Rogue Raider (28 page)

Chapter Twelve

Dear Detective Namura
,

Many thanks for the guided tour of Yokohama. Without your help I should never have gained access to the many interesting experiences vouchsafed by that fair city whose hidden side you know so well. I assume you have still not fulfilled your dreams by arresting that desperado from the Emden whose capture was such a focus of your concerns when we were together. Look at my signature and hang on to a single thought – that you briefly held ten thousand pounds in your hands but let it slip through your fingers. Think what you might have done with that money! Thank you for the Hawaiian shirt. I have had it made into a dress for my mother and the rest of the material makes an excellent bedspread.

Yours sincerely
,

Captain Julius Lauterbach

Lauterbach made his entry aboard the
Mongolia
in style. Rosa had borrowed the steam launch of a fabulously wealthy Chinese
taipan
and decked it out with three large versions of the Stars and Stripes and a small brass band. The British officials, scanning the faces and documents of the many furtive passengers aboard the normal tender, were dazzled by the boat's sheer chrome and mahogany razzmatazz. A cast of Rosa's friends had been recruited to wave tearful farewells. Lauterbach stood tall in his new uniform. Looser and less tapered of cut and of thicker material than his German outfits, he had the feel of a man sleepwalking in pyjamas. Another friend, an employee of the
American News of Shanghai
, had slipped a short notice into the paper to the effect that Julius Lauterbach had been “reliably reported by wireless telegraphy” as taken into custody aboard the
SS Mounteagle
off British Columbia. It was speculated that he would be returned to Singapore for trial. Lauterbach read it with pleasure. He was getting used to reading his own obituary and it had become a sort of proof he was still alive and kicking.

He went below to his cabin but the presence of his travelling companion, a devout and fussy clergyman who took an impertinent interest in the state of his soul, irritated him and anyway he did not want too much time to sit and think about Rosa, so he was driven back on deck. There is a tireless fascination in sea departures and his practised eye was soothed by the regular flow of goods and supplies, the hundred little preparations for sailing that are the mark of professional seamanship. But all at once the good order was disturbed by a sudden flurry of activity near the gangplank as a team of British customs officials with clipboards came on deck and started checking identities. That he did not like that at all. Shanghai was normally so relaxed that even passports were not strictly required. He turned on his heel and wandered away, keeping just ahead of them, towards the middle deck. Ducking down a corridor he came to the barber's shop, empty of course at this stage of the voyage, and pushed through the swing doors, swathed himself in a large towel, chose a chair with its back to the door and draped his American officer's jacket ostentatiously over it, then hastily soaped his face from neck to eyebrows and worked it up to a thick lather. He settled back cosily in the chair like a waiting customer and lit a carefree cigar. The customs men appeared in the door, saw the uniform and foaming Lauterbach raising his hand, in the mirror, in friendly – Hi folks – greeting. They smiled, saluted and withdrew. Twenty minutes later, amidst honking and the ringing up of commands, the
Mongolia
finally weighed anchor and set sail.

The ship soon settled to a regular routine with Philippino stewards ranging the corridors with their tinkling gongs to entice passengers to eat. There were other US military travellers, a loud and opinionated general and entourage, a dour admiral, a couple of rangy, hard-drinking colonels always the last to desert the bar at night. Lauterbach decided they were best avoided as too many akward questions could arise that might not be covered by a simple claim of good German-Milwaukee ancestry. There were ladies enough to be beguiled by a well-cut uniform but he was still sated and doggedly depressed from Rosa and so the Lauterbach torpedo slumbered sullenly in its cradle. He drove people away with deliberately plebeian habits, smoking a foul-smelling pipe, digging with his fingers in his nose and examining the product against the light and spitting about the deck, lavishly and with bad aim.

There was no lack of Japanese, either, pattering about the ship and initially he found himself keeping a wary eye open for Katsura. Time could be spent agreeably enough playing cards with some commercial gentlemen or reading in the library and he took pains to be the first to the dining room, ordering the simplest dish and dashing away wiping his mouth before most had even finished dressing. An aged English lady, dry as a tortoise, challenged him to a daily game of scrabble after lunch, drubbed him regularly but accepted all his wilder spelling mistakes as correct American orthography. It became just another regular feature of his pensioner's schedule.

Three days' sailing brought them to Nagasaki. The usual medical officer came aboard by launch to enquire into the risk of infectious disease on the vessel. Lauterbach, posted on deck, noted carefully the standard yellow flag, flying from the back of the launch. He knew from experience that Japanese doctors took themselves seriously at such formalities, sometimes insisting on examining tongues as well as passports. But this doctor did not come unaccompanied, indeed a whole troop of uniformed officials followed on his heels and, worse yet, all passengers were summoned to appear in the smoking saloon with their travel documents. Fear gripped his bowels. Escape was impossible, since they were anchored well out in the roadstead and there was no hope of slipping over the side and swimming for it. Moreover, this was the most well-disciplined harbour in the East and no small boats approached the big liners as in other ports, so he would have to take his chances with the rest. The little revolver weighed heavy in his jacket pocket. They would not, he resolved, take him without a fight.

The saloon was a big, frowsy room, smelling, appropriately enough, of cigars and a lot of the ladies were doing a business of sniffing and clamping little white hankies disgustedly to their faces. The Japanese officials were seated stiffly at a card table with manifests and such like before them. Lauterbach settled to wait as far from them as possible, eyes and ears alert. A little man with thick glasses and bandy legs, clearly the senior officer, stood up with the authority of his shiny boots. “Is there an American officer here called Johnson?” Blood thundered in his ears. They knew! Someone must have seen him in Shanghai and sent word via the undersea cable. He looked round again for Katsura, somehow convinced he must be behind this.

“Mr Johnson please. Is there a Mr Johnson?” Lauterbach sat firm on his fat sofa at the far end of the room and stared into space. They would have to ask him to his face. He would pretend to be deaf. He would clutch at his heart and faint. Another Japanese took up the cry.

“Please pay attention, ladies and gentlemen. We are looking only for Mr Johnson. No one can leave the ship until he reports to us.”

The old scrabble lady was looking at him significantly with her watery eyes, hand half-raised like the class sneak, as if to denounce him with a seven-letter word. Would she really remember his name? He realised suddenly in despair that it was all pointless. He was only putting off the evil moment by a few more minutes. Best get this over with and hang on to a little dignity. No wait. Sod dignity. Every minute was precious. He turned to see one of the boozy colonels stepping up, with care, to the table, cigarette in hand, dark glasses over his eyes.

“Johnson?” he asked with deep south, mint julip courtesy and breathed smoke. “I guess you gentlemen mean me – sorry I'm late – we had quite a session at the bar last night – but it's not Mr It's Colonel Johnson.”

Lauterbach went weak at the knees, collapsed heavily, whimpered thanks to the deity. Two Johnsons! There were two Johnsons on board. Thank God he had chosen such a common name.

A smirk like a disfigurement spread across the face of the senior officer. “Oh
Colonel
Johnson,” he snickered and bowed, grinning round at the others. “Please forgive me,
Colonel.
” He reached up and whipped the dark glasses off the astonished American's face, then snapped out an order and his henchmen circled round behind and gripped the colonel by each arm. “We are not deceived Mr – Colonel –
Captain
Lauterbach. You will please accompany us to headquarters where we shall look into your story. Do not worry. We shall arrange to disembark your luggage since you will not be on board when the ship sails,” They swaggered off, frogmarching him away protesting, raging, crying out for the help of the divinity and the US consul. Lauterbach rose shakily. It seemed too dangerous to stay on the ship and risky to try to get off. And then he saw the American admiral, blah-blahing and dawdling with a group of obsequious staff officers towards the gangplank. As they passed down each snapped off a salute at the Japanese officer on duty. Swiftly, he attached himself to the rear of the line and did the same, striding onto the bouncing tender as if he belonged. For the moment, he was free.

The day in Nagasaki was very long and he was painfully visible. Here, there was no possibility of merging into the landscape as in the Indies. He hid all day in a dark bar, drinking gassy beer, fearful of a tap on the shoulder. If he missed the boat, they would pick him up in a matter of hours. At dusk, he reboarded the ship on payment of another sharp salute and went back down to the cabin. For the moment, they had been thrown off his trail but, when they had established the authenticity of Colonel Johnson, would they think to look for a second Johnson aboard?

His cabin door, as he approached it, was open and a bar of light fell out into the corridor. Inside was a man with his back to him, bending over his open suitcase. Katsura? He was a small man but Lauterbach felt in his pocket all the same, where the revolver gave a warm glow of reassurance. He pushed the door wide and stepped in, closed it again behind him in case there was noise to be kept in.

The man looked up and grinned without shame. He was Japanese all right but not Katsura, young and cheesily handsome with slicked down hair. He reached into an inside pocket and drew out a badge. “Hi! Namura, detective.” He slid the badge back in the pocket and returned to rummaging in the suitcase. He would find nothing in there.

“If you told me what you were looking for I might be able to help you.”

“Just looking. Just a poor working stiff doing my job, Joe.”

“My name's not Joe. It's William.” Hang on better not talk about names.

“I thought maybe I'd find me one of them German officers.” He held up Lauterbach's Chinese silk underwear quizzically. Japanese, Lauterbach recalled, wore a sort of primitive cotton loin cloth under their trousers, a
fundoshi.
“Weird. You know Joe I love my job. The things you learn about folks” he straightened and stared Lauterbach in the eye. “You know there's a price on the head of those Germans, the ones on the run from Singapore?”

“Well I'm only an American officer. You wouldn't get much for me. You speak very good English by the way, detective Namura.”

Namura blushed with pleasure. “Oh, I guess I read a lot. Then I learned plenty over the years doing the Hawaii run. Met lots of great guys and …” he winked hideously, “Dames.”

“I bet.”

“You'd be surprised how many white dames want to try a bite of real fresh-rolled sushi as a change from the old meat and potatoes.”

“I'm sure.”

Namura straightened up and squared his shoulders, threw out his pigeon chest. Instead of bowing, man of the world, he extended a tiny hand, seized Lauterbach's paw, squeezed pathetically hard.

“I expect you're wondering about my shirt?” Lauterbach looked. It was a curious garment, several sizes too large and cut of the loud and distasteful sort of cloth used for cheap ladies' kimonos. Namura held back the wings of his jacket to allow greater admiration. Frail Japanese boats crashed through huge, white-crested waves over his shoulders and chest. “Great huh? From Hawaii. My uncle's got a business there making these for the plantation guys. They just eat ‘em up. One day I'll move over there and go in with him and get rich. One day even old guys like you will be wearing these. Great talking to you, Joe. Say, you know Japan?” He reached for the doorknob.

Lauterbach shrugged. “No. Alas I was only in Shanghai for a short time and had no chance to visit Japan.”

Namura grinned and straight-armed him to the shoulder. “Tell you what. When we get to Yokohama, I'll look you up, show you the sights. Got to go. See you round.”

Lauterbach ran a rapid inventory of his belongings. Nothing was missing but then everything of importance was in his cummerbund pocket. Did Namura suspect something? Was it possible he was as simple as he pretended? By the time they got to Yokohama, he would surely have forgotten all about Lauterbach.

He kept a low profile. This was the most dangerous and restless part of the journey as the ship steamed peacefully in the pale sunshine of Japanese waters. What had happened to the other Johnson? Even Namura had mysteriously disappeared.

At Yokohama, he resurfaced in a police boat, surrounded by eager young men in smart blue uniforms, waving up to Lauterbach. “Hey Joe. Come on we're all waiting for you. Yokohama's waiting for us like I promised.” They all grinned with naughty excitement, just like the
Emden
boys had whenever they had been heading for shore leave. There was no way out. Lauterbach shrugged. Where, after all, could he be safer than hidden amongst a bunch of roistering baby policemen? Anyway, he needed a little harmless relaxation after the tension of the ship. Then he raised his eyes and saw a familiar complex of black steel girders at the far end of the harbour that looked very much like the floating dry dock the Japanese had stolen and towed away from blasted and looted Tsingtao. It provoked an impertinent pang of conscience and duty trying to transform the happy policemen into what von Muecke would call “the evil enemies of his nation”. Well, he wasn't having it. He suffocated the thought at once, put a smile on his face and tripped gaily down to the launch. They hauled him laughing aboard like a sack of coal.