Anarchy and Old Dogs (Dr. Siri Paiboun) (9 page)

Siri called to the governor, who remained in the kitchen doorway. He put a handkerchief over his nose and walked forward.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"I presume your deputy was a reasonably intelligent man."

"Why, yes. He was an old student of mine. Quite brilliant. I recommended him for the position."

"So we'd have to assume he wasn't the type of man who'd climb into a tin bath full of water in which dangled a live electrical element."

"Certainly not."

"... him for the position," came a voice from behind them. Siri turned to see Tao attempting to write down the governor's words.

"Officer Tao," Siri said. "This isn't an article for the
Pasa-son Lao
news. I think it would be sufficient for you just to summarize the things that
I
say."

"Very well, Doctor."

"We'll have to assume then," Siri continued, "that once Comrade Say's big toe touched the surface of the water, he would have received a jolt powerful enough to send him flying across the room."

"I would imagine that's true," the governor agreed.

"Why then is he sitting submerged in the bath?"

"I don't know."

"I would have to guess it's because the water heater was placed in the bath after he sat in it."

"But that would be ..."

"If Say wasn't of an unsound mind and dunked a live element in his own bath, we'd have to say premeditated murder, Comrade Governor."

"That's outrageous. Are you getting all this down, Tao?"

"Almost, Governor."

"As the police officer handling this case, what would your next step be?" Siri asked Tao. "Next step? Er ... interrogation, sir."

"Of whom?"

"Everyone. Anyone who had a grudge against the deceased and all his house staff, friends, and relatives."

"Good," Siri interjected. "But that's likely to be a lot of work."

"It's worth it," said Katay. "This was the deputy governor of Champasak."

"I'm not suggesting there shouldn't be an inquiry," said Siri- "But perhaps I could suggest a method of eliminating the suspects."

"I'd be grateful for any help," Tao said.

"Then do you think we could fingerprint the handle of this heater to see who the last person to touch it was? That would certainly have to be the person who put the heater into the water."

"Excellent idea," said Tao. "How exactly would we go about that?"

"How? Surely they taught you fingerprinting at the police school?"

Tao snorted a laugh through his nostrils. "Dr. Siri. I'm just a soldier in a new uniform. Soldiering and policing are interchangeable as far as my bosses are concerned. All the real policemen--I mean the trained ones--either hopped it across the border or they're up with your friends attending seminars. We're hard-pressed just to keep the peace. We're a few years away from doing any actual investigating. Sorry, Governor, but it's the truth."

Katay shook his head. "Don't apologize, Tao. These are desperate times." He squeezed Siri's arm. "Doctor, can you do anything?"

Siri's emotions were mixed. He bemoaned the lack of expertise in his country and wondered how long it would take to educate its youth to become proficient in even the most fundamental skills. But, on the other hand, where else would a seventy-three-year-old amateur get a chance to play detective as he often did? He had a Maigret mystery right there up his sleeve. The intrepid French detective on holiday in a remote town. A break-in at a small art gallery. No crime laboratory around, so in order to check for fingerprints on a discarded frame, Inspector Maigret turns to basic chemicals: a simple gray powder of magnesium and chalk.

This was how Siri would have gone about proving the identity of Deputy Say's assassin. While the governor's driver was out hunting for magnesium, Siri and a reluctant Officer Tao removed Say's body from the bath and took an impression of the right index finger using a square of carbon paper. All they needed then was to compare it to that on the handle of the heater to determine whether Say had committed suicide and, if not, to start the murder inquiry. Then would begin the arduous business of fingerprinting anyone who had access to the deputy's house on the night in question. But the god of unnecessary paperwork intervened. Even before they had the powder, the crime solved itself.

Officer Tao had gone to the home of the mother of the deputy governor's wife in order to obtain the addresses of her staff and close friends. She was an uncomplicated woman. Like many of the nouveau powerful in Laos, Say had gone into the villages and found himself a pretty but uneducated wife to complement his new lifestyle. Tao told her of the magic of fingerprinting and how they would be able to determine the identity of the murderer even without torturing the suspects. To his amazement, the woman burst into tears right in front of him and dropped to her knees.

"It was me. It was me," she sobbed. "I didn't realize. 'Bring me some more hot water,' he shouted. And there he was, all round and ruddy from all them Soviet pleasures: the vodka and the food and the big-boned women I wouldn't wonder. 'Bring me some more hot water.' What on earth did he want a hot bath for? It's humid enough to bathe standing up with all your clothes on this time of year. He was just showing off that he'd been given a water heater. That was all. So, I thought, what's the point of having it if you still have to lug heavy pails back and forth across the kitchen? I took the heater out of the bucket, hooked it on the side of the bathtub, and dropped it into the water."

She sobbed then for a full minute, unable to speak. Tao stood over her with a rather embarrassed look on his face.

"I didn't know it'd kill him," she went on. "Just thought it might singe him a little bit and teach him a lesson. But he sort of sizzled and shook and this big grin spread over his face like he was enjoying it. I didn't know what to do. I jumped back and watched him fry. Next thing I knew he was dead."

It was 11:45 a.m. when Tao related the story to Siri and the governor. Say's wife was locked up in the Pakse police station and the case was solved. The Soviet Union was exonerated, the governor placated, and the widow allowed to purge her demons of guilt all with fifteen minutes to spare before lunch. It was Siri's fastest ever conclusion of a case but he was still a little upset that he hadn't been given the opportunity to eliminate the suspects one by one through the magic of dactyloscopy.

Siri told all this to Civilai under the tarpaulin of a rather special noodle stall overlooking the Mekhong ferry ramp. The lady owner, Daeng, began her day at four in the morning just to have everything perfect by lunchtime. But apart from being a noodle perfectionist she had many other arrows in her quiver.

At the hotel, when they'd returned from the cinema the previous night, Siri had casually mentioned Madame Daeng, the cook to the night clerk. Siri held out little hope that his old friend would still be there after all these years. That's why he'd been so surprised by the reaction. The clerk had laughed and told him more people in Pakse knew the name Madame Daeng, the cook than they did President Soupanouvong. He'd told Siri where she could be found and, sure enough, here she was.

She still had the keen, all-seeing eyes and the fine delicate features that had fascinated so many young men back when. The look of shock on her face could have drained the river for ten miles in each direction. She'd tossed the noodle sieve into the boiling water, hobbled over to her famous doctor on legs stiff with rheumatism, and thrown her arms around him. Ignoring the stares of the mystified diners, Siri and Daeng could feel the strong beating of each other's hearts as they stood locked together like hands clasped in prayer. From his stool beside the noodle cart, Civilai had timed the embrace at a minute, but for the old comrades it was an exchange of missed decades, of battles and loves and losses, of friends departed and disasters shared.

Siri had first met Daeng thirty-seven years earlier at the southern youth camp where he and his wife, Boua, were serving with the Free Lao movement. Daeng had been their cook. At first that was all the remarkable young woman had done, but she soon demonstrated skills and determination far beyond the wok. In 1940, the French had urged the Lao to set up the youth movement in answer to Thailand's posturing about shifting its eastern border into Lao territory. It was intended as a mechanism to engender nationalistic feeling against the Thais. When Siri and Boua returned from their studies in France at the end of '39, the camp in Champasak had been their first posting. They'd spent two years training young medical interns, teaching French, and molding young minds. What the French didn't realize was that the youth camps they were sponsoring around the country had a well-hidden and brilliantly conceived agenda. In them the foundations were being laid for ousting the French oppressors. It was from the youth initiative that the Lao Issara--the Free Lao movement--was born, and Siri and Boua had been instrumental in its creation in the south.

When the youth camps were finally closed down by the French for becoming too radical, the Free Lao began its subversive acts of rebellion. Madame Daeng, then a miss, had tagged along with the rebels, cooking, tossing the odd grenade, joining in the campfire plots. She was an inspiration to the young Lao who had grown strong from her noodles, and she was a valuable ally to Siri and Boua. But in the confusion that accompanies a guerrilla war, they'd lost touch. Siri and Boua had gone to Vietnam and Daeng remained in the south. And now, on Siri's first day back in Champasak, they had been reunited.

Siri introduced her to his cousin, "Pop," and she looked at Siri with a wry smile on her sun-rusted face. She'd always been able to tell when he was lying. She greeted the "cousin" and told Siri their reunion proper could wait. For the time being, she promised them the best lunch they'd ever tasted in their lives and went to fish the sunken sieve from its tank. Siri knew from experience that this wasn't an idle promise. When the huge bowls arrived in front of them, the aroma was poetry enough to make them lose the threads of their morning adventures. The piquant spices caressed their palates and reminded them how many years it had been since they'd really tasted food. Even Siri in his nullified state could pick out every herb, root, and legume. He forgot Civilai, just as Civilai had no further interest in him, until the last spoonfuls of broth had made the trip north.

It was Civilai who spoke first. "That ... that was ..."

"I know."

"Let's take her back to Vientiane," Civilai said, only partly in jest.

"She could have a real restaurant there, not sweat out her days for ferry passengers under a grimy tarpaulin for fifty
kip
a plate. She should be rolling in money."

"Believe me, brother," Siri said, "Madame Daeng is the type of woman who could roll in whatever she pleases. If this is what she's chosen it's because it makes her happy."

"Even so ..."

"All right. You've heard enough of men in baths and silly wives. It's your turn. Tell me about the post office."

"I wish I had a long funny story with a happy ending."

"No luck?"

"The fellow there looked at the envelope and the postmark and told me, quite logically, that it could have been brought in by anyone. Some two hundred people a day come in with letters. They pay their money, get their stamps, he cancels them, and throws the letters into a big sack. The sorter goes through them, puts them in smaller sacks, and puts them on the bus."

"Didn't he recall a customer who came in every fortnight with a letter to Vientiane?"

"Siri, there wasn't even a surname on it. It was a letter to a PO box. What could possibly jog his memory? I prodded him so hard he lost his temper with me and threatened to call the police."

"Huh, no danger there. But I'm glad you've built up a good relationship with the mail service."

"Siri, I--"

Daeng interrupted them with two more bowls of noodles. The old warriors were as stuffed as steamed rice sausages but these dishes exuded a scent so erotic it would have seduced a palace eunuch. Daeng winked and they dipped their spoons into the broth. A whole new taste, a whole new love affair.

After several minutes of blissful slurping, Siri managed a sentence. "Show me the envelope," he said.

Civilai handed over the letter and watched as his friend studied it.

"I know. You're going to dust it and fingerprint everyone in the province."

"No, genius. And don't mock. I'm having a remarkably successful run with my Inspector Maigret franchise. What
mon copain
would do is narrow things down by trying to find out where one could obtain an envelope such as this." He turned it over and noticed something for the first time. "Well now look at this, older brother."

"What?"

"In the corner here. It looks like a little cross in pencil. Someone's apparently tried to rub it out but they didn't erase it completely. What do you suppose this means?"

"In the West it's the symbol for a kiss. I don't suppose the Devil's Vagina might have been secretly flirting with the dentist's wife? An affair behind his back?"

"Menage a trois d'espionnage? More likely, the shop that sells them uses the cross when they're counting them out, marking every ten or so. What do you think?"

"I think you're clutching at straws."

"But it isn't impossible."

"It once rained tadpoles in Luang Prabang."

"All right. So that gives us one more lead to pursue. There can't be that many places selling envelopes in Pakse. Then there's the Devil's Vagina himself."

"Or herself."

"Exactly. It is rather ambiguous. I think it's worth asking around. See if the name elicits any reaction."

"Reaction other than taunts and ridicule?"

"Your reticence suggests you'd prefer me to handle the vaginal probing."

"Not at all. I'll have a stab at it. You can do the envelopes."

"We can get Daeng on to it, too."

"Siri, I don't think ..." But Siri had already called over his old comrade, leaving Civilai shaking his head and mouthing some unheard warning. Daeng sat with them, wiping her hands with a cloth.

"You two aren't leaving here until every last spoonful of that is inside you," she said.

"Fear not," Siri told her. He took her hand. "We will have completely licked the pattern from the bowls by the time we exit. But, in the meantime, we have a little mystery we would like to get you involved in."

"Ooh, how exciting. I love a challenge."

"I know you do. My cousin and I are in search of a devil's vagina."

Daeng roared with laughter. The late diners looked over at her and smiled.

"Well, I've had some requests in my time," she said, wiping tears from her eyes. "Most men your age are looking for something a bit softer, farm lasses straight off the bus, for example."

"I don't think it's an actual female organ," Siri said. "More likely a person's nickname or the name of a place. You ever heard of it?"

She laughed again. It made her face glow like a teenager's. "The name of a place? No. I'm sure I'd remember it if I'd met someone who was born in the Devil's Vagina." The thought set her off into another laughing fit and she dragged Siri and Civilai into it with her.

"Don't worry, boys," she said when the mirth had subsided. "I'll ask around."

Siri caught a worried glance from Civilai. He leaned closer to Daeng.

"Just be careful who you ask," he said.

She didn't need clarification. She seemed to read enough from his tone to realize she was getting into something sticky.

"Siri, my love, you'll never change, will you? Always the clashing hero off on some quest to save mankind. But you'd better put some of that hero time aside for me while you're here. We've got a lot to catch up on."

Further up beyond the ferry ramp, a man stood in the doorway of a soon-to-be-demolished French villa. His eyes were trained on the two old men sitting at the noodle stall. He didn't need to use his binoculars because his eyesight was keen. His military training had given him the expertise and the patience to fulfill his mission. There was no hurry.

"How's she feeling?" Civilai asked. He was in a wicker chair by the window of his room. Siri had stopped off at the long distance phone booth at the Bureau de Poste on his way back. He sat on the bed and sighed.

"I don't know. She has a knack of always sounding cheerful, even when the weight of the world is on her shoulders."

"Do you suppose she's angry that we weren't there for it?"

"No. The one thing you can be sure of with Dtui is that she doesn't hold a grudge. She knows why we're here. If it weren't for the cremation she'd probably have jumped on a bus and joined us already."

"How did it go?"

"All right, she said. Nice ceremony. The monks got sloshed afterward. She wonders whether they aren't just Royalists hiding out in saffron till the heat's off. But they knew the chants so nobody complained. A lot of her ma's friends were there, hospital people. Phosy was with her."

"Any news from him?"

"Nothing about the dentist's wife. A dead end, he says. He managed to get the blood sample to someone at the Swedish forestry project. They promised to take it down to Bangkok next trip and get it looked at. Otherwise Dtui and Phosy are just sitting around, waiting for orders from us. Dtui did say Judge Haeng was asking why I was still in Pakse."

"Why? Well, it's obvious. Complications with the case."

"That's what I told her to say. The possibility of other homicides by domestic appliance. I hinted at an assassination attempt with a vacuum cleaner. I might have to conjure up something more credible if we stay here much longer."

"We've barely started."

"Done nothing at all, as far as I can see."

Their time in Pakse had yielded nothing. The envelope search took longer than Siri had expected. He soon learned that all the shops in Pakse sold pretty much the same things, contraband from either Thailand or Vietnam. There were few stores that
didn't
sell envelopes. But none of the owners recognized the brand or style. The only thing he learned from his search was that the sender probably hadn't bought his envelopes in Pakse. It was frustrating. It always seemed much more straightforward in detective novels.

Civilai's pursuit of the Devil's Vagina had apparently gone no better. As it turned out, his initial fear of being recognized had been grossly overestimated. Without his large black-framed glasses there was little to connect him with the grinning statesman in the grainy photographs in
Pasason Lao.
In fact, it was soon apparent that people in the south didn't read. He didn't once see a coffee-shop patron poring over the week's news or a young office girl hurrying to finish a romance novel on her lunch break. To Pakse, Civilai was just a peculiar old man dressed like a farmer on holiday.

Like most outsiders, he was not to be trusted. He asked Siri one evening, "If anyone knew, do you think they'd tell a stranger in the street?"

No, they both knew it was a waste of time. Civilai busied himself with setting up his network of trustees. He was spending more time by himself. The dentist lead was getting fainter by the day but Civilai seemed to be more occupied. Siri would come back from a day of fruitless detecting to find him surrounded with handwritten notes. He'd always say, "We might be getting somewhere," without giving away many details, and for a while, Siri believed there might be hope of an organized resistance. But one day he returned to find his friend particularly flustered and frustrated. The question Civilai asked was confirmation to Siri that they were lost.

"What about your--you know--other friends?"