Free Hurricane by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

hands went in through the guard. Spar’s fingers closed on Chacktar’s windpipe. Chacktar threshed helplessly in the grip.
    Little by little, his life ebbed out. Spar dropped him with a feeling of disgust.
    Other cars were coming. It was all up, thought Spar. But perhaps it had been worth it, even though he went back to the prison camps. The penal colony could hold no terrors now.
    Frederick Perry ran forward, crying, “What’s this? What’s this?”
    Spar faced him. “Your son is in that house. You’d better get him out. The police are coming.”
    “My son? But I thought—”
    “Don’t think, act!” rapped Spar impatiently.
    But it was already too late. Cars drew up and belched forth men. The gendarmes clustered about the two, throwing out a barrage of questions.
    “There is no corpse,” said Spar.
    “No corpse?” cried the chief. “Name of a cat! Is all this some joke, hein ?
    Gendarmes had gone into the house and were now calling for the chief. Taking the two with him, the chief entered. Young Perry was standing in the center of the living room, shaking with terror.
    The gendarmes recognized him instantly with glad shouts, but Spar’s voice broke through the babble.
    “Listen,” said Spar, “the yacht Venture, if I am not mistaken, has just sunk three miles north of Fort-de-France. A great criminal and many armed men are there on the beach. I would advise that you telephone the colonial barracks and have the people rounded up. It is of the utmost importance.”
    “What’s this?” cried the chief. “What’s this? How do you know?”
    “Because, on my last trip into the engine room, I opened two seacocks . The Venture has been filling up for hours and she must have gone down by this time. The men left aboard have not intelligence enough to shut them off.”
    “Wait!” said the chief, pulling his black mustache, “I know you. I have lately received your description from French Guiana. You are Captain Spar. Aha, my fine jailbird, so you think to so escape us.”
    “Yes,” cried Spar. “I’m an escaped convict, but down there on the beach you will find two score escaped convicts. Get them, phone the barracks, or you’ll lose your precious badge!”
    The man blinked at Spar, recognized the sincerity of tone, and reached for the instrument. He barked his information, and ten minutes later, a battalion of French colonials were racing down from the hills to the beach.
    Twenty minutes later, the wondering inhabitants of the fishing village were startled by the sound of rifle fire.
    An hour later, a major and many soldiers marched up the road to the Perry plantation, escorting what prisoners they had left.
    The Saint, flanked by the mustard uniforms of the colonials, was very disheveled. His debonair manner had given place to a definitely terrified mien. His eyes were very large when he saw Spar and Frederick Perry on such excellent terms.
    Then some of the bravado came back and he shook loose confining hands. “So the convict thinks himself smarter than the Saint, eh? Turns state’s evidence and gets the reprieve. Someday, Captain Spar, you and I may be able to settle this matter by ourselves.”
    “Why not now?” said Spar, getting up slowly.
    “No, no,” cried the chief. “You are my prisoner. Do not damage yourself!”
    But the colonial major was of a more warlike mind. “Let them go ahead. Perhaps we shall learn something.”
    But he might have saved his words. Unmindful of the men all about them, Folston and Spar hurled themselves from the two sides of the room and met in the center of the polished floor like two charging cavalry brigades.
    The Saint was lighter than Spar, but the Saint had the advantage of tricks which Spar would never have used. They rained blows on one another in a matter of seconds. Too surprised to interfere, the soldiers and police stood still.
    Spar was striking for one spot, the heart. His blows were steady. The wolf, taking his one hold. The shark rapped every