by Eric Ambler
Girija nodded. “That is what he hopes you may do, sir. Yes.”
“He should still take the matter to the police. It would be very wrong to try to sell them. He need not say that he found them long ago, but he should certainly go to the police.”
Girija spread out his hands. “But, sir, my friend has debts.”
“It is better to go to a money-lender than to risk going to prison.”
Girija smiled triumphantly. “That was exactly my own advice to him, sir. To risk going to prison for a few hundred dollars is the act of a fool. I told him so.”
Mr. Tan hesitated. The agreement baffled him. He knew instinctively that somewhere, somehow, he had mismanaged the conversation. He knew that he was left with only one question to ask, and that when he had asked it he would have lost a battle of wits. But he also knew that his curiosity would have to be satisfied. Mentally he shrugged off the humiliation.
“And what was his reply?” he asked.
Girija’s hand went to the row of ball-point pens in his shirt pocket, and drew from behind it a folded sheet of paper. He opened it out and handed it across the desk.
“This paper, sir,” he said; “my friend gave me this paper.”
Mr. Tan took the paper, spread it out on the desk in front of him and looked down. It was a typed list with the word ‘INVENTORY’ at the head of it. He read on:
Description Type Quantity Today’s Free
Market Value
($Straits)
Rifles .303 Military S.A.
Belge 54 16,000
.303 Ammo For above 5,000 rds 6,000
Machine pistols Schmeisser 25 18,000
.300 Ammo With magazines
for above 8,000 rds 7,000
Bazookas U.S. Govt. pattern 4 6,000
Ammo for same “ “ “ 35 rds 1,000
Grenades Mills unfused
Fuses for same 100 2,000
Land mines Teller 40 4,000
------—
60,000
------—
Equals £(Sterling) 21,000
Equals $(U.S.) 75,000
Note: All items in brand new mint condition in original mnfrs. packings, containers, etc.
Prices: All prices f.o.b. vicinity Kuala Pangkalan.
Terms and Conditions: Items sold separate subject 20% increase.
Mr. Tan looked up.
“You see, sir?” said Girija softly; “I was wrong. It is not just a matter of a few hundred dollars, but of many thousands.”
Mr. Tan pretended to read the list through a second time in order to give himself time to think. He had little doubt that the ‘friend’ for whom the clerk claimed to be acting was non-existent. The Indian must have been desperate for money to take the risk of approaching a comparative stranger in this way; or very sure of himself as a judge of character. Mr. Tan had an uneasy feeling that the latter explanation might be the more likely. The fellow looked confident enough, and not at all desperate. Of course, he could be lying, and the whole story could be a mere trick to get money; but Mr. Tan did not really think so. In any case it would be simple to find out. He looked up again and met the clerk’s eyes.
“My friend,” said Girija, “would be willing to pay a commission of fifty per cent to anyone who found a buyer, and who would take delivery of the goods.”
Mr. Tan shook his head. “But this would be a serious criminal matter. Does your friend not understand that?”
“That was my first thought, too,” said Girija approvingly; “but he did not agree. This is not stolen property, he says. It has no owner. If it should leave the country the police would have no interest in it. The emergency is over.”
“But the laws remain.”
“That is true.” Girija nodded thoughtfully. “You think, then, sir, that I should tell my friend that you advise him to go to the police?”
“I think you should tell him to put the whole matter out of his mind.” Mr. Tan paused and then added: “Perhaps later the law will not be so strict.”
“Yes, that is so.”
“Such merchandise as this is always saleable.” Mr. Tan looked down again at the list. “Have you seen any of these items?”
“My friend is naturally careful.”
“But do you believe him? You say he wishes to find a buyer. A list is not proof that there is something to sell. Could he produce samples?”
“He would be more than ready to do that, sir.”
Mr. Tan refolded the inventory. “I know little about these matters,” he said; “but I have heard that buyers in this market are not easy to reach. Contacts must be found. Time must be spent. There can be no urgency.”
“My friend is very patient.”
“Then, do as I suggest. Tell him to forget for a while.” He looked up at Girija. “You agree?”
“Of course, sir.”
Mr. Tan held up the list. “And I may keep this paper?”
It was a test question.
Girija smiled. “My friend will be happy for it to remain in such wise hands, sir.”
He rose. The interview was over. When the usual courtesies had been exchanged, he left.
Mr. Tan watched him walk away across the yard, then sent for the Chiang Thye Phu Syndicate estate’s files.
The first thing was to find out whether the clerk’s discretion and sense of self-preservation were as lively as they had appeared to be. If he had been foolhardy enough to type out his list on Mr. Wright’s estate office typewriter and then leave it with someone who could, if it seemed advantageous, go to the authorities and gain credit by reporting the incident, Mr. Tan wanted no more to do with him and would burn the paper at once. If, as he suspected, the young man had been careful to leave himself in a position to deny effectively all knowledge of the conversation they had just had, and of the list, then something might be made of the situation.
He looked through Mr. Wright’s office consignment notes and compared the typing on them with that of the list. It was obvious that the list had not been typed on the same machine. So far so good. He read through the list once more and then locked it in his private office safe.
Later that day, when he had had further time to think, he wrote to his brother in Singapore.
II
Tan Yam Heng was the disreputable member of the family. Such, at least, was the view of his brothers in Kuala Pangkalan and Manila.
He was one of the founders of the Singapore Democratic Action Party and organiser of a waterfront trade union which, though small in membership, had sufficient nuisance value to levy tribute on two of the bigger stevedoring companies. As the fruits of these negotiations were always handed over to him personally, privately, and in cash, he did not consider it necessary to report their receipt either to the union auditors or the income tax authorities. He had no time to waste on the pettifogging rituals of accountancy and other hindrances to social progress. He saw himself as a man of power, a manipulator of puppets, choosing to work behind the scenes until the strategic moment came for him to step forward and lead his party on to victory.
If that had been all there were to say of him his brothers would have been content. His political pretensions they could ignore and, devious men themselves, they did not seriously object to his methods of augmenting his income. What they did object to, strongly, was what he did with it.
Most Chinese like to gamble, and with some this liking becomes an addiction as compulsive as those of drugs or alcohol. Yam Heng was a gambler of this kind. Moreover, he was a stupid gambler. Games of chance are at least subject to the law of averages, race horses do sometimes run true to form, and skill can often qualify bad luck at poker; but Yam Heng’ s conceit and fantasies of omnipotence had in the end demanded more esoteric gratifications. He had taken to gambling on the ‘pickle’ market.
This unofficial market in raw rubber is conducted by freebooters operating outside the respectable Singapore brokerage houses, and they are speculating on small price fluctuations over short periods. On the
pickle market a consignment of rubber in transit may theoretically change hands several times in the course of a day. Large sums of money are made and lost on feverish, bull-and-bear transactions. The successful speculators are Chinese with great experience, cool heads and reliable intelligence organisations. Much use is made of the time differences between the London and Singapore markets, and a few minutes’ lead on a piece of cabled information can make thousands of dollars for its possessor. It is the efficient who generally win; the gamblers who generally lose.
The pickle market was no place for Yam Heng. The acquaintance who had introduced him to it was one of a syndicate of small men, and they had been perfectly willing to let an outsider buy in; the stronger the syndicate the better; but his arrogant impatience with their wariness and caution had soon antagonised them. Soon, he had taken his money out of the syndicate and started to plunge on his own.
If he had immediately and heavily lost, the blow to his self-esteem might have caused him to think twice about continuing. Unfortunately, he had won. After that, it had been too late.
His early appeals for loans had been received by his brothers with fraternal tolerance, and responded to in the belief that the money lent would be repaid. They had known, of course, that he was over-fond of gambling, but had believed his profligacy in that respect to be confined to horse-racing or fan-tan. The discovery of the true nature of the ‘investments’ they were so innocently subsidising had been a disagreeable shock; so had the realisation that Yam Heng had been deceitfully making his applications for loans simultaneously, and in identical terms, to both of them.
There had been worse to come. In the face of their joint refusals to lend him another cent, Yam Heng had blandly informed them that the various union funds in his charge were some thousands of dollars short, and that unless the shortages were made good before the annual audit, the consequences for the Tan name might be serious. There had been hasty consultation between Kuala Pangkalan and Manila. The brothers had paid up in the end; but only after both of them had been to Singapore and personally checked the union books. The days when Yam Heng could be trusted had gone. Thereafter, he had the status somewhat of a poor relation; a responsibility to be discharged as inexpensively as possible.
It was with this responsibility in mind that Mr. Tan had written his letter. Some weeks earlier he had received one of Yam Heng’s periodic requests for money and noted a veiled belligerence in the wording. It had reminded him that the annual audit of the union books was due shortly, and that Yam Heng would soon be making his annual attempt to extort money by hinting at another raid on the union funds. Mr. Tan’s nerves were strong, and for the previous three years he had successfully refused to be intimidated; but he knew gamblers, and there was always the chance that one day Yam Heng might become desperate.
At that moment, in fact, Yam Heng was merely depressed. He had had two small wins in the past two weeks, and a bigger loss which had cancelled out the winnings. His brother’s letter annoyed him.
It contained a polite inquiry after his health, a detailed account of their mother’s most recent illness, and a proposal that he visit Kuala Pangkalan at a convenient moment in the near future. It mentioned that the junk Happy Dawn would be unloading in Singapore the following week, and that the Master would be instructed to offer him a free passage. It gave no hint of a possible reason for the visit.
Yam Heng knew his brother too well to suppose that the visit had been proposed for any social or family reason. Their mother was senile. Her current state of health could only have been mentioned to make the invitation seem logical to some stranger reading the letter. Yam Heng disliked having his curiosity aroused unless he had the means on hand to satisfy it. The offer of the junk passage irritated him also. It was his brother’s way of saying that, if he wanted to travel in comfort by train or plane, he could pay his own fare. He considered sending a dignified reply regretting that pressure of work compelled him to decline the invitation; but, finally, curiosity and the faint hope of another loan decided him to accept. He had just enough money for the train fare.
His brother met him at the station, greeted him warmly and drove him to the ornate brick and stucco house in Willoughby Road. The first evening was spent in celebrating the family reunion. Old Mrs. Tan emerged from her room, an elaborate dinner was consumed, the young children made their Uncle Yam tell them about Singapore, and the eldest son showed his Voigtlander camera and some of the colour slide photographs of birds which he had made with it. Yam Heng found it all very agreeable. His brother remained friendly and courteous. There were no references, oblique or otherwise, to their long estrangement, nor to the reasons for it. He permitted himself a few restrained smiles, some delicate compliments to his sister-in-law, and a joke or two with the younger children.
It was not until the following day that his brother revealed the reason for the invitation. In the morning they toured the godowns, visited the truck maintenance shed, and watched one of the junks unloading fifty-gallon drums of fuel oil. Then, they went to the office and tea was served.
“And how,” Siow Mong inquired at last, “is the pickle market?”
Yam Heng gave him an impassive stare.
“I ask,” Siow Mong continued after a pause, “not in a spirit of criticism, but because I want information.”
For one wild moment Yam Heng wondered if his brother were contemplating a foray of his own. Then, he shrugged. “Some make money, some lose.”
His brother nodded sagely as if he had had. a suspicion confirmed. “I did hear,” he went on, “that there is another thriving market now in Singapore.”
“There are markets there in most things.”
“Yes. But I heard—I cannot remember from what source—that the market in arms is particularly active at present.”
“Oh yes.” Yam Heng spoke indifferently. “The Indonesian rebels are trying to buy. They have several purchasing agents there.”
“Several?”
“There is one from Sumatra, one from Java, another from Celebes. They are united only in their opposition to the Central Government.”
“They compete?”
Yam Heng shrugged. “They must. There is not so much to buy. It is not easy.”
“How do they pay? Rupiahs?”
“Nobody would take rupiahs. Pounds or dollars, I suppose.”
“Dollars U.S.?”
“Straits or Hong Kong dollars, I would think. Why?”
“Cash?”
“I suppose so.”
His brother nodded approvingly. “I would think this a very satisfactory business.”
“No doubt it is.”
“These agents you speak of—you know them?”
“I know who they are, yes.”
“Have you not thought of taking an interest in the business yourself?”
Yam Heng smiled sourly. “The pedlar cannot do business with an empty tray.”
“And if the tray were to be filled?”
Yam Heng hesitated. His brother was not in the habit of making idle remarks. “That would require capital,” he said cautiously.
“Not necessarily.”
Siow Mong went over to his private safe, got out the piece of paper Girija had left with him and handed it to Yam Heng.
“That was brought to me by a man who wants a buyer for those goods/’ he said.
Yam Heng read the list through carefully. His expression did not change. When he had finished he glanced up at his brother. “It says that delivery must be taken in the vicinity of Kuala Pangkalan. What does that mean?”
Siow Mong told him about Girija’s visit and summarised the conversation they had had.
Yam Heng listened without interrupting, and then read through the list again. He spoke as he read.
“This is dangerous, Siow Mong?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Is this Indian to be trusted?”
“I think so. If he gets what he wants.”
“I know very little ab
out this market. Are these prices realistic?”
“I was able to make only one inquiry. There is a dealer in machinery here who used to import sporting rifles. Naturally, I had to be careful how I asked, but from what I was able to learn I would think these prices are three times what they should be. But in a sellers’ market, who knows?”
“I could find out in Singapore.” Yam Heng paused. “What is your proposal?”
Siow Mong sat down behind his desk and leant forward across it. “You are a gambler, brother,” he said pleasantly; “and you know what I think of that. Especially as, in the game you play, you cannot win. I am inviting you to try a different one.”
“Selling arms is no game.”
“It can be very profitable.” Siow Mong’s smile faded. “Let us have no misunderstandings. I have a good business here. I do not like risks. I do not have to take them. If you can find a way to handle this transaction without personal risk to me, I will help you, for a small handling charge of ten per cent. But I must know exactly what you intend to do first. If I agree with your plan I will put you in contact with the Indian. Is that understood?”
Yam Heng had been listening absently and did not reply to his brother’s question. “There are two problems here,” he said slowly. “The first is to get the goods out of the country. That is a matter of careful organisation. The second problem is more difficult. They must be made respectable.”
Siow Mong waited. Yam Heng might be a fool in many respects, but he could sometimes be shrewd.
“You see,” Yam Heng continued after a moment or two; “if / were to sell these goods in Singapore, I might never receive payment. They would deal, yes; but these are not normal business dealings. There is no trust. ‘Payment on delivery,’ they would say. But when I had delivered they could give me a five thousand dollar tip and tell me to go to the police for the rest. What could I answer in such a case? You say that these are not stolen goods, and no doubt you are right. But I would be as helpless as if they were, if I had to deal illegally.”
“What is the alternative? How do you make such property respectable?”
“There must be an intermediary, someone who will sign papers, admit ownership if necessary, and take perhaps five per cent for his trouble.”