Singapore Wink (22 page)

“A token amount, you might say. They didn't seem to care much for it.”

“Had you been drinking?” Huang said, then added, “I'm sorry that we have to ask these personal questions, Mr. Cauthorne, but I'm sure you appreciate our reasons.”

“It's all right,” I said. “I'd had several drinks, perhaps enough to give me too much courage.”

“Did you do your drinking at any one place?”

“Yes. At a place called Fat Annie's.”

“Was this place recommended to you by a friend?” Tan said.

“No. By a trishaw driver.”

“When did you arrive back at the hotel?”

“Shortly after eleven o'clock.”

“But you didn't attempt to see Miss Lozupone.”

“No.”

“Why not, if you were hurt?”

“I needed a doctor more than sympathy.”

There was a knock on the door and I crossed and opened it to admit the houseboy who served the coffee and tea. When we all had our cups and saucers, we made some comments about the weather because it suddenly had started to rain, and then we went back to questions and answers.

“You are acquainted with Mr. Angelo Sacchetti, are you not, Mr. Cauthorne?” Tan said.

“Yes.”

“You were involved in an accident with him here almost two years ago, I believe.”

“I think your records will show that,” I said.

“Did Miss Lozupone know him?”

“Yes. At one time, they were engaged to be married.”

“Have you seen Mr. Sacchetti?” Huang asked.

“No.”

“Are you looking for him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I thought I had caused his death and then I learned that he was alive. His death had bothered me so I wanted to make sure that he was really alive.”

“And you traveled all the way to Singapore just for that?” Tan said.

“Just for that,” I said.

“Have you seen Sacchetti?” Huang repeated, dropping the mister.

“No.”

“Was Miss Lozupone also looking for him?” Tan said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “As I said, they were once engaged.”

“But Sacchetti is now married.”

“So I hear.”

“Why then should a young woman—”

I interrupted Tan. “As you say, she was a young woman. It's sometimes difficult to tell what a young woman of Carla Lozupone's temperament will do when she's been jilted.”

“The woman scorned thing, you mean?” Huang said.

“She didn't talk to me about it.”

Huang moved from the window and placed his cup and saucer on the coffee table. “Let me see if I have the correct picture of your relationship with Miss Lozupone,” he said, as he returned to the window to take in the view again. “Both of you, through coincidence, came to Singapore at the same time to find Angelo Sacchetti. You, Mr. Cauthorne, for what seems to be some type of psychological reassurance that he was not dead. Miss Lozupone, perhaps for revenge. But you didn't discuss your reasons with each other. Tell me, did you discuss Angelo Sacchetti?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us about that.”

“There's not much to tell. We both agreed that he was a son of a bitch.”

“In just those words?” Tan said.

“Those will do.”

“Do you think that Miss Lozupone might have disliked, or even hated, Sacchetti enough to have tried to do something foolish?” Huang said.

“What's foolish?” I said.

“Try to kill him,” Tan said.

“No,” I said. “I don't think so.”

“Did you know that we are looking for Angelo Sacchetti in connection with her death?” Huang said.

“No.” That hadn't been on the radio.

“When we found Miss Lozupone, we found her holding Sacchetti's wallet.”

“If he killed her, I doubt that he would have been thoughtful enough to leave bis wallet in her hand,” I said.

“That did occur to us, Mr. Cauthorne,” Huang said and kept most of the sarcasm out of his voice.

“But you're still looking for him?” I said.

“Yes,” Huang said. “We are.”

They told me the rest of it then, at least as much as they felt I should know. Carla Lozupone had been murdered around midnight, give or take an hour, and had been driven to the Malay
kampong
or village near Geyland and dumped by the side of the road. She had not been sexually assaulted, as Tan put it, and they had wired her father in New York.

“Her purse and passport were missing,” Tan said. “Did she carry large sums of cash?”

“Traveler's checks, I think. How did you know her father's address?”

“From the hotel registration and the immigration records at the airport.”

There was a pause then. It stretched out for almost two minutes. Huang stared out the window and Tan was busy inspecting a button on his coat. Neither of them had taken notes and I felt that they really weren't too interested in the lies that I had to tell them.

It was Huang who broke the silence. “Are you familiar with Sacchetti's activities in Singapore, Mr. Cauthorne?” he said, still taking in the view.

“Yes.”

“Lim Pang Sam informed us this morning that he had briefed you when you first arrived.”

“Then you've talked to him?” I said.

“At length,” Huang said. “If we hadn't, we'd probably be talking at headquarters rather than here.” He turned from the window and gazed at me through his thick-rimmed glasses which almost gave him a professorial air. “The Singapore Police, Mr. Cauthorne, are under the control and direction of our Ministry of Defense and Security.” Huang paused. “The Ministry's principal function is to deal with threats to Singapore's security—both internal and external threats and sometimes it's exceedingly difficult to differentiate the two. One could say this has been true in the case of Angelo Sacchetti and that is why he has been given a certain amount of latitude. Although his operations could properly be defined as a threat to our internal security, their disruption could have proved to be an even greater threat to our external security.”

“Because of his father-in-law?” I said.

Huang nodded. “Yes, because of his father-in-law. I see that Mr. Lim briefed you well.”

“He told me that Toh could start a full-scale race riot almost at will,” I said.

“That's true,” Huang said. “And such a riot, of course, if serious enough, could prove disastrous. Although this was true more in the past than now, a riot possibly could lead to intervention by other countries.”

“Malaysia?” I said.

“Or Indonesia, although our relations with it have improved since the confrontation ended and Sukarno was deposed.”

“So you let Sacchetti operate in exchange for domestic peace,” I said. “It's a logical trade. It might have a slightly gamey smell, but it's nothing unique.”

“It's a humiliating trade, Mr. Cauthorne. Especially to a policeman.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“But murder is something else,” Huang said. “Murder cannot be overlooked.”

“Or covered up?” I said.

“Or covered up.”

“What if Sacchetti didn't do it?”

“The evidence is overwhelming,” Huang said.

“Not to a policeman,” I said.

“No,” Huang said, “not to a policeman. Only to the public.”

“You plan to hang it on him then?”

“Of course.”

“Even if he's innocent?”

“He's not innocent, Mr. Cauthorne. There are at least six murders in our files that can be directly traced to the Sacchetti operations.”

“But not to him?”

“No. We have never questioned him.”

“But you know he was responsible?”

“We know.”

“Don't you keep someone on him all the time?” I said.

“We watch his yacht,” Tan said. “We keep it under observation twenty-four hours a day.” He paused and looked at me and smiled, displaying some nicely even teeth. “He has most interesting visitors.”

“Doesn't he ever leave the yacht?”

“Not recently,” Huang said. “But that means nothing. A sampan could come by at night, without lights, on the side away from shore and he could easily go aboard and disappear once it went up the Singapore River.”

“He used to give a lot of parties,” I said. “Doesn't he give them anymore?”

“Not since he purchased the yacht,” Huang said. “He's become quite the homebody.”

“Except for last night,” I said and immediately wished that I hadn't.

“What makes you think he wasn't there last night, Mr. Cauthorne?” Tan said.

This time it was my turn to smile. “He couldn't very well have murdered Carla Lozupone, driven her to the east side of the island, and then dumped her without leaving the yacht, could he?”

“Tell me, Mr. Cauthorne, would you have any objections if Sacchetti were convicted of the Lozupone woman's murder?” Tan said.

“Even if he weren't guilty?” I said.

“Even so.”

I thought a moment before replying. “No,” I said. “I wouldn't have any objections.”

Tan nodded. “I didn't think that you would.”

He rose and headed for the door, Sergeant Huang right behind him. “How long do you plan to remain in Singapore, Mr. Cauthorne?” Huang said.

“Until I see Angelo Sacchetti,” I said.

“Forgive me if I sound inhospitable,” Huang said, “but I hope that your stay will not be too long.” Tan opened the door, nodded at me, and left. Huang paused. “Thank you for the tea, Mr. Cauthorne.”

“My pleasure.”

“And also for your answers to our questions,” he said. “Some of them were most ingenious.”

CHAPTER XX

The phone rang while I was trying to decide whether a drink would help to pass the time or ease the pain or both. The caller was Lim Pang Sam, the spymaster of Singapore's four-man counter-espionage network, and he wanted to know how I was feeling.

“Rotten,” I said.

“That's what Detective Huang reports,” Lim said. “He rang me up just a few minutes ago.”

“Were they satisfied?”

“With what?”

“With my answers to their questions.”

Lim chuckled. “I don't think they believed a word you said, but you're no longer their prime suspect.”

“Was I?”

“At first, but there turned out to be too many witnesses to your movements last night.”

“I did see a few people,” I said.

“But not the one you were looking for,” Lim said.

“No. I didn't see him.”

There was a pause and then Lim said, “I think it might prove useful if you could drop by my office this afternoon, say around two-thirty? Would be that convenient?”

“Fine,” I said.

“I have some news for you,” Lim said. “And then I have something else, too.”

“At two-thirty then.”

After I hung up I mixed a drink and stood at the window and watched it rain a hard, tropical downpour, the kind that puts a wet chill into the air conditioning and gives even synthetic fabrics the clammy smell and feel of damp wool.

I thought about Carla Lozupone and who had killed her and why. Somewhere, just out of reach, a nebulous, unformed idea skittered around, saw that I was trying to sneak a glance at it, blushed, panicked, and disappeared. Having nothing better to do I stood there at the window and watched the rain and went back over it all, from Callese and Palmisano to Huang and Tan. No revelation burst through; no shining truth glimmered; there was only that something, small and elusive, that seemed to nag and snicker just over the next mental hill, just out of sight.

After a while I gave it up and rang the bell for the houseboy. He agreed to produce a plate of sandwiches and a pot of coffee and I reminded myself to increase the size of his tip if I were ever lucky enough to check out of the place. I ate the sandwiches slowly, chewing on the left side of my mouth because the right side still ached where the tall Chinese had slammed the edge of his hand against it. I refought last night's battle and remembered the times when I had taken on three and four and even five of them and had won handily before an admiring audience of cameramen, actors, grips, script girls and assorted hangers-on. Then, of course, there had been a couple of rehearsals and the script had called for me to win, but last night's performance had neither script nor rehearsal and the scene, as well as myself, had suffered because of it.

At two o'clock it was still raining and I went in search of the turbaned doorman to see whether he could find a cab. After five or ten minutes he whistled one to a stop and held a large umbrella over me while I climbed in. I gave the driver Lim's address and he sped off through the rain, apparently unaware that windshield wipers could have proved useful.

Lim Pang Sam smiled broadly as he walked around his desk and extended his hand which I shook. “Except for right here,” he said, touching his own right jaw, “you don't look bad at all. That's a nasty bruise.”

“It feels nasty,” I said.

Lim moved back to the chair behind his desk and picked up the phone. “I'll have some tea brought in,” he said. “It has marvelous curative powers. As the British are so fond of saying, ‘There's nothing like a nice cup of tea.'”

“Nothing,” I agreed.

When the tea ritual was completed, Lim leaned back in his chair, holding his cup and saucer against his comfortable stomach. “Tell me about it,” he said and smiled, adding, “and you can leave out the more obvious fabrications, if you like.”

I told him what had happened from the time I had left his office the day before until Huang and Tan arrived. I didn't bother to tell him about Carla Lozupone and me; I don't think I ever told anyone about that.

When I was through Lim put his cup and saucer on the desk and spun his chair around to see how the ships in the harbor were doing in the rain. “So it would seem that someone is mounting a clumsy effort to make it look as though Sacchetti killed the Lozupone woman,” he said. “A frame, as you say.”