by Emma Lathen
* * *
Gene Fleming had only his instincts and his long acquaintance with Rick Iwamoto to suggest new troubles lurking on the horizon for Shima. Mr. Fumitoshi Arai was getting information direct from the horse’s mouth.
Ensconced in ducal splendor, he scarcely stirred from his suite after the ritual prebreakfast stroll through Green Park. Countless minions, however, were picking up every tremor of activity from the City, while his secretary fielded calls from around the world. Mr. Arai’s meditations were rarely interrupted by this activity, but there were exceptions.
“It is Minister Sato on the line,” the secretary announced.
Arai lifted the receiver and punctiliously exchanged formal greetings.
“I trust that all is well.”
“Far from it. The opposition is planning a test vote, and they have decided to use the Civil Service Reform Bill.”
“How very intelligent of them,” Arai murmured.
By starting with the civil service, the opposition could use every sordid detail of the Lackawanna hearings as its springboard. And a vote of no confidence would bring down the government.
“The Prime Minister has told us he will allow the bill to come to the floor in two weeks,” Sato continued.
“No doubt he has excellent reasons for the delay.”
“Prior to the debate, the Prime Minister will demand certain sacrifices from leading party members.”
The scenario was now clear. The government’s action against its own was intended to create an aura of sweeping reform. At the moment, Arai was more interested in how other issues, more closely affecting him, would be handled.
“Shima’s penalty will have been assessed by then,” he remarked.
“The penalty for the export-control violation,” Sato specified. “We have been hearing some disturbing rumors that there may be additional charges arising from the files seized in California.”
“That would certainly be most distressing.”
“I believe that we would have to consider withdrawing our support,” Sato said on a magisterial note. “That would, however, change our position in one respect.”
Arai was as humble as if he were a stranger to the intricacies of policymaking. “Naturally you have many aspects of the situation to consider.”
“Until now Secretary Matsuda’s silence has been acceptable. If, however, a general clarification has become desirable, then it would seem to be time for him to speak. That is, if what he says is in conformity with our overall program.”
Decoding this message was child’s play for Arai. If the government was going to spend the next two weeks on a heroic housecleaning, then it would like to get rid of as many problems as possible. And a public disassociation from the Shima Trading Company would be more than justified if Deputy Secretary Matsuda announced that he had been corrupted by Shima.
“I see,” said Arai thoughtfully.
In Tokyo they were still guessing about the Shima files. At the Sloan they already knew.
“John,” said Walter Bowman, from New York, “the word is that they’ve found enough for a civil suit on industrial espionage. Nobody’s talking criminal action—at least not yet. Do you think we should start finding another bride for RR&H?”
By now Thatcher had taken Ridgeway’s measure. “Len is worried about legal restrictions on Shima’s activities. A civil suit won’t bother him, particularly one that won’t get to court lor years.”
“The problem may not be what happens to Shima in the U.S.”
“You expect repercussions in Japan?”
Bowman went on to relay the predictions of his experts.
“The government there has accepted the fact that this exposé isn’t going to die down. And they’d rather have Shima being crucified than their own cabinet ministers.”
“How would that sit with the rest of the industrial community?”
“I suppose they’d agree to anything that would keep the government in power. It would be a real plus if they could load most of the scandal on one culprit.”
Thatcher’s errant imagination immediately produced the one twist that could blast this strategy to smithereens.
“All they need now is for Matsuda to tell the world that the bribe came from Yonezawa.”
“The opposition would love it. It would destroy the one-rotten-egg theory and support their claim that corruption is rampant.”
After witnessing the day-to-day performance of Lackawanna in Tokyo, Thatcher had never been able to believe that its personnel had the know-how to swim sharklike through the currents of Japanese bureaucracy.
“Well, it stands to reason that it must have been either Shima or Yonezawa. So the government has a fifty-fifty chance of being right.”
“Shima had the most to lose,” Bowman pointed out. “Wouldn’t that up the odds to sixty-forty?”
“Except for one thing. Gene Fleming says that Arai is the real wild card in that bunch.”
Chapter 24
The information that Pamela Webb had provided to the fax station was, as usual, absolutely correct. Calls to Mr. Alderman’s room during the day were fruitless, but he appeared in person at five o’clock, his raincoat still dripping and his hands filled with the mail and messages he had just picked up.
“Has my stuff come in?”
“Yes; I’ll have the girl get it.” The manager lifted an appraising eyebrow. “Incidentally, that report Mr. Kruger has been waiting for also arrived.”
Bennet Alderman was more obliging than Pamela had been.
“Then I’ll take that along too,” he said casually.
“We’ll have them for you immediately,” promised the manager, knowing full well that a major search would be necessary.
“No hurry.”
Alderman had disposed himself at the counter and was dealing with his mail as if he had all the time in the world.
“Well, now, look at this,” he muttered. “They’re not riding so high now.”
The clipping announced that Shima Computers had filed a motion to delay sentencing. There was also a photograph of a grim-faced lawyer toting a laden briefcase up the steps of the federal courthouse in San Francisco.
“I’ll bet they sock it to them,” Alderman said under his breath as he continued the process of scanning, crumpling, and discarding.
All his comments were in the same optimistic vein—and equally meaningless to the manager—but they lasted until two packets and two bills were produced.
“If you’ll just sign here.”
But Alderman had one last message to read, and this one capped his elation.
“Everything’s going my way,” he announced. “Even the great Matsuda is coming down from his high horse.”
“Splendid,” said the manager cordially.
Then, in all innocence, he placed Johnson’s damning report into Bennet Alderman’s outstretched hand.
As John Thatcher watched Matsuda parade through the lobby on his daily visit to the fax station, it was apparent that the bureaucrat had changed his manner toward his watchdogs. Matsuda was no longer ignoring their presence. These days he was pretending they were menials, crisply directing them to open doors or to retrieve his coat. It was probably, Thatcher decided, the only way a proud man could live with the situation.
This opinion received unexpected endorsement.
“I am afraid that Deputy Secretary Matsuda is irritated by the surveillance of my men,” said Inspector Hayakawa, materializing from behind a column. “It is regrettable that a man of his experience does not appreciate the necessity for my action.”
“Yes, indeed,” Thatcher said briefly.
He and Hayakawa had been inhabiting the same hotel for three days without a single encounter. The policeman would not have engineered this meeting unless he wanted something.
Hayakawa came to the point with commendable dispatch. “I understand there was an unfortunate display of temper by Mr. Bennet Alderman yesterday evening.”
“And I
was a witness,” Thatcher agreed. “But I have every confidence that you know as much about what happened as I do.”
Hayakawa did not deny the assumption. Instead he went on to demonstrate its accuracy.
“They tell me he has suffered some setback in his career that occasioned a spate of anger toward most of his associates.”
Thatcher fully expected them to move briskly on to the fracas between Alderman and Hodiak. If the Japanese needed any reinforcement for their conviction that Americans resort to violence at the drop of a hat, that should have done it.
“I am sure they also reported Alderman’s condition.”
It was a small point, but any distinction between last night and Tokyo was worth making. Say what you would about the tedium of the MR hearings, everyone had been irreproachably sober.
“Oh, yes.” Hayakawa shook his head disapprovingly. “You would not believe the amount of work caused to our police force by those who become hostile with drink. We are rarely troubled by those who simply mellow.”
He then abandoned his professional reverie and returned to the attack. “I am not very interested in the internal dissensions at Lackawanna. But is it true that Mr. Alderman also singled out Mr. Matsuda for his personal invective?”
“In a sense. He said it was time someone choked the truth out of Matsuda.”
“I was afraid of that.” Hayakawa sighed. After a moment’s reflection, he reached a decision. “I wonder if you could spare the time to join me in a cup of coffee, Mr. Thatcher?”
Intrigued by the unexpected cast of their conversation, Thatcher followed the inspector to a table. After their order had been served, Hayakawa leaned forward earnestly.
“Mr. Matsuda is an intelligent man with a vast amount of experience in certain areas. In other ways, however, he is an innocent. He assumes, for instance, that I have assigned two men—from a tightly budgeted staff, I might add—in order to monitor his communications with those involved in the MR hearings. Offhand, I can think of many criminals with limited mental ability who would not make this mistake.”
“You mean you’re not worried who he talks to? Or whether he takes a plane for Brazil?”
“Mr. Matsuda is not confined. He can enter a public phone booth at will. And he would not be in London if there were any possibility of flight. The man must think I am an idiot,” Hayakawa burst out. “I, too, know that the government situation is reaching a crisis and the time for silence is nearing an end. But Secretary Matsuda is so busy weighing the factors he understands that he forgets entirely that murder has certain consequences.”
Thatcher was beginning to see why they were sipping coffee together.
“And your two men?”
“They are bodyguards, of course. If Mr. Matsuda did not kill Ushiba himself, then someone else did. And while the deputy secretary is so busy calculating his moves, he has never even noticed the fact that he represents a threat to the murderer. In this situation I am very alarmed at the prospect of Mr. Aiderman trying to exert pressure on Mr. Matsuda. Once word of that spreads, the possibilities could be disastrous.”
Thatcher nodded. “I agree, but I fail to see how I can help.”
“You have a greater familiarity than I with the value of these proposals made in a drunken fit of spleen. Is it your considered opinion that Alderman will try to implement his suggestion?”
Inspector Hayakawa was so serious that Thatcher reflected for some time before he framed a reply.
“Let me first tell you about Alderman’s ramblings yesterday. He was not forthcoming about the nature of his problem, but it was clear he had in some way lost ground with Kruger. He blamed Pamela Webb for this occurrence, and she was the principal target of his venom. It was almost as an afterthought that he considered forcing Mr. Matsuda to disclose what he knows.”
“So you think he might not be serious about Mr. Matsuda?”
“For what it is worth, I think Alderman’s instinct will be to play politics in the arena he knows, namely Lackawanna.” Native caution forced Thatcher to add a rider. “Of course, just bumping into Matsuda could set him off.”
Hayakawa did not sound encouraged as he replied: “I do wish that Mr. Alderman had not raised the matter in a public place. If I heard about it, others did too.”
“You think there is real danger?”
The inspector nodded gravely.
“Enough so that Mr. Matsuda will be accompanied every moment of the day until he is safely in his bed.”
If not in bed, Matsuda was irreproachably occupied in his room. He allowed his usual dinner hour to come and go as he drank in every word of current thinking in Japan.
“Preposterous!” was his first reaction to the growing belief that all elements of the bureaucracy were tainted.
Having vented his ire, he was able to turn his second reading into a dispassionate analysis of the positions being taken by official and semiofficial spokesmen.
At this point he broke off to make his delayed appearance at the dining table. Without haste, he worked his way through the courses, exhibiting no sign of impatience as he produced stately conversation for the benefit of his guardians.
It was ten o’clock before he returned for his last, and most important, reading.
“I was right,” he finally declared, congratulating himself on his acumen. “The time has come for them to make approaches.”
The balance had shifted so that someone out there would be grateful for the right words from him.
While the architects of Tudor House had badly miscalculated the space requirements of the fax station, they had more than compensated with the grandeur of the penthouse floor. Here, lavish provision had been made for a state-of-the-art health club, stretching expansively in all directions.
An unqualified triumph by every measure, the facility was the envy of every other deluxe hotel in London. From seven in the morning until eleven at night the elevator banks were busy delivering guests intent on utilizing every known aid to physical fitness.
But with the departure of the cleaning crew at midnight, the health club became a vast, shadowy wasteland. Widely spaced night lights cast feeble pools of illumination on the floor, as walls and ceilings disappeared into cavernous heights.
Time, however, had lost all meaning for Mr. Kyle Mendelsohn. Mr. Mendelsohn had crossed the Atlantic for a reunion of his World War II army unit. When he was poured out of his taxi at two o’clock in the morning, he had long since cast aside his respectable Arizona identity. Still crooning imperfectly remembered snatches of “Lili Marlene,” he was received by the night staff with practiced efficiency. They steered his wavering steps across the lobby and into the elevator, where the night porter firmly punched the correct button.
“Good night, sir,” he said politely.
His charge, overcome by sorrow for lost youth, half sobbed in reply:
“Poor Lili!”
The staff, unfortunately, was not familiar with domestic habits in Phoenix, where Mr. Mendelsohn regarded his own swimming pool as a precaution against morning-after woes. Subliminally aware of the need for preventive action, he lingered in his own room only long enough to collect his gear, then continued journeying to the penthouse floor.
Once arrived, he paid no attention to the tomblike silence or the all-pervading obscurity. Instead he supported himself against the wall to study the bewildering array of directions. Having finally deciphered the word POOL, he carefully aligned his forearm along the length of the arrow.
“That way,” he muttered triumphantly.
He caromed off one wall and then the other before successfully negotiating the first turn. By now vague doubts were beginning to make themselves felt, and he was relieved to see a blurred figure at a distant corner. Encouraged by this sign of human occupancy, he hastened his unsteady pace.
Stumbling forward too quickly, he never noticed the waste receptacle until he collided with it.
“Hey!” he cried in protest.
And immediately the nar
row hall reverberated to the echoes of a gunshot and an agonized scream.
Chapter 25
“I tell you, I’d just gotten out of the elevator when this maniac tackled me,” Bennet Alderman said for the third time. “Why the hell would I want to shoot Matsuda?”
Kyle Mendelsohn did not argue with the description. Now on his third cup of coffee, he was appalled at his recent act of folly. The sound of enemy fire had awakened every instinct dormant since VE-day. When he had rounded the corner, to see one twitching figure lying inside the open door to the swimming pool and another halfway to the adjoining elevator, he had not prudently retreated. Instead former Technical Sergeant Kyle Mendelsohn had charged into combat.
The first arrivals on the scene, drawn by the sounds of a melee, had found Mendelsohn and Alderman frantically wrestling on the floor, while Mr. Tomaheko Matsuda pumped his life’s blood into the tiled gutter surrounding the pool.
“I could have gotten myself killed,” Kyle moaned.
The ambulance had long since removed Mr. Matsuda, still alive, to the hospital. That had been the only departure. Since then it had been nothing but arrivals. Two members of the Japanese Embassy were maintaining a watching brief for their fallen countryman. By their side, offering assistance and support, was a representative of the British Foreign Office. Circling the entire group with clucking solicitude was the general manager of the hotel. The police had come in waves of increasing importance, which culminated in the person of Superintendent McLeod. It was he who was questioning Alderman.
“But you were meeting with Mr. Matsuda at the pool?”
“I’ve gone over this again and again,” Alderman grated. “I got a note from Matsuda this afternoon asking me to meet him there at two A.M.”
“And you did not regard that as astonishing?”
Alderman was openly snarling.
“Why the hell should I? Everybody in the hotel knew that he had the cops on him all day. I figured the only time he could shake them was in the middle of the night.”
“I wasn’t referring to the time,” McLeod said patiently. “Weren’t you surprised he wanted a meeting at all?”