Sleuths (13 page)

I finished my beer and went out into what the Malays call the
roore hond
,
the oppressive, prickly heat that was Singapore at midday. There were a few European tourists about—talking animatedly, taking pictures the way they do—but the natives had sense enough to stay in where it was cool.

I walked down to the river. The water was a dark, oily bluish-green. Its narrow expanse, as always, was crowded with sampans,
prahus,
small bamboo-awninged Chinese junks, and the heavily laden, almost flat-decked lighters called
tongkangs.
There was the smell of rotting garbage, intermingled with that of salt water, spices, rubber, gasoline, and the sweet, cloying scent of frangipani. The rust-colored roofs that cap most of Singapore's buildings shone dully through thick heat haze on both sides of the river.

I followed the line of the waterfront for a short way until I came to one of the smaller
godowns
or storage warehouses. Harry Rutledge, the big, florid-faced Englishman who ran the place, was there, supervising the unloading of a shipment of copra from one of the lighters.

"Can you use me today, Harry?" I asked him.

"Sorry, lad. Plenty of coolies on this one."

"Tomorrow?"

He rubbed his peeling red nose. "Cargo of palm oil due in," he said musingly. "Holdover, awaiting transshipment. Could use you, at that."

"What time will it be in?"

"By eleven, likely."

"I'll be here at ten."

"Right-o."

I moved on along the river. I had never really gotten used to the heat, even after fifteen years in the South China Seas, and I was sweaty and dry-mouthed and I wanted another iced beer. But not in the Seaman's Bar, and it would be better if I had something to eat first. I had not eaten all day.

Here and there along the waterfront are small eating stalls. I stopped at the first one I saw and sat on one of the foot-high wooden stools, under a white canvas awning. I ordered
shashlick
and rice and a fresh
mangosteen
. I was working on the thick, pulpy fruit when the three men walked up.

The two on either side were copper-skinned, flat-eyed, and stoic. Both were dressed in white linen jackets and matching slacks. The man in the middle was about fifty, short and plump; his skin had the odd look of kneaded pink dough. He was probably Dutch or Belgian, I thought. He wore white also, but that was the only similarity between his clothes and those of the other two. The suit was impeccably tailored, the shirt of silk; the leather shoes were handmade and polished to a gloss. On the little finger of his left hand he wore a gold ring with a jade stone in the shape of a lion's head—symbolic, probably, of the Lion City.

He sat down carefully on the stool next to me. The other two remained standing. The plump man smiled as if he had just found a missing relative. "You are Daniel Connell?" he asked.

"That's right."

"I am Jorge Van Rijk."

I went on eating the
mangosteen
.

"You were at the Seaman's Bar a short while ago. In the company of an acquaintance of mine."

"Is that so?"

"
M'sieu
La Croix."

"The name's not familiar."

"Come now, Mr. Connell. What did he want of you?"

"I don't see that it's any of your business."

"Ah, but it is. It is very much my business."

"Then go ask La Croix."

"An excellent suggestion," Van Rijk said. "However, he seems to have temporarily eluded us."

"Too bad for you."

"Necessarily, then, I must ask you. What did he want?"

"He wanted to sell me something," I said. "But I wasn't buying."

"No?" Van Rijk smiled again, but his eyes were as cold as dry ice. "You are a pilot, are you not?"

"Not anymore."

"A pilot for hire, I'm told. La Croix wished you to fly him somewhere."

"You think so? You weren't there."

"To what destination?"

"I didn't let him get that far."

"What destination, Mr. Connell? When and from where?"

"Ask as many questions as you want. I don't have any answers for you."

Van Rijk was losing patience; his eyes said so and so did the threatening tone when he said, "You would be wise not to play games with me, Mr. Connell."

"I'm not playing games. Why should I? I don't know who you are or what your connection is to La Croix and I don't much care."

"Then tell me what you know of La Croix's plans, or . . ."

"Or what, Van Rijk?" My patience was gone, too. I laid my hands flat on the table, leaning toward him. That brought the other two in closer; one of them put his hand inside his jacket. "Or you sic your two bodyguards or whatever they are on me? I'm sure they're armed to the teeth, but I doubt you'd have them shoot me in a crowded bazaar. Or try to kidnap me, either. In fact I doubt you'll make any trouble at all, unless you want to spend some time in a city
penjara
for street brawling."

Anger blotched his pink cheeks. The other two were poised on the balls of their feet, watching me, waiting for orders from Van Rijk. But I'd read him right; he didn't want anything to do with the Singapore
polls.
He got slowly and stiffly to his feet.

"There will be another time, Mr. Connell," he said. "When the streets are not so crowded." Then he stalked off, threading his way between the tables, his two
orang séwaan-séwaan
at his heels. The three of them disappeared into the waterfront confusion.

I sat there for a time. Van Rijk and his threats didn't worry me much. There had been a time when they might have, but that time was two years dead; his type didn't bother me anymore. I wasn't even curious about his relationship with La Croix.

I drank a couple of iced Anchor beers in a nearby bar, then took a taxi to my flat on Punyang Street in Chinatown. A forty-minute nap, a tepid shower, and a fresh change of clothes put me in a better frame of mind. And by then I was thirsty again.

On Jalan Barat, not far away, there was a bar called the Malaysian Gardens—a gross misnomer. No flower, shrub or plant has ever been cultivated within a radius of one hundred yards of the place. Its fa
ç
ade was reminiscent of a Chinatown tenement and its barnlike interior was scruffy, bare, and redolent of the sweat, blood, and tears of its equally scruffy clientele. A dive the Malaysian Gardens may be, catering to the Caucasian, Eurasian, and Asian dregs, but the beer was cheap and nobody cared who or what you were. You could do your drinking alone or in the company of friendly and sympathetic—for the right price—bar girls. Mostly I did mine alone.

I had been there for perhaps three hours, sitting by myself at a rear table and thinking a lot of old and useless thoughts, when I realized I was being stared at. I was still fairly sober and it wasn't much of an effort to get my eyes focused. The starer was a woman. Not one of the bar girls a young Caucasian woman who didn't belong in the Malaysian Gardens.

She was standing about fifteen feet away, tall and dark-haired and well-dressed. In the smoky dimness of the Gardens it was difficult to determine her age, but she couldn't have been older than thirty. She had eyes for me alone, no question of that, but not for the usual reason women stare at men in bars. She seemed nervous and uncomfortable and maybe a little scared.

My being aware of her seemed to make up her mind about something. She came forward jerkily and stopped in front of my table. "You're . . . Mr. Connell? Dan Connell?"
American
, I thought.
Or possibly Canadian
.

"That's me."

"My name is Tina Kellogg. I'd like to talk to you. It's . . . it's very important to me."

I indicated an empty chair and invited her to sit down. "I don't know quite how to say this," she said. "I'm . . .
I
have no experience with this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing is that?"

She hesitated. "Well,
intrigue,
I guess you'd call it."

"That's a pretty melodramatic word."

"Yes, I know." She hesitated again. Then, in a rush, as if she needed to relieve herself of the pressure of the words: "Mr. Connell, I'm told that you fly people out of Singapore, people who can't leave any other way."

Christ, I thought. First La Croix, then Van Rijk, and now this woman. Some damn day this had been. "Who told you that?" I asked her.

"I don't know his name. A man I talked to on the waterfront. I spent most of the day asking around and this man said the person I should see was Dan Connell and that I could find him here most nights, so I . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"I can't help you," I told her.

"But . . . the man said . . ."

"I don't care what he said. I can't help you."

"It isn't very far, where I want to . . . where I
have
to go." Desperation put a tremble in her voice. "Just the Philippines. Anywhere near Luzon."

I drank from my glass. I thought she might go away if I ignored her, but she didn't.

"It's my father," she said. "The reason I have to get home so quickly. There was a telegram this morning, from the Luzon police. My father has been arrested. There have been terrorist attacks recently and they think he's involved with the Communist guerillas responsible." She took a deep, shuddery breath. "It's not true! I know my father. He's . . . we're Canadian. He owns a small import-export business, his sympathies are all with the present government. He would never become mixed up with the Communists—he'd have nothing to gain and everything to lose. It's all a mistake, a terrible mistake."

I sighed. "Why don't you just take one of the scheduled flights?"

"I haven't enough money. Nor any credit cards—my father doesn't believe in them."

"Can't someone in your family make the arrangements?"

"There's no one but my father and me."

"His business associates? Personal friends?"

She shook her head. "There's no one. I suppose I might be able to arrange something with his bank, but that might take days. And he has no close friends in Luzon. Even if he had, they'd be afraid to help me—afraid of being implicated with the Communists."

"What about people here? You have a job or just on holiday?"

"I've been working here four months," she said. "In a department store near Raffles Square. But it doesn't pay much and the owners won't help me. I've already asked them."

"Uh-huh. You could try the Canadian consulate, or have you already thought of that?"

"Yes. They wouldn't help, either, at least not to get me home quickly so I can be with my father."

I finished my beer. "So you think your only option is somebody like me. That's too bad because there's nothing I can do for you. I don't fly anymore. I haven't flown a plane in two years."

"But I can pay you, really I can. After we arrive I'll arrange with my father's bank—"

"You could lay a fortune in cash on this table and it wouldn't make any difference," I said. "It's not a matter of money. There's no way I can help you."

"Then . . . then what am I going to do?" She seemed on the verge of tears.

"Find somebody else." I'd had enough of this. I shoved my chair back and got on my feet. "Good night, Miss Kellogg. And good luck."

"No, wait . . ."

But I was already leaving. Without looking at her again I threaded my way through the crowded bar and went outside.

The night was dark—street lamps are few and far between on Jalan Barat. No wind and still muggy, but the fresh air cleared my head. I started away along the deserted street. Behind me I heard Tina Kellogg's voice calling my name; she'd followed me out. I didn't turn or slow my pace, then or when I heard her steps hurrying after me. It wasn't until I heard the sound of the car speeding down Jalan Barat past the Gardens, traveling much too fast from the whiny roar of the engine, that I swiveled my head for a backward look.

The car, its headlights glaring, was less than fifty yards away. There was the pig squeal of brakes locking and tires biting into pavement as the driver swung the car in at an angle to the curb close behind me. Both front doors opened at the same time, and two men came out in a hurry. I saw their faces clearly
as
they ran through the headlight spill: the two flat-eyed
orang séwaan-séwaan
who had been with Van Rijk earlier.

I had enough time to turn and set myself before the driver reached me. His right arm was raised across his body; he brought it down in a backward, chopping motion, karate-style. I got my left arm up and blocked his descending forearm with my own. The force of his rush threw him off balance, made him vulnerable. I jabbed the stiffened fingers of my right hand into his stomach, just below the breastbone. All the air went out of him. He stumbled backward, retching, and sat down hard on the sidewalk.

The other one had got there by then, but when he saw the driver fall he came up short and fumbled beneath his white linen jacket. I took three quick steps and laid the hard edge of my hand across his wrist. He made a pained noise deep in his throat and there was a metallic clatter as the gun or knife dropped to the pavement. I hit him twice in the face with quick jabs, turning him, then drove the point of my elbow into his kidneys. The blow sent him staggering blindly forward; he collided with the side of a building, slid down along it and lay still.