The Gensui's Treasure. B J Le Chêne
thing is, Aziz, can you help me to think of a way to finish it for good?’ Mac peered at him. ‘There has to be a way to make them think it has all gone or, or - och, I can’t think. All my thoughts are on Elsie. She needs me. I must go to her. Tunku Rohina is worried, I can see it. But d’ye ken, we are both verra old now. I am not so long for this world. I have a cancer growing in my liver and well, if I can but see this done with, I will go content. We’ve talked, Elsie and me. We both know the danger we are in. She, her heart is verra bad - has been for the last four years - that’s why I need to be with her. Will you think on it? If anyone can come up with a plan to fox them, you are the man to do it.’
The train stopped at the station and Aziz pulled his mind back to the present. He waited for the carriage to empty before he alighted. He watched as the two gentlemen walked out and saw a man from the Japanese Embassy come forward to greet them most respectfully. He knew who the man was and was not surprised. After all, he and Mac had planned that these men were going to want to move now.
He felt a flutter of nerves in his stomach and had to smile inwardly. Perhaps it was only excitement. His first ever game of cloak and dagger! He was a little humiliated at himself for being excited, but there it was. He was a hunter now and he had to outwit his prey.
When he reached his office, he sent an email to his men, saying simply, ‘Come! It has begun.’
The old British Residence
Yoshiro Kawaguchi stopped the car at the rest house in Kuala Lipis and drew a deep breath. He looked at his mobile phone photo gallery. Yes! he thought, excitement tickling his mind. The building had originally been the British Resident’s house. After such an important beginning, and ignominious end, it was still here! Still red and white but looking very rundown.
No one cares about colonial buildings here anymore, Yoshiro thought. He shrugged his shoulders. His father had loved the place. He had said that he thought it was still in the same place, that is sitting upon its own hill proudly overlooking the old town. Much had changed since the second world war in this town deep in the south-west of the state of Pahang in what had been Malaya in 1941, but was now, with the addition of Sarawak and Sabah, known as Malaysia.
Yoshiro parked the land rover and walked up the steps to the entrance. A Malay man dressed in a Baju Melayu(3) came forward and asked if he could help. Yoshiro asked for tea and a bowl of mah mee. The man smiled sweetly and said, ‘No food! Well, not here now, sir, kitchen’s closed.’ He looked discomforted. Yoshiro looked into his eyes, assessing him. He had a handsome, rounded face with well-marked eyebrows and large dark eyes. Those eyes looking back at him now, were merry but slightly calculating. Yoshiro picked up his briefcase and turned to leave.
‘Wait!’ the man said, smiling broadly and showing a set of remarkably neat white teeth. ‘I’ll make something for you. I mean, I’m not Chinese, but I can make mah mee.’ Yoshiro looked at him. The man, from a deeply proud race, looked straight back at him keeping his eyes steady. Yoshiro nodded and walked into what must once have been a reception area. Its proportions were beautiful, but the paint had faded and was flaking off in some areas. The old marble tiled floor was clean. He sat in a cane easy chair which had small, broken bits of rattan sticking out here and there. He wondered vaguely about the cleanliness of the cushions as he placed his briefcase on a small table which wobbled slightly.
There was no view as such from where he sat so he pulled his briefcase forward and took out an envelope containing old photographs. He peered at one of them trying to make the faces of the men who had been so important in nineteen forty-two, come alive. The faces were of five men. Nothing odd about them. He narrowed his eyes. They appeared to be normal, pleasant-looking men in uniform. His father was standing to attention to one side, two were laughing heartily at some joke. Two other men sat, face still. Five fiends in all. Yoshiro’s Father had insisted he should come here when he received word to do so. He obeyed when the summons came but had only a a deep sense of unease as to the reason. He put the photos back in their envelope and sighed.
The noodles were ready and the Malay man called him to come to a table in a room dotted with tables and chairs, in what must have once been a formal dining room. He spoke English well and Yoshiro asked, ‘How long have you worked at the rest house?’
‘I’ve run this rest house for twenty years now,’ he answered.
‘You look young to have overseen such a grand building for so long.’ Yoshiro looked up at him.
The young Japanese was a handsome man, Rashid decided. His skin was fair and his sharply defined brows and black, slightly wavy hair above wide eyes, coupled with a strong, bony jaw and a straight firm nose, gave him a look of strength. A beautifully-shaped mouth made the difference though, softening a haughty proud face.
Rashid returned the smile. ‘Not so grand now, sir. Next to the Sultan’s palace or, as we call it, “Istana,” in Malay, it used to be the most important house in Kuala Lipis. But, you know, the British left and the capital moved to Kuantan on the coast so we became a sleepy old town. I took over the rest house when the last proprietor retired.’
‘Why would you do that? I mean is running a guest house interesting for a man like you?’
‘After the war it was for a Malay man. There were not many jobs for people like my father then you see? I worked for him for ten years prior to that so I knew the local tastes and how to run the place. Then they rediscovered gold and built bigger, more modern hotels. Tourists come here just to see the house now.’ He looked at Yoshiro. ‘To, to feel it, you know? Those who are interested in history. They don’t mind the look of it - if it’s clean.’
A little abashed, Yoshiro said truthfully, ‘It’s a wonderful building. Kuala Lipis must have grown and changed since my father was here seventy years ago. A town can change a lot.’
‘Indeed, it can. Have you been here before, sir?’
’Not I. My father and grandfather have though. I am trying to see the town through their eyes.’ Yoshiro blew the steam from the bowl of noodles and began to eat. ‘These are very tasty,’ he said. The man was pleased and showed it by offering to pour tea.
‘I am called Rashid,’ he said. ‘Will you be staying in Lipis tonight?’
‘I am not sure,’ Yoshiro lied a little. ‘I had thought to return to Raub, but maybe a night’s rest from driving would be nice.’
‘We do have rooms here, sir. Not as grand as the new hotels of course, but comfortable and clean. Perhaps you would care to see one?’
‘Thank you, Rashid. I would like to do that. Perhaps later, you can fill me in on some of the history of Kuala Lipis? I want to go for a drive first though, just to get the feel of the place. My father said the old British Residency was rather grand, he was right. The house he stayed in should be close by on Jalan[2] Bius. No,’ he put up a hand, ‘don’t tell me. I want to see if I can find it from his instructions.’
‘Your Malay pronunciation is very good, sir. Most tourists can’t get the names right. Do you know what the word “bius” means?’
‘No. Actually, I have not thought much about it.’
‘It means, anaesthetised. Or perhaps, unconscious! I have to wonder why a road, or indeed the hill itself, should be given such a name. What, I wonder, happened to make it remain in folk memory as such?’
Yoshiro laughed and was about to reply when an irritated voice interrupted. ‘Papa, really!’ The woman who appeared silently from an inner doorway caused Yoshiro to jump a little in surprise. She was very lovely with an almost voluptuous figure. Her large, soft brown eyes, and thick, waving black hair caught in a loose bun were exotic. Her skin, in the midday light, was a soft, golden-brown. Yoshiro watched fascinated as she walked towards them. She swayed slightly as she walked, making his skin prickle. She was dressed in an old-fashioned batik sarung and a tight fitting, traditional lace baju held in front with a kerongsang, a three-tiered brooch, made of thick gold pins looped to each other with thin gold chains. She looked both shy and amused.
‘I