Brokenclaw

by Gardner, John

  Porpoise appeared to be haggling with one of the street girls, but with one eye permanently cocked towards the store doorway; there was little else he could do, unless he brazened it out and came into the store itself.

  Bond continued to look at the Oriental bric-à-brac, appearing to centre his attention on a statuette, a six-inch-high delicate girl in the robes of ancient China. One of the omnipresent assistants was quickly at his side.

  ‘You wish to buy? I make special price for you.’ She had all the grace of a butterfly, but the sales pitch of a rocket launcher.

  ‘You make very special price for me,’ Bond muttered aggressively, slipping one hand into the outer pocket of his jacket.

  ‘How special?’ the girl asked, almost flirtatiously.

  Bond’s lips hardly moved. ‘I want nothing from this store. I also do not want to see anyone hurt. So you’ll take me to the back. To your store rooms . . .’ He saw the girl’s mouth begin to open as though she would scream. ‘No!’ he commanded sharply. ‘I’m not here to harm anyone. Just take me to the back of the store and show me the rear exit.’

  ‘Rear exit . . . ?’ the girl gasped.

  ‘Rear exit, quickly – or someone will get hurt. First it will be you. Understand?’

  She had gone the colour of pewter under her make-up and, biting her lower lip, she nodded.

  ‘Good girl. Now, just smile and show me the way out. A very bad person is outside looking for me.’

  She nodded again and said with a choke that he should follow her. As they walked towards the rear of the building a pair of heavy-set men approached, speaking in rapid Chinese – Cantonese, Bond thought, or one of its multitude of dialects. The girl spat back at them, the gist of what she said being obvious to all. ‘If you don’t want trouble, keep away.’

  They passed through a beaded curtain which led to a long and high store room, and the girl pointed to a door at the far end. ‘You go through there. Out in street.’

  Bond grabbed at her shoulder, pulling her close and sticking the forefinger of his right hand into her side. ‘Take me out,’ he grunted. ‘Quickly. Chop-chop, okay?’

  Her eyes were wide with fear, but she gave a little nod and led him towards the door.

  ‘And nobody follow, okay?’ he grunted again when they reached the exit. ‘No alarms. No calling police. Just go on as normal, yes?’

  ‘Okay,’ she breathed, her hand on the doorknob.

  ‘Open up then and show me it’s safe.’

  She obeyed quickly, her hand trembling. Such a waste, Bond thought. She was probably a nice, generous girl socially. He would not have been averse to spending an evening with her.

  The door led to the street, and he made her look out to ensure there was nobody lurking in the shadows. When it seemed safe, Bond told her again that she should keep her mouth shut. ‘It would be very bad joss for me to have to return and alter that pretty face.’ Considering the lascivious thoughts that were going on in his head, Bond considered that he sounded pretty mean.

  ‘I promise. Not foolish. Do not wish for trouble, particularly as my father is owner of this store.’

  ‘Good girl! Just keep that pair of Chinese cabbages off my back.’

  In spite of the trembling hands and the flicker of fear in her eyes, the girl gave a little giggle. ‘Those cabbages my brothers,’ she said, and the giggle stayed with him as he closed the door behind him.

  There was nobody in the alleyway which led to another dark and narrow passage at the end of which he could see, like a light at the end of a tunnel, the bustle, noise and glare of the main street.

  Hugging the right-hand side of the passageway, Bond moved softly towards the street, pausing at the top, flattening his body into the shadow and giving himself a small view of the front of the store through which he had gone. The girls were still outside, but there was no sign of Porpoise. Instinctively he looked back down the passageway, fearing that the tail had gone through the store after him and was now behind him. But nothing moved or stirred in the darkness.

  As he turned to look again at what he could see of the store front, Porpoise came into sight. It seemed possible that the man had entered the store and discovered his quarry gone to earth, for he stood looking about him, his face showing perplexity, eyes darting all over the place. Finally he gave a deep sigh, shrugged his shoulders, turned and joined the crowd, hurrying back in the direction from whence he had come.

  Bond started after him, for he was now anxious to know two things. Why was he being followed? Who had put this surveillance on him? He spotted Porpoise quite quickly on the other side of the street though the man appeared to be in a hurry and moved through the crowd with long strides, twisting his body this way and that to avoid too much jostling and bumping.

  Remaining on his side, Bond followed, well behind for a couple of blocks, then pushed on faster as he saw Porpoise take a sudden right at an intersection. Perhaps he was heading towards Nob Hill, Bond thought; possibly setting up a stakeout of the Fairmont. If so, he should be easy meat and 007 would have the answers to his questions quite quickly. It was remarkable how easily people talked when you applied enough muscle to certain key points of the anatomy.

  He crossed the road and was around the intersection just in time to see Porpoise diving into another side street, once more to the right.

  Bond had no idea whether Porpoise had spotted him or not, but he was now committed. One way or another there had to be a showdown. He rounded the corner to find himself in a deserted narrow street. He was less than a block away from the noise and glare of the main thoroughfare, but suddenly this was a different world, silent, still and poorly lit. He slowed, walking carefully, keeping away from the wall and its many doorways in which Porpoise could quite easily be hidden.

  Garbage was piled against some of the buildings, the rear exits of fast food joints, restaurants, clubs and stores, while extra light filtered on to the street from the rear windows of these places.

  Still no sign of Porpoise. No sign of anybody, except for one sudden explosion of a girl pushing her customer out of a door and immediately propositioning Bond, who fended her off with the snarl he was beginning to perfect. It was no good being polite to these people of the streets, no good giving them a pleasant ‘Not tonight, dear, thank you.’ They understood four-letter expletives much better – the kind Woody Allen had described as ‘Go forth, be fruitful, and multiply.’

  The street narrowed then turned abruptly widening into a kind of courtyard. There was Porpoise standing and looking about him as though lost. Now, Bond thought, now I can take him and find out what the hell’s going on. He took a step forward out of the shadow, then shrank back against the wall for two figures had appeared ahead of Porpoise, advancing from a wide double doorway above which an old weathered wooden sign hung, scrawled with Chinese characters.

  The two were dressed in dark clothes, running suits most likely. Each wore a visored baseball cap and held baseball bats swinging easily in their hands. Bond automatically reached for his gun before he realised that he was unarmed. He had come on holiday and was quite unprepared for any kind of confrontation that called for more than the use of fists. There was no way he could take on this pair steadily approaching Porpoise, bats at the ready.

  Porpoise threw one quick look over his shoulder, then called out to the men to stop, reaching for his weapon as he did so.

  Bond saw one hand come up with a pistol, the other held some kind of wallet in front of his body as though it was a magic charm to stop evil. But the men kept coming.

  He felt impotent, pushing his back against the wall, hoping the shadows would conceal him.

  Then, as the pair of thugs came nearer, so others appeared silently from a doorway to Bond’s right, moving swiftly with no sound, bearing down on Porpoise’s back.

  Bond wanted to cry out a warning, but his throat felt dry and constricted as he watched the inevitable which seemed to take place in horrific slow motion.

  He saw Porpois
e adopt a firing stance with legs apart and his pistol held in a two-handed grip, arms rigid in front of his body. In his mind, Bond imagined the finger already squeezing on the trigger, but before he could get off a shot, one of the men at his rear came within striking distance, raised his bat and swung with sickening force to the side of Porpoise’s head.

  There was no human sound, only the horrific thud and crack as the bat connected and the target’s head smashed to one side, followed by the clatter as the pistol flew from his hands.

  The first blow was like a signal for all four men to move in, though the initial crack to the head could well have killed. The solid baseball bats rose and fell as Porpoise dropped first to his knees and then to the ground.

  Even when he was down, the quartet of clubs went on rising and falling, a macabre series of drumbeat thuds, thumping and cracking in unison until all that was left was a body with a terrible bloody sponge where the head had once been.

  There was nothing he could do. No way to give an alarm or prevent this brutal overkill. So Bond backed away, still clinging close to the wall. Then he moved fast, avoiding the boxes and garbage as he hurtled back the way he had come.

  He stopped running once he had reached the main street and walked at speed, weaving in and out of the people who still, at this late hour, filled the sidewalks. He felt guilt wash over him for a second and cursed his lack of any weapon or means to save the man. Then, as he began the long, thigh-aching toil back up Nob Hill, he realised that the guilt was really only a reflection of frustration at not having had the opportunity to question Porpoise. Why had be been followed? he asked himself again. Who wanted him under surveillance? Come to that, was the death of Porpoise just one of those unhappy timings – being in the wrong place at the wrong time – or was there some more sinister, premeditated reason?

  The questions were to haunt him all that night as he lay in his safe and luxurious room high in the Fairmont. Bond dropped in and out of sleep, sweating and plagued by nightmares of a severed head being kicked around a schoolyard by a laughing gang of Chinese children.

  At dawn he woke suddenly from one bout of deep sleep. Sitting bolt upright, he captured the image of the girl in the store from his most recent dream. The girl had first giggled and then thrown her head back, cackling, which showed her to have the razor-sharp teeth of a shark.

  He called room service and ordered breakfast – just a lot of coffee and toast – there was little chance here of getting his beloved precisely boiled egg or the De Bry coffee, Tiptree strawberry jam or Cooper’s Vintage Oxford marmalade which made up his breakfast ritual back home.

  Before the room-service trolley arrived, he had time to shower, shave and dress. Then he sat at the window drinking almost scalding coffee and eating quite reasonable wholewheat toast with at least a facsimile of marmalade or jam.

  As he breakfasted, his head began to clear and his thoughts became more positive. Was there any point in reporting what he had seen to the local police? The answer to that was a straight no. He had been summoned to San Francisco by his chief, which certainly meant official business. A report to the police would only snarl him in red tape. It would also, undoubtedly, reveal his RN rank plus his identity as a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service. Whatever M required of him, Bond could bet every penny he owned that his Chief would not be attracted to the idea of his identity becoming public knowledge to local law enforcement agencies. The only course still open to him was a quick, unidentifiable call to the SFPD giving the barest details of the horrific murder he had witnessed.

  He was still thinking of the feasibility of this action when the doorbell chimed. Probably room service wanting to clear away the breakfast debris, but he took the safe action of squinting through the security peephole in the door. The strange fish-eye view showed two well-dressed burly men standing back from the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  ‘FBI. Open up, Captain Bond, or we’ll have to smash the door down.’

  They looked and sounded as though they meant it, and through the peephole, he saw one of the men holding up a wallet with official ID. Even through the lens Bond could see that it looked genuine.

  ‘Come on, Captain Bond. We haven’t got all day.’

  Slowly, Bond slipped the safety chain off the door, moved to one side and tensed his body, ready to fight back if this pair proved not to be on the side of the angels.

  They were FBI, there was no doubt about that. One even had his automatic pistol unholstered. They came into the room in the confident way of police officers who know that right is on their side, not barrelling in, or attempting to put any restraining hold on Bond, but smartly, firm in both manner and speech.

  ‘You are Captain James Bond, Royal Navy?’ the leading one asked, while his partner stood back, the unholstered automatic held close in to his side with the business end steadily pointing towards Bond.

  ‘Yes, my name’s Bond.’

  ‘What are you doing in San Francisco, Captain Bond?’

  ‘I’m on vacation. Why would you want to know?’

  ‘You’re here as a private individual?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The FBI man nodded, his face blank but a deep disbelief embedded in his eyes. ‘There are several people who wish to talk with you, Captain Bond.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘First our own local Bureau Chief . . .’

  ‘He’s very anxious to see you,’ sharp from the other agent.

  ‘About what?’ He was letting them come to him.

  ‘How about murder?’ Again from the younger of the two, the one looking very angry, the one with the pistol.

  ‘I’ve only been here since last night. I really . . .’

  ‘And you went out?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Tell it to the Bureau Chief, Captain Bond. He wants to talk to you about the murder of Agent Patrick Malloney who was found bludgeoned to death near the Embarcadero early this morning.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of Agent Malloney, and I haven’t been near the Embarcadero . . .’

  ‘We think he was dumped there, Captain Bond; and excuse me if I tell you that the late Agent Malloney and yourself have a very close connection.’

  ‘I’ve . . .’ Bond began, but the two agents had started to move in on him.

  ‘Come quietly, Captain Bond,’ one of them said.

  ‘We wouldn’t like to mess up this nice room,’ said the other.

  4

  LORDS AND LORDS DAY

  The Bureau Chief, the senior FBI agent working out of San Francisco, was a stocky, battered-looking man in his mid-forties. He sat in his shirtsleeves, his tie pulled loose, the desk of his cluttered office giving the impression that he was not happy with paperwork. His name was Broderick, and he also did not seem to be happy with James Bond.

  ‘Captain Bond RN,’ he announced to Bond, as though passing on uncertain information. ‘Captain James Bond. Uh?’

  ‘How can I help?’ 007 was not going to open the batting.

  ‘Well,’ Broderick ran stubby fingers through greying unruly hair. ‘Well, we’ve been asked to hand you over to your own people. In fact they asked us to keep an eye on you yesterday.’ He grunted again. ‘Truth to tell, I’m a tad angry with myself. The boys are just angry. We all get that way when one of our own meets an untimely and brutal end. You ever set eyes on this man?’ He tossed a five-by-four matt photograph across the desk, and Bond found himself looking into a pleasant young face staring out of the picture with eyes that seemed full of hope and determination.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I saw this man last night.’

  ‘Uh-hu? Tell me about it.’

  Bond told him, for the photograph was undoubtedly Porpoise, the man he had seen clubbed to death in the Chinatown alley. When he had finished the story, Broderick sighed and nodded. ‘You didn’t think to tell anybody about this?’

  ‘Yes. I did think about it. But it was necessary for me to wait. There’s someone I
felt I had to talk to first.’

  ‘You didn’t even go to the poor guy’s assistance.’ There was more than a hint of disgust in his voice.

  ‘No. It wasn’t in anybody’s interest, Mr Broderick.’

  ‘Particularly your own, eh?’

  ‘One of the rules of military life is self-preservation. There was no point in my trying to help this man. I was unarmed. Better for me to live and fight another day.’

  Broderick nodded again, his face grim, unconvinced by the answer. Then he rose and led Bond over to a detailed map of San Francisco which almost took up an entire wall of his office. ‘Like to try and pinpoint the place where you say you saw the killing?’

  Bond zeroed in on the Chinatown area and quickly found the junction on Stockton Street where he had thrown Porpoise by going into the store. He traced his own movements for the FBI man, his return to the street and his own surveillance on Porpoise. Everything was marked on the map, all the tiny alleys and passages which made up the network around the main arteries of Chinatown. It was easy to pick out the narrow street that led to the cul-de-sac courtyard where the murder had taken place.

  ‘And you just watched him get killed here?’ Broderick did not sound surprised.

  ‘That’s the place.’

  ‘Well, they moved the body and dumped him a long way off.’ He sucked in a breath through his teeth, turning his eyes on to Bond as though he despised him. ‘You do realise that Agent Malloney was killed while looking out for you.’

  Bond had already been well ahead of him. After all it had become obvious, just as the open hostility towards him was obvious. The pair of agents who had brought him down to their Bureau chief had treated him as though he carried the plague or smelled badly. They had frisked him very thoroughly and without gentleness, taken away his passport and other items, wallet, credit cards and the like.

  ‘Well, why wasn’t I told he was looking out for me?’ Bond had now become angry.