She set the glass down. “You must not be mistaken in what you are thinking.”
“I’m thinking all the right things,” Brook said, smiling.
“Perhaps not, Peter. You see, I do not often join a man in a drink like this, certainly not at this hour. I have accepted the attentions of many attractive young men, but I choose carefully.”
“And you’ve chosen me this morning. Why?”
“You have a strong and quiet look.”
“We call me the strong, silent type.” He was still smiling. “The Orient’s full of us. So there must be another reason.”
“You are also perceptive. Yes, there is. I think I have grown tired of the way things are with me.”
“You mean being tied to Toby Stark? Stuck out here like a house pet? Why don’t you cut out?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why not leave him?”
“It is not so simple, Peter. You see, I went with Toby in the first place because I was tired. I am not as young as I look. To find someone else who can afford to give me what I want may not be as easy as it once was. So I stay. He takes care of me and I give him his pleasure. But I am tired of him.”
Brook rose. He circled the table and went to the back of her chair. She looked up and around, smiling.
“Yes,” she said, as if he had asked her a question; and she took his hands and placed them on her breasts. “That is something I know how to do very well.”
It was a massive understatement. She made the late Kimiko Ohara’s technique look like the stammering efforts of a sophomore at Miss Briggs’ Finishing School for Young Ladies in the year 1910.
Less than an hour later Brook was aroused by the tolling of a deep bell from somewhere. It was probably the big bronze affair he had seen hanging in its pavilion on the grounds. The bell sounded unlike any he had ever heard, he was sure. Or was he? He wondered why it annoyed him. Each note sustained itself for a long time, like self-perpetuating thunder. He could feel its vibrations through the walls of the grain-storage house. It died away lingeringly.
Jasmine stirred on the couch beside him, pulled him down to her, and licked the tip of his nose. “It is only the bell, Peter. The servants, the workers, they like it. It helps them to feel religious.”
Then he remembered.
The cold mouse made its run again.
The moan as the bell died away. Jasmine’s voice, husky, that could be mistaken for a man’s voice if you didn’t know and she was on the other end of a telephone line.
She circled her palm ever so lightly over the hair of his chest. “I must leave now.”
Brook nodded.
“I will be back.” She swung from the couch, picked up her clothes from the floor, began to dress. He watched her. “I am glad you came here, Peter. I feel as if I have known you for a long time.”
“Do you?”
She laughed. “But we do not really know each other, do we?”
“We’ve made a good start.”
“Be serious. I want you to tell me about yourself.”
“It’s a dull story.”
“Don’t be modest! Toby says you chase smugglers for a living. You must lead an exciting life. Tell me everything.”
“Next time, Jazz. I’d rather Toby didn’t find you here.”
“Yes, yes. Next time.”
“Soon,” he said.
“Soon.”
He kept staring at the door until long after she had gone.
It was a cute setup, all right.
He thought it out.
Finally he poured himself an inch and a half of Scotch, drank it neat, and began to dress as carefully as if he were about to meet Holloway. He wished he had an iron; the silk suit was wrinkled. Well, it would have to do. He removed the books from the bookcase, carried the case to the wall below the window slit, and stood on it to look out. Between his tower and Stark’s “castle” there were only rocks and bushes and flowerbeds and the pool with its ducks and golden and speckled carp. And there was the rear of the house, not fifty yards away. The sun was well up and the day was warmer. And no one in sight.
He stepped down, went to the iron door, pushed it open very slowly. The garden was still clear. He walked out of the tower, shutting the door, glanced over at the pavilion where the great green bell was hanging. No one there.
The bell was silent.
Brook walked toward the house deliberately. A strolling man is far less noticeable than a hurrying one. Halfway across the garden he heard a splash, but it was only one of the carp breaking the surface. Then he was at the back door of the main house. He peeped inside. A big kitchen. Empty. He went in, quickly now.
He stood near the door, listening. He could hear nothing from the rest of the house.
He crossed the kitchen to a swinging door, opened it an inch, and cased the adjoining room. It was the one in which Stark had first entertained him. The telephone was on a table in a corner and he ran toward it on the balls of his feet. He picked it up, listened for the dial tone. Instead, a voice speaking English with a Japanese accent said, “’Lo. Desk.”
It was the voice of the clerk in the recreation center; Stark’s line went through the switchboard. Brook did his best to imitate the Australian’s boomy accent.
“Stark here. Look, ring me the Mitani Hotel in Tokyo, will you, there’s a good chap? I’ll hang on.”
“Mitani Hotel. Yes, sir. You know number?”
Brook gave him the number. The dialing, clicking, buzzing were interminable. He shifted his weight and kept glancing over at the doors. Risky, making this call. His chances would have been better if he had slipped away from the Spa.
Benny Lopez, at last. “Hello?” Brook could have kissed him.
“No time for the phone routine, Benny. I’m at Katori Spa. I’ll meet you Saturday morning per schedule. Don’t worry about me.”
“Don’t worry,” Benny grunted. “You see the morning papers, amigo?”
“No. But I can imagine.”
“You didn’t knock her off, did you?”
“Of course not. Look, Benny, to play it safe get out of your hotel pronto. Don’t say where you’re going. Better still, lie about it. Find some other pad and hole up.”
“You won’t know where I am.”
“Can’t be helped. Problems here.”
“What if you don’t show Saturday morning? I don’t know how to take that boat to where—”
“I’ll be there. No more time, Benny. Hasta.”
As Brook hung up he heard someone or something. He looked about for concealment; there was none. So he waited where he was. Nothing happened. It must have been the breeze scraping a bush against the house.
He got back to the grain-storage house without incident, feeling like a million.
He was lighting one of his little cigars when the iron door opened behind him.
“Hello, Brook,” said the boomy voice.
Brook turned to look into the muzzle of a Luger. Toby Stark was smiling; the weapon in his hand was not. Jasmine was in the doorway behind him.
Chapter 11
“Is it all right if I sit down?” Brook said.
The Luger waved hospitably. Brook backed up till he felt the seat of the couch against his legs. He sat down.
“Heeled, Peter?” asked Stark.
“Never.”
“No,” Jasmine said.
“Well,” Brook said.
“Yes,” Stark said. Jasmine shut the door. The Australian’s pulpy eyes had taken on a certain hardness and the layers of fat in his face no longer gave him a jolly look. “I thought you’d ask why the artillery. Try to bluff it through, that sort of thing.”
“Not much point in that,” Brook said.
“You bloody Americans.” Stark laughed; it was not at all the kind of laugh he bestowed on the workaday world. “The old unexpected, eh, Brook? Put the jolly old fat boy off guard. You can forget it, chappie. I’ve killed more smart lads than your analyst ever dug out of your bloody dreams.”