Relative Danger (21 page)

Chapter 28

Doug resisted the urge to reach over and close Kim’s mouth and instead reached for his bottle of Singha beer.

Chong Kim Siap balanced at the edge of his seat, leaning so far forward that Doug had had to move his beer off to the side to prevent Kim from knocking it over with his chin. His open-mouthed stare morphed into a full-faced grin, but his face couldn’t contain his excitement. He shot out of his chair, sat back down, raced both hands through his thick, black hair, slapped the table and chugged the rest of his beer, all in a five-second burst of pent-up adrenalin.

“God-
damn!”
Kim said, and just to make sure everyone in the nearly empty bar heard him, he said it again. “God-
damn!”

The Stowaway bar was nearly empty since it wasn’t even noon and the drink prices could only attract a better class of drunk. That and the possibility that Kim had scared the others off. The kid made Doug a bit nervous.

But he was a good listener. Doug had told him about “the case,” substituting photos—“The old blackmail scam,” Kim nodded—for the diamond. He left out some of his suspicions about Aisha, the fact that Russell Pearce was probably the bad guy, and any reference to his own inexperience and self-doubt, but in general he stayed close to the truth. Kim seemed to like it.

“God-
damn!”
he said as he slapped the now-wobbly table. “
That’s
the kind of life I want.”

“My life? I don’t think so. It’s not as exciting as you think.”

“Not exciting? In the last month you flew halfway around the world, been in four countries, slept with an heiress, been stalked, jumped, and shot at, got thrown in the hoosegow, been in a car chase—
with
a big crash—scored the winning try in a rugby tournament
and
slept with the cheerleaders….”

Okay, maybe not that truthful.

“Sure sounds exciting to me,” Kim said. He shot out of his seat again but this time came back with two more beers.

“Compared to
my
life,” Kim continued, handing Doug a Singha, “it’s exciting. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got it pretty good at the force. Some of the cases I’m involved with, well, they’d even shock a guy like you. But it’s the, I don’t know…the
routine
of it all that’s driving me batty. Same shit, different day. I got a bumper sticker in my desk drawer, that’s what it says, Same Shit, Different Day. I need a job like yours.”

“That’s funny,” Doug said. “When I get done here in Singapore and head back to the States, I’ll be looking for a job like yours.”

“Yeah, right. You couldn’t do a job like mine.” Kim’s smile dropped and he fumbled on. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean you
could
do it, but you just
couldn’t
do it. What I mean is that guys like you, you just can’t do a dull job, it’s not in you. You’re used to the adventure, living by your own rules, every day something different and no paper-pushing desk-jockey telling you to get her coffee or un-jam the photocopier.”

Doug looked at his half empty beer bottle. “You’d be surprised at the jobs I’ve done.”

“
Exactly!
That’s what I want. I want surprises. There’s no adventure in my life.”

They sat for a few minutes. Doug played with the paper label of his Singha. It slid off the bottle intact. Too much water in the glue, he thought. He smiled and looked up at Kim.

“Kim, there’s a room in the middle of one of the pyramids and there’s nothing in it but a light bulb. People go there and get all disappointed since it wasn’t adventurous enough for them, but they forget about how hard it was to get there.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a journey, Kim, not a place.”

“So there is no room in the pyramid?”

“No, there is a room, but that’s not what’s important, what’s important is….”

“That there’s a light bulb?”

“No, ah, well yes, there
is
a light bulb but the important thing is that people are disappointed.”

“Disappointed? Why is that important?”

“Because they need to be disappointed to understand why it’s important that there’s nothing in the room.”

“But you said there was a light bulb.”

“That’s not why they are disappointed.”

“They don’t want a light bulb there?”

“No they
do
want a light there, I mean it’d be really dark if they didn’t, but they want more there and they are disappointed that there isn’t more there.”

“How big is the room?”

“That’s not important.”

“It is if you want to figure out how much more you can put in.”

“They don’t want to put anything else in, Kim, they….”

“But you just said that they wanted more and if they don’t know how big it is, then they’ll be
really
disappointed. I mean if I hauled a sofa up there and it didn’t fit….”

“How much was the beer?” Doug said, sighing. He dug a wad of light pink bills from his pocket.

“Whoa, hold on, pal. This is my town and my bar. Your money’s no good here. It’s on me.” Kim beamed as if he had been waiting years to say something like that. “Geeze, look at the time. I gotta get back. Big meeting this afternoon. Besides, I have some old files on a 1948 murder to dig up for a P.I. friend of mine. I’ll walk you to the subway, it’s on the way. So anyway,” Kim said as they headed for the door, “how do they turn the light bulb on if there’s nothing else in the room?”

***

The man in the corner store was disappointed to see Doug and the unknown police officer exit The Stowaway bar since now he had to leave the air conditioned store and start walking. Although he grew up in Singapore, he never got used to the weather. It was always too damn hot, too damn sticky. The heat drained the life out of you, made you old before your time. Just look at old Chinese people and then look at old Europeans, especially those Scandinavians. The only difference is the weather. He kept the AC going full blast in his apartment, cold enough to hang meat, his friends said. Go ahead, make jokes, we’ll see who lives longer.

He took a deep breath of the artificially perfect air and got ready. He watched as the two men walked down the street, back in the direction of the police station. He waited until they had reached the other side of the intersection before he pushed open the glass door and headed out into the heat. He hit the speed redial on his cellular and listened through the receptionist’s long greeting before giving the room number. For the past two days, the phone had always picked up on the second ring and today it was no different. “They’re heading back to the police station now,” he said. The voice at the other end said fine and hung up, like always.

He slowed down. The two men weren’t in a hurry, and he was sure he knew where they were going. He kept an eye on them but his attention was on the same math problem he’d done ten times that morning. One twenty a day, two days so far. Two hundred forty dollars. If this lasted a week more he could pull in over a grand. It paid a hell of a lot better than his security guard job, but it meant venturing out into the unhealthy heat and humidity of nature. The night with the alarms was interesting, but mostly this guy led a quiet life. And that was fine too. Easy money. But there was a promise of an extra five hundred if he had to beat the piss out of the guy. Man, he thought, that would be sweet. That would more than cover the cost of a new Daiwoo window-mounted AC for the bedroom.

He kept totaling various combinations of days and beatings, watching as the cop went back to his office and the man headed for the subway. Thank God. The trains were always cold.

Chapter 29

In daylight, Raffles lost its palatial feel and had to settle simply for grand. The sun echoed off the blindingly white walls, and the whole hotel seemed to stretch out with its feet up on the balustrade, a cold gin and tonic it its hand. Select shops lined two sides of an open courtyard, the other two sides strategically obscured by frilly gazebos and flowered trellises. Jazz, as light and sweet as the aroma of the tropical flowers, floated around the fountains and fishponds, mixing with offbeat beeps from the cash registers in the gift shops.

The main shop was filled with esoteric souvenirs, the one-of-a kind specialty items that would appeal to the aristocratic tastes of the Raffles guest, but more likely purchased by the budget tourist, pretending to be a Raffles guest. Walls of brass and dark wood, watercolor prints and etched glass. Doug wanted to buy his mom an ashtray to replace the one bought in Morocco and lost in Cairo, but the only ones the shop carried were Steuben crystal and more expensive than a week at the ZRZ Publishers/Hotel. The keychains were blue-light special priced at eighty dollars, but he passed on those as well. My son went to Singapore and all I got was this hundred and twenty dollar Versace tee shirt. He decided he didn’t see anything he really liked.

The other shops had more employees than items for sale. Two scarves and a handbag were attended by a sextuplet of sales associates, identically dressed in tailored LBDs, who floated around the glass table like priestesses in some high-fashion cult. And all nine employees watched him enter and exit the unnamed perfume store, protecting the sacred fragrances from his plebian nose.

The hotel’s museum slipped in at the end of the shops, and the Zen-like austerity of post-modern retail gave way to the Victorian clutter of pre-war memorabilia. The walls were covered with framed prints and photographs, the display cases filled with odd travel mementos and hotel bric-a-brac, painstakingly arranged to appear randomly tossed together. Massive room keys, luggage tags from hotels in Istanbul, Shanghai, and Havana, whiskey flasks with well-worn leather cases, opera glasses, a receipt from the hotel’s laundry dated 1921, handfuls of old photos showing mustached men in tuxedos and white military uniforms dancing with even whiter young women in low-necked gowns. On one shelf of an antique cabinet was the framed original of the newspaper clipping Doug had seen reproduced in the subway, again shouting that The Truth Must Be Told. A red arrow singled out the key line—“Let the traveler note: Eat at Raffles and Sleep at Raffles.” And on the shelf just below, as if it had been set down so to sip some tea,
Sea to Sea
was laid open to the very page that mentioned Raffles by name. Doug had to stoop down to read the passage that said, “Providence led me to a place called Raffles Hotel, where the food is as excellent as the rooms are bad. Feed at Raffles and sleep at Hotel de l’Europe.” So much for The Truth having to be Told.

Ngiam Tong Boon’s recipe for a gin sling was there, just as the bartender had promised, as was the story behind the tiger that was shot under the billiards table. But that story went from adventurous to cruel when he read that it was just a cub. There were pictures of movie stars whose names Doug didn’t recognize and when he did recognize a name, he couldn’t figure out which face it matched in the picture. The display tended to show only old-time photographs, back in the days when travel meant steamships and trunks, not jumbo jets and backpacks. It was less a museum and more an advertisement for the whole Raffles experience. More than a hotel, it was a way of life, and the museum laid out, in black and white, just what that life should look like.

There were three rooms in the museum, making it smaller than the Rolex shop, but big enough to squeeze in several display cases of silver fountain pens and sherry decanters. The three ceiling fans, connected by wide leather belts, just like those in the Long Bar, barely added a ripple to the centrally controlled AC, and that hint of soft jazz that haunted the entire hotel crept its way around the cabinets and cases. Calculatingly hypnotic, the museum stirred a sense of envy and a strange desire to buy an Authorized Museum Reproduction.

Doug studied the photographs in the After the War—New Beginnings section, but there were no photos of Uncle Russ. One stunning woman in a crowded party scene might have been Edna, but he couldn’t be sure. He was leaning against the wall, studying a staged group photo of a polo team, when a quiet cough came from the other room.

“Careful sir,” the man said, smiling, “we wouldn’t want you to soil your shirt on our dusty walls.” His crisp British accent and even crisper Raffles sport coat didn’t prevent the real message from coming through: Don’t touch.

“Oh, sorry. I’m just trying to see if there’s anyone here I know.”

“If there is, you have aged well. That’s the 1950 Polo team,” the man said as he walked over to the photo, “captained by Geoffrey Harkness. Their undefeated season is slightly marred by the fact that there were no other teams on the island that year. Pity. They were quite good. The man second to the left, first row, is C. F. Holley. He lost his arm fighting in Burma and, I would wager, was the only semi-professional, one-armed polo player who also wrote limericks based on Bible stories in the entire South East Asian region.”

“That’s probably a safe bet.”

“One would think so, sir, but Major Brooks—second row, just below the porch light—lost his arm in the war as well, gangrene I believe, and he, too, wrote limericks. Not quite biblical but inspirational, none the less.”

“Do you know everybody here?” Doug asked, looking around the room.

“No, sir,” he said, his Raffles smile firmly in place, “but I do my best.”

“Well, I’m Doug Pearce. I don’t play polo and I have both arms.” He stuck out his right hand as proof.

“Archer, sir,” the man said, not clarifying if it was a first name, last name or occupation. He had a firm, well-practiced handshake. “How are you at limericks?”

“There once was a man from Nantucket….”

“Ah, of the Brooks variety. His favorite location was Kho Phuk.”

“I can see why. How come you know so much about the polo team? Part of the job?”

“Part of the job, yes sir, but I have been with Raffles,” his head seemed to dip when he said the name, “for twenty years now and I suppose one could say that I have made it my hobby to know its history. All of the assistant managers spend some time each year as part-time curator of our museum. It is my favorite assignment. I learn something new each time.”

“Maybe you can help me out then. My uncle stayed here back in 1948.”

“Sir,” Archer said, smiling even wider, “you don’t assume that I know
every
guest, do you?”

“Oh no, of course not. This was different. My uncle stayed at this hotel and was murdered.”

Archer drew in a breath and leaned back on his heels. “
Here
, sir?” He sounded both insulted and shocked.

“I don’t know if it was here, I really doubt it, but he
was
staying here, that I do know.”

“Staying here and murdered here are two
very
different things.”

“Of course. I’ve got a, uh, friend over in the police department who’s looking up the actual report.”

“
Really
, sir. Involving the police at this late date?” Archer leaned even further back on his heels. His smile had drooped to a flat, pink line.

Doug sighed, took a deep breath and tried again. “There’s this lady in Canada,” he began and told Archer an abbreviated and sanitized version of the story he told Kim at The Stowaway. Archer kept his hands clasped behind his back but returned to his upright position as the story unfolded, the flat, pink line reforming into a standard Raffles smile.

“So anyway,” Doug concluded, “I was hoping that you’d have something here, I don’t know what, that could help me out. I guess I was being unrealistic.”

Archer held up his hand, his forefinger tapping against his chin. “Something in your story sounds familiar. Not the photographs part, it’s the name. Pearce. Let us check the cards and see what they say.”

From a drawer in a roll top desk, Archer produced a wooden box that held index cards, like an old library catalog. He thumbed through the first box and halfway through a second before he slowed to read each card. After several minutes he looked up at Doug. “Russell Pearce?” His smile stretched again.

“It seems, sir,” Archer said, removing the card, “that your uncle’s account is in arrears.”

“Where?”

“He owes us some money, sir. It seems he left without paying his bill.”

“Well, he was sort of dead.”

“Yes. And he ‘sort of’ charged quite a few drinks to his room before he died.” Archer checked the card again. “It seems that his belongings were confiscated by the hotel manager and sold to clear the bill.”

“You keep records on everyone who skips a check?”

“Personally, no. The hotel does. Your uncle’s account information is here in the museum because we apparently have stored some of his sports equipment.”

Doug looked around the room and glanced in the glass cases. “Do you know what it was? Where it is?” Doug asked.

“Of course, sir,” Archer said with pride. “If you’ll permit me….” Doug stepped back as Archer walked back into the main exhibit room, pushed on a wooden panel until a sharp click could be heard, and then swung a doorway that, until it was open, appeared invisible. He switched on a light in the hidden space, illuminating a short hallway lined with floor to ceiling shelves. The shelves held numbered file boxes and it was one of these that Archer removed and carried out into the exhibit area. He rechecked the card before opening the box and began removing wads of tissue paper. Next to the box he set the artifacts, each with a small label, attached by a string. A collection of noisemakers emblazoned with
Happy New Year 1950!
, a plastic transistor radio, a coconut carved to look like either Bob Hope or Richard Nixon, a tin of Half & Half tobacco that sounded like it was filled with change, and a streamlined chrome and glass hood ornament were all removed from the box before Archer said, “This must be it.”

The glove had dried out to a pale tan, and it felt more like cardboard than leather. A scuffed baseball peeped out from the pocket, held closed by length of twine, tied in a bow. Archer checked the label before handing it to Doug. “Russell Pearce’s baseball glove, sir.”

Doug held the glove with both hands like it was actually a treasured artifact. He was surprised at how small and light it was, the padding either pounded down to nothing, or never there in the first place. The webbing showed signs of multiple repairs and there were shadows of letters printed on the glove but they wouldn’t have been legible fifty years ago. The twine had worn thin grooves into the leather and it needed a good coat of oil, but other than that it looked ready to play. Doug started to undo the bow.

“Ah, careful, sir. Property of the hotel.” Archer reached over and lifted the glove from Doug’s hands.

“I thought you said that it was Russell Pearce’s glove?”

“Oh it is, sir, or rather it was. As I said, your uncle’s belongings were confiscated by the hotel in order to cover his outstanding bill.” Archer began replacing the Hope/Nixon coconut and the noisemakers. “With the debt outstanding, the hotel retains possession of the guest’s belongings and can do as it sees fit. Someone saw fit to put it in the museum.” The way he said “someone” indicated that he would never have made such a foolish decision.

“Oh this is just great,” Doug said, his hands out as if he was checking for rain. “I come halfway around the world and I finally find something and now I can’t even touch it. I mean, come on, give a guy a break.”

“There is that outstanding bill, sir,” Archer said, rechecking his card.

“And?”

“And once the bill is paid, sir, the hotel would have no reason to hold onto the debtor’s possessions.” His smile was his own, now.

“And that would be…” Doug said.

“The bill is in pounds sterling, of course.” He produced a fountain pen from his coat and removed its top and began jotting numbers on a piece of tissue paper. “Let us assume the current exchange rates for the pound, the United States dollar and the Singapore dollar. As I have always held usury in disdain…interest, sir. I will not apply interest. So, with the outstanding debt….” Archer’s voice trailed off as he worked his calculations. He rechecked his numbers, of course.

“Sir, do you wish to settle the bill of your uncle, Mr. Russell Pearce?”

“Will I get the glove then?”

“When the bill is settled, yes of course, sir.”

Doug took a deep breath. “Okay. How much?”

“The total bill comes to thirty-three dollars, and forty-six cents. Singapore dollars. About twenty-five dollars, U.S., sir. Given your family’s history with the hotel,” he said, his smile now a wide and open-mouthed grin, “I trust you’ll understand that I must insist on cash.” To his grin, Archer added a slight, dignified chuckle.

***

It took a full two hours to formally settle the bill. Archer insisted that the entire management staff be present and the hotel’s photographer arrived to record the moment the decades-old bill was finally paid. Doug had to retell the story a half dozen times and Archer selectively recorded the details in his notebook. “An old baseball glove and an outstanding debt are not the kinds of things we celebrate at the museum,” a Mr. Fung Kee Fung told Doug, “but a dutiful nephew traveling thousands of miles to settle the account is.” Doug tried to clarify the real reason why he visited the museum, but the managers were already massaging the story so that it added to the Raffles mystique. The Truth Must Be Told. There was an awkward moment when it was learned that Doug wasn’t a guest at the hotel, but Doug helped them through by saying that he was staying with friends. A final round of photographs, handshakes, and re-enactments of the settling of the bill concluded with Doug being handed a gift certificate for dinner at a Raffles restaurant, a keychain, and a promise that the next time Doug visited Singapore, his photograph (black and white) would be hanging on these very walls.