The Devil's Garden Read Online Free Page A

articulated but lockable at the wrist. On the end was a hand, carved out of wood, very lifelike, but with an extraordinarily exaggerated, erect thumb. Pilchard raised a quizzical eyebrow. Toko shrugged. ‘For the wife,’ he explained and everyone laughed again. ‘Better than Nature.’
    â€˜When she sees it,’ volunteered his friend, ‘she’ll think it’s a pity they didn’t shoot your dick off too.’ Pilchard bent and examined the stump. As a qualified general practitioner, he knew nothing of amputations but it looked neat, a good flap of flesh to cushion the end.
    â€˜Nice work. Who did it?’
    â€˜Some white man.’ To him they would all be the same. ‘I never saw him. In those days we had gas.’ Now it was a swig of rice toddy, or if you got really lucky, a scanty perfume sprinkling of precious chloroform, hardly enough to make you dizzy. Dewa laid down the hammer.
    â€˜I’ve got your stuff.’ He spoke quietly and pulled an old Player’s tin off the shelf over the workbench, took off the lid, fished inside. The two men looked around and shook hands. A small package wrapped in banana leaves, swiftly pocketed, moved one way. A smaller one moved the other. They stepped apart quickly. Finished. All over.
    * * * 
    Dr Catchpole sighed and ran a tired hand over his sweaty face, taking care not to jostle his wig. He had always hated museum visits by imperial worthies. At least, in the old days, they could only give you a bad report or cut off your funding. They were unlikely to cut off your head. Now they might well do just that. The two Japanese, Professor Tanakadate and tiny Dr Hanada, put their shoulders behind his and shuffled him forward towards the General, like a children’s toy. His colleague, Dr Post, lurked treacherously in the background, looking anxious. They bowed. Catchpole bowed a second too late, bowed shallowly, fearful of wig loss, spoiled the effect and got flustered. Around his neck hung a large bakelite hearing aid receiver that amplified speech to the headphone draped over one ear. To improve reception, he pointed it at people, like a box camera, but with overtones of an entomologist staring at bugs through a magnifying glass.
    Prof Tanakadate stepped forward smoothly.
    â€˜General. I should like to present my assistant, Dr Hanada, and our partner, Dr Catchpole, the eminent ichthyologist.’
    Tiger scowled, he tucked his thumbs into his waistbelt and his voice dipped down into his military growl, a sound like gravel under jackboots. ‘Itchy? What is itchy?’ He stared shamelessly at the wig. It looked like a mass of shredded horseradish. That must be itchy. ‘And why are there gaijin in the museum? Who are you? What is all this?’
    The Professor smiled unruffled and bowed again. ‘The General has perhaps forgotten his old schoolmate. Time has been kinder to him than to me. Tanakadate.’ He bowed again, grey, unmilitary hair flopping over his forehead.
    â€˜Eh? Tanakadate? You?’ His eyes popped. ‘Forgive me. So many people. So busy. And nowadays everyone where you don’t expect them to be.’
    â€˜We are honoured that the General has made time to visit us. Had we known in advance, we might have arranged something more worthy of him.’
    â€˜Why these gaijin ?’ Catchpole, pale expert on tropical fish, had retreated into a still alcove and was to be seen floundering awkwardly back there, in disreputable alpaca, between two refracting glass cases. ‘Why are they not in Changi? Are they German?’ He was doubtful about Germans, having fought them in Shantung in the last war but drunk with them while serving as military attaché, in Berlin, before this one.
    â€˜It seems there was an agreement with the … er … outgoing governor that some staff might stay on to help our takeover. Dr Catchpole arranged the whole matter.’ He nodded at the chubby