Guess Who’s Coming to Kill You

Chapter 9

He undid the slipnot and tested the carotid. It was the routine exercise in futility. Whoever had strangled her knew his business. She was dead and already turning cold.

He straightened up with a surprising feeling of regret. This one was like smashing a valuable vase. Also, Kimiko had died in terror. There goes my imagination again, he thought. Choking to death, the revolt of the body at the fundamental denial, never failed to leave the expression one had died with. She had probably not had time to realize what was happening until the gold cord was ripped from her gown and snapped around her throat. He shrugged. Well, she was nothing but meat now. If he was queasy, it was because he could still smell her in the apartment.

Brook searched. He did it thoroughly, overturning cushions, raising the sofa, moving the Japanese pallet in the bedroom, going through drawers and closets. Absolutely nothing. A pro, all right.

He left no traces of his search.

He went over the floors to make sure he had dropped nothing, not even a thread. Then he backtracked to the entryway and the front door.

He did not glance at Kimiko again.

He opened the door a crack and held it there. A red light was rotating against the side of the building. It was the flasher on a parked police car.

He heard feet running up the outside stairway.

Brook slipped out, low, and ran doubled over to his left, away from the stairs. Just ahead the balcony turned a corner. As he ducked around it he heard the running steps arrive at the fourth-floor level. Had he been spotted? He deliberately put out of his head the question of who had called the police and why.

The extension of the balcony ended a few feet around the corner. He risked a look over the parapet. He was four stories above the court; too far to jump.

He considered the gap between his balcony and the neighboring wing of the building, making haste slowly. The balcony there was slightly below him. The distance across was — what? — eight feet. More than he could jump from a standing start? But he would be jumping downward. The parabola would help. Maybe.

Brook balanced himself on the parapet, flexed his knees, and hurled himself across. His hands slammed against the concrete, stunning his fingers. He exploded with effort, a surge that was as much built-in habit as muscle. His fingers held. Then his toes found a foothold in a curlicue of the concrete, and he was able to push himself up, hook an elbow over the parapet, and vault to safety.

He could hear men’s voices speaking excited Japanese on the balcony across the court. A hand flash probed his way. He reacted at once, but he was too late. Before he could fall flat, his face was caught in the beam.

Brook ran. Behind him a voice called: “Matte! Matte!” That, he supposed, meant that he must stop. The hell with you, little yellow brother, Brook thought; and he kept sprinting toward the stairs.

But he knew that he was in for big trouble.

Brook emerged in a street he had not seen before. It was a typical side street of the Tokyo residential neighborhoods, narrow and dark and lined by low walls of pitted lava stone. He ran, away from the area. When he came to a street that veered to his right he took it, ran a block, and turned left again. He made several such maneuvers, always working away from Kimiko’s apartment house.

At last he stopped running and changed to a brisk walk.

He had been walking for ten minutes without meeting anyone when he came to an embankment. A narrow path ran alongside. He made out a railing on top of the embankment and to his left the lights of what seemed to be a railroad station. Tokyo was crosshatched by suburban rail lines; any one of them should take him back to midtown.

He headed for the station.

And stopped.

Headlights had appeared a hundred yards ahead. They were coming from the station.

A police car? For a breath he considered running back to the street from which he had just emerged. But he dismissed it. No flasher; it was not a police car. And the station, if he could get there undetected, was his best bet. He continued walking, making no effort to stay in shadows. Let the occupants of the approaching car see him. There was nothing remarkable in a foreigner’s walking toward a station in the early hours. Most of the bar girls lived in these districts.

The car was coming close. It did not accelerate. That was an encouragement. Brook slipped into the relevant mood. He was an American finding his way back from a bit of after-midnight poontang. He found himself thinking of Kimiko the last time he had seen her alive and panting. His step slowed, became languid; he felt himself smiling.

Just as it seemed that the car would pass him it stopped, not five feet away. Brook was preparing to spring to his right and race for the railroad embankment when a familiar voice called from the car, “Auschwitz-san. Where you want go now?”

It was Danny Boy, leaning out displaying all his bad teeth.

“Maybe you get in,” the Japanese flower boy grinned. “Fuzz near this place. Many-many. Tak’san!”

Brook abruptly got in. Gears ground, the taxi shot off.

“Okay, Danny. How did you find me?”

“Lucky you,” Danny Boy said. “I know street Nerima-ku very good. All bring you near station.”

“How did you know the cops were after me?”

Danny swung his cab onto another street. “I see fuzz come apartment. I see you jump. Why you jump if you not trouble with fuzz?”

“Good thinking,” Brook said dryly. Then he said, “How come you’re sticking your beard out?”

“Huh?”

“For all you know you’re making yourself an accessory to a crime.”

“Oh.” Danny Boy’s beard waggled happily. “Flower boy and cop enemy all over world. Japan, too.”

“I suppose,” Brook said. “Okay, I’m in your hands. Where do we go from here?”

“You no want go back hotel?”

“I don’t think so,” Brook said.

“Ah, so. You have big trouble with fuzz?”

“Pretty big.”

“Ah, so,” Danny Boy said again. He was silent for some time. Suddenly he said, “Okay. Where we go?”

“Just drive around a while. I have to do some thinking.”

“You like go firework festival? All night at Tama River tonight.”

“All right.” A crowd was just the thing.

Danny Boy concentrated on his driving. Soon he swung his cab onto a wider street with tram tracks and a spatter of traffic. He had turned his head to Brook several times, and now he said, “What happen apartment? What kind trouble?”

Brook did not hesitate. “It’ll be in all the papers in the morning,” he said heavily. “I’m in one beaut of a spot, Danny Boy, the kind you get nightmares about. I went to visit a girl and found her dead.”

“Ah!”

“Absolutely. What kind of town do you have here, anyway? Somebody strangled her. I might just as well be back in the States.”

“Who do this?”

“You’ve got me, pal.”

It seemed to him that Danny Boy’s happy voice hardened. “You kill girl?”

“Who, me? Why would I knock off a looker like that? Look, if that’s what you’re thinking—”

“No think. Just ask.”

“The only thing is, Danny Boy, your cops saw my face.”

“Ah,” Danny Boy said. He fell silent again.

“You can let me out. I don’t want to involve you.”

The big shoulders behind the wheel shrugged. “Who know? Maybe you give me big tip.”

Brook sank back.

The cab sped along in a southerly direction. Brook sorted out the probabilities. Item: it was possible that Kimiko had been murdered by an ordinary thug, or even some jilted lover from her past — that there was no connection between her death and “Han” the noodle man’s attack on him; or with the Krylov affair, for that matter. If, indeed, “Han” was connected with any of it, although it was highly probable that he was, and that Brook’s cover was blown. Benny Lopez had kept a check on the noodle man’s room since their interrupted search, and “Han” had not returned to it. If the man was mixed up in the Krylov affair, he would never return to it — his cover was blown.

Item: a Japanese policeman had enjoyed a good look at Brook’s face during his escape. This would probably lead to his identification. Together with his known connection with Kimiko — they had been seen together at The Golden Obi — it made for easy police work. Besides, they might connect him with the foreigner who had been attacked in the neighborhood of Kimiko’s apartment house a few nights before. So a return to his hotel was out of the question; he might find them waiting for him.

Item: Benny had to be warned. He might have to set up a plan to get Brook out of Japan in such a way that the immigration authorities would not spot him. The trouble was that getting in touch with Benny by their roundabout M.O. tonight would be time-consuming and risky. His hotel phone might be under surveillance.

It all added up to a badly bungled mission. Holloway wouldn’t like it. Brook could stand in the dock before Holloway and prove all day long that none of it had been his fault, Holloway still wouldn’t like it. Brook didn’t like it himself. The fact was, the only convincing reason he could give for going to Kimiko’s apartment tonight was the real one, itchy pants; it had been his fault. And having to drop a run with so many unanswered questions left hanging was the worst of it.

He thought and thought and could find no way out.

He heard some half-distant booms. Sonic? Brook looked up absently. Danny Boy was gesturing toward the skies ahead. Great blossoms of colored fire were blooming in the heavens and wilting just as fast.

“Pretty firework!” Danny Boy said, all smiles.

“Very pretty,” Brook said.

They turned onto a road that ran parallel with the Tama River. Soon they came to the sandflats along the shore. Hundreds of automobiles were parked here; beyond, a vast garden of carnival tents and shelters had been planted. Colored plastic lanterns bobbed everywhere. Exuberant crowds were shuffling about buying soft drinks and souvenirs at the makeshift stands. The river’s edge was black with people watching the explosions in the sky.

“Big contest every year,” Danny Boy was explaining. “Two great Japanese firework artist come Tama River. Everybody come see who make greatest firework. Like World Series.” He found a space in the parking lot and pulled in.

Brook glanced at the meter and peeled off the tab from his wad of thousand-yen notes. “That’s for your meter, Danny.” He added half his wad. “And that’s for never having seen me.”

Danny Boy’s mouth opened. “All this for Danny Boy?”

“All this. Thanks for everything. Maybe we’ll meet some time when the heat’s off.”

“Oh, we no speak sayonara now!” the bearded Japanese panted. “You make Danny Boy rich man. I stay with you, Auschwitz-san. We see firework together. After I take you where you want go, no charge.”

Might be safer at that, Brook thought. They’ll be looking for one man, not two. Certainly not a Japanese.

They wandered toward the stands, joining the crowds streaming along the alleys and walkways. Danny Boy proved a knowledgeable guide, explaining the traditional souvenirs on sale and the lore surrounding the fireworks festival.

“And here is Kappa!” The Japanese stopped at a stand, pointing out a doll with a humanoid body and a bird’s bill. “Kappa live in river. When pretty girl come river, he like steal them. See hole like little dish in top Kappa’s head? You spill water from hole, you catch him.”

“I’ve learned something,” Brook said. He was watching the crowds. Young men were tilting bottles of sake and Japanese whisky. Shrill music was tumbling out of loudspeakers. Among the swarms of Japanese enthusiasts were many foreigners; he noted them with pleasure.

They came to a platform festooned with red and white streamers. Men and women in yukata, the summer kimono, were moving in dance figures around the platform; to Brook it looked like a Japanese version of a square dance. Beyond the platform stood a portable shrine, a small structure on carrying poles; the forty or fifty young men who had been carrying it had paused to refresh themselves with rice balls and sake. Their only clothing was loincloths.

There were more booms over the river. This time a moan of appreciation came from the crowds as the explosions in the sky formed a hanging outline of Mount Fuji.

Brook stared with the others, conscious of the two policemen standing near a shelter fifty yards away. One was looking his way. Too fixedly. He turned to mutter in the other’s ear. Then both looked his way.

Brook said to Danny Boy, “Let’s go,” and drifted toward one of the alleys.

The policemen started toward him.

He moved with the crowd. The instant he passed out of sight of the policemen he stopped drifting and lengthened his stride.

“Where you go?” gasped Danny Boy, short legs pumping.

“The fuzz, Danny. They’ve spotted me. Better get lost.”

“Wait!” Danny Boy cried.

Brook left the bearded Japanese behind. There was a technique for escaping from this sort of situation; the trick was to make time without leaving a trail of provoked bystanders. You did it by moving fast, but not too fast, slipping through openings in the crowd when there were any, making openings when there weren’t by seeming to be interested in something up ahead, craning and elbowing. It was astonishing how much ground a hunted man in a crowd could cover in this way without arousing a posse. He headed for the outskirts of the festival site, away from the river, objective some residential section and a complex of narrow streets in which to lose himself.

Taller than the Japanese about him, Brook could look over their heads. He was almost out of the thick of the crowd when he saw four more policemen trotting in his direction. Beyond them a police car was braking; policemen began jumping out before it stopped.

No doubt about it now: he had been identified. Probably his description had been tied in to his police-station appearance the other night, the radio had sent out the alarm, and some alert officer had spotted him on the festival grounds. With the reinforcements pouring in, he was a going goose.

He reversed his field and headed back toward the river. People seemed unaware of a chase. Those he jostled gave way either with smiles or angry exchanges in Japanese. The smilers were usually older people, the angry ones youths. Old Asia hands from Foggy Bottom had grown accustomed to the anti-Americanism of Japanese youth; but then they did not venture into Japanese festival crowds.

Brook watched his step.

His backward progress brought him again to the platform with the circle of dancers in their yukata. A few yards away the several dozen half-naked young men were just preparing to lift the carrying poles of their portable shrine. Brook scanned the neighborhood. A temporary shelter of bamboo and reed matting stood nearby; to one side it cast a deep shadow. He slipped into the shadow and stripped to his shorts, shoes, and socks. Then he came out busily and squeezed his way among the young men and set his shoulder under one of the poles.

The youth ahead of him turned around, saw his Caucasoid eyes, and glowered. Brook rolled the offending eyes like a clown and nudged him and said, “Man, that’s mucho good sake!” The youth gave him a look of contempt and said something in Japanese to the grinning men around them. They all laughed. Whatever the American was saying, it had included the word sake; from the foreigner’s slurred speech he was drunker than they. And it was the summer festival, when hearts are gay. On with the shrine!

They carried it down the main street of the festival grounds. They made their little shrine sway and buck as they hauled it along, to prove that the devil-spirit inside was alive and kicking. To this demonstration they provided a chant in unison: “Wa-sheh! Wa-sheh! Wa-sheh!” Brook chanted his Wa-shehs as heartily as any.

Policemen ran past several times. Once an officer stared at him and Brook thought it was all over; but then the man moved off, proving the FACE instructors’ point. The average police mind the world over was conventional: if you were hunting a man of thirty, you would not look for him in a home for the aged. These policemen were hunting an American in American clothes; through this narrow lens anything else became invisible.

But he was spotted just the same.

“Peter! Pete Brook!”

The voice was familiar; Brook risked a glance. It was a fat man with the eyes of a frog and a whole series of dimpled grins. Toby Stark.

“Pete, you crazy bastard!” the manager of the Katori Spa said, squeezing in beside him. “Full of the bloody festival spirit, I see. Or is it your rotten bourbon?”

Brook decided. “Stark... Toby... I need help,” he said between Wa-shehs. “Grab hold of the pole.”

Stark inserted himself in the line, shouting “Wa-sheh!” Then he said, “I should damned well think you do. Where are your clothes?”

“The cops are after me, Toby. Swarming over the place. Something I didn’t do. I’ll explain when we have time. You’ve got to help me get away from here.”

“Righto. Hands across the sea and all that.”

“Have you a car?”

“Sure. Parked over there—” The fat man roared, “Wa-sheh!”

“You’ll have to drive me out of here.”

“Do you suppose we can get away with it?”

“We’ll have to improvise. Please.”

Stark grinned. “Well, damn it all, why not? Come along. Wa-sheh, Wa-sheh! Pretend to be drunk.”

He grasped Brook’s naked arm and yanked him out of the line, saying something in good-natured-sounding Japanese to the young men in their vicinity. Brook reeled and retched. Half dragged, half supported, he let Stark lead him through the crowds, which opened knowingly before them; in what seemed to Brook a century they reached the parking lot and Stark’s Toyopet sedan.

“Well done, O noble Yank,” the fat man said with satisfaction. “That’s fooling the bastards. What do they think you did?”

“Hold it.” Brook stopped in the act of opening the forward door of the sedan. He was studying the nearest exit from the festival area.

Toby Stark turned to look. A police vehicle was drawn up at the exit; policemen carring lanterns were stopping outgoing cars. “That looks like business. What the devil did you get yourself into?”

“Later, Toby. Look, there’s a bamboo shack behind that dancing platform. My clothes are on the ground outside there, in the shadow. Get ’em for me, Toby. I’ll wait here.”

Stark rubbed his blob of a nose. “Well, I don’t know, Peter. I thought it was a lark of some sort. I can’t afford to get mixed up in anything serious.”

Brook said, “I’m absolutely at your mercy.”

“Well.” The fat man pulled at the blob; there was no merriment in his protuberant eyes now. “I suppose I ought to have my bloody head examined.”

Brook said, “Hurry.”

He crouched in the rear of the little sedan while he waited for the Australian to get back. The minutes dragged by. Several times lights bobbed by the Toyopet: men with lanterns searching among the parked cars. He held his breath. Damn Kimiko!

Then the door opened and there was Stark.

“I thought you’d never get back.”

“Bloody fuzz all over the place.”

Brook slipped into his clothes.

“Now what, Peter?”

“I’ll get into the trunk, you drive us out. You’ll have no trouble, Toby. You’d hardly be taken for me.”

Stark grinned his multiple grin. “Always been a law-abiding bloke myself. Don’t like this one bit.”

“I’m not exactly in love with it. Oh, and thanks.”

“All right, damn it, let’s get it over with.” The fat man took his car keys from his pocket, went around to the rear of the sedan, and opened the trunk.