The Chaos of Chung-Fu. Edmund Glasby

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СКАЧАТЬ bet I’m going to go after him. I hate leaving loose ends. Nobody crosses Teddy Maxwell and gets away with it.” The mob boss returned his gun to its holster and turned to his men. “Some of you remain here in case this son-of-a-bitch is lying. You see Chung-Fu, you shoot him like the rat he is.” He looked at Murphy. “Right. You and me are going to the dock. There’s a shipment bound for China that ain’t gonna get there.”

      * * * * * * *

      “Why do you think he’s getting out?” asked Murphy as the car, driven by one of Maxwell’s men, sped for the St. Lawrence docks. Evening was fast approaching and it was getting dark and foggy.

      “Don’t know. Don’t care. Maybe your visit the other night got him rattled. Maybe he thinks he’s going to get busted. I’ll teach him. What say you, ‘Muscles’?”

      “You got it, boss,” came the laconic reply from the back seat.

      “And what’s this about ‘Two-Bellies’ being in a crate?” asked Murphy.

      “Maybe he can’t afford a second-class ticket.” Maxwell grinned.

      Their surroundings became increasingly derelict and threatening. This was a foreboding, heavily built-up area that attracted some of the worst of human society. All manner of lawlessness took place here. Especially when, like now, the sun was going down.

      Murphy felt uneasy. Had done so ever since Maxwell had declared his intentions of pursuing Chung-Fu. Inwardly, he couldn’t help but think that it was the wrong decision, that nothing good would come of it, that it would only pile evil upon evil. Better to let him go and take his weirdness back to the Orient. He was now convinced that there was something unnatural about the other, something that went well beyond the normal and the understandable. What he had witnessed he could no longer, despite his best attempts, assign to the realm of trickery and illusion.

      “Right, ‘Weasel’. Look out for dock Six, should be getting near. I remember a few years back sending some loser to the bottom with concrete shoes on near here.” Maxwell laughed.

      The driver slowed down. In the fog it was hard to make out anything. The dockyard was silent. The great hulks of berthed ships and container vessels formed murky shadows.

      ‘Weasel’ noted a sign. “Dock Six.” He turned the car around and drove slowly in the direction shown.

      Before them loomed a massive Trans-Atlantic steamer. A few dockhands moved around, loading crates and boxes of provisions and necessities. Apart from that there was little other real activity.

      “They’re loading her up. Looks like she’s getting ready to depart in the morning,” said ‘Weasel’.

      “Yeah. In which case we’ve got to get to Chung-Fu now. Pull over.” The car came to a stop. “Right, leave the talking to me.” Maxwell got out.

      Murphy, ‘Weasel’, and ‘Muscles’ got out.

      Purposefully, the mob boss strode towards one of the workmen. “Any passengers boarded yet? A strange-looking Chinaman? Might have had a few others with him, including a big fat guy with a scar down the left side of his face.”

      “There were a couple of Chinese guys came just over an hour ago. Queer-looking folk. Didn’t say much. Told ’em they’d have to wait till the foreman got here in the morning afore we could load ’em aboard. They weren’t too happy, so we sent ’em down to Loading Bay Thirteen. Why are you asking? You a cop?”

      “Yeah, I’m a cop,” Maxwell lied glibly. “They’re shipping opium and guns out of the country. We gotta confiscate that contraband. Bay Thirteen, you say?”

      “Yeah. Just along there a bit.”

      “Thanks.”

      Maxwell, Murphy, ‘Weasel’, and ‘Muscles’ headed off in the direction given. It was strangely eerie in the deserted, evening docks. Everything was shadowy, gloomy, filled with a haunting apprehension.

      The loading bays were huge, warehouse-type structures.

      A cold chill crept into Murphy; a damp feeling that seemed to leak into his soul, filling him with fear. He found himself breathing heavily, mist forming before his face, fogging his vision further. There was evil here, of that he was certain, an evil that went far beyond Maxwell’s thuggishness, an evil born of age-old wickedness, an evil that could be considered otherworldly. Unlike the others, with the possible exception of the dim-witted ‘Muscles’, he had experienced that evil. He knew just what it was capable of. And that knowledge made him starkly afraid, filled him with a soul-draining dread.

      “Right,” Maxwell stood before the warehouse door. “I want ‘Two-Bellies’ alive. I ain’t too bothered about the others, although if you can take ’em alive, do so.” He gave the door a push.

      The four of them crept inside.

      It was dark and gloomy. Reaching for a light switch, Maxwell flicked it on.

      The building was huge. It was filled with crates, boxes, and all manner of containers, some bearing stencilled lettering regarding either their provenance or their destination, all lit up by rows of overhead light bulbs.

      There was movement up ahead. Shadowy figures crouched behind some of the containers, clearly surprised at this intrusion.

      “Spread out,” Maxwell ordered.

      No sooner had his order been given than a gunshot shattered the silence, a bullet ricocheting off a nearby wall. They all immediately took cover, ducking behind crates. Two more shots rang out.

      “Seems Chung-Fu’s here and he means business,” said Maxwell, turning to Murphy. Gun in hand, he crept forward, taking cover behind a row of crates.

      Stealthily, Murphy edged his way to one side. His nerves were tingling, although this was with a fear that he was able to cope with. He had been in numerous situations like this—bullets whizzing over his head and fighting thugs more than willing to end his life. This was normality, as far as he was concerned. Creeping forward, using crates for cover, his index finger clammy on the trigger of his .38 revolver, he moved almost silently, sneaking around the side, hoping to gain the advantage by getting behind the shooters.

      There were two of them, Chinese in appearance, although Murphy would have bet a month’s wages that they were more of those firework-stuffed mannequins he had encountered before. They were crouched low, their guns at the ready. He doubted whether he could take out both of them before they were to return fire. Then he saw ‘Muscles’ creeping from one side, his Tommy gun in his hands. He signalled for him to hold his ground. This would have to be handled carefully.

      Ducking low, Murphy edged a little closer.

      And then the Chinese men were shooting. Whether at Maxwell or ‘Weasel’, Murphy wasn’t sure. They were standing, making good targets and he knew now was the time to open fire. Aiming for a second, he squeezed the trigger, the recoil hammered at his wrist. Bullets flew.

      One of the men went down, exploding against a chest-high heap of crates with a loud bang. ‘Muscles’ opened fire on the other, a storm of bullets blasting forth in a fiery burst, tearing the remaining man apart. He too exploded.

      And then a crate over to one СКАЧАТЬ