Chapter twenty-seven
I slept late the next morning ignoring Hae-jin when she got up early to prepare breakfast for the guests. I was woken at about nine-thirty when she returned with a warm cup of tea, and we shared a kiss and cuddle.
I went down to the bar at ten thirty and greeted Kwon Oh-young raised his eyebrows slightly at my late arrival. I sat down quietly at a table by the window. My head ached abominably and there was a dull, throbbing pain in my knee. I had repaired most of the damage to my hand, but Si’s teeth marks seemed to be leering at me. My face was unmarked, however, which was just as well: I didn’t want Kwon Oh-young an insatiable seeker after knowledge, to ask too many questions at this stage.
I don’t usually drink soju at ten thirty a.m., but on this particular morning it seemed the most natural thing in the world. As I drank, I tried to make some coherent plan.
Si Kyung-lee was dead and I had killed him: there did not seem much point in thinking about him in terms of flesh and blood. If and when his body was recovered Na Sang-wha would take care of that. I felt no remorse about killing Si and in any event it had been a clear case of self- defence. If Si had not gone into the sea he would very definitely have killed me.
I was, however, no nearer to finding Park Song-yong, although it was now quite clear that he was somewhere in Sinjang-ri. There remained Gwok – or Kim Chong-hui. However drunk he might be, I could hardly believe Rim Ji-hoon’s story that he had been breaking up a costly trawler just for the fun of it.
I had another drink in the bar and then went out. The cold air was refreshing and my head started to clear. A visit to Kim Chong-hui was obviously indicated. From what I had heard, he was likely to be an even tougher proposition than Si, and I didn’t look forward to another free- for-all.
I remembered Na saying that some of his men would be in Sinjang-ri, and I found this knowledge as comforting as the bulge of the .32 automatic through my raincoat. To substantiate Na’s promise a fisherman crossed the street and stood a few yards from me, busily rolling a cigarette.
As I came up to him I saw that he was a middle-aged man wearing a rough blue jersey and thigh-length rubber boots. He looked up and down the street and then said quietly: ‘Kim Chong-hui’s trawler is moored down at the quay. When you see Kim tell him that you’re an art dealer on the lookout for calligraphy for your new gallery. You’ve seen a picture of his work and you thought it was pretty good. You’ve been told about Kim by Desc Han-Gyong. You’d better repeat that back to me’.
He need not have worried; I would have the sort of memory that readily assimilates such details. The fisherman nodded and then spat accurately on the cobbled street. He said: ‘Good luck to you’. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and headed for Aphae-eup.
The trawler was a long, slim, powerful looking craft, obviously capable of considerable speed. I stood on the quayside, looking at it for a moment. Presently a man came up on deck and emptied a bucket over the side.
Obviously this was Kim Chong-hui. He lit a pipe and stood leaning over the rail. I wondered whether I should prove as convincing as an art dealer as I had apparently been in the guise of a detective. Na’s organisation was pretty good, I thought: naturally the sensible approach to Gwok Jung-mo was either through his pictures or the offer of a bottle of whisky. I decided that I was not in the mood to stand him a drink.
I walked casually up the gangplank and stepped on to the deck. I could see that Kwon’s of Kim was in no way exaggerated. He stood at five feet ten inches tall and was broad in proportion. His black hair grew in profusion on his bullet head, and most of his face was obscured by a tangled and unkempt beard. When he heard me approach he swung round abruptly and regarded me with a glare that was unmistakably hostile.
Standing at the top of the gangway, with his arms folded, he blocked my approach in no uncertain manner. ‘What the hell are you after?’ he rasped. ‘This boat is private property’. His lips were drawn back, there was a wild look in his eyes, and the smell of whisky on his breath brought back a resurgence of my former nausea.
‘Are you Mr Gwok Jung-mo?’ I inquired politely. ‘That’s me. What the bloody hell do you want?’
‘My name’s Jo Jeaki ’, I bowed and handed him my business card. ‘I’m an art dealer’. ‘Jo Jeaki?’ said Gwok suspiciously. ‘I’ve never heard of you’.
‘That’s hardly surprising’, I said casually. ‘I hadn’t heard of you until a fortnight ago’.
‘So what?’ said Gwok offensively.
‘I’m based in Los Angeles’, I said. ‘I’m opening a gallery of Korean art in and I’m looking for the best calligraphy. I think we may be able to do business together’.
Gwok glared at me through bloodshot eyes. ‘Who told you to come here? Who told you about me?’
‘You’re a very suspicious individual’, I said pleasantly. ‘If you’re not interested in selling your work, then just say so and I’ll go elsewhere’.
‘You haven’t answered my question’, he grated.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘What was your question?’
Gwok’s small eyes narrowed to the merest slits. ‘I asked you who told you about me?’
Very deliberately I turned my back on him. ‘Forget it, my dear fellow’, I said with dignity. ‘I can’t waste my time on temperamental painters, however brilliant they may be’.
Gwok grabbed my arm and swung me round to face him. ‘Answer my question!’ he barked.
Displaying confidence that I was very far from feeling, I said: ‘Desc Han-gyong told me about you. I saw some work of yours in his gallery. I liked it and he told me where I could find you. Does that satisfy you, Mr Gwok?’
‘What was the picture?’
‘It was two storks amidst the cherry blossom’.
Gwok Jung-mo bared his discoloured teeth in a smile. ‘I should bloody well think you did like it’, he said. ‘It’s the best picture you’ve seen in years – or are likely to’. Gwok evidently had a high opinion of his artistic ability.
‘A slight overstatement’, I said easily, ‘although I must admit that it has a certain merit’.
Gwok scowled beligerently. ‘I’ve just finished a picture that beats anything you’ve seen anywhere in America’.
‘Better than the cherry blossom?’ He spat expressively into the sea.
‘Splendid!’ I said with professional enthusiasm. ‘Supposing you let the picture speak for itself?’
But it seemed that I had not allayed all his suspicions. ‘You did say you know Desc Han-gyong, didn’t you?’
‘Of course I know him’, I said with a trace of impatience. ‘I know all the dealers. I suppose you wouldn’t like me to call back later with a letter of introduction?’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool’, said Gwok.
‘Well, then’, I said amicably, ‘I suggest you let me see some pictures. Who knows? We may be wasting my time as well as yours’.
Gwok glared at me and then turned towards the companionway. ‘I’ll fetch some’, he said shortly.
He shuffled off down the companionway and I looked round the deck. I moved cautiously towards the superstructure of the cabin. Suddenly I stopped, and looked up; a somewhat dilapidated life-belt had caught my eye. Inscribed on the this life-belt in black letters were the words:
Seung-li
At that moment everything fell into place in my mind. I remembered the dying Cuban sailor who had muttered ‘Seung-li’ over and over again; I recalled the shock of discovering that the little girl at Choi’s cottage was also, incredibly, called ‘Seung-li’. Now here was the ship ‘Seung-li’. All meaning Victory. It was now apparent that I was on very dangerous territory.
I tiptoed round to a porthole and by bending down could see into the cabin. Gwok was rummaging among a disordered array of artwork, which were untidily piled in a corner. Standing with his back to me was a portly figure that was unmistakably Dr Lee Chung-kyu.
There was a man lying on the bunk, apparently unconscious. I drew in my breath sharply and I looked at his face. It was Park Song-yong …
A huge, purplish bruise stretched from his right cheekbone to the edge of his mouth. His upper lip was swollen to almost twice its normal size and there was an ugly cut over his right eye, which was half closed. There were traces of dried blood under his nostrils. His appearance explained the racket that Rim Ji-hoon had heard.
Lee turned round and I hastily backed away from the porthole. Then I realised that Lee was leaving the cabin to come up on deck and that it would be impossible to avoid him.
When he saw me Lee smiled broadly. ‘Why, Mr Moon’, he said genially, ‘what on earth are you doing here?’
He was still the friendly, somewhat easy-going doctor whom I had known in the Dokgo hotel, to all outward appearance. I regarded him warily and kept my right hand on the side arm in my pocket.
‘What’s rather more to the point, Doctor’, I said grimly, ‘is what you’re doing here’.
Lee waved a hand towards the cabin. ‘I have a patient on board’, he said airily. ‘He’s delirious, poor chap. Very sad case altogether’.
‘I’m sure it is’, I said. ‘Who’s your patient?’
‘He’s a relation of Kim Chong-hui’s’, said Lee affably. ‘Forgive me, I mean Gwok Jung-mo, of course. But you don’t know him, do you? A most entertaining fellow, if a little eccentric. He’s an artist, you know’.
‘And you’, I said dispassionately, ‘are a damned liar’.
I saw Lee’s eyes narrow, but his mouth fell open in perfectly feigned surprise. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Moon?’
‘I said you’re a damned liar’, I repeated. ‘Your patient, as you call him, isn’t a relation of Gwok’s. He’s Park Song-yong’.
Lee gave a gentle sigh. ‘Park Song-yong? My god, you seem to have that name on the brain’. He stepped forward to intercept me as I moved towards the companionway, then called out sharply: ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’
‘I’ll give you three guesses’, I said.
‘My patient can’t be disturbed’, protested Lee. ‘I forbid you to go down there, d’you understand?’
‘Your patient is Park’, I said. I produced the automatic and pointed it straight at Lee’s stomach. ‘Now, cut the crap and tell your brainless thug to bring him up on deck’.
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Yes, I’m threatening you’, I said. ‘Do as I say Lee. Tell Gwok to bring Park up here and look sharp about it’.
Lee seemed about to renew his protest, but I made a threatening movement with the gun. Fetch Park now’, I repeated.
Lee shrugged his shoulders. He said: ‘Don’t you think you’re being rather stupid about this?’
‘I don’t think so’, I said. ‘You don’t imagine I’m on my own do you?’
Lee looked towards the quayside. A police car had just drawn up. Four uniformed policemen got out of the police car and stood watching the ‘Seung-li’ as if awaiting orders. Among the plain-clothes men I noticed the bulky figure of Kim Han-jin.
Lee looked round despairingly. I said: ‘You can swim for it if you like, Lee, but I don’t think you’ll get far’.
Moving remarkably quickly for a man of his comfortable build Lee made a dash for the gangplank. He stepped on to the quay and sprinted towards a side street.
I was right. The men in uniform at once converged upon him.
Kim Han-jin and two other men came aboard the ‘Seung-li’. To the accompaniment of some very strong language Gwok was handcuffed and led away. Kim Han-jin and I went below to the cabin.
Park Song-yong had propped himself up against the dirty pillow on the bunk. His battered lips parted in the grin that I knew so well. Whatever happened, I thought, they couldn’t make Park talk. He said weakly: ‘Hello, Han-sang. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a bloody nuisance’.
I smiled at him; there was nothing else I could do. It had always been the same – Park produced that infectious grin and there was no resisting it.
‘You can say that again’. I said.
‘The luck had to run out some time’, he murmured.
Han-jin produced a hip flask and opened it. ‘Have a drink, Park Song-yong’, he said. ‘You can talk later – you’ve got all the time in the world now …’