Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  “I’m not,” Mathilde said. “If he went to see them I’ll make you a bet.”

  “What bet?”

  “That he’s sitting down to a nice afternoon tea. Complete with lace cloth, silver teapot, china cups, everything rather grand. Luscious sandwiches to eat. Plus Moustique, of course, who’s also luscious — according to my brother.”

  “I agree with him. She really is.”

  “That makes it unanimous,” Mathilde said acidly.

  “You’re pretty, too,” Claude added.

  “Just pretty? Not luscious?”

  “Very pretty,” Claude said. “Extremely pretty.”

  “You’d go that far, would you?”

  “Tilly, I don’t think I’m going any further.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re my best friend’s sister.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I’m well aware of how you and your girlfriends talk — about being fed up with virginity and wanting to change your status.”

  “Were you eavesdropping?”

  “There’s no need. You announce it to all and sundry.”

  “Well, I am old enough, and it is time I changed my status. Everyone else seems to be doing so.”

  “Tilly dear, I don’t think I should be the one to inaugurate you into womanhood. I think we should just remain good friends.”

  “Claude, I think that is the most incredibly boring remark you’ve ever made to me.”

  “Then I’ll remain your incredibly boring friend.”

  “If it was Octavia or Alice de Tregomain, you wouldn’t be talking like this.”

  “Alice is very beautiful, but nine years older than me.”

  “I thought that was supposed to be extremely sexy. Older woman, younger man. She’s been a widow now for four years, and you know what they say about missing it.”

  “I dread to think what they say.”

  “Well then, I won’t shock you. How about Octavia?”

  “A charming girl. How about some coffee?”

  “You’re hopeless. This place is saturated with sex, and you won’t even talk about it.”

  “I told you, I’m going to be your boring friend. Milk and one sugar, thanks.”

  “We’ve had no milk for a week and we’ve run out of sugar.”

  “Black coffee sounds fine. It’s the company that matters.”

  “Gosh, you just said something really nice!”

  “Well, after all, you’re a really nice girl.”

  “Now you’ve ruined it!”

  “Have I?”

  “Of course you have! Who the hell wants to be a nice girl?”

  “Oh,” Claude said, “sorry.”

  “There’s no bread, so I can’t give you sandwiches. You really should’ve gone to luscious Moustique’s place with my brother.”

  Alex had no idea how many hours had passed. His watch had been smashed in the fall. It seemed from the tiny high window it was now dark outside. He heard footsteps, the key turning in the lock, the door opening. A flashlight shone in his face; beyond the glare he could faintly make out two figures. One was the same Kempeitai Sergeant; the other remained indistinct until he spoke.

  “Goddamn interfering cocksucking bastard,” he said, and Alex knew it was Joe the barman.

  A moment later he felt a violent pain, as a boot kicked him in the ribs. His involuntary cry coincided with an angry shout from the sergeant, berating Joe Ishi.

  “Stop that,” he shouted. He carried a baton, and lashed the barman with it. The torchlight made erratic patterns on the walls and ceiling of the cell, as he tried to hold the torch in his left hand while swinging the stick, until Ishi cowed back in a corner.

  “Do that again and you’ll spend the night chained up. You weren’t brought here to attack the prisoner. You’re here to tell me what was said by him. Then we’ll go to the office and write it down. Understand?”

  “Understand,” the barman said, surly and sounding unsure of himself now. If he had hoped for a chance of physical vengeance he was clearly disappointed.

  “Well? We haven’t got all night.”

  So it is night, thought Alex. Someone must be wondering where I am by now. Not that it will help.

  “He came to the hotel, and went straight in to see the manager,” Joe Ishi said. “He told him he had access to a shortwave radio, and the BBC said that the Emperor had been deposed …”

  “That’s a lie,” Alex said.

  “You shut up,” the Sergeant prodded him with the baton, a clear warning that any interruption would be met with a blow. He shone the beam of the flashlight directly into Alex’s eyes, studying his reactions, while he told the barman to continue.

  “He said the politicians had taken control, and wanted to get rid of Hirohito.”

  “What do you mean by that? Assassinate?”

  “That’s what it sounded like. So they could agree to make peace and surrender to the Yanks. He was going to spread the news, so people would know it and be ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To deal with the police. And military. Disarm and imprison them. Send word to the Americans. Find out where their prisoners of war and civilians are interned, and free them. They went on talking for a long time, but I couldn’t hear the rest. I had to get back in the bar before they saw me.”

  The light was still in Alex’s eyes, blinding him. He could make out the Sergeant’s face behind it, staring down at him.

  “So — you heard the evidence?”

  “I heard a pack of lies,” Alex said.

  “Then you didn’t go to the hotel?”

  “Yes, I went to the hotel.”

  “You didn’t see Barbusse-san, the manager?”

  “I saw him.”

  “You didn’t talk about the end of the war?”

  “It was mentioned.”

  “How?”

  “I said the foreign news thought it would be soon.”

  “You listened to the foreign news?”

  “I was told by someone who had.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ve forgotten.”

  “You’ll remember, when we finish with you.” He turned the flashlight away, directing it on the barman. “You come with me,” the Sergeant said to him.

  “Where?”

  “We’ll write down what you said, and you’ll sign it.”

  Alex caught a glimpse of Joe Ishi’s face. He was sweating with fear. There was no chance he would dare change his story now. Or he’d be beaten until he signed the statement they required. The lies would be written down and become evidence.

  “I’m becoming suspicious,” Lucille Daubigny said to her husband, startling him as they sat with in their drawing room after dinner, with coffee and brandy.

  “Of me?” The Head of Chancellery almost dropped his glass. He was certain that no-one knew of his affair with Babette, his 28-year-old secretary, who lived in a house on the other side of the golf course.

  “You? Why on earth would I be suspicious of you? I’m talking about Alex. Him and Odette.”

  “Ah, yes. Pity about that Swiss chappie.”

  “The ‘Swiss chappie’ was a thief. Or so it seems. He’s in disgrace, and he’d be in prison if his father wasn’t rich. So we won’t mention him again.”

  “Shocking business, if it was true.”

  “I said forget about Wilhelm Volkmann. This is about our daughter — and sex. So will you please listen.”

  “Sex? Sex with Alex? Good God, do you really think so?”

  “I’ve thought so for some time. Now I’m beginning to wonder if they actually do it here in this house?”

  “Now steady on, Lucille.”

  “One of the maids heard funny noises from her room.”

  “They wouldn’t dare. Not in this house.”

  “Then where? The woods?”

  “I really couldn’t say. I don’t care for this conversation. If you have these kind of suspicions, then ask he
r? Where is she?”

  “Out. Who knows where? Alex’s sister, Mathilde came to see her, and they talked together, then rode off half an hour ago.”

  “Well, there can’t be much harm in that.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I thought this was the subject?”

  “I’m not talking of bike-riding with his sister. I’m talking of her and Alex up to no good. If not in the house, then somewhere else.”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Well I thought you might’ve seen them somewhere on the golf course?”

  “No, no,” he smiled. “Hardly likely, my dearest. Always far too busy, concentrating on the game.”

  “I don’t mean when you’re playing golf,” his wife snapped bitingly. “I meant the times when you’re straddling Babette in her cottage near the fourth tee. Humping away on your plump little secretary. Do you never have time to look out the window, in case our daughter is doing the same thing in the bushes?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Daubigny was open-mouthed. “You know about Babette?”

  His wife gazed at him. She shook her head, despairingly.

  “Who doesn’t, you silly old fart,” she said.

  He tried to sleep, but the floor was hard, the concrete cell like an ice box, and he was hungry. Just when he thought he could stand it no longer, he heard the tread of footsteps, and sat up with a feeling of hope. One of the uniformed Kempeitai who had arrested him opened the cell door, and threw in a blanket. The other stood guardian behind him in the stone passageway, holding a lantern and an unsheathed sword. Alex wondered why they felt it necessary to take such precautions, since he was still handcuffed.

  “What about food?” he asked.

  “No food.”

  “My family. Have they been told where I am?”

  “No family comes here.”

  “It’s my right to have them visit me.”

  Both men laughed.

  “No rights,” the man with the sword and the lantern said.

  “No visits,” said the other. “Not for you. Not for an enemy of the State.”

  The door slammed shut, leaving him in the dark.

  Mathilde and Odette saw the bright lights in the house as they wheeled their bikes up the lane. They started to hurry, although they were both very tired, having spent several hours trying all the likely places Alex could be. After calling first on both the doctors, then the village hospital, they finally went the police station.

  The constable on duty had been polite, declaring there were no reports of any accidents and no arrests. It had all been very peaceful. No drunks, no sign of trouble anywhere. When Odette asked whether they could speak to one of the Kempeitai officers, he regretted that this was impossible.

  Why, she asked?

  Because, she was told, the police were not a part of the same organisation. The Kempeitai was military security, who had their own rules and codes of behaviour. They answered only to the Chiefs of Intelligence and the department of National Defence. He, the constable, said the local police had nothing to do with them, and hoped to keep it that way. They had their own special building in town, but even if the young ladies should happen to know its whereabouts, it would be most unwise for them to call there at this time of night. He advised them to go home and rest, and felt sure their friend was somewhere safe. No doubt out enjoying himself with other friends. After all, Westerners were well known for having parties, so perhaps that’s where he was. But if he was still missing in the morning, they should come back and ask to see the inspector in charge.

  “I don’t think we can do anything else,” Mathilde said helplessly, when they were outside the police station.

  “I’ll ride home with you, in case he’s turned up there,” Odette said. “That’s if you don’t mind?”

  Mathilde said she didn’t mind at all, and would be glad of company. She had begun to change her mind about Odette, warming to her during their long round of calls, noting her growing concern and her determination to explore every possibility. So they had ridden most of the way back to the house, walked their bikes the last steep 100 metres, which was when they saw the house with all its lights on in defiance of the blackout regulations. And for a hopeful moment thought it meant Alex had returned. But instead her mother was alone in the house.

  “Ma, what on earth are you doing?”

  “You can see what I’m doing. Breaking the law, telling everyone my son is missing and something’s wrong.”

  They could both see she was irrational with anxiety.

  “It won’t help him or us if you’re arrested,” Odette said, assisting Mathilde to draw the blackout curtains.

  “Any news from Claude?” Mathilde asked.

  “How can there be news from Claude? He hasn’t been back here. I expect he’s gone home to bed, or else canoodling with some girlfriend. It’s all everyone does here; lots of funny business and rolling in the hay, and too much jig jig.”

  “Ma!”

  “Mrs Faure, you should rest,’ Odette said. “Tilly and I will call you if he comes home.”

  Mathilde put an arm around her mother. “Come on, Ma. As the friendly policeman said, maybe he’s gone to a party with friends, enjoying himself and doesn’t even know we’re worried about him.”

  “I don’t believe that any more than you do, but if it was true I’d kill him,” she said. “Or else,” she slid a glance at Odette, “he’s having a canoodle of his own with some new girlfriend. Did anybody happen to think about that?”

  “I thought about it,” Odette said, keeping her poise, “and anything is possible. In which case he’ll turn up eventually. So why don’t we stop worrying, and you get some sleep?”

  When Mathilde came back a few minutes later, she found a bottle of Suntory whisky and poured them each a drink.

  “God, she’s really upset. I’m sorry about what she said.”

  “It’s all right, Tilly. I even wish that was the answer, but it isn’t. And I’ll tell you why. We were going to meet hours ago and sneak upstairs to my room. Spend the whole night together, for the first time.”

  “He wouldn’t have missed that, would he,” Mathilde said.

  “Damn right he wouldn’t. Which is why I’m scared.”

  Daylight came, but nothing else happened for several hours. Alex felt revolted by the smell of the slop bucket, but had to use it. Finally a guard came for him and he was marched through the building and into an office, told to stand at attention in front of a desk and to wait.

  Wait for what, he asked. The guard did not bother to reply. He sprawled in a chair, loading and reloading his revolver like a child playing with a toy.

  Alex felt weak, and the deliberate wait went on so long he began to feel dizzy and thought he might faint. He had been given no food or water since his arrest, and as far as he could estimate that must be almost 20 hours ago. Then, at last there were sounds of voices approaching. The guard put his gun in its holster and jumped smartly to attention as the same Sergeant entered, accompanied by a Kempeitai officer in uniform. He carried with him a formal-looking document, to which was attached several pages of Japanese writing.

  “You will sign this,” he said.

  “What is it,” Alex asked.

  “A confession.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong, so how can I confess?”

  “We have witnesses and evidence. Just sign your name at the bottom of each page.”

  “I can’t read Japanese, so I can’t sign it.”

  “Read it to him,” the officer directed.

  The Sergeant proceeded to read the transcript, which was a more extreme version of what Joe Ishi had stated. During the reading his voice seemed fainter and coming from a great distance as Alex’s dizziness returned. The officer saw him swaying.

  “Stand straight,” he snapped.

  “I’m sick,” Alex said. “I’ve had no food or drink since yesterday. No treatment for my head or face. And last night I was kicked in the ribs
by the man who’s told these lies.”

  “Lies have certainly been told in this case,” the officer said, “vicious lies against the Emperor. And threats to his safety. Charges of a most serious nature, for which you will be called to account.”

  The guard was instructed to bring a chair. Alex sat while the remainder of the confession was read. At the end of it he was given a pen and told to sign the document.

  “No,” he said.

  “Sign and you’ll get food,” the officer told him.

  “I won’t sign what isn’t true.”

  “You will eventually,” he was told. The officer smiled, then slapped him viciously across the face. It was a blow so hard it knocked him off the chair, and as he had hit the side of Alex’s face that had been injured in the fall from his bike, it was raw and agonisingly painful. He tasted a rush of bile and tried not to vomit. It would only bring further punishment. On a signal from his assailant, he was dragged to his feet by the guard.

  “Take him back to his cell. No food at all. You can give him a half cup of water. He’s to be kept handcuffed. In isolation. Regarded as dangerous.”

  The guard took him to the door.

  “You’ll confess tomorrow,” the officer said. “Or else we might have to get serious.”

  It was early that afternoon before the bike was finally found. Claude was riding back from yet another fruitless search, discouraged and convinced there could only be one answer. For whatever reason Alex was certainly under arrest, but nobody was going to admit it, which left them helpless. The Kempeitai was a body vested with unrestrained powers, who would never allow an interview with anyone in custody, nor give a reason for their actions. No matter how close the end of the war might be, their code of coercion would not be moderated; if Alex was in their hands then Claude was fearful for his friend’s safety.

  It was while gloomily reflecting on this that he saw the gleam of reflected sunshine on a metallic object ahead. As he drew closer he realised there were a number of slithers of metal lying in the road, and dismounting he could see they were fractured spokes from a wheel. He began to search and within minutes had found Alex’s broken bicycle where it had been thrown deep into the roadside bushes.

  The inspector in charge of the local police force was a cautious man. He had served in this pleasant area for many years, first as a senior constable, then a sergeant and finally in command of the district as inspector. He knew most of the residents and was aware of those who had authority, and those who didn’t. He could dismiss Claude Briand, and these anxious young women, the sister and the girlfriend, as well as Madame Faure, but in view of the war situation he was not at all sure about the French Ambassador.