Guess Who’s Coming to Kill You

Chapter 10

Sometimes Brook thought about it. Usually when he had had a couple of whiskies, and he was alone, and there was no urgent matter on the agenda. At such times he permitted himself the forbidden luxury of those little finger exercises in deceit he had to perform as a matter of course. So that in time, and not so very long a time, either, deceit became another motor function and if somebody asked you the time of day you automatically calculated how you might lie about it and make the lie plausible. Deceit piled on deceit, cover story to cover cover story, and then still another to cover everything your second story didn’t quite. Like the soup cans. As a boy he had been much taken with a brand of soup that showed on its label a small picture of its label in which there was a still smaller one, and another, and another, so that he would get dizzy trying to figure out where it all ended. In this trade you also wondered where it ended. You were forbidden to, but you did. At times.

Half smothered in the little trunk compartment, Brook found that this was one of those times. He had to tell a lie within a lie within a lie to Toby Stark. For some reason it bothered him. It was only when they were safely away from the festival grounds, on a dark stretch of road, as Stark let him out of the trunk and he climbed into the sedan, that Brook stopped worrying about it. That was the best time in such interludes: when you had it and could stop worrying about it.

He sat beside Stark as the fat Australian directed the Toyopet south along the coastal highway toward Katori Spa. His legs still ached with cramp, and he rubbed them as he spun his yarn.

“I’m not really with a boatbuilding company, Toby. Or maybe you’ve guessed that by now. The truth is, I’m a U.S. Treasury agent. I’ve been nosing into certain smuggling operations that originate here in Japan. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but — well, I’m beholden to you, Toby, for getting me out of a tight spot, and you’ve earned my trust. I can only hope you’ll keep it under your hat.”

Stark seemed relieved. “Is that it! Well, I should say. Always had a soft spot for Yanks. Blundering idiots, most of you, but the nicer sort — almost speak the Aussies’ language. Bloody few friends we have in this world. What went wrong?”

“The thing I’m investigating is due to break in a few days. We’ve identified most of the members of the smuggling gang, but we’re waiting for the big man to arrive in Tokyo. Obviously our most important job is to nab the boss.”

Toby Stark chuckled all over. “Like in the bloody films!”

“What?” Then Brook laughed. “I suppose it would strike an outsider that way. Anyway, with most of my work done, and with some time on my hands, I made the mistake of looking for a little whoop-de-do.”

“Aha,” Stark said. “The plot thickens.”

“It sure did,” Brook said ruefully. “I went to a nightclub, met a sexy hostess — Japanese — and made the usual arrangement to go to her apartment after she’d knocked off work.”

Stark looked aggrieved. “Damn it all, Peter, why didn’t you come to me if you were horny? I can fix you up at Katori Spa with a beautiful piece, and not half the running about.”

“Next time don’t think I won’t! But let me tell you about this, Toby. When I got to the girl’s apartment I found her dead—”

“You what?” The car swerved; Brook had to correct the wheel. “Sorry, old boy, but that gave me a turn.”

“Imagine what it did to me! She’d evidently been killed by a burglar or something. I understand they’re having a lot of trouble with these house robberies in Tokyo. Anyway, I’d been seen in the nightclub with the girl, so I knew the police wouldn’t lose any time connecting me with her murder. It’s so damned easy to identify a foreigner in these Asiatic countries! That meant being held for questioning, maybe worse, before it was straightened out. I couldn’t afford the time; it would completely foul up my assignment. Even if I was released in time the publicity might blow the scene. So I couldn’t do anything but run. And wouldn’t you know? Just then the police — how the devil they got there so fast I can’t imagine — showed up, and they caught a glimpse of my pan before I got away. That really tied it. They must have identified me in minutes. Anyway, they put out an alarm, and I was spotted at the fireworks festival.”

“Now that you tell it, it doesn’t sound so bad,” Stark said. “Your hand was forced, all right. They must have figured you’d try to lose yourself in a crowd, and the festival always pulls a mob of foreigners.”

“Well, that’s about it, Toby.” Brook hesitated. “The only thing is, I’m not out of the woods. And I don’t know who else I can turn to at the moment but you. I need your help.”

“You’ve got it.” The fat man laughed. “Most excitement I’ve had since my first night with little old Jazz.”

“You see, I’ve got to drop out of sight until Saturday. Katori Spa might be just the place to do it.”

“Say no more. I’ll put you up at the castle, hush-hush. Not a bloody soul will know you’re there.”

“Toby, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Shove it, chappie.” Toby Stark drove on, humming.

Brook was thinking: You got the good breaks and the bad ones in equal proportion; lucky for him the balance was in his favor this time. His string had started with Danny Boy and his prejudices against the fuzz. Then Stark’s running across him as he was stuck in the line of the shrine-toters. It had been apple pie after that.

That was one way of looking at it.

There was another way. When you got a streak of good luck in a tight situation, you examined it. With suspicion! There was something about smooth going in nasty waters that made the smart sailor uneasy. The calm before the storm sort of thing. You felt something tugging at the sleeve of your consciousness, trying to warn you.

You could look at it either way. You had damned well better look at it either way.

But just before dawn, after the kind of night he had had, rocked with fatigue, his body craving sleep and rest, the best thing was to note the other possibility for future consideration and stop looking at it any way at all.

Brook shut his eyes. He fell asleep.

The sun was just peering over the edge of the sea when Stark led Brook through the torii gateway to the blockhouse-like building at Katori Spa.

“It’s a grain-storage house,” Stark explained. “Japan’s the only place I know of where they build grain-storage houses to look like a bloody feudal palace. Not even a window. Nobody’ll know you’re here, Pete old boy. Hope you’re not claustrophobic.”

“Right now I’m not anything but pooped.”

The fat man opened the heavy door, reached in, switched on the light, and stood aside. Brook went in. It was a square room the size of a conventional bedroom. A couch, several Western chairs, a desk, two bookcases half filled.

“Fixed it up as a study for myself,” the Australian said, shutting the heavy door behind them. “Can you keep a secret, Pete?”

Brook was able to grin. “One good secret deserves another.”

“I thought I’d write a bloody book. I daresay everybody gets that bug one time or another. Historical fiction about the early settlers in Australia. Thought of a title, too. Kangaroo Moon. Damned catchy, what? Though I haven’t a story to go with it, not yet. I’ve been so bloody occupied I haven’t got round to it. Well, make yourself at home, chappie. I’ll send Jazz around with some shaving gear, and we’ll bring you food from time to time.”

Brook shook his head. “You’d better not tell Jasmine I’m here, Toby. The fewer in on this the better.”

“Don’t worry about Jazz. I’ve trained her to keep her yap shut. They’re just like dogs, these slant-eye women. Feed ’em, pet ’em, give them a little loving and a touch of the whip now and again, and they eat out of your bloody hand. Besides, Jazz likes to drop in here when she wants to mope or something, so she’s got to be let in on it.”

Brook sighed. “All right, Toby, if you think it’s safe.”

Stark waved and went to the door.

“And thanks again. Good night.”

The Australian went out, shutting the door behind him. Brook looked up at the high blank walls. No windows, as advertised, but there were slits up near the ceiling beams; they were a good ten feet above floor level.

The floor was dirt covered with mats of rice straw.

Brook turned his attention to the door. It was of iron, with a huge medieval-looking lock and a six-inch-square peep-window barred with a crisscross of iron slats. The damn place, he thought, has all the hominess of a rat trap.

Brook tried the iron door. It opened. The early light was beginning to bring out details; he shut the door quietly.

He sank onto the couch, took off his jacket, loosened his tie. His lids weighed a ton, but for some reason he had lost the wish to sleep. He was also hungry, rapaciously so. Bad. His appetite became overdemanding only when he was disturbed.

He nodded to himself. He had reason to be disturbed. He had booted security right and left. Maybe his luck, fantastic so far, would hold out.

He would need all he could get. The morning papers would be full of Kimiko’s murder and his name and description. It would hit Krylov like a ton of brick. Would it make Krylov change his mind about coming over? There was a chance, a better than fair chance, that it would not. The Russian was smart enough to know that the last people in Tokyo who would put his woman on ice were the American agents. The answer for Krylov had to lie elsewhere, in uneasy directions. No, Brook thought that Krylov would be more than ever anxious to go through with it.

Benny Lopez would see the English-language editions. For that matter, they would be brought to Holloway’s attention in Washington. Would they change the plan? Brook saw no reason why they should. So Benny would go ahead with the run; he would have the motorboat ready at the prearranged spot a short way up the coast on Saturday morning. But I’ll have to know it definitely, Brook thought; I’ve got to get in touch with Benny soon. It was best done without Toby Stark’s help or even knowledge. An amateur friend could be far more dangerous than a professional enemy.

The door opened. Brook’s eyes flew wide; he had dozed off. It was Jasmine.

“Well, hello!” Brook said.

She was certainly something to see first thing in the morning. She did not make the mistake of wrapping herself like a mummy to suggest the charms underneath; she wore angular vermilion silk slacks and a loose jacket embroidered in gold, everything loose, everything flopping, everything left to the imagination. In spite of his fatigue he found his working overtime.

“I brought you these, Mr. Brook.” Even her voice called on the imagination; it was slow and surly, inviting a contest. She deposited on the table a bundle wrapped in a silk scarf, and undid the knot. In the scarf lay a razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, and a hand towel.

“Thanks.” He did not rise, watching her. “What did Toby tell you?”

“Everything. He always tells me everything.” She smiled, but not with her eyes. It was queer about her eyes; they seemed to flick from side to side like the tip of a tail. Even the set of her lips was provocative, a smile and not a smile, shifting from moment to moment. There’s an underlying aggressiveness in all this, he thought, some secret game she plays that gives her kicks. She seemed to be saying yes, I am desirable, all men want me, including you, Mr. Brook, and maybe you can have me and maybe you can’t.

“Then you know, Jasmine, why nobody must find out I’m here. I have to be sure about that.”

The smile flickered, a match struck for a moment in the dark. “You are safe from me, Mr. Brook. Even if I wished to tell, whom do I see here to speak to?”

“Something’s bothering you.”

“Me? I don’t think so, Mr. Brook.” That’s right, he thought; give me the wide eyes.

“The name is Pete. May I guess? You’re stuck at Katori Spa here. No excitement. And you’re a girl who likes to stir things up. Right?”

“That could be said about most women, Mr. Brook. Peter. Who has no problems?” The hidden shoulders twitched. “I must go now.”

“Just a minute. Could I have breakfast? I’m starved.”

“I will bring it when the servants are gone from the kitchen.” Jasmine glided to the door. “Is there anything else you wish?”

“A bottle of Scotch would help.”

She nodded and went, shutting the door carefully behind her.

Brook washed and shaved, drawing out his toilet not so much to kill time as to bring it alive. He found his thoughts going back to Jasmine. Toby Stark had boasted of her talents in bed. It would be nice to find out first hand. A dirty trick on Toby, of course, but the hell with that. The only thing was, it was out of the question. Right now his job was to keep matters simple, not complicate them further.

When he had finished, Brook picked up his jacket to drape it over a chair. As he was doing so he saw a bulge in the right pocket. He frowned, wondering what could be causing it. He never stuffed his pockets. He explored the pocket and a frigid mouse ran down his spine. He knew what it was even before he pulled the stuffing out of the pocket.

It was the gold cord from the lounging outfit Kimiko Ohara had worn. The cord that had strangled her. The cord he had removed from her neck — and put in his pocket!

Why? For the love of Holloway, how could he have done a stupid thing like that? If the Japanese police had succeeded in laying their hands on him... The mouse ran down again.

Talk about a run of luck! This was one detail a Presidential directive couldn’t have made him put into his report to the Director.

There was a big ceramic ashtray on the table. Brook made for it, feeling for his lighter. He hoped the braided cord would burn.

The door opened again.

She had changed her costume. This time she wore a hot pink Chinese cheong-sam. Phase Two apparently: a little less strain on the imagination, a closer look at the goodies. If I can get her to come in here often enough, Brook thought as he slid the gold cord into his pants pocket, she’ll be down to the buff. He did not think she had noticed the cord; his body had been in the way.

“Hello again. Yum-yum!”

She brought the tray with his breakfast to the table. Standing up from the tray like a lighthouse was a bottle of Chivas Regal.

“That’s fine, Jasmine, elegant.”

“It is nothing, Peter; I had to hurry. But it will keep you from starving. Tell me now if you will need something more. I can come here only when no one is watching.”

“This ought to take care of everything. Well, almost.” After all, why not? It would endanger the run only if Stark found out. And she certainly wouldn’t tell the Australian. She might not even want to play. But he owed it to his manhood to find out. “I could use a little company with my breakfast.”

He was looking at her lips. They were very red and satiny. That strange smile lifted them briefly. Then her tongue appeared. Just the tip. “Oh? Very well, I will stay a little if you like. Toby is busy at the hotel this morning, as always at this time of day.”

Okay, kid, I’ve got the message. Amusing how suddenly his muscles had recovered their tone. No sleepiness at all, either. Like taking an amphetamine. Instant zap.

This time he held a chair for her. She smiled up at him, and he touched her neck briefly. In Japan a woman’s neck was an erogenous zone, out of bounds except in intimacies. If she had any Japanese in her it ought to get a reaction.

It seemed to him that her eyes acknowledged the pass as he sat down opposite her.

He dawdled with the bacon and scrambled eggs, sipped the coffee, disdained the toast. He was no longer hungry. He reached for the Scotch.

Jasmine pushed a glass toward him. “May I join you?” Her smile was a millimeter wider.

“Excuse me,” Brook said, and obliged. He should have figured her for an early-morning drinker. But then he noticed how she brought the glass to her lips, and he said, “You don’t really want that.”

The exquisite shoulders shrugged. “It is part of your sex ritual, is it not?”

“I suppose so.” It rather startled him. He had never thought of it that way. Was the Western man bucking up his own guts, or trying to loosen the Western woman’s inhibitions? He realized that, in light of the prevailing mores, it was rapidly losing its physiological function and becoming what Jasmine called it, a ritual; a sort of psychological appendix.

She set the glass down. “You must not be mistaken in what you are thinking.”

“I’m thinking all the right things,” Brook said, smiling.

“Perhaps not, Peter. You see, I do not often join a man in a drink like this, certainly not at this hour. I have accepted the attentions of many attractive young men, but I choose carefully.”

“And you’ve chosen me this morning. Why?”

“You have a strong and quiet look.”

“We call me the strong, silent type.” He was still smiling. “The Orient’s full of us. So there must be another reason.”

“You are also perceptive. Yes, there is. I think I have grown tired of the way things are with me.”

“You mean being tied to Toby Stark? Stuck out here like a house pet? Why don’t you cut out?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why not leave him?”

“It is not so simple, Peter. You see, I went with Toby in the first place because I was tired. I am not as young as I look. To find someone else who can afford to give me what I want may not be as easy as it once was. So I stay. He takes care of me and I give him his pleasure. But I am tired of him.”

Brook rose. He circled the table and went to the back of her chair. She looked up and around, smiling.

“Yes,” she said, as if he had asked her a question; and she took his hands and placed them on her breasts. “That is something I know how to do very well.”

It was a massive understatement. She made the late Kimiko Ohara’s technique look like the stammering efforts of a sophomore at Miss Briggs’ Finishing School for Young Ladies in the year 1910.

Less than an hour later Brook was aroused by the tolling of a deep bell from somewhere. It was probably the big bronze affair he had seen hanging in its pavilion on the grounds. The bell sounded unlike any he had ever heard, he was sure. Or was he? He wondered why it annoyed him. Each note sustained itself for a long time, like self-perpetuating thunder. He could feel its vibrations through the walls of the grain-storage house. It died away lingeringly.

Jasmine stirred on the couch beside him, pulled him down to her, and licked the tip of his nose. “It is only the bell, Peter. The servants, the workers, they like it. It helps them to feel religious.”

Then he remembered.

The cold mouse made its run again.

The moan as the bell died away. Jasmine’s voice, husky, that could be mistaken for a man’s voice if you didn’t know and she was on the other end of a telephone line.

She circled her palm ever so lightly over the hair of his chest. “I must leave now.”

Brook nodded.

“I will be back.” She swung from the couch, picked up her clothes from the floor, began to dress. He watched her. “I am glad you came here, Peter. I feel as if I have known you for a long time.”

“Do you?”

She laughed. “But we do not really know each other, do we?”

“We’ve made a good start.”

“Be serious. I want you to tell me about yourself.”

“It’s a dull story.”

“Don’t be modest! Toby says you chase smugglers for a living. You must lead an exciting life. Tell me everything.”

“Next time, Jazz. I’d rather Toby didn’t find you here.”

“Yes, yes. Next time.”

“Soon,” he said.

“Soon.”

He kept staring at the door until long after she had gone.

It was a cute setup, all right.

He thought it out.

Finally he poured himself an inch and a half of Scotch, drank it neat, and began to dress as carefully as if he were about to meet Holloway. He wished he had an iron; the silk suit was wrinkled. Well, it would have to do. He removed the books from the bookcase, carried the case to the wall below the window slit, and stood on it to look out. Between his tower and Stark’s “castle” there were only rocks and bushes and flowerbeds and the pool with its ducks and golden and speckled carp. And there was the rear of the house, not fifty yards away. The sun was well up and the day was warmer. And no one in sight.

He stepped down, went to the iron door, pushed it open very slowly. The garden was still clear. He walked out of the tower, shutting the door, glanced over at the pavilion where the great green bell was hanging. No one there.

The bell was silent.

Brook walked toward the house deliberately. A strolling man is far less noticeable than a hurrying one. Halfway across the garden he heard a splash, but it was only one of the carp breaking the surface. Then he was at the back door of the main house. He peeped inside. A big kitchen. Empty. He went in, quickly now.

He stood near the door, listening. He could hear nothing from the rest of the house.

He crossed the kitchen to a swinging door, opened it an inch, and cased the adjoining room. It was the one in which Stark had first entertained him. The telephone was on a table in a corner and he ran toward it on the balls of his feet. He picked it up, listened for the dial tone. Instead, a voice speaking English with a Japanese accent said, “’Lo. Desk.”

It was the voice of the clerk in the recreation center; Stark’s line went through the switchboard. Brook did his best to imitate the Australian’s boomy accent.

“Stark here. Look, ring me the Mitani Hotel in Tokyo, will you, there’s a good chap? I’ll hang on.”

“Mitani Hotel. Yes, sir. You know number?”

Brook gave him the number. The dialing, clicking, buzzing were interminable. He shifted his weight and kept glancing over at the doors. Risky, making this call. His chances would have been better if he had slipped away from the Spa.

Benny Lopez, at last. “Hello?” Brook could have kissed him.

“No time for the phone routine, Benny. I’m at Katori Spa. I’ll meet you Saturday morning per schedule. Don’t worry about me.”

“Don’t worry,” Benny grunted. “You see the morning papers, amigo?”

“No. But I can imagine.”

“You didn’t knock her off, did you?”

“Of course not. Look, Benny, to play it safe get out of your hotel pronto. Don’t say where you’re going. Better still, lie about it. Find some other pad and hole up.”

“You won’t know where I am.”

“Can’t be helped. Problems here.”

“What if you don’t show Saturday morning? I don’t know how to take that boat to where—”

“I’ll be there. No more time, Benny. Hasta.”

As Brook hung up he heard someone or something. He looked about for concealment; there was none. So he waited where he was. Nothing happened. It must have been the breeze scraping a bush against the house.

He got back to the grain-storage house without incident, feeling like a million.

He was lighting one of his little cigars when the iron door opened behind him.

“Hello, Brook,” said the boomy voice.

Brook turned to look into the muzzle of a Luger. Toby Stark was smiling; the weapon in his hand was not. Jasmine was in the doorway behind him.