Temple of Fear Read online

  The cigar drooped. Hawk stared at her. "He was with who?"

  "I told you — he was with four Girl Scouts. Japanese Girl Scouts. He was so drunk that the scouts, the Japanese Girl Scouts, had to help him through the lobby."

  All Hawk did was blink. Three times. Then he said: "Who have we got standing by for local duty?"

  "There's Tom Ames. And..."

  "Ames will do. Send him over to the Mayflower right away. Get that bell captain's story confirmed or denied. Put a top hush on this, Delia, and start the routine procedure for missing operatives. That's all. Oh, when Cecil Aubrey and Terence show up let them come straight in."

  "Yes, sir." She went out and closed the door. Delia knew when to leave David Hawk alone with his bitter thoughts.

  Tom Ames was a good man. Careful, thorough-going, overlooking nothing. It was one o'clock when he reported back to Hawk. In the meantime Hawk had stalled Aubrey once again — and had been keeping the wires hot. So far nothing.

  Ames sat in the same hard chair Nick Carter had occupied yesterday morning. Ames was a rather sad-looking man with a face that reminded Hawk of a lonely bloodhound.

  "It's true about the Girl Scouts, sir. There were four of them. Japanese Girl Scouts. They were selling cookies in the hotel. It isn't allowed, normally, but the assistant manager let them slip through. Good neighbor relations and all that. And they did sell some cookies. I..."

  Hawk restrained himself, barely. "Skip the cookies, Ames. Stick to Carter. He left with these Girl Scouts? He was seen going through the lobby with them? He was drunk?"

  Ames swallowed. "Well, yes, sir. He was certainly noticed, sir. He fell down three times getting through the lobby. He had to be helped up by the, er, Girl Scouts. Mr. Carter was singing and dancing, sir, and yelling a little. It also appears that he had a lot of cookies, sorry, sir, but that's the way I got it — he had a lot of cookies and he was trying to sell them in the lobby."

  Hawk closed his eyes. This profession got nuttier every day. "Go on."

  "That's about it, sir. That's what happened. Well confirmed. I got statements from the bell captain, the assistant manager, two chamber maids and a Mr. and Mrs. Meredith Hunt who were just checking in from Indianapolis. I..."

  Hawk held up a hand that trembled slightly. "Skip that, too. Where did Carter and his — his entourage go after that? I presume they didn't soar away in a balloon or anything sensible like that?"

  Ames shoved his sheaf of depositions back into an inner pocket.

  "No, sir. They took a taxi."

  Hawk opened his eyes and looked expectant. "Well?"

  "Nothing, sir. The usual routine didn't turn up anything. The bell captain watched the Girl Scouts help Mr. Carter into the taxi, but he didn't notice anything in particular about the driver, and he didn't think to get the license number. I talked to the other drivers in the rank, of course. Bad luck there. There was only one other cab there at the time and the driver was napping. He did notice it, though, because Mr. Carter was making so much noise and, well, it was a little unusual to see Girl Scouts with a drunk."

  Hawk sighed. "A little, yes. So?"

  "It was a strange cab, sir. The man said he'd never seen it around the rank before. He didn't get a good look at the driver."

  "Just as well," said Hawk. "It was probably the Japanese Sand Man."

  "Sir?"

  Hawk waved a hand. "Nothing. Okay, Ames. That's all for now. Stand by for new orders."

  Ames left. Hawk sat staring at the puce walls. On the face of it Nick Carter was now contributing to the delinquency of minors. Four minors. Girl Scouts!

  Hawk reached for the phone, intent on putting out a special AXE APB, then drew back his hand No. Let it cook awhile*. See what happened.

  One thing he was sure of. It was just the opposite of how it looked. Those Girl Scouts were, somehow, contributing to the delinquency of Nick Carter.

  Chapter 5

  The little man with the mallet was merciless. He was a dwarf and he wore dirty brown robes and he swung a mean mallet. The gong was twice as big as the little man, but the little man had big muscles and he meant business. He swung the mallet again and again against the sounding brass — boinggg— boinggg — boinggg — boingggg...

  Funny thing. The gong was changing shape. It was beginning to look exactly like Nick Carter's head.

  BOINGGGGGG — BOINGGGGGGG

  Nick opened his eyes, then closed them as fast as possible. The gong started again. He opened his eyes and the gong stopped. He was lying on the floor, on a futon, with a quilt over him. Near his head was a white enameled pot. Foresight on someone's part. Nick got his head over the pot and was sick in it. Very sick. For a long time. When he had retched himself empty he lay back on the floor pad and tried to get the ceiling in focus. It was just an ordinary ceiling. Gradually it stopped whirling and settled down. He began to hear music. Frenetic, far-away, stamping go-go- music. It was, he thought as his head cleared, not so much a matter of sound as of vibration.

  The door opened and Tonaka came in. No Girl Scout uniform now. She was wearing a brown suede jacket over a white silk blouse — obviously with no bra under it — and tight black slacks that clung with love to her slim legs. She was slightly made up, lipstick and a trace of rouge, and her lustrous black hair was piled with feigned carelessness atop her head. She was, Nick admitted even in his agony, quite a dish.

  Tonaka gave him a quiet smile. "Good evening, Nick. How are you feeling?"

  He touched his head tenderly with his fingers. It didn't fall off.

  "I just might live," he said. "No thanks to you."

  She laughed. "I'm sorry, Nick. I really am. But it seemed the' only way to carry out my father's wishes. The drug we gave you — it not only makes a person extremely docile. It also gives him an enormous thirst, desire, for alcohol. You were really quite drunk even before we got you on the plane."

  He stared at her. It was all flooding back now. He rubbed the back of his neck gingerly. "I know it's a stupid question — but where am I?"

  Her smile vanished. "In Tokyo, of course."

  "Of course. Where else. Where are the gruesome threesome — Mato, Kato and Sato?"

  "They have their work. They are doing it. I doubt that you will see them again."

  "I think I can bear that," he muttered.

  Tonaka knelt on the futon beside him. She ran her hand over his forehead and stroked his hair. Her hand was as cool as a Fuji brook. Her soft mouth brushed his, then she pulled away.

  "There is no time for us now, but I will say this. I promise it. If you help my father, as I know you will, and if we both live through this, I will do anything to make up to you what I have done. Anything! That is understood, Nick?"

  He was feeling enormously better. He restrained the impulse to pull her slim body down atop his own. He nodded. "Understood, Tonaka. I will hold you to that promise. Now — where is your father?"

  She stood up and moved away from him. "He lives in the Sanya district. You know it?"

  He nodded. One of the worst slum areas in Tokyo. But he did not understand. What was old Kunizo Matu doing in such a place?

  Tonaka guessed his thought. She was lighting a cigarette. She Bung the match carelessly on the tatami.

  "I told you my father is dying. He has cancer. He has come back to die with his own people, the Eta. You knew he was Burakumin?"

  He shook his head. "I had no idea. Does it matter?"

  He had thought her beautiful. The beauty vanished now as she scowled. "He thought it mattered. He left his people long ago and passed as a non-Eta. Now that he is old and dying, he wants to make amends." She shrugged fiercely. "Perhaps it is not too late at that — this is certainly the time for it. But he will explain all that to you. Then we will see — I think now that you had better take a bath and get cleaned up. It will help your sickness. We have a little time. A few hours until morning."

  Nick stood up. His shoes were missing but otherwise he was fully clothed. The Savile Row s
uit was never going to be the same. He did feel grimy and had the beginnings of a stubble. He knew what his tongue must look like and he did not want to face it. There was a distinct taste of ditch digger's glove in his mouth.

  "A bassu might just save my life," he admitted.

  She pointed to his crumpled suit. "You'll have to change clothes anyway. That will have to be gotten rid of. It's all arranged. We have other clothes for you. Papers. A whole new cover. My lather worked it out, of course."

  "Father seems to have been very busy. And just who are 'we?' "

  She threw a Japanese phrase at him that he did not catch. Her long dark eyes narrowed. "It means Militant Women of Eta. It's what we are — wives, daughters, mothers. Our men won't fight, or very few of them, so the women must. But he will tell you all about that, too. I'll send a girl about your bath."

  "Hold it a minute, Tonaka." He was hearing the music again. Music and vibrations, very faint.

  "Where are we? Where in Tokyo?"

  She flicked ashes on the tatami. "On the Ginza. Under it, rather. This is one of our few safe hideouts. We're in a sub-basement under the Electric Palace cabaret. That's the music you hear — go-go and girls. It's nearly midnight up there and the joint is jumping. Now I really must go, Nick. Anything you want..."

  "Cigarettes, a bottle of good hair of the dog and to know where you got your English. I haven't heard a 'prease' now for a long time."

  She could riot repress the smile. It made her lovely again. "Radcliffe. Class of '63. Father didn't want to raise his daughter to be an Eta, you see. Only I insisted. But he'll tell you about that, too. I'll send the things. And the bassu girl. See you soon, Nick."

  She closed the door behind her. Nick, who was nothing if not adaptable, squatted in Oriental fashion and started thinking it out. There would, of course, be all hell to pay in Washington. Hawk would be getting the torture chamber ready. He decided to play the cards as they had fallen, at least for the time being. He could not contact Hawk at once, not tell the old man that his wandering boy had wandered to Tokyo. No. Let the boss have his apoplexy. Hawk was a tough, stringy old bird and it wouldn't kill him.

  Meantime Nick would see Kunizo Matu and find out what it was all about. Pay his debt to the old fellow, get this whole infernal mess straightened out. Then would be time enough to call Hawk and try to explain.

  There was a tap on the door.

  "Ohari nasai." It was fortunate, as long as he had to be' shanghaied, that he spoke the language.

  She was middle-aged with a flat placid face. She wore straw getas and a gingham house dress. She carried a tray with a bottle of whisky and a package of cigarettes on it. Over her arm she carried a huge fluffy towel. She gave Nick an aluminum toothed smile.

  "Konbanwa, Carter-san. Here are things for you. Bassu is ready now. You come hubba-hubba?"

  Nick smiled at her. "Not hubba-hubba. Drink first. Smoke first. Then maybe I won't die and can enjoy bassu. O namae wa?"

  The aluminum teeth glinted. "I Suzy."

  He took the bottle of whisky from the tray and grimaced. Old White Whale! About what you could expect in a place called the Electric Palace.

  "Suzy, eh? That figures. You bring a glass?"

  "No grass."

  "That figures, too." He twisted the top off the bottle. The stuff smelled bad. But he needed one, just one, to get him off and running on this — this whatever it was mission. He held out the bottle and bowed to Suzy. "Your health, beautiful. Gokenko wo shuku shimasu!" And mine, too, he muttered under his breath. He had a sudden, sure knowledge that the fun and games were about over. From now on in the game would be for keeps and the winner kept all the marbles.

  Suzy giggled, then frowned. "Bassu ready now. Hot. You come fast or be cold." And she flapped the big towel suggestively in the air.

  It was of no avail to explain to Suzy that he could scrub his own back. Suzy was boss. She popped him into the steaming tank and took over, giving him a bassu her way, not his. She missed nothing.

  Tonaka was waiting when he got back to the little room. There was a pile of clothing on the bed mat. Nick regarded the clothes with distaste. "What am I supposed to be? A bum?"

  "In a way, yes." She handed him a battered wallet. It contained a thick wad of crisp new yen and a great many cards, most of them limp and dogeared. Nick riffled hastily through them.

  "Your name is Pete Fremont," Tonaka explained. "You are sort of a bum, I suppose. You're a free-lance newspaper man and writer, an alcoholic, and you've been on the beach in the Orient for years. Now and then you sell a story or an article in the States and when the check gets here you go on a binge. That's where the real Pete Fremont is now — on a binge. So you don't have to worry about that. There won't be two of you running around. Now you had better get dressed."

  She handed him a pair of shorts and a light blue shirt, cheap and new, still in their cellophane packets. "I had one of the girls buy these. Pete's stuff is pretty filthy. He doesn't take very good care of himself."

  Nick dropped the skimpy robe Suzy had given him and got into the shorts. Tonaka watched impassively. She had, he remembered, seen it all before. No secrets from this kid.

  "So there really is a Pete Fremont, eh? And you guarantee to keep him out of circulation while I operate? That's fine — but there is another angle. Everybody in Tokyo must know a character like that."

  She was lighting a cigarette. "Keeping him out of sight won't be any problem. He's dead drunk. He'll stay that way for days, . as long as his money holds out. He couldn't go anyplace anyway — these are his only clothes."

  Nick halted his task of taking pins out of the new shirt. "You mean you stole the guy's clothes? His only clothes?"

  Tonaka shrugged. "Why not? We need them. He doesn't. Pete is a sweet guy, he knows about us, about Eta girls, and he helps us now and then. But he's a hopeless lush. Anyway he's shacked up now and he doesn't need any clothes. He's got his bottle and his girl and that is all he cares about. Do hurry, Nick. I want to show you something."

  "Yes, mem sahib."

  Gingerly he picked up the suit. It had been a good suit once. It had been made in Hong Kong — Nick knew the tailor — a very long time ago. He got into it, noticing the very distinctive odor of sweat and age. It fitted amazingly well. "Your friend Pete is a big man."

  "Fat now."

  Nick put on shoes that were cracked and rundown at the heel. The tie was ragged and stained. The trenchcoat she handed him had, in the Ice Age, come from Abercrombie and Fitch. It was filthy and lacked a belt.

  "This guy," Nick muttered as he shrugged into the trenchcoat, "is real type casting. Brother — how does he stand his own smell?"

  Tonaka did not smile. "I know. Poor Pete. But when you've been fired by the UP, the AP, the Hong Kong Times and the Singapore Times and by Asahi, Yomiuri and the Osaka, I guess you don't much care any more. Here. The hat."

  Nick regarded it with awe. It was a masterpiece. It had been new when the world was young. Filthy, dented, ragged, sweat-stained and shapeless, still it flaunted a bedraggled scarlet feather in the salt-rimed band. A last gesture of defiance, a final cocking the snook at Fate.

  "I'd like to meet this Pete Fremont when this thing is over," he told the girl. "He must be a walking example of the law of survival." Something Nick was pretty good at himself.

  "Maybe," she agreed curtly. "Stand over there and let me look at you. Hmmmmm — you'll pass for Pete at a distance. Not close, because you don't look anything alike. That's not really important. His papers are important, as your cover, and I doubt you'll meet anyone that knows Pete well. Father says you won't. This is all his plan, remember. I'm only carrying out my instructions."

  Nick narrowed his eyes at her. "You don't like your old man very much, do you?"

  Her face went as stiff as a kabuki mask. "I honor my father. I do not have to love him. Come now. There is something you must see. I have saved it until the last because — because I want you to leave this place in the proper fram
e of mind. And on your guard."

  "I know," said Nick as he followed her out the door. "You're a great little psychologist.".

  She led him down a corridor to a flight of narrow stairs. Somewhere over his head the go-go music was still dinning away. Imitation Beatles. Clyde-san and his Four Silk Worms. Nick Carter shook his head in silent disapproval as he followed Tonaka down the stairs. Mod music left him cold. He was by no means an old gent, but he wasnt that young. Nobody was that young!

  They went down and down. It grew colder and he heard the trickle of water. Tonaka was using a small flashlight now.

  "How many basements does this joint have?"

  "Many. This part of Tokyo is very old. We're directly under what used to be the old silver foundry. Gin. They- used these dungeons to store bullion and coins."

  They reached bottom, then went along a transverse corridor to a dark cubicle. The girl flicked a switch and a dim yellow bulb starred the ceiling. She pointed to the body on a plain deal table in the center of the room.

  "Father wanted you to see that. First. Before you committed yourself irrevocably." She handed him the flashlight. "Here. Take a good look. It's what will happen to us if we fail."

  Nick took the flashlight. "I thought I was committed."

  "Not totally. Father says not. If, at this point, you want to back out we are to put you on the next plane back to the States."

  The AXEman scowled, then grinned sourly. Old Kunizo knew what he was about. He knew that Carter might be a lot of things, but chicken wasn't one of them.

  He put the glow of the flashlight on the body and examined it with an expert eye. He was familiar enough with corpses and death to know at once that the man had died in exquisite agony.

  The body was that of a Japanese of middle age. Squat, powerful, graying at the temples. The eyes had been closed. Nick examined the many small wounds that covered the man from neck to ankles. There must be a thousand of them! Small, bloody, gaping little mouths in the flesh. None deep enough to kill of itself. None in a vital spot. But put them all together and a man would slowly bleed to death. It would take hours. And there would be the terror, the shock...