Guess Who’s Coming to Kill You

Chapter 4

Brook kept goggling about as he taxied from the railroad station to the complex along the shore known as the Katori Spa. There were farm women in their billowing trousers as they toted baskets of tangerines slung from shoulder poles; leathery fishermen mending nets; racks of tiny mackerel hanging in the sun. He acted nervous as the driver drove him too fast along the narrow streets that cobbled toward the shore. Brook had visited Japan many times in the military service and later on intelligence assignments; a seaside spa (there were dozens along the Izu Peninsula south of Tokyo) was hardly a novelty to him. But he rubbernecked as if he had never been closer to Japan than a picture postcard.

The taxi deposited him at a big central structure at seaside. It was a concrete box, out of place in this setting. The sign over the front door said: KATORI SPA RECREATION CENTER, in English — to indicate, Brook supposed, that most of its patrons belonged to the foreign community.

He registered for one of the Japanese-style individual cottages strung along the shore and let a muscular maid in a kimono pick up his bag and go off with it. He looked past the desk out the picture window. There was a terrace, beyond the terrace glittered the sea, and a mile offshore he could see the delicate sails of small boats in a lively race.

The moon-faced clerk at the desk noticed his interest. “You like sail boat, sir?”

“Very much.”

“Ah! Then you very like Katori. Is best sail place in Japan.”

“That’s what I’ve heard, all right.” Brook took a notebook from his pocket, opened to a page, and frowned at a name jotted there. “Is Mr. Stark in, by any chance?”

“Stark-san?” The clerk showed all his teeth. “He boss.”

“Boss? Oh, you mean manager. I’m hoping to see him. Could you give him my card?” Brook fumbled for a business card and found it.

“‘Mist’ P. Brook, Naval Architect.’” The clerk looked up. “You like I call Stark-san now?”

“Please.”

The clerk dialed an extension number — from the clicks, to Brook’s practiced ear, it was 347. The man spoke for a moment in Japanese, mentioning the name Brook, and handed the phone over.

“This is Peter Brook,” Brook said.

“Toby Stark here,” said a hearty voice with an Australian accent. “What’s all this about naval architects? That bloody idiot at the desk never gets anything straight.”

“Didn’t you get my letter about a week ago? That explained things.”

“Letter? Don’t recall a letter from anyone named Brook. Small wonder. Foreign mail is always fouled up in this bloody country.”

“Well, now that I’m here it doesn’t matter.” Brook had counted on the Japanese postal confusion to explain the failure of a letter he had not had time to write. “I’m here to look into the possibilities of boat-building in Japan, Mr. Stark. The company I’m with manufactures yachts. As I understand it you’ve dealt with a number of boatyards, so I thought I’d combine business with pleasure, visit your resort and talk to you at the same time.”

“Good show,” said Toby Stark’s voice. “You settled in yet?”

“On my way to my cottage.”

“Right. Well, then, soon as you wiggle out of your girdle, why not drop by the castle?”

“The castle?”

“That’s what they call where I live. Rich old farmer’s house, actually. The boys will take you here. Just ring that stuttering cobber at the desk when you’re ready.”

The cottage was done in the Japanese equivalent of Grand Rapids, and Brook pretended to admire it as he washed and changed into sports clothes. He killed a few more minutes reading a pamphlet about Katori Spa. The complex had been built on the site of a watering place that had been a favorite of court nobles in the old days. Here at Katori, the brochure said, the volcanic mountains come to the very sea and from them gush the health-giving waters in which many Emperors and Noble Visitors have bathed. In modern times Katori Spa, with its swimming, golfing, sailboating, and other delights has become a favorite of the respected foreign community as well as of discerning Japanese patrons.

Brook tossed the pamphlet aside and called the desk. A few moments later a houseboy in a white coat was leading him upslope and through a rocky garden to a large house perched on the hillside, overlooking the resort.

Toby Stark’s “castle” was surrounded by a thick high wall; Brook had to pass through a great torii gateway. To one side he saw a small pavilion in which hung a verdigrised bronze bell as tall as a man; suspended beside it was evidently its clapper. In another direction loomed a tallish structure with slits for windows that vaguely resembled a blockhouse. Brook thought he had seen something like it before; then he remembered. It was a grain-storage building. Through the pines he made out a small shrine and part of a pond in which carp and ducks were swimming.

As he came up to the front doors of the main building they slid apart and a big fat man in a black kimono grinned out at him. He was not Japanese. He had a Texas sort of complexion, oversized features, a blob of a nose, and bulging eyes that looked idiotic and missed nothing. The grin was bracketed by two obscene dimples.

“Brook? Stark. Come in, come in. What do you drink?” His handshake was warm and flabby.

The big living room was Japanese except for the chairs, which were Western; one was a great overstuffed affair in red Naugahyde, evidently reserved for Stark. In one corner there was a businesslike teakwood bar. Stark headed for it immediately, waving Brook to a chair. Just as the American was about to sit down a door at the other side of the room slid back and a woman came in. He straightened.

“I am sorry,” the woman said at the sight of Brook. “I did not know you had company, Stark-san.” Her English was colored with the faintest accent, more European than oriental, Brook thought, although her eyes were slanted. Probably a Eurasian. She was quite impossibly beautiful. She wore the tight-fitting, slit-skirted cheongsam, of black silk, as if it had been invented for her; it molded her body like a cast. The mere sight of her stirred Brook’s manhood. Her dark hair came to her shoulders; there were reddish glints in it — a charming heritage, he thought, from her probably Celtic papa.

The fat man glanced up. “Oh, it’s all right, Jazz. Mr. Brook here. But I suppose we will be talking a bit of business.”

“I will go, then.”

“Don’t have to.”

“No, it was nothing of importance.” She lowered her eyes to Brook. But as she brought her head up again she gave him a most occidental onceover, from head to toe, pausing briefly at his chest and shoulders with unmistakable interest. He smiled at her.

She smiled back and left the room. The answering smile bothered him.

“What’s your pleasure, Brook?”

“Oh?” Brook turned to Stark. “Anything. Same as yours.”

“Whisky-soda, then,” said Stark, bustling behind the counter. “In your country whisky can mean several types. To us there’s only one, and only the bloody Scotsmen know how to make it.”

He came forward with two tall glasses. Brook said, “Thanks,” and sat down.

Stark loomed over him. “What do you think of Jazz?”

“The young lady?”

“Jasmine, really. Although that’s a name she took.”

“She’s very beautiful. Is she Mrs. Stark?”

Stark’s belly shook. “Not exactly. A very good friend. I’d probably go off my bloody wicket without her. I’m not complaining, mind you — Katori Spa’s a marvelous place. But a man like me does get lonely here. Jazz helps.”

“I’ll bet.” Brook looked about. “Quite a place you’ve got here, Mr. Stark.”

“Not mine at all,” Stark said. “I’m just the bloody resident manager. A salaried flunkey like the rest. And just as underpaid, I might add.”

“Then you don’t own the Spa.”

“Not likely! It’s the property of a cartel of bloody rich Japanese. They set this up for foreigners, so they wanted a foreigner to run it, and here I am. I’ve become identified with it, damn those Jap Scrooges! Up in Tokyo they don’t say, ‘Let’s go down to Katori Spa,’ they say, ‘Let’s go down to Toby’s.’ Not that I’m the only attraction, character though I am — good business, you know? We have everything here. Golf, swimming, yacht basin — girls, too, if they don’t bring their own, though we’re a bit careful about that.”

Brook laughed. “I’m sold, Stark. You don’t have to give me the pep talk.”

Stark roared, everything bounding. He waddled to the overstuffed chair and made himself comfortable, nuzzling his glass. “When you’re not naval architecting, what’s your pleasure?”

“Beg pardon?”

“I mean, what else are you down here for? Do you like girls?”

“Very much.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. You never know these days. What else, Brook?”

“Sailing. I understand you have your own boats.”

“How right you are. Very good class, too — designed and built here. The Tsuru class — means ‘crane.’ Seventeen feet long and frisky as a virgin, or so the sailing lads tell me. Race every Saturday and Sunday, weather permitting. Trophies at the end of the season, and all that. Nicely organized, if you’ll pardon the puff.”

“I hope I can get in some sailing. It might be profitable for my company to have these Tsuru boats, or any other good class, for that matter, built over here to export to the States. Cheaper labor costs, for one thing. I’d like to try out your boats. In a race, if possible.”

Stark nodded and tilted his glass. Brook permitted himself to look anxious. “I’m sure we can arrange it, Brook. What the club members do is list their names for the races each week, a skipper and one crewman to a boat. But there’s always somebody funking out, so the chances are good of getting on. See here, why don’t we amble down to the basin and have a look?”

“Fine,” Brook said promptly.

“Just leave your whisky,” Stark said. “We’ll get another there.”

The fat man held on to Brook’s arm all the way down the winding path through the rocks and trees past the guest cottages. Brook pumped him openly; Americans had a notoriously long nose for other people’s business, and it would have been out of the character he was playing to act otherwise. Besides, if the plan he had formulated was to go through successfully, a working knowledge of Katori Spa’s manager might be helpful.

Stark babbled on about himself happily enough. His first sight of Japan had been as a member of the Aussie army when the Australian forces had taken part in the Occupation. “I was scrawny then,” the fat man laughed, “believe it or not.” He had been a mess sergeant. “That’s what began to fatten me up.” After his discharge he had worked at resort hotels — everywhere from Istanbul to Acapulco, he said — winding up in Tokyo, where he landed the managership of Katori Spa; by that time he had acquired a managerial reputation, it seemed. The Japanese owners appeared pleased with him, and they had given him to understand that the job was his for as long as he wanted it.

“If those bloody Japs think I could stand this life for the rest of my days, they can think again. Too bloody dull for my taste. But then there’s Jazz, and I’m not quite ready to dump her. She’s got a way of making a man feel like the big joss.” His Japanese lantern of a face wrinkled in a leer. “Aside from her other talents.”

“Is this place her home, Stark?”

“She’s living here, if that’s what you mean. She’s part Chinese, part Irish, part Portuguese, and God knows what else. No family, all dead or scattered to hell knows where. Raised in Macao, you know, speaks half a dozen lingoes. Drifted to Japan a few years back and claims she likes it. I suppose she thinks what she’s got with me is permanent.” He shrugged his mountainous shoulders. “So far it is,” Stark said, and winked, looking suddenly like a frog.

Brook tucked the information about the girl away.

Stark showed Brook through the yacht club, proudly pointing out the sundeck with its pedestaled binoculars, and introduced him to several of his Japanese assistants and workmen. At the basin breakwater Brook looked over one of the sailboats and counted a dozen others on moorings in the harbor.

They finished their tour in the club bar. Stark ordered two Scotch-and-sodas and pointed to the blackboard on the wall. “There’s the race lineup for Sunday. They won’t all be here, Brook; you can step in right enough.”

“Jones, Hakayama, Sirois, Christiansen, Echeveria — sounds like a rollcall at the United Nations,” Brook said. Each name had a boat number after it.

“The whole bloody international crowd. We’ve even got a real live Soviet Roosian.”

“Is that so?” Brook said.

“That’s the bloke right there. Krylov. Nice chap as Rooskies go. He’s with their embassy in Tokyo. Practically commutes here every weekend. Absolutely hooked on sailing. No one’s ever told him it’s a capitalist sport, I suppose.”

Brook responded with the laugh Stark expected. “Whose name is that under Krylov’s? His crewman?”

“Right. Quackernack, Jan Quackernack. A Dutchie with some oil company here. He and the Roosian get on pretty well, so they always sail together.”

“Let’s hope I draw a congenial skipper on Saturday.”

“They’re all decent types. Well, now, what else can I do for you? Quarters comfortable, and all that?”

“Couldn’t be cosier.”

“Then I’ll be running along. Sure you don’t need a little company for later this evening?”

Brook laughed. “Another time, Stark. I have some paper work to do tonight.”

“That’s the Yank in you,” said Stark, grinning. “The only thing that can keep a Stateside bloke from chasing skirts is business.”

“It doesn’t work that way with you?”

“’Arf ’n’ ’arf, you might say. I try to mix the two whenever possible.” He was still chuckling as he lumbered off. Brook was relieved to see him go.

Jan Quackernack turned his little Japanese sedan toward the gateway of his own house, switched the lights to dim, and got out of the car to open the gate. He was a tall thin man, all arms and legs, who had some difficulty extricating himself. He was swarthy, as some Dutchmen are; his long face was usually either saturnine or anxious, depending on his mood.

It was not unusual for Quackernack to arrive home after dark; he was a man of late working habits, as everyone knew who took the trouble to telephone his office.

He had represented the Half Moon Oil Company in Japan for two years, and he put himself out to be accepted by the international community and his Japanese associates. His two boys, nine and twelve, were receiving a sound education in the international school; his wife Heidi, as plump and blonde as he was thin and dark, kept herself happy with afternoon teas and flower-arrangement classes. Quackernack had hesitated before latching onto Aleksei Krylov, the Soviet attaché, because he was not sure that his friends would approve; he was not the sort to rock boats. But when he saw how the yachting crowd took to Krylov, he struck up an acquaintance and was soon sailing with the Russian at Katori Spa. What muttering there was about the Russian came from the Americans — they were on to him, they would say darkly but even they acknowledged Krylov’s skill on the water.

Quackernack unlocked his gate. He was already savoring his wife’s dinner; she was a splendid cook, and she would not hear of the Japanese cook’s preparing the Dutch meals her husband loved. A nip or two of the Holland gin from the stone bottle (Quackernack loved the cheesy odor that made most non-Hollanders shudder); then the delicious dinner; then an evening with the phonograph and the Concertgebouw Orchestra of Amsterdam... life was good.

A blur of shadow came out of the deeper shadows. He turned to face it in surprise. It was a Japanese in shabby clothing, with the twisted towel on his head. Quackernack could not see the face, but the man was short and muscular.

He began to say in Japanese, “What do you want?” when the blur was on him. Hands flashed. He instinctively raised his arms.

That was his last memory for some time. Something that felt like an ax struck the side of his neck, and he fell.

The shabby man leaned over, took Quackernack’s compliant arm and, using both hands, snapped it across his thigh. It made a sound like ice breaking in the spring thaw. He dropped it, rose, and walked off without looking back.

In the public telephone booth a few minutes later the operator made his connection, and the shabby man dutifully dropped a number of ten-yen pieces in the depository.

“Yes?”

“Everything’s hunky-dory and chop suey,” said the shabby man.

“Then he won’t be sailing Saturday.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Thanks, Benny,” said Brook, and hung up.