The Doc Justice Files - Three Card Monty part 2
by Direwolf

Chapter 2- Tracks in the mist

The powerful Ford pulled away from the West Coast Freight warehouse. Justin looked back as the brick building vanished in the thickening fog. Something seemed wrong somehow, though Justin couldn't say why. With a shrug, he put it out of his mind.

"So, Lucas, you were catching us up with the situation in Italy. This fascism movement has me worried."

Lucas nodded in agreement as he maneuvered the car through San Francisco, crossing Market Street and heading north. With occasional inane comments offered by Go-on, Lucas provided a succinct summary of the politics of the Italian peninsula. Soon enough, they pulled up to the curb in front of the Crest Theater.

"Sure you won't come in?" Justin asked before getting out of the car.

"Nah just started the Canterbury tales. I'll get some coffee from the diner and come back to the car to read, or maybe talk with some of the other drivers in the lot. Sometimes can pick up some interesting stuff like that."

"Right-o, cup and Chaucer for you, low brow theater for us. Come on Justin, I see my sister waiting in this light mist that you colonials call fog."

Justin grabbed his coat and got out, dodging a taxi. Go-on was already striding across the fog-dampened sidewalk towards a stunningly beautiful young woman waving at him by the box office. Beside her, a more austere woman in a tweed suit watched them both. Coat over his arm and feeling somewhat like the door prize of the evening, he followed along.

"Miss Gregory, it's good to see you again."

"Charmed, as always, Mr. Collins," the tweed-clad woman said in slightly accented English. As a trained linguist, Justin recognized her primary accent as Russian, from around Saint Petersburg with a bit of Africans thrown in. "I trust business has been good?"

The two of them talked about the joys and troubles of running a financial empire in the midst of a worldwide economic depression while Go-on and his sister nattered to each other. Miss Aleksandra Gregory, or Alex, was another friend of Gawaine and his sister whom Justin had met a few times. In conversation with Gawaine, Justin had found out that Alexis was a White Russian expatriate who ended up in control of a far flung set of land holdings including a cattle ranch in South Africa and wheat farms in Montana. Miss Gregory was an avid pilot and had asked Justin to design a radio for her personal plane.

Then Go-on and his sister, Lady Britomart Paget descended on them like a genial whirlwind.

"Right-o, Justin, you remember my sister, Britt, I'm sure you do. And Britt, I know you remember Justin."

The look in Britt's blue eyes could have melted plate glass. She latched hold of Justin's arm and gazed up at him. Britomart Paget stood at just over five and a half feet tall and her slender body, honed by dance and gymnastics, seemed tiny and rail-thin next to Justin's over six feet of height and broad shoulders. Nonetheless, Justin felt like prey.

"Of course I do, but I'm quite cross that he hasn't come over the pond to visit in London. Really, Mr. Collins, you must come over to visit. London has so much to offer a man of your standing."

Justin felt the flush rise from his collar and engulf his face. He knew that it would make the faint scar by his hairline, a memento of the great earthquake, even more visible.

"Well, there are a lot of demands on my time, Lady Britomart."

"Of course." She playfully slapped his chest. "But can't you make some time for me?"

Justin's stammered answer was lost as Gawaine, arm in arm with Alex, announced it was time to find their seats. Justin felt relieved until he realized he was about to spend the next two hours sitting next to his best friend's sister in the dark.

It was full night and the fog had thickened to a heavy gray blanket that engulfed the city. Jeff figured that if Mr. Costanza wasn't back soon, he was going to close up and head for his apartment. To be safe, he made one last check of his desk to make sure there weren't any unfiled papers, which meant making sure that everything was in a pile.

The door banged open. Three men walked in accompanied by a few tendrils of mist. All three of the men wore long coats and had hats pulled down low over their faces. Two of them stood beside the door, flanking it, while the other crossed to Jeff's desk. The warehouseman was about to demand to know who they were when he got a look at the face below the hat. There was hardness in the eyes and set of the chiseled jaw that made Jeff think of a crooked cop, and a senior one at that.

The man leaned low over the desk, bringing his face on a level with the seated man. Jeff noticed something odd, the man was wearing a grayish-green tunic, like a military jacket, under his over coat. The tunic collar was embellished with a pair of gold bars, lieutenant's bars, and an embroidered silver eagle with clusters of thunderbolts in both claws.

Jeff felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He wished he'd closed up shop an hour ago.

"Can I help you?" he managed.

"There was a crate for me that arrived on the China Star, two days ago. I want it now."

Jeff swallowed past the knot in his throat. "What name is it under, sir?"

"Patrick Henry. It's a sturdy wooden packing crate about five feet long with Japanese writing on the side."

Jeff was suddenly sure he had made a mistake in giving the package to the tall, elegant Englishmen but maybe there was another box back there. It was worth trying if only to get away from this hard-faced man for a few moments to think. Besides, he knew the boss kept a gun in the top desk drawer.

"Yes, sir, I'll be right back with it."

Jeff walked to the back office door. Based on some unseen signal, one of the two men flanking the door followed him.

"So much for making a run for it out the back," Jeff thought, "or trying for the gun."

He went to the private shelves, popped open the shutters and sorted through the few boxes left. There was one other from the China Star for a Lord Gawaine Paget, two shelves over from where the packing crate had been. Jeff felt his heart hit his shoes. He'd given away the box.

"Just play for time and maybe I'll think of something," Jeff decided.

The sound of the front door opening a few moments later startled him. He looked out the door and saw Lorenzo accompanied by a small elderly Chinese man, standing in the doorway. The Chinese man seemed to assess the situation with a single glance, bowed low to Lorenzo and said, "No laundry tonight, boss!"

In a heartbeat, the old man was gone, leaving Lorenzo alone.

Jeff had no idea who the old man was. They didn't have a laundry service.

"Mr. Costanza, I'm here for my box." Patrick Henry's voice was a sharp and cold as a frozen straight razor.

Lorenzo licked his lips. "The China Star..."

"...Docked two days ago," the hard eyed stated. "I want my package and I want it now."

"It's not here," Jeff blurted, his nerve stretched to the breaking point, "I gave it away by accident!"

Storm clouds seemed to gather in Mr. Henry's face. Jeff babbled on. "It was some English Lord named Pager, or Daget, something like that. He came in with two other guys, one of them was Justin Collins, the industrialist, I recognized him from the papers. The other was his driver. The English guy was in a hurry since they had to get to the theater so I tried to help, boss. I'm sorry."

The hard-faced man jammed his hands into his over coat, causing the garment to bell open. Jeff saw he was wearing what looked like a US Army uniform, except the cross belt was black, rather then brown, and the odd eagle insignia was over his right shirt pocket as well. The name strip read Lt. Warwick, not Henry.

"A play? Which one?"

"Something about a butler, sir. That's all I know. They was in a big back Ford sedan. I saw it when they put your crate in the trunk!"

"They left with my box? You are sure?"

"Yes sir, about five-foot long with Japanese on the side." Jeff was feeling quite relieved. He saw that even Mr. Costanza was looking happy, a smug smile on his face.

"Then I had best recover my property. Good evening." The three men moved towards the door and Lorenzo wisely got out of the way. Patrick Henry, or perhaps Lt. Warwick, stopped in the open door, the damp fog snaking in past him. "Just one thing..."

His hand emerged from his right pocket, filled with a chrome-plated automatic. "No one cheats the Imperium!"

The gun thundered and Jeff flew back, his last thoughts regret that he wouldn't get to enjoy the money the well-dressed Englishman gave him. The smoking muzzle tracked onto Lorenzo.

"Wait," Lorenzo shouted, "it's not what you think, they didn't get..."

"Semper Imperium." The second shot cut off Lorenzo's words as the bullet blew out his throat. The gunman watched the two fallen men to assure him that they were dead, and then pocketed the gun and walked out, locking the door behind him. The warehouse was sufficiently isolated; he suspected the fog-muffled gunshots would go unnoticed.

A long brown roadster was parked by the front of the building, the engine idling. A fourth man sat at the wheel, his eyes alert.

"Everything under control, sir?" he asked as the three men came up to the car.

"No, corporal, but it will be." There was a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle on the front seat. He opened it to the arts section and scanned the listings. "Here it is, ‘What the Butler Saw', a light, two act comedy opening at the Crest Theater tonight."

"Going to report to the colonel, sir?" One of the men asked the Lieutenant.

"Not yet, we can get the crate from this Collins and make it back. I'll report when I have more information."

No one argued. With military precision, they got into the car and drove away. Unseen behind them, a small figure swung down from the warehouse roof. He contemplated the door, for a moment, then looked after the vanishing car.

"Theater it is," he murmured in Cantonese. "And Justin Collins is involved. Neither the Mantis nor the Dragon will care for this development..."

The roadster was parked around the corner from the Crest Theater. The driver sat at the wheel, engine at an idle. Lt. Warwick sat beside him, his face as expressionless as if carved from stone. One of the other two men was in the back. The last was out ‘reconnoitering'.

Despite his calm exterior, Warwick was quite worried. Seeing to the arrival of the crate from the Far East had been set on his shoulders. And while the Imperium rewarded success quite lavishly, it was equally harsh in meeting out punishment for failure. Warwick had no intention of failing. There was too much at stake. Not just his own welfare but also the welfare of this great nation hung in the balance as well. He wasn't going to be the one responsible for stopping the Great Plan.

The fourth man returned to the car.

"Report," Warwick demanded.

"It's confirmed that they are inside, Justin Collins and Lord Gawaine Paget met two women at the box office. One of the women is Gawaine's sister, Lady Britamart. She is easy to recognize by her striking looks and numerous scandalous pictures." For a moment, the man's southern-accented voice took on a deep note of puritanical scorn.

"The driver took the car, a black Ford sedan, around the corner to a lot where a number of other drivers congregate. I confirmed he was there with fourteen others."

"How public is the lot?" Warwick asked.

"Quite, sir, and well illuminated. I saw two city police cars drive past in the ten minutes I watched."

Warwick swore savagely. So much for the idea of trying to get hold of the crate by stealth. Attempting to snatch it from the driver was apt to draw too much attention. Only one plan seemed viable.

"We'll wait until the play finishes, follow the car, and once they are in a sufficiently out of the way location..."

Lt. Warwick didn't need to finish. They all knew what would come next.

The curtain came down at shortly after ten-thirty PM. The applause was hearty but not thunderous. Even the ever-enthusiastic Go-on admitted the play was far from original and most of the jokes clear long before the actors uttered the lines.

"Well, that was far better then sitting around your office trying to make yourself even richer, wasn't it?" Go-on insisted as they walked out of the theater.

"I did enjoy the show, and the company was impeccable," Justin said.

"How gallant, our evening would have been so much less if you hadn't come along," Britt gushed. "I say we all go out for a late supper and then, well, I have heard there's a new swing band that is just the most amazing thing ever over at the 17 Club! The dancing is sure to be divine."

Justin winced inside. An evening out with Britt and her brother could easily turn into a wild weekend.

"I'll try to catch up with you at the 17 club," Justin offered, "I never closed up the office and I really should."

"Oh, go on! Call Fu Lee and ask him. He lives for that sort of thing."

Justin shook his head. "Not tonight. It's Friday, he's got the evening off to play Mahjong with his friends in Chinatown. Really, I'll catch up."

"I'm sure you will," Alex said with a knowing look. She always seemed to understand when he wanted to duck away from Britt and seemed a secret, co-conspirator. He always wondered if there was some sort of romantic link between her and Gawaine, they seemed so different yet enjoyed each other's company, but he was far too polite to ask. "If nothing else, we'll be in the city for a few days. I would apprentice your time on a technical matter. I'm thinking of a self-correcting compass for long flights."

Justin stopped in mid stride. "Yes, I see what you mean, something that can correct itself for declination. Humm, the key would be to somehow monitor changes in the magnetic fields so it's self-calibrating, but confuse it with the motions of the airplane. This is going to be an interesting puzzle."

Alex smiled back, her face alight with shared imagination. "I knew if anyone could engineer something like, it's you."

"Go on! You just want to slip off to that musty old lab of yours and start playing with wires, capacitors and tubes."

"Humpf, I think he prefers the dark old lab to our company." Britt's impish grin robbed her words of any malice.

"Well, maybe just to jot a few notes. Then I'll be on my way to the club. Really. Do you want to take the car? I'm sure Lucas would enjoy some music."

"No, a taxi for the three of us. If Lucas is with you, there are better odds you'll actually meet up with us. And speak of the walking oak tree, here he is. Off with you, my boy, we'll see you soon."

Gawaine was right. Lucas had maneuvered the sedan through the maze of cars in front of the theater and looked out the window expectantly. "Anyone actually want a ride, or you just going to stand their jawing until you choke on this fog?"

"Just me, Lucas," Justin said as he climbed over the running board and into the car. "I'll see you all later."

"Right-o, can't argue with that. And Lucas, do see if you can pry him out of his lab tonight and over to the 17 Club. Toss him over your shoulder if need be."

Lucas chuckled, the rumble sounding almost like distant thunder and pulled away from the curb. "Back home, boss?"

Justin sat back in the seat with a sigh of relief. "Yes, please."

Down at the corner, Warwick watched Doctor Collins get into the sedan as Gawaine Paget and the two women stood by the curb. The sedan pulled away while the Englishman whistled for a passing cab. The targets were splitting up.

"What now, sir?" the driver asked.

"The crate has to be with the car. So follow the car."

The roadster's engine surged as the driver swerved out into the flow of cars around the theater, ignoring the chorus of blaring horns behind. The low-slung car skipped across two lanes and settled into position behind, but not too close, to Justin's sedan.

Standing on the taxi's running board while the ladies settled into the back. Go-on noticed the sudden movement of the roadster as it darted through traffic. He glanced down the foggy street. It was behind Justin. It could be coincidence, but it could be something more. His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities, his whole body taking on a suddenly more alert posture. Then as quick as it came, he relaxed back into his normal stance of the carefree Bright Young Thing.

"I say, driver," he said as he slid into the front seat, "Let's have a spot of fun at my old friend Justin's expense. Drive to Number 1 Post Street."

He leaned back to address his sister and Alex. "What say we make one more attempt to lure Doc Justin away from the path of righteousness and into a den of iniquity?"

Britt laughed.

Alex shook her head. "Go-on, you are incorrigible."

"Part of my charm." He smiled brightly as the cab pulled away from the curb, following the other two vehicles into the fog. Casually, Go-on slid his hand into his coat as if to check his wallet. He found what he was looking for. The thirty-eight was snug in its holster under his arm.

To be continued...