Read Online Assignment Bangkok by Unknown Author - Free Book Online
Authors: Unknown Author
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door. There was nothing more to hear. Turning, he saw that Benjie had taken an old Colt .45 revolver from her battered desk. There was a photo of Mike Slocum on the green steel files next to the closed door. Straw hair awry, a grin on his freckled face, he looked amused and careless. Durell looked at Benjie again; then he yanked open the door.
There was a squawk of alarm from the three men out there on the crowded stair platform above the loading dock. He glimpsed brown faces, heavy iron peaveys in their hands for controlling the logs in the canal. Two of them wore reddish sweatbands around their heads, from which their black hair stood up in thick shocks. The third man was a squat, muscular Chinese in a white Western suit; he wore horn-rimmed glasses.
Durell came out of the doorway fast, asking no questions. The nearest man with the iron peavey tried to raise it for a thrust into his belly with the barb. Durell kicked him low down and drove him back against the railing, which cracked apart, and the man fell through to the concrete floor below. The second armed man jabbed ineffectually with his peavey and screamed in a high, ululating voice, meaning to paralyze him. Durell smashed his gun across the other’s face. Blood spurted, a broken tooth flipped out.
Behind Durell, a gun roared. It was Benjie. She held it as if she meant business.
“Wait! Wait!” said the Chinese wearing glasses.
The man who had fallen from the landing was a dim lump of sprawled limbs on the concrete. The second man had dropped his peavey and was on his hands and knees, shaking his head. The Chinese said, “You ask no questions, you attack first—like the sneak imperialist exploiter of the people that you are!” He had backed a few steps down the stairs and held his hands out to show he was unarmed. He paid no attention to the two injured laborers. “Please, you must be reasonable!”
“Who sent you?” Durell asked. “Was it Mr. Chuk?”
“Ah, sir, Mr. Chuk is trying to help the oppressed working classes here, and he—”
“What do you want?”
“We came only to discuss with Miss Slocum the terms on which the men in the sawmill will go back to work. A hundred percent wage increase, fringe benefits for hospitalization, a pension to the wives of injured men—like Tan Yui Phan, who lost an arm tonight—and paid vacations, permission to allow the men to listen to political lectures on company time—”
“To hell with you,” Benjie said coldly. “Go back to Chuk and tell him I’ll close the place down before I let myself be blackmailed by terrorists.”
“You may not have to close it down, Miss Slocum. You have much dry timber here. The men smoke a great deal. A careless cigarette, a spark in the sawdust—”
Benjie’s voice was flat and deep. “Get out! Get out, before I ventilate you.”
“Of course, Miss Slocum. But the Board of Trade and Labor Relations will hear of your unwarranted attack on the poor workmen, your heartless treatment of the people . . .”
Benjie cursed like a man. In the dim light, she stood spread-legged, her big revolver against her thigh. She looked tough, competent, totally unfeminine. “You tell Chuk—”
“No,” said the Chinese sharply. His glasses glinted as he lifted his head. “I shall tell you , Miss Slocum. There are notes held by the Aw San Fu Commercial and Mercantile Bank, where you—or your brother—owe a matter of one hundred and seventy-two thousand dollars. It is Mr. Chuk who holds the controlling interest in that bank, and your notes—”
“Sam!” Benjie shouted.
Durell was a split-second late for the warning. He felt a blow across his back with an iron peavey. The man with the broken mouth had picked himself up and swung hard. Pain was an explosion all across his shoulder-blades. He lost his footing, stumbled, went down, slammed into the Chinese, grabbed at the rail, and fell the rest of the way down the wooden staircase. The man with the peavey screamed and
There was a squawk of alarm from the three men out there on the crowded stair platform above the loading dock. He glimpsed brown faces, heavy iron peaveys in their hands for controlling the logs in the canal. Two of them wore reddish sweatbands around their heads, from which their black hair stood up in thick shocks. The third man was a squat, muscular Chinese in a white Western suit; he wore horn-rimmed glasses.
Durell came out of the doorway fast, asking no questions. The nearest man with the iron peavey tried to raise it for a thrust into his belly with the barb. Durell kicked him low down and drove him back against the railing, which cracked apart, and the man fell through to the concrete floor below. The second armed man jabbed ineffectually with his peavey and screamed in a high, ululating voice, meaning to paralyze him. Durell smashed his gun across the other’s face. Blood spurted, a broken tooth flipped out.
Behind Durell, a gun roared. It was Benjie. She held it as if she meant business.
“Wait! Wait!” said the Chinese wearing glasses.
The man who had fallen from the landing was a dim lump of sprawled limbs on the concrete. The second man had dropped his peavey and was on his hands and knees, shaking his head. The Chinese said, “You ask no questions, you attack first—like the sneak imperialist exploiter of the people that you are!” He had backed a few steps down the stairs and held his hands out to show he was unarmed. He paid no attention to the two injured laborers. “Please, you must be reasonable!”
“Who sent you?” Durell asked. “Was it Mr. Chuk?”
“Ah, sir, Mr. Chuk is trying to help the oppressed working classes here, and he—”
“What do you want?”
“We came only to discuss with Miss Slocum the terms on which the men in the sawmill will go back to work. A hundred percent wage increase, fringe benefits for hospitalization, a pension to the wives of injured men—like Tan Yui Phan, who lost an arm tonight—and paid vacations, permission to allow the men to listen to political lectures on company time—”
“To hell with you,” Benjie said coldly. “Go back to Chuk and tell him I’ll close the place down before I let myself be blackmailed by terrorists.”
“You may not have to close it down, Miss Slocum. You have much dry timber here. The men smoke a great deal. A careless cigarette, a spark in the sawdust—”
Benjie’s voice was flat and deep. “Get out! Get out, before I ventilate you.”
“Of course, Miss Slocum. But the Board of Trade and Labor Relations will hear of your unwarranted attack on the poor workmen, your heartless treatment of the people . . .”
Benjie cursed like a man. In the dim light, she stood spread-legged, her big revolver against her thigh. She looked tough, competent, totally unfeminine. “You tell Chuk—”
“No,” said the Chinese sharply. His glasses glinted as he lifted his head. “I shall tell you , Miss Slocum. There are notes held by the Aw San Fu Commercial and Mercantile Bank, where you—or your brother—owe a matter of one hundred and seventy-two thousand dollars. It is Mr. Chuk who holds the controlling interest in that bank, and your notes—”
“Sam!” Benjie shouted.
Durell was a split-second late for the warning. He felt a blow across his back with an iron peavey. The man with the broken mouth had picked himself up and swung hard. Pain was an explosion all across his shoulder-blades. He lost his footing, stumbled, went down, slammed into the Chinese, grabbed at the rail, and fell the rest of the way down the wooden staircase. The man with the peavey screamed and
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