Half smothered in the little trunk compartment, Brook found that this was one of those times. He had to tell a lie within a lie within a lie to Toby Stark. For some reason it bothered him. It was only when they were safely away from the festival grounds, on a dark stretch of road, as Stark let him out of the trunk and he climbed into the sedan, that Brook stopped worrying about it. That was the best time in such interludes: when you had it and could stop worrying about it.
He sat beside Stark as the fat Australian directed the Toyopet south along the coastal highway toward Katori Spa. His legs still ached with cramp, and he rubbed them as he spun his yarn.
“I’m not really with a boatbuilding company, Toby. Or maybe you’ve guessed that by now. The truth is, I’m a U.S. Treasury agent. I’ve been nosing into certain smuggling operations that originate here in Japan. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but — well, I’m beholden to you, Toby, for getting me out of a tight spot, and you’ve earned my trust. I can only hope you’ll keep it under your hat.”
Stark seemed relieved. “Is that it! Well, I should say. Always had a soft spot for Yanks. Blundering idiots, most of you, but the nicer sort — almost speak the Aussies’ language. Bloody few friends we have in this world. What went wrong?”
“The thing I’m investigating is due to break in a few days. We’ve identified most of the members of the smuggling gang, but we’re waiting for the big man to arrive in Tokyo. Obviously our most important job is to nab the boss.”
Toby Stark chuckled all over. “Like in the bloody films!”
“What?” Then Brook laughed. “I suppose it would strike an outsider that way. Anyway, with most of my work done, and with some time on my hands, I made the mistake of looking for a little whoop-de-do.”
“Aha,” Stark said. “The plot thickens.”
“It sure did,” Brook said ruefully. “I went to a nightclub, met a sexy hostess — Japanese — and made the usual arrangement to go to her apartment after she’d knocked off work.”
Stark looked aggrieved. “Damn it all, Peter, why didn’t you come to me if you were horny? I can fix you up at Katori Spa with a beautiful piece, and not half the running about.”
“Next time don’t think I won’t! But let me tell you about this, Toby. When I got to the girl’s apartment I found her dead—”
“You what?” The car swerved; Brook had to correct the wheel. “Sorry, old boy, but that gave me a turn.”
“Imagine what it did to me! She’d evidently been killed by a burglar or something. I understand they’re having a lot of trouble with these house robberies in Tokyo. Anyway, I’d been seen in the nightclub with the girl, so I knew the police wouldn’t lose any time connecting me with her murder. It’s so damned easy to identify a foreigner in these Asiatic countries! That meant being held for questioning, maybe worse, before it was straightened out. I couldn’t afford the time; it would completely foul up my assignment. Even if I was released in time the publicity might blow the scene. So I couldn’t do anything but run. And wouldn’t you know? Just then the police — how the devil they got there so fast I can’t imagine — showed up, and they caught a glimpse of my pan before I got away. That really tied it. They must have identified me in minutes. Anyway, they put out an alarm, and I was spotted at the fireworks festival.”
“Now that you tell it, it doesn’t sound so bad,” Stark said. “Your hand was forced, all right. They must have figured you’d try to lose yourself in a crowd, and the festival always pulls a mob of foreigners.”
“Well, that’s about it, Toby.” Brook hesitated. “The only thing is, I’m not out of the woods. And I don’t know who else I can turn to at the moment but you. I need your help.”
“You’ve got it.” The fat man laughed. “Most excitement I’ve had since my first night with little old Jazz.”
“You see, I’ve got to drop out of sight until Saturday. Katori Spa might be just the place to do it.”
“Say no more. I’ll put you up at the castle, hush-hush. Not a bloody soul will know you’re there.”
“Toby, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Shove it, chappie.” Toby Stark drove on, humming.
Brook was thinking: You got the good breaks and the bad ones in equal proportion; lucky for him the balance was in his favor this time. His string had started with Danny Boy and his prejudices against the fuzz. Then Stark’s running across him as he was stuck in the line of the shrine-toters. It had been apple pie after that.
That was one way of looking at it.
There was another way. When you got a streak of good luck in a tight situation, you examined it. With suspicion! There was something about smooth going in nasty waters that made the smart sailor uneasy. The calm before the storm sort of thing. You felt something tugging at the sleeve of your consciousness, trying to warn you.
You could look at it either way. You had damned well better look at it either way.
But just before dawn, after the kind of night he had had, rocked with fatigue, his body craving sleep and rest, the best thing was to note the other possibility for future consideration and stop looking at it any way at all.
Brook shut his eyes. He fell asleep.
The sun was just peering over the edge of the sea when Stark led Brook through the torii gateway to the blockhouse-like building at Katori Spa.
“It’s a grain-storage house,” Stark explained. “Japan’s the only place I know of where they build grain-storage houses to look like a bloody feudal palace. Not even a window. Nobody’ll know you’re here, Pete old boy. Hope you’re not claustrophobic.”
“Right now I’m not anything but pooped.”
The fat man opened the heavy door, reached in, switched on the light, and stood aside. Brook went in. It was a square room the size of a conventional bedroom. A couch, several Western chairs, a desk, two bookcases half filled.
“Fixed it up as a study for myself,” the Australian said, shutting the heavy door behind them. “Can you keep a secret, Pete?”
Brook was able to grin. “One good secret deserves another.”
“I thought I’d write a bloody book. I daresay everybody gets that bug one time or another. Historical fiction about the early settlers in Australia. Thought of a title, too. Kangaroo Moon. Damned catchy, what? Though I haven’t a story to go with it, not yet. I’ve been so bloody occupied I haven’t got round to it. Well, make yourself at home, chappie. I’ll send Jazz around with some shaving gear, and we’ll bring you food from time to time.”
Brook shook his head. “You’d better not tell Jasmine I’m here, Toby. The fewer in on this the better.”
“Don’t worry about Jazz. I’ve trained her to keep her yap shut. They’re just like dogs, these slant-eye women. Feed ’em, pet ’em, give them a little loving and a touch of the whip now and again, and they eat out of your bloody hand. Besides, Jazz likes to drop in here when she wants to mope or something, so she’s got to be let in on it.”
Brook sighed. “All right, Toby, if you think it’s safe.”
Stark waved and went to the door.
“And thanks again. Good night.”
The Australian went out, shutting the door behind him. Brook looked up at the high blank walls. No windows, as advertised, but there were slits up near the ceiling beams; they were a good ten feet above floor level.
The floor was dirt covered with mats of rice straw.
Brook turned his attention to the door. It was of iron, with a huge medieval-looking lock and a six-inch-square peep-window barred with a crisscross of iron slats. The damn place, he thought, has all the hominess of a rat trap.
Brook tried the iron door. It opened. The early light was beginning to bring out details; he shut the door quietly.