Kill handled the interrogation. Ernie and I spent most of the day watching through a two-way mirror. A listless Weyworth admitted moving contraband for the Greek sailors, items highly prized in the world of Chinese medicine-antler horn from Siberian caribou, powder from the tusk of the African rhinoceros, and paws from the carcasses of the Asian tree bear-all items long since banned from use as legitimate herbal remedies.
Kill patiently unraveled the facts. The Greek sailors smuggled the items into the Port of Pusan. Weyworth, as an American G.I., was valuable to them because he could travel throughout the country without attracting suspicion. Also, the Greek sailors seldom had time to leave their ships. Weyworth’s job was to transport the goods north to Seoul and deliver them to dealers there, who would in turn provide them to local Chinese herbalists. Weyworth brought the payment back and turned it over to the sailors. In addition to a share of the money, Weyworth accepted heroin as part of his wages. This was convenient for the Greek sailors because they visited ports where heroin was plentiful and cheap. A good deal all around. Everyone profited. Except for the endangered animals-and the sick people who bought this stuff thinking it would actually cure them.
By mid-afternoon, Weyworth was sober enough to stand in a lineup. Once he did, the woman who’d sold the purse to the Blue Train rapist and the cab driver who’d driven the rapist to the Shindae Tourist Hotel were brought in. Independently, they both confirmed what we’d already surmised: Specialist Four Nicholas Q. Weyworth was not the Blue Train rapist. Rape and heroin addiction are two vices that don’t usually go together.
Ernie blew out his breath. “So, who else we got?”
I crossed my arms and leaned back as best I could on the straight-backed wooden chair. “Pruchert,” I said.
“Pruchert?” Ernie asked. “He spent the last few days meditating in that cave.”
“With who?”
“Huh?”
“With who? Who else was in that cave to keep an eye on him?”
Ernie thought about it. “Okay. So maybe he slipped out.”
“Yeah. And maybe he walked down that mountain to that little village we saw down there, the one with that joint called the Chonhuang Teahouse.”
“He could have,” Ernie said cautiously.
“And from there, he could’ve caught a cab.”
“A cab to where?”
“East Taegu or Pusan. A place where he could catch the Blue Train.”
Ernie thought about it. “Awfully expensive.”
“A cave’s a good place to conserve your pay.”
“And Pruchert’s head was scratched,” Ernie added. “A wicked slice.”
“That it was.”
“I figured when I saw it that it was from shaving his head.”
“Could be. But we don’t know exactly when he shaved his head.”
Ernie thought about that too. “Was the rapist wearing a hat?
“Not that anybody’s testified. But everyone has said that his hair was short, dark, giving the impression of being curly.”
“A tight cap,” Ernie said. “If they weren’t paying attention, it might’ve seemed like short hair when they looked back on it.”
“Maybe.”
“So maybe we should talk to him again.”
“Maybe we should.”
Our sedan had been retrieved by Inspector Kill’s minions. It was mid-morning now and Ernie and I were both completely exhausted. We told Inspector Kill that we were going to Hialeah Compound to gas up the sedan and maybe catch some shut-eye. Later, we’d interrogate another G.I. whom we had questions about.
“Between the first attack and the second,” Kill told us, “the rapist waited less than a week. If he continues this pattern, we have two or three days to catch him, at the most.”
We nodded. Rest didn’t seem so important when he put it that way.
At the front gate of Hialeah Compound, a bored-looking MP opened the chain-link fence, rolling it back on its iron wheels. Before waving us through, he approached us.
“You Sueno? The CID guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Norris wants to talk to you.”
“Who?”
“Sergeant Norris. He’s at the MP station. Says its important.”
First, we topped off at the fuel point. Military training: always be ready to embark if an alert is called. Once the tank was full of mo-gas, we returned to the MP station. I found Norris in the briefing room, waiting to start his shift.
“Remember that merchant marine?” he said. “The one who was asking about you? The one who wanted to talk to you?”
“I remember,” I said.
“I was down at the Port of Pusan earlier today and I checked. His ship is due in tonight. About two in the morning.”
“You think he’s on it?”
Norris shrugged. “Don’t know. These guys move around a lot.”
Still, he gave me the name of the sailor and the name of the ship. He was called Arkadus. The ship was the Star of Tirana.
Before I walked out, Norris said, “Watch yourself with these guys.”
“Why?” I asked, turning. “Because they all carry knives?”
“Not just that. They play mind games. Like in chess. They always seem to be a few moves ahead of you.”
“I’ve played a little chess myself.”
“Maybe. But they play for keeps, these guys. It’s all they have in life. The hustle. They either hustle or die. And if you try to stop them, you’d better get them before they get you.”
I touched my forehead in a mock salute. Then I turned and walked out the door.
After some chow and some rest, Ernie and I made our way north. By the time we arrived at the Dochung Temple, it was already mid-afternoon. The monks were surprised to see us. The one who could speak English stepped in front of his brethren, a puzzled look on his face.
“Is Pruchert still in his cave?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“We have to talk to him.”
“It is very bad to disturb him during meditation. And twice in two days.” The monk shook his head sadly.
“Show us. Please. It is very important.”
The monk stared at us for a while and finally turned and strolled across the courtyard. We followed. At the side of the temple, the monk picked up an old-fashioned lantern made of green metal that I thought might be brass. He lit the wick, and when the light began to shine, he turned to Ernie and me and said, “Come.”
Shadows crept up the sides of the mountain. When we passed near steep cliffs, I understood why the monk had brought the lantern. In some of these crevasses, it was already night. The pathway was narrow and well trod, and many of the rocks had been splashed with black-ink Chinese characters. I could read a few of them. They referred to “the path” and “eternal” and “the Buddha,” although I couldn’t read enough of them to decipher any complete sentences. The path continued to rise steeply, so steeply that we had to steady ourselves using the handholds that someone had thoughtfully provided. The monk moved quickly, like a mountain goat, but I soon realized that he was placing his feet in well-worn steps that he’d unconsciously memorized. Ernie and I started mimicking his every move, and our speed increased. We reached a plateau where dozens of small cave entrances were arrayed before us. Incense floated out of many of them, and in a few the dim glow of charcoal fires could be seen, sometimes illuminating a golden figurine. The monk found another path and continued up the side of the mountain. Here the trail branched off through thick brush in dozens of tributaries. Each one, apparently, had a cave,
