Christ! His address in Tokyo? Pete Fremont's address in Tokyo. He didn't have a clue. All he could do was lie and hope. His brain clicked like a computer and he came up with something that might work.
"I don't live in Tokyo," he said. "I'm in Japan on business. Just got in last night. I live in Seoul. Korea." Frantically he racked his brain for an address in Seoul Had it! Sally Su's house.
"Where in Seoul?" The lieutenant had come closer now, was looking him up and down more carefully, judging him by his clothes and his smell. His half smile was disdainful. Just who are you trying to kid, saki-head?
"19 Dongjadong, Choongkoo." Nick leered and expelled saki breath at the lieutenant. "Check it out, Buster. You'll find I'm telling the truth." He let a whine creep into his voice "Say, what is this all about? I haven't done anything. I just came out here to see a girl. Then when I was leaving all the shooting started. And now you guys…"
The lieutenant was regarding him with slight puzzlement. Nick took heart. The cop was going to buy the story. Thank God he had gotten rid of the Colt. But he could still be in trouble if they went snooping around.
"You have been drinking?" It was a rhetorical question.
Nick swayed and hiccoughed again. "Yeah. I been drinking a little. I always drink when I'm with my girl. What about it?"
"You heard shooting? Guas being fired? Where?"
Nick shrugged. "I don't know exactly where. You can bet I didn't go to investigate! All I know is that I was just leaving my girl's house, minding my own business, and all of a sudden wham — wham!" He stopped and looked at the lieutenant suspiciously. "Hey! How come you people got here so fast? You were expecting trouble, eh?"
The lieutenant frowned. "I ask the questions, Mr. Fremont. But we did get a report of a disturbance around here. This neighborhood, you understand, is not of the best." He looked Nick up and down again, taking in the bedraggled suit and the crummy hat and trenchcoat. His expression confirmed his opinion that Mr. Pete Fremont belonged in this neighborhood. The phone call, as a matter of fact, had been anonymous and skimpy. There would be trouble in the Sanya district, near the flophouses, in half an hour. Shooting trouble. The caller was a law-abiding Japanese and thought the police should know. That was all — that and the click of a softly replaced phone.
The lieutenant scratched his chin and glanced around him. The light was growing. The jumble of shacks and hovels stretched for a mile in every direction. It was a maze and he knew he would find nothing in it. He did not have enough men for a proper search, even had he known what he was looking for. And the police, when they ventured into the Sanya jungle at all, went in fours and fives. He looked at the big drunken American. Fremont? Pete Fremont? That name was vaguely familiar but he couldn't place it. Did it matter? The Yank was obviously broke, on the beach, and there were a lot like him in Tokyo and any large city in the Orient. He had been shacking up with some Sanya whore. So what? That was not against the law.
Nick waited patiently. This was a time to keep his mouth shut. He was following the lieutenant's thoughts. The officer was going to let him go.
The lieutenant was about to hand the wallet back to Nick when a radio crackled metallically in one of the cars. Someone called softly to the lieutenant. He turned away, still with the wallet in his hand. "A moment, please." Always polite, the Tokyo cops. Nick cursed under his breath. It was getting too damned light! They were going to spot that dead beggar and then the stuff would hit the fan for sure.
The lieutenant came back. Nick felt a little sick as he recognized the expression on the man's face. He had seen it before. Cat knows where there is a nice fat canary.
The lieutenant opened the wallet again. "You say your name is Pete Fremont?"
Nick looked puzzled. At the same time he moved a small step closer to the lieutenant. Something had gone wrong. Badly wrong. He began to make a new plan.
He pointed to the wallet and said indignantly: "Yeah. Pete Fremont. It's all in there, for Christ's sake. Say, what is this! The old third degree? It won't work. I know my rights. You either charge me or let me go. And if you charge me I'll get right on the horn to the American Ambassador and…"
The lieutenant smiled and pounced. "I'm sure the Ambassador will be glad to hear from you, sir. I think you will have to come to the station with us. There seems to be a most curious mix-up. A man has been found dead in his apartment. A man who is also named Pete Fremont and who has been positively identified as Pete Fremont by his girl friend."
Nick tried to bluster. He moved another few inches closer to the man.
"So what? I didn't say I was the only Pete Fremont in the world. It's just a mistake."
The little lieutenant did not bow this time. He inclined his head very politely and said, "I am sure it is. But you will accompany us to the station, please, until we have this matter arranged." He motioned to the other cop who was still covering Nick with the Nambu.
Nick Carter went to the lieutenant in a swift gliding movement. The cop, though surprised, was well trained and went into a defensive judo posture, lax and waiting for Nick to lunge at him. Kunizo Matu had taught Nick that one years before.
Nick stopped short. He offered his right arm as bait and when the cop tried to clamp his wrist for the shoulder throw Nick took the arm away and jolted a vicious short left into the man's solar plexus. He had to get close, fast, before the other cops could start shooting.
Stunned, the lieutenant slumped forward, Nick caught him and moved behind him in a motion as fast as a heartbeat. He got a full nelson and lifted the man off the ground. He didn't weigh more than 120–130. With his legs spread wide so the man couldn't kick him in the groin Nick backed toward the steps leading to the passage behind the flophouses. It was the only way out now. The little cop dangled in front of him, an effective bullet shield.
Three cops were training guns on him now. The spotlights were feeble rays of dead light in the growing dawn.
Nick backed cautiously toward the steps. "Stay away," he warned them. "You rush me and I'll break his neck!"
The lieutenant tried to kick him and Nick put on a little pressure. The bones in the lieutenant's thin neck made a snapping sound. He groaned and stopped kicking.
"He's all right," Nick told them, "I haven't hurt him yet. Let's keep it that way."
Where in hell was that first step?
The three cops stopped following him. One of them ran back to a car and began talking rapidly into the radio mike. Calling for help. Nick didn't mind. He didn't plan to be around.
His foot touched the first step. Good. Now if he didn't make any mistakes he had a chance.
He scowled at the cops. They were keeping their distance.
"I'm taking him with me," Nick said. "Down this passage behind me. Try to follow and he's going to get hurt. Stay here like good little policemen and he will be okay. Up to you. Sayonara!"
He went backward down the steps. At the bottom he was just out of sight of the cops. He could feel the old beggar's body against his legs. He put on sudden pressure, bent the lieutenant's head forward and slammed him across the neck with a karate chop. His thumb was rigidly extended and he felt a little shock as the calloused flesh blade of his hand slammed into the scrawny neck. He dropped the man.
The Colt was lying partly under the dead beggar. "Nick scooped it up — the butt was sticky with the old man's blood — and ran down the passage. He kept the Colt in his right hand, jutting out. No one in this neighborhood was going to interfere with a man carrying a cannon.
It was now a matter of seconds. He wasn't going out of the Sanya jungle, he was going in, and once in the cops would never find him. The shacks were all of paper or wood or tin, flimsy fire traps, and it was simply a matter of bulldozing his way.