by Buzz Harcus
Two Dead Bodies Found at Shantung University
Back in his office at police headquarters, while sitting back in his chair reviewing the case, Chang was surprised at seeing Colonel Wen Pui coming hurriedly down the hallway, and in fact, stopping at his door and entering his office. Detective Chang jumped to his feet, nodded politely, and waved his famous visitor to a chair across from his desk. “I am honored at your visit, Colonel Pui. What can I do for you?”
“I heard you discovered the body of Mr. Ma, our beloved Port Authority Director, this morning.”
“Yes—”
“Where and when did you find him?”
“Shantung University this morning. A fourth floor storage room.”
“How did he die?”
“He was shot in the head.”
Colonel Pui slammed his hand hard on the desk. “Give me all the details,” he demanded. Quickly Chang gave a full account of the fourth floor murder scene, the two bodies being found, and the holes punched in the wall.
Colonel Pui slapped his hands together. “I did not like that American Stan Drezewski, the minute I met him. Mr. Ma said he had a business deal with the man that would make him very wealthy. Wealthy! Hah! Dead!”
“You met the man, Drezewski?” Chang asked, surprised. “When?”
“Two weeks ago. He had arrived in Qingdao and stopped by the Port Authority office. He asked for Mr. Ma. It was apparent they knew each other for they shook hands and hugged. That is when I met him. Dirty bearded American. They had a long conversation in Mr. Ma’s office. I was not privy to what was said. They shook hands and the American left. That’s when Mr. Ma commented he was going to make a lot of money off the American. Bah! It cost him his life!”
“You have no idea of what they were involved in?”
“No. But it is odd that the American was one of those American sea soldiers—I think they called them United States Marines—who was stationed here thirty years ago and just happened to show up two weeks before another American, also an American sea soldier, arrived as a member of the crew aboard the Swedish grain carrier, Nurad, last Friday. Two American sea soldiers coming back to Qingdao thirty years later, and suddenly Mr. Ma turns up dead; one American turns up dead, and the other American is at this moment sailing back to America.”
“Two American sea soldiers at one time. That is odd,” said Chang, scratching at his chin. “I must talk to the other American. Perhaps he can enlighten us as to what might have happened—or if he was involved.”
Colonel Pui grinned at him. “Detective Chang, you have a long wait. Nurad will be gone six months. It is due back this fall with another shipment of grain. Perhaps you can interrogate the American at that time.”
Chang, too, grinned. “There is no time limit on murder. I look forward to having a nice long chat with—who?”
“Harry Martin.” Colonel Pui spat the name. “I must hurry and tell Shen Lee Ma the bad news about his father. He will be furious. He had met the American just before the Nurad sailed from port. He said his father had a bad feeling about that man, Harry Martin. He, too, will want to talk to him when he returns.”
CHAPTER 12
Stories of the New Men Don’t Jibe
Nurad was making good time at 14 knots as it headed ever southward toward Samar. The daytime weather had turned warmer. Crew members were already flaked out on the deck sunning, reading, playing cards.
First Officer Helmstrund and helmsman, Dirk Pedersen, relieved Alward and Harry at 0800 hours sharp. Harry made a beeline for the galley, picked up a tray and started through the line. The young boy, Hans, was serving sliced ham, sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, toast, jelly and fresh bakery. There was no sign of Osa, which surprised him
The galley was busy with hungry crew members. Harry picked a spot on the starboard side and settled in to eat. Doyle Masters had been behind him. Harry waved him over. Doyle seemed to hesitate, then gave a slight shrug, and joined Harry.
“How’s it going,” said Harry as Doyle sat down.
“Good. Everything is going well,” Doyle answered. “I’m getting to know the ship fairly well.”
Harry chuckled. “I was like you when I first came on board. I finally started taking a tour of the ship in order to get better acquainted with it and the crew.”
“That’s what I‘ve been doing,” Doyle replied, “the same damned thing. I’ve spent a lot of time exploring below decks. This is one hell of a big ship. What size crew do you carry, forty, maybe more?”
He took several bites of food, glancing up between bites at Harry, who sat ticking off the number of crew on his fingers. Then, with a grin, he turned back to Doyle. “With you, Alward, Kilgrew and Dingman, we have 32 crew, including the officers, cook and galley helper.”
“That’s pretty good sized,” Doyle said.
“How big a crew did you have on your ship—the one that sunk?” asked Harry.
Doyle stopped eating and just stared at Harry for several seconds. “I don’t really know,” he finally answered with a light shake of his head. “They were a bunch of low life Asians, always babbling. I don’t think any of them could speak English.” He took a couple more fork-fulls of potatoes, pondering the question. “I guess about thirty plus us four.”
“Whew,” exclaimed Harry. “Did any of them escape?”
“No. Not even one,” Doyle said with a shrug. “They got trapped below decks. It happened just that fast. Bert, George, Ace and myself were damned lucky that we were on deck when the ship just rolled over. It stood on it stern for a couple of minutes, and then sunk, bow up. Just that fast.”
“Whew,” Harry gasped. “Sorry to hear about that kind of loss.”
“Yeah, well, we lost a healthy pay check,” Doyle retorted. “It’s sitting on the bottom of the ocean now. The damned Pollo Olympus was a piece of junk as far as I was concerned, always something wrong with it. I was going to jump ship when I got to Japan.”
He put his fork down a moment later. “I’m done.” Rising, he said, “See ya’ around, Harry.” and walked off dumping his dirty dishes on the dirty dish counter.
Harry watched after him. That had to be quite an experience, escaping with your life, but losing thirty men. And it didn’t seem to bother him, at least it appeared that way. He actually seemed more concerned about the loss of his cargo, which probably meant a good paycheck. But then, grief has a different way of affecting different people.
Harry stepped out on the main deck. Several hatch covers had bodies flaked out on them. He found Karl, his engine room friend. “How’s it going?” he asked.
Karl glanced up. “Hi Harry,” he said, then added, “you make a good shade tree.”
“Oops, sorry,” Harry laughed, moving to one side. “Mind if I join you?”
“Grab part of my blanket.”
Settling down on the blanket, Harry stripped off his shirt, grabbed Karl’s binoculars, and started a slow sweep of the horizon. “Anything new in the engine room?” he asked. Karl grunted, “Der new American oiler. Vat a pain!”
“Hi Harry,” Second Officer Sven Johannsen said, plopping down in a chair next to Harry. “I got to talk to you.”
“Something the matter?” asked Harry.
“Someting is boddering me. I talk to you. You tell me if I am making a problem out of nutting.”
“Sure,” Harry said grabbing up Karl‘s suntan oil and proceeding to lather up his arms, chest and face. “What’s bothering you?”
“Dat man, Bert Kilgrew, has been assigned to my vatch. He is a pain in der ass! He is all der time talking about pirates. Are ve prepared to fight off pirates? He got me so damned mad I took him to der armory und showed him dat ve haf a lot of firepower to vard off any boarders. Dat shut him up.”
Surprised, Harry said, “You showed him the ship’s armory?”
“Yah. Ve haf many guns in our armory. In port on deck vetch ve alvays carry a .45 automatic, especially at night.” He shrugged, “International Law states ve
cannot carry veapons or arm a crew, but Captain Andress says yes, ve vill protect ourselves. Dat ass, Bert, he said he vanted a key to der armory. I said no! Did I do right?”
“You did right. He should not have a key to the armory,” Harry replied. “Alward has been talking all the time about pirates, too. Captain Andress said he’d have Sigmund conduct boarder repulsion classes, most likely today.”
“Good,” Sven grinned. “Dat should shut dem up.”
He sat quietly for several seconds. “It is too bad about dere ship. Der Olympic Star vent down vis all hands. Bert says der keel cracked und der ship broke in two und chust vent under dat fast. Der whole crew vas lost. Forty men. Sad.”
Harry’s attention perked up at the report of the loss of the vessel. All four of those Americans were on board. They all made it off, yet the entire Asian crew perished. And just what was the real name of the ship? It sounded different from what Doyle had just told him earlier. Something began nagging at Harry. He had to do some investigating, get more information about the four. Maybe they had taken more trouble on board than they had bargained for.
Picking up the binoculars, Harry began a sweep of the horizon again, then along the length of the ship and upwards toward the bridge. He was surprised to see Bert Kilgore with binoculars in his hands, and looking downward. Harry followed his gaze coming to rest on Osa lying on the last hatch cover on her towel sunbathing. Harry’s jaw line tightened, eyebrows furrowing in anger. Bert was definitely trouble.
“Harry,” said Sven tapping his friend on his shoulder, “Vill you do der crew a favor und play dose banjo records of yours? I’ve gotten a lot of requests from der crew to ask you—how about tonight?”
“No problem. We shall have banjo music tonight in the galley!” Harry replied with a quick grin, as he put the binoculars down. “Tonight.” Quickly dressing, he headed down the deck in the direction of the last hatch cover. Bert abruptly disappeared the moment he saw Harry hop up on the hatch cover and start talking to Osa.
At 1300 hours all hands not on duty were ordered topside for boarder repulsion training. First Officer Sigmund Helmstrund would conduct the training sessions. All weapons were brought from the armory. The ship’s armament consisted of four older Garand rifles, two Thompson sub-machine guns (most likely World War II vintage), a couple of Swedish rifles, four AK-47’s, several pistols and two 45 caliber automatics. Not the greatest fire power against a determined enemy with possibly greater fire power.
Harry took several minutes to check them over. He grimaced: rust on the barrels and on the lands and grooves. Not good! They’d have to be cleaned thoroughly!
Under the First Officer crew members were taught how to repel boarders trying to come over the railings, how to throw off grappling hooks, and so on. Harry took it upon himself to teach the art of fighting an opponent by parrying with a rifle, how to slam the butt of a rifle into an opponent’s face, neck or wherever you could damage him. He even drew upon his karate training to show a few simple moves to stop an opponent dead in his tracks.
Later, Harry popped a clip of ammo into one of the Garand rifles. He had Karl throw an empty white bucket overboard. As it splashed into the sea, he aimed and squeezed off eight quick, well-aimed shots at the bobbing bucket blowing it to bits.
For the next hour, he worked with seven men, training each on the firing of the American rifles and Russian-made AK-47‘s. The same group were then made responsible for cleaning those weapons and having them ready in the event of boarder repulsion. Another crew under the direction of the Second Officer, pursued the same routine.
To Harry’s surprise, Alward, Doyle and Bert joined in offering their thoughts about repulsing boarders from their experiences in the south seas.
“You’re pretty good with weapons,” Alward said to Harry later, slapping him on his shoulder. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“Parris Island, South Carolina,” Harry grinned. “Boot camp for Marine recruit training. I got a marksman medal.”
Bert glanced at Doyle and nodded. “Pretty good shot.”
CHAPTER 13
Not Everyone Likes Banjo Music
Detective Lui Chang stood in the fourth floor storage room quietly contemplating what may or may not have taken place there. The coroner said the bodies had been dead for several days. The last time anyone had seen Mr. Ma was that Friday when he took the Nurad’s captain, second officer and the American sea soldier to lunch, and then for a tour of the American’s old barracks building. Mr. Ma was not seen at all on Saturday. Therefore, it could reasonably be assumed he was killed Friday night.
Chang had brought along a couple of strong floodlights to light up the room for a closer inspection. Turning the two on, he beamed them to get the greatest visibility of the murder scene. Stepping inside the room, he moved to the centrally located dusty chimney. The American had been found with his head close to the base of the chimney facing toward Mr. Ma, who had apparently fallen backwards from the impact of the bullet smashing into his skull, and he lay closer to the battered wall.
It would seem possible that if the two were facing each other close at hand, that in the heat of an argument, Mr. Ma could have stabbed the American, Drezewski, with a knife. The American could have, then, pulled his gun from where he had fallen, and shot Mr. Ma. It was feasible. However, the American’s gun had fired two shots. And why did he have a silencer on the gun? Was it because he intended to do harm to Mr. Ma? If fired in the room no one would have heard the shots because of the silencer.
Looking upwards, Chang’s eyes scanned the ceiling. They zeroed in on a small hole. Could that be where the other bullet was? Stacking a couple of boxes of files one on top of the other, Chang stepped on top of the boxes, balancing precariously, while with a small pen knife, he dug into the ceiling. It took several minutes before he was rewarded with a spent, battered bullet. Two bullets fired; was this the first, or second, and why into the ceiling? He inspected the bullet, dropped it into his jacket pocket, then jumped down to the floor.
With hands on his hips, he faced the battered wall. Why was the wall so important? He would have a team of officers down here later on today to rip the facing off the wall and see what was so important behind the wall.
“Detective Chang,” came a voice. Chang turned. It was Professor Wei. He was holding a couple of strands of rope in his hand. “This was found in one of the lower level rooms. I don’t know if it would be important to your case, but a student has just brought it to my attention. There was also some blood smeared against one wall in the room.”
Chang’s face brightened at seeing the rope. He handled it. There was a trace of blood on it. Perhaps it was important. He followed Professor Wei down to the lower level to the small room. On hands and knees he examined the blood smeared against the wall. Someone had scraped against the wall. Perhaps a student. Perhaps not. He would check the blood samples of Mr. Ma and the American to see if there was a connection.
Back in the fourth floor room, he stood silently once again. Suppose, just suppose there had been others involved in the murders in this room. But, then they had to leave by the main door— and that was locked from the inside. It was a very interesting mystery.
He gave a shrug of his slim shoulders. At the moment, it still looked like a falling out between the two men. But where did Mr. Ma get a knife? He wouldn’t normally carry such a knife on his person unless, in this case, it was necessary. If it had been sheathed, where was the sheath? And one just doesn’t suddenly reach under his jacket and pull out a long knife and raise it to stab his adversary. The American could have shot Mr. Ma several times in the time it took Mr Ma to pull out his knife and unsheath it.
The situation was such that Chang felt it should be reported to the Police Captain, and Police Commissioner for possible investigation into the life of Mr. Ma, and the way he operated the Office of Port Authority. On the way out of the building, he stopped by the office and chatted momentarily with the young secretary. Would sh
e care to go out to dinner with him one evening? The Tivoli? With a shy smile, she nodded yes.
That evening the galley aboard Nurad was a scene of excitement. The word had spread that Harry would be bringing his banjo records to play for the crew. There were a couple dozen men there, some reading, some playing cards, others writing letters to loved ones at home. Osa sat alone at a table, excited, waiting for Harry. To her surprise, Bert, Doyle and Ace Dingman came into the galley. They grabbed cups of coffee, fresh jelly rolls, and found seats across the room.
Harry brought his records in amidst cheering crewmembers. Osa was quick to show him back to the record player, although she knew he was well aware of the ancient record player they had—and it wasn’t the best. Again, Harry stacked the albums on the spindle, leading off with the music of the Flint Banjo Club, the toe-tapping, hand clapping music always associated with the banjo. Then he hurried to join Osa.
The music filled the room. The crew went wild clapping hands, tapping toes, laughing and smiling. Harry grabbed a coffee and jelly roll and dropped in next to Osa. She squeezed his hand.
The Johnny Ford album brought a quietness to the galley. Johnny had that unique ability in his playing that quieted the room so they could hear every nuance of his banjo artistry.
“Hey! How about some rock and roll or something good!” Bert yelled out, standing up. “Cut the banjo crap! Let’s get some good music going—”
A surprised Doyle quickly grabbed his arm and jerked him back down in his seat. “Shut yer damned mouth,” he hissed. “They want banjo music!”
Bert angrily jerked his arm away from Doyle, shouting, “I don’t give a shit for that kind of music. I want some hot rock and roll music—not that crap!”
Several crewmen rose as one moving into a circle around the two. “Someting you don’t like?” asked Sven Johannsen angrily, hands balled into fists.