The Devil—With Wings

 

From Shanghai to Vladivostok, the sight of this black-garbed white man had, for three years, been occasion for various types of heart failure among the soldiers of the Rising Sun.

 

Of his face only his nostrils and mouth were visible. The black leather flying helmet and the huge goggles were more effective than any mask. The black artillery boots looked staunch and solid but he could walk like a panther in them.

 

There were only three spots of light about him: the lens of each goggle and the large silver buckle of his belt.

 

His lips curved downward into a chilly grin as he stepped noiselessly over the Japanese and slid silent as a thundercloud along the black passageway.

 

He turned a corner and came to a stop. The glazed glass of one door exuded a thin yellow light, diffused until it spread like a saffron fog through the gloom. The ideograph on the door said, “Records.”

 

Forsythe reached toward the knob but an instant before he touched it, a shadow became sharply outlined on the other side. The cap and profile of a Japanese, the silhouette of a fixed bayonet.

 

Instead of touching the knob, Forsythe stepped closer and made a fist of his glove.

 

He knocked sharply and the sound of it went booming through the brooding structure like a war drum.

 

The silhouette straightened and turned. The knob rattled. Yellow light spread from top to bottom in a long, widening line. The sentry stood there with bayonet at ready, peering into the gloom.

 

He saw the tall black shadow before him, caught the terrifying glitter of the goggles. The sentry needed no time for decision. He lunged and light streaked down the cold steel.

 

Forsythe stepped nimbly aside. He knew bayonets.

 

The gloves gripped the barrel as the bayonet dashed past. With a wrench, Forsythe whipped the weapon out of the sentry’s hands and delivered a vicious butt stroke to the jaw.

 

Forsythe placed the rifle against the wall and stepped over the Japanese and into the Records room.

 

An unshaded electric light was burning above a littered, scarred table. The walls were lined with the tarnished brass handles of the files.

 

Without hesitation he strode to a cabinet and jerked it open. The black gloves gathered up large handfuls of paper to throw them upward and back. The sheets rustled and settled like enormous snowflakes over the rug.

 

Forsythe located the file he required and chuckled softly as he read his name blazoned in large ideographs across the top of it: THE DEVIL WITH WINGS.

 

He stepped to the table and started to sit down. A sound held him crouched for an instant and then he straightened up and paced to the window and studied the street below.

 

A chunky Japanese car had drawn up to the curb before the office and now three officers were getting out. They looked squat and bearish in their greatcoats under the hard light from the street lamp.

 

Looking down at their precise round hats, Forsythe tried to recognize them. They stood talking for several seconds and then the leanest one of the lot started toward the entrance of the building. He looked up just before he stepped inside.

 

Forsythe drew hastily back.

 

It was Shinohari of the Japanese Intelligence.

 

The other two officers stayed by the car.

 

Forsythe paced again to the table and ripped into the file he had found. He tossed papers to the right and left until he came upon a thick wad of posters. He crammed a number of these into his jacket and then raced his glance across a clip of letters, singling out a pair, one of which read:

 

Captain Ito Shinohari

Imperial Japanese Army Headquarters

 

Honorable Sir:

 

The American engineer Robert Weston was murdered yesterday near Aigun on the Amur River. Evidence indicates that he was killed by The Devil With Wings, Akuma-no-Hané.

 

N-38 at Aigun

Decoded by Lt. Tatsu

April 2

 

The other said:

 

Captain Shinohari:

 

Enclosed herewith a letter from Robert Weston to one Patricia Weston, his sister, mentioning value of a Confucius image. Original letter forwarded to Patricia Weston. As image may contain some secret document, suggest you follow lead to Patricia Weston. The hand of Akuma-no-Hané is quite plain in this.

 

Colonel Shimizu

Commanding Aigun

April 6

 

He wadded these into a small packet and slipped them into the heavy money belt at his waist.

 

For a moment he stood listening, looking at the door. He knew that Shinohari would find the unconscious sentry at the top of the steps, but Akuma-no-Hané preferred to let events take their own course.

 

Again he shuffled through the papers, watching for any detail which might serve him well. He missed the copy of the original letter to Patricia Weston though he tried hard to find it.

 

Another communication came under his hand:

 

Captain Ito Shinohari

Imperial Japanese Army Intelligence

Port Arthur

 

Honorable Sir:

 

May this unworthy agent be allowed to report that, after two days of constant watching, Patricia Weston has not yet contacted Akuma-no-Hané. May this one humbly request relief from his post, knowing he can better serve the gallant Captain in other departments better.

 

In information it has been learned that Patricia Weston is without funds and it is not likely that she will leave Port Arthur. As ordered, this one has carefully undermined her credit at her hotel and at the cable station. There is therefore no likelihood of her leaving, or communicating with any possible friends in the United States.

 

This one suggests that it might be prudent to cause her to be deported at government expense.

 

N-16 at Port Arthur

May 3

 

Akuma-no-Hané slid this with the others into his money belt. He slapped the file into chaos about the room and strode to the Records Office Door, .45 drawn.

 

Before he could reach the knob it slammed toward him!

 

Shinohari, Luger in hand, was framed in the opening. Three feet from him Forsythe had centered the muzzle of the .45 automatic upon the yellow greatcoat.

 

They stood there, deadlocked, glaring at each other.