Hiroshima Joe Read Online Free PDF Page B

forearm was a tortoise with Chinese characters in the segments of its shell. That meant the would-be pickpocket and his elderly accomplice were part of Francis Leung’s band.
    So Leung had tipped them off. No one else, except the guard at the door, knew he was carrying money and where it was hidden. So much for old time’s sake, he thought. It would be better not to ‘dicker’ in future.
    *   *   *
    Sandingham slipped back into the hotel the same way he had left. He did not want to meet Heng.
    Safe in his room, he locked the door behind him and checked that everything was all right. The opium was still in place; the cans of food were untouched; the tobacco tin had not been tampered with. More importantly, the bed had not been moved.
    Very gently, so that he did not leave tell-tale scratch marks on the parquet floor, Sandingham shifted the bed a few inches to one side. Then, with his fingernail, he prised up the wooden tile which rested under one of the legs at the head of the bed. This tile hid a hollow he had scooped out in the concrete. It had taken him nearly four days working continuously with a sharpened spoon, stopping every few minutes to assure himself that he wasn’t heard. The space was slightly smaller than the tile, two inches wide by three long and two deep. In this recess he kept his money, wrapped in a square of tar paper.
    He took it out and counted it. Twenty-seven dollars. Plus sixty-five made ninety-two. He removed thirty and put these in his pocket before folding the remainder and replacing the floor tile.
    It was approaching one o’clock. He felt thirsty and undernourished so he breached a tin of the tomato juice and drank it by sucking through the holes made by the can opener. Contented with this, he flattened the can and hid it with the others, then lay back on the bed and dozed.
    At first he was aware only of a slight pressure on his shoulder. This was followed by the shaking of his head in a room where Leung was handing him large wadges of dollar bills – and he was saying no, he did not want any money: he had enough. He was even wearing a lightweight tropical blue suit and matching shirt.
    ‘Enough! I have enough!’
    His words were slurred and Heng thought that the Englishman was saying he had had enough and so he stopped shaking him.
    It was then that Sandingham awoke to find that he was dressed in his usual shabbiness and that Heng was standing over him.
    The manager spoke clearly, in impeccable, if somewhat stilted, English. His phraseology recalled the pre-war schoolroom of a Catholic boys’ school near Shanghai.
    ‘I’m glad to have found you in, sir,’ he said. There was not the slightest trace of irony in his voice. ‘I had been hoping to catch you before you left this morning but I’m afraid I was detained in the hotel office.’
    ‘What can I do for you?’ Sandingham sat up: he knew perfectly well what was wanted.
    ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Sandingham, but it has been drawn to my attention by one of my clerks that you have overlooked settling your bill for the past month. As you know, I must request that clients of the hotel settle up monthly.’ He paused then added, as if to give weight to his request and to show that he was not being biased, ‘Even those who are staying here as the families of British service personnel are asked to pay their bills every month.’
    ‘I paid last month,’ said Sandingham, meekly. When in the face of authority it was always best to be subservient. It worked, as a general rule, in softening them. Afterwards one could hit them hard in subtle ways they might not notice … or better, might feel but not be able to pinpoint.
    ‘How much?’
    Heng made a show of taking a sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. By doing so, he momentarily delayed the demand he had to make. He did not like doing what he was now engaged upon: he had been a refugee, an outcast from his native country too, and he knew what Sandingham went through