The Thai Amulet (9 page)

“So where does this latest information get us?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I had several scenarios in mind when I got here. My personal favorite is the one in which I find Will the day I arrive, he tells me he really wants to go home but has been afraid to call his wife, then Natalie welcomes him with open arms.”

“I can see you’re a romantic at heart, but presumably that one has to go. Was there a scenario B?”

“I think B is the one that Natalie was working herself up to, which is that I get enough information to have Will declared legally dead so she can collect the insurance. If that had been blood, I would have had a start on that one. Then there’s C, of course, which may be the option I’m left with.”

“Which is?”

“That’s the one where I track him down and give Natalie and her lawyers enough information to nail his ass.”

“I see. I must remember to try to stay on your good side. I have some additional information that may or may not help clarify your thinking,” he said. “Will had, still has, in fact, 500,635 baht in his account with the Krung Thai Bank.”

“Isn’t that more than he owed Ayutthaya Trading?”

“It is.”

“And could you check the activity on the account?”

“I could, and did. Regular deposits and withdrawals, usually on a Thursday. Nothing spectacular, but reasonably regular was our Will. Last deposit and withdrawal July third, except for his rent checks for the apartment that cleared on the first of every month. Presumably he had left a year’s worth with the building manager or owner.”

“I’ve been thinking about the amount owing his landlord at the store. Now that I’ve seen the place, I’m wondering about it. I don’t know rents in Bangkok, but on the assumption that he owed rent for three months before Ayutthaya moved in on him, that lease is fairly steep.”

“I thought so, too. I checked into that as well. I talked to Ayutthaya’s lawyers. Apparently Will borrowed a reasonably substantial sum from Ayutthaya to get started—to acquire merchandise for the store. The monthly sum was rent plus loan repayment, which was based on a percentage of sales, and to my eyes at least, once again there was nothing particularly unusual about it.”

“I suppose he could have oodles of money somewhere and was able to leave that much in his account as a clever ruse, to make it look as if something bad happened to him, I mean. That seems to be a little farfetched, though. He left Toronto with whatever he had in his suitcase. His wife had the store and the house.”

“But she still couldn’t manage?”

“I think there’s a pretty sizable mortgage on the house, and she couldn’t run the shop. The daughter has some problems that require twenty-four hour care. Did he strike you as well off?”

“Not particularly. Certainly by Bangkok standards he lived reasonably well, on the river and everything. But the building is no luxury condo. He had nice furniture, but not a lot of it, as you saw. There was the art, of course. You’d have a better idea what he had to pay for that. There are still bargains here if you know where to look, and he should have been an expert.”

“You said you got together for drinks from time to time. What did you talk about?”

“Not much really. I’ve been thinking about him since you arrived in my office. We met from time to time, I got invited to his place a couple of times—the most recent was that Fourth of July party—but we didn’t talk about anything important. I didn’t even know he was married. He was certainly chatting up the young, unattached women at his own party. We talked sports, weather, guy stuff and not particularly revealing. I had the impression he partied pretty hard, but it was an impression only. I didn’t run into him that often at social events. I saw him a couple of times at the Royal Bangkok Sports Club. I don’t know if he was a guest or a member.

“The only thing even remotely out of the ordinary was that he claimed to be writing a book. Not that that in and of itself is all that extraordinary. There are lots of us Westerners planning or trying to write about their experiences in exotic Thailand. He must have been more serious than most about it, though, because he had an agent. Met the guy at the party. Rawlings, something like that. Unusual first name, but I can’t remember it. It will come back to me. Anyway, one of those nights in the bars of Bangkok, Will told me that he was almost finished with it. He wouldn’t tell me what it’s about, but said it would blow the lid off Bangkok society, or words to that effect. Corruption in high places or something, I suppose. He was convinced he’d be able to retire on the proceeds. Not much to go on, is it?”

“No. He seems to have been a model citizen in many ways, or at least a typical bachelor even if he wasn’t one. He goes to work every day, pays the rent, has a reasonably nice apartment, which is paid for until the end of the year, he meets friends for drinks, he holds a party every now and then, goes to a number of others, chats up young women, and in his spare time, like millions of would-be authors, he attempts to write a book. One day he just stops. He lets his landlord take over the store and leaves all his possessions behind. Anything else you can tell me?”

“No. Well yes, one thing. We check airline records, of course, to see if he has left the country. It will take a few days to check that out. However, so far we have discovered he made regular trips to Chiang Mai in northern Thailand last spring. That wouldn’t be unusual, by the way. Lots of dealers go to Chiang Mai to find antiques.”

“Not much to go on, is there?” I said.

“Unfortunately not,” he said.

“Surely in this day and age you can’t just disappear,” I said. “Without someone noticing.”

“Apparently you can.”

“I don’t think so. No matter what the scenario, someone knows where he is,” I said.

We stood in silence for a minute or two, digesting that thought. “We seem to be at a dead end here, don’t we?” Ferguson said. “We’ll keep checking, of course, and if you come up with anything, let me know. The police are no longer terribly interested, with no clear evidence of a crime. I’m not sure what more we can do.”

“I can’t think of much, either,” I admitted.

“Let’s stay in touch,” Ferguson said. “I’ll let you know what I hear, if anything, and you do the same. Did you say you were planning to buy something here, by the way?” he said, indicating the auction.

“Maybe,” I said. “I did go to the preview yesterday, and there’s a very interesting sword there—sixteenth century, they say, and I believe them—with a carved bone handle and a silver repousse scabbard. I went to an Internet cafe and scanned the photo and description from the catalog and sent it to a fellow I know who has a fantastic military collection to see if he’d like me to get it for him. I’ve already inquired about an export permit, and I think it shouldn’t be a problem, so if the price is right, I’ll try to get it for him. And I may see if there is something I could get for Natalie. I’m not sure what would be appropriate, particularly under the circumstances, but perhaps something from his shop. Some Bencharong dishes, maybe, would be nice. Just in case I’m wrong and he’s dead, that is.”

“I’m surprised how boring this auction thing is,” he said. “I expected vicious battles, screams of disappointment from the loser, tasteless hoots of satisfaction from the victor. People don’t even call out their bids, just kind of signal some way. All terribly civilized, unfortunately. Half the time I can’t tell who got the thing.”

“This one has been rather sedate so far,” I conceded. “It can get pretty exciting, though, even if you’re not bidding but other people are fighting it out for something. We’ll have to see how it goes. Do you see those two portraits on easels over against the far wall, the two rather pompous looking men?”

“Yes,” he said.

“They came from Will’s store.”

“Did they?”

“Anything strike you about them?”

“Not really.”

“They don’t remind you of anything?”

“Should they?”

“They’re by an artist by the name of Robert Fitzgerald. The Chaiwong family has two portraits by the same man. I was wondering if you thought Fitzgerald might have done the portrait that’s missing from Will’s apartment.”

“Could be, I suppose,” he said. “Can’t say I’m an expert on art, though. They’re about the same size. That’s as far as I could go. So, are you enjoying this?” he asked, changing the subject. “The auction?”

“Actually it was making me slightly nauseous, all those antiquities being sold to private buyers,” I said. “I’d be willing to bet at least one of the heads in an earlier lot came off a temple at Angkor Wat.”

“In Cambodia, you mean? Museums could buy them, couldn’t they?”

“They can’t afford to, and even if they could, most won’t touch stolen antiquities. It’s one of the little paradoxes of this business. Stolen artifacts come on the market, the museums won’t buy them, and they fall into private hands never to be seen again. How’s that for a little speech?” I added.

“Impassioned to be sure,” he said. “If you like, I could give you mine. It’s about Americans who travel abroad having to respect the customs of the country they’re in, which in Thailand means no shorts, sleeveless tops, and sandals in the temples, nor public displays of affection, among other things. I think I’ll stop there.”

“I think that’s fair, one speech for another. You said you’d only been here three years. Have you been posted a lot of other places?”

“I’ve been in Asia for almost twenty years,” he said. “I was born here, in fact, in Thailand. My mother died when I was very young, and my aunt raised me in the States. It was interesting to come here again. I do have some memories of the place, and the Thai language came back pretty quickly. I’m due to retire in a couple of years, and I’m thinking I may just stay here. I feel very much at home, if that’s possible for a white guy like me. Is it time you were going back in?”

“Probably. I don’t suppose you would happen to know that young woman, the Caucasian woman in the red suit in the back row?”

“She looks familiar, but I’d have to say no, I don’t. I wouldn’t mind if I did, though. Nice-looking woman. I’d never thought of an auction as a place to meet women, but maybe I’ve been missing something good. Why do you ask?”

“She was here yesterday, too.”

“Surely that’s what previews are for,” Ferguson said. “To give people a chance to check out the merchandise before it goes on the auction block.”

“I’m just checking out potential competition. I’d say she’s new to auctions. She’s very focused on the sword, almost exclusively so. Yesterday she was looking it over very carefully, ignoring everything else. She was completely engrossed in it. She even reached out to touch it. The security guard stopped her. A veteran wouldn’t spend that much time looking at what they really wanted, or if they did spend that kind of time on an object, it would be because they actually wanted something else. You wouldn’t want to give the competition, in this case me, any ideas. That sword is going to be very expensive, but my client can afford it. I’m just wondering whether she can afford it, too. Whoever she is, she hasn’t bid on anything so far. It will be interesting to see what she does when the sword comes up.”

“Maybe auctions are like flying a 747 to Europe,” he said. “You know, several hours of boredom followed by a few minutes of excitement as you try to land the thing, in this case outbid someone for something you want. I can’t wait to see you battle it out for the sword—in a refined way, of course. Should we go in?”

It did get rather exciting, for a few minutes at least. The young woman did, indeed, want the sword, and at first she and I were in it with three others. Then there were just the two of us. At several hundred dollars, I relaxed. I could tell by the way she kept shuffling in her seat and looking over her shoulder in my general direction, that she wasn’t going to be able to keep up forever. Soon her shoulders slumped, and the sword was mine. She left a few minutes later.

“Congratulations,” enthused Ferguson. “That was rather more fun once I had a personal interest in it. I’d better get back to the office, though. Are you staying?”

“Yes,” I said. “There are a couple of other things I might be interested in. I’ll see how it goes.”

It was another hour, at least, before I was ready to leave. I paid for the sword and a couple of other purchases and had them wrapped up. I thought I’d send them off to a shipper if I found a lot more for the store, but would just pack them in my luggage if I didn’t.

I’d kept the Chaiwong family’s car and driver with me that day, so that I wouldn’t be standing out in ninety-five -degree weather trying to hail a cab. The driver had told me he would wait for me in the parking garage attached to the shopping complex, so I went through the doors between the well-lit shopping area into the dimly lit garage.

I couldn’t see the driver, so I started to walk along the aisle thinking he might be napping in his car, or had parked on a lower level. As I walked, I heard footsteps coming up fast behind me, and I clutched my purse tightly as someone grabbed my arm. I opened my mouth to yell for help, but then I heard a woman’s voice.

“Sorry, sorry to startle you,” she said. It was the young woman in the red suit. I glowered at her.

“We have to talk,” she said.

“No, we don’t,” I said. She had scared me, and I wasn’t feeling too kindly disposed.

“My card,” she said, undeterred. Tatiana Tucker, Producer, it said. There was no address, except for E-mail and a cell phone number.

“Producer of what?” I said.

“Films, of course,” she replied, looking offended. “Film, video, TV movie of the week.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, what can I do for you? If you’re thinking I’ll sell you the sword cheap, I won’t. I’m sorry there weren’t two of them so we could both have one, but that’s life.”

“I’m sure we could work something out,” she said. “Perhaps we could borrow it from you, or, if you insist, rent it.”

“For what?”

“A film!” she said, as if I was stupid. I just turned and walked away from her.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, catching up to me. I caught sight of my driver and signaled to him. He nodded and went bounding off to get the car. “I’m not doing this right, am I?” she said. I could see on closer examination that she was younger than I had at first thought, barely older than Jennifer, probably, despite her confident air and tons of makeup. And Jennifer, too, at university in California, had been bitten by the movie bug and was talking about a career of some kind there. Rob had been horrified, of course.