Shaw said, “Just sit where you are, Flame, and remember I won’t be far away.”
“Why? What’re you going to do?” There was hysteria in her voice now; she was about to crack, Shaw fancied. He reached out to her and said, “Just an idea. I made a mental note of some of the things Spice locked in that oven. They could be useful.”
“So what?” she retorted in a dead tone. “You’ll never get inside of it.”
“I’m going to have a try anyway,” he told her. When the Negro had been stacking away the bottles from the centre table, Shaw had caught a glimpse of something that with luck could get Flame and himself away from the Hound-Tucson yard: an aerosol container. Shaw had no idea what that liquid might be but it was a fair bet it was something a man wouldn’t want aimed under pressure into his eyes, and if Shaw could do just that when Spice next had that stonework shifted up above, then he knew he could back himself to get his hands without too much difficulty on the gun of the first man to come through — even though they might well be expecting some attempt at an ambush. He moved away, taking it slow, reaching out with extended fingers to pick up his bearings. He hit one of the tables, turned and felt his way along it, making in the direction of the river and away from the greasy stone steps, going towards the part of the cellar that had been in deep shadow even when the lights had been on. He fancied there had been a certain amount of lumber lying around, that Spice used that end as a kind of dump. There could be something the Negro had overlooked… something that would be usable as a lever to pull the heart and soul out of that padlock on the oven where the chemicals were stowed.
However, he hadn’t found anything by the time the lights came on again. As footsteps were heard descending he moved back to Flame’s side and was sitting there all nice and innocent when Spice reappeared accompanied by Vilera and Walley, complete with guns as usual, and a grey, furtive man whom Spice introduced anonymously as Doc.
Doc whistled while he worked.
Possibly this made his abominable task less grisly. After a careful examination of the two corpses he announced that in his opinion the stiffs ought to be embalmed. The vessel that was to carry them wasn’t in yet and wouldn’t be sailing for some days after she did arrive, and at this time of the year… and this wasn’t San Francisco, and so on.
“Okay, Doc, okay,” Spice said, cutting short the technics. “You know best.”
“Reckon I do,” Doc answered complacently, pulling at an ear and giving Spice a sly, upward flicker from negative-coloured eyes — most of the time he rolled them in such a way that only the whites were visible; his voice was chirpy, but there was an underlying unhealthiness and nastiness. Spice went back up again, leaving Vilera and Walley on guard.
When Doc wasn’t whistling he was talking; his particular speciality may have led to a lonesome life and possibly even his best friends wouldn’t have told him he smelt perpetually of embalming fluids. So when there were some live people around to listen, and not just his own unresponsive subjects, he expounded on his art.
Shaw told Flame to turn her back and he didn’t have to insist. Himself, he watched the proceedings; he was interested to know what was in the bottles and other containers in the oven — not that the knowledge would help him much now, he had to admit. Doc made his ministrations with the bodies in situ on the shelves, not bothering to move them to the tables, and he must have been stronger than he appeared for he was able to heave Osterman around without any assistance from Walley or Vilera. He made much play with gauze and bandages and then announced that the worst was over.
“Won’t take many minutes now,” he said cheerfully.
“I thought embalming was a long process.”
“Was once, but not these days,” said Doc, pulling again at his ear. “Matter of fact, I’ve perfected my own method of doing a nice, fast job. I never did market it, I just use it for these jobs of Mr Spice’s. Just the one traditional injection,” he went on, taking up a hypodermic and sliding it into the dead, cold flesh, “and then… then the perfume spray.”
“Perfume spray?”
“Sure. Like so.” Doc laid down the hypodermic in a kidney dish, put on heavy rubber gauntlets and then took up the aerosol container that Shaw had seen earlier. He directed the nozzle on to Osterman’s corpse and pressed the cap. A spreading fuzz of liquid came out with considerable force and this he layered very thinly all over the body and then stepped back, smiling in satisfaction. “That’s all there is to it,” he said. “Keep for ever… almost! Depends to an extent on the climate, naturally, and where they’re kept afterwards. Where these ones are going they maybe won’t last all that long, but they don’t need to once they get there. It’s all my own invention,” he repeated, indicating the aerosol and looking at it with affection and pride. “Why, you could embalm a living body with that, let alone a stiff. It’s very highly concentrated and it penetrates clothing with very, very great rapidity. Even leather. In seconds. Kills almost instantaneously.” He removed the gauntlets after immersing them in a basin, wiped his hands on a fragment of cloth and gave a curiously high giggle. “Kill and preserve with one squirt!”
Do-it-yourself embalming… Shaw’s stomach turned over.
Doc went away again soon after that, with all the bottles stowed safely back in the padlocked oven. Shaw and Flame waited, under Walley’s and Vilera’s guns. They hadn’t long to wait before Spice was back, wearing a look of angry frustration.
He snapped at Vilera, “Dere’s bin a telephone message.” His mouth and eyes were harder than ever, the voice flatter. He said to Shaw and Flame, “Okay, you two, walk over here an’ watch your step or Ah might take things into mah own hands an’ never mind de orders.”
Shaw asked, “What orders?”
Spice lounged across, his gun steady, his mouth twisted now into a spiteful grin. He stopped in front of Shaw and suddenly his knee came up. It took Shaw right in the crutch and he doubled in agony. “Mister Spice is de name,” Spice said. “Use it. Ask de question again, brudder. What orders, Mister Spice?”
“Take it as read, if it means so much to you.…”
This time it was a fist in the guts. “Ask it again, and nicely.”
“Get stuffed, you—”
Shaw’s teeth rocked in his gums and blood ran down the corners of his mouth. Then Spice stood back. Shaw fancied he was weighing something in his mind. Whatever the orders were, they must have come from someone pretty important in Spice’s life, for he backed away farther and said in a snarl, “Okay, limey bastard, jus’ don’ get too fresh or maybe Ah’ll still forget de orders. Meantime, you’re not goin’ to Peking. Nor’s de girl. Yet,” he added on a happier note.
Shaw glanced quickly at Flame. He would never forget the flooding relief in the girl’s eyes. He asked, “Where are we going, then?”
Spice’s eyes were savage again as he gave his unwilling answer. “You’re wanted elsewhere. Seems British agents need to be questioned by de brass before dey die.” That didn’t sound too good; but Shaw was interested by the reference to the brass. They could be going to see the man Siggings had talked of back in London, the man he’d called the President — the Dead Line’s boss, presumably. If this was so, Shaw would be taken right where he had to get… Spice broke into his thoughts. “Now Ah ain’t answerin’ any more questions,” the Negro said. He pushed his gun forward. “Up de steps, and move!”