Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Astounding Stories October 1931. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
I looked into the face of a girl about to be bled.The Heads of Apex
By Francis Flagg
Justus Miles was sitting on a bench in the park, down at the heels,hungry, desperate, when a gust of wind whirled a paper to his feet. Itwas the advertising section of the New York Times. Apathetically, hepicked it up, knowing from the past weeks' experience that few or nojobs were being advertised. Then with a start he sat up, for in thecenter of the page, encased in a small box and printed in slightlylarger type than the ordinary advertisement, he read the followingwords: "Wanted: Soldier of Fortune, young, healthy; must have goodcredentials. Apply 222 Reuter Place, between two and four." It wasto-day's advertising section he was scanning, and the hour not yetone.
Reuter Place was some distance away, he knew, a good hour's walk onhard pavement and through considerable heat. But he had made forcedmarches in Sonora as badly shod and on even an emptier stomach. ForJustus Miles, though he might not have looked it, was a bona fidesoldier of fortune, stranded in New York. Five feet eight in height,he was, loose and rangy in build, and with deceptively mild blue eyes.He had fought through the World War, served under Kemal Pasha inTurkey, helped the Riffs in Morocco, filibustered in South America andhandled a machine-gun for revolutionary forces in Mexico. Surely, hethought grimly, if anyone could fill the bill for a soldier of fortuneit was himself.
222 Reuter Place proved to be a large residence in a shabbyneighborhood. On the sidewalk, a queue of men was being held in lineby a burly cop. The door of the house opened, and an individual,broad-shouldered and with flaming red hair, looked over the crowd.Instantly Justus Miles let out a yell, "Rusty! By God, Rusty!" andwaved his hands.
"Hey, feller, who do you think you're shovin'?" growled a hard-lookingfellow at the head of the line, but Justus Miles paid no attention tohim. The man in the doorway also let out an excited yell.
"Well, well, if it isn't the Kid! Hey, Officer, let that fellowthrough: I want to speak to him."
With the door shut on the blasphemous mob, the two men wrung eachother's hands. Ex-Sergeant Harry Ward, known to his intimates as"Rusty," led Justus Miles into a large office and shoved him into achair.
"I didn't know you were in New York, kid. The last I saw of you waswhen we quit Sandino."
"And I never suspected that 222 Reuter Place would be you, Rusty.What's the lay, old man, and is there any chance to connect?"
"You bet your life there's a chance. Three hundred a month and found.But the boss has the final say-so, though I'm sure he'll take you onmy recommendation."
He opened a door, led Justus Miles through an inner room, knocked at afar door and ushered him into the presence of a man who sat behind aroll-topped desk. There was something odd about this old man, andafter a moment's inspection Justus Miles saw what it was. He wasevi