John D. MacDonald

Blame Those Who Die

A young man with pale blue eyes and a shy smile entered the offices of the Hindustan Aircraft Works at Bangalore and asked the clerk if he could see Mr. Duton. The clerk typed busily, and in about five minutes the stranger came back out of Mr. Duton’s office. He and Mr. Duton stood at the door a moment, lire young man held a sheet of paper with Mr. Duton’s distinctive scribbling on it in his hand.

Mr. Duton was saying, “—and if your people find the installation doesn’t suit them, fly the aircraft back here and we’ll try a slower reverse gear in the drum.”

“I’m certain that it will be acceptable. I merely take this sheet to Building 18, they’ll wheel it out and I can fly it off?”

“Quite right. And we appreciate being able to do business with you.”

The young man said a polite good day and left. Mr. Duton stood for a few moments after the outer door had closed behind the straight back, a pleased look on his face. “Nice young man,” he murmured.

The clerk looked up into Duton’s bland face and asked, “Sir?”

“Oh, was I speaking aloud? That’s the young man from Harver-Crescent, Limited. He came to pick up that Norseman that we bought from the Americans. The one they had us install the special equipment on. He’s flying it down to Ratmalana.”

The clerk tried to sound interested as he said, “Yes, sir.” Mr. Duton frowned down at the clerk in an absent-minded way, turned and walked back into his office.

The next act of the drama was at a big bungalow perched near the crest of a wooded hill about twelve miles south of Kandy, Ceylon. The heavy brush had been cleared from a wide level lawn in front of the building. Many round-clipped shrubs dotted the lawn. It was a quiet place, sleeping in the late sun of afternoon. Several groups of natives were working in the geometric rows of tea bushes that marched in straight columns down the cleared hill behind the house. At the sound of a distant motor, a stocky bearded man ran out onto the wide porch, shaded his eyes and looked off into the sunset glow. He stooped and picked up a large bell and a short iron bar from the porch floor. He beat on the bell, sending a harsh clanging down across the green tea. The workers looked up and came running toward the house. They ran out onto the wide lawn and in a few minutes had cleared off the rounded shrubs. The shrubs were growing in squat heavy pots.

The small plane circled and swooped down onto the lawn. It bounced and taxied to a stop near the western fringe of jungle. A man with yellow hair climbed down from the cabin, stretched, and then supervised the natives as they rolled the small aircraft into a small cleared spot in the jungle where the trees grew high overhead. They covered the ship with heavy green nets. In a few minutes the shrubs had been replaced, the natives had returned to their last half hour of the day working in the tea, and the young man had gone into the bungalow with the bearded man’s arm around his shoulder. Dusk began to settle as the sun dropped behind the distant peaks.

Wedley hadn’t much cared for his visitor. The man had stalked into Wedley’s office in the New Delhi Secretariat as though he contemplated buying the building. His manner had been that of a master speaking to a bearer, and Wedley didn’t like it at all. So Wedley had let the man stand and fume while he deliberately filled his pipe and lit it. When it was burning nicely, he looked up at his visitor and said, “Mr. Brown, I see no reason why I should grant your request.”

The big man’s face had purpled and he dropped heavily into the visitor’s chair. “Now look, Wedley, or whatever your name is. I flew over here from New York for the single purpose of speaking to this man Haidari Rama. When Rangoon was evacuated he had charge of hiding nearly five million dollars worth of merchandise which belonged to my firm. I find that you’ve got this man stuck away in some silly prison in Ceylon awaiting trial on political charges. Helping the japs during the war or something. I don’t give a damn about your silly politics or about the whole British Empire. I’ve waded through two weeks of your miserable red tape trying to find you, the man who can give me permission. And you start to get huffy. I won’t stand for it. I want ten minutes alone with Haidari Rama and either you’re going to make it possible, or I’m going to raise such an unholy stink through my associates in London that you’ll spend the rest of your life explaining. My time is valuable, and I came over here myself because I thought something like this would crop up. Now, as you limeys say, hop to it, but give it a little thought first, because if you give me another no, you’re going to be the most unhappy man in India. That I promise.”

Wedley sucked on his face and glanced over into the dark hot eyes of the American. The man was big and he was angry. He talked as though he could do just what he had promised. Wedley shuddered at the directness of the man, shrugged his shoulders helplessly and wrote out a note of permission for Mr. J. Haggard Brown to visit Haidari Rama, now held by the authorities in the political stockade on Island Seven near Galle, Ceylon. He shoved it across the desk to Mr. Brown.

A grin split Mr. Brown’s face showing Wedley a line of tobacco-stained teeth. He picked up the note, glanced at it, shoved into his pocket and left, without a word of thanks to Wedley. The thin man sat at his desk for a time, biting hard on his pipe stem. For a time he thought idly of sending out some cables to test the truth of Mr. Brown’s boasts. Then he sighed and turned back to the work piled high in his in-basket.

Back of both the foregoing events were two men seated near a desk where they could look out of the window, down at the ceaseless roar of traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue. A gray-suited man who looked like a banker from the Midwest frowned at his younger nervous friend, and said, “Dammit, Bill, I wish you’d talked to me before you sent Harder to India on this case. He’s only a kid, and if he scrapes our British cousins the wrong way, we are going to hear some loud angry noises from the State Department.”

The younger man lit a cigaret and said, “You underestimate Ken Harder, Mr. Lee. He’s smart and he’s hard. Also, with that Rhodes scholar background he can melt into the picture over there. I told him that he has no authority to make any arrests, or create a stink. His job is to bust up the combine over there before they get into operation again. Since it was the biggest dope setup we ever ran into before the war I thought it would be a risk well taken.”

“But I know something you don’t know, Bill. J. Haggard Brown left for India by air ten days ago. You well remember that he was the one we had begun to suspect as the head of the outfit before the war put a crimp in their operations. His reputation is still snow white, but he’s my bet for the brains behind the ring. And I think that he’s smarter and harder than your fair-haired boy, Harder. I think you better call Harder back here, and we’ll go back onto the old basis, checking their methods of getting it into the country, and checking the banks and cash balances to see if we can tip them over with the help of the treasury boys on a tax basis.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lee, but I can’t call him back. He’s out of touch. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing.”

Lee sighed and glanced at the ceiling as though imploring the gods to witness his suffering. “Okay, Bill. Okay! So you have to leave him there. I hope the kid comes out okay. If Brown gets onto him, he’ll get twice as cautious on this end and we may never take him.” Mr. Lee got wearily to his feet and clumped out of the office. Bill sat wearing a worried expression. He paced his small office for a time, and then, realizing that there was no action he could take to get Harder back, he sat down and reached for the phone.

It had been an exploit of the selfsame Ken Harder which was now causing Mr. Constance, the effeminate managing director of Harver-Crescent, Limited, sitting in Mr. Duton’s office at the Hindustan Aircraft Works to drum nervously on the edge of the desk. “Mr. Duton,” he lisped, “I quite fail to understand how you, a businessman, could be so easily taken in. Having that aircraft stolen will delay our inauguration of the island pickup and delivery service by several months. It’s a ghastly situation.”

Mr. Duton sweated a little more and said, “But, Mr. Constance, he was such a personable young man. And he had a letter on your firm’s stationery. How was I to know that he was an imposter?”

“There seems to be nothing more to discuss. You say you have one more of those Norseman aircraft? Very well then. Get rush delivery on the special equipment from the United States. Install it and phone me in Colombo when it is ready. And this time, I will come up and ride back with the pilot. Good day, sir.”

Mr. Duton sighed with relief when the door slammed behind Mr. Constance. Then he had to smile ruefully when he remembered how easily the young man with the yellow hair had walked in and flown off with the aircraft belonging to Harver-Crescent.

Haidari Rama was a slim brown man of indefinite age. He could have been thirty or fifty-five. He sat in the small stone visitor’s room on Island Seven, his arms folded, staring into the angry eyes of the perspiring J. Haggard Brown. On Haidari’s face was a condescending and amused expression — the expression of a man talking to a child.

“I am truly sorry, Mr. Brown,” he said quietly, “but I cannot give you the information you ask. You will understand that it is my only bargaining point. So long as I know where I can lay my hands on a million and a half pounds worth of diacetylmorphine, opium and hasheesh, I am valuable to you and you will endeavor to get me my freedom. Should I tell you where to find it, and I assure you that it is safe, then I am of no further use to you and I can rot in prison.”

“What are the charges? Will they stick? How can I get you off?”

The brown man shrugged. “One makes enemies,” he said. “I dealt with the Japanese. What else was there to do? If they had won, I would have revealed to them the hiding place of the drugs. But they lost, and now those drugs must get me out of this confinement. You must find those who will be witnesses against me and bribe them to change their testimony. Or bribe others to testify that I was pretending to aid the Japanese but in actuality was working for the underground. It should be easy.”

“When will you come up for trial?”

“Within the year.”

“A year! You expect me to hang around this sticky stinking East for that long? I’ve got work to do in New York.”

“In that case, if it is too much trouble for you, you had best forego any thought of regaining the drugs. I was happy to be an employee of you and your associates, but now I must strike out for myself and consider the stores as my own property until I gain permanent freedom. And, if you should leave, it might become necessary for me to mention your name in connection with my former occupation during my trial.”

Brown clenched his big fists and ached to smash the sly smile on the brown face. He felt an inner chill as he realized how completely he was in the power of this suave educated native. It was no longer a case of merely regaining the stores of narcotics. It had become a question of survival.

After the launch had taken Brown back from the island, he sat for two hours on the shaded porch of the hotel at Galle, listening to the raucous babble of the thousands of crows in the big trees. He turned the problem over and over in his mind. If he could grab Haidari Rama off the island by force, he might be made to tell the location of the dope. Then he would have to be killed. But that would take many men and weeks of patient organization. He thought of the island, nearly a half mile square, with the watch towers at intervals. The entire place was like a small plateau jutting up out of the sea two miles off shore. A high wire fence had been built around the island, on the edge of the fifteen-foot rock drop into the crashing sea. The prisoners were allowed their freedom within the big enclosure. They lived in huts, cooked their own meals, and wandered around at will. The big enclosure was rough and rocky, with patches of thick brush and a few deep gulleys. Even if he could get reliable men, it would be no small task to storm the island and run off with Haidari. Besides, it would upset the entire British Empire. He thought some more. At last he came to a conclusion that was difficult, for J. Haggard Brown was a greedy man. He decided that it would be easier to have Haidari Rama killed, so that his lips would never babble the name of Brown in connection with a narcotics ring. It would mean giving up the stocks hidden in Rangoon, but there were other ventures that were beginning to shape up. He pursed his thick lips and began to devise a plan of execution, a plan that could never be traced to the pompous personage of Brown.

Clive Grant stretched his stocky body, and the muscles of his shoulders and chest bunched under his thin shirt. Then he scratched at his black beard and looked across the dinner table at Ken Harder.

“I’ll grant you, Ken, that you’ve had more luck than most, but it can’t hold up. It won’t hold up. Why if I ever thought when I met you at Oxford that I’d end up as a tea planter in Ceylon helping a crazy Americano like you in a mad scheme to break up a gang of international dope merchants, I’d have run away from you the first day we met. I’m afraid the authorities are going to get onto all this and ruin me, chase me off the island.”

Harder looked lean and worried, as he answered, “Clive, I’d never have asked you to help if it weren’t for the fact that these men are dealing with such a dirty business. I know that when the Japs entered Rangoon, their local manager hid or destroyed their entire stock of dope. If I know that outfit, I know they hid it. This man they have down on Island Seven, this Haidari Rama, is probably the only man that knows where it is. If I can get to him before the organization does, and find out where the stuff is, I can spoil a lot of business for them. Also, I will be able to prove to the British that Rangoon was one of the biggest focal points of the drug rings before the war. Then they will watch more closely and prevent their starting up again. They’ll have to find another spot where conditions aren’t so ideal. It’ll be a big slap for the stateside organization. Even if they did chase you off Ceylon, Clive, my conscience wouldn’t bother me too much, if at the same time we kept that enormous quantity of dope from reaching the world markets.”

“But, Ken, stealing that aircraft! It was crazy!”

“It was my only chance of grabbing Haidari Rama, and I had to take it. Our only danger right now is that someone who doesn’t work for you will spot it. I expect to be in Galle for about two days getting in contact with Haidari Rama. Then I’ll come back here and tell you the future plans.”

Grant sighed and said, “Well, Ken, you are that odd combination of idealist and man of action that goes around making the world exciting for old stooges like myself. Don’t pay the least attention to my complaints. I think I’m actually enjoying it.”

Ken Harder had not been in his line of work long enough to have complete control over all of his muscular reflexes. Consequently, when he had breakfast served on the porch of the hotel at Galle, it was unfortunate that he was sipping his coffee when J. Haggard Brown walked out of the lobby. You don’t look at pictures of a man for hours on end, wishing you could trip him up, without acquiring a pretty strong feeling about the man in question.

J. Haggard Brown stopped dead, and turned quickly to the left and stared at the young man who was coughing and gasping for breath, spraying coffee on the white table cloth. The faint memory of a description stirred in his mind — thin, young, blonde, pale blue eyes, an underling of Lee’s — it might be the same one. Couldn’t afford any risks. Better determine if the coughing was coincidence or shock of recognition. Brown walked over to the table and smiled down at the flushed face of Ken Harder.

“American, aren’t you? Mind if I have my breakfast with you?”

Ken smiled, his mind racing, “Please do. I haven’t run into many fellow countrymen down here. Afraid you caught me in an embarrassing moment. Got my coffee down the wrong way.”

Brown ordered, thinking at the same time that the young man was a little eager to explain the coughing, then he extended his hand and said, “I’m J. Haggard Brown of New York City.” He figured that if he had been recognized, giving his name would do no harm, and if he hadn’t been, his name would mean nothing to the young man.

“I’m Karl Harvey. Glad to know you,” Ken said, smiling and shaking the beefy hand. The quick brain of Brown jumped onto the name, and dredged up the name of Lee’s underling — Kenneth Harder. Same initials. Maybe to agree with initials on luggage. Maybe just carelessness. He felt a sudden thrill of alarm.

“You know, Mr. Harvey,” Brown said gently, “you gave me a little shock when I saw you sitting there. Thought for a minute you were a fellow I met in Washington who works for a friend of mine named Lee. This fellow’s name is Ken Harder. Looks a lot like you.” As Brown spoke he kept his eyes closely on Harder’s face. He saw the involuntary narrowing of the eyes, and the slight change of color. He thought he detected a change in the rate of breathing. A careful observer can act much in the same way as a lie detector, watching carefully the changes induced by a sudden increase of adrenalin in the blood stream. Brown was a careful observer.

Ken felt trapped. He knew that he was giving himself away, and he couldn’t prevent it. He decided to take a long shot. “Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Brown,” he said, “my name is Ken Harder and I used to work for Henry Lee. Now I’m on State Department business, and traveling rather incognito. I would appreciate your keeping that information under your hat. I’m here on a question of rubber surveys.” He smiled at Brown with as much candor as he could manage.

“Harder, I’m a frank man. I have to be. I don’t have to tell you what my business is here. I know you boys have been gunning for me. I also know that you’ll never get me, because I can think and act quicker than you can. I have a pretty good idea why you’re here. Now there is no need for us to pretend to be dear friends. I’ve put you on your guard, but that is only because I don’t consider you dangerous either on or off guard. Just don’t get in my way. That’s all. If you stay out of my way you have a good chance of growing old and gray in the service of bureaucracy.”

Harder felt himself flush a bright crimson. He downed the rest of his coffee and walked away from the table. As he turned into the lobby he heard a chuckle that he was certain came from the throat of the offensive Mr. Brown. He felt childishly helpless. He went back up to his room and sat quietly for an hour re-planning his coming talk with Haidari Rama. He forced all emotions out of his mind and tried to make a plan that would take into account all of the factors introduced by the sudden appearance of Brown. He hadn’t realized that the organization would move so quickly. He grinned when he thought of the horror with which Bill and Henry Lee would face the fact of Harder versus Brown.

When the native who operated the launch asked to see Ken Harder’s permit to visit the island, Ken handed him a folded hundred rupee note. The little man smiled and stepped aside, permitting Ken to climb into the launch.

When they coasted up to the dock, Ken climbed out and walked up to the wire gate. The big barrier opened for another hundred rupees. In fifteen minutes he was sitting in the small visitor’s room, curiously appraising Haidari Rama. The Indian looked puzzled.

“Haidari Rama, my name will mean nothing to you, so there is no point in giving it to you. I know Brown, I know of you and I know of the concealed stores of narcotics in Rangoon.” The Indian started visibly, and Ken continued, “It is highly improbable that you will ever leave prison in view of your past record of dealing with the Japanese. You would, in the course of events, have to stand trial.”

“That is right, stranger. But Mr. Brown will see that I am not convicted. The stakes are high.”

“You mean, don’t you, that Mr. Brown will see that you never come to trial?”

Again the Indian looked puzzled, then his eyes widened. He lowered his voice, and said, “Do you imply that Mr. Brown will attempt to remove me from this island by force?”

“No, Haidari Rama. I mean that Brown will sec that your mouth is shut forever. You will die suddenly on this island, and soon. The stakes seem large to you, but to Mr. Brown they are something which he can afford to give up rather than take the chance of publicity that might land him in prison. Freedom is worth more than wealth. And he has other large interests.”

Haidari Rama sneered and said, “You try to frighten me! How could he kill me while I am on this island? It is foolish.”

“If I wanted to kill you,” Harder answered, “I would bribe my way out here again and talk to one of those here whose crime is so great that he cannot avoid execution. I would make certain that this man to whom I talked has a family who are poor. I would promise him to give his family five thousand rupees on the day he murders you. He would do it.”

Haidari sat in deep thought, his forehead wrinkled. It was obvious that he was thinking of some of the other men who were on the island, thinking of the freedom given the prisoners behind the wire, thinking of the hundred opportunities that any one of a hundred men would have to kill him. He glanced over at Harder, and there was fear behind his eyes, though he was trying to conceal it. He had seen the logic of the words spoken by the stranger with yellow hair. “And should what you say be true, what could I do about it? I am imprisoned.”

Harder lowered his voice, leaned over the table and outlined a plan. At first Haidari looked dubious, then frightened. Harder argued and pleaded until at last he got a nod of agreement from the slim brown man, but the fear was still there.

On the trip back to the mainland, Harder sat hunched in the launch, exhausted by the strain. It had begun to look as though it might work. As he stepped off onto the dock he thought he saw a familiar stocky figure dart around the corner of one of the godowns, but he couldn’t be certain.

That night he lay in his bed looking up at the dark ceiling, and there was murder in his heart. He felt that he had got enough of a confession from Brown to justify his acting as judge, jury and executioner. To eliminate Brown would be an act that would benefit the world. He tried to talk himself into it, but knew that he would be unable to. He cursed himself for being a meticulous, sensitive fool, but he knew he could never bring himself to the point of firing the cold-blooded shot, thrusting with the unsuspected knife.

Two days later, at dusk, a small plane droned its way down the coast, several miles out from the prison island. The guards in the towers glanced at it for a time, then, as it began to recede in the direction of Colombo, they turned away. The little plane circled and found a protecting haze at five thousand feet. Then it headed directly toward the island. At three thousand feet the motor cut out. Some of the prisoners heard the sudden ceasing of the drone, and peered into the sky, but it was the time of day when dusk obscured the vision and the great floodlights had not yet been turned on. One brown man stood on top of the highest mound in the center of the island. He was far from any guard tower. The terrain was rough and overgrown where he was standing, so that it was not a popular place for the prisoners to congregate. He peered into the gathering dusk and suddenly saw the gliding plane swooping down toward him. He waved his arms. A package tumbled out of the plane and smacked onto the rocks near him. He heard the rush of wind as the plane swept over him, and then the motor caught with a roar as the plane zoomed upward. Guards and prisoners all over the island were startled by the sudden roar. A few minutes later the floodlights were switched on, but the plane was far away. Haidari Rama buried the precious package under some loose rocks and headed across the island toward his hut.

Harder and Grant sat on the porch steps while Harder explained the plane’s special equipment. He had made a rude sketch of a heavy drum and a large handle. “Now, Clive, the thing is almost automatic. You swing the arm straight out from the side of the ship and latch it in place. Then let the cable pay out by pushing the lever back until the white band on the cable is next to the pulley at the end of the arm. That means that I’ll have fifty feet of cable. Then lie on the floor with your head out the door when I dive. I’ll pull up sharp and you give me a circle with your fingers if I’ve made contact. If I’m too high, estimate the number of feet and show me with your fingers. Then I’ll come around and try again. When I make contact, the drum will unwind fast, and gradually brake to a stop. Then it will start winding up the other way. You watch and when the end of the cable gets up to the pulley, push the handle back as far as it will go. Then help him in.” They walked out to the plane to look at the drum and check how much gas was left.

Henry Ames, the island medico, reported to the prison commander as ordered. “Yes sir,” he said, “I checked on this Rama and I figure he’s maybe going out of his head. We’ll have to watch him. He is over on the big knoll, and he has cut himself a couple of sticks maybe twelve feet high, using sharp rocks to cut ’em with. He’s got a notch on the top side of each of the sticks, and he’s got ’em propped up in the dirt and rocks maybe twenty feet apart. He acts nervous, but I don’t see as how he can do any harm. He smiled at me and mumbled something I couldn’t catch. When I left he was picking up all the rocks in a big space between the two sticks and throwing them over to one side.” The commander looked puzzled, and gave the medico permission to leave.

Back on the knoll, Haidari Rama looked carefully around. There was no one within two hundred yards of him. He scuttled down a rocky slope and uncovered the bundle that had been dropped. He ripped the burlap covering off of it and took out a complicated harness made of wide bands of heavy canvas with many buckles. After three times he managed to get the rig on and tighten all the buckles. It went around his body at the chest and waist and around his upper arms and thighs. The second item in the package was a loop of rubberized rope sixty feet in diameter. He carried the rope up to the poles and stretched it carefully across the two so that he had a sagging length of rope hung loosely between the two poles. Then he walked to a position midway between the two poles and about twenty feet away from an imaginary line drawn between them. He reached back over his shoulder and clipped the loop of the rope into a massive snap on the heavy straps which protruded between his shoulder blades. Looking over his shoulder, he sat down midway with his back toward the poles and inched forward until the rubberized rope swung clear of the ground. An imaginary line between the two poles would have formed the base of an equilateral triangle, with the sitting figure of Haidari Rama as the apex.

A group of the other prisoners noticed the strange activity on top of the knoll and came walking over, their faces filled with curiosity. When they asked questions, Haidari Rama replied in senseless babbling, and when they approached too closely, he screamed and roared with such venom that they dropped back. The universal fear of madness kept them many feet from him. They muttered and stared. Surely the man was mad. For what purpose would he sit in the sun with a great loop of rope fastened to his back. Haidari Rama stared straight ahead into the afternoon sky.

The guard on the central tower on the north side of the island was the first one to see the small plane. It came steadily toward the island at about fifteen hundred feet. He looked at it curiously, wondering whether the pilot would realize his mistake and swing out to sea, or would pass directly over the island in direct violation of existing orders. The plane came steadily on.

The group near Haidari Rama babbled and pointed up at the plane as it approached. They didn’t notice the sitting man draw his knees up, clasp his arms around them and drop his head forward as he had been instructed. They watched the plane. In sudden alarm they saw it nose down and start a steep glide toward them. They shouted and scattered into the rocky ravines. Those who looked back saw a big hook swoop down toward the sitting man, skim over his head and catch the rope.

Haidari Rama felt a sudden wrench that strained every joint and muscle in his body. Then he was swinging and spinning in the air. He caught one flash of the startled faces turned up at him, and he wanted to laugh through his fear. The far fence flashed under him and then there was only the blue sea. He looked up and saw that the body of the plane was coming gradually closer. He was drawn up close to an arm that projected out beside the wide door of the cabin. Then hands reached for him and he was dragged in out of the blinding wind, into the roar of the cabin. A strange man slammed the cabin door and then started to help him with the straps and buckles.

Back on the island the prisoners walked up the knoll and looked at the spot where the man had been sitting. They they looked at the two poles. One of them was still standing. Then turned and looked south. The plane was still visible, a speck that was fast disappearing. They shook their heads and muttered.

The Superintendent of Police in Colombo tried in vain to interrupt the flow of language coming over his telephone. Then he sat and listened patiently until Mr. Constance had finished. He sighed and said, “Yes, Mr. Constance. We are willing to admit that the aircraft mentioned in the papers was the one which was stolen from Hindustan Aircraft, the one on which you had them install the snatch-up equipment for island package delivery. But, Mr. Constance, we still do not know where the aircraft is. We would like very much to find it. Delhi is very interested. It has been reported in newspapers all over the world. Everybody is interested. I assure you that we are trying to locate the aircraft, and as I promised you before, when we find it, you shall have it... That’s right... Good-bye, Mr. Constance.” He hung up and took the liberty of thumping himself several times on the forehead with a big hairy fist. He roared and listened to the sounds of feet scurrying toward his office.

Meanwhile J. Haggard Brown sat down in his room and tried to relax. He shut his eyes, but it was of no use. Each time he thought of the way Haidari Rama had been snatched out of his hands, his pulse-drummed, his breath came fast and a red haze seemed to creep up in front of his eyes. He knew he would have to think quickly and coldly. There was too much at stake for him to be emotional about it. It was a cold hard game he was in, a profitable game — but the penalty for failure was as high as the profits. He shut his eyes and all he could see was the smooth young face of Harder. He jumped to his feet and paced to the window. He muttered, “My guess is that they’re still in Ceylon, and now they don’t dare use the plane again. There is only one way to get off this island inconspicuously, and that is by way of the Talimannar ferry. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth it if I can get my hands around the neck of that milk-fed puppy.” He clenched his fists and enjoyed the image of Harder’s pale blue eyes bulging from their sockets. He picked up the room phone and called the desk, asking for information on the times trains left for Colombo. He realized that in Colombo he could obtain a fast car and a driver.

Mr. Constance didn’t wait for his driver to open the door of the sedan. He jumped out and ran through the administration building at Ratmalana Airport. He stopped and stared. There it was. The plane that had been stolen. He saw the big arm for the snatch-up equipment folded along the side. He heard a footstep beside him and turned to find the polite smile of the airport manager beaming at him. “You must be Mr. Constance. The pilot from Hindustan Aircraft delivered it this morning. Told me to phone you.”

Mr. Constance glared at the little man. “You utter and absolute fool! That is the aircraft that was stolen, the one someone used to snatch up the political prisoner at Galle. He’s laughing at you right now. You better phone his description to the police.” The manager looked for a moment as though he were going to break into tears. Then he spun and hurried toward his office. Mr. Constance sniffed and walked out toward the Norseman.

Ken Harder shook his head slowly at Clive Grant and said, “I don’t like it, Clive. There should be some other way to get the information out of him.”

“Nonsense, Ken! I know these people. Besides you haven’t got time to try any other way. Appuhamy will handle him.” He poured out two more drinks and grinned through his beard at the depressed face of Harder.

At that moment a smiling stocky native stepped into the room and said, “Excuse, Master. The Indian says he will speak now.”

“Have him brought in, Appuhamy.”

The shambling figure of Haidari Rama, supported between two of the house boys, was brought into the room and dropped, shuddering, into a chair. His face looked gray under his brown skin, and his eyes rolled wildly.

“Now, Haidari Rama,” Harder said gently, “if you had kept your promise which you made to me in the visitor’s room on the island, all this wouldn’t have been necessary. But you had to be sly. You had to threaten me with exposure for my part in your liberation and refuse to tell me where the stocks of narcotics are hidden. You will tell us now, I understand?”

The Indian tried to speak, but he couldn’t control his trembling mouth. He shivered and looked over his shoulder at the grinning face of Appuhamy. “They will not touch me again, please? Not again?”

“Not if you tell the truth.”

Haidari Rama leaned toward Harder and the words came out with a frantic rush. “Man named Bailu — big house near Shwe Dagon Pagoda — garage back of house. It is made with concrete blocks. Blocks all hollow except top rows. Everything stored inside the blocks — waterproof — nobody could ever find it. The two coolies who helped conceal it are dead.”

Grant turned to Appuhamy and said, “He lies. Take him out again.” Haidari Rama screamed and slid off the chair in a dead faint. Grant grinned and turned to Harder. “Guess the beggar is telling the truth. Had to find out for certain.”

On instructions from Grant, the servants picked up the still figure of the Indian and carried him out to the room which had been prepared for him in the wing. “Well,” Harder said, “that appears to be that. Let me borrow your car and driver and I’ll go down to Kandy and send off some wires. I got the plane back okay, and with just a little more luck we can squeak out of this without a word from anybody.”

“I certainly am praying that the luck holds. I like this island, and I never realized what a stink grabbing that Indian would cause.”

In a few minutes the big car was roaring down the dusty road into Kandy. Harder sat in the back seat wondering where Brown was and what he was thinking.

The new Superintendent of Civil Police sat and stared at the yellow wire for many long minutes. Then he called in his brightest assistant and gave a few unbelievable instructions. A few minutes later two cars drew up in front of the bomb-shattered home of Mr. Bailu. The house was deserted, but the garage was intact. Several native families were living in it. They all screamed with rage when the husky policemen attacked the stone walls with sledges and crowbars. When the first heavy stone was pried loose and fell to the ground, the young assistant stepped up and picked up the small plump bag that had fallen out with the stone. He ripped it open carefully and fingered the crystalline powder. Then he gave instructions to have the families moved out. He told the men to halt further work until he had called the headquarters and reported.

Haidari Rama, feeling weak and upset, stood by the stern rail of the Talimannar Ferry. He saw the white-clad figure of Harder walk back the length of the dock. Harder’s last words resounded in his ears, “Haidari Rama, I should have turned you back to the authorities, because you tried to withhold the information you promised. But I am letting you go because I am confident that you will be picked up soon. If you went back to the island now, I believe that Brown would have you killed.” As he stood and watched the shore line recede, he heard a sharp noise and felt a blow against the railing on which he was leaning. He wondered what it was, and leaned over so he could inspect the other side of the rail. He never felt the rifle bullet which crashed into his skull, nor did he hear the distant crack of the weapon above the noise of the surf and the pulse of the heavy engines of the ferry. He slumped over the rail and stuck in a grotesque standing position, his brown hands hanging down toward the blue water.

J. Haggard Brown gave one last look through the telescopic sight of the hunting rifle. Beyond a doubt the man was dead. He climbed to his feet and walked back through the scrub palm and brush to the waiting car. The waiting driver smiled inquiringly, and then when he saw that the red-faced master was carrying no game, his face dropped into an expression of sympathy. In the back of his mind he had a wondering doubt at what the master could find to shoot at on a sandy beach so near the ferry landing, but he soon discarded it. Only a complete fool attempted to find reason behind the actions of a white man!

Brown felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The chance that Haidari Rama would unmask him was gone. But now there was another opponent who had grown greatly in stature since that breakfast in Galle. Undoubtedly Harder knew the location of the narcotics. Also, Harder would make a great effort to connect Brown with the dope, but Brown knew he had small chance of success. But the next time — if the occasion presented itself, Ceylon might be an excellent spot to avoid future trouble from a man who had the ability to follow a trail and formulate and execute plans which were startling in their boldness. He felt a sneaking admiration for a man who would steal a plane and lift a prisoner right off a prison island in broad daylight. If only one of the Spits from Ratmalana could have arrived in time with loaded guns, the two birds would have been killed with one stone. Too bad Harder didn’t seem the type who might be bribed to change sides. With a mind like that he could—

Harder found Clive standing in the shade of the bungalow. The bearded man looked up with a question in his eyes as Ken approached.

“Like clockwork,” Harder said. “Got him on the boat okay, and stopped off in Kandy on the way back. We did right to take a chance on it. The wire from Rangoon says, ‘Material found as per instructions.’ Now I can head back.”

“I’ll be sorry to see you go, Ken. It is going to be rather dull with no stolen aircraft on the place, no Indians for Appuhamy to work on, no arguments.”

They went into the house for a last meal and drink. Across the valley on the side of a small hill nearly several hundred yards from the front porch of the bungalow, J. Haggard Brown shifted to a more comfortable position and adjusted the rifle sights to the range. From the hill he could see the glint of the blue car which his driver had parked beside the dusty road. It had been no trick to follow Harder from Talimannar. He cradled the rifle against his shoulder, the smooth stock touching his florid cheek and sighted at the front door of the bungalow. He waited with the patience of a man who knew that his self-imposed task was worthwhile. While he waited he planned his next moves. A quick run down to the car. Explanations to the driver. A fast run to Colombo. Sata Airlines to Calcutta. Then Transoceanic Airlines to the West Coast. If he handled it right, he could be in New York before Lee found out that his man Harder was dead. Then there would be work to do. New methods of importing the stuff. A new collection base in the East. He sat in the hot sun and dreamed of a newer, bigger empire than he had enjoyed before the war. He even hummed a little.

A movement by the door of the bungalow brought him to sudden attention. He held the rifle more tightly and tried to estimate the strength of the wind. Two figures walked out of the house. The one with the shorts would be Harder’s host. The two walked over toward the waiting car and stood talking. Brown leveled the sights on the middle of the back of the man in the long trousers. He moved the sights a shade to the right to allow for the wind. He held his breath and slowly squeezed the trigger—

For a fraction of a second Harder didn’t realize what had happened. Clive had been standing in front of him, smiling and holding out his hand. Then he staggered backwards, with sort of an odd dance step. He had an expression of surprise and apology on his face. He folded slowly onto the grass and a red stain began to seep through the linen fabric of his shirt. There was a black hole in the middle of the stain. Harder dropped behind the car. He readied out and grabbed Clive’s ankles and pulled the unconscious man toward him, into the shelter of the body of the car. He remembered that just as Clive had fallen, he had heard a faint crack that seemed to come from back in the hills. The crack of a rifle.

He tore Clive’s shirt away from his chest and realized that a doctor was needed quickly. But he couldn’t move away from the car with any safety. He bunched his leg muscles and then, like a starting sprinter, ran for the house. He dodged from side to side as he ran. He found Appuhamy, told him what had happened, and then phoned the Kandy hospital with the dread in his mind that they would be too long in arriving. By the time he had hung up, Appuhamy was back with a massive Webley service pistol. Harder grabbed it in his sweating palm and ran out the back of the house. He cut down through the tea and then angled over to the shelter of the jungle. He worked his way through the tangle of brush, the vines clutching at his clothes, a cloud of insects around his sweating head. He worked his way upwards, trying to keep out of the sight of whoever might be on the high slopes ahead. He remembered his own qualms at taking the law into his own hands while he was in Galle. If he had then Brown would have been eliminated and Clive would be unhurt. He had a cold singlemindedness of purpose, to smash a slug from the heavy pistol into the beefy head of J. Haggard Brown.

After an hour of cautious climbing and scrambling through the brush he came to a clear spot on the side of a hill. He looked out through the leaves and saw the bungalow far below. He stopped and examined every foot of the side of the hill opposite. As he started to move again, the sun, getting low, struck a bright object in the brush not thirty feet away. He ducked silently behind a thick palm, and then stuck his head out until he could examine the spot from which the sudden glitter had come. He could see nothing.

Slowly and more cautiously he climbed higher. When he looked again he saw a shoe protruding from the brush. It was in the position of a man stretched out on his stomach. Then he saw the ankle. He drifted forward across the open space. When he could see the back of the man’s head and could recognize the reddish-brown hair of Brown, he leveled the pistol and shouted, “Drop your gun, Brown! Stand up!”

Mr. Lee, the nervous man named Bill and Kenneth Harder sat in the small office overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. Harder had run through the story once, and Mr. Lee was asking questions.

“Ken, how on earth could you have managed to pick that Indian up off the island? How did you know you wouldn’t kill him?”

“When I was flying for Troop Carrier I snatched up a few gliders. Read a training manual on picking up personnel. Knew how it was done. Had to take a chance on not killing him, but I figured it wouldn’t be any great loss if I did. If I hadn’t dragged him out of there, Brown would have found some way to get him killed. He finally managed it anyway. Poor Haidari Rama was destined for a short life the minute they stuck him in that prison island. It was luck that when I phoned Hindustan about snatch-up equipment they told me that they only had one on hand for this Harver-Crescent outfit. I walked in, grabbed a sheet of their office stationery and made myself an official letter. With a full tank I had just enough gas for the running around I had to do.”

“But how did you stay clear of the British? They should have been pretty sore at you. You broke a few local laws, you know.”

“That was the easiest part of it. While Clive was getting his health back they had a lot of investigations. The thing was they were so embarrassed at having me uncover all that stuff right under their noses in Rangoon, that they didn’t realize I was the one who took the plane and snatched Haidari. I blamed it all on old J. Haggard and his imaginary associates. By luck, they didn’t get me and the Ratmalana Airport fellow together, and they didn’t take me up to Bangalore. They were happy to forget the whole thing.”

“That business with Brown at the last must have been rough.”

“That was the worst of it. I stood there with that Webley aimed at the back of his head and told him to stand up. He didn’t do it, but I saw him quiver a little and knew he was alive and listening. I walked closer to him until I was standing right near his feet and told him again. He still didn’t move, so for luck I plugged one into the ground right next to his shoulder. That did it. He gave this bubbling scream and turned around, sitting up and clawing at the fat brown thing on his throat. He didn’t even see me. His eyes stuck out and he gave one shuddering breath and stopped clawing at the thing. Then he began to stiffen up, and even as I stood there I could see his face swelling and growing dark. The fat brown snake let go of his throat and started to writhe away. I got it through the head. They told me later that it was a krite. You don’t see many of those in Ceylon. North India is usually the place for them.”

“I wonder why he didn’t get away from it?”

“I figure that when he fired the shot which hit Clive, the darn thing was disturbed and either dropped out of a tree right in front of his face, or crawled up close to him before he saw it. He had enough sense to hold still, and that snake must have been looking him in the eye from a distance of a few inches while I worked my way up the hill. He knew he was gone as soon as he moved. The shot that I fired actually killed him. It startled the snake.”

Content

John D. MacDonald
Blame Those Who Die