purred along almost silently. Huge boulders loomed up and were passed. Trees cast weird shadows over the road. Then they turned again and swung in a narrow semicircle back toward the hacienda.

“The highway is a trap,” Carisa explained swiftly. “Don Pedro has five guards between the Castillo Norden and Fortaleza. No one can approach his place without permission.”

“You’d better drop us and get back,” Mayo warned. “This is all right for us, but for you it might be bad.”

“Yes, please,” Peligro said suddenly. “Let us out. The stable road will take you back without their knowledge. Then instantly to bed. We can go on from here.”

The car slid soundlessly away. Ponga Jim Mayo looked after her. “That woman’s got nerve,” he said. “But not the best of friends.”

Peligro was already moving, and before they had gone a hundred yards, Mayo knew that he was not walking blind. The little man knew where he was going.

“They will scour the country,” Peligro said. “Don Pedro will be angry that I came here tonight.”

“Will the señorita be able to get back all right?” Mayo asked.

Peligro shrugged. “She? But of course. The stable road, it is most safe. The peóns are there, but then, they see what they wish to see.”

“Would Norden kill a woman?”

Peligro chuckled without humor. “He would kill anyone. He lives for power, that man.”

“Is he a Nazi? Busch looked it.”

“Sí, Busch was a storm trooper. Von Hardt is also a Nazi. But Don Pedro Norden? He is a Nordenista, amigo, and that is all. He uses the Nazis as they use him.”

“What about you?”

“I?” Peligro chuckled. “Let us say I love what Don Pedro hates. Perhaps that is sufficient. But then, I am a Colombian.”

“The fifth column is strong in Colombia.” Mayo studied the figure ahead of him.

“Naturalmente. Everywhere. But my country could never be a Nazi domain. There are more bookshops in Bogotá than cafés. Think of that, amigo. Men who read are not Nazis.”

Peligro stopped suddenly, then deliberately pushed through a thick wall of brush beside the path. After a few minutes, they stood in a small clearing. Under the arching branches was an autogyro, the outline of its rotating wing lost in the shadows.

Ponga Jim looked at the Colombian with respect. “Well, I’m stumped,” he said. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

Juan Peligro winked. “One does or one dies, my friend.”

CHAPTER II

It was still dark when Ponga Jim Mayo came alongside the ship. Only a dim anchor light forward, and the faint glow over the accommodation ladder. He paid the boatman and watched him start for the Custom House Pier. For some reason, he felt uneasy.

He glanced forward at the bulking stern of the freighter that lay a ship’s length beyond the Semiramis. She was a Norwegian ship, the Nissengate.

Mayo had mounted the ladder and was just stepping to the deck when a dark figure hurled itself from the blackness beyond the light. A shoulder struck him a terrific blow in the chest, and he was knocked off balance into the hand-line.

It caught him just at the hips, and overbalanced, he fell headfirst into the sea. He hit the water unhurt and went down, deep, deeper. He caught himself and struck out for the surface.

A dark body swirled by him, and a knife slashed. Avoiding it, he shot through the surface, and an instant later his attacker broke water not six feet away. Ponga Jim dived and grabbed the man’s wrist, wrenching the knife from his grasp. Then closing with him, Mayo began to smash powerful blows into his body.

The man sagged suddenly. All the breath had been knocked from his body. The platform of the accommodation ladder seemed only a few feet away. Ponga Jim struck out, reached it, and crawled up. He dragged his prisoner with him.

He lay still, getting his wind. Then he got up and pushed the stumbling man ahead of him up the ladder.

“What iss?” A big man with a childlike pink face stepped out of the dark.

Instantly, Ponga Jim knew his mistake. Fighting and swimming, they had worked their way forward until alongside the Norwegian ship, boarding it by mistake. Glancing back toward the other ship, he could see they had swung nearer on the tide.

“Sorry,” Mayo said. “This fellow jumped me as I came aboard my ship. I’ll call a boat and we’ll go back.”

The seaman stared at him warily. He was carrying a short club and a gun. He looked like a tough customer. “How I know dat’s true?”

The man who had attacked Ponga Jim came to life. “It’s a lie,” he burst out. “He attacked me.”

“Aboard my own ship?” Mayo laughed. “Hardly.” He swung the man into the light. He was short and thick, almost black. There was an ugly scar over one eye, another on his cheek. He glared sullenly at Mayo, then with a jerk, broke free.

Ponga Jim grabbed at him, but the watchman stepped between. “How do I know yet which iss lyin’?” he demanded.

“Ask the men aboard my ship.” Ponga Jim gestured aft. “The Semiramis.”

The man peered at him. “Dot iss not der Semiramis. I neffer see no ship by dot name. Dot iss der Chittagong, of Calcutta.”

“What?” Mayo stared aft. The dark loom of the ship was unfamiliar. Her bridge was too high, and there were three lifeboats along the port side of her boat deck, not two as on the Semiramis.

“You come aboard der wrong ship, mister,” the seaman told him. “I t’ink you better go ashore now.”

The man with the scarred face leered at him, his yellowish eyes triumphant. Ponga Jim looked from one to the other. Dripping with water, he turned and went down the gangway.

When he had hailed a harbor boat, he had himself sculled aft. The other ship was a flush-decker at least a thousand tons heavier than the Semiramis. There were four other ships in the harbor, all unknown to him.

Ponga Jim Mayo scowled and let his memory travel back for a moment. Shortly after eight-thirty that morning, he had walked down the accommodation ladder and been taken ashore. Slug Brophy and Gunner Millan, his first and second mates, had leaned on the rail as he went. Beyond, several of the crew had been working about the deck.

Back on the Custom House Pier, Mayo took stock of the situation. He had been through too much with his crew to doubt their loyalty. He knew Brophy would never consent to move without ample reason, for Brophy was not a man to be bluffed or imposed upon.

Somewhere in the background would be Norden and his Nazi friends. Fourteen hours earlier, Mayo had left the ship with a full crew. Now she was gone.

In the meantime, he had received an offer for his amphibian plane. Upon refusing the offer, he had been threatened. The affair of Juan Peligro had brought about an open break with his host.

The Spanish-German might have had the ship removed from the harbor. If so, he would have laid deliberate plans to conceal his action. He would be ruthlessly efficient. No doubt the officials in port were all in his pay.

Coolly, Ponga Jim went to a hotel, obtained a room, and went to bed. In the morning after a good breakfast, he sought out Duro the port captain. “What happened to the Semiramis?” Ponga Jim asked. “When I went ashore yesterday she lay aft of the Nissengate. When I returned she was gone.”

The Brazilian looked at him thoughtfully. “The Semiramis, you say? I never heard of it.”

“The pilot who brought me in was Du Silva,” Mayo said.

Captain Duro studied Ponga Jim curiously, then shrugged. “I don’t think so. Señor Du Silva has not come to work all week … I believe he is sick.”

“Now that’s a bunch of …” Then he stopped. “I see,” he said warily.

“If I were you,” the man told him lazily, leaning toward him, “I’d go home and get some sleep.”

Ponga Jim’s hand shot out and took the port officer by the throat. “And if I were you,” he said coldly, “I’d figure out another story before the American consul and President Vargas begin to ask questions.”

Duro’s face paled, but he merely stared at Mayo, his eyes ugly.

“What could you tell them? That your ship, armed with a full crew, had been stolen from the harbor? It could be very amusing, señor.”

Ponga Jim slammed the port captain back into his chair. “No,” he said flatly, “I’d tell them Don Pedro Norden was a traitor, and that you were his tool.”

He strode from the office. After all, Duro was right. It would be an utterly preposterous story. Ships of several thousand tons displacement do not vanish into thin air. As for witnesses, no doubt fifty people had noticed the Semiramis, but how many could see her name at that distance? The Chittagong, moored in the same place, would be considered the same ship. The few who knew better could be bribed or frightened.

Then, he was aware of the fact that his own reputation did not appeal to many government officials. He had been in action against the Japanese and Germans in the East Indies before the war began. That his aid had been invaluable to the Dutch and British was data burned deep into reports of their intelligence services. The fact that he had usually profited from those services would be enough to blacken his reputation with some people.

A man of Norden’s strength could build a substantial case against a lone captain of a tramp freighter with a mixed crew. Even if he won in the end and proved his point, it would require months of red tape and argument. In the meantime, what of his ship and his men?

Just why Norden wanted planes Mayo did not know, but the presence of Nazis on the hump of Brazil boded no good for the Allies. It was too near the source of bauxite for American planes. It was a place of great wealth and poverty, two elements that were often unstable when combined.

What Ponga Jim Mayo wanted done he must do himself. No doubt the communications were controlled by Norden, and it was to be doubted if any message he might send would be allowed to leave Fortaleza.

No doubt the freighter had been moved to some nearby river mouth or minor port where the plane would be removed. Possible anchorages were few, but there was nothing he could do to search. For the moment, the Semiramis and her crew must get along on their own. Don Pedro would expect him to protest to the government. He would expect excited demands, protests, much noise. In that case, it would be very simple for Don Pedro to have him sent to an insane asylum. Certainly, a man claiming someone had stolen an unknown ship and its crew would be insane enough for most people.

Long ago, Ponga Jim Mayo had discovered that attack was the best defense. He had discovered that plotters like to take their own time. He knew that one man with energy and courage could do much. So he wasn’t going to protest or demand, he wasn’t going to argue. He was going to carry the fight to the enemy.

Jim bought a suit of khakis, and returning to the hotel, changed from the bedraggled suit. Castillo Norden was on a spur of Mount Jua, approximately ten miles from town. In the side street not far from the hotel was a disreputable Model A. Nearby a Brazilian loitered. He was a plump, sullen man with a mustache and round cheeks.

“How much to rent the car all day?” Mayo asked.

The Brazilian looked at him, bored. “You go to Castillo Norden, my friend,” he replied, “you go to trouble.”

Ponga Jim grinned. “Maybe I’m looking for trouble. Do we go?”

The Brazilian tossed his limp cigarette into the gutter.

“Why not?” he said with a shrug.

They rattled out of town and drove in silence for several miles. The man paid no attention to the main road, but took side roads toward Mount Jua. “I am Armando Fontes,” he said, “always in troubles.” He looked at Ponga Jim. “You have a gun?”

At Mayo’s nod, he drew back his own coat and showed an enormous pistol stuffed in his waistband. “I, too!” he spat. “These men are bad. You better watch out. They got plenty stuff.”

Leaving Fontes with the car, Ponga Jim walked up the stable road. He saw no one. It was easy to understand why Carisa and Peligro had been sure the road was safe.

It led through two rows of trees that would have allowed quick concealment in case of need.

Then he passed the stables and went on through the garden. He glanced back and saw a workman at the stables had straightened and was watching him, but when the obrero saw himself observed, he hastily bent over his work.

It was late afternoon when Ponga Jim slipped behind the boll of a palm, then behind a clump of hibiscus at the edge of the terrace where he had stood the night before.

He was waiting there when the French doors opened suddenly and Don Pedro Norden came out, walking with Don Ricardo. “You will see,” Norden was saying, “the planes will be here. The fields have been ready for months. As you know, there has been no passport control at Fortaleza and we’ve been importing technicians, army officers, engineers, all sorts of men, most of them Germans.”

“What about the Japanese?” Valdes suggested.

“Ready. The colonies around Cananea and Registro will act simultaneously with those here in Ceará and those on the Amazon. Our men have been posted in key spots for weeks now, ready for the day. The transport planes will move them where they are needed.”

Valdes smiled grimly and nodded.

“You will give the word?”

“Soon. There are approximately three million Germans, Japanese, and Italians in this country. Most, of course, want no trouble but our men will hide in those communities and when the time comes they will make sure that the right kind of incidents occur. I think we can count on a good many joining us once they are threatened by the government.

“First, seventy key men will be assassinated. To allow for mistakes, each man is covered by two groups. Vargas and Aranha are among the first, of course. Both are strong, capable men, and without them the army will have to step in.

“São Paulo will be seized—it is practically in our hands now. Also Manáos. The Amazon will be closed to traffic, all available shipping will be impounded. Our airfields here and at Teresina will be receiving and refueling planes. We will have Brazil before Vargas realizes we are moving.”

Valdes nodded. “A good plan, and a careful one.”

Norden snorted. “How did I make my money, Don Ricardo? By taking chances? I made it by planning. At all my properties in South America there are bases. Fuel is stored, the two ships in Fortaleza harbor are full of munitions for our cause, we are ready. This amphibian we picked up today—it will be priceless in getting about. We need many planes now, and they are hard to get.”

“What of the United States?” Valdes asked. “Will they interfere?”

“The Germans believe so. I doubt it. The Axis backs this move because they want a diversion, something to divide the strength of the North Americans. The Yankees will send some forces here, but we can handle what they send. The Americans are soft—their own correspondents say so.”

Valdes nodded. “Perhaps, but this Mayo, he took that situation over last night too fast to suit me.”

“Him?” Norden sneered. “He will be telling people his wild story of a stolen ship. It is too preposterous!”

“Perhaps.” Don Ricardo was uneasy. “You have been successful but perhaps you are too sure.” Valdes hesitated, biting his lip. “Don Pedro,” he said slowly, “I have been hearing stories. When the amphibian landed here one of the men recognized it. The plane is special, made to order for Count Kull, one of Germany’s most dangerous secret agents. It was taken from him by an adventurer in the East Indies.”

“You mean—Mayo?” Don Pedro was scowling.

“Just that. What I’m saying, Don Pedro,” Valdes insisted, “is that Ponga Jim Mayo may be a very dangerous man.”

Norden paused. “All right. I’ll give the order that he be killed on sight. Now let us go in. I could use a drink.”

CHAPTER III

Killed on sight. Ponga Jim watched them go. At least it was all in the clear now. The amphibian was here. If he only knew where the Semiramis was!

He stood still, staring out across the spacious grounds that surrounded the Castillo Norden. What a fool he was to believe he could cope with all this alone. Don Pedro Norden had stood upon the terrace like a king, a man who knew great power, yet thirsted for more. He was no petty criminal, no agent of a foreign power. He was playing the Axis off against the United States to win more power for himself.

Even to hope seemed foolish. The man was shrewd, he had power and held all the strings. Ponga Jim stood behind the hibiscus and knew that there was only one way out—right through the middle. Don Pedro had built well, but could the structure stand attack?

He glanced around. There was no one in sight. He caught the rack on which the wisteria grew and went up, hand over hand, to the balcony above.

He flattened against the building. He had been unobserved so far as he could see. He stepped to the window and pushed it inward. Carisa Montoya sat before a mirror in her robe, polishing her nails.

“Hello,” he said cheerfully. “Did I come at the wrong time?”

She stiffened and swallowed a scream. “Jim, are you mad? If they find you here, they’ll kill you. You’ve got to get away!” She caught him by the arm. “You must—now!”

“After all my trouble getting here? Anyway, why are you worried? And whose team are you on, anyway?”

“Not on theirs,” she said. “But I have to be careful. And you’re too good a dancer to die young.”

He grinned. “Shucks, and I thought it was my boyish smile. All right, tell me one thing and I’ll go. Where is Don Ricardo’s room?”

Her face paled. “You mustn’t. That would be insane.”

“Tell me,” he insisted. “The longer you stall, the greater the danger.”

“Across the hall and the third door on your left.”

He walked to the door, and turning the key, glanced out. The hall was empty. He stepped out and pulled the door shut softly. Then he walked quietly across the hall to the third door. He touched the knob, and it turned gently under his hand.

Ponga Jim Mayo opened the door and stepped in—and found himself looking into the business end of a Luger in the hands of Hugo Busch.

“So,” the German said. “We meet again.”

Jim said nothing. The German’s left hand was holding the telephone handset which had evidently just been replaced on the cradle. Carisa! Could she—

The door opened behind him, and then he heard Valdes’s crisp voice. “May I ask what this means?” he demanded.

“The American came in, I followed,” Busch said, shrugging. “How he got here, I don’t know.”

“Don Ricardo,” Ponga Jim said coolly, “do you think if he followed me in that I would be standing near the door? I came in and found him.”

“He lies,” Busch snapped. “What would I be doing in your rooms?”

Valdes looked at the German thoughtfully. “What, indeed? Nevertheless, Herr Busch, it will bear thought. Now, if you like, take him away. I must dress for dinner.”

         

Without a word Busch marched Ponga Jim to a square building near the stables. The windows were heavily barred. A man working nearby glanced up and saw Jim, then went on repairing a wagon, uninterested.

Hugo Busch, keeping carefully out of reach, swung open a cell door and pushed Jim inside. Then, suddenly, and before Mayo could turn, Busch struck him over the head with the gun barrel.

Jim staggered and almost went to his knees, then Busch hit him again. Ponga Jim tottered against the wall, blood running into his eyes from a cut scalp, blinded by pain and the ruthlessness of the sudden attack. Calling a guard, Busch handed the soldier the gun. Then he turned around and walked up to Jim.

“So? You come to cause trouble, eh? We’ll see about that. Maybe I’ll give you all the trouble you want.”

His left smashed Jim on the jaw, knocking him across the cell. Ponga Jim pawed blindly at his face to get the blood out of his eyes.

On the second jab, Jim went under it and smashed Busch under the heart with his right. Before Busch could clinch, Jim hooked a left to the jaw and jarred the German to his heels.

Bursting with rage, Hugo Busch rushed back. Using all the power and skill that had once carried him to the Olympics he went to work. Blinded by blood and pain from the two brutal blows with the gun, Jim could get no power into his blows. Busch came up with a sweeping hook that lifted Mayo bodily and knocked him against the wall. He hit hard, slipped to the floor, and his head banged against the steel cot.

In a bloody haze, he tried to get up, and slipped back. He felt a heavy kick in the ribs, then another, but consciousness slipped from him, and he lay still.

It was dark when he opened his eyes, pitch dark. He rolled over, his body one endless wave of pain. Struggling, he got his knees under him and straightened. His head felt heavy and rolled on his neck. Fumbling, he felt of his face. It was cut and swollen, and his head had two long gashes from the gun barrel, and a big lump from the blow against the cot.

How long he stayed on his knees he did not know, but suddenly, he came to himself and got up. Then he was suddenly sick, and going to the corner, retched violently. Feeling around, he found a bucket of water, took a long drink, then poured some in the basin and splashed it over his face and head.

Then he lay down on the cot and after a while, he fell asleep. It was morning when he awakened.

         

A fumbling of a key in the lock awakened him, and he staggered to his feet to see Hugo Busch come in, stripped to the waist. The man was muscled powerfully, and he grinned at Mayo. There was a welt on his jaw, and a bit of a blue lump over one eye.

“Ready for a workout?” Busch grinned.

Unbelieving, Jim saw the man meant to beat him again. Busch walked up and swung his open hand at Jim’s face. Bleary from the frightful beating of the night before, Mayo could barely roll his head out of the way, but Busch missed his careless slap, and it made him angry.

He jabbed a left at Jim’s cut eye, and Jim started to go under it, but Busch was ready and dropped the left. The punch took Mayo between the eyes, and grabbing suddenly, he got Busch by the arm and jerked him into a right to the body. The punch lacked force, but had enough to hurt.

Busch tried to get loose, but Ponga Jim clinched and hung on.

Then the fighter broke free and went to work like a butcher at a chopping block. When the German left, he was covered with blood—Jim Mayo’s blood. He laughed harshly.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We’re going to put you in a ring to see how you Americans take it.”

Ponga Jim backed up and sat down. After he had bathed his face again, he lay down and stared up at the ceiling through his swollen eyes. He had to get out. In time these beatings would kill him. If he had a chance to recover, and could start from scratch, it might be different. Now, there was no chance. Or was there?

For a long time he thought, and out of the thinking came a dim memory of a fight he had seen ten years before, of a fellow who used a Kid McCoy type of stunt. Out of that memory came a plan.

But it was a plan that covered only one phase. It did not cover escape. He had to get away, had to get out and let the authorities know what was being planned here.

It was then he heard the plane. Only a few minutes later, another, then several at once. He sat up abruptly. The transports were coming. That meant the day was soon to come.

         

In the morning he was still stiff and sore. He was battered, and he knew his cuts would open easily. A glance into a mirror showed he was hardly to be recognized. But he shadow-boxed a little to loosen up, and rubbed his muscles. He was, he knew, in no shape for such a battle as he would now have. But he was in better shape than Hugo Busch believed.

Valdes was with them when they came to get him. He frowned when he saw Ponga Jim’s face.

“Been giving it to you, has he? Well, I don’t like it.”

Jim said nothing, and he was led to a ring that had been pitched in the open under some trees. Seats had been placed around, and there were at least thirty German officers there. One of them, an elderly man, scowled when he saw Mayo’s face. He put a monocle in his eye and studied Jim briefly. Then he removed the monocle and started away. He took three steps but then walked back briskly.

“Good luck,” he said briefly. “For myself, I don’t care for this sort of thing.”

Ponga Jim was stripped to the waist, and they were tying on the gloves when he looked up to see Carisa coming down the lane with Don Pedro and Von Hardt. She involuntarily put a hand to her mouth when she saw Jim’s face.

Busch got into the ring, and Jim barely had time to take the piece of tissue paper from under his arm and put it a little higher, so it would not be noticed. The action passed unseen.

Someone struck a bell, and Busch walked out. Jim came to meet him, then lifted his left arm. From the armpit the thin sheet of tissue paper floated toward the floor.

For an instant, Busch stared. Involuntarily, his hands dropped. An instant only, but it was enough. Ponga Jim threw his right high and hard.

There was a sodden smack, then Hugo Busch crumpled to the canvas without so much as a sound.

For a moment, there was dead silence. Then, from the crowd there arose a roar of anger, mingled with a few cries of approbation, and one definite hand clap. It was from the elderly officer with the monocle.

Lifted from the floor, Busch was showered with water. For an instant he stared, wondering. Then with a cry of rage, he shook off his handlers and rushed.

“Enough.”

The voice did not seem loud, but suddenly everyone froze. Even Hugo Busch stopped his rush in midstride.

Not a dozen feet away, standing alone at the edge of the crowd, was Armando Fontes.

In his right fist he held his huge pistol. It was aimed at Don Pedro Norden!

CHAPTER IV

Armando Fontes was holding a large sweet potato in his left hand, and was gnawing at it contentedly. He was still wearing his soiled whites. His belt barely retained his bulging stomach.

“If you move,” Fontes said, “I will kill Don Pedro. Señor Mayo, get out of the ring and walk to me.”

For just a moment there was startled silence.

Ponga Jim, holding his breath, crawled through the ropes. Only then did anyone move. A German officer, at the opposite end of the line from Don Pedro, reached for his gun.

Fontes scarcely seemed to move, but the gun roared, and the German fell facedown, blood spattering the ground.

“Next time, Don Pedro,” Fontes said, undisturbed, “it is you. If you no want to die, tell these men to stand still.”

“Don’t move,” Norden said. “The fool really will shoot.”

Fontes backed slowly away after Jim Mayo. Around the corner of the stable, the Brazilian wheeled about and darted between two sheds. Almost at once a heavy cart laden with hay moved into the space, and a silent, unspeaking obrero began to work over the wheel.

Fontes knew his way. Quickly, and with devious turns, he led Mayo into the rocks along the side of Mount Jua. Behind them, men were scattering out. The cart in the opening between the sheds would delay pursuit. It would save a minute, perhaps two, for the line of stables and sheds was unbroken for some distance in either direction. And every second counted.

Armando, for all his weight, moved with surprising agility. He stopped once to hand Jim his .45 Colt.

“I take it from the guard,” he said, “the carabinero was angry—but no matter.”

Only a few paths led across the face of Mount Jua at this point. Don Pedro had obviously planned to have the mountain protect his rear, and certainly, only one who knew the paths could have traveled where Fontes was going.

Surprisingly, at the foot of the mountain trail the battered Model A was standing in the shade. They got in, and the motor coughed into life. Over a rocky, broken road, Fontes guided the car, seemingly more by instinct than sight.

“You saved me a beating,” Ponga Jim Mayo said.

The Brazilian shrugged. “I don’t like those men. They make troubles.”

         

Ponga Jim went into the side entrance of the hotel and reached his room unnoticed. Armando sat down on the bed and took off his torn fedora, wiping his forehead.

“Is hot,” he said. He looked solemn. “I wished to shoot him, that Don Pedro.”

There was a light tap on the door, then even as Ponga Jim’s gun slid into his hand, the door opened and Juan Peligro stepped in. He glanced quickly at Fontes.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

Mayo introduced them. Quickly, Peligro turned to Jim. “I have located your ship. It is in the Acaraú River. There are twenty men aboard, men other than your crew.”

Ponga Jim explained quickly what he had overheard at the Castillo Norden, and what had happened there. When his story ended, Peligro looked at Fontes with respect.

“You could work for me, my friend,” he said.

Armando shrugged. “It is no good work for other man,” he said. “I work for myself. When I want to rest—I rest—want to work, I work. I like it this way.”

Suddenly, a car rolled up to the front of the hotel. They all heard it. They also heard the sharp commands as men unloaded. Ponga Jim rushed for the door just in time to see a file of Norden’s thugs come up the steps. He ducked back into the room. It was empty.

He stared about, unbelieving. But Peligro and Fontes were gone. Then he noticed the open window, its curtain blowing in the light breeze. A fist pounded on the door, and there was a sharp command to open.

Ponga Jim went out the window to the ledge, then dropped to the roof of the shed below it, and then into the street. A German rushed at him. They grappled for an instant, then Jim broke free and punched him solidly in the jaw.

Even as the man dropped, Jim jerked open a door and walked into a cantina. He walked through to the next street, went outside, dodged through the light traffic, and stepped into the car in front of his own hotel. It was a large, powerful car from the Castillo Norden.

The man on guard at the door of the hotel wheeled as the motor roared into life. Then as the guard realized what was happening, he raised his gun and took careful aim. Ponga Jim was dead in his sights, and for an instant, Mayo looked death in the face.

From across the street there was a great coughing gunshot. The soldier folded, his rifle going off harmlessly into the air. Even as Ponga Jim let the clutch out, he saw Armando Fontes, his huge pistol dangling in his fingers, leaning against the corner of the building across from the hotel.

The big car swung into a curve, and Jim stepped down on the accelerator and opened her up. Whatever else she had, the car had power. He headed out the road toward Castillo Norden, and when the car hit the highway it was doing ninety.

Norden’s road was guarded. That was all right with Mayo. He roared past the first guard station with the motor wide open, and saw two men waving wildly as he went through.

Peligro had told him just where the amphibian was. It was gassed up and kept ready for instant flight. If he could get to it, and away, things would start to look up.

The big car whirled down the private road to the landing field. Dust clouds billowed out behind. Yet even as he swung onto the field, he saw Don Pedro, Von Hardt, Valdes, and Busch starting for the amphibian, whose propeller was turning lazily.

Crouching behind the wheel, Ponga Jim headed straight for them. They took one look and dived for shelter. He let the car shoot past the flying boat, then spun the wheel and turned it on a dime. For a split second he thought the big car would roll over, but it righted itself and he pointed it at the nearest transport in the row.

Jamming down the accelerator then shifting into neutral, Ponga Jim leaped from the running board. He landed hard, and scrambled to his feet, spitting dust. Beyond the amphibian he heard a tremendous crash as the speeding car smashed into the plane. Then there was an explosion, and both were in flames.

Mayo ran to the amphibian and crawled inside. The German pilot looked up. Mayo pulled his .45 and stuck it in the man’s face. He herded the German out the hatch. An instant later he had it rolling down the runway. He eased back on the stick and the ship took off. It cleared the low hedge easily and mounted into the sky.

He climbed, cleared his guns with a burst, then swung the ship around. She was specially built, faster and more maneuverable than the basic model. He went back over the field, the four wing guns blazing. He saw men lift their rifles, then tumble into the dust. One man rushed for a .50-caliber machine gun on a hangar roof, but a burst of fire caught him and threw him bodily to the ground below. Ponga Jim drew the stick back and climbed steadily away from the Castillo Norden. One glance back showed the flames still roaring. Then he headed for the Acaraú River, and the Semiramis.

         

His head was aching fearfully. His swollen face still throbbed. In his dive from the car he had injured one leg, not badly, but enough for it to be painful. He flew steadily toward the river, remembering its position on the chart. It was, he remembered now, one of the few rivers along this section of the coast that could be entered by a ship of any size.

What would happen now, he could not guess. Juan Peligro and Armando Fontes were free, so far as he knew. If they could remain free they would be fortunate. What had been done was enough to force Don Pedro to move. The shooting in Fortaleza and the burning of the planes would be sure to excite comment in regions beyond Norden’s control. Peligro, too, would be in touch with his government, and possibly with Vargas.

If Don Pedro hoped to win he must act at once. There was no chance for delay, no time for hesitation. His power had been flouted. The people of Fortaleza would know that there was opposition. Such petty officials as Duro would begin to shake in their boots. Such men always followed the winning side, and now there could be doubt.

Below he saw the winding thread of the Acaraú, and he circled the plane above the Semiramis. Then he made a shallow dive and waggled his wings. It was his old signal to his crew all was well. If any were on deck, they would be expecting him.

Ponga Jim had lost his own cap, so now he picked up a beautiful Panama that had been left in the cabin of his plane. From his pocket he took his gun and reloaded it. Then he took another from a locker in the plane, slipping it into his waistband.

Finally, he glided down to a landing, let the amphibian fishtail into the wind, and lay just a few yards from the Semiramis’s beam. After anchoring the plane, he stood up and straightened his clothes. A boat was coming toward him. Mayo now planned to try a colossal bluff, counting on the fact that no one aboard would know him but his own men.

As the boat drew alongside, he stepped in. Holding out his arm, hand open, he snapped a greeting.

“Heil Hitler!” he said.

The man in the launch returned the salute clumsily.

“To the Semiramis!” Mayo barked. “A message from Don Pedro.”

Expecting nothing else, the man turned the launch and ran over to the accommodation ladder. Ponga Jim got up, pulled down the brim of his Panama, and eased his automatic in its shoulder holster. Then he went up the ladder.

Norden’s captain, a wide-faced mestizo, was at the gangway with another man. Beyond them, working over some running gear, was Big London. The surprised Negro turned abruptly away from Jim, then stepped around the corner of the hatch where he could watch without seeming to notice. But Mayo had no time to waste.

As the captain opened his mouth to speak, Ponga Jim thrust the automatic into his stomach.

“Manos arriba!” he snapped.

The man gulped and lifted his hands, as did the man beside him. Ponga Jim spoke no Portuguese, but Spanish was close enough. Jim drew their guns and tossed them to London.

“Get the crew out,” he said.

In a matter of minutes, the crew was on deck … the ship taken back before the guards realized just what was happening. The surprise was complete.

         

Ponga Jim grabbed Brophy. “Get under way,” he said quickly. “I want you to run up to Fortaleza. There are two ships there, the Nissengate and the Chittagong. Both are loaded with munitions. Sink them.”

Slug Brophy jerked a thumb at the armed freighter nearby. “What about him?”

“Leave him to me,” Mayo said grimly. “Get four bombs aboard the amphibian. They won’t notice because this ship lies between.”

Brophy snapped into action, and Jim noticed the guns being cleared for trouble. Within twenty minutes after he landed, he was taking off. He climbed to a thousand feet, swung around, and started back for the armed freighter.

Even as he swung back he could see the Semiramis pulling up to her anchor. The captain of the armed freighter was shouting something at the Semiramis when Ponga Jim released his first bomb.

Ponga Jim had come in slowly, taking his time, and the crew of the ship were expecting nothing. The bomb hit the starboard bridge, glanced off, and struck the deck. It exploded with a terrific concussion.

Jim swung back over again, ignoring the men trying to man an AA gun, and let go with another. That bomb hit the water within a foot of the ship and the explosion blazed a fountain of water high into the air. The freighter heeled over violently, and Ponga Jim could see flames roaring in the ’tween decks through the gaping hole torn in her deck and hull by the first explosion.

He banked steeply and soared off over the hills, heading to Natal. As he left he saw the Semiramis open fire on the crippled freighter with her 5.9-inch guns.

Quartered at Natal there were American troops. Also, there would be, he hoped, some Vargas officials who were loyal. Despite himself, he was worried. Don Pedro Norden was no fool. He was an utterly unscrupulous and ruthless man who knew how and when to act. That Ponga Jim had won this last move was due largely to the daring of his performance and the fact that Don Pedro underrated him.

CHAPTER V

It was dark when he flew back to Fortaleza. Earlier, he had located a small lake in an uninhabited region. It was set among some wooded sand dunes, and as he glided in he could see no signs of life. He paddled ashore in his rubber boat, and concealed it in some thick brush, then he started walking toward the city.

Flying up, he had seen no sign of the Semiramis, and he was worried. He had swung wide to get a glimpse of the field at Norden’s estate; it was empty. The planes had gone. Even the signs of the fire had been eradicated. All that had him worried, too; it would have been more to his liking for there to have been government officials circulating, asking difficult questions … forcing Don Pedro to spend time and energy in a cover-up.

The streets of Fortaleza were quiet, too quiet. A few men walked here and there about their business. A few straggled into the theaters. A group of hard-faced men stood on a corner, talking in low voices. As he passed, Ponga Jim saw them turn to look. The Panama was pulled low, and his face showed but little in the vague light.

He walked on. There were other clusters of men. These groups stood in strategic positions, and he saw the city was dominated by them. Several planes flew over the town, headed inland. A woman passed him, her face stiff with fear, and hurried down a side street.

“You must get off the streets, amigo,” a low voice whispered. “They mean to kill you on sight.”

Mayo turned to find Peligro at his elbow.

“What of you, chiquito?” he said grinning. “From what I heard you aren’t exactly welcomed around here yourself.”

Juan Peligro shrugged. “I fear you are right, señor. They do not appreciate my talents. Don Pedro has practically occupied Fortaleza. The planes are flown inland.”

“To Teresina and his mines and plantations, I’ll bet. He has bases there for them.” Jim looked around. “What will happen now?”

“I don’t know,” Peligro shrugged. “At midnight the word is to go out. The killings will start, there will be risings all over Brazil. In Colombia, too. There is to be peace with the Axis and war with the Allies.”

Ponga Jim looked at him. “From where will they send the message? Here? Or from Castillo Norden?”

“From the Castillo. I heard—only now—that Norden is soon to leave. That is to be the signal. He himself, you see, plans to be unaware of the murdering until it is completed. If it is successful then he will make a speech, and later will give medals and jobs to the murderers.”

Up the street there was a crash of glass and a shout of fury. The bunch nearest Jim started for a store, and one man put his shoulder against the door. It burst open, and the thugs from the street corner dragged a shouting shopkeeper into the street. One struck him, another kicked him.

“We might as well start here,” Ponga Jim said grimly. He turned on his heel and walked up behind the nearest troublemaker. Mayo grabbed him by the collar and hurled him into the street. From a brown shirt nearby came a shout of rage. The other men whirled about. Ponga Jim’s first punch knocked a man rolling. Grabbing a stick from another, he laid about him furiously. Another man tumbled, and then someone fired. Instantly, Jim went for his gun. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, he fired coolly and steadily. Two men dropped, and another staggered, then ran off.

Suddenly at the corner, a heavy gun boomed. Glancing over, Mayo saw Armando Fontes standing in the street with his big pistol. Juan Peligro had gone into action, too, and cheered by their support, shopkeepers and other Vargas sympathizers rushed into the streets with weapons.

Then something happened that stopped them all, both sides, dead in their tracks.

A dull boom sounded from the east. Next the scream of a shell. As one man, the people stopped fighting and stared toward the harbor. The Semiramis steamed in, swung broadside, and then her 5.9s began to fire.

For the first time in the three years he had owned her, and in all the actions she had come through, Ponga Jim Mayo could stand on the sidelines and watch his ship in action. Only a dark shadow on the water now, lighted by constant blasts of gunfire, but he knew every line of her, every spot of rust, every patch of red lead.

Shells screamed overhead, blasting the hangars of the airfield into flaming ruins and turning level runways into pitted, pockmarked uselessness. Then the fire ceased, and when it opened again, the guns were fired on the Nissengate.

It was point-blank range. Jim could almost hear Gunner Millan’s crisp orders, could see the powerful muscles of Big London and Lyssy, passing shells to the crew.

A shell exploded amidships. Another blasted the stack into a canted, swaying menace, hanging only by its stays. The after wheelhouse vanished in the crimson blare of an explosion, and then a shot pierced the hull and exploded.

All sound was lost in a tremendous blast as though someone had suddenly exploded a balloon that was miles in diameter. The burst of air and the concussion left them deaf and silent amid crashing glass of broken windows in the town. They stared at each other, mouths open, and eyes goggled at the tremendous pillar of flame that shot suddenly skyward.

People began to run. Nordenistas, Falangists, and the supporters of Vargas all in one mass, they ran.

Peligro grabbed Ponga Jim’s arm, but Jim was waiting, his eyes bright. The Semiramis swung a little, and the 5.9s covered the Chittagong. The latter vessel was armed, and her own guns began to roar, but the crews kept overshooting badly.

A shell from the Semiramis landed on the poop of the Chittagong and exploded. Then more guns began to hammer, and Jim could see, even at that distance, the black figures of men as they dove overboard from the Chittagong. Three were fighting desperately to launch a boat. Then the ship caught fire.

Jim wheeled, and with Juan Peligro beside him, started on a run for the edge of town. Only a couple of hundred yards, and then Armando Fontes came alongside in his panting Model A. They scrambled in, and following Jim’s directions they started over the sand hills toward the amphibian.

They left the car in the brush and walked down to the water, and Jim got the rubber boat from the brush. They had reached the plane and Mayo was getting in when he saw a flicker of movement.

A boat had appeared at the tail of the ship, and he saw himself staring into three submachine guns. He thought, for one breathless instant, of risking a dive into the lake, then gave up. Even if he succeeded, Fontes and Peligro would be shot down like sheep.

“Get in.” It was Hugo Busch. “Get in the plane.”

Mayo reluctantly stepped aboard. Von Hardt was sitting there, gun in hand.

When the plane was in the air, Busch came back to where they were sitting. He grinned widely as he sat down nearby.

“You’ve been putting on a show, Mayo,” he said, “and Norden is quite unhappy. What I’d have done to you would be nothing to what you’ll get now.”

Busch turned his head to stare at Fontes. “Where did you pick this up?” he said. “He looks like somebody you found in a Hollywood comedy.”

Fontes said nothing. But he stared at Busch, his eyes sullen. Then coolly, he rolled his quid and spat. The tobacco juice splashed on the German’s chin and shirt collar, and Busch went white with fury.

With a lunge, the German grabbed Fontes by the throat, but bound as he was, the Brazilian was powerless to defend himself.

“Hugo!” Von Hardt’s voice cracked like a bullwhip. “None of that.”

Busch subsided, his face livid. Armando Fontes rolled himself into a sitting position and stared at Busch, still sullen and unperturbed.

         

Twenty minutes later, still bound, the three were taken from the plane to the library of Castillo Norden. Don Pedro and Carisa Montoya sat waiting for them, Don Pedro staring with cruel eyes. Nearby, Carisa sat, more beautiful than ever.

Norden studied the three, then looked up.

“Leave them, Herr Busch,” he said sharply. “Tell Enrico to get the radio warmed up. It is almost time.”

Don Pedro got up. Despite himself, he was alive with anticipation and could not refrain from showing it. He looked at Mayo.

“So? You thought to interfere? Well, you have courage, even if you have no brains. You have changed my plans, Captain Mayo. But for the better. I have decided not to wait. The zero hour was to have been three days from now. But this interference has decided me. The time is now.” Don Pedro Norden shoved his hands down his coat pockets, and his hard eyes gleamed with triumph. “In just fifteen minutes the word goes out. The hour to strike has come.”

Fifteen minutes!

Then it was too late! All he had planned, his trip to Natal, everything was in vain. They could do nothing to warn the officials now. Brazil would be caught flat-footed. There was, nowhere, any knowledge of such a power as Norden had welded together. Nowhere but in Berlin and Tokyo.

Shoved down into chairs, Mayo and his two companions were bound hand and foot. Don Pedro seemed to have forgotten them. He pressed a button and several men came in. To each he handed a brief, typewritten sheet. His orders rapped out thick and fast.

Norden had planned well, the plan was set to function, and each man was dropping into his position to await the final order.

Ponga Jim glanced at Peligro. The Colombian was perspiring, his face a deathly pallor. Armando Fontes, his eyes narrow, was staring at Norden.

Carisa Montoya, her face stiff, watched what was happening. At Natal, Major Palmer was ready with his bombers and fighters, but he would be too late, and once the plan was under way his force would be too small.

The plan was simple, concise, beautifully organized. The risings in Cananea, Registro, and other Japanese-inhabited localities would make each a central headquarters for a series of forces striking out into loyal territory. Rio Grande do Sul, with its large German population, would fall into the conspirators’ hands like a ripe plum. With submarines to halt naval interferences, rapid moves could in a few hours have much of Brazil in the hands of Don Pedro; the entire South American situation would be changed, forever.

The new government of the Argentine would do nothing. Chile would be uneasy, but would sit quiet. Paraguay was ready, Uruguay might fight, although surrounded by enemies.

With the fall of Brazil, Don Pedro would set up a dictatorship, refuse to allow the passage of bombers to Africa, and the southern supply route to Egypt would be forced into the North Atlantic, where German submarines hunted like packs of wolves. Axis sub and plane bases in Brazil would give them complete control of the Caribbean and passage around the Cape of Good Hope. Tunisia, Egypt, India, Iraq, Iran, and Russia would be denied help except what could reach them through the blockade of the Pacific.

The United States military would be too late. The move within the country, carefully supplemented by just a little outside help, would be successful and the situation of the Allies would suddenly become infinitely more hazardous—even desperate.

Ponga Jim glanced at the clock. Five minutes. Suddenly, he looked at Carisa. The intensity was gone from her expression. It was suddenly calm and resolute. For an instant, their eyes met, then they flickered away and stopped.

Slowly Mayo’s eyes followed. Don Pedro’s automatic lay forgotten on his smoking stand beside his desk, not six feet from Carisa’s hand. Their eyes met, and almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

Abruptly he spoke.

“You can’t get away with this, Norden,” he protested. “Take a tip from me and get out from under while you can.”

Norden turned a little in his chair, as Jim had hoped he would do. The man was superbly confident.

“Get out from under? Don’t be absurd, Captain. I have a foolproof plan. You have seen enough here today to tell how perfectly it will function. I’ll admit, however, that your ship has caused me no end of inconvenience.

“Right now, though”—he glanced down at an order at hand—“we know where she is; the Semiramis is in a small harbor not far from Natal. We will have her attacked at daybreak by three dive-bombers. She cannot escape.

“News of her action never left this province. That was carefully arranged. By the time that information reaches Rio, I will be in command there.”

“You’ve overlooked something,” Jim said. Carisa had edged a trifle closer to the gun. “That I made a trip to Natal while in the amphibian.”

Don Pedro’s eyes flickered. “To Natal?” He studied Mayo thoughtfully. “What difference could that make?”

“This difference,” Jim told him flatly, “that our officer there immediately sent word to the United States. Ships and planes in force will arrive here in a matter of hours. They may even be coming in now.”

Even as he spoke, Ponga Jim knew the folly of what he said. Palmer and Wagnalls had done no such thing. Palmer had said his hands were tied, that there was nothing he could do but inform President Vargas of the plot.

CHAPTER VI

But Jim Mayo could see the possibility disturbed Norden. The plan was too perfect to risk making any changes. It all must work, or the parts each became insecure. Ponga Jim’s suggestion, simple as it was, left him uncertain. He did not believe the story, yet it could be.

“So?” He studied Jim, and Jim smiled slowly. “I just wanted, Don Pedro, to let you stick your neck way, way out. I wanted you in so deep you couldn’t pull back. When you give that order in just one minute, you’ll seal your own doom.”

“Don’t take me for a fool!” Norden snapped. “You’re bluffing!”

He started to get up, and in that instant, Carisa reached out and grasped the gun. Even as the butt slipped into her hand, Don Pedro, sensing something wrong, whirled about.

With a snarl of fury, he grabbed Carisa’s hand. Instantly, Jim hurled all his weight forward and his chair tipped over under Norden’s feet. The big man fell over him with a crash, the gun breaking loose from his hand and flying across the room.

Norden struggled to get up, and Carisa tripped him again. Ponga Jim, remembering an old trick he had used before, rolled atop the fallen man. Fontes and Peligro were struggling madly to escape, and Carisa scrambled to her feet and ran across the room after the gun. In that instant, the door opened, and Von Hardt stepped in.

His mouth opened in a cry for help when Armando Fontes suddenly heaved from his chair and lunged across the room. He hit Von Hardt with what resembled a flying tackle, knocking the man clear out into the spacious hall.

Von Hardt shouted wildly. Fontes leaped up from the fallen man, then wheeled and darted back into the room, kicking shut the door. Carisa had struck Norden over the head and was fighting desperately to get Jim untied. Peligro was still bound.

In a few seconds both men were free. Norden was struggling to get up, and Ponga Jim walked across and slugged him, knocking the financier into a heap. Peligro rescued their guns and tossed Jim’s to him.

Shouts were ringing through the house now, and they could hear running feet. Mayo grabbed Carisa.

“Quick,” he shouted. “Which way to the radio room?”

Leading the way, Carisa opened a small door in the corner and ran down a hall. Behind them, fists were thundering on the library door.

They found the radio room empty, and Peligro dropped into place at the controls. The typewritten orders lay beside the radio, stacked neatly on the left-hand side of the mike.

Ponga Jim grabbed the microphone as Fontes and Carisa began moving a filing cabinet against the door. “Mayday … Mayday … Calling SS Semiramis … calling Semiramis … calling—”

The reply was distinct and clear. “Semiramis ready … what is it?… Semiramis answering Mayday … Semiramis—”

“Mayo speaking. Get out of that harbor now. Bombers to attack at daylight.”

A machine gun rattled and the door was riddled with bullets. Ponga Jim turned, watching the door, and talking coolly and calmly. As he continued to broadcast, sending a warning to Rio describing the day’s events and the plot, he grabbed up the pile of typewritten orders and shoved them into his pocket.

Fontes had drawn back to one side and had his gun ready. Carisa, her face deathly pale, was holding the small automatic she had taken from Don Pedro. Mayo signed off as the door began to splinter.

Fontes’s gun exploded, and there was a shrill scream of pain outside the door. Peligro began methodically smashing the radio.

Seeing a window, Ponga Jim darted across. Four feet below and two feet to one side was the parapet of a lower section of roof. While Fontes kept up occasional blasts at the door, Jim opened the window and lowered Carisa, then Peligro, to the parapet.

“All right,” Jim said, “you’re next.”

Fontes shrugged. “You, señor. I will stay.”

“Nuts,” Jim said. “Beat it.”

Fontes swung to the wall, and Peligro caught his feet and held them until he was balanced. Ponga Jim leaped to the sill and with his gun in hand, dropped one leg outside, then the other.

The door came in with a splintering crash, and Jim’s automatic bucked in his hand. The first man plunged over on his face, and then a bullet smashed the wall near Jim, stinging his face with tiny fragments of mortar and stone. He fired back, edging along the parapet. The gun locked open, out of ammunition.

Mayo turned, balancing on the edge of the parapet, then dropped to the roof.

Peligro was waiting for him.

“Quick. The others are below.”

Dropping to the ground, the two men darted through the thick shrubbery and headed for the amphibian.

But the search was closing in. Behind them there was shouting, and off to the left they heard the crashing of men in the brush. Everywhere, their enemies were searching. Leading the way now, Ponga Jim took them into a low place on the edge of the airfield.

“Stay here and keep out of sight. I’ll get that ship, bring her down here to take off; you come running.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pushed his way into the brush. He took his time, working his way carefully, to make no noise. Norden would kill now. He would kill without hesitation.

The amphibian was in plain sight, and the motors were turning slowly. Beside the ship a mechanic was loafing, and Jim could see the glow of his cigarette. There were three other planes on the ground nearby.

Walking swiftly, Ponga Jim started across the field. He was within a few feet of the mechanic when the man saw him—too late. Jim lunged and swung, knocking the man into a heap under the wing. He had no more than regained his balance when a cold voice cut across his consciousness. “You again, is it?”

Mayo turned, slowly. Hugo Busch was standing there looking at him.

“I knew you’d come here,” Busch said, “so I waited. They are hunting you back there in the trees.… We will have a little time together so I could finish what I started.”

Ponga Jim’s mouth felt dry. The lights from the hangars showed the ground smooth and clear of obstacles. He could see the German’s broad, powerful shoulders, and he remembered the driving power of his punches.

They were the same height, but Busch was at least twenty pounds heavier than Jim’s own two hundred.

“All right,” Jim said quietly, “if that’s the way you want it.”

The German walked in, smiling, superbly confident. Then his left shot out, but Jim went under the punch with a smashing right to the heart. In a split second the two men were standing toe-to-toe slugging it out. Blood flew, furiously, desperately, each suddenly conscious that the end might mean death, each aware of so much at stake, and each filled with a killing fury.

The German hit Jim with a wicked right hook that knocked his head back on his shoulders, and then slammed a left into his body. That punch turned Jim sick at the stomach. He clinched, and hurled the German to the ground. Busch came back up like a cat. Hugo rushed, and Jim took two driving blows to the body, then his head rocked with a wicked right that had him hanging on while Busch ripped into him with short, driving blows.

The German seemed to have limitless strength. He kept coming, boxing skillfully at times, then dropping his skill to fight like a demon.

Yet Ponga Jim was learning. He was surer of himself now. He began to push the fight more and more. He caught the hardest blows on his shoulders and pushed his way ahead. Years of rugged living, of fresh sea air, hard work, and clean living had left him hard as nails. He drove on in now, slugging in a kind of bloody haze, confident of only one thing, that he was going to win. Busch set himself and feinting, threw a hard right.

This was the chance Jim had been waiting for. He put everything he had in his own right. It landed with a thud like an ax striking a log, and Hugo hit the ground. Drunkenly, Mayo almost collided with the plane.

         

Ponga Jim started the plane forward in a groggy haze. Guiding it by instinct, he paused at the end of the field. Juan Peligro, Armando Fontes, and Carisa came running. Jim took off, circled, then headed back over the flying field. His mind was clearing, and though his body was hurt, felt better than he had expected. He had taken all the big German had been able to give, and he had won.

The amphibian, he noticed, had been loaded with bombs. It was carrying six. He let one go as he swung in toward the field, another over the sheds, then he swung around, and in a rattle of machine-gun fire, let go two more over Castillo Norden. As the plane circled away, they could look back and see flames leaping high.

Peligro was at the plane’s radio, and now his eyes brightened.

“They are coming!” he said excitedly. “Your navy is coming!”

They landed once more on the small lake near Fortaleza and started back toward the city.

         

Ponga Jim Mayo’s face was cut and swollen. Peligro looked tired, and Carisa Montoya walked almost in a dream. Only Armando Fontes looked the same; his round, fat face was sullen, his eyes somber when they passed the light of a window.

The streets were empty. Two bodies lay in the gutter where they had fallen earlier, and the sidewalks were littered with broken glass. A heavy smell of smoke from the explosion and fire tainted the air, and the waters of the bay were littered with wreckage. It was almost day, but the moon was still bright.

In the vague light the streets looked like those of a long-deserted city. Yet as they rounded a corner, a file of soldiers in Brazilian uniforms turned into the street from the opposite direction. They marched past, stepping briskly along, a cool, efficient, soldierly body of men. “That means that Vargas acted,” Ponga Jim said. “Everything will be over soon enough.”

They reached the steps of the hotel and started in when two men came out. One was Major Wagnalls from Natal. The other was Slug Brophy, Jim’s chief mate.

The major smiled and held out a hand. “So you made it! One of our boys just radioed word that Castillo Norden was in flames, the hangars destroyed, and three planes burning on the field.

“A transport landed there a few minutes ago from Rio. Von Hardt has been arrested by Major Palmer, and they found Hugo Busch beaten unconscious. A mechanic said you did it.” Wagnalls looked at Jim. “I didn’t think anybody could do that.”

“Neither did I,” Mayo said simply. “I guess I was lucky.”

“What about Don Pedro?” Peligro interrupted. “He is the one we want.”

Wagnalls’s brow creased. “That’s the missing item. He escaped. It doesn’t matter, for the government will confiscate his holdings here, so his power is broken. But I dislike to see him free.

“Especially,” he added, “since Señorita Montoya will soon be known as a government agent … President Vargas was suspicious, and Miss Montoya knowing Don Pedro, volunteered to investigate.”

“What I want to know,” Mayo demanded, “is how they captured my ship?”

Brophy grinned sheepishly. “Duro, the port captain, Du Silva, and an army officer came out. They had three girls along, so we didn’t expect trouble.

“They came aboard, and Duro said he had to search my cabin for dope. We started for the cabin. No sooner had we left the deck than men came up the ladder and deployed about the deck.”

“There’s still some fighting going on but all the principal plotters are taken care of but Don Pedro,” Wagnalls said. “But we’ll have him soon.”

“I don’t think so.”

Ponga Jim Mayo felt himself turn cold. His back was to the speaker, but he needed no more than those few words to tell him who it was. The voice had been low, but heavy with menace. He turned.

Thirty feet away, Don Pedro Norden stood in the street near the mouth of a narrow alleyway. In his hands he held a submachine gun. His brilliantly conceived plot had fallen to pieces, the men he hated had won. Yet he had a gun, and the little group before the hotel were covered, helpless.

Norden’s clothing was torn and bloody, his face looked thinner, harder, more brutal. If ever a man was seething with hate, it was this one. Never in his life, Jim knew, had he been so close to death. The man was fairly trembling with triumph and killing fury. The architects of his defeat—Juan Peligro, Major Wagnalls, Brophy, Carisa, and Ponga Jim—were all in range. He could in one burst of fire wipe the slate clean of his enemies.

Norden’s teeth bared in a grimace of hate, and when he spoke his voice was choked with emotion. “Perhaps I will be captured, but not yet.…”

The submachine gun lifted, and Jim thought that even at that distance he could see the man’s finger tighten.

A gun roared, and the submachine gun began to chatter, but the muzzle had fallen, and the bullets merely bit against the stones of the street and ripped the dust into little fountains of fury.

Don Pedro Norden, a great black hole between his eyes, the back of his head blown away, fell slowly on his face.

Turning, they saw Armando Fontes, the big pistol clutched in his right hand, leaning nonchalantly against a corner. With a match in his cupped left hand, he was lighting a cigarette.

For a long moment, they stared, relief soaking through them. Ponga Jim looked at the disreputable little man.

“All right, Armando,” he asked. “Tell us. Who are you agent for? What’s your part in this?”

Fontes shrugged, his eyes lidded. He drew on his cigarette and took the occasion to slip the big gun back into his waistband.

“I, señor? I am but a little man. A little man who likes his government.”

He turned, and with a deprecating wave of his hand, walked down the street, and away.