Martin Limon: The Iron Sickle

Ernie cursed.

“What?” I whispered.

“Stubbed my toe. Who leaves all this stuff lying around anyway?”

Ropes and stanchions anchored the canvas lean-tos that covered the wooden produce stands of the Itaewon Market. The rain had stopped and floating clouds revealed a half moon, which provided just enough silvery light for us to follow the long stalls that led ever deeper into the market.

“Why would he come back here?” Ernie asked.

“Just to get away without being seen,” I said. “On the far side of the market is the main drag. From there he could blend into the crowd. Make his way to a bus stop or wave down a taxi.”

“Maybe he’s from around here.”

“Maybe.”

I switched on my flashlight and searched the area. Something wild and furry scurried into a gutter with a squeal, a reptilian tail scattering a pile of wilted turnip greens.

“ Rat ,” Ernie said. “Hate those damn things.”

“Wait a minute. What’s that?” I pointed. The beam of Ernie’s flashlight followed mine.

“Hell if I know,” Ernie said.

There was a jumble of wooden crates, most of them flattened, thin slats held together by thick wire. One of the crates was standing upright, the slats of wood forming a teepee-like shape. Atop that, strands of wire had been woven into a flat, rectangular grill. The entire edifice stood about three feet tall.

“Christ,” Ernie said.

Hanging from the construction was a dead rat, eviscerated and dangling from its back paws, thick blood seeping from red guts.

Ernie knelt, peering at the dead rodent. “Who would do a thing like this?”

Whoever had built the edifice had spent some time on it. Wires had been twisted, cut, and retied together, and the object itself had been placed against the wall where, in the daylight, it easily would be seen by anyone passing by. In the dark, however, it would be invisible without a flashlight.

I knelt and studied it more closely. The immediate area had been cleared of debris and blood from the rat had dripped into a sticky puddle.

“It’s like a fetish,” I said.

“A what?”

“A symbol. A totem.”

That’s when I saw it, through the wooden slats, on the ground in the center of the teepee.

“There’s something in there,” I said.

“Where?”

I pointed. Ernie saw it, too. “What is it?”

“Only one way to find out.”

I warned Ernie to watch our backs. It was possible the whole point of the display was to mesmerize us, allowing for an attack from the rear. As he scanned the alley, I gingerly tilted the base of the teepee-like structure up, slipped my hand underneath, and grabbed the round object that lay flat on the ground. It felt like smooth wood. I pulled it out and allowed the teepee to fall back into position, wires rattling.

The round object fit neatly in the palm of my hand. I stood and held it out to Ernie, and he shone his flashlight on it. It was finely grained, as if it were made from walnut or cherry wood, and sanded so smoothly it almost shone. A serrated raised circle had been carved in the center, and around the edges there were tiny white marks, every fifth one slightly longer.

“A tuning knob,” Ernie said, “like from a radio.”

“Not a regular civilian radio,” I said.

“No, a field radio. Like we used in Nam. Like every combat unit in the country uses.”

“Maybe not a field radio,” I said, “but some sort of electronic device.”

“Right,” Ernie agreed. “I can’t be sure exactly what type of equipment it comes from but something like that.”

I studied the object more closely. There didn’t seem to be any marks or dents on it. But these things were usually made of plastic or sometimes metal, and they were stamped out by machinery. As I studied this one more closely I realized not every part of it was perfectly symmetrical. In some spots the lines had gone astray, as if the carver had needed to make allowances for the hardness of the wood.

“Why would anyone go to all the trouble to carve something like this?” I asked. “And then set this contraption up just to make sure we found it?”

“ Moolah the hell out of me,” Ernie said, “but we found it.”

I slid the smooth knob into my pocket. “Maybe it has nothing to do with the attack on Collingsworth.”

“Not likely,” Ernie said. “Whoever did Collingsworth knew we’d walk up here and see his little arts and crafts project.”

Yeah, not likely, I thought.

We left the wire and wood slat totem behind and kept walking. At the end of the long rows of stalls was another narrow alley lined with dirty brick walls. This one led to the main drag of Itaewon. Now, an hour past curfew, there was no glimmering neon; all was dark and quiet.

“Maybe he’s waiting for us,” Ernie said.

I scanned the alley with the beam of my flashlight. “No place for him to hide.”

“Maybe down there,” Ernie said.

“One way to find out,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I switched off the flashlight and let the moonlight guide us into the alley. Step by step, we peered into the darkness around us. No monster popped out. At the end of the passageway, we paused, listening. When we heard nothing, we emerged onto the central street of Itaewon. All the red lights were off now, and everyone had gone to bed. Up above us on the steep hill loomed the unlit signs of the 007 Club and beyond that, the King Club. Below, at the intersection with the MSR, the UN Club sat silent and somber. Except for a few stray ramyon wrappers blown by the wind, nothing moved.

“So what now?” Ernie asked.

“This guy’s jerking us around. He leaves an elaborate clue and then disappears. Probably thinks he’s smart as hell.”

“He is. Smart enough to get away with two murders.”

“He hasn’t gotten away with them yet.”

We searched Itaewon for another half hour, to no avail. The streets were silent and empty. Finally, Ernie said, “So maybe I’ll go visit Miss Ju.”

“Isn’t it sort of late, Ernie,” I said, “to be barging in on her?”

Ernie glanced at me, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean is she expecting you?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

Miss Ju was a tall and gorgeous cocktail waitress with an elaborate hairdo and an affinity for exotic makeup. A couple of months ago when she’d first started working at the 007 Club she’d attracted so much attention that the owner had taken her off serving drinks and switched her to hostess for whichever table was spending the most money. For some perverse reason, she’d been attracted to Ernie. I’m not sure what it was. He didn’t have much charm as far as I could see-in fact he was often downright rude to women, but for some reason they liked him. Maybe it was his pointed nose and his green eyes behind round-lensed glasses, or the way he was fascinated by whatever odd thing was plopped down in front of him. Or maybe it was the way he looked at life; as if there was nothing, ever, in any way more important than what was happening right now.

“We’re supposed to be on guard duty,” I told him.

“When the call came in, we were the only investigators available. So now we’re investigating. Screw guard duty.”

Ernie was right. Once the honchos of 8th Army heard an MP had been murdered, that’s all they’d be concerned with, not the sergeant-of-the-guard patrol. Still, I felt uncomfortable with him staying out here. It was possible the Provost Marshal had already been informed of the incident and he’d be waiting back at the compound for our report. Ernie read my mind.

“Tell the Colonel that I stayed out here to continue searching for the guy.”

“He’s not going to buy that.”