“Mr. Dye,” he said. “You are in good health?”
“Excellent.”
“It is kind of you to meet at such short notice.”
“Time is most valuable to those who suddenly are in short supply,” I said, making it all up as I went along.
He nodded, looked around shyly, and then started to say something, probably about the money. Before he had to embarrass himself I handed him an envelope. He didn’t even look inside, but instead quickly stuffed it into his briefcase which, I thought, demonstrated a pleasant degree of mutual trust.
“I have some information of a most delicate nature,” he said. “I scarcely know how to begin—”
He never got the chance really. The door that I’d forgotten to lock burst open and two chunky Chinese were suddenly in the room. They were mumbling something that I didn’t catch. I’m sure Pai Chung-liang never really heard what it was either because Vicker shot him right through the briefcase that he had clutched to his chest. The two chunky types looked at me, saw that I didn’t have a gun, and then at Pai who was now sprawled on the floor, his briefcase still tight against his chest. They both produced short-barreled revolvers. One of them waved his gun at me, nudged Pai with his foot, and said finished to his partner. The partner nodded, bent down, and took the briefcase. Neither of them seemed to care much about who’d shot Pai as long as he was dead. They backed to the door and disappeared into the crowd.
I bent over Pai. He wasn’t quite dead. He opened his eyes and coughed once. It seemed to hurt him terribly to do so. Then he said in a faint voice, “Mr. Dye, they couldn’t have known... I’m afraid your Mr. Vicker—” He never did finish what he thought Vicker might have said or done. He coughed and died instead.
Vicker came into the room as I rose. I looked at him. He was nodding a little in that self-satisfied way that he did when things went as he predicted. “A setup,” he said. “Just like I—”
“You didn’t have to shoot him,” I said.
“Christ, he set you up. He was about to finger you. If I hadn’t shot him, you’d be on your way to Canton.”
“They weren’t after me.”
“Not after he was dead, they weren’t. Not after he couldn’t finger you.”
It was a poor lie, but Vicker was magnificent. His dark brown eyes didn’t flicker and his voice dripped oily gobs of sincerity. “Good God, Dye, even a child could see what he was up to.”
“You didn’t hear what he said. Just before he died.”
“What?”
“He said three things.” I decided to do some lying myself. “First, he said that you’ve sold out. Second, he said that you tipped off the meeting to the opposition. And third, he said that you’re through. I agree with him on everything.”
“You believe him?” he said in the same, hurt tone that he’d use if I were to disagree with his favorite contention that Marciano could have taken Clay in three rounds.
“He was dying,” I said. “Why should he lie?”
“You’re not that naive.”
“Maybe I am. But then he said something else, too,” I said, rather pleased with my own skill as a liar.
“What?”
“He said you made a mistake. I agree with him.”
That didn’t bother Vicker either. It only caused him to raise an eyebrow. His left one. “What mistake?”
Vicker actually had made a number of mistakes and some of them he couldn’t help, such as the fact that I didn’t much like him. But there were others. One was the call that he’d made from his office just before we left for the meeting with Pai. After that, the two chunky Chinese showed up. That might be called a coincidental mistake, Then he accused Pai of trying to tumble me to the Chinese Communists who already knew everything they needed to know about me. That could only be called a dumb mistake — one very much unlike Vicker. Almost last was the mistake Vicker made when he shot Pai before the Chinese could tell me what he had on his mind. That, I suppose, could be labeled an irritating mistake. But I wasn’t going to tell him about all of them just then — only about the final and worst mistake that he’d made.
“Pai said you shot the wrong man, Gerald,” I said. “That was your big mistake. You should have shot me instead.”
Chapter 13
I learned to recite the alphabet and how to write a name in the Bridge House Apartments, which the Japanese had converted into a prison. The alphabet was the usual one, but the name was my new one, William Smalldane, firstborn son of the noted American correspondent, Gorman Smalldane.
The Japanese who arrested us on December 8 made Smalldane drive Tante Katerine’s Chrysler across Szechwan Road Bridge and into the Bridge House compound, which was located about two blocks from the central post office in the Hongkew section. During the drive Smalldane managed to slip me his two thousand-word story that never got filed. I dropped it on the floorboards and kicked it back under the front seat. They must never have found it. If they had, Smalldane probably would have been executed either as a top-grade spy or a small-time prophet.
There was a crowd of foreigners at Bridge House that morning, some of them half-dressed, all of them a little bewildered. They kept talking about Pearl Harbor, but it meant nothing to me. I was more interested in watching them empty their pockets onto a desk behind which sat two Japanese officers, a captain and a major.
“Get this straight, Lucifer,” Smalldane whispered to me. “You’re now William Smalldane. My only son. You got that? William Smalldane.”
“William Smalldane,” I said, reveling a little in the sound of it. Even then I didn’t care much for Lucifer. When we got to the major and the captain they made Smalldane empty his pockets. They placed the items in a brown envelope and then demanded that he remove his belt.
“The child,” the captain said. “Your son?”
“Yes,” Smalldane said.
“He must empty his pockets.”
I had quite a nice collection. A half-package of Lucky Strikes; a switchblade knife with a seven-inch blade; an empty spool; four dirty pictures; a lint-flaked piece of candied ginger; a chain to a bathtub stopper; a box of wax matches; an Indian head U.S. penny, dated 1902; a purple Crayola; and a Three Little Pigs and Big Bad Wolf pocket watch which didn’t run.
The Japanese captain listed everything, even the ginger, and then sealed it in an official envelope, except for the dirty pictures. He snickered at them and kept two for himself and gave the major the other two.
It was cold in Shanghai and I was wearing my treasured corduroy knickers with thick woolen socks; high-topped brown shoes; a flannel shirt; a woolen sweater; a plaid woolen lumberjack coat; a knitted red cap; and long underwear. Underneath all that I wore the handmade money belt that I had painstakingly fashioned out of an old pillowcase. It contained around $1,000 in American and British currency. The money was the proceeds from my drunk-rolling efforts and I always wore it, even to bed.
The Japanese officers produced another form and began asking Smalldane questions about where we were born, nationality, occupation, age, and length of residence in Shanghai. Smalldane answered everything and even volunteered information about his alleged ex-wife, and my new mother, who had died in what he claimed to have been the terrible San Francisco cholera epidemic of 1934. They seemed to believe him.