The sedan pulled up in front of the huge flagstone expanse in front of the Pusan train station. Canvas-covered lean-tos were set up in neat rows. Some of them had wooden counters and sold hot bowls of noodles; others hawked already-packed toshirak with rice and kimchee and other savories inside, suitable for eating on the train. Other stands sold umbrellas or galoshes, and a few sold clothing items of various descriptions for the traveler who might’ve forgotten to pack something.
Mr. Kill stopped at every clothing stand, showed them the handbag, asking if they sold this type of item. Three of them did. He questioned them at length. Finally, a tall woman with a pronounced overbite admitted that she’d sold a handbag exactly like that to a foreigner. She remembered the time: it was already dark, and the Blue Train from Seoul had just pulled in.
“After that,” she said, “we locked up and went home. No business after the last Blue Train.”
“What did he look like?” Mr. Kill asked.
“Like them,” she said, pointing to Ernie and me. She realized Mr. Kill expected more, so she said, “Big. With a big nose.”
Patiently, Mr. Kill took her through all the various physical attributes a person can have. When he was finished, we had the picture we expected. A Caucasian male, about six feet tall-maybe a little more, maybe a little less-with short-cropped dark hair, but she hadn’t noticed if the hair was curly or straight. His nose was big, not as pointed as Ernie’s and not as puffed up as mine. He wore a dark shirt of some sort, she wasn’t sure of the color, and he wore dark slacks, although they could’ve been blue jeans. His shoes, she didn’t see.
“How about a traveling bag?” Kill asked.
She shook her head. “He wasn’t carrying one. And I would’ve noticed. I’m in that line of work.”
Mr. Kill asked about the man’s hands. He’d used them to point at the handbag and he’d used them to make payment.
Yes, there was hair on the hands. She crinkled her nose at the memory. And the nails, she thought, were probably cut short, although she couldn’t be sure. No rings or jewelry that she remembered.
Mr. Kill asked if he’d spoken to her in Korean or English.
“He didn’t say anything,” the vendor replied. “He just pointed.” Her array of handbags was hanging by nails on the rafters.
“He didn’t ask how much it was?”
“No. So I told him. Four thousand five hundred.”
“You told him in Korean or English?”
“In English,” she replied proudly. “I can speak that much.”
“Isn’t four thousand five hundred a little steep?” Kill asked.
The woman blushed. “All foreigners are rich,” she said. “And anyway, he didn’t wait for his change.”
A couple of hours later, the local KNPs located the cab drivers. The one who’d driven Mrs. Hyon and her three children to the Shindae Hotel was an elderly man who sat forward on his hard wooden chair and puffed on a Kobuksong cigarette through the entire conversation. According to him, Mrs. Hyon was having trouble with her kids, who were restless after the long train ride. When they arrived at the hotel, she paid him and thanked him, seemed all in all a very nice lady.
“Chuggosso?” he asked, his mouth open. She’s dead?
Kill nodded gravely.
He shook his head sadly. “Aiyu. Kullioyo.” How pitiful.
The second driver was a younger man, with hair hanging down just slightly over his ears. He seemed nervous. “The foreigner just pointed,” he said in Korean. “He didn’t even wait in line. He just stepped right in front of the other customers and climbed in my cab and he pointed to the cab that had just pulled away from the curb.”
“Didn’t you tell him to get out of your cab and wait his turn?”
“No. He looked fierce. With those big eyes and that big nose and those big hairy knuckles. I just drove.”
“When you arrived at the hotel, what happened?”
“He pointed at the side of the road. He didn’t want me to follow the other cab into the driveway in front of the hotel. He wanted me to stop before that.”
“But you’re not supposed to stop there.”
“No, I’m not. And when I did, traffic was backed up and honking behind me.” The man’s head had been hanging down; he raised it briefly. “I’m not going to get a ticket, am I?”
“No. No ticket,” Kill said. “What happened then?”
“He thrust some money at me.”
“How much?”
“At first I wasn’t sure. It was wadded up. I didn’t even count it right away. All I did was smile and nod my head and pray that he’d climb out of my cab. He did. Then I pulled away. Later, I counted the money. About eight hundred won, all in hundred-won notes.”
“How much was the actual fare?”
“Less than four hundred.”
“Easy money.”
“I wouldn’t say so.”
“Why not?” Kill asked.
“Because he scared the piss out of me.”
Kill said he was going to try for another composite sketch, using the train-station vendor and the young cab driver. Meanwhile, he had the Korean National Police put out an all-points bulletin for Specialist Four Nicholas Q. Weyworth. I told him that we suspected him of trafficking in contraband, an allegation that would be enough for the KNPs to hold him at least until the 8th Army MPs arrived.
Jurisdiction concerning the United States forces in Korea is always a delicate diplomatic dance. Under the Status of Forces Agreement, the KNPs have the right to arrest an American soldier, but immediately upon doing so they must notify the 8th United States Army. A representative is sent out to make sure that all the G.I.’s rights are respected. Despite these elaborate rules, there are always jurisdictional disputes. Sometimes one side wants to take jurisdiction, sometimes the other. Right now, we just wanted to find Weyworth, take him into custody, and question him. Then we’d go from there.
Weyworth might not be the Blue Train rapist. His description didn’t match what either the train-station vendor or the cab driver had just told us, but again, eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. I’d already checked, and his blood type wasn’t A-positive, but his personnel records could be wrong. It happens. Or the KNP lab could’ve made a mistake in analyzing the sample. That happens too. Until I was sure, I had to assume that Nicholas Q. Weyworth was a very dangerous man.
In the meantime, while the KNPs searched for Weyworth, Ernie and I would continue our investigation. Corporal Robert R. Pruchert, the guy who fancied himself some sort of Buddhist monk, was next on our list. His blood type was A-positive. Very possibly just a coincidence. We promised Mr. Kill that we’d find Pruchert today and meet back at the Pusan Police Station this evening to compare notes.
When we walked into the Hialeah Compound MP station, the desk sergeant was grinning at us and the MP shift change, a whole squad of them, started hooting.
“Ernie,” one of them said in a high-pitched voice, “we miss you.”
The others guffawed, and Ernie and I strode up to the desk sergeant and asked him what the hell was going on. He slid a piece of paper across the counter. “This just came in. Your services are required.”
The same MP pretended he was hugging himself and said once again, in the same sing-song voice, “Oh, Ernie!”
Ernie flipped him the bird. “What is it?” he asked. I read the message quickly and handed it to him. After staring at it for a few seconds, he crumpled it in his fist.
“Damn, Marnie,” he said.
One of the MPs said, “Oh, Marnie!”
Ernie ran over and pushed him hard. The MP rebounded and raised his fists and Ernie socked him in the jaw.
