Sleuths (14 page)

I looked at the driver again, but he was still sitting on the sidewalk, holding his stomach with both hands. I let my body relax, breathing raggedly, and scanned the street behind the stalled car. There was no sign of Tina Kellogg.

Other people came running toward me, shouting. I started toward them, thinking that I could decide later what to do, if anything, about Van Rijk. The thing to do right now was to avoid any contact with the
polis.
My reputation being what it was, the less I had to do with them, the better. Even though it had been two years since the trouble on Penang, memories are long in the South China Seas.

Somebody came up and asked me what had happened. "An accident," I said, and kept right on going. No one tried to stop me. And I did not look back.

Somebody was pounding on the door.

I rolled over on the sweat-slick sheets and opened my eyes. It was morning; the sun lay outside the bedroom window of my flat like a red-orange ball suspended on glowing wires. I closed my eyes again and lay there listening to the now-impatient knocking. Whoever it was did not give up and go away.

"All right," I called finally. "All right."

I threw back the mosquito netting, got up and went to where my clothes were strewn on the rattan settee. The fan on the bureau had quit working sometime during the night, which accounted for the hot, stale air. I opened a window, then put on my trousers and crossed to unlock the door.

Standing there was a little, wiry, dark-skinned man wearing a pith-style helmet, white shorts, knee-high white socks, and a short-sleeved bush jacket. The outfit was a uniform, and he wore it proudly as native Malayans in an official capacity often do.

"I am Inspector Kok Chin Tiong of the Singapore
polis
,"
he said. "I would like to speak with you, please."

"What about?"

"May I come in, Mr. Connell?"

"If you don't make any comments about my housekeeping."

I stood aside to let him walk in past me. He stood in the middle of the room, looking around, then turned to confront me as I shut the door. His face and eyes were expressionless.

"You are acquainted with a French national named La Croix," Tiong said. It wasn't a question.

"I know him, yes."

"When did you last see him?"

He already knew the answer to that or he wouldn't be here. I said, "Yesterday. He looked me up. First time I'd seen him in three years."

"Why did he look you up, as you say?"

"He wanted me to do something for him."

"And that was?"

"Fly him out of Singapore."

"To what destination?"

"He didn't get around to telling me."

"You didn't ask?"

"I wasn't interested enough to ask."

"Did you agree to his request?"

"No. I don't fly anymore."

"Ah, yes," Tiong said. "There was an accident two years ago on Penang Island. Involving an aircraft belonging to you and a Mr. Lawrence Falco."

"Yeah," I said. "An accident."

"You and Mr. Falco were co-owners of an air cargo company. The plane, piloted by you, crashed late one night in the jungle near a remote airstrip. You escaped serious injury but your partner was killed."

I didn't say anything.

"Explain, please, what you and Mr. Falco were doing in such a place at such a late hour. No flight plan was filed for the trip."

"There was a full investigation at the time. I gave a statement. Look up the records."

He smiled faintly. "I have already done so. There was strong suspicion that you and Mr. Falco were involved in the smuggling of contraband."

"Nothing was proven."

"Yes, both the plane and its cargo were destroyed in the explosion following the crash. But your commercial license was revoked."

My head had begun to ache. "Listen," I said, "I don't know why you're here, Inspector, but what I was or wasn't doing two years ago is a dead issue, just like Larry Falco. I haven't been up in a plane since, and I never will again. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to wash up and get dressed."

His black eyes searched my face for a few seconds, then he put his hands behind his back and walked to the window. He stood looking down at noisy activity on Punyang Street. After a time, as I finished putting on my pants, he turned and said, "I would like to know your whereabouts last evening, Mr. Connell."

I told him, leaving out Tina Kellogg and the incident with Van Rijk's toughs.

He rubbed at his upper lip with the tip of one finger. "You are familiar with the East Coast Road, near Bedok?"

"A little."

"The French national was found there early this morning," Tiong said. "He had been dead for several hours. Quite badly used and then shot through the temple with a small caliber weapon."

I went to the bureau, shook a cigarette out of my pack and lit it. "How do you mean, badly used?"

"Tortured. With lighted cigarettes," he added pointedly. I stubbed mine out; it had tasted foul anyway. "So you think I had something to do with it."

"Did you?"

"I told you where I was last night."

"Do you own a gun, please?"

"Would you object to a search of your room?"

"Be my guest," I said. "But you're wasting your time, Inspector. I didn't kill La Croix. I didn't have any reason to kill him."

"Have you any idea who did?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Look up a guy named Van Rijk, Jorge Van Rijk, and ask him the same questions you've asked me."

Tiong's eyes narrowed. "What do you know of Van Rijk?"

"He looked me up yesterday, too, after I saw La Croix. Wanted to know where La Croix was and what his plans were. I brushed him off. He didn't like it, made a few veiled threats—and last night, when I left the Gardens, the two men he'd had with him jumped me. They didn't have any better luck."

"I see," Tiong said slowly. "Most interesting."

"I take it you're familiar with Van Rijk. Who is he?"

"A Dutch merchant currently living in Johore Bahru.

But we have reason to believe he has other interests illegal and quite profitable interests. He is also known to be an avid collector of rare jade." Tiong paused. "You are aware, of course, of the recent theft from the Museum of Oriental Art?"

"No," I said.

"It has been prominent in the newspapers."

"I'm not much of a reader."

"Early last week," Tiong said, "a valuable white jade figurine, the
Burong Chabak
,
was taken from an exhibit at the museum. The robbery was cleverly planned and executed."

"You think Van Rijk was involved in it?"

"We do. We believe the French national was involved as well."

"It wouldn't surprise me. La Croix would do just about anything for the right price . . . but then I guess you know that."

Tiong nodded.

"If you're right," I said, "La Croix must have double crossed Van Rijk and tried to keep the figurine for himself. That's why he was in such a sweat to have me fly him out of Singapore."

"So it would seem."

"Van Rijk and his boys must've caught up with him last night. Which means that now they have the figurine."

"Possibly."

"Have you picked up Van Rijk yet?"

"No. But we will. Everyone involved in the theft of the
Burong Chabak
will be taken into custody eventually."

"If you've got some idea that I'm mixed up in it, you're dead wrong. Everything I've told you is the truth."

"I hope so, Mr. Connell. Is there any more information you can give me?"

"Very well. I will take up no more of your time. You will, of course, keep yourself available in the event I need to speak with you again."

"I hadn't planned on going anywhere."

He nodded curtly. "Then,
selamat jalan
,
Mr. Connell," and he went away and left me alone. For now.

The sun bore down mercilessly on the bared upper half of my body. My khakis were soaked through with a viscid sweat; the back of my neck was blotched and raw from the
roote hond.

I rolled another barrel of palm oil from the deck of the
tongkang
across the plank and onto the dock. One of the Chinese coolies took it there and muscled it onto a wooden skid. An ancient forklift waited nearby.

I paused for a breather, rubbing the back of my forearm across my eyes. I was thinking how good an iced Anchor beer would taste once we were done for the day, when Harry Rutledge came walking over to me.

"How's it going, lad?"

"Another hour or so should do it."

"Well, you have a visitor. An impatient one, at that."

"Visitor?"

"Bit of a pip, too," Harry said. "You Americans have all the luck."

"A woman? She tell you her name?"

"Tina Kellogg."

I frowned. "Where is she?"

"My office. You know where it is."

I put my shirt on, then went inside the huge, high-raftered
godown
and threaded my way through the stacked barrels and crates and skids to Harry's cluttered office. Tina Kellog was sitting in the bamboo armchair near the window, wearing a tailored white suit with a skirt short enough to reveal long, slender legs. She stood as I entered, smiling hesitantly. Her eyes were green and full of pleading.

"Mr. Connell, I . . . I'm sorry to bother you like this, but I wanted to make sure you're all right. Those men last night . . ."

"Uh-huh. Muggers are a hazard in that district."

She nodded. "I shouldn't have run away as I did. But I was frightened. It all happened so quickly."

"You did the right thing."

She sat in the armchair again, began twisting her hands nervously in her lap.

"Okay," I said. "Now you can tell me the real reason you're here. As if I didn't already know."

Color came into her cheeks. "I . . . I went back to the consulate this morning. They still won't help me. I have nowhere else to turn . . ." Abruptly she began to cry.

I stood there in the heat and watched her. Then, as the tears slowed and became a series of snuffles, I moved over to Harry's desk and cocked a hip against it and lit a cigarette.

She looked up at me, her face wet, her eyes shining. "Please, Mr. Connell, please help me. I'll pay or do anything you ask.

"I told you last night, I don't fly anymore. I don't own a plane anymore, don't have access to one because my license was revoked two years ago."

"But . . . the man I talked with yesterday, the one who gave me your name, he said you keep a DC-3 hidden at an abandoned airstrip here on the island." She snuffled, brushed at her eyes. "Isn't it still there?"

I didn't say anything for a time. The smoke from the cigarette burned my throat; I butted it in Harry's overflowing ashtray. "Yes," I said then. "It's still there."

"Then . . ."

"I'm treading on thin ice with the government," I said. "One more mark against me, I'll be declared
persona non grata
and deported. I don't have any other home to go to."

"No one will ever know," she said. "You'll be very careful, I know you will. And I'll pay you whatever you ask, any amount, as soon as I can make arrangements with my father's bank . . ."

I was silent again, thinking. Not liking what I was thinking, but there it was just the same.

"Mr. Connell?"

"All right," I said.

"You'll help me?"

"I'll help you."

She came up out of the chair, threw her arms around my neck. "Oh, thank you, thank you! You won't regret this, I promise you."

I pushed her away gently. "I sure as hell hope not."

"When can we leave?"

"Tonight. It'll have to be late, around eleven."

"We couldn't go sooner?"

"No. Do you know the Esplanade on Cecil Street?"

"Yes. Yes, I know it."

"Meet me there at ten o'clock," I said, and left her and Harry's hot, cramped office and went back to work. Telling myself I was a damn fool and knowing I was going to go through with it anyway.

I
t rained the early part of the evening, a torrential tropical downpour that lasted for more than an hour and left the air, as the daily rains always did, smelling clean and sweet. But by then, when I left my flat, it had grown oppressively hot and humid again.

Tina Kellogg was waiting in the shadows near the Esplanade when I arrived at Cecil Street. Tonight she wore men's khakis and a gray bush jacket—her traveling outfit.

"No luggage?" I asked her.

"No. I didn't want to bother with it. I can send for it later."

"All right. Let's get started."