Bamboo Terror Page 2

  Michiko's puzzled voice came from behind him, "Worked over?"

  Hazzard was forever explaining the meaning of odd phrases in English to Michiko and other people he ran into in his wanderings around Tokyo, but this time he decided it better to evade the question.

  "Oh, never mind, you wouldn't understand." He saw the pouting look of disappointment on Michiko's face, and quickly added, "Well, Lotus Blossom, I think I still have enough loose change to take us both to lunch. It will probably be the last meal either of us will ever eat, so we might as well make the most of it."

  The expression on Michiko's face changed to smiles and girlish glee. Hazzard reached out and brushed back a curl that had fallen over Michiko's forehead. She seemed to like this, and leaned forward. Then the telephone rang. Hazzard cursed to himself. He did not know whether Alexander Graham Bell had intended it that way or not, but his gadget seemed to have an uncanny way of screwing things up in a royal fashion.

  "It's for you," Michiko said as she handed him the phone.

  Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, Hazzard whispered, "Who is it?"

  This brought the famous Oriental answer, a wide-eyed smiling shrug.

  "Hello," said Hazzard.

  "Is this Mr. Hazzard?" said a man's voice.

  "Yes."

  The voice was right out of the movies. If the man now said that his name was Sidney Greenstreet, Hazzard would believe him.

  "My name is Brown, John Brown," said the voice, and Hazzard thought that the man could have picked a more original name to go with the voice. "Mr. Hazzard," the voice continued, "I have a small matter of urgent business that I would like to discuss with you at your earliest convenience, preferably today."

  "That would be fine, Mr. Brown. Just one moment please," and Hazzard held the mouthpiece and winked at Michiko. The pause was supposed to impress Brown that Hazzard was a busy man and had to consult his schedule. "If you could come over about . . ."

  "I shall be at your office this afternoon at exactly one thirty," interrupted Brown.

  Hazzard stared at the phone and mumbled, "Why, yes, that would be fine. . . ."

  "Thank you very much Mr. Hazzard. Good-by," and John Brown hung up.

  Hazzard put the phone down. It could be a gag, he thought. The voice, and then the name. No, it was too ridiculous not to be true. He looked at Michiko and said, "Let's go eat," and they went out for a bowl of noodles. Things might be looking up. John Brown might be just what was needed to pay the rent.

  John Brown, a heavy set, cultured, Sidney Green-street type of man, sat back comfortably in his leather chair behind the large mahogany desk in his study. He had just leaned forward and carefully laid the telephone receiver in its cradle. Leaning back again in his chair, he made a tent with his fingers, and looked intently at the three men sitting opposite him across the highly polished desk.

  The two thugs had not fared too well the night before. One of them had his arm and shoulder heavily bandaged and strapped in a tight sling. The one with the long scar on his face could barely see over the large bandage that covered his crushed nose.

  Mr. Brown let his gaze wander over the two burly thugs. Then he glanced at the third man and spoke in a calm even voice, "Well, Chang, he is still alive."

  "I told you we did not kill him," replied Chang. "He might have a large bump on his head, but other than that, he does not have a scratch."

  Brown nodded his head toward the two thugs. "Well, these two idiots do not look very healthy today. Looking at them, I find it hard to believe that Mr. Hazzard does not have a scratch," he said with a touch of sarcasm.

  "Our Mr. Hazzard," replied Chang, "happens to have been trained in karate, and I wish you had told us that little fact last night. Then we wouldn't have come out so badly. Or perhaps you did not know."

  Mr. Brown smiled. "Oh, I knew. There is very little I do not know about him. But telling you would have spoiled the fun. These two have been paid well enough for a few bruises, and you admit you are satisfied with the results." Glancing at his watch, his voice went on, "I am very anxious to meet this Mr. Hazzard in person. He seems to be quite a man."

  Chang nodded his agreement with what Brown had said. "Yes, I am satisfied, but we have no time to waste."

  "I am to meet him at one thirty," said Brown. "Leave the rest to me."

  Chang grunted a reply and rose quickly from his chair. The two thugs followed meekly as he walked out of the door.

  Brown waited until he heard them leave the house, then he opened the top drawer of his desk with a small silver key that hung from his watch chain and carefully withdrew a small, unpainted wooden box. Reaching into the drawer again he took out several long plain envelopes and placed these and the wooden box in his leather brief case. From a side drawer he picked up a small automatic pistol, checked it to make sure it was loaded, and slipped it into his pocket.

  A glance at his watch told him that it was now time to leave for the office of Michael Hazzard, private investigator.

  John Brown smiled to himself as he settled his bulky form in the soft leather rear seat of his chauffeured Mercedes-Benz. He would soon meet the man about whom he had been reading countless reports during the past few months. Hazzard's record was more than impressing.

  Michael Hazzard: Age, 3 8

  Height, 6' 2"

  Weight, 195 lbs.

  Twelve years experience with various United States intelligence agencies:

  1942-1945 Office of Strategic Services. Attended OSS intelligence school. Parachute training completed at Fort Bragg. Parachuted into occupied France to organize resistance fighters.

  1946-1950 Coordinated activities of underground agents in Soviet satellite countries.

  1950-1954 Chief of Special Intelligence Group operating in China and Korea.

  1955-1956 Contracted tuberculosis, spent one year in Fitzsimons Army Hospital, Denver, Colorado. Placed on retired status upon dismissal from hospital.

  1957-1960 Attended the Japan Karate Association School, Tokyo.

  1961- Took extended trip around world. Returned to Japan. Opened private investigation agency six months previously. Business going very poorly, and slowly into debt.

  This was the gist of the many reports that John Brown had read. The finer details of the many escapades that Hazzard had been involved in, the many times he had barely escaped with his life, his efficiency with various weapons—all this and much more had been discreetly destroyed by Brown. Yes, it was going to be very interesting to meet the fabulous Michael Hazzard upon whom he had spent so much time and money. It was to be hoped that Mr. Hazzard was worth the trouble.

  2 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 H
azzard.

  "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 lik
e 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.