Читать книгу Bamboo Terror - William Ross - Страница 7

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A String of Beads

IT WAS NOW two o'clock. Mr. Brown had been as punctual as a new hundred-dollar watch. At exactly one thirty he had walked through the door and introduced himself to Michiko. For the next thirty minutes Brown had steered the conversation around Hazzard's past activities by expert questioning. Hazzard was alert to this, but conversed freely with the stout man, parrying those questions that skipped over delicate subjects as expertly as the questioner.

Hazzard was amazed at the physical resemblance that Brown had to Sidney Greenstreet. The cultured speech, the mannerisms, even the bulk. But now the novelty was wearing thin. John Brown sat calmly listening and asking questions, with his brief case and hat held firmly in his lap. It was another hot day, and Hazzard was beginning to show visible signs of impatience. Mr. Brown had just noticed a picture on the wall of Hazzard in karate practice clothes, and was starting off on another tangent.

"Ah, that picture, Mr. Hazzard. You have studied judo?"

"No," came the weary reply, "Karate for four years. But Mr. Brown, as much as I appreciate your interest, you have yet to tell me why you came here to see me."

"Ah, yes," said Greenstreet-Brown, opening his brief case and taking out the small unpainted wooden box. "Mr. Hazzard, it is but a simple task. I would like you to deliver this small article for me," and he placed the box on the desk in front of Hazzard.

"Deliver it to whom?" Hazzard asked.

"To a friend of mine in Saigon," came the Green-street-type reply.

"Saigon!"

"Yes," and as calmly as if he were buying a new hat, Mr. Brown explained, "I am prepared to pay you the sum of ten thousand dollars for the safe delivery of the contents of this little box. Five thousand now, and the balance upon your return."

The impact of this statement left Hazzard almost speechless. Only a weak sound came from his throat as he repeated the words, "Ten thousand dollars."

Hazzard looked at the box on the desk for a long time. Then reaching over slowly he picked it up and glanced over at Mr. Brown. Sidney Greenstreet-Brown sat unmoving, a knowing smile on his face. Hazzard decided that there was no opposition to his opening the box, and he lifted the cover. He did not know what he had expected, but the sight of the small string of beads was somewhat disappointing.

Hazzard looked up and asked, "What is it?"

"It is a string of Buddhist prayer beads," said Greenstreet-Brown in his most mysterious manner.

Once again Hazzard looked into the box, "How much is this thing worth?"

Greenstreet-Brown gazed upwards at the ceiling, puckered up his lips in thought for a moment, and then replied, "Oh, I should say about four or five dollars."

"Four or five dollars!" Hazzard could not hide the amazement in his voice. "And you're willing to pay me ten thousand dollars just to deliver it to someone in Saigon?" His voice came back to normal, and he smiled as he put the box back on the desk. "Mr. Greens . . . er, Brown, something smells awful fishy." He leaned over in a confidential manner and lowered his voice, "What's the angle? Dope? Jewels? Gold? Secret Documents? . . ."

This did not seem to bother the cultured manners of Greenstreet-Brown in the least. "There is no, what was the word? Ah, yes, angle. Let us say that I represent a very rich, and somewhat eccentric client, who does strange things, and who pays excellent wages for services rendered. I assure you, Mr. Hazzard, there is nothing illegal, immoral, or, as you put it, fishy about this in the least."

Hazzard looked across the desk, straight into the eyes of Brown. There had to be something else, things just did not happen this way. "Just take these beads to Saigon, nothing else?" he asked.

Greenstreet-Brown returned the steady gaze. "Nothing else," he said smoothly.

Hazzard sat back in his chair, put his hand up to rub his chin, and studied the well-dressed Mr. John Brown. Here was a man offering an almost unbelievable proposition. The way he looked Hazzard in the eye when he spoke, made him either a very honest man, or a lunatic. Hazzard stopped to dwell upon the possibility of Brown being a little deranged.

"I can't figure out yet who, but one of us is crazy," said Hazzard.

Mr. Brown smiled, and Hazzard could see that Greenstreet-Brown was sure that he was not the one who was crazy.

"Who do I deliver the beads to?" asked Hazzard. "If I accept the job."

"Sorry Mr. Hazzard, but you will find that out only if, and when you agree to deliver the beads."

John Brown was also thinking. Hazzard was a suspicious, but honest man. Talk alone would not convince him to deliver the beads, but Brown knew other things. He knew about the unpaid rent, the many bills, the lack of clients. He opened his brief case again, took out two long fat envelopes and laid them on the desk. Then, once again in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, he spoke.

"Here are two envelopes. One contains five thousand American dollars, the other contains a like sum in Japanese yen. As a retainer, you may have your choice of either envelope."

Hazzard picked up the envelopes, one after the other, and examined their contents. The money was there, just as Mr. Brown said it was. Two hundred and fifty 20 dollar bills in one envelope, and one hundred and eighty 10 thousand yen notes in the other, and it was real money. He reached out, took the beads in one hand, and holding an envelope of money in the other, he mentally weighed them against each other. He could still smell a rat somewhere in the deal, but he could not put his finger on just exactly what it was that kept trying to warn him. After the workout in the alley, maybe he was just being overcautious.

"All right, Mr. John Brown, or whoever you are, I'll play your silly game, but I'm warning you, no tricks. This deal still has a fishy smell, in fact a great big fishy smell. Nobody goes around offering this much money to deliver packages unless there is something more to it than meets the eye, but I'm going to play along until I find out what that something is." He pushed one envelope back across the desk toward Brown. "I'll take the yen, if you don't mind. Now, who do I deliver the beads to?"

Mr. Brown took the envelope and placed it back in the brief case. "The person's name is Ling Ling Yung."

"Ling Ling Yung?" Hazzard smiled. "The name is almost as weird as the whole crazy idea."

Out of the brief case came another envelope as Brown explained, "Here are your tickets and travel instructions, Mr. Hazzard. You will follow these instructions to the letter without any deviations."

"This is getting more like the army every minute. I'm not altogether overly pleased at your manner," quipped Hazzard as he took the envelope. "Aren't you getting a little free with the orders?"

"Need I remind you, Mr. Hazzard," said the cold Greenstreet voice. "I have just purchased ten thousand dollars worth of rights to give you orders."

There was a dramatic pause while Brown allowed this to sink in. Hazzard met the cold eyes with a sheepish grin. He would play it any way that Brown wanted it, at least until he discovered the angle. Then we would see what we would see.

Brown went on speaking, "You will fly to Taipei, Formosa the day after tomorrow. From there you will board a coastal steamer, the "Queen Wilhelmina III," I believe it is called, which will take you to Saigon by way of Hong Kong. Everything you need is in the envelope, including letters to the various embassies of the countries involved which will enable you to acquire the proper visas for travel."

While Brown had been talking, Hazzard had been examining the contents of the envelope. Now he looked up and said, "There's no return ticket."

"That will be furnished to you at the other end of your journey—when and if you deliver the beads."

Everything seemed reasonable except the word 'if.' Well, that was something to think about in Saigon.

"Okay, Mr. Brown, you've got yourself a deal. There's just one more thing."

"Yes?"

"How do I find this Ting-a-ling-yung character?"

The look in Brown's eyes said that the jest at the name was not funny. "Just arrive in Saigon. It will not be necessary for you to find anyone. You will be contacted. The person who says to you: 'There is terror in the bamboo only for the wicked,' will be Ling Ling Yung."

Hazzard repeated the strange phrase out loud, "There is terror in the bamboo only for the wicked . . ." "It is from an almost forgotten Oriental proverb inscribed on the wall of an ancient temple in the jungles of Indochina," explained Brown. "The complete proverb reads: 'There is terror in the bamboo only for the wicked, the good shall find only peace."

More mystery. It was beginning to take on the flavor of a Fu Man Chu novel. But to Hazzard ten thousand dollars was still ten thousand dollars, and as far as he was concerned, he had just become the highest paid delivery boy in history.

"And how do I get in touch with you, Mr. Brown?" asked Hazzard.

The brief case snapped shut and Greenstreet-Brown was rising ponderously to his feet. "It will not be necessary to get in touch with me. You have all the information necessary to complete this small task."

"I mean when I come back. A little matter of a five thousand dollar balance."

Brown looked down at Hazzard and smiled his best Greenstreet smile. "Do not worry Mr. Hazzard," he said in his best Greenstreet voice, "I shall contact you immediately, when and if you return."

There it was again, the 'if.'

Brown turned and strode magnificently toward the door. Hazzard sat spellbound. It was just like the movies. For a moment Hazzard thought he was going to leave without another word, but Brown paused dramatically with his hand on the doorknob and turned around.

"Mr. Hazzard, do you own a revolver?"

"No, I don't," Hazzard lied. "It's against the law here in Japan for anyone except the police to have hand guns. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing at all. Just a passing thought. Oh, yes, one other thing. The box that the beads came in. You may take it apart and examine it if you wish. It is not even necessary to take the box with you. Just deliver the beads. And remember, no matter what happens to you, keep the beads upon your person at all times," he paused to smile. "Good-by, Mr. Hazzard, and have a pleasant trip," and with that he was gone, shutting the door behind him before Hazzard could say a word.

Hazzard sat for a few minutes looking at the door through which Mr. Brown had passed, then he let his gaze fall on the box. He smiled as he thought how Mr. Brown had read his mind. It was obvious that he would think something was hidden in the box. Picking it up, he examined it, and slowly applied pressure until it snapped at the sides. It was just an ordinary wooden box, and he threw the pieces in the waste-basket. Next, the beads. Nothing unusual here either. Each bead was transparent enough to eliminate the possibility of anything being secreted in them.

Hazzard swiveled his chair around to face the window and began to think. Everything was too mysterious, too simple, and the price was too high. Something was definitely wrong, and there was only one way to find out, go along with the instructions until he came across it. He began to think over everything Brown had said. Two times Brown had said 'if,' and two other phrases bothered him, ". . . do you own a revolver?" and ". . . no matter what happens to you, keep the beads upon your person at all times."

The more Hazzard thought about it, the more it began to smell like stale herring. Delivering the beads might not be as simple as it seemed. Then with a grunt, he rose and went to the small clothes closet in the corner of the room. Pushing aside his raincoat, a broom, and a few boxes revealed a small hole in the baseboard. Sticking his finger in the hole, he pulled, and the baseboard came away from the wall. Reaching in behind it he withdrew a small package wrapped in newspaper. The board, the boxes, and the other things were replaced, and Hazzard surveyed them for a moment to make sure Michiko would not become suspicious and discover the hiding place.

Returning to his desk he unwrapped the paper. Underneath was a layer of oilcloth which he carefully unfolded. Inside was a well-oiled snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .357 magnum revolver and a box of cartridges.

Hazzard smiled affectionately as he took a cloth from a desk drawer and wiped away the excess oil. Then holding the revolver in his hand, he said out loud, "Hello Sam, long time no see. You've had a long rest, and now you and I are going on a trip."

He placed the beads in a money belt around his waist. Then, as an afterthought, he put one hundred of the ten thousand notes in the money belt with the beads. Sam was loaded and stuck inside his shirt under the money belt. He put the remaining cartridges in a small leather bag and dropped them in his pocket. Looking in the mirror over the sink, he decided he needed a shave, and maybe a new shirt. He scooped the remaining money off the desk and walked out to stand in front of Michiko's little desk.

"I'm going out to the barber shop. Call the Mikado up and reserve a table for two next to the stage for the second show tonight," he said, trying to look nonchalant.

Michiko's heart almost stopped, "You are going out tonight?"

"Yes, and don't look so sad. Here,'' and he dropped the eighty bills one by one all over her desk. "Go get your hair fixed, and change your clothes, or whatever you girls do when you go to the Mikado. Meet me in the lobby of the New Japan Hotel at seven o clock. Tonight we dine, and tomorrow we start paying off a few bills."

Michiko's eyes went from Hazzard to the money and back again. "Oh, Mike-san . . ."

But Mike-san was already going down the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. He bounced briskly out the door and nodded to all the people who stopped to stare. 'Oh, I know what you're thinking,' he said to himself, 'There goes another one of those crazy foreigners. And this time you may be right.'

A barber shop is a good place to think, that is if the barber shop is in Japan, and you happen to be a foreigner. The barber figures he cannot talk to you anyway, and so he does not try. In America it would be the last place in the world that anyone would go to do his thinking. American barbers are all either baseball experts or frustrated politicians, and once they have you strapped in the tonsorial hot seat, they talk your ears off. Right now Hazzard was thinking, and for once he wished he was in an American barber chair. At least the talk would keep his mind from wondering about John Brown and the little string of beads.

He realized now that the deal had gone off too quickly. A thousand questions were running around unanswered in his still slightly aching head. Why was Brown willing to pay so much money to have an almost worthless string of beads delivered? If they were not important, they could be sent by mail. He had been too quick to grab at the money. Hazzard was mentally kicking himself for being stupid, until he remembered that this was the kind of weird business that a private investigator got himself into, and nobody had twisted his arm.

After the barber, Hazzard went home to his small three-room apartment in Shibuya. The business of the beads, and the ambush in the alley was now making him overcautious. He kept checking to make sure he was not being followed. When he arrived at the apartment, he eased himself through the door and systematically inspected the rooms, all the time keeping a hand inside his shirt ready to introduce Sam to any uninvited guests. He felt a little foolish when everything turned out as normal as it should be.

He took a shower and changed his clothes. Tonight was going to be the first time he had taken Michiko any place except for an occasional lunch. He remembered the way she had looked at him in the office when he had told her about the Mikado, and began to wonder if he was really doing the right thing. Mixing business with pleasure never had been a good idea, and a girl like Michiko might be a little more than he could handle once he got her out of the drab surroundings of the office and into the plush atmosphere of a night club.

It had taken longer than he had expected to catch a taxi, and it was almost seven thirty when Hazzard pulled into the driveway of the New Japan Hotel. He strode through the automatic doors half expecting to find a missing Michiko, but there she was, sitting wide eyed and pretty on one of the lobby sofas.

She saw Hazzard coming across the lobby and a fleeting expression of relief flashed across her lovely face. Then she smiled and stood up. Hazzard almost tripped on one of those idiotic rugs that the hotel had spread in the middle of the lobby. Michiko was a rather something in her office uniform of sweater, blouse, and skirt—but in a cocktail dress she was fabulous.

This had been Hazzard's office girl for six months, and he never even knew it. Her hair was swept back along the sides and up in back. A white feather tiara was fixed along one side and curved upwards over her jet black hair. The gold brocade cocktail dress was low cut and clung to every curve of her body like another layer of skin. High-heeled gold pumps accentuated the calf muscles to show a perfect set of legs.

Hazzard gulped, and found his voice as he came up to where she stood, and almost lost it again as he got a whiff of the perfume she was wearing.

"I'm sorry to be late," he mumbled.

"It's all right," she said.

Hazzard said nothing, and there was a long embarrassing pause.

"Well, ah, shall we go?" asked Hazzard.

"Yes," she said.

There was another pause as Hazzard just stood and stared at her. Then he caught himself and smiled.

"Shall we go?" asked Hazzard.

Michiko giggled. "That is the second time you say same thing."

Hazzard shook his head. So it was. He reached out, took her arm and guided her out to get a taxi. As they crossed the lobby Hazzard was conscious of the gawking tourists. Gripes, but he hated them. He could almost read their filthy little minds. The two-and three-week wonders going around the world before it was too late. Plane loads of doddering old busy bodies. Each one seeking out the place to buy silk, pearls, the book on flower arranging, and passing judgment on all foreigners with Oriental girls. He had seen them all before, every year it was the same, and he stuck out his tongue at one shocked lady who was leering at them through a pince-nez.

A little revenge for past insults, he thought.

Over dinner at the Mikado they watched the floor show that is always tops at this palace-like theater restaurant, and talked of many things; mostly Michiko. Hazzard was surprised that he knew so little about his office girl. From now on, he promised himself, he would spend more time thinking of personnel problems and less about unpaid bills.

Michiko had graduated from Doshisha University in Kyoto. Her father was chairman of the board of a large Kyoto bank. Her sister was an airline hostess and her younger brother was still in college. She had led a rather strict life at home; her father keeping a tight rein on all of her activities. She had to be home every night before ten, she could not go out with anyone unless her father approved beforehand, and at night she had to give a detailed account of everything she had done and where she had gone during the day.

One day she had gotten up courage enough to tell her father that she was going to Tokyo to find a job and support herself. To her surprise he had agreed and only warned her to be careful of the type of work she chose. It would have to be dignified and not be anything to disgrace the family name. She had been in Tokyo three days when she had seen Hazzard's small want ad in The Japan Times.

Watching her talk was fascinating, and before Hazzard realized it himself, he was asking her if she would like to see his apartment. Her answer almost floored him.

"Yes," she said. "I would like to very much. I have wanted to see where you live for long time."

All the way across town in the taxi to Shibuya, Hazzard held her hand. Everytime he squeezed, she squeezed back.

When they arrived, Hazzard began to worry if he had left the apartment in its usual mess. As the door opened and the light went on, he heaved a sigh of relief. He thought it looked quite presentable, then he saw Michiko's face. She was frowning and shaking her head.

"Yappari," she said, "You can tell a man lives here."

Hazzard shrugged his shoulders. Well, you can't win them all, he thought, and he followed her meekly around the apartment. She was interested in everything. She puttered around the kitchen, peered into the cupboards, stuck her head in the Japanese-style bathroom, glanced at all the books, ran her finger along the window sills, wanted to know if he had a maid, and who did the cooking.

When she learned that there was no maid, and that he did the cooking, she smiled.

"It is very nice," she said as she turned around from inspecting the bedroom.

"Very nice," said Hazzard, only he was looking at Michiko. Suddenly the perfume of her hair became intermixed with the Scotch and waters he had had at the Mikado and he reached out for her. She was in his arms and they were kissing. Hazzard could feel the fast beat of her little heart as he crushed herto him. Then, still holding her tight, he snuggled his face into the side of her neck and took the lobe of her delicately shaped ear between his teeth. Michiko stiffened and rose up on her toes against him.

"Michiko," he whispered, "Will you stay here tonight with me?"

"I do not know," she answered, and pushing herself away she walked past him to the living room.

Hazzard could not understand this piece of Oriental female logic. Either you do or you don't, he thought, but Hazzard still had much to learn of a woman's heart, especially if the woman was Japanese.

"Why don't you know?" asked Hazzard.

"Do you like me?"

"Yes," said Hazzard, wondering where this conversation was leading. "I like you very much."

"Do you like me enough to marry me?"

He looked at her for a long time. So that was it. Be careful Mike.

"I—I don't know," he answered truthfully.

"Then I cannot stay," she said with a smile.

Damn these women, thought Hazzard. Always got the hook out for a man.

"You mean if I say I like you enough to marry you, then you'll stay here with me?" he asked. "I could lie to you, then what would you do?" That ought to take some of the wind out of her sails, he thought.

She shook her head. "No, you would not lie, especially about a thing like this. I see you every day for six months. I know you, I know your heart. You are not the kind of man who tell lies. I never stay with man before, but with you I will stay. But only if we become married."

"Okay," said Hazzard. "I understand what you mean. Will you stay if I say I will marry you?"

"Oh, I Will stay, she answered. "But I will not sleep with you, or make love with you. I will kiss you if you want, but we cannot make love with each other."

Hazzard was more confused than ever. "But you just said . . ."

"When you want me for your wife, I will make love with you. But if you say this now, I will not believe. You spoke truth first when you say you do not know how much you like me, desho? Someday maybe you ask me to marry, then I be very happy. If you do not ask me, I wait. If you marry someone other girl, I be sad."

Hazzard shook his head and a broad grin spread across his face. "Michiko, come here." She came, and he took her face in his hands and said, "Kiss me," and she did. Then he held her at arms length. They were too complicated to try and figure out, these lovely Oriental female creatures, and from now on he was going to stop trying. Take them just the way they are, they are magnificent.

"Come on," he said, "I'll take you home."

It was two o'clock in the morning and it took them twenty minutes to find a cruising cab. All the way to Ikebukuro he held her hand.

Michiko directed the taxi driver in and out of the usual maze of small streets and finally told him to stop in front of a small alley. When she got out, she turned and squeezed his hand. "Goodnight," she said, and hurried away.

Hazzard told the driver to take him back to where he had picked them up, and settled back in the seat to wonder what was happening to Michael Hazzard. He knew why he had asked Michiko up to his apartment, and so did she. He had failed, and she had laid it on the line. The one requirement. Marriage. Well, just like the man said—don't mix business with pleasure.

Marriage. She wanted a husband. She wanted Michael Hazzard. He thought about it. If he married Michiko it would mean coming home every night. No more beer busts. No more parties with the willing girls of Atami and Ito. No more night life. Just coming home to Michiko every night. She would be at the door, throw her arms around his neck, kiss him, and then serve tea. They would take baths together and she would scrub his back. They would eat together, in fact, they would be doing everything together. And for the rest of his life, too. No more cold lonely nights in bed, no more . . . whoa—hold up here Hazzard old man. What the devil are you thinking about now? For thirty-eight years you have been doing fine. Now suddenly this.

Hazzard shook his head and rolled down the window of the taxi to let the cool night air in and revive him. Thank heaven for good old Greenstreet-Brown. Soon he would be off to Saigon, and if he ever needed a trip, he needed it now.

The cab had stopped and the driver was looking back at Hazzard with a weird expression on his face. It suddenly dawned on him that the driver had been saying something and that they had been stopped for two or three minutes. Hazzard snapped out of his dreaming. They were back from where they started!

He paid the driver and walked up the road to his apartment. He was still thinking about Michiko when he pushed the key toward the lock and a warning signal went off inside his brain. Springing back, he flattened himself against the wall. When the key had touched the lock, the door had moved. It was open now, and it had been locked when they had left.

Reaching instinctively inside his shirt, he suddenly remembered that he had left Sam hidden in the bedroom. He was learning lessons in what not to do very fast these days. He made a mental note to kick himself for being stupid and pushed the door open with his toe. He waited and listened. Nothing. Slowly he slid his arm in through the door and flicked on the light. Still nothing. He squatted down and peered around the edge of the door. No one, but the place was a shambles. He stood up and stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. He checked all of his rooms. Whoever had been there was gone. There must have been three or four of them. No one person could have done all this in such a short space of time. Hazzard had only been gone for about forty-five minutes.

They had ripped up everything. The tooth paste was all over the sink, the soap was in crumbs, all the boxes in the kitchen had been ripped open and their contents dumped on the floor. Every book had been leafed through and tossed about. The cushions and furniture had all been cut open and the stuffing was all over the rooms. Drawers had been spilled, clothes were thrown in a heap, the mattress on the bed was an unbelievable mess. The only thing they had not done was knock down the walls. What the hell were they looking for?

The money he had left in the apartment was strewn about on the remains of the mattress. Then he remembered Sam. He went to the closet where he had hidden the revolver, but it was gone. This was one theft he could not report to the police. In fact, if the police caught the thieves with Sam, and they talked, it would mean the end of Hazzard's visa.

He glanced down at the money laying on the bed. But they were not thieves. They had not taken the money. What the devil were they after? His foot hit something hard. Picking up a coat that had been thrown on the floor, he saw Sam. They didn't want money, and they didn't want a gun. He reached inside his shirt and felt the bulge of the beads inside the money belt. "I wonder?" he said out loud.