Authors: Charles Benoit
Relative Danger (20 page)
Andrew was smiling his real smile, which looked no different from his work smile. There were many things to remember about this job, he thought as he watched a group of Korean tourists take turns photographing each other as they stood by the main entrance. But most important, Andrew said to himself, always remember to look good in front of the boss.
“Something wrong with your drink, sir?” The bartender had noticed Doug probing the bottom of the glass with his straw, shoving chips of ice out of the way. It was a Singapore Sling, the signature drink of Raffles Hotel and, according to the bar menu and the brass plaque by the door, invented here at the Long Bar.
Doug wrinkled his nose and smacked his lips. “It tastes like there’s something missing,” he said even though these were the first two Singapore Slings he had ever had.
“It’s the alcohol,” the bartender said, smiling. “There’s virtually none of it. It’s a tourist drink, really. You’ll get a sugar high before you start feeling any effects of the gin. Let me take care of that.”
The bartender whisked away the glass and, nearly as fast, set down a round coaster, a napkin and a neon blue drink. A gold and black nametag said he was Yeo Cheow Tong.
“It’s called a Hurricane. I think you’ll like it.”
Doug took a sip and agreed that it was a lot better than the Singapore Sling.
“Did they invent this one here as well.” Doug asked.
“It’s not even on the menu. I learned to make it from my girlfriend. She grew up outside of New Orleans and tended bar for a bit when she was at LSU. It’s a good drink but not what people are looking for here. Here they want a Singha beer, sometimes a Murree’s. If they’re American they want a Bud. Gin and tonics are popular. But everybody starts off with a Sling.
“Ngiam Tong Boon,” the bartender said suddenly.
“Uh, good, thanks,” Doug said.
“What’s good?” Cheow asked.
“The drink?”
“Oh, thanks. Anyway,” he continued, “Ngiam Tong Boon.”
“Boom?”
“Boon. Ngiam Tong Boon.”
“Okay,” Doug said, “I’ll try one.”
“Try what?” Cheow asked.
“Ngiam Tong Boon.”
“You know Ngiam Tong Boon?”
“No, but if it’s as good as this here Hurricane, I’ll try one.”
“Ngiam Tong Boon,” the bartender said one more time, the patience of a saint in his voice. “He’s the one who invented the Singapore Sling. Everyone always asks.”
“Oh,” Doug said. He wasn’t going to ask but now he knew.
“And, no, it wasn’t even in this room,” Cheow said, anticipating questions Doug would never pose. “The original Long Bar was over in the first part of the building, but it’s all gone. This,” he waved to take in the belt-driven ceiling fans, the rattan chairs, the open stairway to the second floor, the dark woods and the polished brass fixtures, “this was all recreated when they redid the whole place back in the Eighties. Even she’s a repro,” Cheow said, pointing out the painting of a reclining nude redhead behind the bar. “Peanuts?”
“Sure, why not,” Doug said, sipping the much stronger drink.
“Ngiam Tong Boon,” Cheow said as he set down a basket of nuts.
“We’re going to do this again?”
“Ngiam Tong Boon. The guy who invented the Sling. He’s dead now, but they still keep his original recipe book in a safe over at the hotel’s museum. Everybody usually asks.”
“The hotel has a museum?” Doug asked, trying to remember if Pottsville had a museum.
“Sure, you should see it. It’s really nice. It’s got lots of old photos and things from the hotel. Lots of famous people stayed here—Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Michael Jackson….”
“Not at the same time, I bet.”
“And the hotel itself has an interesting history. Once a tiger wandered into the lobby and they shot it under the pool table. Really,” Cheow said, noticing Doug’s expression. “They’ve got a newspaper clipping all about it over at the museum. Sure, you can read all about when the Japanese were here in the war and the story about the diamonds, and the time, back in the Fifties….”
“Diamonds?” Doug asked, the Hurricane in a holding pattern, two inches off the bar.
“Sure. Hang on a second. What can I get you?” Cheow said as a couple of smartly dressed retirees sat down at the bar. Doug watched as Cheow prepared two Singapore Slings. Uncle Russ was killed in Singapore. He might have even been killed at this hotel, Doug didn’t know. But he was killed and it was probably over a diamond. Doug noticed that he was leaning so far forward it looked as if he was about to spring over the bar and make himself a Ngiam Tong Boon, so he leaned back until he felt the bar stool start to topple. He settled for a slouch-like lean that he felt looked natural. It didn’t.
“Sure, the diamonds,” Cheow picked up the story as he returned. Doug slouched in even farther. “This goes back about, oh, what, forty, fifty years or so. There was this Italian manager of the hotel, I think his name was Guido….”
“Guido? Come on, you have to be kidding.”
Yeo Cheow Tong didn’t know enough Italians to understand, so he continued with his story. “Well during the war, the Japanese sent Guido to some POW camp….”
“The Japanese? Wasn’t Italy on the same side as Japan?”
“I guess,” Cheow said. “Anyway, they sent him to Australia.”
“Wasn’t Australia fighting against Japan?” Doug was trying hard to recall that mini-series that covered all of this.
“You’re right, they did fight Japan, so it must have been someone else who sent Guido.”
“Okay, so somebody sends Guido to Australia….”
“Sure, and before he goes he asks a British guy named Smith….”
“Smith? An Italian guy named Guido and a British guy named Smith?”
“Yeah, why not?” asked Cheow. “So he asks Smith to hold on to these jewels that have been in his family for years because he doesn’t want the Japanese soldiers to get them.”
“Wait a second,” Doug said, holding up his hand. He drew in a breath to speak, held it a second or two, and finally settled on “never mind, go ahead.”
“So Smith has to hide the jewels because the Japanese are looking everywhere for them, so he makes a false bottom in a milk can, the big kind that they used to deliver milk in, you know what I mean? He makes this false bottom and puts the jewels in and to cover up for the weight he keeps the milk can half filled with water all the time so the Japanese soldiers won’t be suspicious.”
“Wouldn’t they think it was strange that this Smith guy kept a big milk can half filled with water?”
“Sure. You know, I think Smith thought of that because he hollowed out the heels of his wooden clogs and hid jewels in there, too.”
“Wooden clogs? Wouldn’t they have to be pretty big if you were going to hide jewels inside of them?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Cheow said as he started to fix Doug a second Hurricane, “but you can make clogs, eight, ten centimeters tall. This big,” he said, holding up a large shot glass.
“I’ve never been a Japanese soldier,” Doug said as he drained the last of the first Hurricane and transferred his straw to the second big, blue drink, “but I think I might have found it suspicious if there was a British guy named Smith prancing around in high-heel wooden clogs, hauling a big milk can half filled with water everywhere.”
“After the war Guido comes back to Singapore and Smith gives him the jewels and the experts say that there was no damage at all.”
“So the moral of the story,” Doug said, holding up his
really
strong drink, “is that if I’m hunting for jewels I should look in milk cans and wooden shoes.”
“Sure, why not,” Yeo Cheow Tong said as he blended up a big batch of Singapore Slings for the next round of tourists.
A dedicated team of research scientists could spend the better part of a hefty government grant determining the specific combination of alcohol, jet-lag, nap time, sugary tourist drinks, salted peanuts and won-ton soup (purchased from a street vendor near the ZRZ Publishing House and Guest Hotel) that would induce an otherwise exhausted traveler to pop wide awake at four-thirty in the morning. By chance, Doug had hit on that specific combination and he was using that bonus time to catch up on adobe.
“This versatile building material was developed independently in arid and semi-arid climates across the globe. A mixture, in various combinations, of clay, sand and silt, adobe can be formed into bricks or applied in thin layers. The use of adobe pre-dates human history and was most likely first adopted in areas where wood, suitable for building, was in short supply. It may have also been favored for its qualities as an insulator against both heat and cold.”
As fascinating as this was—and he really did find it fascinating—Doug was simply killing time until the security system would let him leave his room.
“I really feel bad about this,” Dexter Lee had said last night when the COBRA Security Company’s Rapid Response Team representatives had finally taken the shackles, blindfold, gag, black hood, and their polished black boots off of Doug. “I forgot all about the security system. Naturally, there will be no charge for tonight.”
Doug had found the hotel without a problem and had remembered the four-digit access code number he had to punch in before he used his key. Sure, he had made a left turn at the end of that first hallway, but he had only walked ten feet before he realized his mistake and turned back towards the freight elevator, tripping for the second time the silent electric eye alarm which set in motion the crack task force and the automated phone call to Lee.
And there probably wouldn’t have been any trouble—certainly wouldn’t have been any screaming or mad chases or smashing English countryside prints or slamming of bodies into plastic potted plants and filing cabinets—if Doug had known that, in most of the world outside of the U.S., the second floor of a building is usually called the first floor. The first floor, which he assumed would be called “the first floor,” often has no number associated with it at all. And if he had known that to get to his room on the first floor—his second floor, their first—he needed to push one not two, then Dexter Lee would not have had to apologize and Doug would not feel obligated then to stay another night. But when the Rapid Response Team found an unknown individual wandering around on the second (third) floor, trying doorknobs and peeking into rooms, and when that individual, upon seeing the black jump-suited, riot helmet-wearing, flashlight-mounted, gun-toting paramilitary professionals creeping around the corner, screamed and ran off, it set into motion a series of linked events, culminating with Lee’s apology and Doug’s assurance that he was not upset and that it was all his fault and that of course he wouldn’t be checking out of such a friendly hotel.
“Adobe walls and structures need to be built on top of a solid, waterproof foundation, such as fieldstone or concrete. If not,
capillary action
(see Vol. 2) will draw groundwater and the lower section of the structure will disintegrate. Properly maintained, adobe can last centuries.”
Fascinating.
Doug was showered, shaved and fully dressed and packed and reading up on letter A topics, when the four loud beeps of the building’s security system told him that the alarms had been deactivated and that it was safe to leave his room and put into effect Plan B. Taking the stairs, he exited into the cubicle/lobby section and was greeted by the phone lady, who gave Doug a hug, saying, “You nice man. You not leave us.” So much for Plan B.
The Friday morning traffic looked just like the Thursday morning traffic and the weather, hot and humid, was the same all day long. There were days like this in Pottsville, maybe one or two a summer. Doug tried to imagine the same sunny, hot weather three hundred sixty-five days a year, no brisk autumn mornings, no pristine blankets of new-fallen snow, no chilly spring afternoons, just hot weather, blue skies and a predictable and short afternoon rain. It sounded pretty good.
He re-checked the guidebook map—his only purchase during his mall adventure—picking the quickest way to the main police building. The guidebook had noted that crime was almost nonexistent in Singapore, thanks in small part to cultural traditions and in a much larger part to the draconian laws and the swift and sure justice system. “Our advice is simple,” the guidebook said, “don’t get arrested.” Doug had already seen the tee shirts with “Singapore: A FINE, FINE city” silk-screened on the front, and running down the back, in two small-print columns, lists of various criminal activities and the fines they would earn. Some were strange: five hundred dollars for spitting on the sidewalk, not flushing a public toilet, or cutting in line at a taxi cab stand. There were some things on the list that Doug knew from experience would get you in trouble in central Pennsylvania: don’t litter, don’t vandalize, don’t wander around the streets late at night like a drunken fool, alternately singing “I am Ironman” and crying that Stacey Moore dumped you for that stupid jock, Tommy Roth.
The shirt didn’t say that exactly but the idea was there.
Then there were things that, if they weren’t already illegal, sure ought to be, like urinating in an elevator or breeding rats. Doug thought that a five-hundred-dollar fine was a bit low for these offenses.
Of course there was the famous No Chewing Gum rule on the list, but Doug had seen dozens of people chewing gum and didn’t recall a single cop wrestling these felons to the ground. He hadn’t seen any gum for sale in the store, though he really hadn’t been looking. But he had noticed that all the sidewalks were free of those black splotches created when spit-out chewing gum morphed into that nameless material that was harder and longer lasting than the concrete it fused to. Yes, Singapore was a spit/dog shit/gum free place where you were never greeted by someone else’s bowel movement, where you could ride an elevator without fear of being pissed on, where law breakers—easily caught thanks to the omnipresent security cameras and legions of police and military types in riot gear—were given the choice between paying the fine or getting whacked on the ass by a bamboo pole. When he thought about it that way, Singapore did seem a bit restrictive. But then he remembered Cairo, where, if you were lucky, you’d only find someone pissing in an elevator, and then Singapore didn’t seem so bad.
The police headquarters was easy to find and the receptionists efficient and friendly, but it still took over an hour to finally locate someone who could help. Sort of.
“Can I get you a cuppa coffee? A doughnut? Geeze, what am I saying, you guys don’t eat that crap. I can probably find you a whiskey, but it might take a few minutes.”
“It’s ten in the morning,” Doug said as he watched his arm get pumped like a car jack.
“Oh yeah, it is. Right. Well you never know with you guys.” The “you guys” twenty-year-old intern Chong Kim Siap kept referring to were private detectives.
American
private detectives. And Kim knew all about private detectives.
“Still, if you change your mind, just give me a nod,” Kim said as he led Doug to his cubicle that doubled as the photocopier supply room at the end of a dead end corridor. Doug had started off talking with the duty officer, a lieutenant, who handed Doug off to the desk sergeant, who referred him to a rookie patrolman, who passed him down the line until a temp secretary waved over Kim. And there was no way Kim was going to let go of this private detective. This
American
private detective.
“Sorry about the clutter, Doug. Can I call you Doug? Cool. Yeah, just push this stuff out of the way—a bunch of cases I’m helping out on. You know the drill, paperwork for everything.” Doug watched as Kim stacked up and swept off notices about coffee filters, parking spaces, and T.V. raffles mixed in with copies of
Guns and Ammo, Soldier of Fortune
and
Maxim
. “Not for you guys though, I bet.”
“Oh, there’s a bit,” Doug said, massaging blood back into his forearm. “Actually it’s paperwork that brings me to see you.”
Kim beamed at that direct reference to himself. “Whatever I can do. Professional courtesy and all.” You see, Kim had explained to his kid brother just last week, private detectives often help the police solve cases. They gather evidence on their own, work out all the complex connections without having to worry about “procedure” and “the rules,” confront the criminal in his lair, and arrange it so the police get there just in time to hear the confession, which the detective may have had to beat out of the guy. Sometimes the criminal was a woman and the P.I.—“that’s the lingo for a private detective”—had to get the information out of her in a
different
way. But Kim only smiled knowingly when his brother asked “What different way?” “It’s a thing that goes with the territory,” Kim had said. “Cops and the P.I.s. You wouldn’t understand.”
“So what kind of case is it? Murder? Robbery?” Kim tried not to look too excited. He remembered how his teachers used to seem nervous when he started to get excited. He leaned back in his chair a bit to show how relaxed he was.
“Both,” Doug said, and Kim shot forward, knocking over a box of paperclips.
“Whew,” he tried to whistle, “that’s some case.”
“Yeah, I guess it is. But it happened way back in 1948. I’m trying to see if I can find anything out but it’s been tough.”
“Gone cold on ya, huh?” Kim smiled and shook his head as if to say, Buddy, ain’t we all been there. “Why don’t you fill me in—I know, ‘client privilege’—but just give me what you think I need, I can fill in the blanks.” He flipped over a memo (RE: Department policy on decorative ties) and prepared to take notes.
Doug told Kim what he knew about his uncle’s murder, which was next to nothing, but left out any mention of
Al Ainab.
He remembered Aisha’s comment about international art theft not having a statute of limitations and figured that it was best left unmentioned. He made it sound as if the theft of some “compromising photographs” were somehow connected to the murder. Kim’s smiled widened at this but he didn’t press for details.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Kim said when Doug had finished. “You need copies of any police files related to the murder of one Russell Pearce, American, in the summer of 1948. Wow. It’s a safe bet that there won’t be too many cases fitting that description. I’ll dig around here and see what I can come up with.”
“That’d be great. I owe you one.”
“Wow. Really? Say, what are doing now? Want to go grab a beer and some lunch?”
“They don’t mind you just leaving like that?” Doug asked, hoping they would.
“Me? Heck no. They understand that investigative work means all sorts of strange hours and contacts and that stuff. Come on, there’s a place not far from here, The Stowaway, I think you’d like. Not at all like the tourist places near the quay. Kindda rough, but I’m sure you’re used to that. Hey, Elena,” Kim half-shouted as he guided Doug out of the dead end corridor, “I’m taking an early lunch with this private detective from
America
. Take my calls, will ya?”
The temp didn’t even look up as they walked past.
