A Lotus For Miss Quon (3 page)

Suppose he told the police that he had come upon Haum stealing the diamonds and that Haum had attacked him and that during the struggle, Haum had been accidentally killed? Such a story might get him off a murder charge, but it would mean giving up the diamonds, and there was always the risk he would receive a prison sentence.

It was at this moment that Jaffe made up his mind that whatever the risk, he was going to stick to the diamonds, and having decided this, his panic subsided and he began to think more clearly.

He poured himself a stiff shot of whisky, drank half of it, then after he had lit a cigarette, he finished the drink.

You couldn't leave Vietnam just when you thought you would, he reminded himself. The authorities entangled all travellers in a web of restrictions and regulations. You first had to apply for an exit visa, and the granting of this could take a week. Then there were forms to fill in regarding the movement of currency. There were photographs to be supplied. He couldn't hope to get out under ten days, and in the meantime, what would be happening to Haum's body?

He stood motionless, scarcely breathing while he listened.

The gentle knock came again, then he heard the back door creak open.

In a surge of panic, he stepped over Haum's body and moved into the kitchen, closing the sitting-room door behind him.

Dong Ham, his cook, was standing on the top step, the back door half open and he peered cautiously into the kitchen.

The two men stared at each other.

Dong Ham appeared to be very old. His brown face was a network of wrinkles, like crushed parchment. His thin white hair grew in straggly wisps from his bony skull. Wisps of white hair sprouted from his chin. He wore a black high-collared jacket and black trousers.

Had he heard Haum's cry for help? Jaffe wondered. It was possible that he had; why else should he be standing here? He never entered the house. His place was in the cookhouse across the courtyard, and yet here he was about to walk in, and Jaffe was sure if he hadn't moved so quickly, the old man would have come into the sitting-room.

Dong Ham picked at a lump of hard skin on the side of his hand. His watery black eyes shifted from Jaffe to the door leading to the sittingroom.

"Haum is wanted, sir," he said. He spoke French badly and slowly. He pushed back the door and moved to one side so Jaffe had a clear view of the outer courtyard and the cookhouse.

Standing in the shade of the cookhouse building was a Vietnamese girl. She was in white and her conical straw hat hid her face. For a moment, Jaffe thought she was Nhan, and his heart gave a little lurch of surprise, then the girl looked up and he saw she was Haum's fiancée.

Jaffe had often seen this girl waiting with Asian patience for Haum to finish his work. Haum had told him he planned to marry the girl when he had finished his political studies.

Jaffe had never paid any attention to the girl. He had only been vaguely aware of her when he went out to get the car from the garage, but now, he stared at her, realizing how dangerous she could be to him.

How long had she been here? he wondered. Had she too heard Haum's cry?

The girl looked very young. She wore her hair in a ponytail that hung in a black thick rope to her tiny waist. For a Vietnamese, he thought, she was very plain and unattractive.

By the tense way she was standing and by her staring alarmed eyes, Jaffe was sure she had heard the cry, but had she recognized Haum's voice?

Jaffe suddenly became aware that both the old man and the girl were regarding him in a hostile, suspicious way, although both of them were obviously uncertain of themselves and frightened.

Dong Ham slowly backed down the three steps that led up to the kitchen. His wrinkled face was expressionless. Jaffe looked quickly at the girl. She had lowered her head. The straw hat hid her face.

He crossed to the back door and shut it gently, then very quietly he slid home the bolt. Then he stepped to the shuttered window and peered through one of the slits into the courtyard.

The old man was staring blankly at the closed door and he picked nervously at the hard skin of his hand. The girl too was staring at the door. She said something. The old man went to her with slow, shuffling steps. They began jabbering together: their voices discordant and loud in the hot silence of the courtyard.

Not a good lie, Jaffe thought uneasily, but the best he could have thought of in the circumstances. He had had to say something. It was true that from time to time he did lend Haum to one or the other of his friends who happened to be throwing a party. On these occasions Haum always wore his white drill coat and trousers. He always spent some time in preparing himself. He enjoyed these outings, and invariably boasted to Dong Ham where he was going.

This Sunday, he had worn his blue working dress. He would never have gone to any of Jaffe's friends in this dress. The old man would know that. He and the girl had only to go to Haum's sleeping quarters, to find the white drill clothes and nail Jaffe's lie to the mast. Then what would they do? Jaffe wondered. He felt pretty certain they wouldn't have the initiative nor the courage to call the police. Even if they had heard Haum's cry and knew he was lying about Haum going out, they wouldn't go to the police. Probably they would wrangle and talk together for the rest of the evening. They would try to persuade each other they hadn't heard the cry. They would try to believe that Haum had gone out wearing his blue working ciothes. But eventually, of course, they would be forced to accept the fact that something had happened to Haum, and then trouble would begin for Jaffe.

At least he had a little time. He felt certain these two would wait to see if Haum returned. They would wait until the morning, then, possibly, the girl would go to the police.

Jaffe returned to the sitting-room. He stood looking down at Hum's body with revulsion. He felt tempted to go to someone and ask for help. Maybe if he went to the Embassy . . .He took a grip on himself.

I've got to keep my nerve, he said to himself. I've got to gain time. I've got to work out a way to get out of this goddam country. But first things first. I can't leave him lying here. Suppose someone called? You never knew who might drop in on a Sunday afternoon. I must get him upstairs and out of sight.

Steeling himself, he picked Haum up and carried him upstairs. The little man was a pathetically light burden: it was like carrying a child.

Jaffe went into his bedroom. He put Haum down gently on the floor, then he went over to his big clothes closet, opened it, made space at the bottom of the closet and then put Haum in a sitting position in the closet, his back against the wall. He hastily shut the closet door. He turned the key and put it in his pocket.

Although the bedroom was cool, he went over to the air conditioner and turned the machine on fully. He was feeling slightly sick, and it irritated him that his legs felt boneless, and the muscles in his thighs were fluttering.

He went down the stairs and bolted the front door, then he went into the sitting-room. Several large bottle flies were buzzing excitedly around the small patch of drying blood on the parquet floor. Grimacing, Jaffe looked from the blood to the hole in the wall and at the mess of dust and plaster on the floor. He must clear up this mess, he told himself. If someone came . . . He went into the kitchen but there was nothing there he could use to sweep up the dust or wipe off the blood. All the house things were kept in the cookhouse. This discovery worried him. He glanced through the slit in the shutter.

Dong Ham and the girl were out of sight, but he could hear their voices coming through the open window of Haum's room. They had probably discovered by now that Haum hadn't changed his clothes.

Jaffe took out his handkerchief, dipped it in water and then went back into the sitting-room. He squatted down and wiped away the patch of blood. It left a brownish stain on the polished parquet, and although he scrubbed at it for some minutes, he couldn't get rid of it.

After he had flushed the soiled handkerchief down the toilet, he returned to pick up the largest pieces of plaster. Then he knelt and blew at the plaster dust, distributing it about the floor. It now didn't look quite so obvious. It was the best he could do. He wrapped the bits of plaster in a sheet of newspaper and left the small bundle on the table.

He would have to do something about the hole in the wall, he told himself. When the police eventually came and when they saw the hole, they would guess very quickly what had been in the hole.

He searched for and found the nail, then he climbed the ladder and gently tapped the nail into the wall, just above the hole. He reached down and picked up the picture and hung it in place, concealing the hole.

He stepped back and looked at the picture. There was just a chance the police wouldn't think to look behind it: not much of a chance, but still, a chance.

He carried the ladder into the kitchen and put the hammer in the tool drawer. He felt the need for a drink and he went back into the sitting-room and poured himself another stiff shot of whisky. As he lifted the glass to his lips, the telephone bell began to ring: a violent, persistent sound that shattered the silence in the room and made Jaffe start so violently the glass of whisky jumped out of his hand and smashed to pieces on the floor, spraying whisky and water over his bare feet.

He stood staring at the telephone, his heart contracting with shock.

Who could it be? Someone wanting to come round? Someone inviting him for a drink?

He was too frightened to answer the telephone. He might get caught up in one of those ghastly chit-chats that could go on and on and on.

He remained motionless, staring at the telephone. The bell continued to ring: the sound tore at his nerves. He realized that Dong Ham and the girl must also be listening to the bell. They were probably standing as motionless as himself, looking at each other, wondering why he wasn't answering the telephone.

The bell abruptly ceased to ring. The sudden silence in the room pressed down on him. Carefully, he stepped away from the broken pieces of glass. He must get out of the house, he told himself. He couldn't stay here a minute longer. Later, he would come back, but right now, until his nerves settled, he must get out.

He went quickly up the stairs, took off his shorts and had a shower. He put on a pair of trousers and a shirt that were lying on a chair, thus avoiding opening the closet. He checked his money and was dismayed to find he had only 500 piastres in his wallet. He rummaged among his handkerchiefs in a drawer in his closet and found another too piastres note.

This wasn't so good, he thought. He needed money. If he was going to get out of the country, he would have to have money. His mouth tightened when he remembered it was Sunday and the banks were closed. He would have to cash a cheque at one of the hotels. He was pretty well known now in Saigon. It surely wouldn't be difficult to get some hotel to cash his cheque.

As he was about to leave the room, he suddenly remembered he had left the diamonds in the hip pocket of his shorts and this forgetfulness frightened him.

I must pull myself together he told himself as he took the envelope from the pocket of the shorts. I'm risking my neck for these stones and here I am, walking out without them.

He opened the envelope and examined the stones under the ceiling lamp. The sight of them sent a surge of excitement through him. He returned to the sitting-room and searched in his desk drawer for something more solid to hold the diamonds. He decided on an empty typewriter ribbon box. He put the diamonds into the box, again pausing to admire them, then put the box in his trouser pocket. He found his cheque book which he put in his wallet, then he walked into the kitchen and looked across the courtyard through the slit in the shutter.

Dong Ham was squatting outside the cookhouse door, staring blankly towards him. There was no sign of the girl. Wondering where she had got to, Jaffe returned to the sitting-room and looked through the shutters into the street beyond. He stiffened when he saw the girl squatting on the edge of the kerb opposite, looking towards the house.

These two obviously suspected something, he thought, but with the inevitable, dim-witted Asian patience they were waiting to see what happened. But at the same time, they were taking no chances. While the old man watched the back door, the girl was watching the front.

He took a last look around the room, then he picked up his car keys, the key of the back door and the newspaper parcel and went into the kitchen. He slid back the bolt, opened the back door and stepped into the stifling heat of the evening sun. Studiously ignoring Dong Ham, he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. As he passed the old man o his way to the garage, he said, without looking at him, TI be back late. No dinner."

He drove the red Dauphine which he had bought when he had first come to Saigon because of its ease of parking, down the short runway to the double gates. He stopped the car, got out and opened the gates, aware of the girl, staring intently at him.