The Mystery of Yamashita's Map Read Online Free PDF Page A

with the writing but with the book itself. It did not feel right; it was stiff and would not close properly. Gently he lay back and let the water flow over him. He raised the book to his eye - line but could see nothing. He assumed it must be the book’s age – sometimes when the leather had got damp and then dried quickly it shrank, either splitting or making it hard to close. Sometimes, the binder would use too much glue or too little and this would manifest itself in inconsistencies later in life. He shook the book but nothing came out. It was definitely there though – something about it was not quite correct. Suddenly he noticed something. It was the spine, the spine was stiff. He had had a book like it once – the paper that made up the thick binding had come loose and he had to get it rebound because it wouldn’t close. He turned the book sideways and held it up to the light. Was there something there? Some dislodged piece of paper?
     
    The telephone rang. The professor sighed. Of course it’s a cliché, he thought to himself, but it also happens to be true that just when one is in the bath the telephone begins to ring. He put the book on the side of the bath, got up and threw a towel around himself. Placing his feet in his traditional slippers he exited the bathroom and shuffled out to the hallway. He picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’
     
    ‘Uncle? It’s Lisa.’
     
    ‘I was in the bath, I couldn’t . . .’
     
    ‘Uncle, you have to put the TV on.’
     
    ‘Lisa, you know I hate that thing, I can’t hear it very well and . . .’
     
    ‘Please, uncle, put it on and turn to channel two.’
     
    The professor sighed and placed the receiver on the hook. He crossed the room to where his small black and white portable stood, dusty, in the corner. He blew some of the dust off the screen and turned it on. He waited for a moment for it to warm up and show the picture. As the image on the screen slowly began to emerge the professor recognised the face of the girl he had seen that day. They were displaying her photograph. Somehow, though, the professor thought her face looked different. She was smiling; there was none of the panic he had seen earlier in the day. It had none of the terror, none of the fear.
     
    The professor turned up the sound.
     
    ‘Passers-by say the girl ran into the temple to escape four men who had been seen earlier that day following her. The girl is said to be twenty-six years old and thought to come from one of the small islands around Hong Kong or possibly the New Territories. The police say her body was found near the altar of the temple. She had clearly committed suicide. No one has come forward to help them with their enquiries.’
     
    The professor turned the TV off. The young woman he had seen that day, who had rushed into the classroom, was dead. He sat down, barely able to believe it. No wonder she had seemed in so much trouble, he thought to himself, no wonder she looked frightened for her life. She was. Slowly the professor returned to the bath and again lowered himself in. He thought again about why she had chosen him that day before entering the temple and why she had chosen to take her own life. What does it take, he thought, to make a fully grown girl with everything life has to offer kill herself in such a public way – and what had he to do with it?
     
    He thought of Lisa and of how he would feel if anything were to happen to her. He wondered about the girl’s family. What kind of father allows his daughter to run about a big city like a crazy person, giving elderly professors presents of books and then disappearing? What kind of people had she been raised by? Who would let their daughter do such a thing?
     
    Miles away on the small island of Ap Lei Chau they were lowering the body of Matsuo Amichi into the ground just hours after his death. Inside one of the small houses, the photograph of his granddaughter, the one that had been used on the news that evening,