“Was that all?” asked Maurice.
“So far. The cops are being really cagey about giving out information to the media. I guess they don’t want to make the same mistake they made with the Hillside Strangler, catching people every two or three days and then having to let them go again.”
“If they blew this guy’s head off and it’s the wrong guy, at least they won’t have the problem of letting him go again,” said Olive.
Mack said, “Despite her sensitive apologies to Sergeant What’s-his-name just now, Olive is still very deeply into citizen’s rights vis-a-vis the police and the civil authorities. Olive believes that arrest and trial should be a socio-biological process activated by mutual concern and respect for the general well-being of the human village, rather like eaeting health foods and wearing shoes that are higher at the front than they are at the back.”
“We should absorb crime, rather than attempt to excise it from our systems,” added Olive.
“Law and order is a digestive process, not a surgical one.”
“Is this lady for real?” Maurice asked Mack. “Digestive? You mean the cops are supposed to eat you, instead of bust you?”
“El Krusho is not known for his sociological perception,” Mack said to Olive.
They turned on the radio and tuned it to KABC. There were a few minutes of chatter about sophisticated city dwellers moving out to Santa Ynez to take up farming, then a news bulletin.
“Listen to this,” said Olive, turning up the volume.
“Police at Encino have released more details this morning of the grisly murder at Rancho Encino hospital of Mrs. Mary Thorson, wife of Admiral Knut Thorson. Also the violent slaying of a hospital nurse and two armed security guards.
Apparently, the crimes were committed by a multiracial hit team, including at least three Japanese and a Caucasian. The bodies of two of the Japanese were found in the hospital shrubbery after the attack; one obviously slain by a security guard’s bullet, the other the apparent victim of his Caucasian colleague. The principle assailant, who was shot and killed by police after his homicidal attack on Mrs. Thorson and on Nurse Ruth Abramski, was also said to be Japanese.
“Admiral Thorson, who survived the attack, has already spoken with the police, although no details have yet been released.
“Chief of Detectives Harry Calsbeek said that the crime was similar in most respects to the recent homicide of television star Sherry Cantor, who played the part of Lind-say in Our Family Jones. He is cooperating closely with Hollywood detectives in an attempt to discover why such an attack should have been launched against this luxury private hospital, and by whom. So far, said Calbeek, the butchery remains a mystery.”
Mack switched the radio off. “We were right. Did you hear that? We were right from the very beginning.”
“Who was right?” asked Maurice.
“Me! 7 was right! And Jerry Sennett, the guy who lives in the house next door to Sherry’s place, he was right too. He said he was sure that the killer was Japanese, something to do with Japan.
You remember that face they showed on television? Well, maybe you didn’t see it. But Jerry said it was an ancient Japanese No mask. And when I pointed out that it was easy to mistake his house number for Sherry’s, he agreed that the killer could have been after him. And the clincher was that he fought against the Japanese during World War Two, something to do with Naval Intelligence, and as far as I can work out, he was personally responsible for some really important Japanese defeat.” Maurice pulled a face. “This is all beginning to sound extremely complicated. I think I need a beer first.”
“It’s not complicated at all,” said Mack. “I believe that the Japs are getting their revenge on us, that’s what. Anybody who did anything really heroic or important during World War Two–the Japs are wiping them out with a hit squad. Don’t you think that’s amazing?”
“I also think it’s unbelievable,” said Maurice. “Is it very much further? My goddamn neck’s aching in the back of this mobile peanut.”
They drew up outside Mack’s apartment on Franklin Avenue. It was beginning to grow warm.
Mack helped El Krusho out of the car and then led the way along the path. Olive said, “It looks like you’ve got yourself a visitor. Mack.”
In the shadow of the porch, unshaven, smoking a cigarette, stood Jerry Sennett, with the look of a man who has had a hard and unsuccessful night.
“Did you hear the news?” Mack asked him as he came up to the door. “Did you hear what happened at Rancho Encino?”
Jerry nodded. “I heard. And that’s presumably why they released your friend here?”
“That’s right. El Krusho is loose. Maurice, this is Jerry Sennett. Jerry, this is the strongest man south of Visalia.”
“Visalia?” asked Jerry, shaking El Krusho’s hefty hand.
“We had an interesting evening in Visalia once,” explained Mack. “It was something to do with three women and four bottles of Wild Turkey. The rest I forgot.”
Olive looked at Jerry and pulled an expression which very clearly meant, “Who are they trying to kid?” Jerry smiled back at her, impressed by her wild Rastafarian beauty, and by the tightness of her canary-yellow pants. But there was a frightened ache deep down inside him which wouldn’t go away, an ache that made pleasantries impossible.
He said, as steadily as he could manage, “I’m sorry I came around so early. I don’t want to break up any parties or anything. But I think I’ve found out who’s behind all these killings, and why they’re committing them.”
“You have?” asked Mack. “Well, who is it? Have you told the cops?”
Jerry shook his head. “I can’t tell the cops. I’m not supposed to tell anyone at all, and I’m only telling you because I can trust you to keep quiet. They’ve kidnapped my son, David. They’re holding him hostage somewhere, so that I’ll give myself up to them. They want me, because of what I know. That was why they tried to kill me in the first place. And that’s why they tried to kill Admiral Thor-son out at Rancho Encino. Admiral Thorson directed the same operation during the war that I was involved in, Operation Appomattox.
Olive said, “You’d better come inside. This isn’t any kind of a problem to be talking about on the porch.”
Jerry was exhausted. After he had spoken to Nancy Shir-anuka, he had waited for hours for Gerard Crowley to come around to her apartment. But by four o’clock in the morning, Gerard still hadn’t showed, and Nancy, bringing Jerry tea and anago mushi she had prepared for him herself had told him softly that it was useless for him to wait any longer. It was the first time that Jerry had eaten steamed egg custard and eel in the small hours of the morning; and the way his stomach felt now, he hoped it would be the last. But he had been afraid to refuse Nancy’s hospitality. If he was ever going to have to cultivate Nancy and strengthen her confidence in him.
Nancy was as terrified of the Tengus as he was; what she urgently needed was a friend she could trust.
Olive made coffee while Jerry sat on Mack’s broken-down sofa and explained what had happened. Mack and Maurice listened intently, and then sat back and sipped their hot coffee and tried to look as if they were thinking extraordinarily hard about some way of rescuing David and destroying the Tengus.
“You really believe in these things, these Tengus?” asked Mack. “President Truman believed in them; enough to drop the first atomic bomb the world had ever seen.”
Maurice said, “Let’s, face it, Mack, I’m strong. But the way those murder victims were torn to pieces, I couldn’t do that. That takes somebody superhuman. I couldn’t rip your leg off with my bare hands. I couldn’t even start. I might feel like it but I actually couldn’t do it.”
‘‘Maurice, those are very comforting words,’’ said Mack. “But what do we do now? What can we do? Should we do anything at all? I really think that Jerry should go see Sergeant Skrolnik. I mean it. He’s a cop, but he’s all there, and and he’s only as mean as he needs to be.”
; “Supposing the kidnappers found out I went to the police?” asked Jerry. “If they can tear a heavily guarded hospital apart, for the sake of trying to kill one poor old retired naval officer in a coma, what the hell do you think they’d do to David? A young, live, alert witness to everything they’ve been doing?”
“What if you do give yourself up to them?” asked Olive. “What guarantee do you have that they won’t kill you both?”
Jerry put down his coffee mug and rubbed his eyes. “No guarantee at all. I don’t know whether I’m dealing with criminals or mystics or madmen. Nancy Shiranuka may be double-dealing me, although I can’t for the life of me guess why, or what she could conceivably get out of it. I just don’t know what to do. It might have been easier to understand if I’d been able to talk to Gerard Crowley.”
“Why not talk to him now?” Maurice suggested. “If he’s involved in any kind of business, he’s probably in the phone book.”
Olive clapped her hands. “You see, he’s not all muscle. Good thinking, El Krusho!”
Mack picked up his tattered telephone book and thumbed through it. “Here you are,” he said at last. “Gerard F. Crowley, Crowley Tobacco Imports, Inc. 2029 Century Park East.” Jerry said, “You really think it’s worth a shot?”
“Why not?” said Mack. “You don’t have anything to lose. You might get your son back. Look, I’ll dial it for you.”
It was just nine o’clock, still early for a Los Angeles businessman to be at his desk, but Mack got through to Francesca right away, and Francesca said guardedly, “Yes, Mr. Crowley’s here, who is this?”
“Tell him it’s Mr. Sennett. Mr. Sennett of 11 Orchid Place.”
There was a silence, then Francesca said, “Hold on for just a moment, please,” and switched Mack to a holding tape of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” Jerry looked quizzical, but Mack held his hand over the receiver and said, “I’m holding.”
At last, a tired voice said, “Mr. Sennett?” and Mack passed the phone across to Jerry.
“Mr. Crowley?” said Jerry testily. “I was waiting at Nancy Skiranuka’s apartment for you last night. Apparently you were supposed to show up there, but you didn’t.”
“Well, I was busy,” replied Gerard, obviously cautious. “I’m sorry if you had a wasted evening.”
“Not evening. Night. I waited all goddamned night. I’m still waiting, to hear what you’ve done with my son.”
“Mr. Sennett,” said Gerard, “we’ve got ourselves a critical difficulty here.”
“You bet your ass we’ve got ourselves a critical difficulty,” snapped Jerry. “We’ve got more than that. We’ve got kidnapping, extortion, blackmail, and murder. That’s what we’ve got. And for some reason this is all connected with what I did in the war, in Japan. I want to know what, and why, and what the hell I’m supposed to do to get my son back safely.”
“Mr. Sennett, I don’t really want to talk about this on the telephone,” said Gerard. “Apart from the fact that you might be tape-recording this conversation, other people could well be listening in.”
“What other people?”
“Believe me, people you wouldn’t care to meet.”
Jerry said, “All right. Let’s meet. Do you know Zucky’s, Fifth and Wilshire?”
“I’ve heard of it. I can find it.”
“Meet me there at twelve, for lunch. I’ll be sitting in the far corner. I’ll leave my name at the counter.”
Gerard hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Okay, I’ll be there,” and put down the phone.
“What did he sound like?” asked Olive. “Suspicious?”
“A little,” said Jerry thoughtfully. “But he was much more cooperative than I would have expected. If you ask me, what happened last night at Rancho Encino was a foul-up. They were, trying to murder Admiral Thorson, right? And they failed. He’s still alive. Better than that, he’s out of his coma. What’s more, the police have killed the Tengu and recovered the bodies of two Japanese, which means that they could now have a pretty straightforward lead to whoever it is who may be organizing this thing–whatever “this thing” may be. Nancy Shiranuka is convinced that her employers have been trying to do a whole lot more than create a corps of expensive killer bodyguards. Mack here may have come up with a good idea when he suggested that some cranky Japanese outfit is trying to take revenge on American war heroes. Maybe he’s right. But, whatever–something’s.happening, something dangerous and volatile and much bigger than it looks. In fact, I think it’s so dangerous that Gerard Crowley actually wants to talk to me about it.
All I can do is wait and see.”
“If you’re meeting him at Zucky’s, try the blintzes,” said Maurice.
CHAPTER FIVE
The van drew up by the side of the hot and dusty highway, its right rear tire flapping with a sudden blowout. The young Japanese switched off the engine and sat back in his vinyl seat, blowing out his cheeks in exhaustion. Commander Ouvarov, sitting beside him with his corncob pipe gritted between his teeth and his .45-caliber Colt automatic resting loosely on his lap, turned his head and stared at him with an exaggerated lack of sympathy. “Well?” he said.
“There’s a spare in the back.” Yoshino said, “I’m very tired, Commander. Can’t we rest now?
Driving for eight hours.”
“You were hired as a driver, what do you expect?” Yoshino wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Please, Commander.”
Commander Ouvarov checked his watch. They hadn’t made bad time, considering they had been driving at night. They had left Encino at high speed; but instead of making a conventional getaway they had driven just four or five miles to a nearby Howard Johnson’s, where they had eaten, cleaned themselves up, and gassed up their van for a long, hard journey. Even as they sat here now, eight hours later, by the side of the highway which runs just south of the Superstition Mountains, a few miles east of Phoenix, Arizona, two police officers were questioning the manager and the waitresses at Howard Johnson’s, trying to determine which way the fugitives had been heading, and how much of a head start they had managed to get.
Commander Ouvarov squinted northward through the August heat haze, towards the broken, uncompromising outline of the mountains. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but the temperature was already into the low 90s. “We can’t waste too much time here, Yoshino,” he said. “If we don’t make El Paso by evening, we’re going to be in big trouble. That customs officer at El Paso is a close personal friend of mine; I did him a favor a few years back.
He’s the only man who’s going to let us through that border without any questions, no matter what.”
Yoshino resignedly opened the driver’s door and stepped down onto the dusty roadside. There was no traffic in sight for two or three miles in either direction. He walked around to the back of the van and loosened the spare. Commander Ouvarov stayed where he was, his automatic on his lap, listening to the radio. “And now it’s 91 degrees at Sky Harbor, with a prospect of 111 to 113 degrees by noon.” He knocked the dottle of his pipe out, and meticulously refilled it with Old Geronimo tobacco. He had smoked the same pipe tobacco since 1942.
He felt the van being jacked up beneath him; but he remained where he was, his arms folded, calmly smoking. He felt no guilt about having made a run for it. He’d had his doubts about Mr.
Esmeralda and Gerard Crowley right from the very start. Too many sharks in the same pool for Commander Ouvarov’s liking, too many people with difficult pasts and uncertain futures. And as for those peculiar Japanese, with their black silk masks, and those tortured Tengus... well, the only good Japanese as far as Commander Ouvarov was concerned was a disemboweled Japanese. He hadn’t asked too many questions; he’d done whatever they’d asked of him; but the whole plan was ill conceived, badly managed, amateurish, and too damned strange.
He took off his hat and mopped his sweating forehead with his handkerchief. It was a pity about Nancy Shir-anuka, he thought. The sensations that
Nancy could give to a man, selflessly, purely for the erotic artistry of it, were disturbing enough to haunt him forever. When he was lying on his deathbed, he would remember what she had done to him with a Mexican bead necklace. His last words before he was carried upward by the angels would be, “Nancy, the beads... ” At least, he fondly imagined they would.
After a quarter of an hour, he felt the van being jacked down onto the road again. He called out,
“Yoshino? You through now?” but he couldn’t be sure if Yoshino had heard him.
He opened his door and swung himself heavily out onto the roadside. “Yoshino?” he called.
Yoshino had been packing away the flat. He came around the van, wiping his hands on a rag,’ his face and chest glossy with sweat. “All done now, Commander. We can go. Make El Paso by dark.”
“Good man,” said the commander. He turned his back on Yoshino. And that was fatal. The next thing he knew, there was a blinding crunch in his back, as Yoshino drove the sharp end of the van’s tire iron between his ribs into his guts.
The commander let out a sharp, barking shout. His hand scrabbled around behind him to tug the tire iron out. But suddenly his nerves went, his coordination froze, and he pitched sideways into the dust.
His brain still worked, but the tire iron had severed vital nerves and left him paralyzed. He watched in glassy, jack-rabbit helplessness as Yoshino bent down and picked up his .45, hesitated for a moment, and then disappeared from view.
Japanese, he thought to himself. Never trust a Japanese. All these years I’ve preached nothing else. All these years I’ve been warning them. They never listened. They went their own sweet unconscious way while Datsun and Toyota and Sony and Toshiba took the dollars from under their noses, the bread from their family tables. They’re wily by nature, the Japanese. Treacherous by birth. All these years I’ve said so, and today I forgot my own damned warning; today I neglected my own damned advice. And here I am; helpless and dying on a hot highway in Arizona.
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