“Another little fact. I was watching O’Dell. He wasn’t going to try anything. He was completely relaxed. You gave it to him because he was going to say too much. He never stood a chance. Cold-blooded murder, and not the first one.”
His eyes widened as I pulled my fist back. He was too busy being brave to do any talking. I grinned as I let it go. I smacked it into the least damaged portion of his mouth.
“Another point. You didn’t want me to talk to the police. That Saxon looks smart. Maybe, if he got enough dope, he might see through you.”
Again on the mouth. He started to curse me. He cursed through swelling battered lips that distorted his words. I stood back and let him finish. His voice got hoarse and indistinct and finally faded away completely. The blood was dripping onto his tunic.
“Also, chum, when I brought up the point of my leaving this place and going back to the States, you didn’t do much discouraging. You wanted me to go. You put up no argument at all. Just gave me a song and dance about cleaning it up later. And look, I have one more point coming up, a conclusive point, old boy. We are now ready for the master stroke, the slam on the schnoz. Take a peek in the mirror. Take a look at that nose.”
He looked. The pointed delicate nose stood out in the midst of the carnage, shining like that good deed in a naughty world. I saw his face quiver as he looked and realized what would happen when I hit it. He was trying to brace himself.
I needed more psychology. I didn’t have any conclusive point. I’d made my last point. So I smacked my lips loudly and wound up like a bush league pitcher. “You don’t know how much I’m enjoying this, Pete. Guess I’m a sadist. Maybe I better take a couple of swings at it to make sure I get it hammered down nice and flat.”
That got him. He came apart at the seams. Every ounce of guts ran out of him and he sobbed as he talked. “No, Garry! No! I’ll tell you about it. All of it. Cut me down.”
“Not till you get through talking. I’m aching for a shot at that nose.”
“Van Hosen. He’s in charge. Subversive group. Money from Japs in Java. Gold and jewels they took from the Dutch. War’s over, but Van Hosen ordered to establish Jap-type sphere of influence down here. I’ve been working for him for three years. I’m perfect cover for them. Can direct suspicion away from them. Van Hosen in charge. O’Dell used to be second, but he’s resented Van Hosen for a long time. I had replaced O’Dell. O’Dell was the one who gave instructions to kill Christoff. Christoff stumbled on card code by accident one night. He came to British headquarters to report it as something suspicious. By luck, he came to me. The January Club has been the base.”
“How about that boat ride. Quick!”
“I asked Christoff to work with our headquarters in trapping these people. O’Dell’s orders. Introduced him to Conny and O’Dell and told him later that they were suspected agents. Told him that we had information that they wanted to get over to India. Asked him to invite them out on the boat and pretend to be drunk and see if they’d ask him to take them across to India. Short trip. Told him that I’d give him a letter later that would cover him in case of any criticism. I told him not to tell anyone else of the plan. He did as I asked him, and at the first opportunity, O’Dell shoved him over the side.”
“Why’d you shoot O’Dell?”
“Orders. I reported to Van Hosen that you couldn’t be purchased or intimidated. You blocked us when you sent the letter to the consulate. If you hadn’t done that, you’d be dead now. O’Dell thought he could torture you to write a letter to get the sealed note back. I knew you’d never write such a letter. Van Hosen told O’Dell not to chance it. O’Dell disobeyed orders, and I had to cover it all up. I thought I had.”
“Why is this organization so ruthless, anyway?”
“Thousands of weapons and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition have been stolen and hidden in the hills. We will lead the revolt of the Ceylonese against England. We were to get millions, and Van Hosen was going to get us estates in the interior of Java after it was over.”
“Why was the doorboy killed? Did he know anything?”
“Not a thing. He was killed to discourage you from trying any of the others.”
“Who killed him?”
“Wend. That’s his job.”
“Who killed Constance?”
“Wend again. Sent her a message to swim out to his small boat early in the morning. She did, and she was held under long enough to drown her without leaving a mark.”
“Was it necessary?”
“Yes. She was weak. She was a danger, particularly with you around. You frightened her. You sent her a note somehow, and she thought it was from Van Hosen. She didn’t know his writing.”
“Where does this Van Hosen live?”
“Right here. Two floors above you.”
“How did you get in on this?”
“I was in the Shanghai Police Department before the war. I was the only boy taken on locally. The rest were out from England. Boys of good family. I’m a quarter Japanese. I never let them know. My grandfather was in the Japanese army. So was my mother’s father. I was loyal until Van Hosen came here. He had the information about me. I realized that if my superiors ever found out, I’d be through. Why should I have loyalty for a country that would throw me out for an accident of blood? Do I look like a Japanese?”
His voice was proud. He forgot for a moment and glanced at the mirror. He groaned and hung his head. “Cut me down,” he said weakly.
“Not right now, Kaymark. I leave you right here while I go and get your colonel. Rith-Lee, wasn’t it? I’ll bring him along, and you can tell all this to him.”
I looked back at him just as I closed the door. He was too tired to continue bracing his toes against the floor. He slumped and hung with his entire weight on his wrists, his chin hanging against his chest. His blond hair was mussed and rumpled.
British Intelligence was located in a high gray bungalow set back behind a lawn banked with flowers. The creaking taxi took me up the semicircular drive and stopped in front of steep steps. I told the driver to wait for me in the small parking lot adjoining the building.
There is a character in British newspapers called Colonel Blimp. He’s a round man, a big man, with a bold bald head and a gray mustache which is one part grandeur and one part pathos. He wears shooting clothes and stout shorts, with a feather in the side of his gray wool socks. He blusters and belches and wheezes. He’s supposed to typify the “old boys.”
The enlisted man announced me to the colonel as coming on a matter of the utmost importance. He told me to go right in.
The colonel sat behind a massive desk in a room that was high, wide, and rugless. He was Colonel Blimp in person. He wheezed, coughed, belched, and waved me into a chair with a plump hand, tanned by years in the East.
“American, eh? What is it? Speak up!”
“It’s about Lieutenant Peter Kaymark. He—”
“Kaymark’s assigned to this staff. What about him?”
“I wanted to tell you—”
“For heaven’s sake, man. Get to the point!”
I stood up and leaned over his desk. I shouted down into his bright red face, “Shut up and listen for one minute, and I’ll tell you. Stop being so damn official.”
I sank slowly down into my chair again while he mumbled something about bloody rude Americans.
“I’m telling you that Kaymark’s a traitor. He’s part Jap. He’s been taking money from a Dutchman named Van Hosen for three years. He just killed a planter named O’Dell. Come with me and listen to him tell it to you.”