repeated the strange phrase out loud, "There is terror in the bamboo only for the wicked . . ." "It is from an almost forgotten Oriental proverb inscribed on the wall of an ancient temple in the jungles of Indochina," explained Brown. "The complete proverb reads: 'There is terror in the bamboo only for the wicked, the good shall find only peace."
More mystery. It was beginning to take on the flavor of a Fu Man Chu novel. But to Hazzard ten thousand dollars was still ten thousand dollars, and as far as he was concerned, he had just become the highest paid delivery boy in history.
"And how do I get in touch with you, Mr. Brown?" asked Hazzard.
The brief case snapped shut and Greenstreet-Brown was rising ponderously to his feet. "It will not be necessary to get in touch with me. You have all the information necessary to complete this small task."
"I mean when I come back. A little matter of a five thousand dollar balance."
Brown looked down at Hazzard and smiled his best Greenstreet smile. "Do not worry Mr. Hazzard," he said in his best Greenstreet voice, "I shall contact you immediately, when and if you return."
There it was again, the 'if.'
Brown turned and strode magnificently toward the door. Hazzard sat spellbound. It was just like the movies. For a moment Hazzard thought he was going to leave without another word, but Brown paused dramatically with his hand on the doorknob and turned around.
"Mr. Hazzard, do you own a revolver?"
"No, I don't," Hazzard lied. "It's against the law here in Japan for anyone except the police to have hand guns. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing at all. Just a passing thought. Oh, yes, one other thing. The box that the beads came in. You may take it apart and examine it if you wish. It is not even necessary to take the box with you. Just deliver the beads. And remember, no matter what happens to you, keep the beads upon your person at all times," he paused to smile. "Good-by, Mr. Hazzard, and have a pleasant trip," and with that he was gone, shutting the door behind him before Hazzard could say a word.
Hazzard sat for a few minutes looking at the door through which Mr. Brown had passed, then he let his gaze fall on the box. He smiled as he thought how Mr. Brown had read his mind. It was obvious that he would think something was hidden in the box. Picking it up, he examined it, and slowly applied pressure until it snapped at the sides. It was just an ordinary wooden box, and he threw the pieces in the waste-basket. Next, the beads. Nothing unusual here either. Each bead was transparent enough to eliminate the possibility of anything being secreted in them.
Hazzard swiveled his chair around to face the window and began to think. Everything was too mysterious, too simple, and the price was too high. Something was definitely wrong, and there was only one way to find out, go along with the instructions until he came across it. He began to think over everything Brown had said. Two times Brown had said 'if,' and two other phrases bothered him, ". . . do you own a revolver?" and ". . . no matter what happens to you, keep the beads upon your person at all times."
The more Hazzard thought about it, the more it began to smell like stale herring. Delivering the beads might not be as simple as it seemed. Then with a grunt, he rose and went to the small clothes closet in the corner of the room. Pushing aside his raincoat, a broom, and a few boxes revealed a small hole in the baseboard. Sticking his finger in the hole, he pulled, and the baseboard came away from the wall. Reaching in behind it he withdrew a small package wrapped in newspaper. The board, the boxes, and the other things were replaced, and Hazzard surveyed them for a moment to make sure Michiko would not become suspicious and discover the hiding place.
Returning to his desk he unwrapped the paper. Underneath was a layer of oilcloth which he carefully unfolded. Inside was a well-oiled snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .357 magnum revolver and a box of cartridges.
Hazzard smiled affectionately as he took a cloth from a desk drawer and wiped away the excess oil. Then holding the revolver in his hand, he said out loud, "Hello Sam, long time no see. You've had a long rest, and now you and I are going on a trip."
He placed the beads in a money belt around his waist. Then, as an afterthought, he put one hundred of the ten thousand notes in the money belt with the beads. Sam was loaded and stuck inside his shirt under the money belt. He put the remaining cartridges in a small leather bag and dropped them in his pocket. Looking in the mirror over the sink, he decided he needed a shave, and maybe a new shirt. He scooped the remaining money off the desk and walked out to stand in front of Michiko's little desk.
"I'm going out to the barber shop. Call the Mikado up and reserve a table for two next to the stage for the second show tonight," he said, trying to look nonchalant.
Michiko's heart almost stopped, "You are going out tonight?"
"Yes, and don't look so sad. Here,'' and he dropped the eighty bills one by one all over her desk. "Go get your hair fixed, and change your clothes, or whatever you girls do when you go to the Mikado. Meet me in the lobby of the New Japan Hotel at seven o clock. Tonight we dine, and tomorrow we start paying off a few bills."
Michiko's eyes went from Hazzard to the money and back again. "Oh, Mike-san . . ."
But Mike-san was already going down the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. He bounced briskly out the door and nodded to all the people who stopped to stare. 'Oh, I know what you're thinking,' he said to himself, 'There goes another one of those crazy foreigners. And this time you may be right.'
A barber shop is a good place to think, that is if the barber shop is in Japan, and you happen to be a foreigner. The barber figures he cannot talk to you anyway, and so he does not try. In America it would be the last place in the world that anyone would go to do his thinking. American barbers are all either baseball experts or frustrated politicians, and once they have you strapped in the tonsorial hot seat, they talk your ears off. Right now Hazzard was thinking, and for once he wished he was in an American barber chair. At least the talk would keep his mind from wondering about John Brown and the little string of beads.
He realized now that the deal had gone off too quickly. A thousand questions were running around unanswered in his still slightly aching head. Why was Brown willing to pay so much money to have an almost worthless string of beads delivered? If they were not important, they could be sent by mail. He had been too quick to grab at the money. Hazzard was mentally kicking himself for being stupid, until he remembered that this was the kind of weird business that a private investigator got himself into, and nobody had twisted his arm.
After the barber, Hazzard went home to his small three-room apartment in Shibuya. The business of the beads, and the ambush in the alley was now making him overcautious. He kept checking to make sure he was not being followed. When he arrived at the apartment, he eased himself through the door and systematically inspected the rooms, all the time keeping a hand inside his shirt ready to introduce Sam to any uninvited guests. He felt a little foolish when everything turned out as normal as it should be.
He took a shower and changed his clothes. Tonight was going to be the first time he had taken Michiko any place except for an occasional lunch. He remembered the way she had looked at him in the office when he had told her about the Mikado, and began to wonder if he was really doing the right thing. Mixing business with pleasure never had been a good idea, and a girl like Michiko might be a little more than he could handle once he got her out of the drab surroundings of the office and into the plush atmosphere of a night club.
It had taken longer than he had expected to catch a taxi, and it was almost seven thirty when Hazzard pulled into the driveway of the New Japan Hotel. He strode through the automatic doors half expecting
