Hiroshima Joe

by Booth, Martin

  ‘Mr Leung wait for no one,’ replied the Chinese firmly and in English, stepping from the shadows into a thin shaft of sunlight that had succeeded in reaching down into the alleyway. He wore a modern American-cut suit with an expensive cotton shirt under the lightweight jacket. The hand that had not pushed against Sandingham’s chest held a small calibre pistol. He knew enough about small arms to recognise it as an Imperial Japanese Army issue weapon and he wondered what rank of soldier had been garrotted with piano wire for it to be ‘liberated’, as they had put it. Guns were a rare sight in Hong Kong unless they were attached to policemen’s lanyards; but then this was Kowloon City. Hong Kong was a hundred and fifty yards away.

  A peephole in a door at the end of the alleyway opened and a voice, muffled by the wood, spoke through it. The minion lowered his hand but not the barrel of his pistol.

  ‘Okay. You go to door. No turn roun’.’

  The door opened and Sandingham entered. He had not been in the building for over six weeks and he had forgotten how its interior fragrance differed from the odours of the open nullahs, rotting vegetables and overcrowded streets and tenements outside. It was cool, too. As soon as the door closed he felt chilled, partly because of the efficient Westinghouse air conditioner mounted in the wall, partly because of the sense of oppressive foreboding that permeated the rooms.

  The man who had opened the door asked him to remove his jacket. He did so. He was then searched, despite the fact that he now wore only trousers and a shirt. The guard felt up the insides of Sandingham’s legs as far as his testicles and gently fingered around his groin. He also checked inside his socks. Satisifed that the visitor was unarmed, he opened a second door and Sandingham passed through it.

  He found himself in a large room furnished in a curious mixture of modern New York and ancient China. A steel writing desk, bearing a black telephone and a vase of frangipani blossoms, stood next to an antique bronze urn; a standard lamp with a pendulous shade of garish green plastic hung over a wicker settle covered with Thai silk cushions; a cocktail cabinet against one wall was adjacent to a camphorwood chest with a relief depicting dragons entwining on the front and lid. Through the hasp on the chest, in place of the traditional lock, was a modern padlock with a brass face, reinforced steel loop and a combination wheel. The floor was covered by deep-piled Chinese carpets.

  ‘Hello, Joseph.’

  He turned round quickly.

  ‘Hello, Mr Leung, how are you?’

  ‘After all this time, you still don’t call me Francis,’ replied the Chinese ironically. He had no trace of an accent: if anything, there was a slight American twang to his words.

  ‘Francis,’ said Sandingham.

  ‘Take a seat. Tell me how you’ve been keeping.’

  Leung sat on the settle and studied him intently. His glances seemed to be merely passing over his visitor but they were far from being that shallow. He was a shrewd observer of all that he saw: to have survived in his world for as long as he had, he had been forced to be continually alert and aware.

  For his part, as he spoke, Sandingham took in all that he could about Francis Leung. His fawn-coloured suit was smart and deliberately unostentatious. His tan shoes were hand-made but conservative in style and highly polished. He wore a dark brown silk necktie over a cream shirt. If Sandingham had seen him crossing Hong Kong harbour on the Star Ferry he would have assumed Leung to be one of the well-off Chinese middle class, a manager of a small firm, perhaps, or an executive in one of the European shipping offices where it was now becoming common practice to take on Chinese staff to other than menial positions. Leung was in his mid-thirties but still had the smooth skin of a young man.

  ‘So things are not so good for you,’ he commented as Sandingham came to the end of his statement of his current affairs. ‘That is bad, very bad. Time you had a job.’

  Leung laughed and Sandingham joined in, knowing that that was what he wanted. This Chinese had it in his power to give him employment, albeit part-time.

  ‘I’m ready when you are,’ he said, feigning humour, yet he meant it.

  Leung became serious and leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands spread open. He looked like a Taoist priest about to give a benediction.

  ‘Right now, I’ve nothing, but’ – he saw a look of desperation sharpen Sandingham’s eyes – ‘there will be something in a few weeks. Have you ever been to Macau?’

  ‘Not since before the war,’ Sandingham answered.

  ‘Well, maybe a trip there.’ Leung leaned back. ‘You will like it. It hasn’t changed like Hong Kong has. It’s still old-fashioned, like a bit of Europe transported to China four hundred years ago and left there. In the meantime, have you anything for me?’

  This was Sandingham’s cue, his opportunity. It had been like this in the old days, during the war. Leung had said it just that way then, too. Of course, at that time they had been equals.

  ‘It’s in my coat.’

  Leung snapped his fingers and the door guard, who must have been awaiting the signal, entered carrying Sandingham’s jacket. He did not return it to its owner, but went through the pockets himself, taking out a manilla envelope of the size used to send invoices through the post. He handed this to Leung who opened it and tipped out the contents: it was a lady’s brooch. In the centre was a red stone and surrounding this were seven smaller, greeny-blue stones.

  ‘A ruby and aquamarines,’ said Sandingham, with what he hoped sounded like authority.

  ‘Aquamarines, certainly,’ replied Leung, twisting the piece in his fingers, noting that the catch was broken. ‘But a ruby this size? I’m afraid not. If it was, it would be – what? – eight, maybe nine carats. No, Joseph, this is a garnet.’ He spoke patronisingly with mock kindness, as if instructing a pupil in gemology. ‘Nevertheless,’ he added, ‘it is a pretty brooch.’

  He smiled expansively, passing the stone to and fro under the lamp.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ he asked after a pause.

  ‘I found it,’ said Sandingham. Leung chuckled at this. ‘It’s true,’ he added quickly. ‘It was on the vehicle deck of the Yaumati car ferry. It was in the scuppers.’

  ‘Why did you not take it to the police? There might be a reward.’

  Sandingham shrugged and tried a smile in return. Leung appreciated that: it was a sign that the European knew his place in this new world. He returned a grin and then, holding the brooch, his eyes hardened.

  ‘Fifty-five dollars.’ It was not an offer. It was a statement of fact.

  Sandingham divided fifty-five by fourteen in his head – three pounds, eighteen shillings and four pence. His mental arithmetic translated the sum into three bottles of gin or fifteen hundred cigarettes.

  ‘Seventy-five?’ he questioned. He knew that, to buy such a brooch at one of the jewellery shops in Hankow Road, the owner must have had to pay at least four hundred dollars …

  ‘You are the only man who would even try to dicker with me,’ said Leung. He had picked that word up in San Francisco, too. ‘Sixty-five is the best I’ll go. And only for old time’s sake.’

  Considering himself lucky, Sandingham nodded. Without waiting to be asked, for he knew the routine, he stood up and turned his back to the camphorwood chest. The guard positioned himself so he could make sure Sandingham did not try to catch a glimpse of the combination. The tumblers fell very silently. When he heard the lock spin Sandingham turned around and Leung gave him sixty-five purple Hong Kong dollar bills bearing the head of George VI. They were in mint condition, although no such notes had been issued in recent years. Sandingham guessed they were from one of the hoards of currency Leung was rumoured to have accumulated during the immediate post-war years.

  Carefully, he folded the notes into thin strips and tucked them into a hole in the waistband lining of his trousers. It was a trick he’d originally learnt from Francis Leung.

  ‘Come and see me again, Joseph. In a few weeks,’ said Leung as they parted. ‘Yes, and one more thing.’ He
took a piece of paper from the henchman who had returned Sandingham’s jacket. ‘Take this. You know where. Ah Moy will see to you.’

  ‘How can I thank you, Francis?’ His voice was sincere and the Chinese knew it.

  ‘It doesn’t matter: don’t even try. For old time’s sake, Joseph. Take care.’

  Leung turned and left the room without looking back. In this fashion Sandingham was dismissed and promptly shown out to the alley. It was humid outside after the comfort of the air conditioning within and he was sweating before he reached the guard. He walked slowly, with unconcern, but not too slowly. Leung’s enemies were numerous, even in the closed criminal society of Kowloon City, and now they were certain to be Sandingham’s enemies as well.

  The guard remained in the shadows as he made his way towards the safety of Hong Kong proper. Within a few minutes, he was once more standing at a bus stop. A ragged queue formed behind him. Several old men joined the line, as well as two young women in cheong-sams and a few children who appeared to be unattached to any of the adults. They wore blue-and-white, sailor-type uniforms and carried school books under their arms. The bus was not long in coming.

  As it pulled up to the kerb, the queue characteristically broke up and the people crowded around the two entrances of the vehicle. In the crush, Sandingham not so much felt as sensed a hand feeling along the waist lining of his trousers. He had been an expert enough lifter himself to know the touch of another past-master at the game. Without looking down, he expanded his stomach muscles to trap the exploring fingers. That, he thought, would discourage them. What happened next was most unexpected.

  He was punched exceedingly hard between the shoulder-blades. The fingers thrust themselves into his trousers seeking not the money now but his private parts. That would mean a harsh crushing of his testicles, bending him into vulnerable agony.

  Sandingham whipped around swiftly. His agility surprised his two attackers who had evidently thought that this skinny European was an easy target.

  One of the assailants was a youth in his early teens and it was his hand plunging down Sandingham’s trousers. The other was one of the old men in the queue. He had delivered the two-handed blow and, had this man been in his prime, Sandingham thought, the punch would have laid him out.

  It took him a split second to decide what to do and then his reflexes took control. With a sharp cut upwards, he sank his knee into the youth’s stomach. He had aimed lower, but his attacker was too short for a solid crutch connection. The youth hissed and doubled up, his hand tearing free of Sandingham’s clothing. At the same time, Sandingham swung his fist hard at the old man’s shoulder. As he had anticipated the older attacker expected a blow to the head and ducked with the result that Sandingham’s fist caught him on the cheek, just above the lower jaw. He felt one of the old man’s teeth crack and heard a yelp like a dog having its tail stamped upon.

  The bus began to move off. Sandingham jumped on to the step and tugged on the sliding bars of the passenger gate. It would not budge: the conductor, at the other door, had a foot on the upright and this controlled both the front and rear entrances. With a vicious thrust, Sandingham rammed the gate open and gained the upper step. The conductor swore vehemently in Cantonese down the aisle of the bus and then fell silent when he saw that it was a European who had bruised his foot. None of the passengers paid any attention.

  Sandingham looked out the rear window. The youth was still doubled over, nursing his solar plexus; the old man had started after the bus but stopped when he realised it was gathering speed. He stood disconsolately in the gutter, shaking his fist. Tattooed on his forearm was a tortoise with Chinese characters in the segments of its shell. That meant the would-be pickpocket and his elderly accomplice were part of Francis Leung’s band.

  So Leung had tipped them off. No one else, except the guard at the door, knew he was carrying money and where it was hidden. So much for old time’s sake, he thought. It would be better not to ‘dicker’ in future.

  * * *

  Sandingham slipped back into the hotel the same way he had left. He did not want to meet Heng.

  Safe in his room, he locked the door behind him and checked that everything was all right. The opium was still in place; the cans of food were untouched; the tobacco tin had not been tampered with. More importantly, the bed had not been moved.

  Very gently, so that he did not leave tell-tale scratch marks on the parquet floor, Sandingham shifted the bed a few inches to one side. Then, with his fingernail, he prised up the wooden tile which rested under one of the legs at the head of the bed. This tile hid a hollow he had scooped out in the concrete. It had taken him nearly four days working continuously with a sharpened spoon, stopping every few minutes to assure himself that he wasn’t heard. The space was slightly smaller than the tile, two inches wide by three long and two deep. In this recess he kept his money, wrapped in a square of tar paper.

  He took it out and counted it. Twenty-seven dollars. Plus sixty-five made ninety-two. He removed thirty and put these in his pocket before folding the remainder and replacing the floor tile.

  It was approaching one o’clock. He felt thirsty and undernourished so he breached a tin of the tomato juice and drank it by sucking through the holes made by the can opener. Contented with this, he flattened the can and hid it with the others, then lay back on the bed and dozed.

  At first he was aware only of a slight pressure on his shoulder. This was followed by the shaking of his head in a room where Leung was handing him large wadges of dollar bills – and he was saying no, he did not want any money: he had enough. He was even wearing a lightweight tropical blue suit and matching shirt.

  ‘Enough! I have enough!’

  His words were slurred and Heng thought that the Englishman was saying he had had enough and so he stopped shaking him.

  It was then that Sandingham awoke to find that he was dressed in his usual shabbiness and that Heng was standing over him.

  The manager spoke clearly, in impeccable, if somewhat stilted, English. His phraseology recalled the pre-war schoolroom of a Catholic boys’ school near Shanghai.

  ‘I’m glad to have found you in, sir,’ he said. There was not the slightest trace of irony in his voice. ‘I had been hoping to catch you before you left this morning but I’m afraid I was detained in the hotel office.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Sandingham sat up: he knew perfectly well what was wanted.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Sandingham, but it has been drawn to my attention by one of my clerks that you have overlooked settling your bill for the past month. As you know, I must request that clients of the hotel settle up monthly.’ He paused then added, as if to give weight to his request and to show that he was not being biased, ‘Even those who are staying here as the families of British service personnel are asked to pay their bills every month.’

  ‘I paid last month,’ said Sandingham, meekly. When in the face of authority it was always best to be subservient. It worked, as a general rule, in softening them. Afterwards one could hit them hard in subtle ways they might not notice … or better, might feel but not be able to pinpoint.

  ‘How much?’

  Heng made a show of taking a sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. By doing so, he momentarily delayed the demand he had to make. He did not like doing what he was now engaged upon: he had been a refugee, an outcast from his native country too, and he knew what Sandingham went through every day of his life and what he had suffered in the past. Indeed, it must have been worse for the European, because he had not only lost face in the eyes of his own kind but also in the sight of the Chinese. He was a pathetic figure and Heng knew only too well that, but for the whim of fate, the man on the bed might have been him. But he also knew that he could not afford to carry a free guest in the hotel. The owners would not stand for it. If Sandingham did not keep more or less up to date with his room rent Heng had instructions to evict him; after all, he knew from other managers in the trade that Sandin
gham had already been thrown out of at least three other hotels in Kowloon during the last twelve months.

  ‘Three hundred and eighty-two dollars, sixty-seven cents,’ said the manager. He held out the paper which bore the calculations. They were laid out neatly in a thin hand. The figure seven was crossed through in the continental manner.

  Sandingham’s face remained impassive.

  ‘I’ll have the money for you this evening,’ he said.

  ‘I would be most grateful if you would let me have it before you retire,’ replied Heng. ‘The owner of the hotel will be arriving in the morning and it is his custom to check through the books for the previous month.’

  Sandingham allowed his head to drop slightly. He suddenly felt both tired and frightened.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sandingham, but I must obey the orders of my employers.’

  ‘I do believe you are, Mr Heng,’ replied Sandingham and he meant it. As the manager left the room, closing the door gently behind him, it occurred to Sandingham that, despite the gulf of difference between them, they understood one another very well.

  One advantage of having spoken with Heng was that Sandingham could now leave the hotel by the front entrance instead of escaping by the back. And leave he had to, for he was obliged to find what was for him a fairly large sum of money by evening, and there was only one way to do that.

  The sun had moved away from the front of the hotel by the time Sandingham walked through the lobby. The bar was closed and the glassware was dull, lacking the sparkle it had held earlier, or would again contain once evening arrived. Mid-afternoon in the hotel was always a slack time.

  A small glass porch was beside the main entrance steps at the head of a set of stairs that led down to the garage. He stood by it, absorbing the heat of the day, and smelling the odour of warm gearbox and sump oil flow from the stairwell. It was a scent he knew from the past, reminding him of something he could not place.

  As he turned right to descend the curving hotel drive, a movement on the front lawn caught his eye. Lying on the grass behind the low hedge was the young boy who had seen him attempt to cut down the papaya. The boy did not notice Sandingham: he was engrossed in playing with toy soldiers in the shadow of the tightly packed evergreen leaves. He had carved a network of tiny trenches in the dirt and, at the end of the hedge, in strategic positions, several khaki soldiers, one bravely emblazoned in the red tunic of a Grenadier, manned a machine-gun post in a salient. Behind them, tucked into the cover of the hedge roots, were a number of military vehicles – a small scout car, a five-ton Bedford truck, a jeep and a much-dented tank.