Bamboo Terror Read online

  Returning to his desk he unwrapped the paper. Underneath was a layer of oilcloth which he carefully unfolded. Inside was a well-oiled snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .357 magnum revolver and a box of cartridges.

  Hazzard smiled affectionately as he took a cloth from a desk drawer and wiped away the excess oil. Then holding the revolver in his hand, he said out loud, "Hello Sam, long time no see. You've had a long rest, and now you and I are going on a trip."

  He placed the beads in a money belt around his waist. Then, as an afterthought, he put one hundred of the ten thousand notes in the money belt with the beads. Sam was loaded and stuck inside his shirt under the money belt. He put the remaining cartridges in a small leather bag and dropped them in his pocket. Looking in the mirror over the sink, he decided he needed a shave, and maybe a new shirt. He scooped the remaining money off the desk and walked out to stand in front of Michiko's little desk.

  "I'm going out to the barber shop. Call the Mikado up and reserve a table for two next to the stage for the second show tonight," he said, trying to look nonchalant.

  Michiko's heart almost stopped, "You are going out tonight?"

  "Yes, and don't look so sad. Here,'' and he dropped the eighty bills one by one all over her desk. "Go get your hair fixed, and change your clothes, or whatever you girls do when you go to the Mikado. Meet me in the lobby of the New Japan Hotel at seven o clock. Tonight we dine, and tomorrow we start paying off a few bills."

  Michiko's eyes went from Hazzard to the money and back again. "Oh, Mike-san . . ."

  But Mike-san was already going down the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. He bounced briskly out the door and nodded to all the people who stopped to stare. 'Oh, I know what you're thinking,' he said to himself, 'There goes another one of those crazy foreigners. And this time you may be right.'

  A barber shop is a good place to think, that is if the barber shop is in Japan, and you happen to be a foreigner. The barber figures he cannot talk to you anyway, and so he does not try. In America it would be the last place in the world that anyone would go to do his thinking. American barbers are all either baseball experts or frustrated politicians, and once they have you strapped in the tonsorial hot seat, they talk your ears off. Right now Hazzard was thinking, and for once he wished he was in an American barber chair. At least the talk would keep his mind from wondering about John Brown and the little string of beads.

  He realized now that the deal had gone off too quickly. A thousand questions were running around unanswered in his still slightly aching head. Why was Brown willing to pay so much money to have an almost worthless string of beads delivered? If they were not important, they could be sent by mail. He had been too quick to grab at the money. Hazzard was mentally kicking himself for being stupid, until he remembered that this was the kind of weird business that a private investigator got himself into, and nobody had twisted his arm.

  After the barber, Hazzard went home to his small three-room apartment in Shibuya. The business of the beads, and the ambush in the alley was now making him overcautious. He kept checking to make sure he was not being followed. When he arrived at the apartment, he eased himself through the door and systematically inspected the rooms, all the time keeping a hand inside his shirt ready to introduce Sam to any uninvited guests. He felt a little foolish when everything turned out as normal as it should be.

  He took a shower and changed his clothes. Tonight was going to be the first time he had taken Michiko any place except for an occasional lunch. He remembered the way she had looked at him in the office when he had told her about the Mikado, and began to wonder if he was really doing the right thing. Mixing business with pleasure never had been a good idea, and a girl like Michiko might be a little more than he could handle once he got her out of the drab surroundings of the office and into the plush atmosphere of a night club.

  It had taken longer than he had expected to catch a taxi, and it was almost seven thirty when Hazzard pulled into the driveway of the New Japan Hotel. He strode through the automatic doors half expecting to find a missing Michiko, but there she was, sitting wide eyed and pretty on one of the lobby sofas.

  She saw Hazzard coming across the lobby and a fleeting expression of relief flashed across her lovely face. Then she smiled and stood up. Hazzard almost tripped on one of those idiotic rugs that the hotel had spread in the middle of the lobby. Michiko was a rather something in her office uniform of sweater, blouse, and skirt—but in a cocktail dress she was fabulous.

  This had been Hazzard's office girl for six months, and he never even knew it. Her hair was swept back along the sides and up in back. A white feather tiara was fixed along one side and curved upwards over her jet black hair. The gold brocade cocktail dress was low cut and clung to every curve of her body like another layer of skin. High-heeled gold pumps accentuated the calf muscles to show a perfect set of legs.

  Hazzard gulped, and found his voice as he came up to where she stood, and almost lost it again as he got a whiff of the perfume she was wearing.

  "I'm sorry to be late," he mumbled.

  "It's all right," she said.

  Hazzard said nothing, and there was a long embarrassing pause.

  "Well, ah, shall we go?" asked Hazzard.

  "Yes," she said.

  There was another pause as Hazzard just stood and stared at her. Then he caught himself and smiled.

  "Shall we go?" asked Hazzard.

  Michiko giggled. "That is the second time you say same thing."

  Hazzard shook his head. So it was. He reached out, took her arm and guided her out to get a taxi. As they crossed the lobby Hazzard was conscious of the gawking tourists. Gripes, but he hated them. He could almost read their filthy little minds. The two-and three-week wonders going around the world before it was too late. Plane loads of doddering old busy bodies. Each one seeking out the place to buy silk, pearls, the book on flower arranging, and passing judgment on all foreigners with Oriental girls. He had seen them all before, every year it was the same, and he stuck out his tongue at one shocked lady who was leering at them through a pince-nez.

  A little revenge for past insults, he thought.

  Over dinner at the Mikado they watched the floor show that is always tops at this palace-like theater restaurant, and talked of many things; mostly Michiko. Hazzard was surprised that he knew so little about his office girl. From now on, he promised himself, he would spend more time thinking of personnel problems and less about unpaid bills.

  Michiko had graduated from Doshisha University in Kyoto. Her father was chairman of the board of a large Kyoto bank. Her sister was an airline hostess and her younger brother was still in college. She had led a rather strict life at home; her father keeping a tight rein on all of her activities. She had to be home every night before ten, she could not go out with anyone unless her father approved beforehand, and at night she had to give a detailed account of everything she had done and where she had gone during the day.

  One day she had gotten up courage enough to tell her father that she was going to Tokyo to find a job and support herself. To her surprise he had agreed and only warned her to be careful of the type of work she chose. It would have to be dignified and not be anything to disgrace the family name. She had been in Tokyo three days when she had seen Hazzard's small want ad in The Japan Times.

  Watching her talk was fascinating, and before Hazzard realized it himself, he was asking her if she would like to see his apartment. Her answer almost floored him.

  "Yes," she said. "I would like to very much. I have wanted to see where you live for long time."

  All the way across town in the taxi to Shibuya, Hazzard held her hand. Everytime he squeezed, she squeezed back.

  When they arrived, Hazzard began to worry if he had left the apartment in its usual mess. As the door opened and the light went on, he heaved a sigh of relief. He thought it looked quite presentable, then he saw Michiko's face. She was frowning and shaking her head.

  "Yappari," she said, "You can
tell a man lives here."

  Hazzard shrugged his shoulders. Well, you can't win them all, he thought, and he followed her meekly around the apartment. She was interested in everything. She puttered around the kitchen, peered into the cupboards, stuck her head in the Japanese-style bathroom, glanced at all the books, ran her finger along the window sills, wanted to know if he had a maid, and who did the cooking.

  When she learned that there was no maid, and that he did the cooking, she smiled.

  "It is very nice," she said as she turned around from inspecting the bedroom.

  "Very nice," said Hazzard, only he was looking at Michiko. Suddenly the perfume of her hair became intermixed with the Scotch and waters he had had at the Mikado and he reached out for her. She was in his arms and they were kissing. Hazzard could feel the fast beat of her little heart as he crushed herto him. Then, still holding her tight, he snuggled his face into the side of her neck and took the lobe of her delicately shaped ear between his teeth. Michiko stiffened and rose up on her toes against him.

  "Michiko," he whispered, "Will you stay here tonight with me?"

  "I do not know," she answered, and pushing herself away she walked past him to the living room.

  Hazzard could not understand this piece of Oriental female logic. Either you do or you don't, he thought, but Hazzard still had much to learn of a woman's heart, especially if the woman was Japanese.

  "Why don't you know?" asked Hazzard.

  "Do you like me?"

  "Yes," said Hazzard, wondering where this conversation was leading. "I like you very much."

  "Do you like me enough to marry me?"

  He looked at her for a long time. So that was it. Be careful Mike.

  "I—I don't know," he answered truthfully.

  "Then I cannot stay," she said with a smile.

  Damn these women, thought Hazzard. Always got the hook out for a man.

  "You mean if I say I like you enough to marry you, then you'll stay here with me?" he asked. "I could lie to you, then what would you do?" That ought to take some of the wind out of her sails, he thought.

  She shook her head. "No, you would not lie, especially about a thing like this. I see you every day for six months. I know you, I know your heart. You are not the kind of man who tell lies. I never stay with man before, but with you I will stay. But only if we become married."

  "Okay," said Hazzard. "I understand what you mean. Will you stay if I say I will marry you?"

  "Oh, I Will stay, she answered. "But I will not sleep with you, or make love with you. I will kiss you if you want, but we cannot make love with each other."

  Hazzard was more confused than ever. "But you just said . . ."

  "When you want me for your wife, I will make love with you. But if you say this now, I will not believe. You spoke truth first when you say you do not know how much you like me, desho? Someday maybe you ask me to marry, then I be very happy. If you do not ask me, I wait. If you marry someone other girl, I be sad."

  Hazzard shook his head and a broad grin spread across his face. "Michiko, come here." She came, and he took her face in his hands and said, "Kiss me," and she did. Then he held her at arms length. They were too complicated to try and figure out, these lovely Oriental female creatures, and from now on he was going to stop trying. Take them just the way they are, they are magnificent.

  "Come on," he said, "I'll take you home."

  It was two o'clock in the morning and it took them twenty minutes to find a cruising cab. All the way to Ikebukuro he held her hand.

  Michiko directed the taxi driver in and out of the usual maze of small streets and finally told him to stop in front of a small alley. When she got out, she turned and squeezed his hand. "Goodnight," she said, and hurried away.

  Hazzard told the driver to take him back to where he had picked them up, and settled back in the seat to wonder what was happening to Michael Hazzard. He knew why he had asked Michiko up to his apartment, and so did she. He had failed, and she had laid it on the line. The one requirement. Marriage. Well, just like the man said—don't mix business with pleasure.

  Marriage. She wanted a husband. She wanted Michael Hazzard. He thought about it. If he married Michiko it would mean coming home every night. No more beer busts. No more parties with the willing girls of Atami and Ito. No more night life. Just coming home to Michiko every night. She would be at the door, throw her arms around his neck, kiss him, and then serve tea. They would take baths together and she would scrub his back. They would eat together, in fact, they would be doing everything together. And for the rest of his life, too. No more cold lonely nights in bed, no more . . . whoa—hold up here Hazzard old man. What the devil are you thinking about now? For thirty-eight years you have been doing fine. Now suddenly this.

  Hazzard shook his head and rolled down the window of the taxi to let the cool night air in and revive him. Thank heaven for good old Greenstreet-Brown. Soon he would be off to Saigon, and if he ever needed a trip, he needed it now.

  The cab had stopped and the driver was looking back at Hazzard with a weird expression on his face. It suddenly dawned on him that the driver had been saying something and that they had been stopped for two or three minutes. Hazzard snapped out of his dreaming. They were back from where they started!

  He paid the driver and walked up the road to his apartment. He was still thinking about Michiko when he pushed the key toward the lock and a warning signal went off inside his brain. Springing back, he flattened himself against the wall. When the key had touched the lock, the door had moved. It was open now, and it had been locked when they had left.

  Reaching instinctively inside his shirt, he suddenly remembered that he had left Sam hidden in the bedroom. He was learning lessons in what not to do very fast these days. He made a mental note to kick himself for being stupid and pushed the door open with his toe. He waited and listened. Nothing. Slowly he slid his arm in through the door and flicked on the light. Still nothing. He squatted down and peered around the edge of the door. No one, but the place was a shambles. He stood up and stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. He checked all of his rooms. Whoever had been there was gone. There must have been three or four of them. No one person could have done all this in such a short space of time. Hazzard had only been gone for about forty-five minutes.

  They had ripped up everything. The tooth paste was all over the sink, the soap was in crumbs, all the boxes in the kitchen had been ripped open and their contents dumped on the floor. Every book had been leafed through and tossed about. The cushions and furniture had all been cut open and the stuffing was all over the rooms. Drawers had been spilled, clothes were thrown in a heap, the mattress on the bed was an unbelievable mess. The only thing they had not done was knock down the walls. What the hell were they looking for?

  The money he had left in the apartment was strewn about on the remains of the mattress. Then he remembered Sam. He went to the closet where he had hidden the revolver, but it was gone. This was one theft he could not report to the police. In fact, if the police caught the thieves with Sam, and they talked, it would mean the end of Hazzard's visa.

  He glanced down at the money laying on the bed. But they were not thieves. They had not taken the money. What the devil were they after? His foot hit something hard. Picking up a coat that had been thrown on the floor, he saw Sam. They didn't want money, and they didn't want a gun. He reached inside his shirt and felt the bulge of the beads inside the money belt. "I wonder?" he said out loud.

  3 A Boring Trip

  THE NEXT DAY Hazzard spent visiting the various embassies of the countries he would be traveling in. The letters Mr. Brown had supplied were like magic keys. Doors opened, people bowed, and visas were stamped in his passport. He bought a few clothes, a new suitcase, and spent the rest of the day in the office with Michiko arranging for the bills to be paid. There was still a lot of money left over and he gave her more than enough to take care of herself and keep the office open for another six
months. By that time he would certainly be back.

  Nothing was said of the night before, and Michiko tried hard not to show her feelings about his leaving, but little tears popped out anyway. Hazzard did not want an emotional scene at the airport, and insisted on saying good-by at the office. He kissed her quickly and then he sent the sniffling Michiko home early.

  The following day, for lack of anything better to do, he went to Haneda in the morning, had lunch, and then checked in with Civil Air Transport (CAT). His plane left at two fifteen, and he was a little surprised to find that he was booked on a propellor-driven plane and not a jet, but his arrival in Formosa would give him more than enough time to make connections and board the coastal steamer.

  Tokyo International Airport at Haneda is a very boring place for people waiting to board the various planes for world travel. Especially for a foreigner who is not accustomed to the Japanese habit of trying to bluff their way through by ineffectually copying what they think are Western ways. Souvenir counters with indifferent, lazy, and somewhat surly clerks, a dining room with bad food and worse service, and Japanese midget-size furniture sparsely scattered in the waiting room.

  Hazzard took refuge in the small bar, that for some odd Oriental reason, was hidden off in a corner of the dining room. Here, amid the smoke and smell of stale beer, were two sport-shirted American tourists and their overdressed wives. Hazzard could not help but listen, and found himself agreeing with the opinion that prevailed in all foreign countries—America certainly was a country of loud mouths, women included.

  Finishing his Scotch and water, he escaped to the observation deck that overlooked the runways and ramps. He walked along slowly, and when he came to the far end, he glanced at his watch. One forty-five, time to go. As he turned to walk back, a hand grabbed his arm, and a familiar voice called out.