“Dullsville,” Benny complained. “Who invented this legend for me? I’m supposed to be studying the Japanese political system here for my masters. So I had to call on a few politicians. You know something? They’re just as full of hot air here as back home. I got invited to a couple of bashes and had to turn ’em down in case you called. I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.”
“I’ll mention your devotion to duty in my — what did they call them in Maugham’s time? — my dispatches.”
Something that sounded like “Vete á otro con ese cuento” came out of Benny’s mouth. “Translation: get off my goddam back. Some assignment! I found a kiosk where they have El Universal Gráfico from Mexico City, but it’s five weeks old. I don’t even know what’s doing at the bullfights.”
“To hell with the bull fights,” said Brook. “What’s doing at the home office?”
“They said okay to Krylov’s conditions. They’ll pay the Ohara girl’s passage to the States — what is she, Irish? — and arrange a legend for her. She’ll get an offer for a nightclub appearance in Washington through a booking agent. They’ll supply the plane ticket. She’ll proceed separately from Krylov.”
Brook nodded, not happily. “I’m afraid we’ve got a little something on the agenda before we wrap this up.” He told Benny of his visit to Kimiko, leaving out the more robust details, and of the street attack by the noodle vendor and his friends.
Benny frowned. “Thees no smell kosher, I theenk.”
“Suppose I like it? Maybe they were just out to roll a foreigner for the yen in his jeans, but somehow I doubt it. That spray can and those masks were pretty sophisticated for a gang of muggers. And then that overgrown icepick the soba guy attacked me with — Wilkinson was stabbed with a weapon like that. Our cover may be blown. I don’t know why they’d go about it just this way; I don’t even know whom they’re working for. If they are. We’ll have to find out more about them, Benny, before we can risk going ahead with Krylov.”
“And how do you propose doing that, compadre?”
Brook looked around as he lit a cigarette. But no one seemed interested in them. He raised his camera and took another shot of the swans. “That noodle cart had a license number. Seven-six-four-nine-five. I’d also recognize its decoration if I saw it again.”
“So what? There must be hundreds of noodle carts in this burg.”
“You don’t read enough guidebooks, Benny. The way I understand it, they load up with noodles in the evening in only a few places around town. The license number might narrow it down to one. Work through the regular security man here. After that, we take a look.”
“I still don’t like it.” Benny tossed a handful of peanuts and watched the pigeons, wings beating, descend greedily.
“Got some other idea?”
“No. Except that if our cover’s blown we ought to get the hell out of here fast.”
“That’s what we ought to do,” Brook nodded. “If we worked for the National Safety Council.”
“You sound more like Holloway every day! Keep on like this and you’ll wind up behind a desk.”
Brook said thoughtfully, “Or in the moat here, like Baldy.” He waved and walked off, busy changing the film in his camera.
For the next two days Brook bolstered his legend by calling on some boatyards to investigate yacht-manufacturing possibilities for the American company he was supposed to represent. Unlike Lopez, Brook found his cover enjoyable; he was always happy on boats, or near them, or talking about them. At the same time he found himself restlessly wondering why Benny was taking so long locating the noodle vendor. Each time he got back to his hotel he asked for messages; each time his box was empty.
He was not convinced that their cover was blown. They had been cautious, using different hotels and different legends to explain their presence in Japan. In making contact by phone they had used the initial call method, during which no business was discussed; this was followed by an immediate return call from an outside telephone. In only one case had they violated their M.O.: when Benny had called Brook at the Katori Spa to tell him that Krylov’s Dutch sailing partner, Quackernack, had been taken out. But even that call, made by Lopez from a public booth, had probably been all right.
The phone in Brook’s room finally rang early on the morning of the third day, while he was shaving. He dashed out of the bathroom like a mad dog.
“Hello, Charley?” said Benny’s voice.
“My name’s not Charley,” Brook said.
“You’re Charles H. Barrymore?”
“No. What room you calling?”
“I was calling twenty-six-o-one.”
“You’re way off, fellow. Must be a mistake.”
“Sorry.”
Brook hung up, finished shaving, and slipped on a shirt and jacket. Before leaving he paused at the little desk in the corner to jot down the following:
Charlie = C = 3
H. = H = 8
Barrymore = B = 2
Room 2601.
Phone number 382-2601.
He memorized the number, burned the paper, and flushed the ashes down the toilet.
He walked several blocks, pausing at shop windows. Presently he came to a street booth. He stepped in and dialed 382-2601.
“Amigo” said Benny’s voice. “What took you so long?”
“Getting here the slow way.”
“A tail?”
“I don’t think so. But you know how it is with icepicks.”
Benny said with sadness, “Some day when I want to talk to somebody I’ll phone him just like that — start right in saying what’s on my mind.”
“What did you find out?”
“This noodle cart of yours. It stands in a yard with a lot of others daytimes. Owner’s name Takeo Muramoto. His home address is within spitting distance.”
“Let’s take a look. I’ll meet you in front of the Imperial in twenty minutes, the new building.”
“Should I bring baggage?”
“No,” Brook said. “We can’t afford to get caught with weapons on us.”
“Who says we’re going to get caught?”
“We’re wasting time,” Brook said. He hung up.
He strolled through Hibiya Park on his way to the Imperial Hotel, pausing to admire some chrysanthemums in a sidewalk flower display. No tail. He got to the rendezvous exactly twenty minutes from the time he had hung up. Benny was just approaching the entrance. The two men paused like acquaintances who meet by accident, engaged in a compatriot conversation, and moved off together, gesticulating. On the street beyond the hotel Benny hailed a taxi; he gave the address.
Their destination was near the river. Like all riverfront neighborhoods it was weathered brown and dilapidated, with aged buildings and a few concrete warehouses. They walked half a block to a dirt lot enclosed by a drunken wood fence. In the lot stood several dozen noodle carts. Each was tilted on its handrails.
The Americans walked along the line of carts. At last they came to the one that wore the license tag 76495. Brook glanced at the designs on the cotton half-curtains and nodded. “This is the one, Benny.”
Benny led him across the lot to a side street. The buildings here were frame, with warped beams and the universal browning. “Over there, Pete. First floor rear.”
Brook looked around. The street was empty. They went in.
The smell was predictable — fish, soya sauce, stale air, urine, and a trace of faeces. They passed along a time-scarred hall with a midget’s ceiling and Benny paused at a door. Brook put his ear to it.
“Nothing.”
“Then he doesn’t snore.” Brook could barely hear Benny. “He’s in there. The itch in my crotch tells me.”
Brook tried the door delicately; it was locked. “Back window, Benny.”