The Devil—With Wings by L. Ron Hubbard

report here,” said Forsythe, indicating the paper, “was never filed by N-38 but by the only man who had access to those files. Yourself, Captain.”
    Shinohari said nothing. He could think of nothing.
    Forsythe was not smiling now. “You wanted that report to be false because you have your own personal reasons for Robert Weston’s drop from sight.
    â€œWhere is Weston?”
    Shinohari was tense. His midnight eyes were set and staring, out of focus, at the gun.
    â€œAnd while you are answering that,” said Forsythe, “you can give me the Confucius you took from him.”
    Shinohari still sat without speaking. His nervous hands had frozen about the arms of his chair and he held himself partly pushed forward. Abruptly he sagged back, clawing at his collar with a long yellow finger.
    â€œI know nothing about that.”
    Forsythe paced around the table like a stalking panther. The black goggles were boring straight through into the captain’s shivering brain.
    Shinohari suddenly chanced a draw. The Luger rasped as he yanked it forth.
    A clean blow to the yellow jaw, a splintering of wood and the crash of his body shook the room. Forsythe reached out and yanked the man to his feet.
    Forsythe was not talking now. He had seen a bulge under the mustard-colored jacket. He ripped away the buttons and grasped the hard surface of a small doll.
    He threw the captain backwards to the couch and went toward the light. He paused and looked closely at the image.
    It was brown, pinpricked with wormholes. The shiny lacquer had worn away long ago, leaving the bare wood in patches like scars. Confucius had been carved holding his staff. A placid smile was on the bearded face. Forsythe gave the philosopher a cold grin of triumph in return. He thrust the image into his pocket and turned again to face Shinohari.
    â€œHigh treason,” said Forsythe. “The penalty, for you, would be very severe. I think you would find that it hurt to be a figure of scorn where you have been such a hero. Had I better shoot you now out of kindness?”
    Shinohari’s nerve was coming back. He was trying to gather enough courage to bluster his way out.
    â€œYou have no evidence!” cried Shinohari. “You are trying to intimidate me. You know nothing about…”
    Forsythe’s grin had the freezing capabilities of liquid air , showering down upon the luckless captain.
    â€œShinohari,” said Forsythe, “we have matched wits too long to underestimate each other. You cannot help yourself by bolstering false hopes. From the moment I stepped into this Weston puzzle I knew your records were false. I have tried to find out why you hid truth from your own government. The only answer is that you did this for personal gain. Your pay is not high, your position makes large demands upon your salary. A less astute person would falsify his reports like a common burglar and rob the cash box with erroneous expense accounts. But not you.
    â€œYou have been playing your cards to make yourself wealthy. Oh, don’t deny it. Robert Weston located a mineral deposit of great wealth. His find was immediately reported to you by your own agents. Instead of relaying this information to your government, you sidetracked it for your own interest, spiked all possible leaks. You did not kill Robert Weston because he was valuable to you personally.
    â€œGreedy for the reward which you thought your work and position demanded, you have taken matters into your own hands. Somewhere near the Amur at this very instant, Weston is working for you under heavy guard—and your superiors know nothing about it. That, Captain, is treason. The reward for treason is death and disgrace.
    â€œBut have no fear about my reporting this to your war office.”
    At this the wilted Japanese showed swift signs of hope.
    Forsythe knifed them instantly. “No, not to your war office, but to the military intelligence of another