Still holding Agata in his arms, Slade emerged from the wicker chair and headed for the further room, where a whirring electric fan was spraying a cool breeze across an acre of white counterpane.
“What are you afraid of?” Slade retorted, striding towards the threshold.
“Chow Kit,” she tremulously whispered. “He’s been making a play for me ever since I came here. I just about convinced him that I do nothing but dance—but if he suspects—oh, don’t you see, I won’t be able to stall him off any longer—I’ll have to leave here—he’ll kill me—and you—”
That rang true; which made Agata all the more worth a play. But as Slade barged across the threshold with his clinging, quivering armful, the munitions situation in Jolo became quite unimportant.
“Don’t…you’ll get my dress all rumpled up…”
Well, that might arouse Chow Kit’s suspicions. Slade’s embrace relaxed.
And then Agata let out a yeep that shook the nipa thatch. The sudden flurry of arms and legs caught Slade off balance and the treacherous footing of bamboo slats did the rest. He clutched at empty air and crashed to the floor. As he gained his knees, he saw the cause of Agata’s sudden alarm: not Chow Kit but a bronzed American with shoulders as broad as a box car and a face like Gibraltar on a stormy night.
One glimpse of Agata’s dismayed recognition and the newcomer’s wrathful amazement told Slade that Granite Face was very much at home in that shack. Nor was there any time to spring the one about waiting for a street car; not after the ankle-to-hip display of ivory tinted flesh that had greeted him as he reached the threshold.
Granite Face crossed the room like a carabao charging through a cane brake. Slade escaped utter demolition by flinging himself clear of a devastating fist that would have lifted him through the roof.
Sock!—Slade’s return bombardment. The explosion caught Granite Face like a pile driver, but it was like spraying a roman candle against the side of a battleship. They closed in as Agata, getting her legs, the counterpane, her streaming hair and other odds and ends untangled, gained the floor on the far side of her bed.
It looked as though she was screaming, but Slade couldn’t hear. A sizzling hook had turned his head into something that sounded like a dozen cathedral bells shaken up in a basket; and the stranger’s wrathful words were like thunder out beyond Corregidor, only louder and dirtier. Slade, lighter, was quicker on his feet; but his efforts were as useful as assault and battery against a locomotive.
The nipa shack now resembled the center of a China Sea typhoon, a roaring confusion with sound effects by Agata and the splintering furniture. They clashed in a savage clinch that ended in a power dive that carried them both under the table. They emerged, whirling. Then Slade broke clear, bounded back, side stepped, and gained enough space to time the bailarina’s jealous lover.
Smack! Granite Face took it, but it knocked him boarey-eyed and loop-legged. Slade followed through, fists hammering. Another concussion. For an instant the iron man looked silly. Slade’s guard lowered. And that was a mistake. The refreshing pause was just long enough to let the enemy decide that swapping punches was an error. He recovered and flashed from a crouch. It was like feeding time at the zoo, with Slade at the receiving end.
The world became a blurr of bamboo slats, overturned furniture, nipa thatched ceiling, and Agata’s bare legs viewed from the oddest angles…and then the room began blackening; but Slade’s muscles still worked, though with a blind, instinctive stubbornness. He relaxed, absorbed a crushing punch, then got his hold. It was good. Granite Face catapulted half way across the room. Slade followed through—but so did Agata.
The three met in one spot Something sizzled past Slade’s ear as he plunged forward to finish Granite Face. It smashed down on his shoulder, numbing him to his ankles. Agata, swinging the standard of a floor lamp, had missed her aim—and her boyfriend got the works.
The bailarina knelt for a moment beside her victim in error, then dashed into the other room to get water. Slade retrieved a cigarette case and wallet, automatically thrust them into his pocket.
Then he saw the fun was just beginning.
Half a dozen brown men came swarming up the veranda stairs and into the living room. Tagalog bouncers, drawn from the dance hall by the riot. At their heels was Chow Kit, narrowed eyes flashing from Slade’s battered face and torn tropicals to Agata’s streaming hair and rumpled gown. He chuckled silkily as she started, yeeped, and dropped the tumbler she was filling. The shock troops charged, clubs and bolos flailing.
Slade snatched a chair and slashed out at the advance guard, but the short, broad blades and pounding staves were too much for one man so near the end of his strength. He was forced back, raked and battered. They were now flanking him right and left. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Agata’s hand—but he had no time to wonder what her contribution would be this time.
It looked like payday on Paranaque Road—
And then the lights flickered out. Slade, milling the splintered remains of the chair, ploughed through the enemy’s line. A long bound carried him to the veranda; and another flung him clear of the pack. He landed in a heap at the foot of the compound palisade, stumbled over a stray pig, and headed east. Native legs were not long enough to break his lead. As he reached the highway that led toward the Walled City, a grin crinkled his battered face.
For some reason, Agata had given him a break.
Nearing Cuartel d’Espana, he hailed a Red Diamond. As he boarded the cab, he fumbled for his wallet. He drew two from his pocket. For a moment he was perplexed; then he understood.
The extra item was Granite Face’s roll.
Slade went through the contents. The wallet belonged to Captain Rupert Dwyer, Post Quartermaster at Fort McKinley. He had charge of enough ammunition to equip a datu’s army. Lord knows how many thousand rounds were stored at McKinley for the coming target season.
It proved nothing, but it was a strong hint.
And one card among the others that filled a compartment of that wallet upholstered with five hundred peso notes seconded the growing conviction that Captain Dwyer was not entirely what a well-regulated officer should be. “Nomura-ro” was engraved across the center of the card. Beneath it was a street address. At one end was a column of Japanese, and in a corner were the words, “Shigashi San—O Shoku Kabu.”
Nomura-ro was the name of the last word in aristocratic brothels; and Shigashi San was the lady who had given the captain that card. The words that followed her name indicated that she was the reigning beauty of the house.
Such luxury might not be beyond the means of a captain, but Slade’s suspicions became more pointed as he recollected that the Nomura-ro belonged to Chow Kit; that it catered to the wealthiest sports of Manila; and that a patron who had established himself followed the oriental custom of running a charge account.
What an officer does with his spare time is his own business; but once his taste for Asiatic diversions became noised about in the somewhat strait-laced military circles, it would be somewhat too bad. Evidence of indebtedness to Chow Kit would be more than enough to finish his career.
Chow Kit could thus demand government munitions as the price of discretion.
All this flashed through Slade’s mind as he stepped into his room and set to work obliterating the marks of battle.
An hour later he was presentable. And Shigashi San’s card, being unmarked by any handwriting, would get him an audience with the lady without arousing suspicion as to his right to be received. She wouldn’t scratch or scream, and she’d know plenty about Captain Dwyer.
A hired car took him toward the lights of Sampoloc.
Nomura-ro was a rambling, two-story bungalow a block from the blazing lights of the quarter where the proletariat played with ladies whose greetings depended on their race. Crude place
s for crude people; whereas an evening in Nomura-ro was like being presented at the Court of Saint James, except a lot more entertaining.
Slade presented his card to the gray-haired, leather-faced obasan who managed the palace.
“Irrasshai,” she greeted, “You are very welcome.”
The obasan consulted a register, nodded, pressed a bell button; and oriental courtesy somewhat lightened the ensuing shock as Slade’s expense account for the evening was jacked up to astronomical figures.
No mere captain playing the Nomura-ro could be on the level!
A tiny, black-eyed kamuro—one of the several maids who attend a high class Japanese oiran to serve a seven year apprenticeship in the intricate art of becoming a courtesan—conducted Slade down a hallway and into a reception room.
Shigashi San, her slender body ablaze with brocaded silks gathered about her waist with an eighteen inch sash that one flip of her fingers and Lord knows how many silver pesos would unwind, sat in the sacred seclusion of her zashiki to receive her guest. Her glistening black hair, towering pagoda-high, was rayed with long fade pins and garnished with jewel-frosted tortoise shell combs.
Her gesture and bow and voice were the artistry of an ancient tradition; yet her smile was alluring, and her dark, oblique eyes animated the ivory and carmine painted mask of her face.
Shigashi San, famed from Singapore to Tokyo—and Slade saw how genius escaped the bonds of formal ritual and made that feminine toy a vibrant fascination, an infinite promise lurking behind screens of studied artificiality.
One of the kamuros knelt at Slade’s feet to remove his shoes. Another prepared to serve tea. A third set a low table with trays and platters of Japanese hors d’oeuvres; the “august repast” itemized in the two yard long bill.
Three geishas entered the reception room to twang their three stringed samisens, dance and entertain Slade with Japanese ballads. And he had to like it. He tossed the chief geisha a fifty-peso note. She scooped up the extravagant tip, clicked her fan shut, and utterly ignoring Slade, turned to Shigashi San to say, “Oiran maido arigato!”—“Thank you, Madam, for your constant favors!”
Yoshiwara courtesy: entertainers don’t thank the patron of the house for his liberality; they thank the courtesan whose fascinations have dazzled him. And Slade, though he did not know it, was to see an ironic play on those words before the evening was over!
Twice at long intervals during the saki sipping, Shigashi San retired to one of the further rooms of her suite, each time returning in lighter, more informal robes. And at last when the three bright eyed kamuros finally left their mistress, Slade, head buzzing from rice wine, followed her into an inner room whose ceiling was painted with an enormous phoenix.
A single subdued light cast the shadow of a six-fold screen across a foot-deep pile of silken quilts. At the head of which was a curious little cylinder of wood supported on carved legs: Shigashi San’s pillow, which supporting the nape of her neck, preserved her mountainous coiffure.
Slade, thinking of Agata’s passion-pulsing breasts and disheveled hair, suppressed an urge to dive for the door; but only for an instant: Shigashi San’s artificiality was contradicted by the invitation of her eyes, the tantalizing, slow deftness of fingers plucking the bow of the obi that gathered the crepe gown about her waist.
Skill there, and the artistry of a thousand year old tradition. Figured silk caressed and shadowed and hinted unexplored delights in old ivory. One brusque hand could part the veil—but Slade, kneeling beside that gracious creature half sunk in the yielding quilts, hypnotized by studied ritual, could not make that impatient gesture.
His heart began rising into his throat, eagerness flamed in his blood; and as his eyes became accustomed to the scented dimness of the alcove, the gauzy gown seemed almost to melt before his hungry gaze.
Bought. Paid for. But through sheer artistry become infinitely more alluring than any woman won in a flare of passion. His brain was a surge of fire before that silken cincture finally yielded, and Shigashi San’s mellow ivory body smiled from ambush…
Miraculously, it seemed, the lights dimmed to a fantastic twilight as her arms closed about him. Artistry that needed no mockery of ardor to make it perfect. And for a long time Slade was not worried about Datu Ali and the Christian dogs he was slaying with government ammunition, down in far off Jolo…
Shigashi San finally rang for saki. Time now for matching wits with that exotic toy imported from Japan; but a buzzer whirred, and one of the little kamuros entered.
A murmur of Japanese that Slade could not understand; and then Shigashi San apologized, in sweet voiced, stilted English, “August friend, the unexpectedness of your visit forbids me the pleasure of your company for the remainder of the night.”
Heavy feet invaded the outer zashiki. Some guest with a previous engagement was entitled to her time. Slade would be ushered out a side door so that new arrival and departing playmate would not meet. He had to check the rush act, or the evening was wasted.
But Slade’s knowledge of Yoshiwara traditions saved the night. He had but to follow the ancient precedent of many an infatuated Japanese samurai.
“I am going to my lonely plantation in Mindanao in the morning. Go with me. I will buy your contract and debts to the house.”
As he spoke, he flashed a roll that fortunately was fronted with a five hundred-peso note. He replaced it before she could see that it was far from enough to withdraw a de luxe courtesan from her river of debt.
And if Slade met her terms, she would be well established for life. For a long moment she regarded him. Slade returned her gaze, and her loveliness put a convincing glow in his eyes.
Finally she beckoned to the little kamuro; but before she could tell her to cancel the newcomer’s engagement, Slade interposed.
“Is there no naki leaf in your mirror?” The subtle question was to remind her that Hakone Gongen, the Japanese god of pledges between men and women, forbade her breaking her promise to the waiting guest. More than that, it told her that he knew the old traditions.
She smiled and murmured a few words to the kamuro, who conducted Slade to a further room of the suite. He could now wait for Shigashi San’s visitor to leave. He could postpone the trip to Mindanao; and with the promised liberation ever dangled before her eyes, she would try to spur him to haste by hinting at another who wanted to buy her contract.
She might mention Captain Dwyer…
Slade listened to the murmur of voices. He opened his penknife and set to work on the partition that separated him from Shigashi San’s bedroom.…
The oiran’s guest wore quartermaster collar ornaments; but he was not Captain Dwyer. Sergeant’s chevrons were on his sleeves.
Yet that twilight shrouded meeting was more than it seemed. One of the sergeant’s arms slipped clear of Shigashi San’s embrace. He was reaching toward a low cabinet. Toward a small brazen Buddha that adorned its top.
The move was stealthy, not swift. The sergeant was placing a second image on the cabinet. Then he palmed its identical duplicate, the one that had originally been there.
The exchange could mean but one thing: the sergeant had either received or delivered a message or token of identification. All in one move which Shigashi San could scarcely have perceived.
Having seen as much as he had, Slade could not afford the risk of missing anything that took place in that room. This was more than the meeting of a soldier and an oiran; it must be the subtle hand of Chow Kit. But Slade gritted his teeth as he watched.…
Clear thinking became difficult…it all hinged on whether the Sergeant had delivered or received a message. If the former, wait and see who came to Shigashi San’s room to get it; if the latter, follow the quartermaster man. But which?
An insurrection in Jolo depended on the right guess.
Finally the ser
geant prepared to leave. Such haste confirmed Slade’s growing certainty. Shigashi San accompanied him to the zashiki. That gave Slade his chance. He tiptoed into her bedroom, snatched the brazen Buddha, and turned to the exit. Ducking into an alley, he paused to scrutinize the tiny image by the glow of a distant streetlight.
A fine line indicated that it could be removed from its pedestal; but there was no time to seek the combination. He pocketed the effigy, rounded the corner, lurking in the shadows, where he could command a view of all approaches to the Nomura-ro.
Presently the sergeant emerged. Neither car nor caromata awaited him. He had trusted no one with his destination.
Slade followed. Ahead of him was a tienda from whose window a light gleamed. He reached for a handful of silver, stepped into the store and in a moment emerged with a pair of coarse socks and a cake of soap. Then, stretching long, legs, he narrowed the gap between him and his quarry.
Another block. The sergeant entered a saloon. Slade caught a glimpse of him as he stepped to a telephone booth. Aside from a bartender, and a few Chinese and Filippino loafers the place was deserted. Slade ordered a beer and edged toward the booth.
“Two-one six-nine six.”
He recognized the number: Red Diamond Cab. Slade drained his beer, and stepped to the street. He slipped one sock into the other, then thrust the cake of soap into the foot of the inner one. Silent, effective, and harmless.
A moment later, the sergeant ploughed through the swinging doors. His tropic tanned face was tense, and his eyes instinctively flashed right and left as he cleared the threshold. Slade swooped from cover; but some sixth sense warned his victim. He jerked his head. The soap cake bludgeon missed by a hair, instead of laying him out for a long count; and for the second time that evening, Slade had his hands full.
Before he could drop his now useless weapon, the Manila night blazed into a carnival glow. Groggy and with legs limp as macaroni, Slade tried to block the sergeant’s rush, but it was like boxing with a kangaroo. One more charge—
The E. Hoffmann Price Spice Adventure MEGAPACK ™ Page 15