Singapore Wink (23 page)

“That's the way it looks, but then I'm no expert.”

“But your Mr. Dangerfield is.”

“He's an FBI agent. That might make him an expert in some circles.”

“But he is not in Singapore officially?”

“No.”

“I can't say that I like the idea of an FBI agent running about, officially or otherwise, but I even less like his theory that Toh and his daughter are responsible for the death of the Lozupone woman.”

“I don't think he likes it too much either,” I said. “I just think he wants to like it.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Maybe he just wants everything tidy.”

Lim brought out his Lucky Strikes and offered me one. While I was accepting a light, he said, “This is a most untidy affair, Mr. Cauthorne. Assault, blackmail and murder. Most untidy. Yet there is the possibility that some good may come of it.”

“You mean there's a chance to get rid of both Sacchetti and Toh.”

Lim nodded. “A very good chance, I think, unless it's bungled badly.”

“By outside amateurs such as myself.”

Lim smiled. “Not at all, Mr. Cauthorne. If anything, your efforts have brought matters to a head. In fact, I was just going to make you a proposition. But first I must ask you a question. Satisfactory?”

“All right.”

“Are you still determined to find or confront—I'm not sure which term to use, but nevertheless, do you still intend to find Angelo Sacchetti?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you don't mind if we use you as a stalking horse.”

“I don't know whether I mind or not,” I said. “But there's probably not much I can do about it.”

Lim smiled again as if delighted with my answer. “My proposition is this: we would like you to continue just as you are with one exception.” He opened a desk drawer, took out a revolver, and placed it on his blotter. “We would like for you to have this.”

“Why?”

“For protection,” Lim said.

I leaned over and picked up the revolver. It was surprisingly light.

“Aluminum alloy frame,” Lim said. “It's become very popular throughout Asia.”

It was a Smith & Wesson Chief's Special that fired the .38 caliber Special cartridges and it didn't seem to weigh much more than half a pound, if that. I put it back on the desk.

“What would happen if I pulled the trigger and someone got shot?” I said.

“It depends,” Lim said.

“On what?”

“On whom you shot.”

“Let's say I shot Angelo Sacchetti.”

“Then it would be self-defense, wouldn't it?” Lim said.

“No fuss, no bother?”

“None. I might not be able to convince the Prime Minister to strike a special medal for you, but I'm sure you understand.”

“Perfectly,” I said. “You wouldn't mind at all if I killed Angelo Sacchetti and saved you the trouble.”

“In self-defense, of course.”

“Of course.”

I shook my head and pushed the revolver an inch towards Lim; he pushed it back an inch. “Mr. Cauthorne, let me say that we do not hand out firearms in Singapore lightly or without a great deal of thought. I hope you will believe me when I also say that you need this revolver. You need it very much. You already have been shot at once.”

“That was only a warning.”

“Possibly,” Lim said and raised a cynical eyebrow. “You have been beaten severely. If you continue your search for Sacchetti, there will be a third, and probably final, incident.”

“No more warnings?”

“None.”

“All right,” I said. “I'll take it, but what do you want me to do with it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean I'm not wearing a coat, so how do I carry it—by the barrel?”

“Oh, dear,” Lim said, clucking his tongue. “I do believe I have a paper bag here somewhere.” He rummaged through his desk and found one. I put the Smith & Wesson in it.

“Very handy,” I said.

“I think you'll have to wear a coat,” he said.

“I'll manage. You said over the phone that you had some news.”

Lim took off his Ben Franklin glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. “It's about Dickie,” he said. “I talked to him today.”

“To Trippet?”

“Yes. He called from Los Angeles. He's worried about you.”

“Why?”

Lim put his glasses back on and they promptly slid halfway down his broad nose to where he habitually wore them. “Well, I believe that I mentioned you had been attacked.”

“What else did you mention?”

“That the girl had been murdered.”

“So what did he say?”

“I tried to dissuade him.”

“From what?”

“From flying out, I'm afraid.”

“Christ,” I said. “May I use your phone? I'll call him collect.”

“You're perfectly welcome to the phone, my dear chap, but it's probably useless.”

“Not if I talk to him.”

Lim looked at his watch. “That could prove rather difficult to do. I expect he's just leaving Honolulu now and he's due in tomorrow at 12:30
P
.
M
.”

“What in God's name am I going to do with Trippet?” I said.

“Well, you could meet him at the airport and then pass him over to me. I quite look forward to seeing him, you know.”

I rose and walked around Lim's desk to take a look at the harbor. I rested my forehead against the window and it felt cool and somehow comforting. “Mr. Lim, you have given me a pistol in a paper sack and virtually declared open season on Angelo Sacchetti. You have upset my partner to the point where he's making a ten-thousand-mile wild goose chase out here when I would a hell of a lot rather have him back in Los Angeles running the business on which I depend for my livelihood. Now have we reached the bottom of today's surprise bag or do we have one more grab?”

“One more, I'm afraid, Mr. Cauthorne.”

“What?”

“Look a little to your left and down.”

“I don't see anything.”

“That's because it's not there.”

“What?”

“The Chicago Belle.
She weighed anchor three hours ago.”

I turned to look at Lim who had spun his chair around towards the window. “Was Sacchetti aboard?” I said.

Lim shook his head. “No. As soon as we learned that she was moving out, we had a marine police launch alongside. They boarded and made a thorough search. There was no one aboard except the crew.”

“Where was she headed?”

“The captain wasn't sure. He was sailing under sealed orders.”

“Who gave him the orders?”

“Mrs. Sacchetti.”

I moved around the desk to my chair and sank into it. “Anything else?”

“Only the suggestion that we might well have a drink.”

“At least we can agree on that,” I said.

Lim rummaged through his desk once more and produced a bottle of Ballantine's and two glasses. He poured us both a generous measure and we toasted each other's health, although he put a little more feeling into his because he seemed to think that I could use it. After that we talked for a while longer, but about nothing consequential, and then we shook hands and I headed towards the door.

“Mr. Cauthorne,” Lim said.

I turned. “Yes.”

“I think you forgot something.”

“So I did.” I went back and got it and then went down the elevator, out to the street, into a cab, and back through the rain to the hotel carrying my Smith & Wesson .38 caliber Chiefs Special in its convenient brown paper bag.

CHAPTER XXI

I was talking to myself when the phone rang. I had waited in silence from half-past three until seven when I suffered through my usual evening horrors that were no better or worse than usual. By seven-thirty I was well launched into a silent monologue that proved to be a pitiless self-examination of character—weak, it seemed—with occasional witty asides of brilliant insight. When the call came just after eight I snatched up the phone. I was ready to talk to the devil himself, but had to settle for Dangerfield.

“What's the good word, Cauthorae?” he said. “Hear anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn't figure you would. Sacchetti probably wants to make you sweat a little.”

“He's succeeding.”

“I've been out nosing around.”

“And?”

“I think I've got something.”

“What?”

“I got wet.”

“Must be the rain,” I said.

“So I went into this tailor shop to see if they could dry my suit and press it. I was sitting there and I noticed that the guy was taking numbers.”

“So?”

“So about the time I was ready to go another guy comes in and makes what looks like the pickup. I followed him.”

“To where?”

“To Chinatown. It's some dive on Fish Street.”

“And you're still waiting?”

“That's right.”

“Why?”

“Because if my guess is right, this place on Fish Street is just a substation. Once they count it and check the slips they'll move it to the main headquarters.”

“And that's where Angelo will be?”

“You got it right, Cauthome.”

“What if he is?”

I could hear Dangerfield sigh over the telephone. “Sometimes, Cauthorne, I don't think you've got the brains God gave a crabapple tree. Sacchetti doesn't much want to see you, does he?”

“Not especially.”

“Well, when his wife sends you the word, you'll get in to see him all right, but what about getting out?”

“What about it?” I said.

“What about it?” Dangerfield mimicked me and did a fair imitation. “Angelo's hot, Cauthorne. Red hot He might just decide to disappear and take you with him. So you'd better have somebody on the outside when you go inside.”

“And that's you.”

“You got it right, Cauthorne.”

“Sounds like cops and robbers. Why so noble, Dangerfield?”

“I want that microfilm,” Dangerfield said.

“You'll get it.”

“But not until you see Angelo. And if anything happened to you while you were seeing Angelo, I'd never get it.”

I started to tell him that he could come to the hotel and get the microfilm then, but he said, “The guy's coming out now. I've got to go.” The phone went dead. There was nothing to do but wait for it to ring again or for someone to knock on the door. I decided to do it comfortably. I sent the houseboy down for dinner and after that I went to bed and stared up at the ceiling for a long time before I fell asleep. The next morning I waited until almost noon, but nobody called, so I caught a cab and headed for Paya Lebar International to meet my partner who seemed to think that I needed someone to help me sit around and wait for the phone to ring.

Trippet, dressed in a medium blue tropical weight suit that had scarcely a wrinkle in it, was the fourth person through health and immigration. The fifth person in the line looked at me, frowned, and then turned to the sixth person, a man with eyes that were too close together, a nose that was too pointed, a mouth that was too thin, and a chin that was too sharp and needed a shave. The man behind Trippet had long, black wavy hair and an acne-scarred face. Carla Lozupone had called him Tony and I decided that he and his fox-faced friend had made excellent time from New York.

Trippet spotted me and waved. At customs, he collected the last of his papers and I walked over to meet him. “Edward,” he said. “It was good of you to come all the way out here.”

We shook hands and I said: “Why the trip, Dick?”

“Didn't Sammy tell you?” he said.

“He told me that you were worried about my health or something.”

Trippet's face acquired a surprised look. “Did he now?”

“He did.”

“I wasn't in the least worried,” Trippet said. “He rang me at four in the morning to tell me that you were involved in some kind of jiggery-pokery and that it would be most wise for me to fly out and lend a hand.”

“Doing what?” I said.

Before Trippet could answer, a voice said: “What happened, Cauthorne?” I knew the voice; the last time I'd heard it was in front of the Los Angeles airport and it had been advising me to take good care of Carla Lozupone. Now it wanted to know why I hadn't.

I turned and said, “Hello, Tony.”

He was dressed for the tropics. He wore a persimmon-colored double-breasted linen jacket with white buttons, dark green slacks, a yellow shirt with inch-wide green stripes, and brown loafers. I decided that he had packed his Miami Beach wardrobe. His fox-faced friend wore a light-weight dark suit and his only concession to the climate was a tie that was loosened and pulled down an inch or so from his unbuttoned collar.

“This is him,” Tony said to fox-face. “Cauthorne. The guy I was telling you about.” Fox-face nodded and put on a pair of dark glasses, the better to see me with, I thought. “This is Terilizzi. He wants to know what happened, too. That's why the boss sent him.”

“This is my partner, Mr. Trippet,” I said. “Mr. Terilizzi—and I don't think I ever got your last name, Tony.”

“Cea,” he said to me and “hiyah” to Trippet. Nobody seemed to want to shake hands. “What happened to Carla, Cauthorne?” Cea said. “The boss wants to know bad.”

“She was strangled.”

Terilizzi took off his glasses and slipped them into his breast pocket. He nodded his head slightly, as if encouraging me to go on with the story, and then I looked fully into his eyes and I wished that he had kept his sunglasses on. His eyes had the color and warmth of chilled oysters and I had the feeling that if I looked into them long enough, I would discover something that was better left unknown.

“Where were you?” Tony Cea asked.

“I was getting beat up.”