Chapter Thirteen
I took my key from the front door and was about to stub out my cigarette in the ashtray on the hall table when I heard a faint rustling of paper coming from my living room. Then a drawer was jerked open. I knew it wasn't Mrs Kim; she always left promptly at twelve.
Leaving the front door ajar I stepped across the hallway and peered through the crack of the half open living room door. I could just see a hand foraging amongst the papers in my writing bureau.
I eased the door open a little further. A man in a well cut grey suit stood with his back towards me. The slim waist and powerful sloping shoulders warned me I'd need every one of the ten years' difference in our ages if it came to a showdown.
I took a step inside the room and said quietly: 'You won't find any money there, if that's what you're looking for'.
He spun round and we faced one another in silence, each sizing up the other. His eyes were dark in a sallow face. Above a hard mouth was a pencil-line moustache. He was a type that you see in second-rate bars, reading the racing result in the paper and shiftily avoiding the yes of any stranger.
He refused to meet my eyes now as I challenged him. 'Who are you, anyway?'
He smiled tightly. 'I'll bounce that one back at you, Moon. Who the hell are you?'
'You seem to know my name, anyway', I said, stepping towards a side table and reaching for the telephone. 'Maybe you prefer the police to ask the questions?''Keep your hands off that phone, Moon!'
My hand retreated as though it had been stung. I was looking down the muzzle of a .38 automatic.
'What's the game?' he asked. 'Why are you trailing Kim Su-mi?'
'Trailing her?' I said. 'She's a friend of mine'.
'She wasn't until you met her on the plane to Shanghai'.
'Where did you get that information?'
'We got it!' he snapped. 'Now we want some information about you, Moon'.
I'd been doing some quick thinking while this exchange was going on. My living room has a parquet floor, with mats placed here and there. This was the day that Mrs Kim waxed the floor, and no rose had ever smelled so sweet as did the pungent odour of the wax at that moment.
'You're holding the cards', I said, nodding towards the gun. 'But why not short circuit the story of my life and come to the point?' I looked at the end of my cigarette. His eyes followed mine and I took a step forward. 'What is it you really want to know?'
'Don't play the innocent', he said roughly. 'What have you done withthem?'
'Done with them?' There was no need for me to fake my surprise.
He waved the gun impatiently. 'You want me to spell it?'
He was standing on a small rug near the desk. 'Oh, well . I suppose I'd better .' I began - then, 'Damn!' I exclaimed and dropped the cigarette to the floor. 'Burnt my fingers talking to .' I stopped quickly and grabbed at the edge of the rug. It was thin and slid across the waxed floor as though it were ice. The man fell backwards, the gun falling from his hand and slithering across the floor to the wall.
I made a dive for it, but he rolled over, clutched one of my ankles, and jerked me forward on to the floor. The next instant he was on top of me. I'd been right about the power in the sloping shoulders.
The wax didn't smell quite so sweet now that my nose was flattened against it. I got my left leg round one of his, pressed the palm of my right hand on to the floor, and rolled him over. Raising my head, I looked for the gun; it was six inches from my left hand. I reached out for it . then something cracked in my head, I looked for the gun; it was six inches from my left hand. I reached out for it . then something cracked in my head and I was falling down into the pitch darkness of an abyss .
The dull, rhythmic pain of a pendulum inside my head woke me. I felt old and tired. At the top of the abyss there were voices and light . I clawed my way up to them . Then the smell of wax seemed to restore my full consciousness.The voice of the man I'd been struggling with was saying: 'No, they weren't in the bureau'.
'Nor on him', said another voice - a cultured voice, which chose words with the preciseness of someone speaking a language not their own. 'I would not have done this, Choi; but in another moment he would have had the gun'. My assailant laughed shortly. 'He's tougher than he looks'.
'I hope so', the other voice remarked gravely. 'The bedroom, Choi? You had better look round in there'.
The door closed. Then I felt a hand in my inside pocket, removing my cigarette case. I lay motionless until I heard the sound of the cigarette case being put down on the bureau, then turned my head round enough to get a one-eyed look at this man. He had his back to me and appeared to be writing. He was shorter and younger than the man I had caught rifling my bureau. His fair hair was close- cropped at the back and sides. I had the impression of a man who took a pride in his appearance. Then my cigarette case was snapped shut and I closed my eyes as he turned back to me.
He'd just replaced the cigarette case in my pocket when the man called Choi returned.
'Nothing there'.
'I have a feeling you were mistaken, Lloyd. I do not think that Moon is connected with those others'. From the direction of his voice I guessed that he was standing over me.
'I'm beginning to have some doubts myself .' Choi broke off, with an abrupt: 'Anyway, we shall have to see what happens from now on. Let's move, before he comes round'.
I waited until I heard the front door close, then rolled over and sat up. My head throbbed worse than ever, and I put a hand gingerly to the back of it. There was a lump as big as an egg, but no blood on my hand when I took it away.
With an effort I levered myself up and staggered across to the drinks table. I poured myself four fingers of whisky and gulped it down; then I stood looking down at the empty glass while the whisky gradually began to take effect, and presently I took out my cigarette case. Tucked under the cigarettes was a slip of paper. I drew it out and read the scrawled message. Just two words.
WORLD CUP BUK-RO 48-GIL
'World Cup Buk-Ro', I muttered. 'By God, that was it! World Cup Buk-Ro!'
I was still shaky as the devil and not thinking too coherently, so I decided to take a shower. Afterwards I stretched out on the settee and thought over what had happened since I'd come into my apartment.
From what the man Choi had said to me it was obvious that I was suspected of having something. His 'What have you done with them?' could imply anything from plans to banknotes. Whatever the 'something' was he was prepared to use agun to get it. But where did Kim Su-mi fit into all this? And why did he want to know my reason for trailing her?'
Suddenly I remembered the Chinese doll, ripped open and lying by the body. Had Doyle been carrying the 'something' in that? I wondered for a moment whether I'd been face to face with Doyle's murderer an hour before. But I dismissed the thought; his assailant would have found what he was after in the doll. The two intruders were obviously under the impression that I had killed and robbed Doyle.
From the glimpse I'd had of him and the snatches of over-heard conversation, I'd got the idea that the second man was the more intelligent of the two. That he was uncertain about me was obvious in everything he had said. But why insert the note in my cigarette case?
I fingered the lump on the back of my head tenderly. I didn't think I'd been struck with the butt of the gun. The skin was unbroken. I hadn't noticed any sign of my front door having been forced when I'd come in; that indicated that they'd used the old thieves' trick of slipping a piece of celluloid into the door latch. But the second man, at least, didn't look or talk like a thug.
Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, I would do some prowling round World Cup Buk-ro 48-Gil. But I wouldn't tell I'm until I'd first had a good look round for myself.