by A. M. Stuart
Harriet tapped the volume of improving sermons she had grabbed from Julian’s bookshelves.
The tight starched collar of Paar’s uniform rose and fell as he swallowed, his eyes darting to the main door, where an Indian jagar in uniform stood awaiting the arrival of guests.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“He must lodge somewhere nearby.”
“At the manager’s house, but . . .” Paar began, but Harriet had already turned, pushing her way through the bustling early-lunchtime crowd, with Griff in tow.
“The manager’s house?” Griff inquired.
“I think we will find it is one of the bungalows on Victoria Street,” Harriet said.
Maddocks fell into stride beside her. “Tell me why we are interested in a hotel clerk?”
“He has a connection with Newbold,” Harriet said. “I’m worried about him. Ah, this must be it.”
The Hotel Van Wijk included a number of separate bungalows rounding the corner into Victoria Street. She stopped outside the one at the far end of the row, clearly labeled PRIVATE RESIDENCE.
Harriet mounted the steps and rapped on the door. The young Chinese maid who answered it peered up at her with wide eyes.
“I would like to speak with Mr. Visscher,” Harriet said.
“Mem!” the girl called without opening the door any wider.
Harriet heard quick steps on the wooden floor and the girl vanished. A short, rather dumpy, fair-haired woman opened the door wider.
“Can I help you?”
Harriet smiled. “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Visscher and I believe he lodges here.”
The woman frowned. “Who are you?”
“My name is Mrs. Gordon. I met Mr. Visscher on Saturday at the hotel and I had promised to lend him a book.”
The woman glanced at the book in Harriet’s hands. “I am afraid he is not here.”
“When do you expect him to return?”
The woman shrugged. “I do not know where he has gone. I have not seen him since yesterday evening.”
The skin on the back of Harriet’s neck prickled. She held out the book. “I am sorry to have missed him,” she said. “Perhaps I can leave this for him and you can tell him I called, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Van Gelder.” The woman took the volume and glanced at the title on the spine. “Sermons. Ja, that is so like Hans. I will see that he gets it. Thank you for taking the trouble to bring it for him.”
The door shut in Harriet’s face and she took a moment to compose herself before returning to Maddocks, who waited in the shade of a rain tree.
“Well?”
“He’s not there,” she said. “Now I am really worried. Griff, where would I find Inspector Curran?”
“Curran? We could try South Bridge Road.”
Harriet hailed a ricksha and as he helped her into it, Maddocks said, “Do you mind if I accompany you?”
She smiled. “Can I stop you?”
But Maddocks had already turned away, waving in a second ricksha.
“Where, mem?” the ricksha wallah inquired.
“Central Police Station, South Bridge Road,” Harriet replied.
* * *
* * *
Curran was not in his office but the harassed young Malay clerk who greeted them on their arrival at the Detective Branch assured them he would not be long. He indicated a bench and Harriet seated herself.
“You don’t have to wait with me,” she told Maddocks.
He removed his hat and wiped his face. “Nothing better to do.”
They heard Curran before he reached the door. A clatter of boots on the stairs and a yell of “Singh!” brought the clerk to his feet.
“Oh, sir, there is no one here. No one except this good lady and gentleman.”
Curran rounded on Harriet and Maddocks. Whatever he had been about to say died on his lips and he whipped off his hat.
“Mrs. Gordon, Maddocks . . . what brings you here?”
Harriet rose to her feet, pushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. “Mr. Maddocks and I are here to report a missing person.”
Curran frowned. “A missing person?”
“I mentioned the clerk from the Van Wijk? Visscher. Well, it would appear he has not been seen since last night. I am extremely worried about him.”
“And why is that of concern to you?” Curran inquired.
“Because I’m afraid I might have been the last person to see him.”
Curran took a deep breath and gestured at the door to a half-glass-partitioned office. “You’d better come in.”
Harriet had to pass Curran to enter the office and he gave off a peculiar scent of warm male combined with something sickly mingled with carbolic.
He must have caught her expression. A flush of color darkened his high cheekbones. “I’ve just come from Newbold’s autopsy,” he said. “Never a pleasant thing to witness first thing in the morning.” He hung his hat on a hook and indicated the two visitors’ chairs, taking his own seat behind the desk.
“Tell me what it is that concerns you about Visscher?”
Harriet related Visscher’s strange appearance out of the dark and the rain.
“The VOC?” Curran shook his head. “Are you sure those were his words?”
“Both Julian and I thought it quite peculiar.”
Curran sat back in his chair and looked up at the dusty beams high above him. “The VOC. I know I’ve heard it referred to somewhere.” He cast a glance at Maddocks. “Do you know?”
“Isn’t it the acronym for the old Dutch East India Company? I don’t know what it is in Dutch,” Maddocks replied.
Curran nodded. “You’re right, but hasn’t the Dutch East India Company been defunct for years?”
Maddocks shrugged. “A century, if not longer.”
“I fail to see what an extinct company of Dutch merchants has to do with the murder of Sir Oswald Newbold,” Harriet said.
Curran pushed back from the desk. “I think I need to visit the Hotel Van Wijk and I still need to get a statement from you, Mrs. Gordon. Can I send Constable Greaves up to see you this afternoon?”
She nodded. “He’ll find me at the school.” She paused, seeing the frown puckering his eyebrows. “I prefer to keep busy, Inspector.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Curran’s mouth. “I expect nothing less, Mrs. Gordon. You may take your typewriter.” He waved a hand at his bookcase and her heart jumped at the sight of the familiar neat black box.
She smiled in relief. “Thank you, Inspector. I really didn’t want to handwrite all those letters.”
He lifted the box down and handed it to her.
Maddocks rose to his feet. “Inspector, I have a mind for one of the Van Wijk’s ices on such a hot morning. Perhaps I could walk with you?”
Curran held up a warning finger and opened his mouth as if to berate the journalist, but Maddocks only smiled in response.
Curran shook his head. “Choose your friends wisely, Mrs. Gordon. This one is trouble. Unfortunately for you, Maddocks, I intend to take my horse.”
Harriet tightened her grip on the handle of her typewriter case. “Inspector, please tell me what you find out about Visscher. I am worried about him. He seemed like a nice boy and he had been badly frightened by something.”
“Of course. Maddocks, perhaps you would care to see Mrs. Gordon safely to a ricksha?”
Maddocks opened his mouth as if he intended to protest but changed his mind. “Of course. My pleasure. Harriet, I do believe the inspector wishes to be rid of us.”
* * *
* * *
The smell of the fabled curry tiffin drifted into the reception hall of the Hotel Van Wijk. Curran sniffed appreciatively but it still lacked an hour or so until lunchtime and his lunch generally comprised whatever he
could find at the nearest street stall. A young European man, dressed in the white ducks that were the uniform of the clerical class, stood behind the reception desk. He looked up and, seeing Curran striding across the foyer, the red blemishes that marred his face went a slightly darker shade as his gaze swept across Curran’s khaki uniform and badges of rank.
“Can I help you?”
Curran’s gaze dropped to the polished brass name tag on the young man’s jacket. “Paar, is it? I wish to speak with the manager. Mr. Van Gelder, I believe.”
Paar nodded and vanished into the office behind the reception desk.
Curran knew the hotel manager by sight, a short, stout man with a round face and a halo of wispy white hair. There had been several thefts and disturbances at the hotel in the three years Curran had been in Singapore but none of sufficient gravity to warrant his attention, so he made a point of introducing himself.
A momentary disquiet crossed Van Gelder’s pleasant features, to be replaced by an unctuous smile as he shook Curran’s hand in a two-handed grip.
“It is always a pleasure to help the police, Inspector Curran. What is it I can assist you with?”
Conscious of the studied insouciance of the clerk, Curran gestured at the office. “A private word, Mr. Van Gelder.”
“Of course, but excuse me, first I must greet the Cornilissens.”
An expensively dressed European couple had entered the hotel and stood waiting as the porter secured their luggage from the carriage in which they had arrived. As they sallied forward, Van Gelder greeted them as if they were royalty. The man was in his early middle age, tall, dressed in a well-cut linen suit, and his wife, a much younger, slender blonde, was dressed in a froufrou of ruffles and lace, set off by glittering jewels. A testimony to the adage that money did not buy taste, Curran thought as he waited patiently as Van Gelder addressed the couple in Dutch.
Curran’s years in South Africa had given him a smattering of Dutch and he understood enough to know that the couple were not strangers to Van Gelder. The hotel manager bowed obsequiously with a raised eyebrow and a declaration that he was assisting the police in a trivial matter and would they excuse him while he concluded his business.
“Frequent visitors?” Curran asked.
“Meneer Cornilissen comes every year at this time,” Van Gelder said.
More out of habit than curiosity, Curran inquired, “Why?”
Van Gelder’s eyes widened. “You have not heard of Cornilissen? He is an Amsterdam dealer in antiquities. If you are seeking a special gift for Mrs. Curran, I can introduce you—”
“There is no Mrs. Curran,” Curran cut in sharply. “And I do not have time to pass in pleasantries.”
Van Gelder inclined his head. “Of course. Perhaps if you care to come through to my office, Inspector.”
The room behind the reception desk housed two unoccupied clerks’ desks and another desk at which a young Chinese girl, barely visible over the enormous machine, sat typing at an impressive speed. Van Gelder did not bother to introduce the girl. He hurried Curran through to a glass-partitioned office and took his place behind a large teak desk, gesturing at a low, uncomfortable seat across from him.
Curran remained standing and came straight to the point.
“I believe you have a young man working for you by the name of Visscher?”
“Ja, Hans Visscher.” Van Gelder indicated one of the empty desks beyond the window and frowned. “He did not turn up for work today and Paar tells me the boy did not come home last evening.”
“Paar . . . the young man on duty?”
“Stefan Paar.” Van Gelder rolled his eyes. “He is cross with me because I make him work when really Visscher is the duty clerk.”
“And you haven’t reported him missing?”
Van Gelder shook his head. “Why should I? He is a young man. I thought perhaps he may have fallen prey to the charms of a pretty young lady in Serangoon Road.”
Curran turned back to look at him. “That is a liberal attitude, Mr. Van Gelder.”
Van Gelder held his hand up. “I was a young man once myself, Inspector, but do not mistake me. When he returns he will feel my wrath and have his pay docked.” He steepled his fingers and considered the policeman. “No, I see no reason to be concerned. I expect he will return by this evening. Probably with a tattoo and a bad hangover.”
“He does this often?”
Van Gelder picked up a pen from its stand and twirled it in his fingers, dropping blobs of ink on the blotter. “I must confess, such behavior does seem out of character. He is a steady young man. Now, if it were Paar . . .”
Curran turned to glance at the young clerk whose dark, greased head he could see above the frosted-glass partition and a familiar sense of foreboding tugged at him. His instincts were not often wrong and right now they were telling him that Visscher’s disappearance was not attributable to the folly of youth.
“How long has Visscher worked here?”
“He came to me about nine months ago with impeccable references from a colleague in Amsterdam. He told me he was keen to learn the hotel business and he has, until now, been exemplary in his conduct. However, he will be returning to Amsterdam at the end of his contract. There is a young woman but . . . isn’t there always a young woman, Inspector?”
“Have you heard of Sir Oswald Newbold?”
Van Gelder tapped a copy of the Straits Times that sat folded on his desk. “Terrible business. Sir Oswald was a frequent guest at this establishment. He would stay here if he had meetings of the Explorers and Geographers Club. It is walking distance and the hospitality at the club could be”—he coughed—“quite expansive. Why, he was only just here on Saturday night.”
“For a meeting at the club?”
“I believe so. A dinner to welcome a new member or some such.” Van Gelder’s moustache twitched. “It is, however, a very exclusive club and he was not forthcoming about their business.”
“When did he leave?”
“In the morning. His man fetched him after breakfast.”
“Did he leave anything behind after his stay?”
Van Gelder frowned and shook his head. “Not that I am aware. Why do you ask?”
“Because Mr. Visscher paid a call on him on Sunday evening, claiming to be returning lost property.”
Van Gelder sat back in his chair and his eyes widened in surprise. “Why would he do that?”
Curran shook his head. “I’m asking you.”
“Sir Oswald was a genial gentleman and much liked by all the staff at the hotel. I would like to think of him as a personal friend.” Van Gelder glanced down at the paper again and his moustache drooped. “I knew him in Rangoon and I have him to thank for introducing me to my lovely wife. She is most upset by his tragic death.”
Rangoon? The Burmese connection again.
“When were you both in Rangoon?”
Van Gelder frowned. “I came to Singapore in ’07. Mrs. Van Gelder and I were married there just before I took up this post.”
Curran filed this bit of information away. Connections were always interesting and often the key to solving crimes but he still had to establish why Hans Visscher had turned up at Mandalay on Sunday night.
“Was it possible that Visscher was doing some sort of private work for Newbold?”
Van Gelder shrugged. “What the boy did in his spare time was up to him. I am not a slave driver, Inspector.”
“Where does Visscher live?”
“The young single men lodge with us in our residence on Victoria Street. My wife looks after them.” He smiled fondly. “She likes to think of herself as mother to the youngsters. At the moment we have only Paar and Visscher in residence. I am expecting two new clerks on the next steamer from Amsterdam.”
“Did he have any particular friends that you were aware of?”
Van Gelder shook his head. “I could not tell you that. Perhaps Paar may be the one to talk to?”
Curran straightened. “I would like to speak with him now, if I may?”
“Of course, whatever we can do to assist the police.” Van Gelder gestured at the door.
“And then I would like to talk to your wife.”
“My wife? But why?” Van Gelder stiffened.
“I need to speak to everyone who knows Hans Visscher.”
“I will, of course, accompany you, but surely there is no reason to be concerned for him?”
“Mr. Visscher was the last person to see Sir Oswald Newbold alive. He has disappeared and I think there is every reason to be concerned for him. Don’t you, Mr. Van Gelder?”
Van Gelder rose to his feet. “You are right. Come this way. You shall speak to Mr. Paar and then I will take you to my residence to speak with my wife.”
* * *
* * *
“Stefan Paar?” Curran stood over the desk, forcing the young man to look up at him. “Do you mind if we have a word?”
Sweat beaded the fine, dark hairs on the young man’s upper lip. “I am on duty, sir.”
“This won’t take long, and Mr. Van Gelder has given his consent for me to speak with you.” He glanced at Van Gelder. “I would prefer to speak to Mr. Paar alone.”
Van Gelder frowned but gave a brusque nod of his head. “Very well, I will look after the desk while you speak with the inspector.”
Curran glanced at the door that led out onto the terrace and the garden of the hotel. “Shall we step outside?”
The boy nodded and Van Gelder took his place behind the desk.
Outside on the terrace, Paar fumbled in his pocket, producing a cigarette case. He flicked it open, offering Curran a cigarette. Curran obliged by taking one.
“Do you have matches?” Paar asked.
Curran rummaged in his pocket for a book of matches and lit the boy’s cigarette, noticing that the young man’s hand shook as he cupped the flame. Nerves or something else? he wondered.