The Call of the Thunder Dragon (47 page)

“The thing is, when we got back
to the shop the boy and I found Randhir had been murdered. His
throat had been slit. The store was locked from the inside, so the
boy had to let us the back way.”

“According to Randhir’s books you
or this feller of yours John Falstaff Wild is it? You are the last
customers in the shop? I know it’s a trouble for you my dear, but
the police want answers? Where is this feller of yours now?”

Zam looked from the wide-eyed boy
back at the old gentleman. She saw in the tall, hawked nose man a
resemblance to her Falstaff. Despite the Doctor’s white whiskers
and age-mottled skin.

“How about it, can you help?”
Doctor John beamed in a friendly reassuring manner, a talent he had
developed from years of practice as a doctor.

Zam looked afraid, looking at the
door. Suddenly afraid of the strange surroundings of the office.
The western furniture and doors boxing her in, she was alone and
afraid. She looked at the old doctor again and nodded. There was
something kind about the old doctor.

“Why are you asking me?” Zam
murmured wishing more than ever that she was at home with her
father.

“Hold on there, miss, no one’s is
accusing you.” The doctor knelt down, his knees creaking and
popping. “Good lord, you’ll both have to give me a hand up in a
minute! Why didn’t I just sit on the desk, eh?” He took her hand.
“Don’t be frightened Miss, you can tell a doctor can’t you?”

“It’s the Japanese!” Zam
breathed.

The doctor snatched his hand back
abruptly. “Gad! It’s worse than I expected! You’ve given me a
fright, Miss! Nasty fellers they are. I was in Russia, Port Arthur
actually, when they stormed the place in ’04! Are they here? Poor
Randhir!” Doctor John, suddenly found the energy to rise unaided.
He was clearly agitated by the mention of the Japanese. Zam
squeezed his hand.

“What shall we do?” She said, “I
don’t want to be caught by them again.”

“Doctor?” The hotel manager
called out as he returned. “It’s the police, - they are here they
wish to take Zam down to the Clubhouse to find this pilot!”

“Slow down can’t you!” The doctor
turned to face the manager. “Give me a Brandy, I’ll accompany the
lady!”

The pressure on his neck was
suddenly was gone. Falstaff opened his eyes and pushed Ono’s
apparently unconscious body off his back.

“I thought you were a gonna old
chap!” Gibbs stood beside him. “Can’t leave you for a minute,
you’re hopeless!”

“That was a Japanese assassin,
sent to kill me, by the way!” Falstaff sat up. “What the hell
happened?”

Gibbs hefted a piece of metal in
his hand, “This thing, you seized it off the ground here, then
appeared to stab that bloke in the head! Good and hard it was right
in the side of his head. He was about to throttle you I was
sure.”

“You were sure? How so?” Falstaff
took his friends hand and reclaimed the piece of damaged scabbard
from Gibbs.

“Well, I was watching thou
rolling around, I must say ye got some damn good moves on him, but
ye were no match for him really? Didn’t know how serious he was
until he put that neck hold on you! Lucky thou found that lump to
belt ‘im with like!”

“You were watching? Couldn’t you
have shot the bugger and save me the bruises?”

“Well, I came along after it
started so …” Gibbs stirred Ono’s form with his toe.

“Careful! He’ll break your leg!”
Falstaff twisted his shirt into a rope and bound the mystery
assassin’s wrists behind his back.

“You know we’ve got even more
work to do on the ship now!”

“Yes, I saw the hole! I thought
that might have something to do with it, so I didn’t step in right
away. You did that to my kite as well once?” Gibbs held Falstaff
steady and guided him towards the car.

“Did I? How did I do that?”
Falstaff took a seat in the back of the car. “I don’t
remember.”

“I’m not surprised thou knocked
yourself out doing it then an’ all! Let’s, have a look at that eye
of yours? Hullo! Here’s the police, I wonder how they got here?
Good god! It’s that woman again! She’s not banging old Doctor
Levinstone is she?”

Falstaff looked up. “Ah, yes
we’ve met Mrs. Anderson, your former bridge partner I’m told?”

“And that’s all thank you very
much! Mr. Anderson is a good fellow, doesn’t deserve to be treated
like he his! Cigarette?”

“Thanks, but I thought you only
smoked when you were nervous?” Falstaff grinned. “Not jealous of
that old doctor are you; fancy being thrown over for him?”

“Better him than thou, ya
blaggard!”

They watched the police take the
Assassin away. He had remained mute, refusing to give his name.
He’d said nothing, nor stirred since he’d been woken by a bucket of
cold water.

The police clamped handcuffs
around his wrists and ankles, following Falstaff’s advice. Finally,
they gingerly took away his ninjaken and knives as evidence.

The story of the Randhir’s death
was relayed to Falstaff, who then described how he’d been attacked.
The Police asked why he had needed the sextant and had been so keen
to buy it from the shopkeeper. Falstaff was surprised how easily
the police took his story. They filled in the gaps themselves,
without Falstaff having to tell them about China. They were
satisfied when Falstaff showed them the torn robe worn by the
assassin and told them about the stranger outside the shop playing
‘Moonlight on ruined castle.’

Ono seethed when he heard this,
but remained silent in the back of the police car covered by two
armed constables.

Hearing the story, Doctor John
Levinstone introduced himself and handed over the sextant.

“My dear fellow, after the
beating you’ve taken you can have it. No jokes mind! You are not to
go around telling folk you got it from Doctor Livingstone!”

For once Falstaff bit his tongue.
“My thanks, I hope I’ll be fit enough to fly!”

Gibbons jumped into the front of
the car, ready to start the engine. “Never mind flying, there isn’t
time right now. The clubhouse have got all hands on deck. Maca was
on at me all afternoon to fix the club’s car! You are coming
tonight aren’t you?”

“Tonight?” Falstaff looked at
Zam, “We were hoping to fly off early tomorrow morning!”

“John Falstaff Wild, where are
your manners? I told you yesterday the club was holding a party. It
is Burns’ night thou bloody fool! Robbie’s day!

The doctor who’d given him the
sextant nodded. “Aye, we’ll all be there!”

“I suppose I might manage it?
Zam, how would you like to have yourself toasted tonight with all
the other lassies? A party you’ll never forget, a real chance to
wear your hat! A proper do!”

Zam nodded approval. “Just so
long as we leave tomorrow?”

Gibbons interceded on Falstaff
behave. “I don’t think we’ll manage to start work until late
tomorrow, the day after Burn’s day is often rough...”

The old doctor who had been
listening, pushed closer, taking the handle of the saloon car in
his hand as if to stop Gibbons leaving without him. “If your John
is not fit enough, I would be delighted to take you Miss
Karma?”

“Alright, I’ll be there,”
Falstaff piped up. “So long as you don’t make me dance the highland
fling in a kilt! I feel like I’ve been trampled by an elephant
already!”

Zam slid onto the seat beside him
in the back of the saloon and held his hand gingerly, careful of
the broken skin and clinging oil. “Is it sore?”

“Only when I move or breath! So
don’t make me laugh!” Falstaff grinned. “But you know what to do
now!”

Mrs. Anderson took that as her
queue. “I’m sure we can arrange the greatest of care for you. Your
dear lady Zam showed me around your suite, it’s bigger than mine
and my husband’s! We can play nurse for you if you like?”

“Mrs. Anderson, that is kind I’m
sure, but how did you come to be here?” Falstaff asked.

The doctor answered, quickly
taking the free passenger seat in the saloon. “She was on hand to
give me a lift, - the police wouldn’t let me accompany Zam in their
car,”

He turned his head to Falstaff
with a wink, “She picked me up actually, can I have a lift back to
town? I believe I can put my hands on a kilt by way of thanks?”

Mrs. Anderson watched Gibbons
drive away, leaving her alone to survey the scene of battle. The
torn up grass, the dirt; all oil stained and gauged.

“Wow, Falstaff, you really put up
a fight don’t you! You bad boy!” She purred as she pulled out her
cigarette holder. She cannily reassessed Falstaff as she inserted a
cigarette in the end of her silver holder, lighting it from an
engraved petrol lighter.

“Now how to keep you on the
ground?” She looked at the oil pan under the engine and
conjectured, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. “I wonder,
should I?”

25
^th
January 1940 Burns’ Night

Back at the Manor house,
Falstaff found the small dose of morphine Doctor John gave him
helped him through the most painful step of his recovery; that of
scrubbing the oil and dirt off. The scratches and scuffs were
minor, but there were many of them, these stung until the drug
started to ease the pain.

He washed and dressed, drinking
coffee and eating egg sandwiches. Bandaged and dressed in a clean
white shirt, he bravely put on the kilt given to him by the good
Doctor. It narrowly matched the dark red of his new Indian tweed
jacket, with its flashy silk lining, the kilt’s green and red was
at least not too eye catching.

Zam loaned him a yellow silk
scarf that he wore as a cravat; looking in the mirror, with one eye
slowly going purple and green, one exposed knee covered with a
bandage, he judged the ensemble would pass muster at any clan
gathering. He rummaged until he found two clean socks, which he
pulled on with his new shoes, which had been badly scuffed in the
fight. Ringing the desk downstairs a boy was sent up to collect
them. He drained his coffee, poured himself a large cognac and sat
down to wait for Zam.

He sniffed the heady aroma,
rocking the glass so the golden brown liquid surged around the
sides of the glass in an intoxicating wave. Falstaff sniffed and
then took a large, pungent sip full of the flavours of fruit,
caramel, honey, and almonds. He swallowed, instantly feeling
invigorated. He thought to himself about France, like Britain on
the verge of war, makers of the best Brandy. God bless Jas Hennessy
& Co, Falstaff thought.

“To George of England!” Falstaff
said out loud, “And to the Republic of France! Makers of beautiful
Brandy, and wretched stinking cheese!”

It was late afternoon now and
Falstaff found himself nodding off. He slipped off his jacket and
sat in the chair reading the latest worrying news from London. He
found little or no news of Kunming, Shanghai or Hong Kong for that
matter, in any of the papers. The typical lacklustre focus on the
east was disconcerting, was the threat of Japan not being taken
seriously, he wondered?

The paper was as recent as he had
seen nearly a month old, dated 2
^nd
January 1940. He
found himself wondering more and more about home, and was stopping
to read anything he found. The newspaper contained nothing but bad
news. The RAF had lost a Handley Page Hampden on a navigational
exercise, it had struck the summit of Snaefell, on the Isle of Man.
A U-boat had sunk a neutral Swedish steamer with one torpedo, 50
miles north-east of Aberdeen. German Ju 88 dive bombers had been
engaged by RAF Gloster Gladiators flying out of the Shetlands; one
Ju 88 had been shot down. This news finally drove home the point
that the British Isles, his home was indeed at war, with
hostilities about to break out. The RAF was already engaging the
Germans and beating them it seemed. Falstaff grinned from ear to
ear with pride. Though the real shooting war may not have started
yet, it would soon enough. His pangs of guilt forced Falstaff to
read on.

Across the other side of the
world, the paper reported an action that had taken place a month
earlier. What they called the ‘Battle of the River Plate’. Nearer
to home, the allies were deploying troops to form a ‘Western front’
in Belgium. This rang familiar alarm bells with Falstaff. Surely
they weren’t going to commit troops to maintaining another bloody
defensive frontier, he thought?

He’d just been born before the start of the Great
War.
At school his memories were filled with the services at
the monuments and memorials, as each of the many were built. His
memory as clear of the colddoor formalities as it of his school
masters telling him how the war had been so terrible and inflicted
such a large number of casualties on all sides that they believed,
as did many, it had been ‘the war to end all wars’.

The newspapers were full of new
details of war emerging in Europe. Falstaff wondered if the civil
war in Spain had been covered in the same way. He had been there
and had not read a morsel about then or since. It had been horrible
enough.

The words from the page drew him
in, he knew he was reading about home, people he knew, places he
might have been. The new British Expeditionary Force had been
established in 1938, in response to the War Cabinet’s demand for
readiness against the perceived threat of war after Germany annexed
Austria. The French and British government had promised to defend
Poland and the German invasion that followed compelled the British
government to have the new force sent to France in September ’39,
under joint command it had been deployed along the French-Belgian
border, but remained there without advancing to support Poland or
Holland, who had been forced to surrender so quickly.

Falstaff wondered what RAF
squadrons had been sent if any? He mulled over the events, it was
what he’d joined up for! The real reason why he joined RAF in the
first place. It had been the idea of flying in Europe. The same as
his damned father, not infernal Afghanistan where he had been
deployed in the end. How many years ago now he mused?