Bamboo Terror Page 9

  Hazzard took off his own tattered shirt and put on the tan one. It fitted. The sleeves were a little short, but rolling them above the elbows would take care of that.

  Maurice was leaning against the wall watching Hazzard try on the boots and trousers. This American was a strange one. He had the spark in his eyes that Maurice seldom saw anymore. The spark he had seen so many times among his comrades in the resistance. But besides the spark there was something else. A haunted restlessness that was either the look of a man who had seen too much of life and death, a man who had a keen, probing mind and could look into another man's eyes and read his thoughts, or it was the look of a man who has a terrible secret locked in his heart, forever trying to escape from it, lying awake nights for fear of talking in his sleep. Which one was Michael Hazzard?

  "Monsieur Hazzard, why did you come to zis place?"

  "Chang gave me a good proposition," said Hazzard. "And I took it. That's why."

  "You are a fool," said Maurice. "But, you weel find zis out for yourself," and he quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him, before Hazzard could think of a reply.

  What was wrong with the Frenchman? Everybody seemed to be suspicious of everybody else. Was this one of the reactions that came from the knowledge that there was a spy in their midst?

  9 Who's George?

  THAT NIGHT Hazzard was brought face to face with the animosity that existed between the German and the Frenchman. As Chang had said, it was still the French underground against the Nazi.

  Hazzard had been called to supper by Wong, who did not speak, but only made motions of eating with his hands and pointed to the large room of the quarters. Only Sturmer and Maurice were present. Doctor Kelly was still busy in the hospital with his newly arrived penicillin.

  The Frenchman and the German sat at opposite ends of the table and remained silent throughout the meal. As Wong cleared his place, Hazzard decided to try some friendly conversation in an effort to break through the hostile atmosphere.

  "Well, at least it's quiet around here," he ventured.

  Sturmer turned his head slowly toward Hazzard and spoke without expression, "What is there to talk about?"

  The attitude of Sturmer riled Hazzard, and he leered back at the German. "The weather," he said sarcastically.

  "It is always the same here," said Sturmer, and before Hazzard could reply to this, the German looked away as though he considered the conversation at an end.

  Sturmer was now staring at the hunched form of Maurice, who was bent over the table intent on finishing the last of his meal. With the trace of a cynical smile touching the corners of his mouth, Sturmer rose and walked slowly toward the old upright piano across the room.

  Maurice, who had been just about to take a drink from his metal cup, paused as though he sensed something was not quite right, and followed the movements of Sturmer with a look of hatred and suspicion. Sturmer had seated himself at the piano and was running his fingers carelessly across the keys. Hazzard's eyes went from Sturmer to Maurice, and back again. He did not know what was wrong, but Hazzard could feel the tension building up in the room and he knew that something was about to happen. Something that had the smell of death and hatred.

  Sturmer stretched his fingers out above the keyboard and then began to pick out the notes of "Lili Marlene" with his right hand.

  The tin cup hit the table with a crash that startled Hazzard. The Frenchman had risen to his feet, his face puffed and red, the corded muscles standing out on his bull-like neck.

  "Do not play zat!" he growled, but Sturmer continued to play as though the words had not been spoken.

  Hazzard saw the Frenchman's mouth begin to quiver with rage, and suddenly Maurice was at the piano, pounding on the bass keys.

  "Do not play zat song, I say!" he ranted in a thundering voice. "Do not play zat song! Do not play! Do not play!" he repeated over and over, his hands keeping time to the words as he brought them crashing down upon the keys of the piano.

  Sturmer had stopped playing, and was now looking up at the red and sweating face of Maurice with the look of a man who has just tied a tin can to the tail of a dumfounded dog. Then, calmly, he turned back to the piano and began once more to pick out the melody of "Lili Marlene."

  Maurice stood behind the German, clenching and unclenching his hamlike fists in frustration. The blood was pounding in his head and pulsing visibly through the veins on his neck and temples. It was the moment of no return, and Hazzard braced himself to spring and separate the two men from the death struggle that seemed inevitable.

  The melody went on and on, becoming louder and louder as each time Sturmer bore down harder on the keys. Maurice turned and walked stiffly to the makeshift bookcase. He pawed through the old newspapers and magazines, picked up a phonograph record, and put it on the turntable of the ancient hand-wind machine. Soon, through the crackle and clicks of a much used record, came the loud sounds of a military band playing "La Marseillaise."

  At the first sounds of the record, Sturmer had stopped playing. Maurice grinned and called across the room, "You give up, oui?"

  Sturmer remained motionless at the piano, listening to the record. Then coming to a decision, he rose and walked toward Maurice.

  'Here it comes,' thought Hazzard, and braced himself again.

  The Frenchman's eyes lighted up with anticipation of the fight he knew was coming, then as quickly changed to a look of confusion. Sturmer had walked past him, and now stood gazing down at the scratchy record. Slowly Sturmer reached down, carefully lifted the needle arm, and shut off the spring motor of the turntable. Maurice gasped, his face a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

  Sturmer was now walking across the room, erect and proud, and whistling loud and airily the strains of "Deutschland Über Alles."

  Hazzard watched the German stride from the room and out into the night. A sigh escaped from his tensed lungs as the danger of a clash between the two dissolved—but he had relaxed too soon.

  The sharp notes of the German anthem had fallen like fuel on the smoldering, maniacal rage of Maurice, and now, the sudden banging of the bamboo door, as it slammed behind the departing Sturmer, became the trigger that set off the explosion in the Frenchman's brain. Cursing God and the devil in French, Maurice plunged across the room, tore a machete from the wall, and crashed out through the door before Hazzard realized what was happening.

  Hazzard leaped from the chair, dashed to the door, and just as quickly stopped. He backed up quietly, swung around, and walked back to the chair, a relieved smile on his face. One glance had been enough to make him realize that these episodes must by now be routine, and the very fact that both the German and the Frenchman were still alive should have been proof that there was something to prevent them from killing each other.

  Maurice had been standing on the wide veranda, and Moro, Sturmer's ever present shadow, had been standing in front of the Frenchman, a cold look in his emotionless eyes, and a long slender dagger held loosely in his hand.

  Hazzard lighted a cigarette and settled back in the chair to wait. This place was becoming more interesting by the minute, and now he wanted to see what would happen next. He knew Moro would not kill Maurice, and he also knew that the Frenchman would not stand outside on the veranda all night long. He wondered if the next scene in this ridiculous drama would be as amazing as the last.

  The hollow sound of footsteps on the warped boards of the veranda brought his gaze back to the door as Maurice stepped into the room. The Frenchman was staring beady eyed at the now useless machete in his hand, and whirling around, he stuck it deep into the rough log door jamb.

  Hazzard watched the big man slump down exhausted in a chair and wondered how soon the day would come when Moro would not be quick enough to stop them from tearing each other to bits.

  "Those two been at it again, eh?" said the voice of Doctor Kelly, and Hazzard turned to see the doctor standing in the doorway.

  The doctor pulled the machete from the wood and lo
oked at the limp form of Maurice. "Looks like the French lost the last battle," he said.

  "Someday I weel crush heem weeth my bare hands," said Maurice. Then he jerked his head up and stared angrily at Kelly. "And you, monsieur le doc-teur, you weeth ze always talking mouth—why you no go someplace else weeth your leetle bottle, eh? Crawl in a hole, or maybe jump in ze ocean, eh?"

  Doctor Kelly placed the machete on the table and shook his head with mock concern. "Temper is very bad for the blood pressure. Especially a big man like you." He winked at Hazzard. "But right now it's time for our favorite radio program. We call him 'Hanoi Harry.'"

  This last was all a mystery to Hazzard, but any questions he had were drowned by the loud rush of static as Doctor Kelly switched on the battered military receiver that stood on the top of the piano. He turned the dial until the room was filled with the weird squeals of Chinese music, then picking up a bottle and three glasses from the bookcase, he came and sat down beside Hazzard at the table.

  Kelly poured out three healthy portions in the glasses and pushed one toward Hazzard.

  "Thanks," said Hazzard as he accepted the glass. "This is just what I need."

  Maurice came to the table without a word, grabbed one of the glasses and returned to his chair. The music from the radio stopped and a voice began to speak in Chinese.

  Hazzard was about to speak but the doctor held up his hand and shook his head. Then the voice on the radio changed to English.

  "This is Radio Hanoi, the voice of the people, with five minutes of today's news in English. But before giving you the news, we would like to take the time to welcome a newly arrived visitor to our country, Mister Michael Hazzard."

  Hazzard sat bolt upright in his chair and stared at the radio, but the announcement seemed to have no effect on either Maurice or the doctor, and the voice droned on.

  "We hope you will find your stay at Tu-Hao-Tuc an enjoyable one, but being a stranger here, we feel it is our duty to warn you that the jungle can be very dangerous, especially at night."

  The voice paused, and the doctor smiled at the surprised expression on Hazzard's face.

  "And now for today's news. In the United States today the President issued another of his aggressive, imperialistic notes to the world . . ."

  The doctor went over and switched off the radio. He came back to the table and filled his glass again. "Well," he said to Hazzard, "you've made the honor list—and on the first day too. George was really on the ball today."

  "George?" said Hazzard. "Who's George?"

  Kelly poured the raw whiskey down his throat and let a stream of air gush out between his teeth. "Didn't Chang tell you about George? Well, George is the name we gave to the unknown double-dealer in our midst who keeps informing on us."

  "Informing on you?" said Hazzard, knowing it was better to feign ignorance, since any knowledge of the spy could compromise the job he had agreed to do for Chang.

  "Yes, informing," continued Kelly. "We have many different types of human derelicts here, as you can see, and one of them is a spy."

  Maurice came to the table and poured more whiskey in his glass. "It is nothing to worry about, Monsieur Hazzard. Everyone of us has heard heez name on zat radio before." He gulped down the drink and shrugged his shoulders. "Anything you do in ze day, he pointed at the radio, "he knows about it at ze night. But ze radio, she means nothing."

  He set the empty glass down, and bending over with both hands on the table, he looked directly into Hazzard's eyes. "Monsieur Hazzard," he said in a low voice, "ze question is—who is zis spy?"

  'Yes,' Hazzard was thinking, 'and maybe I'm looking at him now . . .'

  10 To Sleep Like a Corpse

  HAZZARD lay awake for a long time. It was not the heavy heat under the mosquito netting, nor the night noises of the jungle that kept him from sleeping. He was physically tired, but his mind was racing with too many thoughts, like jigsaw pieces that have become mixed up with the wrong puzzle.

  He thought over everything that had happened to him since the night he had been worked over in the alley near his office. Things had certainly gone fast. So fast that he was still confused about what actually had happened to bring him thousands of miles to lie under a mosquito net in the heat of a tropical jungle infested with hatred and war.

  Catch the spy. It was not like looking for the needle in the haystack; it was more like looking for a needle in a stack of needles. They all looked alike, but which one was the right needle? Since everyone was under suspicion, he had met quite a few suspects since he had arrived.

  First we eliminate Ling Ling, for the time being. She had nothing to gain; everything to lose by being the informer. Next, we eliminate yours truly, Michael Hazzard.

  Chang? Set him aside for a little while. Calling Hazzard in to help would be a perfect cover to divert suspicion.

  Ming Lee? First we find out if he could have a possible motive to turn traitor. Set him aside on the same shelf with Chang.

  Maurice? Wife and son killed by the commies. Or were they? This would have to be proven. Was Chang's information about the Frenchman based on fact or hearsay? Then there was his vendetta with the German. It looked real enough, but could be an act.

  Sturmer? Once a Nazi. A Nazi was supposed to hate communists. Had Sturmer ever been a prisoner of the Russians and possibly been brainwashed over to their side?

  Moro? He was either what he appeared; a watch dog with blind loyalty—or, if Sturmer was a Red agent, there was the possibility of Moro being in on the deal. . . .

  Hold up now Hazzard old boy. Chang had said 'spy'—why not 'spies?' It would be easy for two to operate, one diverting suspicion from the other. This did not have to be Sturmer and Moro, it could be any two in the whole area. This was something to keep in mind.

  Who else now? Doctor Kelly? Entirely different from the others. Drinks to excess. One of the big 'Don'ts' in the spy manual. Talks too much and plays the philosopher. This could be an act, but the drinking was for real.

  A long list of names for the first day, and tomorrow would see more names added to the list. How many people at Tu-Hao-Tuc? A thousand or more? Would each one have to be checked out?

  How did the spy operate? He had to have a radio, or access to one. The news of Hazzard's arrival had spread to Hanoi too fast for any other method. It could not have come from the "Queen Wilhelmina III," or from the group of men he had come through the jungle with. None of these people had known the reason for his coming. Everyone, including himself, had thought he was being kidnapped. So we come back to the radio. There was no other way. This meant that there would be evidence in or close to the village. There would be the radio itself. It might be small and portable, easily concealed anywhere in the jungle. Then there was the possibility of code books. Would these too be left in the jungle? No, thought Hazzard, if someone discovered the radio and code books together, then the spy would be out of business. Discovery of just the radio would only make operations difficult for a time. Where would you keep a code book? Hazzard remembered the old story of the "Purloined Letter." It had been kept in an obvious place, together with other letters, and proved to be the best hiding place—right in front of your eyes.

  From tomorrow, he would start methodically-looking through the magazines and papers in the living room of the quarters. You have to start some place, and if you drew a dud, you moved on.

  He had been thinking with his eyes shut, and now he felt a quiver in the short hairs on the back of his neck. He opened his eyes and remained still. Someone was in the room. He could not see or hear anything, but he knew he was not alone. This warning had never failed him before. He focused his eyes on the door and saw nothing but a long oblong of black. It was open. He lay tensed and waiting.

  A silent shadow floated up from the floor beside his bed, and Hazzard's heart raced as his startled senses reacted to this sudden phantom-like presence. Then he saw the arm being raised, the blade of a long slender dagger held firmly in the hand, and he lunged sideways
to the floor between the mosquito netting and the bed. Once free of the netting, he rolled away from the bed and struck out at the legs he knew would be there. But there was nothing. He continued the roll and came up on his feet in a crouched position. Someone was running down the hallway. Hazzard leaped through the open door just in time to hear the rear door bang shut. Throwing caution to the winds, he tore down the hall and exploded out of the door into the night.

  The night air was cool and nothing stirred. Hazzard did not know which way his assailant had gone and, on a hunch, turned right around the corner of the building to come face to face with Moro. The small Oriental just stood and looked a; Hazzard. If the attacker had come this way, Moro would have seen him, unless the attacker was Moro. Hazzard realized that questioning the man would be useless, he would not understand English, and even if he could communicate with Moro, the answers would probably not be satisfactory.

  Hazzard turned around and went back into the building, leaving Moro standing under Sturmer's window.

  Hazzard stood in the center of his room, deep in thought. Someone did not like Michael Hazzard. The only possible answer was that this someone knew the real reason for Hazzard's presence in Tu-Hao-Tuc. Now that he knew his cover had been blown, Hazzard would have to move with extreme caution, and also come up with a fast solution to the identity of the spy. Every minute the spy remained at large was one more minute Hazzard's life would be in jeopardy. Hazzard did not like the thought of this in the least.

  One attempt had failed—so logically the killer would try again. Leave us not present him with the same opportunity, thought Hazzard.

  He grabbed the two blankets from the bed, wrapped them around his body and sat down on the floor with his back against the door. Pulling the folds of one of the blankets up over his head and face, he leaned back to listen to the night sounds of the jungle. He had intended to stay alert for the rest of the night, but soon the fatigue and tenseness of the last three days overtook his body and his head drooped forward in sleep.