The Mystery of Yamashita's Map (4 page)

‘A diamond, around here somewhere – if you see it, grab it.’

Lisa began to look on the table. ‘Is it small?’ she asked.

‘Not too small, but it’s clear, few facets, very unreflective . . . was very cheap, hardly worth bothering about.’

Lisa patted the desk with her hands. ‘Sample?’ she asked.

Her uncle looked up. ‘A sample of what?’

‘Was the diamond a sample . . . for the lab?’

The professor smiled. ‘My cufflink,’ he said, and showed her the space where once a small, evidently cheap diamond had sat. Suddenly there was a crash and a rush of air as the door to the classroom flew open. Both Lisa and the professor turned around with a start and Lisa recognised the girl who ran in as the same one she had seen in the street below only moments earlier. The girl looked half dead. She was about twenty and had long black hair tied in a ponytail behind her head. She wore a distinctive red coat, the type they used to wear in the country years ago but which was very seldom seen these days. Her brown eyes flashed wildly as she crossed the room. ‘Okada San?’ she said, barely able to speak through either fear or exhaustion. The professor replied that he was.

‘I have something for you,’ the girl said, and brought out a small book, bound in brown leather. She looked at it lovingly before thrusting it in the professor’s arms. There was a brief moment of silence that was broken only by the sound of further footsteps in the corridor outside. The girl looked terrified and ran over to the window. Finding nothing there she opened the door and ran out, crashing it behind her.

She knew that Tanaka and his gang had come from Japan and that they were after her. They would probably catch her and she knew they must not get the book. She had been lonely in Hong Kong. There were very few Japanese, but she had read articles in the newspaper written by a Professor Okada, he seemed intelligent, he seemed kind, he seemed honourable.

The professor and Lisa looked at each other barely able to speak. Lisa pointed at the book. ‘What is it?’

Her uncle opened the cover and read a little. ‘It’s about Buddhist temples in China. How odd. I have never heard of the author. A European by all accounts, but it’s in Japanese. A fair mix of races, wouldn’t you say?’ ‘Is there anything written in it?’

‘Yes, hundreds of things.’ ‘No, anything written for you.’

The professor leafed through. ‘No, no pencil or pen marks, just the printed word.’

‘Perhaps she had heard of the renovation projects you have carried out, uncle. Perhaps she wants you to carry out some work.’

‘She could have asked. I would probably have said yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘Perhaps it’s late at the library and she didn’t want to pay the fine,’ the professor said and laughed to himself. ‘Anyway, whatever it is, I need to find that diamond before I go home or I will never be able to speak to your father again.’

Lisa bent and started patting the floor with her hand but only succeeding in finding dirt.

Later that evening back at his small apartment, professor Okada ran a bath. As he eased himself into the hot water he opened the book. There was something about it that puzzled him – nothing he could put his finger on, just something that did not seem right. Not 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, lay on the table covered with a white cloth. The villagers said prayers for Amichi, who had never had a day’s peace since moving there, who always looked so sad and so uncomfortable, who always slept so badly. They prayed for his soul and wished that he might find more happiness in the next world. They had all heard him at night, after he had been drinking, shouting at the devils he saw before him, screaming at them to leave him. They had all seen him tear at his eyes and his skin, terrified of what the morning might bring. Some said he was in the army once, the Japanese Army but, of course, he never talked of such things; just lived drunkenly but quietly with his granddaughter, who had inherited his sad eyes and his dark hair.

All the villagers bowed their heads over the grave and wished the curse that had afflicted the dead man while he was alive could be halted now. They wished too that news of his granddaughter would arrive from Hong Kong and that she would return safely to be by her grandfather’s grave, as a granddaughter should. They prayed for him even though by his own admission he was dammed to spend eternity in limbo, neither progressing nor retreating. Some of the women threw flowers on his coffin, others just patted it on the way past, and hoped that whatever had made him so unhappy would never visit them.

The professor let the water wash over him. He threw the book over to the other side of the room. Later, he thought to himself, he would give it a proper examination. At the moment he was content to just let his thoughts wander. He woke with a start. The telephone was ringing again. The professor looked round. He realised he had been asleep for an hour or more. Quickly he pulled himself out of the bath, dressed and made his way again to the telephone. Whoever it was, they were persistent. He picked up the phone. ‘Lisa?’ There was nothing. ‘Lisa? Yes, I saw the programme on TV. Very interesting. Do you think it was her?’ Still no answer. ‘Who is this?’ he asked. ‘Speak or I will put the phone down.’

There was silence. The professor slammed the receiver down and went into his bedroom. The phone rang again. He sighed. Do they never get tired of playing these games, he thought. He picked up the phone in the bedroom.

‘I think this is pretty unfunny. I might be waiting for a call, or . . .’

A voice on the other end sounded, slowly and menacingly. ‘The book, professor.’

The professor was startled for a moment. He caught his breath even though his mind was reeling. ‘Who is this? What are you talking about? What book?’

‘Professor, I know you have the book. The girl did not kill herself today, she had help.’

‘Look,’ the professor stammered nervously. ‘I have no idea who this is but I warn you I am recording this conversation.’

‘Really, professor? It doesn’t look that way from here.’

The professor turned round quickly. He crossed to his bedroom window and looked out. Across the street was a telephone box but there was no one in it. The apartment opposite was empty and there were no lights on. There was nowhere else where he could be seen from; there was nowhere anyone could be. Just then he noticed a glint from the top of the building opposite. In the dim light of the Hong Kong evening he could just make out a figure on the roof opposite, a figure holding a phone. He quickly pulled the blind and once again put the phone up to his ear. Again he heard the voice.

‘You know, professor, you really should close your blinds more often.’

The professor slammed the phone on the hook and darted round his apartment, pulling tight all the blinds and curtains he could find. He turned off the lights and gingerly peeked out of the window. He could see nothing now – the figure was gone. Quickly his eyes darted down into the street. Nothing. All he could see were the usual people milling around, going out, coming back. Tanaka was expert in mind games. The professor felt the sweat moistening his back and then it happened again – the phone.

His heart leaped again. The ring sounded so harsh against the silence of the empty room, it seemed to bounce off the walls and be twice as loud as it should have been. He crossed the room and, like a child, picked up the receiver.

‘Uncle?’

It was Lisa. The professor felt the hairs on the back of his neck relax and his whole body lost some of the tenseness.

‘Lisa, I’m glad it’s you.’

‘Why? Who did you think it was?’

‘Never mind. Look, how are you?’

‘I’m fine. Did you see the news?’

‘You haven’t had any phone calls?’

‘Only from Fraser.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. Uncle, what’s wrong?’

The professor suddenly thought, what if the phone was tapped, what if they were listening right now and he had given them Lisa’s name? What if they didn’t know about her until now? What if they were on their way over to her apartment as they spoke? He felt his muscles tighten again as he looked around.

‘Look, Lisa, something has happened. I think we should meet.’

‘Uncle? What’s happened?’

He could hear the change in her voice.

‘Nothing,’ he tried to reassure her, unsuccessfully. ‘Just something small, something very small, but I want to talk to you about it.’

‘OK, do you want to come over here or shall I come to you . . . ?’

‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s such a nice night, why don’t we meet at that place you wanted to go to, the one your friend owns.’

‘But you said you hated the look of it.’

The professor did hate the look of it. It was red and shiny and the seats were plastic. The waitresses there had nametags that declared they were happy to serve you and their uniforms were too clean and too pressed. The professor liked his waitresses to look a little harried, a little unkempt; it made you think that the restaurant was busy and that the food was brought to the tables quickly. The same as you didn’t want your furniture to look as if it had just been made, you didn’t want your waitress to look as though she had just been washed.