The Mystery of Yamashita's Map

by James McKenzie

  The professor replied again, ‘I’m not running. I am making sure I am not being followed.’

  ‘They in a blue Nissan?’

  The professor started. ‘I have no idea.’

  The driver nodded to himself wisely. ‘Yeah, they’re in a blue Nissan, been following ever since we left. They police?’

  The professor felt embarrassed and a little grieved at this. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘They gangs? Lot of gangs nowadays, betting, drugs, girls, you name it they deal in it.’

  ‘It’s none of those things . . . in fact I have no idea who they are.’

  ‘Ah,’ the driver said scratching his nose with the corner of his driver’s identification card. ‘That’s the worst kind.’

  The cab pulled up outside the restaurant and the professor got out. He gave the driver the fare, and the driver leaned out towards him.

  ‘If you’re ever in trouble,’ he said, ‘Call my cousin, Joey Hutchins.’

  He handed over a dirty tattered calling card that looked as if it had been printed in an airport. ‘He’s little crazy these days, but still good, still reliable . . . if you are desperate.’

  The professor took the card. He was desperate.

  He could see Lisa was already inside.

  In the restaurant the professor thought it was too loud and too light. Everywhere he looked, pink and blue waitresses with nametags moved with an energy that was almost superhuman, their eyes twinkling like robots, their legs barely moving as they skipped between tables. The music that played was a mixture of loud banging and heavy guitar; needless to say the professor hated it. He had never particularly understood music at the best of times, even less when it was forced in your ears in a kind of aural enema that left you feeling as though someone had sponged your thoughts. At least here, however, it was light and the music made it hard for anyone to overhear.

  He looked behind him at the street as he closed the door but could see no blue Nissan. Perhaps the cabby had been wrong, he thought to himself, they have been known to be . . . on occasion.

  Lisa was seated at a table and waved to the professor across the floor. Seated with her was a tall, nervous looking Englishman, Fraser. He had met Lisa at university when they were both studying and had gone on to work in one of the bigger Hong Kong banks. He stood up as the professor neared the table, and shook his hand. ‘Hello professor, nice to meet you again.’ They had only met on a number of occasions. Lisa, next to him, looked worried.

  ‘Uncle, I hope you don’t mind me bringing Fraser, only I didn’t know what to think. I was worried when you said you wanted to meet up. What is this all about? You look terrified.’

  The professor sat down heavily and ordered a glass of water. ‘My apartment . . .’ he stumbled. ‘Someone was watching me through the window – they phoned and threatened me.’

  ‘Why on earth would they do that?’ Lisa asked.

  ‘The book. They wanted the book.’

  ‘The book the girl gave you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The professor looked at Fraser. He didn’t know if he could be trusted. Friends, it seemed, were hard to come by at the moment so he pushed on.

  ‘They phoned, and said that the girl today had been killed. Lisa, she didn’t kill herself, someone else did.’

  Lisa looked shocked. Fraser dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘Whatever do they want with the book?’ Lisa asked.

  ‘I have no idea,’ the professor said. ‘But whatever it is, they will do anything to get it, even kill.’

  They were interrupted by the waitress. ‘Can I take your order?’ she asked with a friendliness that the professor found off-putting.

  After they had ordered, the professor told Lisa and Fraser about the cab ride to the restaurant. They both sat, dumbfounded, through his story, hearing but not hearing, listening but not quite understanding. To them it sounded like the ravings of an old man who had spent too many years inside dusty classrooms. The professor began to see their doubt. He sighed.

  ‘I can see you are not with me,’ he said.

  Lisa smiled. ‘Uncle, of course I am with you. It’s just . . . well, a little hard to take in. This is a book after all.’

  Fraser leaned forward. ‘Have you got the book, Professor?’

  He reached into his pocket, removed the book and handed it to Fraser, who gave it a cursory glance. Turning it over in his hands he opened the front cover. ‘Looks like it’s a book about Chinese Buddhist temples.’

  Lisa laughed. ‘We are aware of that.’

  Fraser shrugged this off. ‘Looks like some kind of calf skin, nicely done. Would have been a beauty a few years back. We see these in the bank, believe it or not. People leave them in deposit boxes, god knows what for. Suppose they think they’re worth something. Only Americans ever bring them.’

  ‘Are they worth something?’ Lisa asked. ‘That could be why they are after uncle.’

  ‘Oh no, practically worthless, but it’s old, no doubt about that.’

  The professor pointed to the spine. ‘That’s why the spine has gone. Look, it doesn’t close properly.’

  Fraser fiddled with it. ‘Well, generally the spine was the best part; it was the part the binder would be most proud of. The calf skin would have been soaked and stretched just right. These particular books very rarely perish in the binding.’

  Fraser peered into the spine. ‘There’s something lodged in it, that’s the problem. I wonder if it’s a love letter. You haven’t been receiving any billets-doux, have you, professor?’

  The professor blushed. ‘Not for many years, no.’

  Fraser grabbed a chopstick from Lisa’s plate and thrust it into the spine. After a few seconds of digging the map fell out onto the table. ‘There,’ Fraser said in a triumphant tone.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the professor. Fraser unfolded the paper.

  ‘Looks like a map of some sort,’ Lisa said.

  ‘Where of?’ asked the professor.

  Fraser turned the map over in his hands. ‘Do you know, I have no idea? Could be anywhere. There’s jungle, there’s a river, there’s more jungle . . .’ He thought. ‘I’d say it was the jungle, wouldn’t you?’

  Lisa grabbed it. ‘There’s writing on it. Look – on the back. It must have been written at a different time. It’s not nearly as faded,’ she said and held the map up to her eye. ‘Ami . . . Amichi?’

  Everyone looked puzzled. The professor was just about to offer a solution when his thoughts were interrupted by the waitress bringing their food. Fraser folded the piece of paper back into its tight square and replaced it back into the spine of the book. The professor still looked worried. Lisa watched as he ate, barely able to swallow, looking around him, trying his best not to let his feelings show but failing miserably.

  ‘Uncle, why don’t we walk you home and we can look at the map there. You look like a fish out of water here.’

  The professor smiled. Now that she mentioned it he was feeling a little tired and his head hurt so much from the excitement. He was not used to such action, a man of his age and constitution.

  After they had paid for the food, they walked home in the cool evening, chatting, trying to keep their minds off things. Every now and then the professor would stop and look behind him, desperately looking for the blue Nissan, but he could see nothing; either they had given up or he really was a stupid old man with too much imagination. He put his key in the lock and opened the door. Before him his apartment lay in total disarray. Everything was turned upside down. His bookcase was lying on the floor next to a pile of books that had smashed the glass table in the middle of the room. His TV had been thrown to the floor and lay in pieces with the cord still plugged into the wall. In his bedroom his clothes had been strewn over the floor, paint had been thrown over his bed and his mirror had been obliterated. The professor couldn’t believe his eyes. Everywhere about him lay the debris of his life as if a hurricane had smashed every memory, everything t
hat he held sacred. Every personal item had been either broken or defiled. From the other room, he heard Lisa screaming and he rushed in to see her. On the kitchen table was a long lock of black hair and the distinctive red shirt of the girl they had seen that day and beside it a piece of paper with the word BOOK, written in what looked like blood. The professor sank to his knees. His imagination had just seeped into reality.

  Chapter Two

  It was strange how the city seemed alive some nights, the breathing of its people combining to form one great mass that moved in and out with mechanical regularity; the lights in the harbour blinked like its scales. The professor poured another drink into a glass that was already half full and took a gulp. He had always said to himself that at moments of extreme stress one needed to be at one’s best, not fall apart or fall into drink. In this case, though, none of that seemed relevant and all he wanted to do was get smashed, absolutely smashed. Fortunately, Lisa was on hand. She pulled the glass gently away from his lips. He barely noticed, and rested it on the table. Then she straightened his collar and kissed him on the forehead. ‘You should go to the police, uncle.’ The professor stared ahead making no sound. ‘They have gone too far doing this, whoever they are. Do you know who they are, uncle?’ The professor shook his head absently-mindedly, not wanting to re-join the world – not yet. Fraser brought Lisa a coffee from the kitchen. ‘It’s a mess everywhere,’ he said. ‘Even in there. Were they looking for the book?’

  Lisa nodded. ‘I think so, don’t you, uncle?’

  ‘The book,’ the professor answered.

  ‘Uncle, you really must get some sleep. Fraser and I will stay here tonight, if you want.’

  The professor stood up. ‘No,’ he said, kindly, drawing what little strength he had left back into his heart and mind. ‘No, they won’t be back tonight; they have done what they came here to do. They have terrified an old man – that was their intent.’

  Lisa patted his shoulder, then hugged him. ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to stay?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you go. Be careful. I’ll go to bed. I’ll go to bed straight away.’

  Lisa and Fraser left, leaving the professor alone in his apartment. Outside, the city hummed and throbbed, its dark shadows closed in around it, its winds encircled anyone walking along its streets. The lights, pink and orange neon, shone brightly against the black background of the night sky and the cars moved eerily along the roads.

  Silently, a wisp of blue smoke twirled around the street lamp and spiralled up into the light. Quickly and quietly, it made its way along the horizontal of the lamp and, as if carried by some invisible internal force, flew into the air with languor. It weaved and swirled on the thermals of the night sky until it reached the professor’s window where it crept through the crack between the glass pane and the wall. It moved through the apartment until it found the professor, asleep in bed.

  All was black and he was unable to breathe. There was no light anywhere. He scrabbled with his hands and felt only cold hard mud. The walls seemed to be closing in and there was a smell of iron in the air. Reaching down, he felt, on the floor, something hard, something brittle – it snapped as he picked it up and fell into shards in his hands.

  He guessed it was bone he was touching and he guessed that this was a place where death had happened, where death had been invited. Gradually, his eyes began to become accustomed to the light and he groped about and felt the artefacts of the dead, shoes, clothing, hats, hair. He was glad that he could barely see, as his fingers drifted over partially recognisable objects that had been left by those who had perished here.

  Suddenly he felt a wind on his cheek and turned, expecting to see light, but caught only a glimpse of a bright blue smoke that seemed to contain its own luminescence as it flitted through the black air of the cave. He thought to follow where it was going, hoping that it would lead to the outside, assuming that it was the smoke of some cigarette or camp fire that burned in the open air. He found that he was in a tunnel. Feeling with his hands he made out the distinct rounded construction of a military design. Still he followed the blue smoke; he felt by now as though it were leading him somewhere, although where he didn’t know. Then he heard a ringing. He turned his head. The ringing was incessant, constant. He placed his hands over his ears to stop it but it carried on. It got louder and louder until he thought he could bear it no longer. He closed his eyes and held them shut for minutes.

  When he opened them again he was in bed. The sun was streaming in through the window. The professor looked at the alarm clock with disgust, reached an arm out and flicked the small switch on its side. Mornings were the worst part of the day. He got out of bed and remembered suddenly the events of the night before. Ignoring the chaos in his apartment he pulled on his trousers and shirt, took the book from his jacket and headed out of the front door. He had decided the night before that he would visit the University library and research the name Amichi as it related to cartography or Chinese Buddhist temples. He knew he didn’t have much to go on but libraries were his place, they were his territory and he knew he would be safe there, at least.

  By the time he got there Lisa was already at one of the tables surrounded by books and opened newspapers. The professor sat down beside her and whispered, ‘How are you getting on?’

  Lisa shook her head. ‘Not very well. Not one mention of Amichi in any of these books on Chinese Buddhist temples.’

  She pointed to a stack of books a metre high. The professor laughed. ‘Have you left any books for anyone else?’

  Lisa continued: ‘There is an Amichi mentioned in this volume by someone called Carter, but it’s far too early, probably two hundred years off, no way would this Amichi be our one.’

  The professor sat back and thought a while. He pressed his hands together in a manner that suggested prayer; Lisa thought perhaps he was praying, but for what she did not know. Slowly, he began to speak.

  ‘What if . . . what if he is not connected with Buddhist temples at all, what if the book was merely a way of hiding the map? Wouldn’t that make sense, to hide a map inside a book that has little relevance to it? Perhaps the Buddhist temples were just a red herring to take us, and anyone, off the scent.’

  ‘But uncle, that takes us further away from finding an answer. How do we even start to look for someone called Amichi?’

  The professor thought. ‘The girl,’ he said finally. ‘The television said that the girl was from a small island off the mainland. We have to find out which island. Perhaps she was related to this Amichi. Perhaps she is Amichi.’

  ‘Uncle, how do we even go about finding which of the islands we are looking for? There could be dozens of possibilities.’

  The professor smiled. ‘The television also said that they were driving her body back tonight.’

  Lisa asked, ‘How does that help us? We can’t follow them. We don’t know where she is or when she might be leaving.’

  The professor tapped his forehead. ‘Listen, Lisa, they are driving her back tonight.’

  ‘Yes, but I still do not see how that helps us, they could drive her anywhere.’

  ‘To an island?’

  Lisa stopped for a moment. ‘If the police are driving her to an island it must have a bridge. Why would they not say, be flying her back, or sailing her back. How many inhabited islands are connected to the mainland via bridge?’

  Lisa stood and rushed off to the reference section to see if she could find a detailed map of Hong Kong, while the professor sat back in his chair. The smile on his face gave something of his satisfaction away and the slight tapping of his fingers on the desk suggested the rest.

  Lisa came back with an arm full of maps and booklets.

  ‘There are five main bridges to inhabited islands. There are smaller ones but I guess records there would not be up to date anyhow. There is the Tsing Ma Bridge, of course – we can discount that, the Kap Sui Mun between Ma Wan and Lantau, the Ting Kau that connects the airport with Lantau, the Tsing Yi bridge t
hat connects Tsing Yi and Tsing Chau and, lastly, the Ap Lei Chau bridge.’

  The professor looked impressed. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘Out of all those only the last leads to a small island off the mainland, Ap Lei Chau. It would be obvious that the police could use the bridge to take her home. There is a large population there and it is an easy place to hide if you wanted to. I am sure, however, that they would keep records of births, deaths and such like.’

  ‘Shall I get their number?’ Lisa asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the professor replied.

  Lisa returned with the number for the small police station that was housed on the island of Ap Lei Chau. The professor looked at it quizzically. ‘Good job,’ he said. ‘Very good job indeed.’ Outside the city bustled and the air was thick with smoke and exhaust fumes. In amongst the traders that floated by the docks sat a man, thirty-five, one of those people that you find difficult to place. He looked Caucasian, yet there was something distinctly Oriental about him. His face had the easy grace of someone who had once had money but had had to come to terms with losing most of it in needless ways. On his head was perched an American air force cap that jarred with the dirty white shirt that he wore open to the waist. It was early in the morning and already Joe Hutchins had been drinking.