Bamboo Terror - William Ross

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Brown, a heavy set, cultured, Sidney Green-street type of man, sat back comfortably in his leather chair behind the large mahogany desk in his study. He had just leaned forward and carefully laid the telephone receiver in its cradle. Leaning back again in his chair, he made a tent with his fingers, and looked intently at the three men sitting opposite him across the highly polished desk.

      The two thugs had not fared too well the night before. One of them had his arm and shoulder heavily bandaged and strapped in a tight sling. The one with the long scar on his face could barely see over the large bandage that covered his crushed nose.

      Mr. Brown let his gaze wander over the two burly thugs. Then he glanced at the third man and spoke in a calm even voice, "Well, Chang, he is still alive."

      "I told you we did not kill him," replied Chang. "He might have a large bump on his head, but other than that, he does not have a scratch."

      Brown nodded his head toward the two thugs. "Well, these two idiots do not look very healthy today. Looking at them, I find it hard to believe that Mr. Hazzard does not have a scratch," he said with a touch of sarcasm.

      "Our Mr. Hazzard," replied Chang, "happens to have been trained in karate, and I wish you had told us that little fact last night. Then we wouldn't have come out so badly. Or perhaps you did not know."

      Mr. Brown smiled. "Oh, I knew. There is very little I do not know about him. But telling you would have spoiled the fun. These two have been paid well enough for a few bruises, and you admit you are satisfied with the results." Glancing at his watch, his voice went on, "I am very anxious to meet this Mr. Hazzard in person. He seems to be quite a man."

      Chang nodded his agreement with what Brown had said. "Yes, I am satisfied, but we have no time to waste."

      "I am to meet him at one thirty," said Brown. "Leave the rest to me."

      Chang grunted a reply and rose quickly from his chair. The two thugs followed meekly as he walked out of the door.

      Brown waited until he heard them leave the house, then he opened the top drawer of his desk with a small silver key that hung from his watch chain and carefully withdrew a small, unpainted wooden box. Reaching into the drawer again he took out several long plain envelopes and placed these and the wooden box in his leather brief case. From a side drawer he picked up a small automatic pistol, checked it to make sure it was loaded, and slipped it into his pocket.

      A glance at his watch told him that it was now time to leave for the office of Michael Hazzard, private investigator.

      John Brown smiled to himself as he settled his bulky form in the soft leather rear seat of his chauffeured Mercedes-Benz. He would soon meet the man about whom he had been reading countless reports during the past few months. Hazzard's record was more than impressing.

Michael Hazzard: Age, 3 8
Height, 6' 2"
Weight, 195 lbs.

      Twelve years experience with various United States intelligence agencies:

1942-1945 Office of Strategic Services. Attended OSS intelligence school. Parachute training completed at Fort Bragg. Parachuted into occupied France to organize resistance fighters.
1946-1950 Coordinated activities of underground agents in Soviet satellite countries.
1950-1954 Chief of Special Intelligence Group operating in China and Korea.
1955-1956 Contracted tuberculosis, spent one year in Fitzsimons Army Hospital, Denver, Colorado. Placed on retired status upon dismissal from hospital.
1957-1960 Attended the Japan Karate Association School, Tokyo.
1961- Took extended trip around world. Returned to Japan. Opened private investigation agency six months previously. Business going very poorly, and slowly into debt.

      This was the gist of the many reports that John Brown had read. The finer details of the many escapades that Hazzard had been involved in, the many times he had barely escaped with his life, his efficiency with various weapons—all this and much more had been discreetly destroyed by Brown. Yes, it was going to be very interesting to meet the fabulous Michael Hazzard upon whom he had spent so much time and money. It was to be hoped that Mr. Hazzard was worth the trouble.

2 A String of Beads

      IT WAS NOW two o'clock. Mr. Brown had been as punctual as a new hundred-dollar watch. At exactly one thirty he had walked through the door and introduced himself to Michiko. For the next thirty minutes Brown had steered the conversation around Hazzard's past activities by expert questioning. Hazzard was alert to this, but conversed freely with the stout man, parrying those questions that skipped over delicate subjects as expertly as the questioner.

      Hazzard was amazed at the physical resemblance that Brown had to Sidney Greenstreet. The cultured speech, the mannerisms, even the bulk. But now the novelty was wearing thin. John Brown sat calmly listening and asking questions, with his brief case and hat held firmly in his lap. It was another hot day, and Hazzard was beginning to show visible signs of impatience. Mr. Brown had just noticed a picture on the wall of Hazzard in karate practice clothes, and was starting off on another tangent.

      "Ah, that picture, Mr. Hazzard. You have studied judo?"

      "No," came the weary reply, "Karate for four years. But Mr. Brown, as much as I appreciate your interest, you have yet to tell me why you came here to see me."

      "Ah, yes," said Greenstreet-Brown, opening his brief case and taking out the small unpainted wooden box. "Mr. Hazzard, it is but a simple task. I would like you to deliver this small article for me," and he placed the box on the desk in front of Hazzard.

      "Deliver it to whom?" Hazzard asked.

      "To a friend of mine in Saigon," came the Green-street-type reply.

      "Saigon!"

      "Yes," and as calmly as if he were buying a new hat, Mr. Brown explained, "I am prepared to pay you the sum of ten thousand dollars for the safe delivery of the contents of this little box. Five thousand now, and the balance upon your return."

      The impact of this statement left Hazzard almost speechless. Only a weak sound came from his throat as he repeated the words, "Ten thousand dollars."

      Hazzard looked at the box on the desk for a long time. Then reaching over slowly he picked it up and glanced over at Mr. Brown. Sidney Greenstreet-Brown sat unmoving, a knowing smile on his face. Hazzard decided that there was no opposition to his opening the box, and he lifted the cover. He did not know what he had expected, but the sight of the small string of beads was somewhat disappointing.

      Hazzard looked up and asked, "What is it?"

      "It is a string of Buddhist prayer beads," said Greenstreet-Brown in his most mysterious manner.

      Once again Hazzard looked into the box, "How much is this thing worth?"

      Greenstreet-Brown gazed upwards at the ceiling, puckered up his lips in thought for a moment, and then replied, "Oh, I should say about four or five dollars."

      "Four or five dollars!" Hazzard could not hide the amazement in his voice. "And you're willing to pay me ten thousand dollars just to deliver it to someone in Saigon?" His voice came back to normal, and he smiled as he put the box back on the desk. "Mr. Greens . . . er, Brown, something smells awful fishy." He leaned over in a confidential manner and lowered his voice, "What's the angle? Dope? Jewels?

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