Standing beside her was the white-jacketed manservant, an ugly look on his face. In one outstretched hand he held a British Army Webley revolver with the hammer full back.
I was trapped.
Fifteen
A hard-toned, staccato voice sang out, piercing the air around me like the crackling of hot lightning. Phan Wan was speaking in her native tongue with crisp, lashing phrases that were electric in their effect on the two approaching men. They braked to a halt, bumping into one another. Both snatched off their hats and bowed, keeping their heads lowered in subservience. I lowered my head, too, hiding behind the visor of the cloth cap I wore. The manservant on the raised level above me was unable to see my face.
I remained in that respectful attitude until I heard the click of the Webley’s hammer being eased down. Phan Wan lowered her voice. I glanced up. The armed man was withdrawing into the house. Another bark from the slim girl dismissed the pair of gardeners formerly immobilized by her sharp words.
She leaned over the balustrade. “What do you know of Keith Martin?” She spoke in English, her tone remaining sharp. “Your voice — you sound like—”
“Like an American,” I finished for her. “That’s because I am, and I’m here because of Keith Martin. He is here, too, and wants to see you.”
She ran to the end of the veranda where stone steps led down to the lawn. I moved sideways to join her on the steps. “Don’t!” she cautioned. She looked over her shoulder again, then faced me. “You must stay there where you are. None of the peasant class are permitted to enter this part of the house.”
“Thanks,” I said appreciatively. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Of course,” she concurred. “I have many questions for you. You are in great danger. You must not be discovered, and we must not be overheard. There is a shed in the back attached to a greenhouse. Go there and wait.”
“I am not alone,” I said. Phan Wan’s expectant, near-giddy look faded when I went on to disappoint her. “No, not Martin. But two others, a Vietnamese man and a Chinese girl. They speak the language.”
“The girl — is she young?” A strange question.
“Yes. And beautiful,” I added.
“Excellent. Bring both of them to the rear of the house. I will tell those who watch over me that you have a procurer who is bringing your sister to the house of Nho Phu Thone to sell her into prostitution. It is not uncommon for me to deal for Nho Phu Thone in these matters. Hurry. We must talk about Keith.”
While a catastrophe had been averted, what I hoped would become a miraculous opportunity faded quickly. Under the guise of haggling over the value of Willow who stood with bowed head beside Bu Chen, Phan Wan confessed that she could be of little help. She had only limited freedom, being a house-bound prisoner behind the villa’s formidable walls. A trio of live-in guards kept her under observation day and night while watching over Phu Thone’s person and property. Phan Wan considered herself property although she played the role of mistress of the house as well as being a mistress in the more classical sense.
In a hurried exchange, Phan Wan said that no attempt had been made by Keith Martin to contact her. She shed tears when I told her how Martin had interrupted his strange, bloodletting crusade to seek her out in Madame Peacock’s establishment in Bangkok.
“What can I do... to help?” she sobbed. “He must be found before — he must be stopped,” she added. “Nho Phu Thone has spoken of some mysterious deaths recently... he didn’t say murders. There was another last night. A general died in his sleep, I was told.”
“General Linpak Tung,” I said. His was the only name on Martin’s death list of a still active duty general.
Phan Wan nodded. “Phu Thone was friendly with him during and since the war. They have mutual business interests here and in Haiphong. General Linpak Tung was a powerful man and a member of the government Central Committee. You are positive that Keith is here and. responsible for this?” she asked with wonder... even a little pride.
“He pictures himself as bearing the righteous sword of vengeance and is justified in executing those who were connected with the mistreatment and torture of hundreds of American prisoners during the war.”
“General Tung had nothing to do with that. That’s what we were told. He was a respected, honorable man.”
I was sure Tung’s name was on the assassination list. There had to be a connection. “He must have had some dealings with POWs,” I insisted.
“Oh, but that’s been since the war,” explained Phan Wan. “He was persistent in the view that the Central Committee hold back the information that the Americans seek on their dead and captured soldiers. He says it is the only way the powerful United States can be made to pay restitution for damages their war caused.”
“That figures,” I said under my breath. “Chalk up another one for Martin. The man is as incredible as he is crazy. All by himself, getting away with it and surviving in a totally hostile environment. If you aren’t helping, Phan Wan, is there anyone at all who might be?”
“Impossible. You don’t know the national feeling toward the western races if you’d even think that. I can’t imagine a single soul who wouldn’t expose him instantly because we are always warned about the presence of provocateurs. He cannot avoid being found. And I fear, if he has learned as you have where I am, he may risk coming here. If he does, he will surely be killed. If there was only some way—” She fell silent.
I reached out to lay a comforting hand on her arm. Phan Wan drew back. “We tarry too long,” she said. “We are watched, I am sure. In a moment I will shake my head to reject the price asked for Willow, then you must go.”
“No,” countered Willow. “Pay Bu Chen something. I will stay. If nothing else, I might be able to prevent a tragedy.”
Her idea had merit. Willow would have a temporary safe haven. She could gain more information of use from Phan Wan. I concurred.
Phan Wan refused. “You must not. Girls that come here are used before they are sent on. A pretty one like you, Willow, will serve the pleasure of the three guards that live here, but only after Phu Thone himself has satiated his lust with you. I refuse to subject you to that. Come back tomorrow as if you have decided to sell yourself for a more reasonable price.”
I looked beyond Phan Wan. A broad-shouldered, bareheaded man was lounging against the far corner of the house eyeing our group. I peered out from under the pulled-down peak of my cap in the opposite direction. A husky twin of the first man was standing beside the glass wall of the greenhouse some twenty feet away. I grew fidgety. “We’d better leave,” I said in muted tones.
Bu Chen began making active gestures. His hand movements were in no way related to his conversation. “Where can we go to be safe for the night?” he asked.
Phan Wan’s face looked blank, then brightened. “Of course, there is a place. Phu Thone has a large, five-story building under construction. No one is working there just now because of a shortage of materials. Go there. You will find a workshed to shelter you. It also has a telephone. If I can, I will call you tonight. Now go!” Her pompous gesture and straight-pointed finger made her intentionally loud command in Vietnamese understandable even to me.
The three of us shuffled down the gravel driveway trying to look like rejected peasants. I could hardly contain my elation. While Martin was still far from my grasp, and had certainly upped the ante on his head by dispatching another public figure in Hanoi, we had accomplished a great deal.