Except, of course, for Taffimai Metallumai, all characters in this book
are fictitious, without intentional resemblance to any actual person,
living or dead. The events described are made up out of whole cloth.
The hotels, restaurants, companies, and other business enterprises
herein mentioned are equally nonexistent. Two real institutions occur:
the University of California and the Berkeley Police Department. There
is no implication intended that either of these would condone all the
actions and opinions of the imaginary people I have wished onto their
payrolls.
1
Steel talked between roses. Kintyre parried Yamamura's slash; his
riposte thumped on the other man's arm.
"Touché!" exclaimed the detective. He took off his mask and wiped sweat
from a long, high-cheeked face. "Or is it you who's supposed to say
that? Anyhow, enough for today."
"You're not doing so badly, Trig," Kintyre told him. "And I have some
revenge due for all those times you've had me cartwheeling through the
air, down at the dojo."
Trygve Yamamura clicked his tongue. He stood over six feet tall, lanky,
the Oriental half of him showing mostly in narrow black eyes and
smoked-amber skin. "You would use sabers, wouldn't you?" he said.
Robert Kintyre shrugged. "A foil is for women and I'm not fast enough
for an épée. Also, there's professional interest. A saber is a wee bit
closer to the Renaissance weapon."
"I think I'll stick to Japanese swords."
Kintyre nodded. He was a stocky man of medium height, with straight
dark hair above a square, snub-nosed, sallow-complexioned face. His
eyes were gray under level brows, and set unusually far apart; there
was little else to mark him out physically, until you noticed his
gait. To an only slightly lesser degree than Yamamura's, it had the
indefinable compactness of a judo man.
They stood in a garden in Berkeley. Walls enclosed them: the main
house, now vacant while its owner and family were on vacation; the
three-room cottage to the rear which Kintyre rented; a board fence
strewn with climbing blossoms on either side. Overhead lay a tall sky
where the afternoon sun picked out the vapor trail of a jet sliding
above San Francisco Bay.
"I agree, Samurai swords make these look like pitchforks," said
Kintyre. "But you can't do much with them except collect them. Too
damned effective!"
Yamamura removed his padded coat and fished for his pipe. "You off work
now?" he asked.
"Yep. Last bloody paper corrected, last report in, term's over, and I'm
not teaching again till fall. It's great, though impoverished, to be
free."
"You're making a pack trip into Kings Canyon, aren't you?"
"Uh-huh. Bruce Lombardi and I were supposed to leave tomorrow. Only
what the devil has become of Bruce?" Kintyre scowled. "His girl called
me last night, said he'd left the day before--Saturday--and hadn't come
back yet. She was worried. I'm beginning to be."
"Hm." Attentiveness flickered up in Yamamura. His agency, small and
new, had no engagements at the moment. However, he spoke with no more
than friendly concern. "Is it like the kid to go tearing off that way?
I don't know him especially well, he's just somebody I meet now and
then at your place."
"That's the point," said Kintyre. "It is not like him. The department
head inquired about it this morning. Bruce hasn't turned in the grades
for two of his classes; and he's disgustingly reliable, normally."
He paused. "On the other hand, he's having his troubles these days
and--anyhow, I hesitate to--"
Footsteps sounded in the driveway. A trim quasi-military shape came
around the house.
"Officer Moffat," said Yamamura. He had belonged to the Berkeley force
until he set up for himself. "What's happened?"
"Hello, Trig," said the policeman. He turned to the other. "Are you
Professor Robert Kintyre?"
"Assistant professor only, no cobwebs yet." Why did he answer with a
bad joke, he wondered--postponing something?
"How do you do. I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but we're trying to
identify a young man who was found dead this morning. I was told that
someone of his description was a teaching assistant in the history
department, and that you knew him best."
The voice was sympathetic, but Kintyre stood very quietly for a moment.
Then: "I know a lot of young men, but perhaps--Bruce Lombardi?"
"That's the name I was given," said Moffat. "I'm told you were his
faculty adviser."
"Yes." Kintyre pawed blindly after a cigarette, meeting only his
jacket. "How did he come to die?"
"If it is him. Do you think you could identify him for us? I warn you,
it isn't pretty."
"I've seen dead men before," said Kintyre. "Come on." He started toward
the street.
"Your clothes," said Moffat gently.
"Oh, yes. Yes. Thanks." Kintyre fumbled at his equipment. He threw it
on the grass. "Put this junk away for me, will you, Trig?" His voice
was uncertain. "I'll call you later."
"Sure," said Yamamura in a low tone. "Call me anytime."
Kintyre followed Moffat to the police car. It nosed off the
shabby-genteel residential street and into southbound traffic. Moffat,
at the wheel, pointed to the cigarette lighter.