The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook

by Nury Vittachi

  Two minutes later, the message touched the ground. It dangled near the front door of the building, swinging gently from side to side in the breeze.

  The first resident to pass, an elderly man, glanced at the vertical line of toilet tissue paper, but did not stop to examine it.

  ‘Oi!’ Joyce screeched from fifteen storeys above him. ‘Idiot,’ she added, as he disappeared.

  After a few minutes, a middle-aged woman carrying bags of shopping appeared and strolled towards the front door. She noticed the swinging line of tissue and paused.

  Joyce watched excitedly as she shook her head disapprovingly. Then she looked up to see where it was coming from.

  ‘Heeey! Look up here,’ the young woman hollered. ‘I’m stuck.’

  The woman gave no signs of noticing her or hearing her cry. But to Joyce’s delight, she lowered her shopping bags and picked up the tissue, noticing the writing spread across several sheets. She started to read.

  The phone rang at Telok Ayer Street. Winnie had disappeared and Wong was alone in the office, carefully calculating just how much money he could make from monthly repeat visits to Mr Tik’s rainbow apartment.

  ‘Yes?’ said Wong, snatching up the handset.

  ‘Are you CF Wong?’ asked a young male voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you a feng shui master?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ha! I would have thought that toilet paper would be bad feng shui,’ said the voice with a laugh.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Toilet paper. Do you know your name is on a long piece of toilet paper hanging out of building in Fort Canning?’

  Wong was speechless.

  ‘Are you still there, Mr Wong?’

  ‘You are who?’

  ‘I’m calling from the news desk of the Straits Times. We just got a call from a lady who says that someone has draped her building with toilet paper with your name on it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone has written your name on a roll of toilet paper and dropped it out of the top of a building. It’s a message fifteen floors long. In Fort Canning. Do you know anything about this? We’re sending a photographer. Do you have any comment? Mr Wong? Are you there, Mr Wong?’

  But the feng shui master had dropped the phone and was racing down the stairs to get into a taxi.

  Twenty minutes later, CF Wong and Tik Sin-cheung arrived at the apartment block in Fort Canning Road. Tik, who had been roughly manhandled into the taxi by the desperate feng shui master, was still asking questions as they spilled out onto the pavement.

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why do we need to visit my old flat? I store my personal effects there. No one is allowed inside. It’s very personal to me.’

  ‘Someone is inside. You must get her out.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who is inside? And how did she get there? No one can get in. It’s locked. It’s locked with three locks, and there’s a padlock and chain on the steel gate. I’m sure there’s no one inside.’

  ‘She got in, I think.’

  ‘Who? A burglar? Was she trying to steal my fish? I have fish inside. Just a few. They’re mine. Really.’

  ‘No, she is not burglar. She is my assistant.’

  ‘Why did you send your assistant to my old flat? I didn’t ask you to do my old flat.’

  ‘Special service for old customer. We do your new flat and we do your old flat too, free of charge.’

  Tik went quiet. ‘Are you sure she managed to get inside?’

  ‘I think.’

  The businessman spoke slowly, carefully. ‘I have . . . private things in there. I don’t want people to know what’s inside. I have a few new fish. I mean, a lot of new fish.’

  Wong turned to look at him. There was an unmistakable tone of guilt in his voice. Tik spoke again, his voice betraying deep concern. ‘If your staff member has managed to get in, then I will get her out. But you do . . . you do promise full confidentiality, don’t you? You don’t need to tell anyone what was in there, is it?’

  The feng shui master said nothing.

  ‘I would be willing to pay an extra fee, do you know what I mean? A special confidentiality fee? One thousand bucks? One thousand-over bucks?’

  Wong’s mind was racing. Now here was a dilemma—not an ethical one, but a financial one. Clearly Tik had something serious to hide. And the geomancer could hazard a guess as to exactly what it might be. And he, Wong, was now being offered a bribe to keep quiet about it. This was where the math came in. If Tik’s opening offer was one thousand Sing dollars, what would his final offer be? Conversely, what would be the financial effect on his feng shui consultancies if the spate of fishnappings that had swept Singapore continued? In the past month alone, two frustrated customers had cancelled long-term contracts after they had installed expensive fish that had promptly disappeared. He glanced at Tik’s garish clothes and decided that the fish-collector did not have a bright future. Better to put his trust in taking action to ensure the return of stability to the Singapore aquatic scene.

  The geomancer marched swiftly through the main gates of the apartment block and then froze. He saw a young man in a multi-pocketed vest snapping photographs of the long string of toilet paper, swinging in the late afternoon breeze.

  Wong hurriedly backed away, having a deep-rooted fear of the media. He positioned himself on the other side of the main wall, where the press photographer couldn’t see him. ‘You go inside. Unlock door. Let my staff member come out. I wait here,’ he told Tik.

  The businessman, looking ever-more anxious, jingled the keys in his pocket and set off into the apartment block.

  Keeping out of sight of the snapper, the geomancer tried to gaze up at the fifteenth floor. There was nothing to see.

  A police car pulled up outside the block and a small, rather ruffled police officer climbed out. He straightened himself with some difficulty and stared up at the unravelled toilet paper. He chewed a well-masticated pen thoughtfully.

  Spotting Wong, Inspector Gilbert Tan vainly attempted to pull his trousers over his round stomach, and ambled over.

  ‘Ah, Mr Wong,’ he said. ‘Your call sounded so urgent-lah. What can I do for you? You summon me to tell me someone is dropping toilet paper out of a window, is it? Dropping toilet paper in private estate is not a crime, yet, I think, unless we try to use litter ordinance.’

  The feng shui master shook his head. ‘Ah, Inspector Tan. Have good news and bad news.’

  ‘Tell me bad news first.’

  ‘Good news for you. Bad news for me.’

  ‘Oh. In that case, tell me good news first.’

  Wong nodded. ‘I think maybe we found fish thief.’

  ‘What fish thief?’

  ‘The big money fish stolen from all over? Carp, angelfish, exotic fish, like that? Remember? Fish thieves over past few months? In the newspaper?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Inspector Tan. ‘Fish thieves, yes. Not most high profile case-lah. But yes, I did read somewhere that there have been a lot of stolen fish over past few months. You’ve found the culprit, is it?’

  Wong pointed upwards. ‘Man in this flat has suddenly got large number of fish. Small broker. Big money fish. Suddenly he is rich. Very suspicious.’

  The photographer went back to his car and, after dawdling for a few moments, revved it up and raced away, tyres squealing.

  Wong, seeing his opportunity, took hold of the police officer’s elbow and steered him to the building’s front step. They pressed the buttons of the flats at random until someone buzzed the main door open. ‘So easy to get into Singapore flats,’ lamented Inspector Tan. ‘Nobody interested in security.’

  In the elevator, the police officer turned to his friend. ‘So that is good news? You think you found a fish thief? And what is bad news?’

  Wong looked gloomy. ‘Bad news is I think I very soon lose customer. Also maybe upset Mr Pun, my biggest customer.’

  As the elevator neared the top of the building, an unmistakable od
our seeped into the space.

  ‘Eee!’ said Tan. ‘Hate the smell of fish.’

  ‘Joyce the same.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Make me hungry only.’

  As they stepped out of the elevator they heard shouts.

  ‘Murderer!’ a man’s voice shrieked. ‘You killed my spotted plectropomus!’

  The door was unlocked. They entered the room to see Tik Sin-cheung swinging a large, dead leopard-spotted fish by its tail. He was brandishing it threateningly at Joyce McQuinnie, who for some reason had stripped to her undergarments and trainers. Wong found her freckled, almost colourless skin repulsive; it looked like raw chicken.

  There was some sort of fight going on. The young woman was gamely holding her own. She held her fists in front of her. ‘You touch me with that and I kick this bloody thing in RIGHT NOW.’ She tapped her Adidas sneaker threateningly against a glass tank of rare pineapple fish.

  ‘You dare! You just dare,’ roared Tik.

  ‘Bloody will,’ Joyce spat, kicking it again.

  ‘Ahem.’ Wong coughed to interrupt the argument.

  The young woman turned and spotted her boss. ‘This guy’s gone mad, just because I fell onto one of his bloody fish. I couldn’t help it. He shouldn’t lock his flat up when people are trying to get in, should he? Tell him.’

  Tik Sin-cheung lowered his spotted plectropomus. He had suddenly noticed the police officer standing in the doorway. His face fell. He looked around at all the tanks of fish.

  ‘They’re all mine,’ he said. ‘They’re my family. They come to me. They call my name. I get people to liberate them, you see.’ He dropped to his knees and put his hand in a tank of brightly coloured creatures, which fluttered away from him. ‘These fish are Bodianus peppermint wrasse. They weren’t being well cared for. So I got my people to rescue them for me. And all the others. I don’t keep them. I find better homes for them.’

  Wong barked: ‘Joyce. You better come with me.’

  ‘And you’d better come with me,’ said Inspector Tan.

  2 Fit for life or death

  In all aspects of life there are mysteries. The crafty will take advantage of them. Even Zen masters do this sometimes. A commentary on Zen teacher Wang Shou-jen (1472–1528) tells this story:

  Once a scholar went as a guest to a Buddhist temple. The abbot let him come in. But he was given no special honour. He was given no particular respect.

  Then a prominent official arrived.

  The abbot gave the official great respect. He bowed low. He escorted him around the temple himself. He arranged for the best food and the best drink to be given to him.

  Then the official left the temple.

  Afterwards, the scholar went to see the abbot. The scholar said: ‘Why did you give me no respect but you gave the official great respect?’

  The abbot replied: ‘To give no respect is to give respect. To give respect is to give no respect. That is way of Zen.’

  The scholar used his fist to hit the monk hard in the face.

  The abbot said: ‘Ow! Why did you hit me?’

  The scholar said: ‘To beat you up is to not beat you up. To not beat you up would have been to beat you up. That is the way of Zen.’

  Blade of Grass, some people use crooked arguments to fight you. When they do this they are giving you a weapon. They have stepped off the path so the advantage is with you.

  In his book, The Great Learning, Confucius said:

  ‘The way of truth is like a great road. It is not hard to find. Trouble is only men will not look for it.’

  From ‘Some Gleanings of Oriental Wisdom’

  by CF Wong, part 32.

  The gymnasium was filled with contradictions. Scented and bright, it was a soft and luxurious haven with a deep carpet and fine wallpaper. But at the same time, there was a hardness about it: the carpet was grey and the equipment was mostly steel with a dark, matt coating. The fixtures oozed class, consisting largely of shiny, ornamented brass fittings set into expensive Andaman padauk wood. Yet on the polished pine table on one side was scattered an untidy heap of dog-eared magazines and used paper cups.

  Heavy air-conditioning kept the room uncomfortably chilly, but the man running on the treadmill was bathed in sweat.

  Club executive manager Kees Luis de Boer had been running for seventeen minutes at 10.5 kilometres an hour and was well into his stride, although his jerky speech was starting to betray a certain breathlessness.

  ‘He’s . . . here? Tell him to . . . come in.’

  ‘He’s already in the gym, sir, right behind you.’ The membership secretary discreetly made an open palm gesture towards the visitor.

  De Boer swivelled his bouncing head as much as he could to the left, which wasn’t much.

  Wong, trying to be helpful, leaned forwards to catch the manager’s eye. ‘Good morning Mr de Boer,’ he said, pronouncing it Deebo. ‘I am Wong.’

  ‘It’s d’Bo-er. Thanks for . . . coming. I’ll be with you in a . . . few minutes. Just got to get up . . . to twenty. I’m out of sorts all day if I . . . don’t get my run in, you know how it is . . . with the old endorphins.’ The rhythmic thudding of his feet gave his words a staccato feel.

  ‘Oh,’ said Wong. He turned a questioning gaze to the woman next to him as if to say: I’m afraid I do not know the Old Endorphins. Is this a problem?

  The membership secretary, a small grey-suited woman named Maria Runick, had a more urgent matter on her mind. She also tried to lean into de Boer’s line of sight. ‘Mr de Boer? A couple of the members are here at reception and they want to know whether they can come in. There’s a sign up saying that it’s closed from ten for an hour, but they are very, you know, insistent. And I already asked Mr Wong, and he says that he doesn’t mind them being here while he’s working.’

  De Boer said nothing. The thump of his feet hitting the floor was the only sound in the gym for half a minute. ‘Are they angry? Who are they? Anyone . . . important?’

  ‘Yes, they are a bit . . . difficult. They say they didn’t get the email notice saying that the gym would be closed for two hours today. Their names are Anthony de Cunha and Roger Eliott. I think you know Mr de Cunha.’

  ‘Yes, yes, the petroleum guy.’ He lapsed into silence. ‘Shit.’

  She glanced at the window between the gym and the reception area, where two unsmiling men in dark suits were waiting. After a polite pause, Ms Runick tried to press her superior again for an answer. ‘Shall I let them in?’

  ‘I’m thinking, I’m thinking. My brain . . . works a little more slowly when I am . . . running. But the answers it . . . gives are usually the right ones. If the word gets out . . . that we are having the place . . . feng shui-ed, people are going to ask . . . why. So we had better keep . . . people out.’

  Ms Runick slowly breathed out and then breathed in again. She appeared to be attempting to gather courage to disagree with her boss. ‘Yes, sir. But the news is already out. About the, er unfortunate incident of last week. It was being discussed in the restaurant yesterday, and there was talk in the members’ bar at lunch. I think if we let them know that we are dealing with the problem, it will be better in the long run. They’ll all find out eventually. Three of our members work for newspapers, remember? And we have an ABC guy.’

  She leaned over to catch her boss’s eye for an answer.

  It was difficult to tell if Mr de Boer was nodding, or if the vertical movement of his head was due purely to the fact that he was a heavy man pounding thunderously along a conveyor belt.

  ‘I said . . .’ he began with some irritation but then paused abruptly. The counter in front of him ticked over to the figure 20:00. ‘Ah,’ he breathed, and raised his hand to the sweat-stained console in front of him. He pressed an image of an arrow pointing downwards. Beep! it went. He thumped it repeatedly with his finger. Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep. The high-pitched whine of the treadmill changed to a lower tone as it gradually slowed down.

  ‘
Okay . . . let them in, you’re probably . . . right, you usually are,’ de Boer said, his mood abruptly changed by his having completed his morning exercise.

  It took another thirty seconds for the machine to gradually wind down to a complete halt. After that, the silence seemed heavy and uncomfortable. Wong stood by quietly, while Ms Runick scurried back to the reception to tell the members that they were after all going to be allowed to do their workout sessions, although a feng shui master would be working in the room at the same time.

  De Boer used an enormous, monogrammed fluffy white towel to wipe his neck, where most of the sweat appeared to have gathered. ‘I won’t shake your hand, Mr Wong. But thank you for coming.’

  The feng shui master gave a short bow. ‘My pleasure,’ he said.

  Kees Luis de Boer, general manager of The Players, a high-class restaurant and sports club in a modern office complex in Perth, lowered his voice as he turned his eye to the door of the gym.

  ‘It’s all very negative when someone dies in a gym. We try to keep quiet about it. But at the same time, we do the right things. We had the police here. We had the family in for a party-wake-sort-of-thing, on the house. And we’ve got you here to clean out the bad vibes, get some good ones in. I know you won’t mind me saying this—I’m an honest man, that’s my biggest advantage and also my biggest shortcoming—but I don’t believe in any of this sort of thing. I’m only doing it for the members. These days they’re all into this bloody new-age stuff, crystals and feng shui and stuff. Need to keep the campers happy.’

  With a creak, the door started to swing open.

  ‘And talk of the devils, here they come now.’

  De Boer put on a corporate smile and raised his eyes to the inlaid double doors, but the new arrival turned out to be a gawky young woman of about eighteen with her shirttail hanging out from under a shapeless sweater.