Run, Spy, Run

The dank cellar was getting steadily more foul. The waterfront location of their prison was unmistakable. It seemed to be some kind of basement storage room, long unused. Judson's chauffeur, had unloaded them somewhere among the docks of London, in that backyard area of abandoned sheds and antiquated warehouses. Nick fought down a rising tide of helplessness. Nick shot another sidelong glance at Julie. An unkempt ringlet of long, dark hair hung past one shoulder. Shorter, loose tendrils dangled over her forehead and down the back of her neck.

Judas had decided to answer. "Valdez," he said without animation, "was a man who betrayed not only his own government but the people who paid him well to betray it. Myself, in other words. He was not the anti-Red Chinese hero that he seemed. He fought against them with words in public places, but he helped their cause with deeds. Unfortunately he made the mistake of thinking he could replace me. Replace Judas! The arrogance of the man. So we arranged an ingenious end for him. Unhappily, the bomb was triggered on the ground, not in the air, as planned. I deplore this kind of accident, but nevertheless it turned out fairly well. I had hoped to get two birds with one stone — there was an interfering girl who was making a nuisance of herself — but I have every reason to believe that she has been taken care of."

What did that mean — that he'd heard from "Brown," or hadn't?

"No doubt you know about that too," finished Judas, with a faint inflection of enquiry.

Nick ignored that. "So you somehow persuaded him to blow himself up. How did you manage that?"

"Simple, really. The good Senor Valdez thought he was bringing a clever bomb to your country, which would be used at a later date and in the appropriate company. It was, of course, a device concealed in his artificial limb. He would simply remove the hand under cover of, say, the banquet tablecloth, and quietly excuse himself several minutes ahead of time. But we deceived him." The globular head lowered, as if in shame. Or gloating pleasure. "We told him everything but the time of the explosion. He did not know he was carrying an activated explosive."

"And you yourself were mistaken about the time of the explosion. So your timing was off, too."

Judas chuckled mirthlessly. "Not my timing, Mr. Cane. My hirelings'. Even the best laid plans are open to human error. Our expert in the — uh — portable demolitions department has been diverted to a less responsible position. He neglected to observe the time difference. Something to do with your idiotic daylight saving, I understand."

Well, that certainly explained a lot. But there was still a coincidence unanswered.

"But what about these artificial hands — are there more of them? What is it, a sort of trademark?"

Judas laughed again. "You do ask an awful lot of questions, Mr. Cane. I don't know what possible good you think it's going to do you. But that's really quite a delightful concept: the League of Silver-Fingered Men… Unfortunately, we only had the fortunes of war, Valdez and I, to blame for our common affliction. We met a year ago in the Swiss hospital to which we both had gone for our very difficult and specialized operations — he had had some kind of sordid little accident. It was there that I won him over to my employ. But eventually he got big ideas, as all really small men do. I even used his hand for him! Now, Mr. Cane, I've answered you. It's your turn to talk. Tell me: What is 'Brown' to you?"

"Huh?" Nick was flexing his leg muscles. Were the bonds just a little looser? It was very difficult to do anything about his hands; the rod beneath his shoulders made any useful movement virtually impossible. "A rather dull color. Why?"

The steel hand flashed out and struck Nick's face.

"A man named Brown. What is he to you?"

Nick shook his head as if to clear it. "What Brown? It's a common name."

"The Brown of the message, Mr. Cane. Remember Judson?"

"Oh, yes. He would have relayed that simple message, wouldn't he?"

"He did. The 'simple message' started. Mr. Cane, like this: BROWN CONFIRMS BIBLE IS RIGHT. ISCARIOT TAKING SILVER IN STEEL HAND. I understand you had some very specious explanation of that for our foolish Mr. Judson."

"There's nothing to it," said Nick. "Brown is a New York operative, a private investigator. The message is clear enough." He frowned and looked thoughtful. "On second thought, perhaps Judson didn't realize he was the suspected traitor."

"Why would you think Judson was taking silver in his steel hand, Mr. Cane? You know that Judson doesn't have one."

Nick hesitated just a little too long. "It was meant as a warning to us, that he would kill if he realized we suspected him. 'Steel' means knife or…"

"That'll do. Cane. You've stalled long enough. You'll start telling me now what I want to know, or Braille begins in earnest. You may not find me handsome, but I can assure you that Braille is no picture postcard, either. The lady must be longing to look him over."