E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action

by E. Hoffmann Price

  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 places 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 hi
nged 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 sergeant 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—

  But before it connected, the sergeant, over reaching himself, tripped and sprawled headlong into the gutter. That gave Slade an instant’s respite. When the noncom regained his feet, the mill began in earnest. It was touch and go for a moment, reckless, wrathful slug­ging; and then Slade blasted home with one that popped like a boiler explosion.

  The sergeant was frozen before he hit the ground. Slade settled back on his heels and drew a long breath; but that was cut short in mid gasp. A brazen gleam from the darkness caught his eye. He made a dive for his pocket as he recognized the little Buddha lying in the dust. His own was still in place; it was the sergeant’s that had rolled from cover.

  Slade stooped to pick it up. The hid­den springs of the trick pedestal had re­sponded to the impact against the corner of the saloon! The Buddha’s body contained a slip of paper. He struck a match.

  “Sin Ban Fong is waiting,” he read, which was damn little to learn for his trouble!

  He stuffed the paper and the halves of the image into his pocket, regarded the prostrate sergeant, then used his vic­tim’s shirt and belt to improvise gag and bonds. That done, Slade stepped into the saloon, slid ten pesos across the bar, and struck a, bargain with the proprietor.

  “Keep him on ice until morning,” Slade concluded. “If he’s here when I come back, it’s five more for you; if he’s gone, you’ll get some of what he got. And when the taxi gets here, tell him it’s the wrong number. Sabe, hombre?”

  He did; and Slade dashed back toward the Nomura-ro.

  The next play was to put the empty Buddha on Shigashi San’s cabinet, and wait for someone to call for the one the sergeant had left.

  “Sin Ban Fong,” he muttered as he slipped in through the back door. Then, with a bleak grin, “I hope the bastard enjoys waiting!”

  Shigashi San, hearing him enter the further room of her suite, appeared from her bedroom. Her smile was cryptic.

  He wondered if she suspected. She might not even know that the Buddha swapping had taken place in her room. The smile became alluring…it began to seem not such a bad idea after all to have the exalted blossom shed a few more petals.

  All of which he worked into the dis­cussion of his estates in Min­da­nao. But as Shigashi San luxuriously settled back into her heap of silken quilts, and reached for the bow of her obi, Slade put the empty bronze Buddha back on the lacquered cabinet.

  And then the oiran’s draperies parted and her arms closed about him.

  But that embrace was checked by the faint whine of a sliding panel. Slade was on his feet at a bound. Shigashi San, outraged at the invasion of her pri­vacy, shed half a dozen hairpins as she snatched for the edges of her robe.

  Chow Kit was in the doorway! Sal­low, evilly smiling Chow Kit behind the muzzle of an automatic that yawned like a siege gun. He also had come by the back door; and at his heels were half a dozen Chinese and Gugus; murderous riff-raff, armed and leering and spitting betel juice on the mats as they waited for action. And two at the further edge of the cluster between them supported a woman in apricot silk. She was bound, and a gag masked half her face, but Slade recognized Agata Moreno.

  All in an instant. “Sin Ban Fong, my dear sir,” murmured Chow Kit, “is waiting with the patience known only to a ship. A Chinese junk whose con­cealed engines have fooled the revenue cutters. You and Señorita Agata will both take a long ride down the China Sea, where the sharks are hungry—don’t make any false moves, please, or Shi­gashi San joins the party.”

  “Why wait for a junk ride?” snarled Slade, fighting for time, “Do it now—”

  Chow Kit chuckled and explained, “Disposing of corpses on land is awk­ward and betraying, whereas the sharks are discreet.”

  Then he added, “One of my men works for the cab company which the sergeant called. The bartender was wise enough to ignore your warning. He phoned to inquire about his prisoner. The news reached me. And in the meanwhile, Agata’s collection of American sweethearts had aroused my suspicions—so, we all go for a cruise in the Sin Ban Fong.

  “With things turning out as they did, I really do not need the message the ser­geant left here for me. I liberated him. He’s getting the ammunition now.”

  Though Chow Kit was safe behind a pistol and Slade was empty-handed, the Chinaman’s eyes did not shift as he purred a phrase in Tagalog, ordering his retainers to bind the American. Steady pistol, and unwavering eyes—

  But Chow Kit’s watchfulness worked against him. In watching the desperate American, he overlooked Shigashi San, and the saki jug she had stealthily plucked from a shelf.

  A flash of white. A spattering of porcelain shards. The blast of Chow Kit’s widely fired pistol. Slade’s flying tackle carried him clear of the oiran’s bed as the Chinaman’s weapon clattered into a corner. Flinging Chow Kit aside, Slade scooped up the six-fold screen and hurled it athwart the headlong charge of the Chinaman’s armed retainers.

  Wadding a silken quilt about his left arm, he parried a sweeping bolo slash, and hammered home with a blasting fist that knocked a Gugu smashing into an alcove. He shifted as the attack swerved to envelop him, seized a lacquered washbasin and crashed it about the ears of the flank guard. He ducked a hurled bolo, flung out the folds of the silken quilt to parry another, side stepped and snatched the first weapon by the hilt.

  Slade now armed; but his breath was coming in jerking gasps, and the odds were heavy. Chow Kit, once more on his feet, was urging his shaken retainers to the attack. He had recovered his pistol and hovered on the fringe of the battle, watching Slade’s blade dance in and out, steel striking fire from steel. The
Chinaman feared to risk another shot; but as Slade’s desperate charge swept the pack a yard to the rear, the weapon rose into line.

  Shigashi San’s voice shrilled high above the cursing confusion. Slade caught the warning, and his brain blazed red. The heavy bolo zipped point on, a streak of steel that ended at the Chinaman’s chest as the automatic spurted flame. Slade won the exchange. Hot lead seared his ribs, but the bolo split Chow Kit’s chest like a chicken for the grille.

  Slade was empty-handed. Another saki jug, hurled from the sidelines by Shigashi San, bowled the foremost ene­my end for end; and then the charge broke. They saw Chow Kit crumpled up on the matting, a red, twitching hud­dle. They scrambled madly for the door. No chief, no fight. Slade’s reckless wrath had succeeded where caution would have been overwhelmed.

  He bounded from his corner. As he snatched Chow Kit’s weapon, he heard a pounding of feet, and a polyglot chat­ter that was submerged by a voice like a typhoon. An unpleasantly familiar voice—Captain Rupert Dwyer!

  Slade’s salvaged pistol jerked into line as the granite faced renegade burst into the room.

  “Drop it, you rat!” Slade commanded.

  Dwyer’s hands rose. He recognized death when it stared him in the eye. But Slade’s weapon dropped the next in­stant: behind Dwyer was a squad of military police, and the Provost Mar­shal.

  “What the hell?” boomed Dwyer, eye­ing the gory wreckage.

  Then a cross-fire of questions, and Slade identified himself.

  “And cut that girl loose—over there in the corner. That mestiza, with the gag in her mouth—”

  Dwyer followed Slade’s gesture.

  “Mestiza, my eye! That’s my sis­ter!”

  And Agata, when she was liberated, explained, “Dad was a colonel. And years ago, we were in the Islands, so it was easy—”

  “But why that bailarina gag at Chow Kit’s?” demanded Slade.

  “When the old colonel died in the States, she came over to see me. And landed just in time to find me in a rotten jam,” interposed Captain Dwyer. “Ammunition being lost by the case. And me responsible. You know what that would mean. I had to clear it up. We suspected Chow Kit. And Agata, damned little idiot, insisted on getting a job as a bailarina to do a bit of spy­ing—”