“This knife killed Whitcomb,” Lieutenant Pak said.
I studied it. “A Gurkha knife,” I said.
“Yes.”
Gurkhas are the Nepalese auxiliaries to the British Army, soldiers known for their savagery and skill in combat.
The long metal blade in Pak’s hand was sharp and curved upward at its fat tip. Perfect for slicing into flesh. And prying upward until it popped into the pulsating balloon of the human heart.
Lieutenant Pak reached in his other pocket, then tossed something to me. It was a thin leather belt with a small buckle in front and a sliding pouch attached to the rear.
“This Whitcomb wear,” he said.
Twisting the blade downward he slid it deftly into the pouch. Perfect fit.
“We found the knife in gutter, maybe one hundred meters from body.”
Gutters in Korea were stone-lined trenches with vented covers on top, perfect for hiding just about anything.
“Whitcomb’s unit was last assigned to Hong Kong,” 1 said. “He probably bought the Gurkha knife there.”
Lieutenant Pak nodded.
“Any blood?” 1 asked.
“Yes. Already been to laboratory. Same type as Whit-comb.”
He pronounced the name Way-tuh-comb. Koreans have to break down harsh consonant endings into separate syllables.
I said, “Way-tuh-comb met someone who was very tough.”
“Yes,” Lieutenant Pak agreed. “Maybe Tae Kwon Do.”
The Korean form of karate. A lot of kicks used.
Lance Corporal Cecil Whitcomb, although not a big man, had been a trained soldier. Whoever met him in that dark alley and took his knife away from him must’ve been a skilled street fighter indeed. I started to form a picture in my mind. A picture that corresponded with the cuts I’d seen on Whitcomb’s hands and arms. Whoever had attacked him, once they had his knife, performed a deadly dance with him first. Sliced him lightly on the arms and wrists and hadn’t moved in immediately for the fatal blow. Maybe taunting him for fun? Or trying to obtain information from someone who, at the moment, must’ve been a terrified man.
I knew martial arts experts who claimed they could take a knife away from a grown man. I’d never seen it done, except in movies, which are all bullshit. In training we used wooden knives and the instructor went through the moves of snatching a blade from an armed man step by step. But I never believed it would work. One jab in the calf or the forearm and all the lessons in the world would bleed right out of you.
Whoever had taken this knife from Whitcomb had to be not only highly skilled but also as fast as an enraged cougar. And he had planned it carefully. Isolated spot, an open level area, about the size of a prizefighting ring. The killer had looked forward to this. And enjoyed it.
And when he tired of playing with his living ball of yarn, he had killed Whitcomb as easily as biting into the neck of a helpless kitten.
But why had Whitcomb decided to carry his Gurkha knife that night?
Supposedly, he’d been on his way to see an old girlfriend. Not a meeting that usually requires being armed.
But now I knew that Whitcomb didn’t even know Miss Ku. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the note she’d paid us to deliver to Whitcomb. I’d only glanced at it briefly but I remembered a few of the words. One of them was “secrets.”
Whitcomb had gone out to Namdaemun, armed, probably for some reason having to do with these “secrets.”
So the killer knew that Whitcomb would be on guard.
Without any visible signal from Lieutenant Pak, the driver shifted the car into gear and we rolled forward. We drove down the Main Supply Route, past all the shuttered shops and chop houses and past the Itaewon Police Station. At the main drag of the nightclub district the driver turned right and the engine churned steadily up the hill. All the hot joints sat quiet and dead, shrouded in fresh snow. At the top of the hill, we made a slow U-turn. Tonight these alleys would be staffed by dozens of half-naked business girls.
“You never call me,” Lieutenant Pak said.
I didn’t answer.
“So we come Itaewon, look for you.”
Lieutenant Pak laid the knife down on the seat, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered me one. Kobuk- son. Turtle boat brand. I turned it down. Nicotine is one of the few bad habits I never acquired.
He lit the cigarette with a wooden match and snuffed that out with a fierce wave. The harsh aroma invaded my nostrils. I tried not to snort.
“You like tea, I think,” Pak said.
I gazed out the window, letting him get to the point in his own good time. Like the killer of Cecil Whitcomb, he was toying with me. I wasn’t going to play along.
“You and your partner,” he said, “you went to the Kayagum Teahouse. Owner there was very frightened by two big-nose foreigners give her hard time. She say you break all her teacups, frighten her nephew. Keep ask about someone named Miss Ku. Owner went to Itaewon Police Station. Cry very much. They call me.”
That was sweet of him. He already had feelers out here in Itaewon in case Ernie or I drew any attention to ourselves.
“The lady, she frightened but she have very strong mind.” He pointed to his temple. “She remember another name you mentioned. Eun-hi. In the U.N. Club.”
I turned slowly to look at him, trying to keep my face composed. Pak would know about how we roughed up Eun-hi and her girlfriend, Suk-ja.
“Eun-hi is a very big woman,” Pak said. “Big jeejee.” He cupped his hands in front of his chest. “Big kundingi.” He patted his rump. “Like an American woman. I think that’s why GI’s like her and that’s why she work in U.N. Club.”
I didn’t comment on his social observations. Eun-hi worked in the U.N. Club because of poverty more than anything else, but he already knew that.
“I have long talk with Eun-hi. And her girlfriend called Suk-ja.” He shook his head. “Oh, she don’t like you very much.”
He peered at me curiously. “Geogie, you shouldn’t punch woman.”
“I didn’t punch anybody,” I said.
“Okay. Maybe your friend did.”
“What’d Eun-hi tell you?” I asked.
“She said that woman paid her to give you message. To meet her at Kayagum Teahouse.”
“Happens all the time.”
“And this woman must be Miss Ku who you asked Kayagum Teahouse owner about.”
“That might be her name. I forget.”
“What’d Miss Ku want from you?”
“The usual.”
His eyes widened in mock curiosity.
“She wanted us to black-market,” I said.
“Yes. Good money. What did you say?”
“We said no. Forget it.”
“Then why you go back and bother Eun-hi day after Whitcomb was killed?”
“Look, Lieutenant Pak. Are we supposed to be cooperating on this case, or are you investigating me and Ernie?”
He pulled deeply on his cigarette, held the smoke for a long time, and let it out. Sometimes I swear Korean cops must study old gangster movies as part of their training.
The driver had slowly cruised back down the Main Supply Route. The barbed wire atop the walls of Yongsan Compound loomed ahead.
