Down Paagumene Way

Steve Cowan leaned back against a packing case on the jetty at Paagumene Bay, New Caledonia, lazily watching the shipping. It was growing dark, and would soon be night.

Five ships were anchored in the harbor, all of them with cargoes for American troops. One, her freight discharged, was loading chrome from lighters.

The last rays of sunshine tipped the masts with transient gold. The freighter loading ore would sail tonight. In a few weeks she would be tying up in an American port.

Steve Cowan’s eyes strayed to the amphibian, riding lightly on the darkening water. A little refitting and he could fly her home on furlough, his first since being assigned to Army Intelligence. She was a beautiful plane, resembling the Grumman “Widgeon” but built to certain unusual specifications, laid down by Army designers. Because of that she was much faster and more maneuverable than any ship of her type. Moreover, she was armed like a fighter, and had a small bomb bay, so far unused except for freight.

Four years ago he had come out to the Pacific, and they had been four years of unceasing activity. Years that culminated in the Japanese invasion of the East Indies, ending his express and mail-carrying business suddenly and dramatically. Since being commissioned, he had acted as a secret messenger and undercover agent for the Allies.

It would be good to be back in the States again, to walk down the streets, to get away from the heat and humidity, eat a cheeseburger, and have a cold soda or beer.

A boat bumped alongside the jetty and two men clambered out.

“You just get that chrome to the right place at the right time. You get it there, or else.”

Abruptly, Steve Cowan stiffened. He knew that voice! Instinctively, he shrank down further behind the packing case.

“You don’t understand!” the second man protested. “This job is a cinch. It won’t interfere with the chrome deal. We can pick up the classified sailing list from the butler in Isola Mayne’s place. With those Jap credentials we got, nobody’d be the wiser. The Japs’ll pay heavy to get it back. They got to have it for their subs!”

“Yeah?” the voice sneered. “You pull something like that, Meyer,” an odd inflection was put on the name, as if Meyer was being taunted, “Koyama will cut your heart out. Try it and see what happens.”

Something in the tone of that ugly, domineering voice rang a bell of memory in Steve Cowan’s brain.

Mataga!

Recognition brought a start of dismay. Not twenty feet away, on the edge of the jetty was a man sworn to kill Cowan on sight. And Cowan was unarmed.

Mataga was speaking again. “You do what you’re told. All you have to worry about is getting this cargo of chrome to the Japs.”

“Besi John” Mataga in New Caledonia! Steve Cowan’s eyes narrowed. The renegade from the waters around Singapore was not one to stop at anything. Deadly, brutal, and efficient, he had been working with Jap and Nazi Fifth Columnists for several years. When Singapore fell he went to Saigon. When Java succumbed, he appeared in Batavia. Now he was here, in New Caledonia!

As their footsteps receded down the jetty, Steve Cowan got to his feet. If Besi John was here it meant something big was moving. Something infinitely more important than a shipload of chrome. If he was working with Koyama it meant even more, for the Japanese was a leader of the powerful and notoriously evil Black Dragon Society, which had many underground members in the South Seas. And “Meyer”? Could that be Captain Peter Meyer …?

         

The eyes of M. Esteville were amused when Cowan met with him the next day. “But, m’sieu,” he protested gently, “it cannot be! The vessel you speak of is the Benton Harbor, well known to us.” He sighed gustily. “As you say, it is true her master is Peter Meyer, a native of Holland, but he is highly respected here. Your story, if you’ll forgive me, is utterly preposterous!”

“I know Mataga,” Cowan persisted. “And I know what I heard.”

Esteville shrugged. “Undoubtedly Mataga is a dangerous criminal. But here? I think not. It would be too dangerous. A fancied resemblance, no more.”

“Bah!” Steve Cowan’s voice was flat. “I know Mataga. Last night I heard him speaking. As to the other man, he may be your Captain Meyer, or he may not. I know Mataga is here and something’s in the wind.”

“We will investigate.” Esteville stood up, plainly annoyed. “But you are mistaken. Nothing is wrong with that ship. As for your wild tale about the shipping lists, that is fantastic. Even if such information could be obtained, there are no spies in Paagumene.”

Cowan’s eyes hardened. The man’s indifference annoyed him. “I’ve told you. Now do something, or I will!”

Esteville’s eyes blazed. “Remember, m’sieu, that New Caledonia still has a government! We are capable of handling our own affairs. Any interference from you will bring a protest to American officials—a protest too strong to be ignored.”

Cowan turned on his heel and walked out. He could scarcely blame Esteville for being doubtful. Cowan’s connection with Army Intelligence was secret and, because of strict orders, Cowan did not dare tell him. After all, Captain Meyer, master of the Benton Harbor, had an excellent reputation and Esteville might feel justified in rejecting such a wild story without proof.

         

Thoughtfully Cowan paused under a tree and considered his next step. Summing up, how much did he actually know? That the Benton Harbor was the only ship in the roadstead being loaded with chrome, a vital war material, and that she would soon leave for the United States. Also that Besi John, a notorious criminal and Fifth Columnist, was here on shady business.

A shipping list had been mentioned, too, and enemy agents. One of whom was evidently working in conjunction with Japanese submarines, plying along the southern route to Australia. Esteville had said there were no spies and that such a list would be impossible to obtain. Yet Besi John had spoken of both agents and list in a matter-of-course manner. So they did exist. How could Cowan find out more about them?

Then he remembered Isola Mayne.

He had never seen her. Pictures, of course. Everyone had seen pictures of Isola Mayne. She was more than a beautiful woman, more than a great actress. She was a legend.

Three years before, she had abruptly retired and, going to Singapore, had settled down, apparently for life. Then came the Japanese invasion, and Isola, in her own plane, had flown to Palembang, and next to Soera-baja. When she arrived in Sydney she moved the war off the front pages. Then she was gone. She vanished into nothingness.

A few days the world wondered, but with the war, they soon forgot.

Yet Steve Cowan knew where she was. He knew, because he had flown supplies to her plantation on New Caledonia. He had not seen her, but knew she was living there in seclusion. And Isola Mayne’s brother was Port Captain! Married to a French woman, he, too, had spent time in Singapore, before that La Rochelle, and then relocated to Paagumene. In these places he had held prominent maritime positions. The spy must be one of the servants of his household, one who had managed in some way to steal a copy of the sailing list.

Unconsciously, Cowan had wandered back to the jetty. He stopped, staring at the dark blobs—freighters on Paagumene Bay. Much more was at stake out at the Oland Point home of Isola Mayne and her brother than appeared on the surface. A sailing list, in the hands of the Japanese submarine commanders, might disrupt the whole military line of supplies with the Far East. Whichever enemy got it—either the Japanese or Besi John Mataga—did not matter much with Cowan. Either way it would be disastrous.

Mataga was on the island, and somewhere nearby was Koyama. Mataga’s apparent lack of interest in the list had not fooled Cowan. He knew the man too well. Besi John, besi being Malay for “iron,” would make his own attempt in his own way, and Mataga would strike with utter ruthlessness.

Cowan took his cigarette from his mouth and snapped it into the bay. He could do nothing here. Oland Point was where the answer would be.

He dropped into the rubber boat and paddled out to the amphibian.

Opening the door of the cabin, he stepped in. A light flashed suddenly in his eyes and a fist smashed out of the darkness and knocked him to his knees. Someone struck him a vicious blow on the head, then another.

Through a fog of pain he struggled to hold himself erect, he heard Mataga’s harsh voice.

“Lash the beggar!” Besi John growled. “We got a date at Oland Point.”

Cowan struggled, trying to shout. Then something crashed upon his skull and he fell forward into a foam of pain that ate into and through him.

         

It was almost day when he opened his eyes again. The plane was still in the air. Struggling to master his nausea, he tried to reason things out. Still in the air?

He struggled to rise, but an arrow of torment from his head made him fall back, helpless. But not before he had discovered that he was tied hand and foot.

His brow furrowed, he tried to grope his way back along the trail of semiconsciousness. Something had happened—

Memory of it was veiled in the mists, in the half lights of awareness after he had been struck down. How long, he could not recall, yet something had happened. There was a dim recollection of lapping water, a strange dream of firelight dancing upon a dark hull, a mutter of motors, aircraft engines, and the murmur of voices.

He remembered, vaguely, through darkness and clouds, a round hump, like that on a camel’s back.

Somehow, that dark hump stood out in his mind, forcing itself always into the foreground. He had a feeling of having seen it before.

Finally he opened his eyes, and knew that he had passed out again. The plane was resting on the water. He could hear waves lapping against the hull.

He rolled over, and tipping his head back, Cowan looked around the cabin of the plane. Sitting in the hatchway, with his legs dangling toward the water was a huge and heavily tattooed Malay. Seeing that he was, for the moment, unobserved, the pilot tried to move his hands. They were bound beneath him and the tightness of the ropes was cutting into his wrists but more painful than that was a seam in the folded metal of the aircraft … a seam that just might have a sharp enough edge to free him!

Moving with the slight swell of the water under the craft, Steve Cowan shifted until the ropes lay across the seam, and then, very slowly, he began to saw up and down. How long he worked he did not know but the progress was horribly slow. He felt strands of the rope part, but when he twisted his wrists they seemed just as tightly held. Dispirited, he glanced up and noticed the native in the door watching him with a knowing sneer on his face … and the Malay watchman was a man he knew!

Yosha was a tough from the oil fields in Balikpapan, a man noted for his viciousness and dishonesty. With a war on, it was not surprising that he and Besi John had washed up on the same shore.

“So, y’get away, eh?” Yosha stood and started aft, his blocky body filling the fuselage of the plane almost completely. “We see about tha’.” He drew a parang from its bamboo sheath and took a step toward Cowan. In that instant, a woman screamed. Wildly, desperately, a cry of mortal anguish came from somewhere on shore!

Yosha stiffened, glancing back toward the aircraft hatchway, startled.

Steve Cowan lunged. He hit the Malay with his shoulder, toppling him over backward. Yosha swung but the plane was too small a space to effectively wield the machete-like parang and the blade scraped sparks along the aluminum skin of the craft. The tip hit a rib in the metalwork and the weapon jumped from his grip.

Yosha’s big hand grabbed for the handle of the weapon, as his other clutched at Cowan’s shirtfront.

Cowan jerked back, tearing the thin garment from the grasping hand. Both men lunged to their feet. Steve Cowan, quicker in reaction, smashed his head forward into Yosha’s face in a frantic “Liverpool kiss.” Yosha stumbled back and Steve jerked at his bindings, growling in frustration and fear.

A cord parted as the Malay stood up. Cowan jerked and twisted, one hand coming loose just as Yosha rushed. Cowan lashed out with a right, his wrist still wrapped in hemp, and the blow set his adversary back, but it was weak, the wrist and hand still numb from being bound. Fighting for his life Cowan swung a wicked blow to the brute’s middle. Then he lunged into the Malay, his fists slamming the big muscle-corded body.

Yosha flinched away, staggering across the cabin. Yet now he held the thick-bladed knife ready, his teeth bared in a grimace of ferocious hate. Then, his feet wide apart, he started creeping along the narrow cabin toward Cowan. Cornered, desperate, Cowan feinted a blow as the islander lunged. Risking everything, the American hurled himself against Yosha’s shoulder, and thrown off balance, both men toppled through the open hatch and struck the water.

Down, down, down! Then, somehow, Cowan discovered he was free and began desperately to swim for shore with powerful strokes.

As Cowan’s head broke the surface, he glanced back. The plane rode gracefully on the blue water, not far away. But with the woman’s scream still ringing in his ears, Cowan made no move to find out what had become of Yosha. He continued to swim swiftly toward shore. In a short while Cowan reached the shallows and splashed to land. He crossed the beach at a run. When the jungle had closed around him he felt safe.

Moving swiftly and silently, he worked his way toward the rambling plantation house, stripping the remains of the rope from his wrists. He was unarmed, and none knew better than himself the foe he was facing.

Ahead of Cowan was the wall of the Port Captain’s house, and in it an open French window. He crossed the garden swiftly, moving from one clump of shrubbery to the next. Flattened against the wall, he peered in.

Isola Mayne was standing by a table. Her dress was torn. Masses of red-gold hair had fallen about her shoulders. Yet despite these things, never before had Cowan seen a woman look so regal, so beautiful, so commanding.

“You tell me!” Besi John Mataga’s voice carried a soft but deadly threat. “If you don’t, we kill the maid. Your butler was a fool. He gave us no time to explain.” He gestured at the body of a man which Cowan noticed, for the first time, lying in the shadows. “I’ll kill you or this woman if I have to. Now, where’s your brother’s safe? We know he has one. Tell us, and we’ll let you go.”

“So that’s what this is about.” Isola Mayne’s voice was low, and it made Steve Cowan’s nerves tingle. “You want the shipping list? And my butler was a traitor, too? Well, you’ll never find the list because it isn’t here.”

Mataga’s face flushed and his eyes glinted with anger. But he merely turned away.

“Go ahead!” he told his men. “We’ll see if she’s as brave as she pretends.”

Isola Mayne’s face paled. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said, but Steve Cowan detected the resolution draining from her voice, and he saw how her eyes widened with horror. The men with Besi John were savage beasts.

Leaning further, he could see the two men holding the maid, a native girl. They had bent her arms cruelly behind her back. The girl’s face was white, but her eyes were fearless.

“Don’t tell them!” she cried. “They’ll kill us anyway.”

“Shut up!” Mataga whirled and struck the girl viciously across the mouth.

Instantly, the room burst into a turmoil of action. Isola Mayne, seizing a paper knife, was around the table with a movement that took the renegade by surprise. Only a quick leap got him away from the knife. Then he caught the wrist of the actress and with a brutal wrench, twisted her to her knees.

In the same instant that Isola moved, Steve Cowan had plunged through the door. He hit the room running. The nearest of the men holding the maid dropped her arm and wheeled to face him, grabbing for his gun, but he was too slow.

Cowan went at him with a roundhouse swing that started at the door. It knocked the fellow sprawling into a corner. Springing across the fallen chair, Cowan leaped to close quarters with the other man. A shot blazed in his face, then the American’s fist drove deep into the softness of the man’s body, and he saw the fellow’s face turn sick.

Someone jumped on him from behind. Dropping to one knee he hurled the man over his shoulder, then lunged to his feet just as Besi John Mataga whipped out a gun.

For a second Steve looked straight into the gun barrel. Lifting his eyes he could see death in Mataga’s cruel face.

Then Isola Mayne twisted suddenly on the floor and kicked out with all her strength. At the same moment Mataga’s pistol roared but the bullet went wild. Cowan moved. He hit Mataga in a sudden lunge and Mataga fell, cursing viciously.

Catching Isola’s wrist, Cowan lifted her from the floor, and seizing the automatic from the table where it had fallen, charged for the door and the maid came stumbling after them.

         

How they reached the jungle, Steve Cowan never knew. He was aware of moving swiftly, of Isola beside him. When the maid stumbled and fell, he picked her up, almost collapsing after going the last few feet into the jungle. There had been shooting. He distinctly remembered the ugly bark of guns and the white lash of a bullet scar across a tree trunk ahead of him.

“Put me down.” The voice brought him back to awareness. It was the maid speaking. He put her down carefully. Her face was white and set, but she seemed uninjured.

Isola was beside her in an instant. “Are you all right, Clara? If anything happens to you here, I’d never forgive myself.”

“I’m all right.”

Steve Cowan liked the blaze in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid, only angry. His eyes went to Isola.

“I’m Steve Cowan,” he said. Briefly, he explained. “What we’ll do now,” he added, “is anybody’s guess. We’ll have to keep moving until we find a place to hole up. Mataga won’t quit. Especially,” he added grimly, “now that I’m free.”

“You knew him before?” Isola said. Her eyes flashed. “He’s a spy.”

“Two years ago we had difficulties on Siberut, an island near Sumatra.”

They walked on in silence. Despite the maid’s injured ankle and knee, he kept them moving along. There was no time for hesitation, Besi John would work swiftly and shrewdly.

Cowan studied the situation. It could hardly be worse. Esteville would not help him. Nominally the French were in charge, and no American Army officials could interfere without disclosing Cowan’s true status. Whatever was done he must do himself. He checked the magazine of the automatic. Five shots remaining.

“We’ve got to recapture my plane,” said Cowan. “Then I can fly you to Paagumene Bay.” He looked at Isola. “Your butler was a traitor? He was selling you out to the Japs?”

“I guess so,” answered the girl. “He’d been with us for years and we trusted him. Oh, it’s so horrible!”

They reached the edge of the jungle near where the plane was moored. A boat was alongside of the amphibian, and two Malays were seated in it with rifles across their knees. Another one of Besi John’s men was standing in the cabin doorway.

“Well,” Isola said, “it was a good idea.”

Grimly Cowan sized up the situation. Three men with rifles. That chance was eliminated. They found a hollow beneath the roots of a giant ficus tree. It was dark, almost a cave. Cowan handed the automatic to Isola. “You may need this,” he said. “What I have to do, it’s best to do quietly.”

She did not warn him, she did not suggest that he guard himself, but something in her eyes carried a tender message. For an instant her hand was on his arm as she smiled.

“Don’t worry about us,” she said.

         

Steve Cowan moved swiftly. He knew the jungle too well to be fearful. Even less than Besi John’s imported Malays did he fear the abysmal darkness under the mighty trees. He was familiar with darkness; they superstitiously distrusted it.

There was, he recalled, a radio at the plantation. Since M. Esteville would not help him, he would help himself.

Night had fallen. Yet moving through the blackness under the trees, Steve Cowan knew it would be a help rather than otherwise. He left the jungle, and slipped swiftly from tree to tree across the lawn near the mansion.

The radio room was on the second story. He heard the murmur of voices inside. Then a guard walked along the porch near the railing. Behind the guard was the lattice he intended to use to get to the second floor. He could have waited, but impatience and hot, goading temper drove him on.

The guard, warned by some sixth sense, turned, and Cowan struck like a panther. His left smashed into the man’s windpipe, knocking him gasping against the rail. Then the American chopped him across the eyes with the edge of his hand.

The man fell facedown on the porch, and did not move. His gun had fallen over the rail, but he wore a knife. With the blade in his teeth, Steve Cowan went up the lattice. A man sat at the radio, reading a magazine. Being here, he could only be a Mataga man.

Cowan slid a forearm under the man’s chin, and crushed it against his windpipe. Then with a quick jerk, he wrenched the fellow back over his chair. Dragging him to the floor, Cowan spoke softly.

“Lie still and live,” he said. “Move and you die.”

He reached for a rope, and the native acted. He hurled himself at Cowan, his lips twisted in a snarl. Cowan’s knife blade, held low and flat side down, slashed suddenly. Blood cascaded down the man’s shirtfront, and he slumped to the floor.

Cowan sat down at the radio. For an instant he held the key, then he began to send.

BENTON HARBOR … SS BENTON HARBOR … NEW PLAN … COME AT ONCE.

KOYAMA.

A door swung open and another man appeared. Evidently he was another guard for he uttered a loud shout when he caught sight of Cowan. Then without hesitation he whipped out a gun and fired at the American. The sound of the shot rocked the building, and before the Malay could pull the trigger again, the American threw the knife—low and hard!

It struck! Horrified, the Malay stared at the haft protruding from his stomach. The muzzle of his own weapon sagged as he reached for the knife and tugged it out. Blood gushed, and he fell.

Cowan caught up the gun and sprang into the hall. Two men were charging up the stairs and he sent slugs whizzing at them. Somehow he missed, so he dodged across the hall into another room, slamming the door after him. Then, crouching, he wheeled as bodies smashed against the door. He fired again, once, twice, until the gun clicked empty, and he dropped the useless weapon.

A noise behind him made Cowan turn quickly. A man had come into the window by means of the vines, and Cowan recognized him at once. It was Yosha, the bloodthirsty Malay who had tried to kill him on the amphibian.

Yosha looked bigger than ever. With bared teeth, he leaped at the American. Cowan’s jab missed and he was seized by powerful arms, swept from his feet, and hurled across the room. He hit the wall with a crash but came back fighting, although half stunned.

The Malay met the American with a straight arm and flung him against the wall once more. When Cowan tried a flying tackle, Yosha met it with a smashing knee that knocked him rolling to the floor. A kick to the forehead sent darts of pain lancing through his brain. The Malay was adept in this kind of fighting.

Drunk with agony, Cowan staggered to his feet. He had realized that this battle must be to the death. So he cut loose a terrific left hook which caught Yosha on the chin and rocked him to the heels. But the Malay only snarled, shook his head, and replied with a bludgeoning blow which slashed Cowan across the cheek. Dazed, the American could not avoid the instant attack which followed.

Coolly, but with diabolical fury, the Malay tried to beat him into submission. Yosha had a knife in his belt and evidently meant to use it when he had punished the American to his satisfaction. But Cowan kept his head. He weathered the storm and continued to watch for his opportunity.

At last it came. As the knife flashed out Cowan tried another judo trick. Stepping in, he avoided the thrust, and flipped the blade inward. At the same moment he tripped Yosha. The Malay fell to the floor on top of the knife and rolled over. The knife was sticking out of his chest.

At this instant shots rang out in the direction of the beach. Cowan sprang for the window. He could see stabs of flame as more shots ripped the air. Still dizzy from the pounding he had received, the American cleared the sill and went down the vines outside.

Just what was happening he had no idea, but whatever the diversion, he must make it work to his advantage. Running swiftly, he headed for the woods.

         

The rattle of rifle fire down along the beach was growing. He swung away from that direction, cutting deeper into the jungle. Then he reached the ficus. Isola Mayne and the maid were gone!

Shocked, Steve Cowan froze, trying to understand. Isola would not have moved willingly, he knew that. The knowledge was no help. He started for the beach, moving fast.

The sound of firing had ceased. He slipped noiselessly through the jungle, and stared out. All was blackness beyond the edge of the trees and he could see nothing. He moved out, creeping slowly. Then he tripped and almost fell. He put his hand down. A dead man.

Feeling around in the dark he found a pistol, which he tucked into his belt, and moved on. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and he saw more bodies. There were corpses of white men among them, white men garbed as sailors.

Whatever the cause of the fight, it had been desperate. Out across the water he caught the outline of a Samson post against the sky. Then he knew.

The only ship in the Paagumene Bay with Samson posts had been the Benton Harbor. That meant Cowan’s ruse to make Meyer betray himself had been successful. Peter Meyer had received his message.

Meyer, obviously, had been close by. That told Cowan that he had surmised the double cross Besi John Mataga had planned. Meyer’s arrival had precipitated a battle.

One of Mataga’s sentries must have fired on the ship, and Meyer, fearing a trap, had responded.

Steve Cowan stopped. What now? True, Meyer and Mataga were fighting, but that still didn’t help him. The shipload of chrome would be moving out, and the Japanese master spy, Koyama, was still loose. Also Isola Mayne was gone.

Nothing was settled, nothing was improved. He was free, but apparently helpless. Then he recalled the vague, misty dream of his flight to Oland Point, when he had been a prisoner aboard the plane. How long had they been in the air? He had no way of knowing, but he recalled the camel’s hump, and the dark sky.

The dark hump … Neangambo!

He knew then. A Japanese submarine had surfaced in Nehue Bay. Neangambo was an island in the bay, and the dark hump of the hill and trees could be nowhere else near here. It must be the ship that had brought Koyama.

He worked his way along the shore to the edge of a village and as he had hoped, he found a catamaran. He shoved off and after a moment was alone, and slipping across the dark waters.

         

It was almost daylight when Steve Cowan, drunk with fatigue and his head throbbing with pain from the beating he had taken earlier, reached the shore opposite Neangambo.

The ship he had seen leaving Oland Point, the Benton Harbor, was there, and not far away, moored to a piling, was his own plane!

Steve Cowan wet his parched lips. All right, this was it. It was the work of minutes to bring the catamaran alongside the Benton Harbor. He paddled around to the bow, moored the boat to the anchor chain, and went up, hand over hand, at the risk of crushed fingers.

The deck was dark and still. He moved aft, slowly. Voices came from the saloon port. He slipped closer, then glanced in.

Peter Meyer, his face sour, sat at one end of the table. Nearby, her hands tied, was Isola Mayne. Behind her was the maid. Koyama sat with his back to the port, and across from him was Besi John Mataga, his face dark with fury.

“So?” Koyama’s voice was sibilant. “You thought to betray us. Explain this, if you will.”

Besi John laughed harshly. “Don’t blame me for that. It was Cowan’s work.” He looked at the stout shipmaster. “Steuben, I think Cowan knew about what happened. You may resemble Meyer enough to fool some, Herman, but you didn’t fool everyone!”

The thin Japanese officer, Koyama, made a gesture of impatience.

“All this is beside the point,” he hissed. “Why did you kill our agent, the butler? The Burma man was valuable.”

“I tell you I didn’t know about it,” shouted Besi John, angrily.

The Japanese master spy’s anger increased. “You are a fool!” he snapped. “For that you will die.” He waved his hand toward the women. “They must die, too. No one who knows our plans must remain alive.”

Another voice, suave and smooth, broke in. “You must not do this, Commander Koyama. Miss Mayne is a famous actress, internationally known. She cannot disappear without causing complications. Better turn her over to my authority. I think I can make her see reason.”

Esteville! The Frenchman was in this with them. All of which explained why the substitution of Steuben for Peter Meyer had been successful. Without hesitation Steve Cowan turned and walked into the cabin.

Mataga saw Cowan first. Trapped and in danger of losing his life, the renegade had been waiting for a chance to escape from the ship. Like a flash he leaped from his chair, darted through another door, and disappeared. A loud splash revealed he had gone over the side.

Steve Cowan was too busy to follow. As Koyama lunged to his feet and whipped out a gun, Cowan raised his automatic and fired twice.

The Japanese officer’s face turned sick, and he fell face forward across the table, dead.

It had happened so suddenly that it was like a slow-motion picture, but almost at once the saloon blazed with shots. Steuben grabbed for his gun, and lunged to his feet, firing desperately. Esteville crouched down, out of sight.

In a haze of powder smoke, Cowan saw Isola and the maid slip out of the door through which Besi John Mataga had disappeared. Steuben was down beside Koyama, now, the smoking pistol clutched in his lifeless fingers. Esteville was hiding behind a table. He had taken no part in the fight and there was no use remaining here any longer. Outside the crew had begun to shout and feet were approaching. So Cowan leaped through the doorway after the two girls, joining them at the railing.

A sailor, in plain sight, opened up with a rifle and Cowan knocked him spinning with one shot. Then with bullets from other members of the crew pattering around him, he swung over the rail and dropped Isola and the maid into the water near the catamaran.

More shots rang out and bullets snipped the water near the slim craft. Luckily the light, just before daylight, was not good, or they would have been slain. He continued to paddle furiously. Soon the freighter was out of sight and the firing stopped.

The plane was ahead, and Steve Cowan swung in close, then crawled aboard. He helped the girls into the cabin and slid into place behind the controls. After several attempts, he got the motors started and warmed them up.

When the ship was in the air, he took stock. The freighter below was moving now. They would get out, and get away fast. Soon Cowan noted two other freighters moving. A convoy, ostensibly bound for America, but, in reality, bound for Japan. The traitorous Pierre Esteville had made this possible.

But even well-laid plans can fail. Cowan swung his ship, and went down in a ringing, whistling dive. Then he opened up with the machine guns. His heavy projectiles blasted the bridge and ripped away the pilothouse windows. The freighter swung suddenly, and turned broadside to the channel.

Banking the Widgeon, Cowan swooped again. From stem to stern he plastered the freighters with gunfire. Then Isola screamed.

Cowan turned in his seat, startled. Besi John Mataga was standing in the middle of the amphibian’s cabin, the small hatch to the bomb bay swinging on its hinges. As Cowan slid out of the seat and faced him, he sprang.

There was no choice but to fight, so Cowan met the renegade’s rush. He got in one well-placed punch before Mataga closed with him, and the plane dipped dangerously.

Then they were locked in a furious, bitter fight. The plane was forgotten, there was no time to think, to reason, only to act. Slugging like a madman, he broke away from those powerful, clutching fingers. He smashed a left to Besi John’s face, then a right to the windpipe. Mataga gasped, and sat down, then lunged and tackled Cowan and they both fell.

Through a haze of blood, Steve Cowan saw Isola had taken the controls. Then the renegade lunged for him, knife in hand. Slapping the wrist aside with his left, Cowan grasped it in his right hand, then thrust his left leg across in front of Mataga’s and his left arm over and under Mataga’s right. He pressed down, and the half-caste screamed as his arm broke at the elbow, and his body lifted and arched, flying over the American’s hip.

The right door had been knocked open, and the maid had been trying, vainly, to get it closed. Besi John’s body caught in the doorway and then slipped through. He grabbed at the sill, desperately, and his fingers held for one breathtaking moment.

With a kind of dull horror, Steve Cowan saw Mataga tumbling down, down, down toward the waters of the bay. When he hit, a fleck of white showed, and he was gone.

Cowan turned, drunk with fatigue and punishment. Isola, her hair free in the wind from the open door, was flying the plane. She looked up at him suddenly, and smiled.

He looked down. A long, slim destroyer was sliding past Neangambo Island. Another was off Tonnerre Point in the distance. Evidently the situation was under control.

He collapsed, suddenly, upon the floor.

When he opened his eyes, the ship was resting easily on the water. He looked up. An officer in the blue and gold of the Navy was standing over him.

“All right, old man?” the officer asked, grinning. “You had a rough time of it. We had been checking Esteville, and were suspicious of Meyer. We have him—all of them—in custody.”

Steve Cowan looked up. Isola. He had been wondering whose shoulder his head was lying on.

“Then,” he said, still looking at her, “I guess everything is under control.”

The naval officer straightened. He smiled. The Navy knows something of women.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I’d say it was.”