‘Fugu is the Japanese blow-fish. In the water, it looks like a brown owl, but when captured it blows itself up into a ball covered with wounding spines. We sometimes dry the skins and put candles inside and use them as lanterns. But the flesh is particularly delicious. It is the staple food of the sumo wrestlers because it is supposed to be very strength-giving. The fish is also very popular with suicides and murderers because its liver and sex glands contain a poison which brings death instantaneously.’
‘That’s just what I would have chosen for dinner. How thoughtful of you, Tiger.’
‘Have no fear, Bondo-san. Because of the dangerous properties of the fish, every fugu restaurant has to be manned by experts and be registered with the State.’
They left their bags at a Japanese inn where Tiger had reserved rooms, enjoyed the o-furo, honourable bath, together in the blue-tiled miniature swimming pool whose water was very hot and smelled of sulphur and then, totally relaxed, went off down the street leading to the sea.
(Bond had become enamoured of the civilized, vaguely Roman, bathing habits of the Japanese. Was it because of these, because they washed outside the bath instead of wallowing in their own effluvia, that they all smelled so clean? Tiger said bluntly that, at the very best, Westerners smelled of sweet pork.)
The restaurant had a giant blow-fish hanging as a sign above the door, and inside, to Bond’s relief, there were Western-style chairs and tables at which a smattering of people were eating with the intense concentration of the Japanese. They were expected and their table had been prepared. Bond said, ‘Now then, Tiger, I’m not going to commit honourable suicide without at least five bottles of saké inside me.’ The flasks were brought, all five of them, to the accompaniment of much tittering by the waitresses. Bond downed the lot, tumbler by tumbler, and expressed himself satisfied. ‘Now you can bring on this blasted blow-fish,’ he said belligerently, ‘and if it kills me it will be doing a good turn to our friend the doctor in his castle.’
A very beautiful white porcelain dish as big as a bicycle wheel was brought forward with much ceremony. On it were arranged, in the pattern of a huge flower, petal upon petal of a very thinly sliced and rather transparent white fish. Bond followed Tiger’s example and set to with his chopsticks. He was proud of the fact that he had reached Black Belt standard with these instruments – the ability to eat an underdone fried egg with them.
The fish tasted of nothing, not even of fish. But it was very pleasant on the palate and Bond was effusive in his compliments because Tiger, smacking his lips over each morsel, obviously expected it of him. There followed various side-dishes containing other parts of the fish, and more saké, but this time containing raw fugu fins.
Bond sat back and lit a cigarette. He said, ‘Well, Tiger. This is nearly the end of my education. Tomorrow you say I am to leave the nest. How many marks out of a hundred?’
Tiger looked at him quizzically. ‘You have done well, Bondo-san. Apart from your inclination to make Western jokes about Eastern customs. Fortunately I am a man of infinite patience, and I must admit that your company has given me much pleasure and a certain amount of amusement. I will award you seventy-five marks out of a possible hundred.’
As they rose to go, a man brushed past Bond to get to the exit. He was a stocky man with a white masko over his mouth and he wore an ugly leather hat. The man on the train!
Well, well! thought Bond. If he shows up on the last lap to Fukuoka, I’ll get him. If not I’ll reluctantly put it down to ‘Funny Coincidence Department’. But it looks like nought out of a hundred to Tiger for powers of observation.
PART TWO | … THAN TO ARRIVE’
12 | APPOINTMENT IN SAMARA
At six in the morning, a car from the Prefect of Police in Fukuoka came for them. There were two police corporals in the front seat. They went off northwards on the coast road at a good pace. After a while, Bond said, ‘Tiger, we’re being followed. I don’t care what you say. The man who stole my wallet was in the fugu restaurant last night, and he’s now a mile behind on a motor-cycle – or I’ll eat my hat. Be a good chap and tell the driver to dodge up a side-road and then go after him and get him. I’ve got a sharp nose for these things and I ask you to do what I say.’
Tiger grunted. He looked back and then issued rapid instructions to the driver. The driver said, ‘Hai!’ briskly, and the corporal at his side unbuttoned the holster of his M-14 automatic. Tiger flexed his powerful fingers.
They came to a track on the left which went into the scrub. The driver did a good racing change and pulled in out of sight of the road. He cut his engine. They listened. The roar of a motor-cycle approached and receded. The driver reversed sharply on to the road and tore off in pursuit. Tiger issued more sharp instructions. He said to Bond, ‘I have told him to try warning the man with his siren and if he doesn’t stop to ride him into the ditch.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re giving him a chance,’ said Bond, beginning to have qualms. ‘I may be wrong and he may only be a Fuller brush man in a hurry.’
They were doing eighty along the winding road. They soon came up with the man’s dust and then there was the machine itself. The man was hunched over the handlebars, going like hell.
The driver said something. Tiger translated, ‘He says it’s a 500 cc. Honda. On that, he could easily get away from us. But even Japanese crooks are men of discipline. He will prefer to obey the siren.’
The siren wailed and then screamed. The white mask gleamed as the man glanced over his shoulder. He braked slowly to a stop. His right hand went inside his jacket. Bond had his hand on the door-latch. He said, ‘Watch out, Tiger, he’s got a gun!’ and, as they pulled up alongside, he hurled himself out of the door and crashed into the man, knocking him and his machine to the ground. The corporal beside the driver took a flying leap and the two bodies rolled into the ditch. Almost immediately the corporal got to his feet. He had a blood-stained knife in his hand. He threw it aside and tore at the man’s coat and shirt. He looked up and shook his head. Tiger shouted something and the corporal began slapping the man’s face as hard as he could from side to side. The masko was knocked off and Bond recognized the snarling rictus of death. He said, sickened, ‘Stop him, Tiger! The man’s dead.’
Tiger walked down into the ditch. He picked up the man’s knife and bent down and slit the right sleeve of the corpse up to the shoulder. He looked and then called Bond down. He pointed to a black ideogram tattooed in the crook of the man’s arm. He said, ‘You were right, Bondo-san. He is a Black Dragon.’ He stood up and, his face contorted, spat out: ‘Shimata!’
The two policemen were standing by looking politely baffled. Tiger gave them orders. They searched the man’s clothing and extracted various commonplace objects including Bond’s wallet, with the five thousand yen still intact, and a cheap diary. They handed everything to Tiger and then hauled the corpse out of the ditch and stuffed it roughly into the boot of the car. Then they hid the motor-cycle in some bushes and everyone dusted themselves and got back into the car.
After a few moments, Tiger said thoughtfully, ‘It is incredible! These people must have a permanent tail on me in Tokyo.’ He riffled through the diary. ‘Yes, all my movements for the past week and all the stopping-places on our journey. You are simply described as a gaijin. But he could have telephoned a description. This is indeed an unfortunate business, Bondo-san. I apologize most deeply. You may already be incriminated. I will naturally absolve you from your mission. It is entirely my fault for being careless. I have not been taking these people seriously enough. I must talk with Tokyo as soon as we get to Fukuoka. But at least you have seen an example of the measures Doctor Shatterhand takes for his protection. There is certainly more to this man than meets the eye. At some time in his life he must have been an experienced intelligence agent. To have discovered my identity, for instance, which is a State secret. To have recognized me as his chief enemy. To have taken the appropriate counter-measures to ensure his privacy. This is either a great madman or a great criminal. You agree, Bondo-san?’