Pagoda, page 6
The band was brassy and loud. It fanfared uncertainly, and Ugette came gliding out from behind the platform. She poised under the spotlight, nude except for three small triangles of scarlet sequins. The crowd whistled and shouted, and she moved into a Balinese dance of stately gestures and fluid poses. Through the dimness, Gall’s waiter brought the dinner as he watched the girl perform.
She was doing something unusual and nearly classical, with a pure, thrusting line of arm. Her head angled stiffly, but her body flowed to the music, and she dirtied it up only enough to keep the polyglot crowd interested. As the poor band blared behind her, Gall had the feeling that she could have done it straight. When the number was over, she posed with her arms up, her palms together, her head drooping. The crowd applauded loudly.
Her next number was boogiewoogie. She jerked through it expertly, and wild shouts rashed up out in the smoky crowd. The music was more to the band’s liking—“Chattanooga Choo-Choo”—and one good trumpet sprinkled a fine arpeggio in back of her abandoned writhings. Gall sat staring at her over his Chinese food. That, he told himself, is the best-constructed human being I ever saw.
When the dance was over, the house lights came up. Ugette took two calls and retired, bowing with a tired, professional grace. As he paid for his dinner, Gall saw her come back out on the floor in street clothes and start snaking through the tables. Hands reached out to grab at her, but she smiled and fended them off expertly. In the far comer, in an alcove, he saw Nash rise as she approached. Beyond him, hard to see in the shadowed corner, was Dan Marino’s obesity.
The fat man was lolling back, and one of his massive arms was draped around another dark girl with startlingly white hair. The bleached hair was gathered in a coif over her forehead, and she was looking up at Marino and simpering. As he went downstairs, Gall wondered again exactly what Gideon Nash was supposed to be doing in Rangoon—in the daytime, that was.
For the next two days Gall escorted the crews out so early that he missed both the Karen barrage and the water flingers of the Thingyan. The four planes flew regularly. Sometimes they got short trips, which cut the total time down, but a few of them went to Myitkyina and Bhamo and Kalymo, which meant heavy revenue. Ken McCarl dished the gear on Catalina X Ray at Moulmein on the third day, but Gall fired through several express cables to Varley in Hong Kong for the needed parts.
In a week X Ray was ready to fly again. With the help of an elephant, a new gear had been installed. Gall felt a proprietary interest in the elephant, since it was the first time he had ever employed one. He stood on the runway in Moulmein and watched as the grinning mahout deployed the huge gray beast. The hull of X Ray had been damaged, too, so that it could not be used for water landings, but that did not seriously interfere. The Director of Civil Aviation certified the ship for land operation, and all four planes began flying again.
At the end of two weeks, Varley Airways had grossed $109,000. Payment by the War Office was prompt, and at the end of each week Gall walked the vouchers through to the Bank of Australia. From there they went by express cable to the New York branch, far out of reach of the local war. Nash began to help with the operation, and often rode out early with Gall. His interest seemed to lag, however, after the planes had left, and he spent most of his afternoons with Marino. The two of them either sat in the bar of the Strand Hotel, or lounged on the shaded terraces at the Kokine Club, which was restricted to Europeans.
Gail sat in his office at the beginning of the third week and stared across the porch at the slaty sky. The cloud bulges of the monsoon hung less than two hundred feet over Mingaladon Airdrome, and the ceiling was dropping. All four of the Varley planes were on the return leg of a Myitkyina trip, and Gall was worried. The condition was not local; the whole Rangoon area was socked in.
He had been trying for an hour, futilely, to get the War Office on the phone. He was hoping that Bassein or Moulmein would be open, but after another losing battle with the placid telephone operator he hung up in disgust. When Wally Brittingham, the radio mechanic, walked in, Gall was staring out at the darkening sky.
Brittingham was a wiry Aussie who drank almost constantly and hated pilots, but he was a top man on radio equipment. He advanced dourly and stood before Gall’s desk.
“Something you ought to know, I guess.” The radio man flopped into one of the teakwood chairs. “Remember I told you a week ago that somebody had stolen a transmitter and receiver out of the shop?”
“Yes, I remember.” Gall was only half listening; his main concern was the planes. Pilfering was a common practice; everything not under lock and key in Burma soon disappeared. In addition, Gall had an unsupported theory that Brittingham was selling most of the stuff himself to the Indian merchants in Rangoon.
“Yesterday, four batteries were taken. Had them hooked up to the charger, and this morning they were gone.”
“Look.” Gall was irritated. “I hate to lose the stuff, naturally: but that’s your department. If you need bars on the windows, more locks, let me know.”
“Not that simple.” Brittingham stubbed out his cigarette. “Last night I was testing a receiver, and picked up somebody broadcasting today’s flight schedule on 1270.”
“What?” Gall swung his feet off the desk and leaned forward. “Are you sure?”
“Bet your bloody life I’m sure.” The Australian was offended. “About 9:30. It was cw, and the bloke sending it had a slow fist; but it was in the clear, named all our planes, and said they were going to Myitkyina.”
Gall’s face twisted. He had not handed out the schedule until nearly nine. The first copies had gone to the Filipino personnel in the Green Hotel, and the others had been distributed in the Strand. Unless the leak was in Ferrara’s office, the broadcast had been on the air almost immediately after he had handed out the schedule.
“How far would the signal carry?” he asked, and Brittingham shrugged.
“Two to three hundred miles. The transmitter we lost had a crystal for 1270. All our stuff has it.”
Gall sighed, and Brittingham got up. As he started out, Gall told him to drop around to the hotel and pick up a bottle of Scotch. The radio mechanic nodded and walked out of the office.
Gall sat motionless for several minutes. If somebody was tipping their flights to the rebels, they could expect to lose some planes before long. Jerking printed schedule forms out of the middle drawer, he inserted carbons and rolled the forms into his typewriter. Dating the form for the next day, he rapidly typed out a schedule which said that all Varley aircraft would leave Mingaladon at 05:00, to run a low-level bombing attack on the Karen installations at Toungoo. After addressing envelopes, he inserted the schedules and put the whole packet into his map case.
In an hour the planes came breaking through the low ceiling and landed. The pilots and crews came to his office almost on the run. All the aircraft had been fired on at Myitkyina, at the end of the runway. Fortunately, nothing vital had been hit, and the damage was of small-arms caliber; but they were all grave-faced as they crowded into the office. The trips had been milk runs up to now, and this sudden evidence of danger had sobered them considerably.
When he had listened to all the reports, Gall loaded the crews and sent them to town. He did not hand out the schedule, merely remarked that it was delayed. When they were all gone, he walked over to the hangar and into Brittingham’s radio shop. The Aussie was taking a loop down, and he glanced across his work bench at Gall.
“Can you operate that direction finder across the field?”
“Self-generated,” answered Brittingham. “Have to scrounge some petrol.”
“All right. Get all you need from one of the trucks, and sign for it. In an hour, start monitoring 1270 and see if you can pick up tomorrow’s schedule.”
The radioman wiped his hands on a piece of clean waste and regarded Gall without enthusiasm. “Even if I pick it up again, I can’t give you a fix. Transmitter will be stationary, and I’ll only get a line on it.”
“That’ll be enough. Stand by on it for a couple of hours, and then come by the hotel.”
“Roger.” Brittingham surveyed him coolly. “I ain’t getting in any trouble with this gook government, am I?”
“No, I’ll take care of it.” Gall turned and went back through the murky afternoon to his office. After several more vain attempts to reach the War Office on the telephone, he finally got Major Ferrara on the line. The major was mystified, but agreed to hold the schedule until Gall picked it up in person.
It was nearly dark by the time Gall got to the War Office. Ferrara was gone, but his assistant, a Captain Newbury, had the schedule ready in a sealed envelope. Thrusting it in his pocket, Gall thanked the captain and drove to the Strand. He was upstairs, kicking his shoes off, when Nash sauntered into the suite.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“All right.” Gall glanced at the four envelopes he had placed on the low table. Each envelope bore a Varley captain’s name. “We got about twenty-nine hours out of it.”
“That’s a lot of dough.” Nash spoke lightly, easily, but his eyes narrowed as he calculated exactly how much dough it was.
“They got shot at, though.” Gall took a sip of his drink, and watched Nash’s expression intently.
“Anybody hurt?”
“No.” Gall got up and stretched. “Help yourself,” he said casually, waving at the bottle and the silver ice bucket. “I’m going to shave.”
“Thanks.” Nash slumped on the sofa, and lay staring out over the harbor.
Gall walked into the bedroom and stood by the closet door. From there he could not see Nash, but the neat stack of envelopes was in plain view. Going to the bathroom, he turned on the cold tap and came back quickly to his vantage point. While he waited, one of Nash’s hands removed the top envelope. In a very few seconds the hand reappeared, replacing the schedule.
Gall went into the bathroom and shaved. When he came back into the living room, Nash was still sprawled on the sofa.
“The other fleet got into Toungoo this afternoon,” he said slowly.
“Oh?” Gall sat down. “How do you know?”
“Birdie told me.” Nash was nervous; he whistled tunelessly through his even teeth and got up to pace the room. Finally he turned to face Gall. “You know what the deal is, don’t you? About the duplicate planes in Toungoo?”
“Yes,” said Gall. “I know.”
Nash stood nodding to himself, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. One hand went up, trembling, to scratch his ear. He was a wrecked man. He seemed to be coming apart all at once, as though he had been hit unexpectedly. Sinking into a chair, he savaged at his face with both hands.
“You ought to go home, Gid,” said Gall quietly.
“Home?” The haggard face lifted. “Where the hell is it, this home everybody’s so high on? I’ve been out here nine years now. All my folks are dead, except one aunt in Albany, and she hates my guts.”
“You ought to go back to the States anyway,” said Gall.
“And do what, pal?” Nash tossed his head like a gaffed fish. “I’ve got a bug so bad I go to sleep at the race tracks. So I’m no good for flying. And driving an elevator doesn’t appeal to me.”
“Just a thought,” said Gall. “Have another drink.”
Nash had the drink, a big one, and managed a tight smile. “Be seeing you, pal,” he said, and walked out of the suite.
There was a bad taste in Gall’s mouth, and the Scotch had not put it there. After locking the front door, he crossed into the bedroom and switched on the radio receiver. As the tubes began to glow, he whirled the channel selector around to 1270 and sat waiting.
Nothing happened for half an hour. The set hummed on open air, and Gall lay back on the bed. He was nearly asleep when the key started squealing faintly. Jerking erect, he tuned the signal until he had it loud and clear. Someone with a hesitant fist was pounding out a message, and Gall could not read it at first. Then, in shaky Morse, it started coming in the clear: “All V craft… leaving Ming at 05:00 to bomb Toungoo.… Urgent repeat.… All V craft… leaving Ming at 05:00 … to bomb Toungoo… Repeat—”
Gall switched the set off and sat frowning. It had to be Nash. No one else in the world had seen the phony schedule. Going back to the living room, he took the four envelopes and burned them in an ash tray. A final curl of flame was licking over them when the phone rang. It was Wally Brittingham.
“I got it,” the radio man said.
“Better drop by,” answered Gall, and the phone clicked dead. In twenty minutes Brittingham knocked on the door, but he was not alone. Blackie Ling, one of the crew chiefs, was standing behind him, still in his greasy working clothes. Blackie was half Chinese, half Negro. His father had visited Jamaica once, and Blackie was the rather startling result. He had slant eyes, tightly polled hair, and Negroid lips.
“Ling, here, has something else for you,” said Brittingham. “Maybe you’d better handle it first.”
“What is it, Blackie?” The crew chief stepped forward diffidently and drew a small bottle out of his coveralls. The bottle was crudely corked with paper, smelled of gasoline, and was more than half full of a whitish sediment. In guttural English, the mechanic explained that he had drained it from one of Victor’s fuel sumps.
“So?”
“Sugar, sar. If very much in tanks, the engines stop.”
“They sure as hell would.” Gall shook his head; things were coming a little too fast. “Go back to the Green Hotel,” he ordered. “Take two station wagons, all mechanics and flight engineers. I mean everybody. Drain the tanks of the planes, and don’t refill them until you’re sure they’re clean.”
“Yes, sar.” Blackie nodded his understanding.
“When you finish, half the men come back to town. The other half guard the planes. Tomorrow I’ll hire durwauns, but it’s too late tonight. You got that?”
Ling nodded, and was about to go, but Gall spoke again.
“Extra pay for everybody; but in the morning I pick a mechanic to ride in each plane. So do it right.”
Ling was puzzled. “Which mechanics go, sar?”
“I don’t know yet. You might be one of them.”
Blackie nodded and went out, his brow corrugated. Brittingham laughed and said it was a champion way to get cooperation. Then he unfolded a strip map of Rangoon and showed Gall the line along which the message had come. It ran southwest from Mingaladon Airdrome, quartered across Prome Road, and cut through the south end of Golden Valley.
“Yeah,” said Gall slowly, studying the map. “Get yourself a bottle out of the closet.”
The Australian walked into the closet and extracted a quart of Scotch from the wooden case. Glancing at Gall’s back, he took another quart, and made for the doorway. Gall did not notice his departure. When the bearer came in with dinner, an hour later, he found Gall still sitting on the sofa, the frayed linen map in his lap.
Next morning, as Joe Gall stepped into the dimly lit hallway, Nash was waiting for him, saying he might be able to help in getting the planes off. Gall said, “Sure,” and they walked downstairs in silence and got in the station wagon.
It was a little after four when they got away from the Green Hotel. Gall, Nash, and the four captains rode in the first car; the Filipino crews and mechanics came after them in the other two. The small convoy roared through the deserted streets of Rangoon and out the airport road. Although it was still full dark, roosters were crowing out in the sleeping city. The headlight glare of the speeding station wagons licked briefly at dark blots of sleeping natives on the sidewalks.
Standing together in front of the hangar, Gall and Nash watched the cars unload. The captains filed their flight plans, after which Gall gave them their true destinations—the Dakotas to Akyab and the Cats to Henzada. Nash started perceptibly; he moved nearer as Gall rerouted the planes.
“I thought they were hitting Toungoo,” he whispered.
“No.” Gall’s head did not turn. “There was a change.”
When they had crossed to the control tower, Gall glanced at Nash’s face. In the faint, reflected glow from the radio panel lights, Nash’s head was lifted toward the sound of engines starting. His mouth was clamped grimly. Catalina X Ray had trouble with her port engine, but finally all four of them were gone, gray shapes hurtling aloft with a thrumming that shook the ground.
They went down the narrow steps in silence. Nash stood beside the station wagon and massaged his drawn face. “I’m pretty well hung,” he said. “How about me taking one of the cars and dropping by the Kokine Club. A swim might help.”
“Sure,” said Gall.
“Come along?” Nash sounded as if he really wanted company, but Gall shook his head.
“Got some paper work to do. We bill the War Office tomorrow.”
Nash nodded and got in the station wagon. It pulled away, the tail lights glowing like twin embers as it turned off the airport. Gall walked over to his office and sat there for two hours, typing reports. This particular billing was the one that would pull Varley out on all his expenses. From low on, time flown would be velvet, thought Gall, as he ocked the reports in the filing cabinet. He drove back to own, under the arching flame-of-the-woods trees, now in ull bloom. Back at the hotel, over breakfast, he noticed the newspaper editorial in the local Mail. It put the whip on varley Airways. Sipping his tea, Gall reread it:
In handling air transport, Government has made a huge mistake. In the beginning, private enterprise was glad to come into Burma at a fixed rate of Rs. 5 per mile. But because the conditions which normally make for competition are absent, Varley Airways has demanded Rs. 1800 an hour, and got it. This is the highest charter rate ever paid anywhere in the world.
Burma has made a tragic mistake.
There was more of it, but Gall dropped the paper and grunted. That’s letting the people in the cheap seats know all about it, he thought. Wonder what this editor would print if he knew about the Toungoo angle? That thought frightened him, suddenly and thoroughly, as he sat alone in the big room. He fingered the scar line on his cheek and shivered once.
