Guess Who’s Coming to Kill You

Chapter 7

At first Brook thought it was the lantern on the noodle cart floating before his eyes. Then his focus sharpened and he began to understand that it was a flashlight. It moved to one side and a sober-faced young Japanese in a policeman’s hat was staring down at him.

“Good morning,” Brook said. For the life of him he could not think of anything else to say.

“You... okay... sir?” The policeman’s English was painful.

“I think.” Brook rose, reeling, and the policeman put out a hand. Then Brook saw the black-and-white police sedan, red roof-light flashing, and a second policeman by the door. “How did you happen to be here, Officer?”

“Somebody call. They say big fight in street.”

“Did you get them?”

“No understand.”

“The men who attacked me.”

The policeman shook his head. “We find you. No men.”

“They must have taken off when they heard your car.” Brook shook his head; it was full of mush. It also ached, and his throat and nose were bitter-sweet with something.

The policeman had dug out a notebook. “You tell what happen, please.”

“Three men jumped me. After my wallet, I guess. One of them knocked me out, then I suppose you came along.” And you’re Mrs. Brook’s luckiest little boy.

“Ah, so.” The policeman wrote. “Name. Identi-fi-cation. Must have, please. Then we go police station.”

It could have been worse. He got into the police car.

Brook had to tell his story five times at the stationhouse. He kept it fundamental. He had been walking along the street after visiting a friend, looking for a taxi, when three men jumped him from the shadows in the dark street. They were undoubtedly robbers. He had fought them off for a while — this had apparently been confirmed by the residents of a nearby private house who had witnessed the fight — and then in some way unclear to him, possibly a karate blow, he had been rendered unconscious. And what was the name of the friend he had been visiting at that hour of the morning? Well, to tell the truth, it had been a young lady. They glanced at one another wisely. These Americans! These Japanese girls! Who was the young lady? Where did she live? Brook looked abashed. He didn’t know her name, he was ashamed to say. As for where she lived, it was somewhere in that neighborhood, but he had walked along so many streets and taken so many turns it would be impossible to find it again — all the houses looked alike to him. Ah, so. Where then had he met the young lady? Brook looked bashful. In a bar downtown. Which bar? He shrugged; he hadn’t the faintest idea. There were hundreds of bars downtown, and he was new to Tokyo. He was here on a business trip from the States, and the crazyquilt of streets were a big mystery to him.

It was well into the morning before they let him go, two or three of the officials still looking unconvinced. But it was a story they couldn’t possibly check, so Brook was unconcerned. He was told to notify them promptly if he should change his hotel address, and as he left he heard a heated gabble of Japanese which made him grin.

He went back to the hotel.

There was no message from Benny Lopez.

He showered, shaved the blue sheen off his jaws, slugged an inch and a half of Scotch down neat, and went to bed naked. Just before he rolled over and plunged into sleep he set his alarm for 3 P.M.

When he went back downstairs he found Benny’s message.

Brook snapped a picture of the swans in the moat of the Emperor’s palace. Every tourist in the park took pictures of the swans, the tower-like gatehouses with their curved gables, and the graceful Nijiubashi Bridge. It was a clear sunny day and the park was full of foreigners and Japanese. Nobody paid any attention to him.

A powerful little man with a bag of peanuts strolled toward him, followed by a retinue of pigeons. Today Benny was dressed in his American clothes. It seemed to Brook more of a disguise than the costume in which Benny, with his Aztec face, chose to pass for a Japanese.

Lopez came to a halt at the edge of the moat. “Hi. Has it been fun?”

“Up yours,” Brook said. “How about you?”

“Dullsville,” Benny complained. “Who invented this legend for me? I’m supposed to be studying the Japanese political system here for my masters. So I had to call on a few politicians. You know something? They’re just as full of hot air here as back home. I got invited to a couple of bashes and had to turn ’em down in case you called. I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.”

“I’ll mention your devotion to duty in my — what did they call them in Maugham’s time? — my dispatches.”

Something that sounded like “Vete á otro con ese cuento” came out of Benny’s mouth. “Translation: get off my goddam back. Some assignment! I found a kiosk where they have El Universal Gráfico from Mexico City, but it’s five weeks old. I don’t even know what’s doing at the bullfights.”

“To hell with the bull fights,” said Brook. “What’s doing at the home office?”

“They said okay to Krylov’s conditions. They’ll pay the Ohara girl’s passage to the States — what is she, Irish? — and arrange a legend for her. She’ll get an offer for a nightclub appearance in Washington through a booking agent. They’ll supply the plane ticket. She’ll proceed separately from Krylov.”

Brook nodded, not happily. “I’m afraid we’ve got a little something on the agenda before we wrap this up.” He told Benny of his visit to Kimiko, leaving out the more robust details, and of the street attack by the noodle vendor and his friends.

Benny frowned. “Thees no smell kosher, I theenk.”

“Suppose I like it? Maybe they were just out to roll a foreigner for the yen in his jeans, but somehow I doubt it. That spray can and those masks were pretty sophisticated for a gang of muggers. And then that overgrown icepick the soba guy attacked me with — Wilkinson was stabbed with a weapon like that. Our cover may be blown. I don’t know why they’d go about it just this way; I don’t even know whom they’re working for. If they are. We’ll have to find out more about them, Benny, before we can risk going ahead with Krylov.”

“And how do you propose doing that, compadre?”

Brook looked around as he lit a cigarette. But no one seemed interested in them. He raised his camera and took another shot of the swans. “That noodle cart had a license number. Seven-six-four-nine-five. I’d also recognize its decoration if I saw it again.”

“So what? There must be hundreds of noodle carts in this burg.”

“You don’t read enough guidebooks, Benny. The way I understand it, they load up with noodles in the evening in only a few places around town. The license number might narrow it down to one. Work through the regular security man here. After that, we take a look.”

“I still don’t like it.” Benny tossed a handful of peanuts and watched the pigeons, wings beating, descend greedily.

“Got some other idea?”

“No. Except that if our cover’s blown we ought to get the hell out of here fast.”

“That’s what we ought to do,” Brook nodded. “If we worked for the National Safety Council.”

“You sound more like Holloway every day! Keep on like this and you’ll wind up behind a desk.”

Brook said thoughtfully, “Or in the moat here, like Baldy.” He waved and walked off, busy changing the film in his camera.

For the next two days Brook bolstered his legend by calling on some boatyards to investigate yacht-manufacturing possibilities for the American company he was supposed to represent. Unlike Lopez, Brook found his cover enjoyable; he was always happy on boats, or near them, or talking about them. At the same time he found himself restlessly wondering why Benny was taking so long locating the noodle vendor. Each time he got back to his hotel he asked for messages; each time his box was empty.

He was not convinced that their cover was blown. They had been cautious, using different hotels and different legends to explain their presence in Japan. In making contact by phone they had used the initial call method, during which no business was discussed; this was followed by an immediate return call from an outside telephone. In only one case had they violated their M.O.: when Benny had called Brook at the Katori Spa to tell him that Krylov’s Dutch sailing partner, Quackernack, had been taken out. But even that call, made by Lopez from a public booth, had probably been all right.

The phone in Brook’s room finally rang early on the morning of the third day, while he was shaving. He dashed out of the bathroom like a mad dog.

“Hello, Charley?” said Benny’s voice.

“My name’s not Charley,” Brook said.

“You’re Charles H. Barrymore?”

“No. What room you calling?”

“I was calling twenty-six-o-one.”

“You’re way off, fellow. Must be a mistake.”

“Sorry.”

Brook hung up, finished shaving, and slipped on a shirt and jacket. Before leaving he paused at the little desk in the corner to jot down the following:

Charlie = C = 3

H. = H = 8

Barrymore = B = 2

Room 2601.

Phone number 382-2601.

He memorized the number, burned the paper, and flushed the ashes down the toilet.

He walked several blocks, pausing at shop windows. Presently he came to a street booth. He stepped in and dialed 382-2601.

“Amigo” said Benny’s voice. “What took you so long?”

“Getting here the slow way.”

“A tail?”

“I don’t think so. But you know how it is with icepicks.”

Benny said with sadness, “Some day when I want to talk to somebody I’ll phone him just like that — start right in saying what’s on my mind.”

“What did you find out?”

“This noodle cart of yours. It stands in a yard with a lot of others daytimes. Owner’s name Takeo Muramoto. His home address is within spitting distance.”

“Let’s take a look. I’ll meet you in front of the Imperial in twenty minutes, the new building.”

“Should I bring baggage?”

“No,” Brook said. “We can’t afford to get caught with weapons on us.”

“Who says we’re going to get caught?”

“We’re wasting time,” Brook said. He hung up.

He strolled through Hibiya Park on his way to the Imperial Hotel, pausing to admire some chrysanthemums in a sidewalk flower display. No tail. He got to the rendezvous exactly twenty minutes from the time he had hung up. Benny was just approaching the entrance. The two men paused like acquaintances who meet by accident, engaged in a compatriot conversation, and moved off together, gesticulating. On the street beyond the hotel Benny hailed a taxi; he gave the address.

Their destination was near the river. Like all riverfront neighborhoods it was weathered brown and dilapidated, with aged buildings and a few concrete warehouses. They walked half a block to a dirt lot enclosed by a drunken wood fence. In the lot stood several dozen noodle carts. Each was tilted on its handrails.

The Americans walked along the line of carts. At last they came to the one that wore the license tag 76495. Brook glanced at the designs on the cotton half-curtains and nodded. “This is the one, Benny.”

Benny led him across the lot to a side street. The buildings here were frame, with warped beams and the universal browning. “Over there, Pete. First floor rear.”

Brook looked around. The street was empty. They went in.

The smell was predictable — fish, soya sauce, stale air, urine, and a trace of faeces. They passed along a time-scarred hall with a midget’s ceiling and Benny paused at a door. Brook put his ear to it.

“Nothing.”

“Then he doesn’t snore.” Brook could barely hear Benny. “He’s in there. The itch in my crotch tells me.”

Brook tried the door delicately; it was locked. “Back window, Benny.”

They retraced their steps and turned into the alley that led to the rear of the building.

“Amigo, what’s the point of this?”

“If I can get a good look at this Muramoto on his home grounds we might learn something about him.”

“For what?”

“We might have to take him out.”

“Suppose he’s just a peón in this setup, Pete. Taking him out won’t cool it.”

“That’s one of the things we might find out.”

They moved toward Muramoto’s rear windows. As they drew near one of the windows suddenly opened. Brook and Lopez burrowed into the wall. They heard running water. Then silence. They waited. A man cleared his throat. Brook edged to the window.

There was a spurt of rock followed by a voice speaking in Japanese. Then more music as the man inside explored his radio. After a while the sound snapped off.

“Just getting up, if we’re in luck,” Brook whispered. “If he leaves soon we can search his pad.”

Benny looked more interested.

They heard a phone being dialed. Brook concentrated, counting the clicks.

“Ten digits. A long distance call.”

“I know,” Benny said severely. “I can count, too.”

The man began talking. He was talking in English.

“Hello. Hello? This is Han.” His English was heavily spiced, but where the spices had been grown eluded them. I wish, Brook thought, I knew more about the Far East. “Yes, I understand... Okay... Yes, I will. On time. Goodbye.”

They heard him hang up, begin to move about. Benny Lopez muttered something violent in Spanish, but he waited as patiently as Brook. Suddenly they heard a door open and close.

“What are you waiting for, Pete?”

The room was unoccupied. He climbed over the sill fast, and Benny landed on Brook’s heels. A sagging unmade bed, a low table or two, several filthy tatami mats. The walls were decorated with color photographs cut out of magazines. They all showed muscle-men, Asiatic, Negro, and Caucasian, in gaudy animal skins — they seemed to favor leopard — flexing their mighty thews in “health” poses.

“Homo sexualis draws no color line,” Benny said with a grin. “Pity the poor noodle vendor. These guys are as far out of his reach as a Playmate to a skid row wino. But he can dream, can’t he?”

“Maybe it’s part of his legend,” Brook said dryly. “And he’s no ordinary noodle salesman. Ordinary noodle salesmen don’t listen to rock and make long distance calls in colloquial English.”

“Or use a cover name.” Benny looked thoughtful. “I wonder why ‘Han.’ Sounds Chinese.”

“It also sounds Korean, Japanese, and a few more, Benny. We won’t get anything out of that. Let’s use his phone.” Brook dialed the ten digits he had identified by the clicks.

A tenor voice said, “Yes?” in English.

A one-syllable word tells little about a voice. Brook plucked a name out of the air. “Hello? This Ronald Q. Forsythe?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Forsythe. Isn’t this Mr. Forsythe?”

“You have made a mistake.” The connection was bad; the voice was overlaid with scratches. Brook thought he detected an accent. But whether it was European or Asiatic he could not tell.

“I want to talk to Ronald Q. Forsythe. He told me to call.”

“There is no Forsythe here,” the voice said. As it stopped, another sound took its place. It was a sort of drawn-out moan, but there was something non-human about it. A note played on the bass pedal of an organ? “You have the wrong number.”

“Look, what the hell’s your name?” Brook demanded angrily. “I’m going to report you to Mr. Forsythe—”

The receiver went down at the other end.

“Nice try,” Benny said.

“Holloway doesn’t pay off on nice tries,” Brook said. “I handled that stupidly. We’ve got to find out who owns that phone number.”

“I’ll have it checked by the security resident,” Benny said. “Big deal.”

“I’ll bet you it’s a bootleg circuit not listed anywhere.” Brook took a step and stopped. “That moan.”

“What moan?”

“Over the phone while the line was open. At his end. I think it was at his end, though it might have come from the circuit. A long low note that gradually faded away. Almost like music.”

“Ship’s whistle?”

Brook shook his head. “It wasn’t like that, Benny. Hard to describe. If I could pin it down, it might give us a lead to Muramoto’s — ‘Han’s’ — contact.”

“That’s detective story stuff,” Benny scoffed. “By God, I’m going to report you to Holloway.”

“You do that,” Brook said, “and I’ll take you apart. Let’s get out our Sherlock Holmes kit and give this pad the treatment.”

Brook was in the closet and Benny was half under the bed when the door opened. Benny had just remarked in disgust that they were a couple of wild geese. At the opening of the door Benny clawed his way back from under the bed in a comical way and Brook dived out of the closet like a linebacker. The noodle vendor Muramoto — “Han” — was standing in the doorway gaping at them. His surprise lasted for two blinks. Then he was back in the hall behind a door-slam.

By the time they reached the street the sky was clear; it was 11 A.M. and the sun was hot. A cat scooted across their feet. It was the only sign of life.

“You and I,” said Benny, “ought to be barking up trees. What a goof-off!”

“One of us should have staked out while the other searched.”

“All right,” said Benny, looking Aztec.

“Blown,” Brook said. “The whole run blown! Come on, Benny, let’s go tell Holloway we’re coming home.”

“Is that bad?”

“You’ll find out how bad it is.”

Benny nodded unhappily. “I was just trying to cheer myself up.”

Just before midnight the phone in Brook’s room rang again. It was Benny; from the coded conversation Brook picked up the number he was to call. He dressed, sought out a street booth, and this time Benny asked urgently that they meet in ten minutes at an all-night coffee shop near the hotel.

They found a secluded spot at the rear and said nothing until Brook ordered their coffee and cake.

“I talked to Holloway,” Benny grunted. “Direct radiophone from one of the safe houses.”

“I take it he wasn’t happy-joyous,” Brook said.

“He was not. Let me give it to you in the Master’s words. ‘Do you realize your cover’s blown for certain?’ I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Do you know it would be extremely dangerous, possibly even suicidal, to continue the run now?’ I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Then you know what he said?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘Finish the run.’”

“You’re putting me on!”

Benny shook his head. “That’s what I said to Holloway. He said in that computer voice of his, ‘I don’t care for humorists, Mr. Lopez,’ and repeated the order. Blown cover, increase in danger, the whole bit — go ahead and get Krylov anyway, per plan. A risk, Mr. Holloway granted, a calculated risk, but this was important enough to lay a couple of FACE necks on the line. I suppose from his viewpoint behind that desk in Washington it makes sense. Only they’re our necks. You want more?”

Their coffee and cake arrived. Brook sipped until the waitress left. “Sticking your neck out, Benny, is the name of this game.”

“My hero,” Benny Lopez sneered.