He put the little Buddha on the table. It stood about a foot high and was of bronze. Matu touched it and the front half swung open on minute hinges. Light glinted on the scores of tiny blades set into the inside of the statue.
"They call it the Bloody Buddha," said Matu. "An old idea brought up to date. And not really Oriental, you see, because it is a version of the Iron Maiden used in Europe in medieval times. They put the victim in the Buddha and close it on him. There are not, of course, really a thousand knives, but does it matter? He bleeds to death very slowly because the blades are arranged very cunningly and none of them stabs too deeply or touches a vital spot. Not a very pleasant death."
The door to the room slid open the first inch.
Nick had the picture. "The Chicoms force the Eta men into this Society of the Bloody Buddha?"
"Yes." Matu shook his head sadly. "A few of the Etas stand up to them. Not many. Etas, Burakumin, are a minority and they do not have many ways of fighting back. The Chicoms use jobs, political pressure, money — but mostly terror. They are very clever. They force the men to join the Society by terror, by threats to their wives and children. Then if the men renege, if they find their manhood again and try to fight back — you see what happens." He pointed to the deadly little Buddha on the table. "So I have turned to the women, and with some success, because the Chicoms have not yet figured out just how to handle the women. I had this model made to show the women, what would happen to them if they are caught."
Nick eased the Colt .45 in his belt, where it was digging into his stomach. "That's your worry, Kunizo. But I see what you mean — the Chicoms are going to black out Tokyo and burn it down and your people, the Eta, will be blamed."
The door behind them was half open now.
"The sad truth is, Nick, that many of my people do riot. They do loot and bum, in protest against poverty and discrimination. They are a natural tool for the Chicoms. I try to reason with them, but I do not have much success. My people are very bitter."
Nick shrugged into the old trenchcoat. "Yes. But that's your problem, Kunizo. Mine is to find Richard Philston. So I'll go to work, the sooner the better. One thing, thought — it might help me. What do you think that Philston is really up to? His real reason for being in Tokyo? It just might give me a starting place."
Silence. Behind them the door had stopped moving.
Matu said: "It is only a wild guess, Nick. Crazy. You must understand that. Laugh if you want to, but I think that Philston is in Tokyo to…"
The gun behind them coughed nastily in the silence. It was an old-fashioned broom-handle Luger with a relatively low muzzle velocity. The brutal 9mm slug tore away most of Kunizo Matu's face. His head jerked backward. His body, laden with fat, did not move for a split instant. Then he fell forward, smashing the little table to splinters, spewing blood on the totami, crushing the Buddha model.
By that time Nick Carter had hit the deck and was rolling to his right. He came up in a crouch with the Colt in his hand. He saw a vague figure, a blurred shadow, moving away from the door. Nick fired from his crouch.
BLA M-BLAM-BLA M-BLAM
The Colt roared like a canon in the silence. The shadow vanished and Nick heard footsteps pounding down the hali. He went after the sound.
The shadow was just going out the door. BLAM-BLAM. The heavy .45 was waking the echoes. And the neighborhood. Carter knew that he had only minutes, perhaps only seconds, to get the hell out of there. He did not look back at his old friend. That was over now.
He ran out into the rain and the first false hint of dawn. There was light enough to see the assassin making a left turn down the way that he, and Nick, had come in. It was probably the only way in and out. Nick pelted after him. He did not fire again. It was pointless, and already he had the gut-churning feeling of failure. The bastard was going to get away.
When he got to the turn there was no one in sight. Nick ran down the narrow passage that led back to the flophouses, slipping and sliding in the filth underfoot. Voices were all around him now. Babies crying. Women questioning. Men moving, and wondering.
At the stairs the old beggar still crouched beneath his rain mat. Nick touched his shoulder. "Papa-san! Did you see…"
The old man fell over like a broken doll. The ugly gash in his throat stared up at Nick like a silent and reproving mouth. The mat under him was drenched in red. In one gnarled hand he still clutched the crisp bill Nick had given him.
"Sorry, Papa-san." Nick vaulted up the steps. Despite the rain it was growing lighter by the minute. He had to get out of there. Now! No point at all in hanging around. The assassin had gotten clean away, lost in the maze of slums, and Kunizo Matu was dead, the cancer was cheated. Take it from there.
The police cars came into the street from opposite directions, two of them neatly blocking all escape. Two spotlights fixed him like a moth on cork.
"Tomarinasai!"
Nick stopped. There was a strong odor of frame-up and he was in the middle of it. Someone had been using a telephone and the timing was exquisite. He dropped the Colt and kicked it down the stairs. There was a chance, if he could engage their attention, that they wouldn't see it. Or find the dead beggar. Think fast, Carter! He did think fast and went into his act. He put up bis hands and walked slowly toward the nearest police car. He might get away with it. He had drunk just enough saki to have the smell on him.
He walked in between the two cars. They were halted now, engines purring softly, turret lights sparking around and around. Nick blinked in the glare of the headlights. He scowled, managed to lurch a little. He was Pete Fremont now and he had better not forget it. If they threw him in the sneezer he was finished. A caged hawk catches no rabbits.
"What in the hell is this all about? What goes on? People banging guns all over the place, cops stopping me! What the hell anyway?" Pete Fremont was mad and getting madder.
A cop got out of each car and walked into the bath of light. Both were small and neat. Both carried Nambu pistols, the big ones, and they were pointed at Nick. Pete.
The lieutenant looked at the big American and bowed slightly. A lieutenant! He made a note of that. Lieutenants didn't usually ride prowl cars.
"O namae wa?
"Pete Fremont. Is it all right if I put my hands down now, officer?" Heavy on the sarcasm.
The other cop, a solidly built little man with buck teeth, gave Nick a quick frisk. He nodded to the Lieutenant. Nick let his saki breath leak into the cop's face and saw him wince.
"Okay," said the lieutenant. "Hands down. Kokuseki wa?"
Nick swayed a little. "America-jin." He said it proudly, triumphantly, as if he were just about to sing "The Star Spangled Banner."
He hiccoughed. "American-jin, by God, and don't you forget it. If you monkeys think you're going to kick me around…"
The lieutenant looked bored. Drunken Yanks were no novelty to him. He held out his hand. "Papers, if you please."
Nick Carter handed over Pete Fremont's wallet and prayed a little.
The lieutenant was riffling through the wallet, holding it before one of the headlights. The other cop was standing back out of the light now, keeping his pistol on Nick. They knew their business, these Tokyo cops.
The lieutenant shot a glance at Nick. "Tokyo no jusho wa?"