The Ends of the Earth Read Online Free PDF

was one of about three words of Japanese Sam had so far learnt.
    ‘Madam Tarazumi sent us.’ Morahan handed Sakashita the note.
    It appeared to require lengthy study despite the brevity of its contents. Sakashita twirled a tiny screwdriver in his fingers as he read the message. As he did so, he kept glancing at Sam in a far from reassuring fashion.
    Eventually, he laid the screwdriver and note aside, stood up and moved round the edge of the shop to a far corner, where he pulled back a curtain to reveal a steep and narrow flight of steps. There was no handrail, only a rope stiffened with wooden rings. He pointed up the steps and said something in Japanese.
    ‘Let’s go up and take a look-see,’ said Morahan.

THE FLOOR DIRECTLY above the shop was in darkness, but there were a couple of green-shaded electric lamps lighting the floor above that, little more than an attic in effect, with a sloping ceiling and small paper-panel dormer windows. Furnishings were few, comprising a couple of battered cabinets and some dusty tatami mats. A curtain was drawn across the other end of the room, which was in deep shadow.
    ‘We can disport ourselves on the chaise longue until Farngold shows up,’ quipped Everett.
    Morahan moved to one of the windows, slid open the panel and glanced down into the street. ‘Everything normal out there,’ he announced.
    ‘Al in sight?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I told you he was good. Don’t worry. He’ll have seen you.’
    ‘How will he warn us if there’s trouble?’ asked Sam.
    ‘A pebble at the window,’ said Everett. ‘He has a pitcher’s arm.’
    ‘So, we just—’ Sam broke off. They all stood stock still. A sound – a groan – had come from the curtained-off part of the room.
    Morahan padded silently across to the curtain and pulled it back. The other two caught up with him and gasped at what they saw.
    A thin futon had been spread on the floor beneath a bamboo wall-hanging. On the futon, wrapped in a threadbare green kimono, lay a European man, grey-haired and bearded, his face haggard and marked with scars and bruises. His eyes were open but unfocused, his gaze drifting. His mouth was open, his lips encrusted with dried spittle. He looked to Sam to be a man of sixty or more. On the street he could have been taken for a vagrant, insensible with drink. But there was no smell of alcohol on him, only stale sweat and a strange chemical odour.
    ‘Is that … Jack Farngold?’
    ‘Could be, Sam,’ said Morahan. ‘In which case friend Sakashita has some questions to answer, because this man didn’t climb up here without help.’ He crouched beside the occupant of the futon and patted his cheek. ‘Hey, feller, can you hear me?’
    The eyes moved woozily in Morahan’s direction, but no words came.
    ‘Jack Farngold?’
    Sam thought he saw some reaction in the man’s face. His lips quivered. He was surely trying to speak.
    ‘Are you Jack Farngold?’
    The mouth wavered. The gaze wandered.
    ‘He is Jack Farngold,’ said Everett suddenly. Sam heard the click of a gun being cocked and turned to see that Everett had retreated to the centre of the room, from where he was training his revolver on them. ‘So I’m told.’
    ‘What in hell are you doing?’ Morahan stood up and glared at Everett.
    ‘Sorry, Schools, but I don’t work for you. I never did.’
    Sam saw by the heave of Morahan’s chest how shocked and angry he was. ‘Whose payroll are you on then, Lew?’
    ‘Lemmer’s. Seems he guessed you’d be the man Sir Henry asked to organize this little rescue party. So, he sent one of his agents to New York to offer attractive terms to the kind of people you’d be likely to use, me included. Looked like it wasn’t going to happen when Sir Henry was rubbed out, but then Max turned up at your end and here we are. Like I say, I’m sorry. Herr Lemmer just pays too damn well.’
    ‘The lead you picked up in San Francisco …’
    ‘Bait, Schools. Which you swallowed.’
    ‘Who’s in