The Call of the Thunder Dragon (14 page)

Through the undisturbed of the
early morning, the boiler room got hotter and hotter. Marihito was
soon sweating like a pig. There was a slight draft from under the
door, but it did little to help cool him. At ten o’clock, a tired
and hungry Marihito emerged from the boiler room blinking into the
light. He left his coat and hat behind another woodpile and he
tip-toed around to the far side of the hotel.

Climbing the wall, in the shadow
of the adjacent building, he reached his room in no time. With his
knife, he gingerly lifted the inside latch and tip-toed to the side
letting the shutter swing open.

Once inside, he quickly found his
briefcase and began stuffing in any useful items gathering fake
papers or genuine ones from their hiding places. Shortly the room
looked as if a tailor’s castoffs had been scattered across floor
and beds. Marihito had neatly cut open the overcoats and clothes
left behind then extracted what he needed. Identification documents
in a seam, gold coins behind buttons. When he finished, there was
little more than rags left of the overcoats.

Marihito returned to the window.
He could hear the sounds of market stallholders shouting; dried
fish, steamed buns, fresh radishes! Licking his lips, he tried to
put the thought of food out of his mind. He retrieved a shoulder
strap and tied it through the handle of his briefcase. Then with a
bundle of threads, from the discarded coat lining, twisted together
he made a make shift cord. Stepping onto the ledge, he swung the
shutter closed by pulling the cord. The latch dropped back into
place locking the shutters as he withdrew the end of the cord.

Taking care, not to be noticed by
the busy market stall holders, he edged forward towards Colonel
Haga-Jin’s room. He was closer to the street now and he was tired
and hungry. Abruptly he realised the potential folly of what he was
doing. He stood on tip-toes, holding onto the building wall with
his fingers gripped into the cracked timber, waiting for the fear
to pass. Shortly he raised his head again and quickly got onto the
window ledge of Haga-Jin’s room before the fear returned. Gaining
entry with his knife, he found that Haga-Jin had left nothing in
the room accept his briefcase. Adding the bag to his make shift
shoulder strap, he now had the two briefcases slung over his
back.

Ensuring the window was secure,
he relaxed and looked around. He found a flask of water by the bed,
which he drank greedily to quench his thirst. Wiping his face with
the remainder, he brushed his hair back and shook himself to clear
his head.

Hearing a noise outside the door
he began edging around the room. He checked the door, tugging the
wooden frame. It was still padlocked securely on the other side.
Checking a second door he had taken to be a wardrobe built into the
wall, he found a second smaller room, just big enough for a bed.
Given the size and extravagance of Haga-Jin’s room he guessed that
it was normally a family room, with a separate space for the
children’s bed.

The bed in place nearly filled
the room, currently piled high with spare bedding, at the far end
of the room was another door. Marihito crept forward, holding the
cases to stop them banging against the wall. He had heard people
rushing by and sounds of shouts or orders; he guessed they were
coming from the terrible manageress who’d so absurdly chased him
away. Taking a deep breath, he tried the door. To his surprise, it
was unlocked. Once outside, Marihito found the corridor leading to
the rooms at the front of the hotel.

Falstaff woke late morning. His
hand clawed the sheets beside him and found them empty. Zam had
gone out again leaving him in the room alone. Even before he raised
his head, he decided that today would be the day he would prepare
to leave. Cooped up for too long, he wanted to get moving. Thinking
of the Red Caproni waiting got him out of bed.

Zam had gotten wise to him, he
decided. Nevertheless, she was wonderful caring girl with a lot of
spirit. He wondered if all the people of Bhutan were so filled? He
rang the bell for tea. While he waited, he realised just how hungry
he had become. His mouth was dry and his head slightly fuzzy; he
saw the laudanum was there at his bedside. Zam must have slipped
into his drink again after she had finished heating things up. He
rubbed his wrists that were sore from strips of bandage used to tie
him. On the whole he preferred to be untied. Lack of control of
things generally made him angry, it wouldn’t have been so easy to
relax, had it not been for Zam’s fresh-faced cheek. He was not in
any way disgruntled.

Having completed the cleaning of
the maid returned to her place in the corridor. She stood, halfway
down the corridor, a few yards from the stairs. From there she
could hear either Song calling for her; or a customer in their
rooms ring for attention. She’d remain there, standing until lunch
time.

She heard a bell ring from the
large room at the front of the hotel. It was one of the best rooms,
having a view of the beautiful lake. She marvelled at the strange
man, a foreigner. She’d never seen one in the hotel before.
Westerners rarely come to their town. He was a tall, hairy man, yet
muscular and fit, apart from his broken ribs. Nothing had been
hidden when she’d the tall ugly man being bandaged, she blushed
slightly at the thought. However, the poor man had been injured by
the Japanese. The enemy of the Chinese people. She hoped he would
be well again to continue to fight the Japanese.

“Good morning,” she bowed as she
entered the room. “Would you like tea?”

The foreigner smiled from the bed
and nodded. “Tea! Yes, please! Pu’er tea, not green this morning
thanks. Oh and rice and have you any more fish?”

She backed out of the room and
turned to see a horrible ugly face looking at her from the door of
the next room. She started to scream but was cut short by the rush
of Marihito as he lunged out to stifled he cry.

“Chikushoo!
¹⁵
” He shushed. Damn,
he cursed, the stupid maid had to go and see him? He had her by the
throat now and was ready to throttle her to keep her silence.

Hearing the confused sound of the
struggle Falstaff took his gun, a Webley service revolver, from its
holster by the bed. He opened the door half expecting to find the
maid had bumped into someone and simply dropped her tea tray.

He was stunned for a moment. A
short, balding, fat man; with his shirt wet with perspiration had
his knee in the chest of the chambermaid. She silently struggled as
her face turned blue. Her eyes flicked from side to side, panic
setting in as the man’s thick fingers tightened around her slender
neck, choking her pleas for aid.

Falstaff reacted without thought,
lashing the attacker over the back of the head with his gun. The
attacker released the girl and looked up. Falstaff had expected the
man to go down after such a blow, but he exploded forward like a
frog. His forehead smashing into Falstaff’s lip.

“You bastard!” Falstaff roared in
pain, his anger driving him forward. He pushed Marihito against the
wall and punched him the face, the butt of the revolver smashing
his nose. “Do you even know who I am?”

Marihito staggered and fell as
did Falstaff, the sudden exercise tearing his newly healed
scars.

Marihito snorted blood from his
nose then took a deep breath he ran into the room past
Falstaff.

“Pilot Garcia!” Marihito shouted,
wiping the blood from his mouth on the back of his wrist.

Falstaff followed with his
revolver raised thought he had the attacker cornered by the bed.
“No! I’m Falstaff, John Falstaff wild!” He answered.

He raised the revolver to fire as
Marihito threw the first thing to hand, the brass dragon. Falstaff
ducked dropping his gun after blasting a hole in the wall.

Marihito ran bounding over the
bed, towards the window. Falstaff grabbed at the man’s shirt and
trousers hoping to hold him back. Marihito’s bulk carried him to
the window as he leapt for the ledge. His pocket ripping open, a
leather purse tumbled out as he somehow managed to scramble down on
to the porch above the hotel entrance.

By the time Falstaff had picked
up his revolver, Marihito was running for the shoreline, ducking
into the crowds. Falstaff aimed, focusing on Marihito’s back then
relaxed it was too dangerous he grimaced, too many people about. He
let his breath go and fell back panting dizzily.

Across the room, the maid lay
unconscious.

Song was the first into the room.
Her first thought was that the foreigner had attacked the girl. Her
second sister’s third daughter. She was as angry as if it were her
own. Family is family. She wasn’t the best maid, sometimes untidy
but she was better than a common whore and as a member of the
family under her protection.

Song advanced on Falstaff, who
sat panting, trying to speak. She saw the revolver and shouted.

“Police! He has a gun, police!”
Her son behind her at the door bolted shouting out for the
telephone. He was met by the doorman coming the other way.

“The robber dropped this!” The
doorman handed the dropped purse over to Song.

“Is this yours Falstaff-San?”
Song asked sternly.

Zam fussed over Falstaff, who
had shaken off the effects of the incident and was already pacing
the room anxious to be away. However, they were again stuck in the
room together while the police tried to put together what had
happened.

Falstaff seethed with
frustration, knowing he’d need more bed rest while the Caproni
still waited for attention. He wanted to get back into the skies
quickly.

Song relayed the police version
of events to them, over a pot of tea. The police had decided there
was nothing to be done about it; the robber had somehow got into
the rooms and attacked the maid when she discovered him.

Falstaff kept quiet until Song
had gone.

“We’ve got to get away from here
first light tomorrow if we can. There're Japanese agents coming out
of the damn woodwork!” Falstaff held up the purse. “Get a load of
this...”

He opened the dropped purse,
which he had deviously laid claim to. Opening it, they found five
flat gold ingots, which fitted in the palm of his hand. They were 1
oz. bars with a Swiss mark, over stamped with a Japanese one.
“There’s more than enough here to help pay our way to Bhutan now!
One Troy ounce each? Each of these will be worth about 34 US
dollars each?” Falstaff stashed them away. “How much have we left?
What have we spent otherwise?”

Zam thought for a minute. “Let me
see? I’ve bought clothes and paid for your treatment and medicinal
tea by giving chits against the hotel credit... After we leave
tomorrow, maybe not much left.”

The one thing Falstaff knew as a
pilot was the cost of fuel in China. If the Swiss gold could be
exchanged for Silver Mexican peso all the better. Falstaff flipped
the ingots up and down in his hand, they clinked together dully,
“What do you think Zam, is it enough?”

Zam shook her head. “Maybe, I
don’t know what you need the money for?”

“For food and a few essential
supplies, it’s getting damn cold outside now we’ll need suitable
clothes and then there’s the fuel?” It bothered him that the story
Zam had given him just didn’t stand up against Garcia’s lack of
preparation and where the hell had this chamberlain run off?

It was a relief that his attacker
hadn’t be carrying the near worthless paper money issued by the
Japanese in Manchuria, outside of which, the paper notes weren’t
trusted. Falstaff calculated in his head. The cost of gasoline was
high in China and aviation grade fuel was even higher, 25 English
pounds or more, per gallon.

“We’ll keep this haul secret. We
need it to pay for the aircraft’s fuel.” Falstaff pulled on his
usual khaki trousers and shirt. “Time we went shopping my dear!
Apart from the hotel, is there a bank that you’ve seen? Perhaps you
should accompany me around town?” He offered his hand gallantly and
grinned. “Somehow I’ve come out of this feeling stronger?”

Zam felt pleased, she took this
as a compliment, an accomplishment that the man had grown stronger
under her hand and from her care and attention.

“I need to write a couple of
letters,” Falstaff announced. “Let a few people know where I am.
I’ve been promising to go to Hong Kong for a couple of months now
and never got round to it.”

“Who are you writing to?” Zam
asked, taking a seat beside Falstaff she wrapped her arm around his
left arm and lay her head on his shoulder. Falstaff stiffened.

“If you don’t mind, this is
private!”

“Really? You wouldn’t even tell
me?” Zam flushed with anger. She considered they had reached a
level in their relationship where they would trust each other.

“It’s not a wife is it? You’re
married?” Zam tugged at Falstaff’s shoulder. “What is that name on
the paper? Is a woman?”

“Zam, please. There’s nothing you
need to worry about.” Falstaff smiled, his lips together, rising
his eye brow appealingly. “Please, most of the letter is just about
what I’m doing next. I’ve a bank account in Hong Kong, a few
friends there, that’s all.”

He’d turned away as he said the
last words. Zam didn’t know what to believe.

“So you’re really a rich man with
a secret wife?” Zam prodded him in the back.

“Hey, cut it out, I’ll have to
cross that bit out now!” Falstaff continued with the letter,
eventually he looked up. “No, I’m not a rich man and as such, not
much of a catch as far was the average woman looking to settle down
or make house and have children. Flying is a dangerous business, -
especially when people are shooting at you. I’m writing these
letters in case I don’t return to Hong Kong. Did you know they were
writing about the planes I shot down even in Shanghai and Hong
Kong? The last chapter has to be written, even after I’m dead?”