The Good Old Stuff (23 page)

The enlisted man announced me to the colonel as coming on a matter of the utmost importance. He told me to go right in.

The colonel sat behind a massive desk in a room that was high, wide, and rugless. He was Colonel Blimp in person. He wheezed, coughed, belched, and waved me into a chair with a plump hand, tanned by years in the East.

“American, eh? What is it? Speak up!”

“It’s about Lieutenant Peter Kaymark. He—”

“Kaymark’s assigned to this staff. What about him?”

“I wanted to tell you—”

“For heaven’s sake, man. Get to the point!”

I stood up and leaned over his desk. I shouted down into his bright red face, “Shut up and listen for one minute, and I’ll tell you. Stop being so damn official.”

I sank slowly down into my chair again while he mumbled something about bloody rude Americans.

“I’m telling you that Kaymark’s a traitor. He’s part Jap.
He’s been taking money from a Dutchman named Van Hosen for three years. He just killed a planter named O’Dell. Come with me and listen to him tell it to you.”

“That’s nonsense, man. Known the rascal for years. He’s not a Jap. The heat’s got you. Have some water. Go fan yourself.”

“Look, will you come with me or do I go and get a very smart apple on the local police force named Saxon? How would you like that, you overstuffed bottleneck?”

“Young man, if you were on this staff, I’d have you shot for that.”

“If I was on your staff, you wouldn’t have lived this long. Are you coming? I’ve got a taxi waiting. Just over to the Galle Face. Take you an hour maybe for the whole thing.”

He coughed again and cocked his eye at the ceiling. Then he fingered a paperweight. Then he picked up his hat and stick and said, “Move along, then! Let’s get done with it!”

The taxi driver popped out and opened the door for Colonel Rith-Lee. He hadn’t done that much for me. Privilege of the ruling class. I tried to tell him the story on the short ride to the hotel. He made derisive noises deep in his throat and moved a little farther away from me in furtive alarm.

We walked down the hall, and I pulled out my key. He tapped his leg impatiently with his stick while I unlocked the door. I let him go in first. He walked through the room until he could see Kaymark. Then he stopped so abruptly that I bumped into him. I stepped to the side to where I could also see the lieutenant.

My first thought was that he had lost an amazing amount of blood from the few cuts I had given him. The front of his tunic was drenched. He hung limply from his wrists, a gaudy motionless form. The colonel stepped forward and stooped over to where he could peer up into Kaymark’s face. He lifted his stick and nudged gently at the lieutenant’s forehead. The head tilted back a little. When he released the pressure, the head sagged forward again.

“Dead. Throat cut. Why’d you do it, man?”

“Me? When I left him he was okay. Somebody must have sneaked in here, but I don’t know how.”

He glared at me, and there was disgust and alarm in his narrow eyes. “All the room keys’re alike. Fit all the doors. No good. You did it. Better come along with me.”

I had been moving gradually toward the body. I jumped forward and clawed at the right-hand tunic pocket. The automatic was there. It stuck in the edge of the pocket. Before I could yank it free I felt a cold sharp object against the back of my neck.

“Step aside, man. Slowly now, or I’ll punch a hole in the back of your neck. Ought to do it anyway.” I let go of the gun and stepped to the side. He kept the sharp point against the back of my neck.

Finally he said, “Turn around, man.” He had recovered the automatic. He aimed it at my middle with his left hand. He held the hollow shell of the stick he carried in his left hand also; he fitted the slim blade of the long sword back into the stick. It chunked into place, and he gave the handle a half turn. During all this, he didn’t take his eyes off of me.

“You and I, we’ll go back to the bungalow. Damned nuisance. International murder. Have to get your government people in on it. Try it in the civil courts, I guess. Open-and-shut case. Nothing to it.”

Again they
had used death to trump my ace. This time it looked like the end. I had a story to tell but it would have been easier to tell it to a deaf man than to the colonel. He stood in front of me and motioned me toward the door with the automatic. I didn’t move.

“Move along there. Don’t want to shoot you where you stand. You have to make out statements. Save me the trouble.”

“Colonel, will you tell me one thing? Why on earth would I kill Kaymark and then go and drag you here to look at the body?”

“Not much sense in it. Never imagined you American chaps had much sense. All gangsters and crooners. Move along now.” I could see why Kaymark had had such an easy time covering up the activities of the group which used the January Club as a headquarters. Again I didn’t move.

“Wait a minute. Suppose I take you to a man who knows who killed Kaymark. In fact, maybe he did it himself.”

“More nonsense.”

I had to get out of it. I knew that if they put me in a cell, I’d never be able to prove a thing. My story would sound like the purest fabrication. I didn’t want to deal with this man. I wanted Saxon, the tall man with the lean white face. He had appeared to be intelligent.

I needed a way to bluff the stupid, fast-moving colonel. I placed my right hand near the front of my white coat. I remembered that one of the large buttons was getting loose. With a minimum of motion, I found it and twisted it off. I started to move back toward the door to the hall. It was darker near the door. He followed along, staying a good six feet from me. I shifted the button in my hand until I was holding it the same way a small boy holds a marble that he is going to shoot. I flicked the button toward Kaymark’s body. At the same moment I glanced in that direction, my eyes widened. The colonel heard the small clatter on the bare floor. He took one hasty glance over his shoulder. Before he could glance back, my shoulder hit him low in the stomach. He went over backwards with a great gasp, the gun sliding across the rug. I rolled to my feet and snatched the stick out of his other hand. His face was a pale green color underneath the heavy tan. It was startling. Any fight or objection was completely gone. He was too concerned about his stomach.

I sat on the edge of the bed while he stared at the ceiling and gasped. Finally he sat up, moaning. “Sit over in that chair, Colonel Rith-Lee.” He wavered as he got to his feet. He stumbled over and fell into the chair.

“Unfair tactics. Took advantage of me. Ever heard of fair play?”

“Sure. Fair play while you railroad me off into some jail. You just sit tight while I make a little phone call.”

It took three or four minutes to get my party. When I did I said, “Saxon? This is Howard Garry. Met you over at the January Club today. Can you come over to my room right away? Good. I’m at the Galle Face. Three ten. There’s another body here.”

I hung up. His sane tired voice had sounded good. While Saxon was on his way over, I gave the colonel his instructions. Not a word. Not a murmur, or I’d stick my shoulder in his stomach a little harder than last time. That seemed to impress him. He folded his hands across his middle and I’d swear that he took a short nap, awakening finally when there was a sharp knock on the door.

I covered the colonel as I backed to the door. I opened it. Saxon stood there with two of the chocolate policemen behind him. I stood aside and he walked in. I pointed to the body and he walked over toward it. As he passed me, he spun quickly. I felt a sharp pain in my wrist and fingers, and the automatic was gone. He didn’t look at me as he handed it to one of the two policemen.

The colonel jumped up and said, “Arrest this man. Immediately. He killed Kaymark. He attacked me. Quickly!”

Saxon paused on his way toward the body. He looked at the colonel. “I’m most sorry, sir, but Mr. Garry telephoned me to come over. I’ll listen to his story first. I beg of you to sit down and remain quiet until I ask you for information.”

He took a long look at the hanging corpse. He pulled out the same notebook and scribbled a few notes with great care. He posted one of his men against the room door. At last he turned to me and said, “Your story, Mr. Garry? Please run through it quickly. I can question you about the details later.”

I told him the story. I made it short and to the point. I admitted that I had tied Kaymark up and worked him over, and I denied having killed him. I stressed the story Kaymark had told. Then I mentioned the colonel’s reaction.

The colonel started to sputter, but Saxon held up his hand imperiously and the sputtering ceased.

Saxon sat on the edge of my bed and fingered his long jaw. “This, Mr. Garry, is a jurisdictional matter. Supposedly, all such things are handled by Colonel Rith-Lee’s bureau. However, I feel that this is a time when I can afford to step in. I’m doing it because I believe you. If you have lied to me, this interference may cost me a great deal of local prestige. I know that I am going to make an enemy out of the colonel. I have a plan which I won’t bother to explain to you. You will be
here to see it in operation.” He turned to the nearest policeman and issued some terse instructions in Singhalese. The man hurried to the bathroom door. He pulled out a knife and cut one of Kaymark’s hands free. The arm drooped heavily. Then he put his hand against the lieutenant’s shoulder and cut the other bond. As he slashed it through, he pushed the body toward the bathroom. The corpse thudded onto the tile floor. The man pulled it farther into the bathroom. Then, with a damp towel, he rubbed up the spots of blood on the hardwood floor of the main room. He threw the towel into the bathroom and closed the door.

Saxon picked up the phone. “Mr. Van Hosen’s room, please. Oh, he’s in the bar? Connect me with the bar, please.” He waited a few moments. “Mr. Van Hosen? This is Leslie Saxon of the Central Police Bureau. I’m in room three ten. Could you arrange to come up here for a few moments? Thank you.”

He hung up and turned to me. “When Van Hosen is here, I don’t want either of you to say a word. Let me talk without interruption.” He gave some more instructions in Singhalese and one of the policemen hurried out of the room.

We all remained quiet. The colonel appeared to sleep again. I fumbled with a cigarette. Saxon sat as motionless and grave as a statue.

The policeman opened the door at the first tap. Van Hosen blinked as he saw the group, and then he smiled. He stepped in timidly, his hat in his hand, a mild and meager man.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Van Hosen. Over here on the bed will be excellent. I have a few questions to ask you which will—” At that point the phone rang. Saxon picked it up and held his hand over the mouthpiece. “Pardon me a moment, I was expecting a call.” He removed his hand and spoke into the phone. “Saxon here. Oh, yes, Mr. Wend. You got my message.”

I happened to be looking at Van Hosen. His mouth twitched a bit when Saxon mentioned the name Wend.

“I have rather a strange story here, Mr. Wend. Very strange. You know a man named Van Hosen?… Slightly, eh. Well, Mr. Van Hosen wishes us to supply him with private transportation away from Ceylon. In return he has given us certain
information. I have here a list of some sort of uprising. There is also a list of places where arms are supposed to be hidden, and some kind of an inventory. A great deal of equipment.… I agree with you, Mr. Wend, it does sound fantastic.

“Also, he claims that you and he and a Mr. O’Dell, who died this afternoon, a Lieutenant Kaymark, who died within the hour, and a Miss Severence, who died recently, were the nucleus of some sort of weird organization planning a revolution in Ceylon.

“He claims to have come from Java during the war as a Japanese agent.… What was that? What has it got to do with you? He states in this report of his, which I have in writing, that you killed Miss Severence, the doorboy of the January Club, and also Lieutenant Kaymark. He accuses Mr. O’Dell of having killed an American officer some time ago.”

He stopped talking and listened. I watched Van Hosen. The man was trying hard to keep all expression off his face. His hands were held rigidly against his thighs. The rosebud lips seemed much paler than they had been when he had first visited me.

Then Saxon spoke again into the phone. “Then you believe that the man is ill? You know nothing of such plots and murders? Suppose you stop in at the Bureau at your earliest convenience and give me your story about Van Hosen in person. What was that?… No, we have nothing to hold him on until we’ve made a detailed check of these reports of his.… Certainly. Thank you very much, Mr. Wend.” He hung up the receiver gently and turned to Van Hosen. Saxon wore a small and very confident smile.

“What kind of a farce is this, Saxon?” Van Hosen demanded.

Saxon shrugged. “Checkmate, my friend. You do play chess, don’t you? Good. I believe that all the things which I told your employee, Wend, are correct. Assuming that is so, I’m perfectly willing to let you go. If it is correct, you well know that he’ll kill you before you can explain, and I don’t believe death comes easy in your group for those who inform. You have one small opening, but a very obvious one. You can give me the information which I told Wend you had already given. Then I can guarantee you police protection. If my basic assumption
is wrong, you can stand and walk briskly out, smiling at my stupidity as you go.”

Van Hosen stood up and, with careful dignity, smoothed out his rumpled jacket. He stroked the small beard and stared at Saxon. “My good man, you must certainly be mad. All you people are mad.”

“You have the privilege of thinking us anything you please. We can’t alter your opinions. Only your life. I remember seeing a man once who informed on the patriots in the Burmese underground. He was a man of your build, Van Hosen. They bound a tight white sash around his naked belly and staked him out, back down, in the sun. The sash was very thin. Under the sash they placed several of those hard-shelled beetles that you find at night in the jungle. They hate the light. When the sun strikes them, they dig down into the jungle floor, dig deeply. That man didn’t die pleasantly, Mr. Van Hosen.”