Pagoda, page 4
At ten o’clock, dressed in his best whites and a topee, he caught a cab for the War Office. It was a huge gaunt building surrounded by barbed-wire barricades ten feet high. Gall explained his business to the officer at the gate, and was given a pass and an escort. He walked the length of the first floor in the drafty building, past rows of cubicles where officers were working. Most of them glanced up as he passed.
At the head of the stairway, on the second floor, another guard inspected his pass and directed him to the anteroom of a large office. Over the door, a neatly lettered sign read:
U WIN TUN
PERMANENT SECRETARY
WAR OFFICE
The American sat down in a rattan chair and waited, turning the scuffed map case in his hands. Twenty minutes went by, and he was thinking of asking for some action when the swinging doors were pushed open. An officer in a British colonel’s uniform was smiling at him.
“Will you come in, please?” the officer asked.
“Thanks.” Gall got up and walked into the inner office. A slender, lemon-colored man was standing behind an immense expanse of desk, smiling gently. As Gall went forward to shake hands, he reflected that the man behind the desk could not be more than thirty years old.
“I am U Win Tun,” said the slender man, and waved his hand. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you.” Gall sat in the middle chair. “I’m Captain Joseph Gall, in charge of operations for Varley Airways.”
“Ah, yes. So pleased to see you.” The youthful Burman nodded pleasantly. “We had been expecting Mr. Varley.”
“He could not come, sir. I am his official agent, empowered to sign the contract.” Gall zipped his map case open and drew forth the power of attorney. While U Win Tun surveyed the document gravely, the colonel-aide stood directly behind the American’s chair. Gall got the impression that all of them in that building were very gun-shy, and that the colonel was set there especially to watch him. Win Tun finished reading the power of attorney and nodded.
“It seems in order,” he said. Opening the middle drawer of his desk, he drew out a sheaf of papers. The top third of each sheet was covered by pale-green engraving depicting stylized pagodas and couchant lions. There were four copies of the contract, and when Gall was handed one he read it swiftly.
“Perhaps,” suggested the War Secretary, “you would like to study it overnight, Captain Gall?”
“No, sir.” Gall shook his head. “The terms are correct. I am ready to sign.”
“I see.” The young Secretary glanced over his head at the colonel. “We understood that Mr. Marino would be with you.”
“Not necessary, sir.” Gall felt his stomach tighten. “Mr. Marino has been very helpful, but he has no official connection with Varley Airways. I am the only person with authority to sign.”
U Win Tun smiled as blandly as before, but his gaze flickered up toward the colonel again. It was quiet in the long office. Troops were being drilled in the courtyard below the windows, and shouted commands floated up through the sunlit somnolence. Win Tun glanced toward the telephone and drummed on the desk with his fingers.
“As you wish, Captain,” he said finally. Leaning forward, he began to sign the ornate contracts. Gall sat waiting, listening to the scratch of the pen. When all four copies had been signed by U Win Tun, he put his own signature to them.
After the actual signing, the colonel initialed the documents as a witness for the Government of the Union of Burma. There was a slight delay when it became apparent that Gall had no one to witness for his company, but the American said that any person of U Win Tun’s choosing would be satisfactory. A naval commander was summoned; he shook hands with Gall gravely, scrawled his initials, and departed again. The colonel-aide then affixed the great seal of Burma, and the ceremony was completed.
As he stood up to shake hands with Win Tun, Gall felt the tension begin to drain out of his shoulders. He thanked the War Secretary, and said that his company would strive to render satisfactory service.
“Splendid,” said the War Secretary. “When can you begin?”
“Sir,” answered Gall, “I cannot fly in these clothes. It will take ten minutes to get to the hotel, and twenty more to get to Mingaladon Airdrome. So we could not possibly fly our first trip in less than thirty minutes.”
U Win Tun laughed out loud, and said that such haste would not be necessary. Even the watchful colonel was amused. The Secretary told him to take Captain Gall to the office of Q Movements, and Gall followed him out of the room. On the third floor Gall met Major Ferrara, a handsome Anglo-Burman who would be in charge of scheduling his flights. After the three of them had chatted for several minutes, the colonel shook hands and withdrew.
For nearly two hours Major Ferrara briefed Gall on the fields that were held by government forces, and the water landings which were considered safe. Finally the American had a complete set of notes on runway conditions and six sets of maps covering the entire country. Ferrara had been educated in England, and he was very voluble in his liking for the United States. After considerable small talk, which covered movie stars and politics, the major said he would call Gall at the hotel later.
Feeling elated, his copy of the contract safely inside the map case, Gall started down the stairs. He had just reached the first floor when Marino came rushing down the long hallway. The fat man was an amazing sight; he wore tailored shorts and a sleeveless jacket of lustrous white sharkskin. As he approached, Gall noticed again how light he was on his feet.
“So you signed it?” he demanded accusingly.
“I came here to sign it,” said Gall. He smiled cheerfully.
“All right.” Marino teetered on his toes, jingling some coins in his pocket. “But it means nothing. It was a silly, footling trick, and I will have you deported before tomorrow night.”
“It’s possible,” admitted Gall. “I’m a stranger here. And a man built like you are, with guts enough to wear shorts in public, would try anything.”
Stepping carefully around Marino, he went on down the hall. Outside, in the blinding sunlight, he found that his cab was gone, but the duty officer telephoned for another. While he was waiting, Marino came storming back out of the headquarters building. The fat man walked within two feet of Gall on his way back to the black Packard, but did not speak. Gall watched him drive away, and smiled faintly. Sweat was beginning to stain his clothes, but he did not mind at all. The first hurdle was safely over.
On his way back to the hotel, Gall noticed an automobile agency with two American station wagons on the floor. He stopped the cab, told the driver to wait, and walked in. He asked for the man in charge. This turned out to be a Mr. MacLendon, an affable Scotsman who shook hands cordially and invited Gall into his office. There he offered a cigar, and said Yes, the station wagons were for sale.
“Fine,” said Gall. “I will pay cash, and would like to have them delivered this afternoon.”
MacLendon laughed. “You Yanks,” he said. “I would examine the machines first, and maybe try to beat the price a little.”
“I don’t have time,” answered Gall, and they walked out to look the two cars over. Because of the cash purchase, MacLendon agreed to furnish the licenses and to have VARLEY AIRWAYS painted on the doors in gilt. They were discussing the details of delivery when MacLendon was called back to his office to answer the phone.
He was gone only a few minutes, and when he returned his ruddy face was troubled. “There’s a hitch,” he said. “These cars were ordered for a chap up in Pegu, but with the war so near his factory, he could not take delivery. Just now he called and said he wanted them after all. I’m frightfully sorry.”
Joe Gall looked him over carefully. “You said they were for sale, and I did not question your price.”
MacLendon seemed to be genuinely unhappy. “I quite appreciate that, but this other commitment…”
“All right,” said Gall, and walked out to his cab. In the next hour he visited three other auto agencies. All had cars on the floor, from Citroëns to Dodges, and all regretted that they could not sell any vehicles to the American. No, even the used cars were allocated. After the fourth refusal, Gall got back in the cab. He sat there wondering how to beat the obvious squeeze play that Marino was putting on him. With the airport eighteen miles from town, he could not operate without motor transport. He was still meditating when the driver of the cab turned.
“Master is going to the British places,” said the driver. “He will never get cars there.”
“Okay, Gunga Din,” said Gall, slamming the door. “Take me to a non-British place.”
The driver salaamed, and drove several miles through heavy traffic. Finally he stopped before a nondescript building jammed between ancient houses. The area looked like a slum and smelled like a sewer. The driver said that the owner was a Chinese, Sing Lee, and had many cars. Gall grunted thanks, got out, and walked into the dingy office. An elderly Chinese in a black button cap was sitting behind a desk.
“Do you have cars for sale?” asked the American.
“Yes, yes,” said Sing Lee promptly, as though he had been waiting some time for Gall. Turning, he went through the back door of the office, and Gall followed him. The place was large and musty, like an abandoned warehouse, but there were nine cars parked in it. On the far side, against the wall, stood three new International station wagons.
The transaction required ten minutes. The price was far too high, nearly $5,000 apiece, but Gall wrote out a draft on the Bank of Australia and waited while the elderly merchant called the branch bank downtown. Going back outside, Gall asked the helpful young cab driver how much he earned. The driver pursed his lips and reflected. It was not his cab, he was paid by the week, and it came to rupees 140 a month.
“You just changed jobs,” said Gall. “Take the cab back to the man who owns it, and meet me at the Strand Hotel in twenty minutes. You are now making rupees 300 a month.”
The boy nodded soberly and drove off at a furious rate, his horn sounding continuously. Going back into the office, Gall asked Sing Lee to furnish a driver for him, in one of the station wagons, back to the hotel. The Chinese merchant nodded, tucked up his robe, and got under the wheel. At the hotel, he bowed politely, gave Gall the keys, and said the other two machines would be delivered in the morning.
As he was going across the lobby, Gall heard the desk clerk call his name. With new respect in his face, the clerk handed him a cable. He took it and ripped the cheap paper envelope with his forefinger. It was an express message, addressed to Gall, Varways, Rangoon, and read:
“DAN SAYS INSULTED BY YOU WAR OFFICE ALIENATED MAY LOSE CONTRACT PSE ADVISE IMMEDIATELY”
The cable was signed “Varley.” His head still down, Gall turned and collided with someone.
Murmuring apologies, he stepped backward. The man he had bumped into was a bulky officer in a dark uniform. He wore a visored cap with a red star set in the front of it, and his hair was cropped and blond below the cap. When Gall apologized again, the officer shrugged in annoyance and went on to the desk.
Upstairs, in the suite, William was waiting with a plate of sandwiches and a pot of tea. The tea was hot; and as he poured it and began to wolf the sandwiches, Gall reflected that the servant must have been watching him from the balcony.
“Who is the man in the dark uniform?” he asked, stirring his tea. “The heavy master with the starred cap?”
William stepped forward from the corner. “He is Russian, sir. There are ten of them living on the third floor.”
“What are they doing in Rangoon?”
“They are with a trade delegation, master,” said William.
“All military?” When the bearer nodded, the American munched thoughtfully on another sandwich. “What kind of trade do soldiers make?” he asked. But William did not reply, only inclined his head in question.
After he had bathed and changed into a khaki uniform, Gall went downstairs and found the ex-taxi driver polishing the new station wagon and haranguing a group of interested bystanders. As the American approached, the driver shouted, “Burra sahib!” and flung the back door open. Grinning, Gall got in and told him to go to Mingaladon Airdrome.
On the way out of town, they circled the Shwedagon, the huge pagoda. Its gold roof glinted in the noon sun like a tremendous pointed mushroom, and Gall wondered why he had not noticed it before. Mohamed, the young driver, spoke good English, and he explained about the jewels set in the roof. One of the sapphires, he said, was bigger than a man’s fist. Mohamed’s driving technique was based on a constant use of the horn; he sounded it tirelessly as the station wagon went winding across town and out Prome Road.
For the next four hours, Gall walked the airport from one end to the other. He routed his spare parts through customs and had them locked in a storeroom; he visited the Director of Civil Aviation, and got hangar and shop space assigned; at the petrol storage camp of Burma Shell, he arranged for twenty-four-hour servicing on the planes, if it was required; he arranged for the Varley employees to sign meal chits in the restaurant; he hired four Japanese carpenters to build cabinets and partitions in the office space.
The stocky carpenters measured and consulted, and reported that the work would require three days. Then Gall said he would pay them double wages if they would complete it in a day and a half. That brought on another caucus, and they agreed to the new terms. He then told them to use wallboard or plasterboard, something that could be erected quickly, but the carpenters informed him, through Mohamed, that wallboard would be too expensive. They would have to use teak. Gall did not smile as he told them to use any cheap local material that was suitable.
It was dusk when he got back in the station wagon and started toward town. Three of the Filipino mechanics who had been working on the plane were in the back seat, and Gall rode in front, next to Mohamed. In the lowering darkness they halted before the road blockade, and Gall again exhibited the Oklahoma driver’s license. Its validity was unimpaired, and the station wagon was waved onward.
They were humming down the highway when there was a sharp cracking sound. At first Gall thought a spring leaf had snapped, but the car was out of control. Mohamed slumped against Gall, and the American grabbed at the wheel. The station wagon ran down into a ditch and across it into a grove of trees. With one hand Gall switched off the ignition and hurriedly clawed his way over the limp driver. For interminable seconds, in the deep shade of the trees, his foot groped for the starter. When the motor roared, he wheeled the car around and back onto the highway.
He drove toward Rangoon full throttle, and the new vehicle lurched wildly as it struck holes in the worn asphalt. His right hand felt sticky, and he raised it from the wheel to see that an ebony ribbon was trailing down his fingers. After he had driven for several miles, to within sight of the city, he stopped beside the road and propped the driver up.
Mohamed was dead, shot just above the right eye. The Filipino mechanics leaned from the back seat to stare at him in horrified amazement. Feeling sick, Gall wiped his hands on a handkerchief and started the station wagon again. He drove with great care. At the Strand Hotel, he went inside to find Mr. Djingheuz.
The swarthy manager was in evening clothes. He listened with deferential sympathy as Gall told him that a sniper had killed his driver. Yes, he would notify the police and arrange for the driver’s family to remove his body. Yes, he would assure them that Captain Gall would pay all expenses, and settle a further sum on them. The manager did not seem surprised; he approached the practical side of the matter, as though it might be an additional service often provided by the hotel. It was unfortunate, yes; but these things happened. Captain Gall was not to worry.
After thanking him, Gall headed toward the wide stairway. Dance music floated in from the far end of the lobby, and he could see the party of Russians seated around a big table in the dining room. For businessmen, he thought, they’ve got a lot of medals. Giant Sikh waiters in scarlet turbans hovered around the party, and laughter came out of the crowded bar. Gall walked through the humming gaiety and on up to the suite. He sank down on the sofa and was staring out over the darkening river when William came in noiselessly.
“Master will have dinner now?”
“No,” said Gall, without turning his head. “Master will have a drink now. Go down to the bar and get me a bottle of Scotch. And soda and ice.”
He took off his shirt and saw that one of the cuffs was stained with blood. Wadding it up, he threw the shirt into the bedroom. He was sprawled on the sofa, his shoes off, when William came back with the tray. The servant said that a newspaper man was downstairs and wished to see master.
“No,” said Gall, and poured himself a drink. William went out, closing the door. The drink helped, so he had another one. Then he leaned back and rubbed his neck. He kept thinking about the death of the young driver. He knew that it was not really a matter of great importance, but he kept remembering how proud the boy had been of the new station wagon. As he was pouring his third drink, the door opened and Gideon Nash walked in.
Because the room was nearly dark, Nash could not see him. When he called out, Gall said to come in, and turned on the lamp in back of the sofa. Nash came through the thin divided draperies. Miss LeBlanc followed him. Gall got up, shook hands with Nash, glanced at Ugette, and motioned them into chairs.
“You remember Ugette, don’t you, pal?” asked Nash. Gall’s glance flickered again over the dark girl, and he nodded. She was wearing a black linen dress, high-collared but deeply cut in a thin V. She crossed her nyloned legs composedly.
“Yes,” said Gall. “I remember her.” They sat in silence as he mixed the drinks. Ugette said, “Thank you,” softly, as she took hers.
“I just got in,” said Nash. “Brought down one of the Catalinas. The rest of the planes will be here tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” answered Gall. “We’re ready to go.”
“Look, pal….” Nash traced around the rim of his glass with a forefinger. “Dan Marino called me. He was raving, talked like a crazy man.”
