Pagoda, page 10
“Thanks.” Gall waved the check gently. “I leave next Thursday.”
“If you want to,” said Varley, rubbing his sparse pate. “It’s a pretty good job.”
“Sure. But in a little while there’ll be some funerals.” Gall put the wallet back in his pocket and walked away, toward the far end of the swimming pool and the club gates.
On the drive back to town Gall scarcely noticed the crowds that eddied and surged up to the fenders. At traffic intersections he gazed idly at the white uniformed policemen, semaphoring their arms wildly, and when the car reached the Bank of Australia he stalked out and past the armed guard.
Arranging for the money to be transmitted to his account in the Tulsa bank took only a few minutes. Mr. Tyler-Henderson, the manager, handled the matter personally. When he had filled out the triplicate forms, Gall signed them, and the seal was affixed. As he reached over the desk and handed Gall his receipted copy, the Australian smiled ruefully. He was a man of middle years, with a defeated, sandy mustache.
“You do very well, Captain,” he said politely. “That represents over ten years’ salary for me.”
“Yes.” Gall got up. “But perhaps you don’t have to do the same things I do.”
Tyler-Henderson frowned. “True,” the banker admitted, getting up and shaking hands. “Very definitely true. It’s a chancy business you chaps run.”
He had misunderstood the remark completely, but Gall just shook hands and left. He knew the banker would drawl some remark on the Kokine Club terrace about the cheeky Yank, making such a great deal of his part in a small war. Just let it stand, thought Gall; it’s only one of a few million misunderstandings. Walking out into the blinding sunlight, he told Eusoof to drive back to the Strand.
At the hotel desk he got a pass key to Chet Starrett’s room and walked upstairs. Closing the door behind him, he looked over the empty room. One white sharkskin suit and two dark ones were hanging in the closet. A newspaper was crumpled on the couch, just as Starrett had left it, and a battered B4 bag yawned open on a teak stand. Be in there somewhere, he thought, and walked to it.
But there were no letters in the bag. Neatness had not been one of Starrett’s virtues: the bag was a rat’s nest of disorder. That was a strange thing, too, because the lean pilot had been as meticulous as an old maid about his plane. Opening the bureau, Gall found several ivory boxes and trays, a battered cordovan wallet, and a well traveled electric razor. The wallet was jammed with cards and papers. One of them was engraved in green; it read “A. A. Karim,” and in smaller letters, “Dealer in gold, silver, all precious stones, and commission agent. 126 Mogul Street, Rangoon.”
Gall pawed through the wallet impatiently. There was an old social-security card, several lapsed flying licenses for heavy equipment, and one of Lloyd Varley’s personal cards. Scribbled on the back of that one was: “I hereby authorize Chester Starrett the use of my rooms in the Peninsula Hotel while he is in Hong Kong,” and it was initialed “L. V.”
There was no home address. The last item in the wallet was a murky snapshot of Starrett standing beside a strung-up marlin. On the bottom was a notation, “Mazatlan, June, 1947.” Cramming all the cards and papers in the wallet, Gall tossed it back into the bureau. He had an uneasy sense of trespassing, but he knew he must screen all the belongings before he shipped them back to the States.
The drawer in the bedside table held what he was looking for, a small stack of letters. There was feminine handwriting on the envelopes, and the return address was Mrs. Chester A. Starrett, 1722 Windsor Place, Ventura, California. Picking up the phone, Gall called the radio room at Mingaladon. Yes, the crash of Yoke was confirmed. The four bodies were being flown back by Captain McCarl, in X Ray, and they should arrive in half an hour. Gall murmured thanks, hung up, and called Mr. Djingheuz. Would the hotel manager contact the best local mortician and have him sent out to the airdrome right away?
Djingheuz did not understand what mortician meant. When Gall explained about the crash, he said: “Certainly, sir. Right away.” Obliging as ever.
Stuffing one of the letters into his pocket, Gall went back downstairs and rode across town to the cable office. There he wrote out three drafts, in quick succession. The third one said: “Deeply regret inform you Chester Starrett killed in crash today. Please advise if you wish remains shipped Ventura. Detailed letter follows.”
Brutal, he thought, reading it over. But how could you keep it from being brutal? No help to add any sauce about what a fine pilot he was. Shaking his head, Gall wondered what the wife looked like, and if they had been happy together. He crumpled the message and threw it on the floor; the clerk regarded him with mild interest. I’ll do it later, thought Gall. Maybe I can make it less like a meat ax. There’s no hurry, anyway.
He went back to the station wagon, and Eusoof inquired, “Where will the master go now?”
Gall hesitated. He wanted to get back to Ugette, but he decided not to. Better keep going, he thought. Might as well check with Major Ferrara on the ammo ferry deal. “War Office,” he answered. As they drove, he kept remembering how skillfully Starrett had handled the tense pilots that morning.
Ferrara’s face was troubled. He came around the desk and shook hands abstractedly. The dark major murmured that he was very sorry to hear about Captain Starrett.
“He took the risk,” said Gall brusquely. “It was bad luck.” The major said Yes, but such a capital fellow, so quiet and well mannered. It took several minutes to get him off the subject and into a discussion of the ammunition haul. They planned the details of the operation for some time, and it was nearly three o’clock when Gall walked out of the ugly brick building.
As he got out of the station wagon at the Strand Hotel, he saw an enormous pile of luggage on the sidewalk. Must have emptied a whole floor, he thought, pushing around the chattering chokras and into the lobby. William seemed surprised to see him; the servant was kneeling, polishing shoes. He was not wearing his pagri, and he scrambled up as Gall came into the suite.
“What’s all the stuff on the sidewalk?” asked the American. “Is Rotary Burma having a convention here?”
“No, sir.” The bearer was hastily putting his shoe-shining equipment away. “The Russian mission is leaving Rangoon.”
Gall dropped on the couch and tossed his cap into a chair. “Temporary, William. I fear the gentlemen will be back. Where’s Miss Le Blanc?”
“She went to Mingaladon, sir. She went to meet you.”
Gall started. “What’s that?”
“A Lloyd’s master called three times. He said it was about the plane in Maymyo, about the insurance.” William got to his feet. “And another call came. It was a man who said the mem sahib was to come meet you. At Mingaladon.”
Gall reached for his cap and lunged toward the door. When he hit the top of the stairs he was running. Eusoof was polishing the hood of the station wagon; he looked up in astonishment as his master came charging down the sidewalk. Motioning the driver into the other door Gall got under the wheel.
He raced through town at a furious rate of speed. The officious traffic policemen waved and whistled frantically as he came whining through the crowded intersections, but he did not slow up. Catapulting around both sides of traffic, the station wagon grazed bullock carts and scraped past buses. At the city limits, Gall opened the car up. Eusoof was frightened but enthralled. He sat with his nose pressed against the windshield, watching the vehicles ahead swerve out of their path.
Gall came to a brief halt before the Ghurka barricade, and then jammed the gear lever forward again. When they were approaching the administration building, he glanced at the revetments and saw Catalina X Ray parked there. Jerking the hand brake on, he got out and plunged into the building.
Entering the office at a run, he saw Ugette sitting behind his desk. Her high-heeled shoes were propped on a chair, and she was smiling at him. Slowing down, panting, he walked forward.
“Scared hell out of me, Baby,” he said. “What are you—”
She smiled and started to answer, and then her face changed. Her feet swung out of the chair; she was looking past him. Puzzled, Gall watched her come around the desk. Something clunked on the floor and he wheeled around.
A rock, he thought. Someone threw a rock through the open window. But the rock rolled a few feet and stopped, and he saw that it was an egg-shaped rock, made of ridged metal. In that one congealing instant, she got by him and fell forward. She hit the floor, protecting her face with both forearms, like a boxer. Then the office erupted.
Gall was blown back across the desk and into the metal filing cabinet, bending its door in under the impact of his weight. He slid to the floor. The acrid odor of cordite filled the room, and people began running all over the building. Gall could see them through the haze because the teakwood partitions had been blown flat. Some of them were running toward the explosion, but most of them were running out of the building. Whitish smoke coiled against the high ceiling.
Gall heaved up. His left arm was numb, but his legs seemed to be all right. Bulling through the frightened spectators, he stumbled to the station wagon. As he circled the building, the gears whined as though trying to come out of the car. There was a billowing plume of dust down the road, and Gall jammed the accelerator to the floor. Leaning over the wheel, his left arm hanging useless, he roared past the Ghurka guardhouse. He hunched and braced, waiting for the rifles to speak.
But for some reason they did not fire on him. He bucketed along, picking up speed all the tíme, and as he approached the highway intersection he saw that the vehicle ahead was a jeep. It turned north, toward Pegu. Steadying the kicking wheel with his elbow, Gall jerked the pistol from his shoulder holster. The station wagon was overtaking the jeep rapidly, and the driver was looking back over his shoulder. As he roared even with the smaller vehicle, Gall gritted his teeth and threw the wheel hard left.
The tires of the station wagon screamed; it hurtled across the road and smashed into the jeep. Both cars ran off the road and slammed into a tree with a jolt that snapped Gall’s head forward and starred the windshield. The shock of the impact had wrecked the door on Gall’s side, so he clawed out the other one and ran around the car.
The driver of the jeep had been thrown clear. He scrambled up and began running. Gall stopped, and the heavy automatic pistol jumped in his hand. The running man took a leg hit and floundered to the ground, his face drawn with astonishment as he clutched at his knee. Walking into him, Joe Gall emptied the clip into his head.
For a few seconds he stood swaying and staring down. Killed a stranger, he thought dully. Wonder who the hell he was? The dying man lay where the slugs had shaken him, and dark flies already began to cluster on his head wounds. Turning, Gall went back to the station wagon. Leaning on the fender, he retched violently.
After resting a few minutes, he tried to start the car. The left front fender was crumpled down on the tire, and he had to pull it free. Finally, he had an inch of clearance, and he backed the car out on the road. When he stopped before the guardhouse, the spindly-legged Ghurka sentries came forward and gazed impassively at his bloodied sleeve. When he asked about the woman, they said she had just been driven by. Nodding, Gall reversed the station wagon slowly and headed it toward Rangoon.
The sunny road was wavering, and several times he had to stop and let it clear up. Once he was sick again, and had to get out of the car. Wonder where my cap is, he thought, vaguely touching his bare head. It was only when the pistol struck his temple that he realized he was still holding it, clutched tight in his hand. Dropping it on the seat, he found driving a great deal easier. Rolling slowly, he went down Prome Road past the prison, and stopped by the side of the hospital.
The nurse in the starched cap did not understand him. She looked up from the registry and said they had no Miss LeBlanc.
“Emergency,” rasped Gall. “Happened at the airport.” Pushing by her protests, he went down the hall until he found surgery. Dr. Sakalin was inside, working over a sheeted form. The little doctor glanced up from the surgical field, and his eyes were flat above the white mask.
“Get out of here,” he said.
“Is she all right?” Gall was wavering in the doorway.
“Get out!” Sakalin was enraged; the force of his shout billowed the gauze mask. “Get yourself looked at.” Then, murmuring angrily to the nurses, the doctor dropped his head again.
One of the nurses came across the room and took Gall’s elbow. Turning him out the door, she helped him to a smaller room down the hall. Clucking softly, she slit his sleeve and cleaned the shrapnel wounds. The alcohol stung; Gall stood with his eyes closed and his face white with pain. When that was done, she made him sit down, and removed his pants. After examining him carefully, she told him to rest, and walked out of the room briskly.
He was awakened by a voice. Rousing, he winced and saw that it was nearly dark. Dr. Sakalin was standing in front of him, lighting a cigarette. The little man was still in his surgical gown, but he was not wearing the cap or mask. Handing Gall the cigarette, he lighted another and sat down beside him.
“She was badly hurt.” The doctor drew on the cigarette. “Fortunately, no major blood supply affected, but she must have been very close.”
“She fell on it,” said Gall thickly. The first drag at the cigarette had nearly blacked him out.
“The abdominal wounds are the worst.” Sakalin sounded cross. “I gave her plenty of penicillin, but she is hurt in many places.”
“Will she … do all right?” Gall squinted at the tip of his cigarette, and the doctor shrugged.
“Go to Judah Ezekiel Street. See a teller of fortunes. She was badly hurt, and I have done what I could.”
“Could I see her?”
“No.” The doctor was wearing tennis shoes. He removed them and groaned with relief as he massaged his feet. Standing up, he reached behind his back and unknotted the strings of the surgical gown and let it fall. Gall realized he must be in the surgeon’s dressing room. The doctor stepped into the shower stall and turned on the water.
Gall shouted, “You never sent me a bill for the other time.”
The doctor poked his head around the shower curtain. “You got well,” he answered. “It is a great pity. If you had died, I would have sent you a bill. You can see her in the morning.”
When Gall got outside, he found a trio of policemen waiting beside the station wagon. They announced that he was under arrest for having grossly violated the traffic regulations of Rangoon town; but even as they pronounced all the separate offenses they were staring curiously at his shredded and bloodied shirt.
Sliding under the wheel, Gall asked them to get in touch with Major Ferrara at the War Office to inquire about the grenade explosion at Mingaladon Airdrome. One of the Kin walked into the hospital, and the other two eyed him with a surreptitious respect. Gall leaned his head on the wheel, but the horn blared and he jerked back. Hanging his arms across the back of the front seat, he waited.
The third policeman came back in a few minutes and said that the American was not under arrest, but that he must appear tomorrow and pay a fine. Gall straightened up, said, “Sure,” and asked if one of them could drive him to the hotel. The nearest policeman got under the wheel and steered the station wagon out into the rush of twilight traffic. In a few minutes they drew up beside the Strand, and Gall gave the officer twenty rupees, took the keys, and walked into the lobby.
People turned as he trudged toward the stairway. The orchestra was playing its usual muted, ancient dance music, and patrons looked up from the crowded bar tables as the hatless American stalked by. His face was sweat-stained, and the bloody left sleeve was swinging clear of his arm. Clinging to the marble balustrade with his good hand, he mounted the stairs.
He was sitting on the couch, safely inside the suite, when William parted the silk curtains and came pattering forward.
“Master was hurt?” inquired the servant. “He requires a doctor?”
“No.” Gall reached for a cigarette. He found the pocket ripped and the cigarettes torn. Don’t remember that, he reflected, and asked the bearer to get him another pack from the almirah. William went into the bedroom and came back swiftly, tearing the cellophane from the package. He knocked out a cigarette deftly, put it in Gall’s mouth, and lighted it.
“Master will eat now?”
“A bath first. Make it hot.” Gall took a deep drag and sat listening as William moved into the bathroom and turned on the water. Over the balcony a lopsided moon was rising above the dark water, and he thought about Ugette. Why did she do a stupid thing like that, he wondered angrily. Why in the hell had she bothered? He hoped her face would not be scarred.
William came back out of the bathroom hurriedly to answer the knock at the door. There was a murmur of conversation beyond the thin curtains, and the servant returned. “It is a newspaperman to see master,” he reported.
Gall shook his head groggily. “I’m gone to Tibet. I’m out.”
“Sorry. Too late.” An indistinct figure was behind the foyer curtains. “Already in, you know.”
“Okay,” said Gall. “Come all the way in.”
The figure stepped forward and became a neat-looking, diminutive man in Western attire. “Albert Yone, editor of the Rangoon Mail,” he announced.
“Sit down, Mr. Yone.” Gall told William to fix two drinks. Yone was young; he wore a tab collar and a bright red tie, and Gall decided that he must be some kind of Chinese-Burmese mixture. His features were dark, but clearly cut. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Hate to be a nuisance.” Yone’s tone was without a trace of embarrassment. “I went to the airdrome to check the bombing of your office. A most unfortunate occurrence. But I found something else that was—interesting.”
He’s smelled something, thought Gall, and he’s quivering with it. William came from the sideboard with the drinks, and the newspaperman took his, smiling thanks. Gall raised his glass.
