The Call of the Thunder Dragon (43 page)

Damn his father, Falstaff
thought, flying in the same unit or army as the silly old coot did
not appeal.

Unexpectedly, Gibbons dropped in
to see him, full of cheer, on the way to the Clubhouse. Falstaff
dropped the idea of discussing conscription with him. Gibbons
promised to get his mechanics ready to look at the Caproni after
lunch. Falstaff agreed to meet him there.

“Do you know Mr. Gibbons well?”
An elegantly dressed woman approached from the other side of the
lounge. “He plays piano awfully well, he used to be my bridge
partner?”

Falstaff stood and politely
offered his hand. “Not that well, we served together in Afghanistan
and India. I’m Wild, by the way, Falstaff Wild, or can call me
John.”

“Mrs. Anderson.” The lady said,
“My husband works at the research centre. Spends all his time with
his soil and his clippings!”

Falstaff licked his lips.
“Really, so did you play bridge here or at the club?”

She was an unusual woman Falstaff
thought. Elegant, but thin wearing a long silk gown, comfortable
and loose he reflected. Her hair was dyed platinum blonde, her lips
already made up with a dark red, only just subdued enough for
before breakfast. In any case, any lighter would have contrasted
shockingly with her pale aspect. Her cheeks and eyes showed
tell-tails signs, drawn and fragile looking. She was smoking to
hide or suppress a tremor, or perhaps cover up a craving for some
other narcotic he surmised. Opium or red pills; heroin he guessed,
the fashionable alternative to smoking the ethereal opium that had
flooded Shanghai.

“Oh, I play about just about
anywhere, but it does depend on my partner actually. Mr. Gibbons
only played at the club before lunch.” She yawned as if the memory
bored her.

Falstaff’s eyebrow rose at the
thought of Mrs. Anderson making advances on Gibbs. What was it they
called it in bridge? She was clearly a woman of appetite if it
weren’t for the agitation from some toxin he’d detected earlier
she’d the type he wouldn’t mind spending some time with. Being the
object of an experienced woman’s lust, vanity and purse was always
a rewarding experience he grinned inwardly. This woman appeared to
have a generous and deep purse, perhaps supplied by a well-heeled
husband prepared to pay anything to keep her busy or away.

“I never played Bridge much,
couldn’t get the hang of all that cue bidding? First round control
and partnership, agreeing a strain? It was all like code to
me!”

“I suppose you play straight?”
Mrs. Anderson sat down opposite Falstaff. “Are you in town long? I
could do with some company? Not just from Bridge, there is some
much I could show you. We could take the car into town then go for
a picnic by the river? I’m a brilliant swimmer, I used to be on the
girl’s gymnastic team you know! Or we could just go shooting?”

Falstaff could picture it well.
He grinned. “Do you pack a nice hamper then?”

Chapter Ten – Breakfast in Pyjamas

Zam awoke to find her
‘John-di-di’ gone. She had slept deeply and was refreshed. Still
drowsy he lay still waiting, her eyes closed, expecting for
Falstaff’s warm embrace, the squeeze of his strong arms. She opened
her eyes and turned to find him absent.

She recalled the night before and
the talk about having an English breakfast. Hungrily she decided to
seek out her lover. It was warm and there was no house coat so Zam
strode out in just her silk pyjamas.

The hotel was busy as she walked
down the corridor to the stairs. Along the hallway, chambermaids
were entering and exiting guests rooms with dirty pots or clean
towels.

Zam passed a few people on the
stairs. The first a young man smiled, raising an eyebrow. “I say!
That’s casual!”

“Darling, look the other way! You
can’t get excited so soon after your breakfast, my dear!” An aged,
grey haired old matriarch said as she pushed her husband up the
stairs, keeping him tightly on her arm.

The whiskered old coot turned,
scenting the chase as he fumbled for his monocle. “I say, dear,
what’s the fuss about?”

Zam was about to enter the
Breakfast room, busy with guests and customers when a waiter
steered her away.

“Mam, would you like something
delivered to your room? Room service can be ordered by the
telephone?”

Zam looked at the Indian waiter,
dressed like a French porter, complete with tight white waistcoat.
“I wish to eat breakfast with John!”

“John? Did Miss stay the night
with one of the guests?” The waiter dropped the formal ‘Mam’. “If
you could be more discreet or I’ll be forced to call the porter and
have you removed?”

“Removed? I’m hungry and looking
for my di-di!” Zam insisted stamping her slippered foot.

The breakfast room the guests
looked around, the clinking of tea cups paused. Audible pause made
Zam glance into the Breakfast room. She noted the dress of the
patrons with some surprise. Formal Jackets, Waistcoats, work
clothes, the women in long dresses or skirts. Blouses with shawls
or short jackets and everywhere hats. For the ladies in the room,
hats seemed to be the height of etiquette.

Zam looked down at her own thin
white silk pyjamas; short at the knee, her white pyjama top loose
and hanging down over her breasts. The intense look from the room
and then the tug of the Porter’s arm initiated a bark of
embarrassed indignation.

“Hey! Let me go!” She called and
turned towards the stairs but was headed off by the porter.

From the lounge, Falstaff emerged
walking arm in arm with a blonde woman.

“Ah! There you are!” He called
out leaving Mrs. Anderson at the door, he rushed over to prize the
porter’s hand from Zam’s arm.

“She is with me!” He gave the
puzzled Porter a hard stare.

“Perhaps we’ll order breakfast in
our room?” He asked Zam.

“But sir,” The Indian waiter
started, then turned to close the double doors into the breakfast
room. Putting a door between themselves and the diners’ listening
ears. The resulting rustle of the morning's papers was almost
audible through the doors as they turned back to their papers, tea
and toast.

“Sir! If I may? There is a policy
in the hotel about these things. I must insist that this… common
chinaal be kept out of sight sir!”

“This woman is the princess Karma
Zam of Paro; couldn’t you get her a coat, damn it?” Falstaff
balled. “We’ll have breakfast in our room, that’s the special suite
– full English breakfasts if you don’t mind?!”

The waiter and porter both
paused.

“But sir, she…” The waiter
started.

Falstaff cut them both off.
“Breakfast, if you please by George, do you want me to tell the
manager that you put your filthy hands on Princess Karma and called
her a whore!”

Mrs. Anderson crossed the foyer
and looked Zam up and down. She observed Falstaff’s sharp tone and
how his jaw muscles flexed as he shouted at the irksome domestic.
She noticed how Falstaff's arm slipped around the girls waist
before he’d offered her his jacket. Mrs. Anderson laughed out
loud.

The waiter turned at the
sound.

“I’d like to have what she’s
having, please? A full English? In in the public saloon will do if
you can find a free table?”

The waiter paused, looking at
her, puzzled, as if he had come into the conversation at the wrong
moment.

“Come on man! Open the door, I
might as well have breakfast since lunch is obviously off!” She
stared jealously after Falstaff.

Once back in their room Zam sat,
dejected on the chaise longue. “You could have woken me!”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been reading, I
just thought you wanted to sleep in?” Falstaff suggested. “I
thought you’d know this place is all about formality, can’t believe
you went downstairs like that!” He smirked.

“You’re laughing at me? You think
I’m stupid because I’m different? In Bhutan, we don’t have hotels
where people have to dress for funerals all the time!”

“I wasn’t laughing at you, I was
laughing at what you did!” Falstaff pleaded. “You look terrific, I
bet you’ll have upset the blood pressure of more than a few of
those blokes down there!”

“I just see you laughing at me
because I don’t have those fancy clothes?” Zam frown, the crease in
her forehead deepening. “Isn’t that what you’re wondering now? What
clothes I have? What I’ve got that’s fit to wear around this
blasted place?” Zam shouted. She jumped up and pulled her bag from
Falstaff’s hand. “Get out! You go to your own room!”

“I was wondering, as a matter of
fact, all this trouble with the Japs has left my clothes in ruins,
apart from the extra vests and my pyjama’s I’ve not much to wear
myself!”

“Is that what you told that woman
downstairs? The one with the gold hair?” Zam stared, the little
crease a black mark in the middle of her face.

“Well, not exactly, but I did ask
her what was available?” Falstaff shrugged.

Zam slapped his face.

“Hey, what was that for?”
Falstaff rubbed his cheek, wearing the face of a clown. “I thought
you might like to go shopping? That woman said there're a few good
prospects in town – I mean, they’ve got what I want!”

“You make a fool out of me, I’m
not a bad girl. My English is good enough! I understand what you
want! A golden haired woman or red hair lady with a hat on?”

Falstaff found himself in
retreat, ducking cushions until the door was slammed in his
face.

He had to wait until the
breakfast table had been laid and set out before attempting to
speak to her again. He went back into the room and found Zam
struggling with the safe door beneath the desk. She’d been crying,
her hands were red and sore. She’d been clawing and fighting to
open it.

“I can’t open it!” She sobbed.
“My father’s money! I just want to go home!”

Falstaff lifted her up in his
arms and reassured her the safe was locked so the money was secure;
that he only wanted to take her home; that he loved her and that
any further expense was for the journey home; nothing else. Unless
she wanted new clothes? He could manage without?

“You’d spend all the money and
keep it for yourself!” Zam cried.

“No, it’s your money. It just
depends if you want to help me or not?”

Between sobs, she still refused
the idea, then asked if she could choose a hat somewhere? Could he
help? She had never owned a proper hat? Other than woollen caps
she’d had to keep warm while riding?

Falstaff held her close, then
carried her to the chaise longue and showed her another use for
it.

Goemon carried on raking leaves,
patiently waiting. After the narrow escape of the day before when
he had almost caused the plane to crash by accident, he had been
thinking about consequences.

Yesterday, as he’d watched
Falstaff prepare to land, he’d gripped the rake and imagined he had
his rifle again. Yesterday, he’d frozen not knowing what to do. If
he had his rifle, he could have shot both Falstaff and the woman
before they had touched down, but the pilot had pulled up avoiding
him at the last second. Goemon had Falstaff’s face fixed in his
mind from the moment he swerved.

The agent, Maka-Kiski had come to
him, firstly berating his carelessness for exposing himself in the
open. What if he’d been recognised? Goemon shook his head, no, he’d
never been close to Falstaff or the woman. Maka-Kiski had insisted
he confirmed the description of the man. Maka himself had spoken to
Ono Itchi, then Goemon had been instructed to rake leaves, nothing
more.

For the rest of the day, he’d
gathered leaves, then burnt them. He had arrived the next morning.
Mr. Gibbons had greeted him cordially, making no mention of the
near miss. Kindly offering tea, Mr Gibbons went through a list of
area which needed tidying up. The English man Gibbons had praised
him for his work and attention to detail. He started on the list,
cutting down weeds, clearing leaves then he had a change of heart.
Although he felt he would disappoint Mr Gibbons, he left the rake
and sack beside the tool shed and walked away towards the
river.

Maka received a note later that
morning. It was from Ono Itchi, they were not expecting a show from
Falstaff until the afternoon. Maka should do his best to arrange
that Gibbons and, if possible, the mechanics were kept away from
the aircraft. Whatever happened it must not be refuelled?

Maka searched for Goemon, he gave
up and went in search of Gibbons himself. The club owned the car he
frequently used for club business or to collect and ferry guests
into to town. Gibbons and his mechanics were responsible for
maintaining it.

He drove to the garage Gibbons
used in town. He telephoned through to the club and asked him to
come down immediately.

Knowing a little of motors, he
was able to manufacture a failure. Loosening a few cables and
taking off the oil cap. He started the engine and let it run. After
a burst of oil and a rattling pop, the engine stalled. He replaced
cap and the cables. The engine was now covered in black oil and
sounded like a bag of spanners in a mixer.

A short while later Gibbons
arrived, hurried and breathless but cheerful as ever. “Right,
what’s this thou said about a noise then?”

Gibbons looked baffled when Maka
showed him the sabotaged engine.

“Blood and Sand what a mess! Thou
said you went over something? Damn, what was it? A bloomin’ tiger?
Makes thee wonder what could do this?”

“I must have a car to finalise
arrangements for the party, this not acceptable! I thought you
should know better, don’t you know how important this event is to
the club?” Maka turned the tables on Gibbons, as usual overstating
his authority.

“Darn it, there’s no need to
blame thee. The car was running fine yesterday? But seeing as
you’re needed back to the club, I’ll take you back in my car then
come back here to get started on this mess!”