Tengu

by Graham Masterton

  Jerry held the paper up to the streetlight. There was the Japanese character gwa watermarked into it, but that was the only identifying mark. He stood silent and alone on the driveway for almost five minutes, holding the paper in his hand, thinking, searching his memory and imagination for what this could mean, and where it could have come from.

  It convinced him of one thing: Sherry Cantor’s death had really been a mistake, after all.

  Whoever had smashed his way into her house that morning had been looking for him.

  There was nothing about that thought that consoled him. It meant simply that Sherry had died for no reason at all, and that whoever had killed her was still on the loose. Whoever Sergeant Skrolnik was holding down at headquarters, it was unquestionably the wrong man.

  The message itself was more subtle. “The hawks will return to their roost.” It reminded him of something he had read years and years ago, when he was in Japan. It had an important meaning–he was sure of that. And somebody had taken a considerable risk to tuck it under his windshield wiper. It was a warning of some kind, that was obvious. But against what, and by whom, he was completely at a loss to imagine.

  He drove slowly and thoughtfully to Mack Holt’s house on Franklin Avenue. Mack was standing in the doorway outside, talking to a shaven-skulled Krishna disciple in saffron robes. When he saw Jerry drawing into the curb, he raised his cigarette hand in salute, and Jerry could see him saying something to the young man in the robes, something which made the young man nod as if he were impressed.

  “How are you doing?” asked Jerry as he slammed the car door behind him and walked up the cracked concrete path. It was a warm, dusky evening, and moths were weaving around the naked bulb over the porch.

  Mack said, “Okay, how are you?”

  “You busy?” asked Jerry.

  “Kind of. Depends. Olive’s upstairs, and we’re expecting some people over later. They’ve got a pirate videotape of the new Star Wars picture, and two gallons of Christian Brothers Pinot Chardonnay.”

  Jerry glanced up toward the lighted window of Mack’s apartment. “I wouldn’t keep you long,” he said. “It’s just that the police have found a suspect, and they’d like us to go to headquarters and take a look at him.”

  “They’ve found somebody?” asked Mack, as if he had expected that the criminal would disappear int the Xth Dimension, like Dr. Strange.

  “They’re not sure if it’s the right guy,” said Jerry. “But Tengu I guess we owe it to Sherry to take a look. Sergeant What’s-his-name, Skrolnik, said we might recognize him just from some casual encounter in the street.”

  “Do you think I could bring Olive?” asked Mack.

  Jerry gave him a lopsided shrug.

  Mack disappeared upstairs for a minute or two, while Jerry remained on the stoop, smiling vaguely from time to time at the shaven-haired Krishna convert and whistling “The Way We Were.” Across the street, a fat strawberry-blonde woman was trying unsuccessfully to persuade her pet poodle to do what he had been dragged out of the house to do.

  At last Mack reappeared, closely followed by Olive. They both looked slightly high. Olive was wearing a shocking-pink satin jogging vest that did little to conceal her improbably large breasts, and the tightest of white satin shorts. Mack said to Jerry, “This is Mrs. Robin T. Nesmith, Jr. Her husband’s in Honolulu, with the Navy.’’

  “Delighted,” said Jerry, and shook Olive’s hand. “I was a Navy man once, myself.”

  “Don’t knock them,” grinned Olive.

  “I hope I’m not spoiling your evening,” said Jerry.

  “Not at all,” Olive told him, climbing into the Dodge beside him and wriggling her hips enthusiastically to make room for Mack. “I’ve had enough of videotapes and cheap wine to last me till Doomsday. It’s a change to do something unpredictable.”

  It was dark by the time they reached the police headquarters. A jaded sergeant sat at the desk in the lobby and regarded them with eyes that had long ago faded into disinterest at the sight of oddballs, hookers, pimps, and general fruitcakes, the flotsam of Hollywood Boulevard and all parts east. He told them to wait, and they sat side by side on a patched vinyl bench, tapping their feet and staring at a poster which reminded them that 10,728 people died in the United States last year as the victims of handguns. Officers came and went, tired and sweaty from hours of duty, one or two of them whistling and fooling around, most of them silent. Mack said to Olive, “This is unpredictable?”

  At last, his shoes squeaking on the plastic-tiled floor, Sergeant Skrolnik appeared, with Detective Pullet and Arthur following close behind him. “I’m sorry I kept you good people waiting,” said Skrolnik, directing his attention with some humility to Olive’s breasts. “Sherry Cantor’s case is just one of three similar homicides. I have on my books right now, and I’m afraid that my time is kind of limited.”

  “You said you’ve caught somebody,” said Jerry. “I didn’t hear any announcement on the news.”

  Skrolnik thrust his hands into his sagging pockets. “That’s because I haven’t yet announced it to the media. I’ve detained somebody, yes, and I’ve charged him with the first-degree homicide of Ms. Sherry Cantor, and the reason I’ve done that is because I’m not at all sure who else apart from this guy could have physically torn a twenty-one-year-old girl to pieces. But I have to tell you that there are doubts in my mind, serious doubts, and that’s why I’m looking for all the corroborative evidence I can find. The guy plainly has the capability to inflict serious injuries on people with his bare hands. He had some personal involvement with the victim. But two or three important details still don’t seen to add up.”

  “Does that really bother you, as long as you’ve made a bust?” asked Mack.

  Skrolnik gave him a look of tired disgust. “I want more than an arrest, Mr. Holt. I want to catch the guy who ripped a pretty and innocent young woman into so much raw meat.”

  Without saying anything else, he squeaked off again along the corridor, and Pullet and Arthur followed. Arthur was busy blowing his nose, but Pullet indicated with a cursory nod of his head that Jerry and Mack and Olive should come along, too.

  They were ushered into a small interview room that smelled of stale cigars and Brut 33. On the far wall was a Tengu two-way mirror; behind it, disconsolate and edgy, sat Maurice Needs, a/k/a El Krusho, on a cell chair that seemed to be three sizes too small for him. Every now and then he punched his fist into the open palm of his hand, impatiently blew out his cheeks, and looked toward the cell door.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Mack. “That’s Mauricel”

  “That’s right,” nodded Skrolnik. “Maurice Charles Needs, from Fridley, Minnesota; also known as El Krusho.’’

  “ElKrushol” asked Jerry in disbelief.

  “My reaction entirely,” said Skrolnik. “But in spite of that somewhat fanciful name, he was a close acquaintance and possible lover of Ms. Sherry Cantor. According to two different witnesses, he was involved in a menage a trots with Sherry Cantor and with you, Mr. Holt. Three in a bed, so I’m told.”

  Olive took Mack’s arm, as if to reassure him that whatever had happened in the past wasn’t going to affect the strength of their friendship now. Mack said disjointedly, “There was something like that, yes. But not serious, and only one time. It started as a party, and then I guess we all had a little too much wine. There was no bad feeling afterward, no problems.”

  “You don’t think that, having slept with her once, Maurice Needs may have thought that Sherry Cantor was a lover of his? That he might have gotten overpossessive about her? Jealous, even?”

  “Look,” said Mack, “this is all completely off the wall. Maurice never hurt anyone, never would.

  We had a scene with Sherry, ail right, I admit it, but it was one time only and that was it. We all stayed good friends. Sherry and me used to go down to the circus to see him, and he was always totally friendly. He wouldn’t do anything like that, not to anybody, and especially not to S
herry.”

  “Mr. Sennett?” Skrolnik asked Jerry. “Did you ever see that man before? Lurking around your street maybe?”

  Olive said, “That guy couldn’t lurk if he tried. Look at the size of him. But don’t you think he’s cuteV

  “Don’t get ideas,” said Mack. “He isn’t very big where it really counts. These Muscle Beach types never are.”

  Sergeant Skrolnik impatiently put in, “Will you take a look at the suspect, please, Mr. Sennett? A real good look?”

  Jerry shook his head. “I’m sorry, sergeant. I never saw him before.”

  “Can we talk to him?” asked Mack. “I mean, you’re not going to hold him, are you? Not really?”

  Detective Pullet said, “You can talk to him if you want to. But until we have some pretty good evidence that he didn’t murder Sherry Cantor, he stays right here.”

  Mack said, “Jerry–Olive–can you wait for me? I’d really like to give the poor guy some encouragement.”

  “Don’t owrencourage him,” said Skrolnik, glancing at Pullet in a way which showed that he didn’t really think that allowing Maurice Needs to speak to Mack was a very good idea. But Pullet said, “It could help, right? Anything which gets us nearer to the nub of what actually happened.”

  “All right,” said Skrolnik. “But not longer than five minutes. Then I’m going to have to tell the commissioner we’ve hauled someone in.”

  Detective Arthur sneezed loudly.

  Outside again, on the vinyl bench, Jerry and Olive waited and smoked while Mack was given time to talk to El Krusho. Olive said, “What were you in the Navy, Jerry? Afloat or ashore?”

  “Mostly ashore. Naval Intelligence Department. Nothing very much like the Navy and not very intelligent, either.’’

  “My husband’s in Records. Right now he’s working on some kind of official history of Midway, something like that.”

  “Do you miss him?” asked Jerry, looking at her carefully through the winding cigarette smoke.

  She nodded. Her eyes gave away just how much she Tengu missed him.

  “I can’t believe this guy is called El Krusho,” Jerry said, to change the subject. “Did Mack ever talk about him before?”

  “He did mention he used to know a circus strongman. But that was all.”

  Jerry said, “He didn’t really look the type to commit murder, did he? You see the way he kept looking at the door? Sort of soft and hopeless, like he’s waiting for his gray-haired momma to come bail him out.”

  “He looked strong enough,” remarked Olive.

  “Well, sure, and that’s obviously one of the reasons they’re holding him. But unless he had an accomplice, I don’t really believe he did it.” He reached into his plaid jacket and took out the sheet of soft scrollwork paper he had-found under his windshield wiper. “If anything convinces me that it wasn’t him, this does. I found it on my car tonight, just after Sergeant Skrolnik called me.”

  Olive took the paper and read it carefully, “The hawks will return to their roost?” She frowned.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds like an old Japanese proverb. But like all Japanese proverbs, it could have several meanings. Maybe something like ‘that which has been troubling you before is going to come back and trouble you again.’ On the other hand, it could mean something altogether different.”

  “Do you know who might have put it on your car?”

  Jerry took back the paper, folded it up, and shook his head. “Not a clue. But I think whoever did it knows who killed Sherry Cantor; and whoever did it knows exactly what’s going to come down next.”

  Olive stared at him. “You mean–the murderer’s still out there? He could do it again?”

  “I hope not,” said Jerry dryly. “And the reason I hope not is because the next murder could well be mine.”

  Mack was almost a half-hour. Jerry took a stroll around the hallway, smiling at the impossible desk officer; trying to pat a police dog on the head, going over to talk to a young blonde woman police officer who was typing up reports at a desk to one side.

  “Hi,” he said. “It looks like you’re pretty tied up tonight.”

  The policewoman looked up at him, sharply. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but visitors are requested to wait over there.”

  “Okay,” said Jerry. “I was only trying to support my local police department.”

  At that moment, however, just as Jerry was turning away, a lieutenant came up, sweating and paunchy, and handed the policewoman a sheaf of documents.

  “Janice, can you do me a favor and get these sorted out for me? I mean, real quick. I need them two hours ago.”

  “Which one’s this?” the policewoman asked him, leafing through the notes.

  “The Japanese one. The young guy they found in that culvert out by West Covina.”

  “Okay, lieutenant,” the policewoman said, and laid the papers on the edge of her desk.

  Jerry didn’t ever quite know what led him to do it. But as the lieutenant headed for the squad room, he turned around and deliberately knocked against the policewoman’s desk, so that all the papers were scattered on the floor, swooping and tumbling.

  “I asked you to wait over there!” the policewoman snapped, getting up from her seat. But Jerry was quicker. He knelt down and gathered the papers up, and as he did so he snatched a quick read at every page. A name: Kemo Toyama. Part of a report by the officer who first arrived at West Covina: Seriously mutilated, heart dislocated, brain damaged. Names of witnesses, no time to read any of those. And then, like a newsflash, a name and address: do Nancy Shiranuka, Alta Loma Road.

  Jerry handed the papers back to the policewoman with a sheepish smile. “I’m truly sorry. I guess I’ve always been clumsy. Can I buy you dinner to make up for my boobery?”

  The policewoman sat down again and zipped a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter.

  “Just sit down and behave yourself, and I’ll resist the temptation to arrest you for interfering with police business,” she said. Jerry saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On the way back to Franklin Avenue, Mack said, “The poor guy’s completely innocent. I don’t even know how they can hold him.”

  “Does he have an alibi?” asked Jerry.

  “He was in bed asleep.”

  “Alone? Or accompanied?”

  “Alone as it happens.”

  Jerry made a face. “Lying alone in your own bed, no matter how peacefully, is not really much of an alibi. What about the police killing?”

  “He doesn’t have an alibi then, either. But he couldn’t have done either of them. It just isn’t in him.”

  Jerry produced the Japanese paper and handed it across the car. “This is what really convinces me it wasn’t him.”

  “This piece of paper? What does it mean?”

  “It’s a warning of some sort. It’s Japanese. And it must have been attached to my car long after Sergeant Skrolnik locked your friend Maurice Krusho up in the cells.”

  “Why didn’t you show this to Skrolnik?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I’m still not sure that what / think about Sherry Cantor’s death isn’t just another manifestation of my neurosis about Japan.”

  “But if it could have sprung Maurice from jail...”

  “It’s not evidence,” said Jerry, taking it back. “Not the kind of evidence that Skrolnik is looking for.’’

  ‘‘For you, though ?”

  Jerry tapped hjs forehead with his finger. “For me, it sets off that cold wind.”

  They had reached Mack’s apartment, and Jerry drew over to the curb. Mack said, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us tonight? If there’s a killer on the loose and he’s looking for you...?”

  “I’ll be okay,” said Jerry. “I’ve got a Colt automatic in the bedroom and I can still remember some of my judo.”

  “You’re welcome to wine and Revenge of the Jedi’’ smiled Olive.<
br />
  Jerry shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve got to get back for my son. He was supposed to be home a half-hour ago. But let me think this all over tonight, and maybe I’ll call you in the morning.

  There’s something real complicated going on here, you know. Something that makes some kind of sense if only we could fit all the pieces together. I just need to get it all assembled in my brain.”

  It was almost nine o’clock by the time Jerry swung his car into Orchid Place. Considering that David was supposed to have gotten back from the Lechner’s by eight o’clock at the latest, he was surprised and concerned to find that the house was still in darkness. He parked his car, locked it, and went to open the front door. It was already two or three inches ajar. He stood and looked at it for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then he reached out with his fingertips and nudged it open.

  In the hall, he paused and held his breath. The killer could be waiting for him anywhere, in any shadow. He took two or three steps forward, trying to remember what his old judo instructor had told him. You are the wind, nothing more. You are the air. When your enemy attacks you, you will become the air, invisible yet strong. You will give way; but in your giving way you will vanquish your enemy instantly.

  Something else came into his mind. An unbidden thought that made him feel cold and alarmed.

  A single word. Tengu.

  He called, “David? Are you there, David?” but there was no reply. Either David had come back early and then gone out again when he found that his father wasn’t home, leaving the door unlocked by accident, or else–

  Jerry reached for the living room light and flicked it on. Everything was in chaos–cushions, chairs, vases, books were scattered all over the rug. Even the liquor cabinet had been wrenched open and its pink-tinted glass smashed. One of the drapes had been pulled down, and there was a smear of blood on the wallpaper.

  With stiff, chilled movements, too shocked now to think about judo, Jerry crossed the room.

  Sprawled on the sofa was a Japanese Hotei doll, a puppet of one of the seven gods of fortune.