by Ross Thomas
“Shut up,” I said. “I’ve been sitting here for half an hour listening to you three. You’ve made your deal and everyone’s happy. Sacchetti can keep the money coming in from Cole, and Toh can keep on making the payments on his house and buy gasoline for the Rolls, and beer for the Singapore version of the Red Guard. You’re happy to trade the evidence on Lozupone for that, aren’t you, Toh? And what about Dangerfield? He got what he came for, what he sent me for. The Dangerfield Plan worked, didn’t it, Sam, and now you’re happy. In fact, everybody’s happy but me.”
“Okay, kid, what do you want? Your fifty thousand from Cole?”
“What I came for. I want to see Angelo.”
“What the hell difference would it make?” Dangerfield said. “Just because you get the nasties every night when Angelo falls overboard and gives you the big wink. You think just seeing him’s going to cure that? You’re crazier than I thought, Cauthorne.”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” I said.
Dangerfield shook his head. “You’re really nuts, kid.”
“You’re forgetting that I was supposed to look after Carla, but now she’s dead, and I don’t think her father’s going to be too happy with me.”
“Give me the box and I’ll put him away so quick he won’t have a chance to be unhappy,” Dangerfield said.
Toh rose and faced Dangerfield. “I think that this discussion no longer concerns either my daughter or me. If you gentlemen will excuse us, I will have my driver take you back to your hotel.”
“I’m sorry but it does concern you,” I said. “I keep the box until I see Angelo. That’s part of the price. Dangerfield just forgot to mention it, didn’t you, Sam?”
Dangerfield stared at me. “I can get it away from you, Cauthorne, one way or another.”
“Don’t try it. Just tell them that it’s part of the price.”
“You’re making a mistake,” he said.
“As long as I make it.”
Dangerfield turned to Toh. “Fix it up.”
“I don’t think it would be—”
“I don’t care what you think. Fix it so that the kid can see Angelo. Like he said, it’s part of the price.”
Toh and his daughter once again exchanged glances. It was the daughter’s turn. “Very well, Mr. Dangerfield. I will, as you say, fix it up. I’ll probably send word by messenger as to the time and place.”
“Just one thing more,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“Make it soon.”
We were halfway back to the hotel before Dangerfield spoke to me. “By God, you almost screwed it up, didn’t you?”
“Screwed what up?”
“The whole thing.”
“Angelo owes me something.”
Dangerfield grunted. “He owes that wife and the father-in-law something, too.”
“What?”
“You don’t think Angelo actually killed the Lozupone girl?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know,” Dangerfield mimicked. “God, you are dumb, Cauthorne.”
“Okay, I’m dumb.”
“It’s a frame like I said. You can smell it a mile off. And you know who hung it on him?”
“I know what you want me to say.”
“What?”
“The father-in-law and the wife, right?”
Dangerfield looked at me and smiled. Then he leaned back in the Rolls and gazed out the window. “You got it right, pal,” he said, but he seemed to be talking to himself.
CHAPTER XIX
The Chinese room clerk at the Raffles didn’t give me his usual cheerful smile when I asked for my key and a large manila envelope.
“There are some persons to see you, Mr. Cauthorne,” he said.
“Where?”
“In your room.”
“Do you usually let just anyone into your guests’ rooms?”
He smiled a little then, but there was more embarrassment than humor in it. “We usually let the police in, yes, sir.”
“I see. Do you have that envelope?”
He found one and I put the yellow cardboard box inside, licked the flap and sealed it, wrote my name on the front, and handed it back to him. “You have a safe, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Put this in it, will you, please?”
He nodded and then added: “I was distressed to learn of Miss Lozupone’s—”
“Yes,” I said before he had to complete the polite and meaningless ritual of expressing sorrow over the death of a stranger. “Thank you. It was a terrible thing.”
“A terrible thing,” he agreed and headed back to the safe with the envelope which contained the microfilmed evidence that could send Carla Lozupone’s father to jail.
I thought about Carla as I walked down the hall to my room where the police waited with their questions about who she was and why she had died. I didn’t think that they would ask about who would mourn her, but I wasn’t sure that I could answer them if they did. Her father would mourn, I decided. Joe Lozupone, whom she had described as a fat little man with a bald head and an accent, would be not only the chief mourner, but also the chief seeker of vengeance, a role that he had played often enough before. Perhaps her lovers would mourn her for a while and I included myself among them, one in what probably was a long casual list of men who, hearing of her death, would feel a fleeting sense of personal loss, if not of grief; men who would remember something she had said or the way her hair had looked against a pillow or the way that she had once walked across a room. It wasn’t so bad a way to be remembered if you had died for less than nothing.
There were two of them waiting for me. One stood by a window and the other sat in an armchair. The one by the window turned when I opened the door. He had a bony face and a high forehead that was topped by thick black hair that he wore fairly long and parted in the middle. He also wore glasses with wide, dark plastic rims and he had on a suit jacket which he may have thought succeeded in concealing the revolver that he carried in the holster on his belt. He nodded at me as I came in. “Mr. Cauthorne?”
“Yes.”
“I am Detective-Sergeant Huang of the Criminal Investigation Department,” he said with a certain measure of formality. “This is Detective-Sergeant Tan.”
I tossed my key on the bureau. “The clerk told me you were here.”
Sergeant Tan was the younger of the two, but neither of them was much over thirty. Tan also wore the jacket to his suit, unusual in Singapore during the day and not at all common at night. He rose when I entered and I guessed his height at around five-ten or -eleven, a little tall for a Chinese. Although he was wearing a polite smile there was nothing polite about his eyes, but then I have still to meet my first shy policeman.
“We would like to ask you several questions concerning the death of Carla Lozupone,” Sergeant Huang said. “Is my pronunciation correct?”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“You knew that she was dead, of course,” Sergeant Tan said.
“I heard it on the radio.” I had. Dangerfield had told the driver to switch it on during the drive back from Toh’s house. “The cops will be around,” Dangerfield had said as I dropped him off at his hotel. “If you heard it on the radio then you won’t have to act surprised when they tell you she’s dead.”
Huang nodded. “Yes, I believe it was on the eleven o’clock program.”
“I heard it at twelve,” I said. “If this is going to take a while, we may as well sit down. I’d also like some coffee. What would you care for, coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please,” Sergeant Huang said.
I pushed the button and the houseboy made his usual miraculous appearance and took the order. Sergeant Tan resumed his seat in the chair, but Huang continued to stand by the window. I crossed over and sat on the couch to the left of Huang so that when I looked at him, I could avoid the glare from the window.
“You accompanied Miss Lozupone from the United
States, I believe, Mr. Cauthorne?” Huang said.
“Yes.”
“Were you very good friends?”
“No; in fact, I met her for the first time the day that I left.”
“And you struck up your acquaintance during the flight?”
“Not really. Her father wanted someone to more or less look after her while she was in Singapore and a mutual friend suggested me. We met first in Los Angeles at her hotel.”
“When did you last see Miss Lozupone?” Tan said.
“Yesterday. Just after noon. She dropped by and we had lunch and a couple of drinks.”
“You did not see her again?” Huang said.
“No.”
“Mr. Cauthorne,” Tan said, “you called for a doctor last night. You were, according to his report, rather badly beaten.”
“Yes. It happened in Chinatown; I’m not sure of the street.”
“Were you robbed?”
“It was only a few dollars. I never carry much cash or even my wallet when I’m wandering around a strange city.”
“That’s wise,” Huang said. “But you didn’t report the robbery to the police?”
“As I said, it was only a few dollars.”
“How many were there?” Huang said. “I mean assailants, of course, not dollars.”
We all smiled at that a little and I had the feeling that they both knew that I was lying and that they knew that I knew. But we played it out; there was nothing else to be done.
“There were three of them,” I said, adding one to the actual total out of pride.
“You must have put up some resistance,” Tan said.
“A token amount, you might say. They didn’t seem to care much for it.”
“Had you been drinking?” Huang said, then added, “I’m sorry that we have to ask these personal questions, Mr. Cauthorne, but I’m sure you appreciate our reasons.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’d had several drinks, perhaps enough to give me too much courage.”
“Did you do your drinking at any one place?”
“Yes. At a place called Fat Annie’s.”
“Was this place recommended to you by a friend?” Tan said.
“No. By a trishaw driver.”
“When did you arrive back at the hotel?”
“Shortly after eleven o’clock.”
“But you didn’t attempt to see Miss Lozupone.”
“No.”
“Why not, if you were hurt?”
“I needed a doctor more than sympathy.”
There was a knock on the door and I crossed and opened it to admit the houseboy who served the coffee and tea. When we all had our cups and saucers, we made some comments about the weather because it suddenly had started to rain, and then we went back to questions and answers.
“You are acquainted with Mr. Angelo Sacchetti, are you not, Mr. Cauthorne?” Tan said.
“Yes.”
“You were involved in an accident with him here almost two years ago, I believe.”
“I think your records will show that,” I said.
“Did Miss Lozupone know him?”
“Yes. At one time, they were engaged to be married.”
“Have you seen Mr. Sacchetti?” Huang asked.
“No.”
“Are you looking for him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought I had caused his death and then I learned that he was alive. His death had bothered me so I wanted to make sure that he was really alive.”
“And you traveled all the way to Singapore just for that?” Tan said.
“Just for that,” I said.
“Have you seen Sacchetti?” Huang repeated, dropping the mister.
“No.”
“Was Miss Lozupone also looking for him?” Tan said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “As I said, they were once engaged.”
“But Sacchetti is now married.”
“So I hear.”
“Why then should a young woman—”
I interrupted Tan. “As you say, she was a young woman. It’s sometimes difficult to tell what a young woman of Carla Lozupone’s temperament will do when she’s been jilted.”
“The woman scorned thing, you mean?” Huang said.
“She didn’t talk to me about it.”
Huang moved from the window and placed his cup and saucer on the coffee table. “Let me see if I have the correct picture of your relationship with Miss Lozupone,” he said, as he returned to the window to take in the view again. “Both of you, through coincidence, came to Singapore at the same time to find Angelo Sacchetti. You, Mr. Cauthorne, for what seems to be some type of psychological reassurance that he was not dead. Miss Lozupone, perhaps for revenge. But you didn’t discuss your reasons with each other. Tell me, did you discuss Angelo Sacchetti?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about that.”
“There’s not much to tell. We both agreed that he was a son of a bitch.”
“In just those words?” Tan said.
“Those will do.”
“Do you think that Miss Lozupone might have disliked, or even hated, Sacchetti enough to have tried to do something foolish?” Huang said.
“What’s foolish?” I said.
“Try to kill him,” Tan said.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“Did you know that we are looking for Angelo Sacchetti in connection with her death?” Huang said.
“No.” That hadn’t been on the radio.
“When we found Miss Lozupone, we found her holding Sacchetti’s wallet.”
“If he killed her, I doubt that he would have been thoughtful enough to leave bis wallet in her hand,” I said.
“That did occur to us, Mr. Cauthorne,” Huang said and kept most of the sarcasm out of his voice.
“But you’re still looking for him?” I said.
“Yes,” Huang said. “We are.”
They told me the rest of it then, at least as much as they felt I should know. Carla Lozupone had been murdered around midnight, give or take an hour, and had been driven to the Malay kampong or village near Geyland and dumped by the side of the road. She had not been sexually assaulted, as Tan put it, and they had wired her father in New York.
“Her purse and passport were missing,” Tan said. “Did she carry large sums of cash?”
“Traveler’s checks, I think. How did you know her father’s address?”
“From the hotel registration and the immigration records at the airport.”
There was a pause then. It stretched out for almost two minutes. Huang stared out the window and Tan was busy inspecting a button on his coat. Neither of them had taken notes and I felt that they really weren’t too interested in the lies that I had to tell them.
It was Huang who broke the silence. “Are you familiar with Sacchetti’s activities in Singapore, Mr. Cauthorne?” he said, still taking in the view.
“Yes.”
“Lim Pang Sam informed us this morning that he had briefed you when you first arrived.”
“Then you’ve talked to him?” I said.
“At length,” Huang said. “If we hadn’t, we’d probably be talking at headquarters rather than here.” He turned from the window and gazed at me through his thick-rimmed glasses which almost gave him a professorial air. “The Singapore Police, Mr. Cauthorne, are under the control and direction of our Ministry of Defense and Security.” Huang paused. “The Ministry’s principal function is to deal with threats to Singapore’s security—both internal and external threats and sometimes it’s exceedingly difficult to differentiate the two. One could say this has been true in the case of Angelo Sacchetti and that is why he has been given a certain amount of latitude. Although his operations could properly be defined as a threat to our internal security, their disruption could have proved to be an even greater threat to our external security.”
�
��Because of his father-in-law?” I said.
Huang nodded. “Yes, because of his father-in-law. I see that Mr. Lim briefed you well.”
“He told me that Toh could start a full-scale race riot almost at will,” I said.
“That’s true,” Huang said. “And such a riot, of course, if serious enough, could prove disastrous. Although this was true more in the past than now, a riot possibly could lead to intervention by other countries.”
“Malaysia?” I said.
“Or Indonesia, although our relations with it have improved since the confrontation ended and Sukarno was deposed.”
“So you let Sacchetti operate in exchange for domestic peace,” I said. “It’s a logical trade. It might have a slightly gamey smell, but it’s nothing unique.”
“It’s a humiliating trade, Mr. Cauthorne. Especially to a policeman.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“But murder is something else,” Huang said. “Murder cannot be overlooked.”
“Or covered up?” I said.
“Or covered up.”
“What if Sacchetti didn’t do it?”
“The evidence is overwhelming,” Huang said.
“Not to a policeman,” I said.
“No,” Huang said, “not to a policeman. Only to the public.”
“You plan to hang it on him then?”
“Of course.”
“Even if he’s innocent?”
“He’s not innocent, Mr. Cauthorne. There are at least six murders in our files that can be directly traced to the Sacchetti operations.”
“But not to him?”
“No. We have never questioned him.”
“But you know he was responsible?”
“We know.”
“Don’t you keep someone on him all the time?” I said.
“We watch his yacht,” Tan said. “We keep it under observation twenty-four hours a day.” He paused and looked at me and smiled, displaying some nicely even teeth. “He has most interesting visitors.”
“Doesn’t he ever leave the yacht?”
“Not recently,” Huang said. “But that means nothing. A sampan could come by at night, without lights, on the side away from shore and he could easily go aboard and disappear once it went up the Singapore River.”
“He used to give a lot of parties,” I said. “Doesn’t he give them anymore?”