Pagoda

By Philip Atlee

A moneymaking scheme in Burma proves more dangerous than the jungle itself in the first action novel featuring Joe Gall by the Edgar Award finalist.
 
Down on his luck in Rangoon, Joe Gall agrees to partner up with an old acquaintance named Varley for a chance to make millions in the jungles of war-torn Burma. Gall expected the scheme to involve fists and guns—but when he discovers Varley’s working both sides, it’s every man for himself . . .
 
Originally published under the name James Atlee Phillips, Pagoda marked the first appearance of Joe Gall, the fearless freelance operative whose many adventures would take him around the world—and straight into danger.
 
“[Philip Atlee is] the John D. MacDonald of espionage fiction.” —Larry McMurtry, The New York Times

“I admire Philip Atlee’s writing tremendously.” —Raymond Chandler

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Mar 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504065924

Philip Atlee

Philip Atlee (1915–1991) was the creator of the long-running Joe Gall Mysteries, which is comprised of twenty-two novels published in the 1960s and 70s. Born in Fort Worth, Texas, Atlee wrote several novels and screenplays—including Thunder Road starring Robert Mitchum, and Big Jim McLain starring John Wayne—before producing the series for which he is known. An avid flyer, he was a member of the Flying Tigers before World War II and joined the Marines after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Book preview

One

When the tapering wing tip slanted up, the man in Seat 12 turned his head suddenly and brushed one of the window curtains back. The airliner was in a tight bank, very close to the rocky hillside. The stewardess, a tiny Chinese girl, was watching Seat 12; she had been wondering about him ever since they had left Manila. She saw his face tighten and his right leg stiffen, and she knew he was a pilot, that he was trying to help fly the plane. Smoothing the black hair under her gray flight cap, she walked forward and sat down by him.

Close, isn’t it? she remarked, adjusting the safety belt. He turned away from the window.

Right down on it, he agreed, not smiling, and they sat waiting in the rustling air rush. Up forward, the power had been cut, but it went on again briefly as the big transport fishtailed turbulently. The captain got caught in a gust, and put her down on one wheel; but he recovered nicely, and after a short roll the plane went forward on the nose wheel. Reversing props racketed briefly, and then they were taxiing toward the administration building.

The man in Seat 12 drummed his fingers on his knees and stared straight ahead. Undoing her safety belt, Miss Liu frowned at him and slipped out into the aisle. She was a little piqued at Seat 12. He must have sensed it, because as he picked up his gabardine coat he said solemnly, in good Mandarin, You are a lovely girl, but too young for me. Her eyes wide, she swung abruptly away from him.

She was watching from one of the front windows when he walked briskly down the metal ramp. He was only a step away from the customs doorway when three Hong Kong policemen, natty in black uniforms and helmets, came out to intercept him. They conversed, and once the incoming passenger spread his hands in mild supplication. His hat was pushed back on his forehead, and he was smiling. When he went into the building, the police were ringed around him, and Miss Liu knew he had been arrested.

Opposite the Kowloon side, in a molding pink house perched near the crest of the hills, a telephone rang. A tall lean man with a slightly froggish face came into the hallway and answered it.

This is Charley Hsui, Captain, said a polite voice in the receiver. The man was detained.

At the airport, or downtown?

Still here, Captain. In the CID office.

Thanks, Charley. Let me know if they put a charge on him.

Righ to. The phone clicked, and the man cradled the instrument slowly. Frowning, he tugged at the lapels of his white sharkskin coat and walked from the hall into the larger room beyond. It was fitted with polished teak furniture, and the entire far wall was glass. Another man, who had the look of an aging, decadent choirboy, was slumped on the sofa, and a girl dressed in a lose sari had her head in his lap.

The man in the white suit crossed to the glass wall and stood gazing across the harbor toward Kaitak Airdrome. Runway lights went on as he watched, and the approach funnel was like a scarlet ladder flung into the twilight. Yellowed lights were blooming on all over Hong Kong; a ferry chugged away from the Kowloon slip and went nosing into dark wavelets. From that height, the boat was a lighted toy and the people clotted on its deck were a swarm of sooty insects.

I told you it was a bum idea, said the man on the sofa. His voice was American and thick, but drunkenly precise. His curly hair was receding at the temples, and his features were classic but running to fat. Even if you got him this far, somebody in Haiphong or Bangkok—

Shut up. The man at the window did not turn. Better send Ugette down.

Poor baby … He traced a wavering forefinger down the front of the girl’s dark throat. Never gets to hear anything important. Run along, my dusky beast…

The girl twisted and clawed swiftly at his face. His head jerked back, and a thin line of blood ran from one cheekbone. He swore briefly; some of his drink had spilled.

Beat it, he said mildly, and she whirled across the room. The translucent sari, spangled with silver moons, flared around her shapely legs, and she was gone. The man at the window watched her leave, then turned to observe his handsome friend, now refilling his glass from a decanter on the lacquered sideboard.

You drink too much, Nash, he said thoughtfully, as if he had been intending to make the statement for some time.

Nash laughed. Without answering, he went on mixing another drink. His movements were exact, as if he wished to prove that he did not drink too much.

And it could get you pensioned right out of this one.

I don’t get drunk, Pappy-san Varley, objected Nash, crossing the room and sinking down on the sofa again. He fondled the fresh drink in the palms of both hands. The worst you can say about me is that I … forgot to go home. Is that bad?

Varley grunted, and went to pour himself a drink.

I could run this deal, Nash continued lazily. But no. You got to import some linthead from the States—

Cut that! Varley’s tone was sharp. You couldn’t run it. You couldn’t run a sewing machine. You’re just a nervous breakdown with a nice coat of tan. He turned from the sideboard. You can’t even fly any more, you keep going to sleep. It’d look great, on a delicate operation like this, if one of the guys had a bum gear or a fan gone, and you were pounding your ear.

That wouldn’t be so good, Pappy, admitted Nash quietly. He took a sip and his mouth puckered, as if he wanted to spit it out. Varley stood before the darkening window again, staring down at the glittering city and the harbor. Unseen tugboats hooted mournfully.

I don’t like to give it to you so hard, he said in a softer tone. When you had it, you were the burra sahib. It’s just that this one’s too big. With the Commies grabbing everything, it may be our last big one, and—

Varley paused as the houseboy came into the room. There was a man outside.

British-man? The servant nodded doubtfully, and Varley said, Bring him in.

Nash sat up straighter on the sofa. Want me to blow? he asked. Varley shook his head, and they listened to the murmur at the end of the hall. Brisk steps followed a sandaled pattering toward them, and a stranger came into the room.

The visitor was heavy-set and unsmiling. A stippling of scar tissue ran from his hairline to merge with his upper lip. The scar pulled the comer of his right eye slightly out of line, so that he had a permanent, patient leer on that side. He carried a trench coat, and his suit was rumpled. Cheap shoes, thought Varley.

I’m Lloyd Varley. He went forward with his hand outstretched. Gideon Nash on the sofa.

Evening. The newcomer shook hands. I’m Joe Gall. He ignored Nash.

Are you? Varley’s protuberant eyelids narrowed, but he was still smiling, What’ll it be, Joe?

Bourbon on ice, if you got it.

Just in from the States, eh? asked Nash. He was leaning back again, his eyes closed.

That’s right. Gall took the glass from Varley and sat down on the other end of the sofa. Cheers, he murmured, and knocked the drink down whole. It was a precipitate action; the bourbon had not even cooled off.

Luck, answered Varley automatically, and took a sip of his own drink. Just touring the troubled East, or will you be around a while?

Gall returned his gaze steadily; then he put the glass down. Let’s stop conning each other. If you’re Lloyd Varley, you cabled me $5,000 to Hot Springs. That was so silly I came over to see what you wanted.

Yeah. Varley smoothed the few strands of hair on his thinning pate. And if you’re Joe Gall, you were arrested an hour ago, getting off the Manila plane. More important, you are still in jail.

No. Gall shook his head impatiently. That was a friend of mine. He was carrying my passport.

And you were carrying a deputy sheriff’s badge? Nash opened his eyes.

Gall turned his head and surveyed the handsome man. You’re still as stupid as ever, he said. I was carrying his passport.

Take it easy. Varley came across the room and put a hand on Gall’s shoulder. Gall wrenched away.

Keep your hands off me, he said.

Okay, okay. Varley was astonished; he took a backward step. Now suppose you relax and tell us about it. Going to the sideboard, he poured another drink for Gall, a big one. Gall took it, sluiced it down, wiped his mouth, and his shoulders shook. He sat silent for several seconds.

I’m a little touchy, he admitted. You gave me all that double talk in the cable, about not getting nailed coming in, so I arranged for this guy to drag my passport through the Manila route. I came through Lisbon and Karachi.

Makes sense. Varley nodded. Did you know George Fong?

I knew him very well. The whisky was relaxing Gall; his face was sagged into moody repose.

He thought a lot of you, said Varley. After the angry talk, it seemed an oddly stilted remark.

So? Well, he’s dead now; nearly all of them are dead now. Gall squinted his eyes, and the scar line puckered. Want me to cry for him? I mean, it’s your dough. If that’s what you hauled me twelve thousand miles for, I can shed a salty tear for Georgie Fong.

Not necessary. Varley was faintly amused. This is just business. Do you remember the gold dealer’s name?

Joe Gall laughed. Which one?

The one in Panitola?

Lal Singh, answered Gall promptly. Got stabbed making a delivery on the road by the Balijan fighter strip.

What kind of a car was he driving? asked Nash.

A black Morris saloon model. Somebody cut off a finger to get that big cat’s-eye ring. Gall jerked his head toward Nash. It looked exactly like the one he’s wearing now.

This is the man, Pappy, said Nash in a blurred voice.

All right. Varley cracked his knuckles as though that indicated something final. Better get some sleep, Gall. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Gall stood up, reaching for his hat and trench coat. My cab went back, he said.

Car outside. Better have one for the road. When Gall said No, Varley shook hands with him again. He walked out of the room without glancing at Nash. His retreating footsteps sounded down the hallway. The door slammed.

A little bit wild, said Varley thoughtfully. Are you sure?

Yes. He flew copilot with me a couple of times, answered Nash. Didn’t like me then, either.

Outside, in the darkened driveway, a car started and headed down the steep road. The Chinese driver took Mr. Gall to the ferry, then made two more stops before returning to the pink house. The first was only two blocks away, and the driver removed his black felt hat as he reported to Sergeant Stryker, of His Majesty’s Hong Kong Police Forces. The second stop was before a small café in a gaily bannered street. There the driver whispered to a man sitting alone at a corner table. The solitary diner clacked his chopsticks, nodded without looking up, and continued his meal.

Three hours later the pink house had another visitor. This one did not come without warning; Varley was waiting for him. He had changed into formal clothes, and his cummerbund creased as he bowed low to a short man in a golden lungi.

You are most kind, murmured the little brown man. He wore a white cap,