by Peter Corris
May Lin gasped and drew back. I stepped aside and let her retreat. I forced myself to examine the dead woman closely. There was bruising on her face and arms and a trickle of blood from her nose had dried on her upper lip among the dark hairs that almost gave her a moustache. There were marks on the skirt of her dress that looked like liquor spills. I touched the stain on the bedspread. It felt damp, or nearly so.
McVey was leaning against the door jamb. He lit a cigarette and puffed smoke into the room. 'Thoughts, Dick?' he said.
I shook my head. 'I can't see much. She was drunk. She fought. She got killed. Recently. That's all.'
I heard May Lin retching and the sound of water running into the kitchen sink. She came back, drying her face on a lace handkerchief that looked to be good only for getting a smut out of an eye. 'Why? Who?'
'Them's the questions, all right.' Pete said. 'Why're we here, Dick? I kind of forgot.'
'To talk to Miss Trudeau and see if Sallust left any writing here. But we've been well and truly beaten to the punch.'
McVey jabbed his cigarette at the devastated kitchen. 'Other rooms're like this. Hard to tell if they found anything or not.'
'They?' May Lin said.
McVey shrugged. 'Him, her, them or it, your call.'
I went back into the kitchen. 'Chandler said he'd hide anything where he hid his booze.'
'He'd know,' McVey said.
I scratched my chin and looked around the room. 'I suppose it depends on a lot of things—who you're hiding from, what sort of a house, what sort of booze.'
May Lin lit a cigarette and kept her gaze away from the door to the porch. 'He said he liked a corn whisky jug when he was really on a toot.'
'I'd put that outside,' McVey said. 'It's not inside drinking liquor.'
Pete and I went out the back door, down some steps into the yard. May Lin stayed in the kitchen, blowing smoke through the window over the sink.
'Stuck on her, aren't you?' McVey said.
'Yes.'
'Sure you can trust her?'
I grinned at him. 'I'm not sure I can trust you.'
The yard was more a less a duplicate of the front garden—trees and shrubs and vines, mostly fruit-bearing. There was a timber table and a couple of chairs arranged around where bricks and stones and an iron griddle had been set up so that you could cook over an open fire. This was before the barbecue craze and it made a nice, tasteful touch. The block ended in an impenetrable tangle of brush and vine that might have continued up into the foothills. No hiding places though. We went into the garage and looked at the car. It was a '41 Dodge coupé with a garage service sticker on the side window and books on the back seat. The late Beatrice Trudeau's car. There were no obvious dints and scratches so she couldn't have been drinking long. A drunk's car usually looks like the surface of a skating rink—I speak from experience.
Things were pretty orderly inside the garage, not that there were many things. Low workbench, a few tools on shelves, some empty oil cans, a couple of piles of newspapers. More signs of sobriety—a drunk's garage always overflows with empties. Pete prowled around the space, pushing this, kicking at that. He was brushing up against things and getting oil and dirt on his clothes and he didn't care. The garage floor was a series of large concrete slabs and Pete located the edge of each one and tested it for movement with his weight. I made a search of the car, just for something to do. It was clean and well cared for, meaning that there was nothing of interest inside.
'Hey?' Pete's voice sounded a note of hope.
I slammed the car door. 'What?'
Under a pile of burlap sacks he'd found a broken section of slab. He crouched and levered the concrete up with his fingers. It came easily. There was a hollowed-out space underneath it. A grey metal box, about the size of a Webster's Dictionary26, fitted neatly into the hole. Pete hooked his index finger through the small handle on the top of the box and pulled it clear. The box wasn't locked. Pete opened it and we saw a sheaf of paper within. The top sheet was covered with typescript, much annotated and emended in handwritten blue ink.
'Bingo,' he said.
He closed the box and we left the garage.
I said, 'Chandler was wrong. You wouldn't hide booze in a place like that.'
Pete grinned. 'No. Ray was right. There was a corn liquor jug in the sacks. Come to think of it, maybe I should get it. I could do with a drink.'
He thrust the box at me and I took it in both hands. It was getting dark now, time to switch on the lights in the house. Pete came back with his finger hooked through the ring on the neck of the jug. I looked up at the house, wondering why May Lin hadn't turned on a light. Maybe the power was off. Great; we could sit around and read Sallust's manuscript and drink his whiskey under candlelight. We went up to the house, climbed the steps and entered the kitchen.
'May Lin,' I said, 'we've found something.'
I turned on the light and blinked. Two figures stood clasped together in the middle of the room. A man and a woman. 'Mr Browning,' the man said, 'put the box on the table. Mr McVey, keep your hands where I can see them.'
We both obeyed. There was no point in arguing. The man was Big Sung and he had a pistol up against May Lin's temple.
22
'I am assuming that both of you gentlemen have guns,' Big Sung said. 'I want to see them on the table next to the box within three seconds. If I do not, May Lin dies.'
My hand shook as I took the .38 from its holster. There was plenty of Sung's body visible and I probably could have shot him, but not before he'd blown out May Lin's brains. I put my pistol on the table. 'Did you kill Tan and Beatrice Trudeau?' I said.
'Yes. Regrettably. But you can see why I would not hesitate to kill again. Mr McVey, if you please.'
'Do it, Pete,' I said.
McVey set the jug down at his feet and repeated my action. His great big gun lay on the table, as useless as a garden gnome. Sung moved gracefully. He released May Lin and swept up my .38. He checked it quickly, before Pete or I had time to do anything other than feel relief that May Lin didn't have a gun to her head. Sung now had a gun in each hand.
'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but I think it is necessary for all three of you to die.'
May Lin gasped. 'Sung, you could not kill me. You've known me all my life.'
Sung nodded. An oddly small movement for such a mountainous man. 'And hated you and all your kind.'
'My uncle?'
'Him, perhaps most of all.'
'I don't understand,' May Lin said.
'Me neither.' Pete McVey bent, picked up the jug and pulled the cork. He hooked his finger and swung the jug up in the approved manner and took a swig. He was taking a desperate chance, but he got away with it. 'Appreciate it if you'd tell us a few things before you kill us, brother. What's the harm?'
Sung's face and eyes were without expression. 'Put the jug down or I will shoot you where you stand.'
Pete finished his swig, but he lowered the jug to the floor. 'I just figured something out,' he said.
I was desperate to keep everyone talking. 'What?'
'I was wondering why whoever ripped this room and the others apart didn't tear up the room where the lady's lying. Then it came to me. And I guess a few other things fall into place too.'
Sung seemed almost interested, but the hands holding the guns didn't move a fraction. Handguns are heavy to hold for any length of time, but for a man like Sung that wouldn't matter. He had all three of us well covered and looked as if he could keep it that way as long as he liked.
'What the hell are you talking about, Pete?' I said.
'Did you notice the books in there?' He jerked his head at the enclosed porch.
I hadn't noticed anything in particular about the books, except that there were a lot. I had an impression of sameness, like you'd get from rows of encyclopedias. I said something to this effect.
Pete nodded. 'They're all about Communism—Marx, Lenin and those other jaspers. Must mean something to our friend here
, that he didn't turn them into confetti. I guess he ain't interested in the Sun, Moon and Stars gizmo.'
Sung sneered. 'Only to melt it down into bullets.'
May Lin gasped. 'Sung, a Communist? You?'
Sung's huge head dipped forward a fraction in agreement. 'And why not?' he said. 'I was not born into softness and self-indulgence like yourself, May Lin. I was born a peasant, almost a slave. If I had not been big and strong my blood and bones would be manuring some field in China like those of most of my class for a hundred generations.'
'We are working for a new China,' May Lin said softly. 'The old ways are finished. The people . . .'
'The people will be ground into the dust as they always have been, unless their true representatives hold power. Only through the Communist Party can the people achieve freedom.'
'As in Russia?' May Lin said, scornfully.
'China is not Russia. Things will be different.'
'You are a fool!'
I admit I sucked in a little air when May Lin said that. Brave, of course, but not wise when you're facing a killer with two guns. Keep the party going, Dick, I thought. I said, 'Where's Sallust?'
Sung shook his head. 'He had discovered that I was not quite the mindless thug that I seemed. I had to remove him. I feared that he might have written of what he knew. I still think it.'
Everyone except Sung looked at the metal box on the table.
'Took you a while to get here,' Pete said.
'Oh, I did not find out about this place from Sallust. He told me nothing. He died very bravely.'
A chill entered the air.
'I told my uncle,' May Lin said. 'Sung must have learned of it through him. My uncle trusts Sung. He has done so for many years.'
'Chiang Kai-shek and the Kuomintang are no different from the warlords I served in my youth. They are murderers who will grind the faces of the poor just the same.'
'No,' May Lin said.
'What about Sallust's sister?' I said. 'Why did you kill her?'
There was a definite expression on Sung's face now—sadness. 'I did not wish to kill her. When I told her that her brother was dead, she became hysterical. She attacked me. Then she pleaded with me to kill her. She said she would expose me and others, that she would betray the Communist Party of America to the authorities. She had lost her faith. She had turned to drink. Poor woman. I obliged her.'
'And you talk of murderers,' May Lin said.
Sung didn't answer. I had the feeling that we were running out of time. I racked my brain for something to say and only a name surfaced. 'Joe Herman,' I said. 'Does he have anything to do with this?'
Sung lifted the muzzle of my .38 a fraction. 'A good Communist,' he said. 'For a Russian. And now I must ask you to turn around very slowly.'
I was sure this was it. I glanced at May Lin. Her full lower lip was caught in her teeth and her eyes were huge. She had never looked more beautiful. It was only her presence that stopped me falling on my knees and making some kind of plea to Sung. As it was, I closed my eyes and began to turn slowly. May Lin did the same. My heart was crashing in my chest; blood roared so loudly in my head that I knew I wouldn't hear the shots. My mouth and throat dried; I felt my bowels loosening; I didn't want to die but I couldn't do a thing to prevent it.
Pete McVey dived for his gun. Desperation made him lightning fast. He got his hand on it. Everything seemed to move in slow, loopy motion. I saw McVey's finger uncurl as it reached for the trigger. His face was a snarling mask of hate and fear. Then there was an explosion and the top half of Pete's head disintegrated. Sung had used his own gun, which must have had some kind of soft-head load. Total destruction. I wanted to move but I couldn't. I wanted to scream but my throat had seized up.
Sung didn't watch Pete slump to the floor. He pointed the .38 at May Lin's chest. I closed my eyes again.
Two shots shook the walls.
23
The blood that splattered over May Lin, me and the body of Pete McVey was Big Sung's. The shooter was Loren Duke. He stepped from the enclosed part of the porch and for a moment I thought he was going to blow smoke from the muzzle of his pistol. He didn't. He took two steps into the kitchen and looked at Sung, who was flat on his back in a large, but not spreading, pool of blood.
'Not very good shooting,' Duke said. 'Got him in the neck before I hit the heart.'
I was shaking. I grabbed at May Lin, partly to touch her, partly for support. 'It was good enough,' I said. 'Thanks. Pity you were too late to save Pete.'
Duke nodded and touched Sung's shoulder with the toe of his high-heeled boot. 'Gutsy guy. He saved your asses. It's a mite hard to shoot a man in the back without warning, and I sure as hell wasn't going to ask him to turn round.'
May Lin slumped into a chair. I lit cigarettes for the three of us and we smoked for a while before speaking. You see people walk away nonchalant from shoot-outs in the movies. It's not like that. Everyone who survives is in shock. I picked the jug up, found some unbroken glasses and poured three shots. I felt as if I could've drunk the whole lot. The air in the kitchen was filled with the smell of cordite but tobacco smoke was gaining on it.
Duke accepted a second drink, tossed it off quickly and said, 'Phone is where? I gotta call this in.'
'Just a minute,' I said, 'did you hear all that?'
'Sure did. You thought you'd given me the slip, but I followed you from the studio to here. I saw the big Chink—excuse me, Miss—the Chinaman, come out of a hidey hole and I hopped in the little room there. Holy Christ—excuse me again—I like to shit when you started talking about the books. Thought you might all come in and take a look around.'
'I mean, you heard he was a Communist agent of some kind?'
'Helped me to shoot him,' Duke said. 'I hate those bastards.'
May Lin was sitting at the table, smoking and staring straight in front of her. I went over and put my arm around her shoulders. She moved towards me slightly. I caressed her neck. I looked down at Pete McVey and gave him a silent thank you.
'What about Joe Herman?' I said.
Duke was on his way out of the room. He half-turned and grinned at me. 'Now that's a long story. We've had our eye on him for a time. Him and that Film and Photo League27. What d'you think I've been doing, hanging around like I have?'
Duke went away to phone. May Lin and I sat together, not talking. Men arrived, not cops, and took the bodies away. Duke said he'd contact Pete's relatives and arrange for his car to be garaged somewhere. He took all the guns. That left the box.
'Better take a look,' Duke said. 'Might have something about the Commies we oughta know.'
I opened the box and took out a stack of paper. There were three hundred sheets full of neat typing. It was a novel entitled The Sin. Duke and I looked at it without comprehension. How do you find out if there's anything you need to know in three hundred pages? May Lin picked up the manuscript and started flicking through it. She read here and there, glanced backwards and forwards through the typescript before putting it back in the box.
An FBI man was hovering near the door. Duke waved him away. 'Well Miss, what's it about?'
'Incest,' May Lin said.
Duke detailed the waiting agent to drive us back to the Bryson. He said he'd be by to get a full statement from us. We nodded and went, doing what we were told, all the way.
Back at the apartment, May Lin phoned her uncle and told him about Big Sung. She did that in English, then she spoke in Chinese for a while. I looked at her enquiringly when she'd finished.
'I was telling him that we found out nothing about the Sun the Moon and the Stars.'
'Right,' I said. 'Maybe Sue Cheng's going to pick it up in Hawaii.'
'Maybe.' She sat next to me and we kissed. 'I'm sorry about Mr McVey.'
'Me too. He was a good guy. It shouldn't have happened. What about you, darling? Are you going to go on with this treasure hunt?'
She snuggled closer. 'No, Richard. I'm finished with all that. Maybe some of the t
hings Big Sung said were true. Maybe the revolution in China is not really finished. I'm confused and you can't do that kind of work unless you are very sure.'
'Will you be able to pull out, just like that?'
She told me she could, courtesy of Singapore Sam who was a bigger wheel in the Chinese community than I'd realised. She also told me something about her own background—her Chinese father, Australian mother, eastern college education, failed marriage. It took quite a long time and a few cold drinks and we were in bed together by the time she finished. There was no question of making love, and no question of taking our arms from around each other.
'Now, you tell me about you,' she said into my shoulder.
'Take too long,' I said. 'I'm so much older.'
'How much?'
She was thirty-four. I lied and said, 'Ten years. I'll tell you tomorrow.' That would give me time to get a story straight.
She touched me gently in one of the right places. 'That's not so old.'
I was almost asleep. 'A pity about Herman,' I murmured. 'There goes our trip to Australia.'
But it didn't work out like that at all. May Lin and I stayed in the apartment for a couple of days, getting to know each other, making plans and waiting for someone from the studio to come and throw me out. It didn't happen. Our first visitor was Bobby Silkstein, who was polite to me, courtly to May Lin and didn't say anything at all about me going off salary. In fact, he delivered a salary cheque, with bonuses, minus his commission. He took us out to lunch at the Brown Derby and Spencer Tracy came over to our table to say hello. May Lin was very impressed. So was I. Tracy gave me a big Irish wink that I didn't know how to interpret.