Singapore Sapphire

by A. M. Stuart

  He lit his own cigarette, tossing the dead match into a clump of bright-purple bougainvillea.

  “What can I help you with?” Paar asked.

  “How long have you been in Singapore?” Curran asked.

  “Nearly a year,” Paar replied, adding, “I hate it. As soon as my year is up I am going back to Amsterdam.”

  “Why do you hate it?”

  Paar ran a finger around the high, tight collar of his white ducks. “This heat stifles me and it stinks.” He pulled a face and gestured at the distant dhobis, or laundrymen, spreading their washing on the bank of the canal. “And I don’t speak any of these infernal languages. I was supposed to go to Batavia, where at least they speak Dutch. Instead I end up here.” His lip curled in distaste.

  “You are a friend of Hans Visscher?” Curran asked.

  The boy took a long inhale of his cigarette, blowing the smoke upward, where it seemed to linger in the humid air. “We work together and share the same lodgings but we are not really friends.”

  “Let us walk a little, Mr. Paar,” Curran suggested.

  They strolled in silence through the gardens of the hotel to the bank of the Stamford Canal, where a few dhobis crouched at the waterside, scrubbing laundry of indeterminate origin. Most dhobis worked farther upstream, where the canal was still a river.

  “Did you know Hans Visscher back in Amsterdam?”

  Paar shook his head. “No. He arrived a few months after me. He is from The Hague, not Amsterdam. He hates it too but we are contracted for two years.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday. He finished work about five and went straight out.”

  “What sort of mood was he in?”

  Paar glanced at him. “We’d heard the news about Sir Oswald Newbold’s murder and it seemed to upset him.”

  “Why?”

  “Sir Oswald was a frequent guest and a good tipper. He seemed to favor Visscher.”

  The careless shrug accompanying those words made Curran’s spine prickle. A pretty young boy and an older man?

  “Was there anything”—he paused seeking the right words to convey his meaning—“particular about the relationship?”

  Paar stared at him and a flush rose to his face as understanding dawned. “No . . . at least I don’t think so. Visscher had a girl back in Holland. He was here to earn the money for them to marry.”

  “How desperate was he for money?”

  A sneer twisted Paar’s mouth. “Not that desperate, Inspector.”

  “So, you haven’t seen Visscher since late yesterday afternoon?”

  Paar shook his head. “I was on duty until ten and when I got back to the lodging, he was not there. Mrs. Van Gelder said he had not returned home at any time that evening. I went to bed. When he had not returned this morning, this meant I had to do his shift. When I see him . . .” Paar fumbled for another cigarette. “Can I have another light?”

  Curran obliged but this time Paar did not offer him the cigarette case.

  As he took a deep draught on the cigarette, Paar asked, “Are you asking me these questions because you think Visscher’s disappearance is connected with Newbold’s murder?”

  “Have you ever heard Visscher mention the VOC?”

  Something flickered behind the young man’s eyes and he looked down at the cigarette, toying with it between his fingers before replying. “The old Dutch East India Company? That has been gone for over a century. It is just part of history.” Paar puffed on his cigarette, trying to finish it in haste. It only made him cough. He glanced back at the hotel. “I should get back to work.”

  “Mr. Paar, you seem singularly unconcerned that your colleague is missing,” Curran said. “Do you think it is possible he is with a girl in Serangoon Road?”

  Paar laughed, a cold, humorless laugh. “He would not know what to do if he did meet one, Inspector. I told you he has a sweet little virgin waiting for him in Rotterdam.”

  So much for Van Gelder’s theory, Curran thought with a mounting sense of disquiet.

  Paar turned and began to walk back toward the hotel.

  “Wait. I haven’t finished,” Curran called after him. “Where were you on Sunday night?”

  Paar’s step faltered and he turned back to face the policeman. “Me?”

  Curran fixed Paar with an unblinking stare. The young man’s eyes slid sideways. “I was with a girl at Madam Suzi’s in Serangoon Road,” he said, naming one of the many brothels to be found on that street.

  “Her name?”

  Paar looked Curran in the eye and grinned. “I didn’t bother with a name but ask Madam Suzi. She will vouch for me. I am a regular.”

  Curran’s skin crawled. “I will do just that,” he said.

  * * *

  * * *

  Curran waited for Paar to return to his post. He lit one of his own cigarettes and stood watching the slow trickle of water in the canal. The next rainstorm would turn it into a raging torrent. That was Singapore, a place of extremes.

  He couldn’t put a finger on what it was about Paar that irritated him. Perhaps it was just the greasy hair and the callous disregard for a young girl he had paid for sex. He stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the dirt with the heel of his boot before returning to Van Gelder. Paar, back on the reception desk, looked up from the guest he was attending to, his hard gaze raking Curran’s face as he and Van Gelder passed the desk.

  Van Gelder led him through the gardens to a smaller bungalow, tucked away at the back of the property, facing out on to Victoria Street.

  “Mijn vrouw and I occupy the main rooms,” Van Gelder said as they mounted the steps to the verandah. “There is an attic room where the young men lodge. Mijn vrouw . . . I apologize . . . my wife looks after them as if they were her own sons.”

  “A good woman,” Curran said, reflecting that it was the second time Van Gelder had expounded on the motherly care Mrs. Van Gelder showed the clerks.

  “Ja. A very good woman.”

  He opened the door and called out, “Mijn lieve?”

  Curran looked around the front room of the bungalow. Van Gelder lived well for the manager of a hotel, Curran thought, his gaze taking in the teak furniture, the antique vases and a handsome statue of the Buddha in the style of the statuary at the Bukit Timah house. Maybe Van Gelder’s guest Cornilissen helped in the selection of the pieces.

  A small, plump woman emerged from the back of the house to greet them, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Wat brengt je huis in het midden van de dag?” she inquired of her husband.

  “Mijn lieve, this is Inspector Curran of the Straits Settlements Police.”

  The woman flushed and bobbed her head. “My apologies. You are a policeman. I can see that now. Is there trouble?” She patted the coiled plait of fair hair that circled her head. A few stray wisps clung damply to her forehead and she pushed these back with an impatient gesture. “I apologize for my appearance. I have been trying to teach that useless girl how to cook poffertjes.”

  Curran held up a hand. “Excuse my unannounced visit, Mrs. Van Gelder. I am curious about your clerk, Visscher. Has he returned this morning?”

  Mrs. Van Gelder glanced at her husband. “There was a woman here asking the same question only an hour or so ago. Mrs. Gordon . . . is it she who has sent you? Is he in trouble, Inspector?”

  Curran ignored the reference to Harriet Gordon. “I am anxious to interview Mr. Visscher in relation to the death of Sir Oswald Newbold. Is this prolonged absence in his character?”

  Mrs. Van Gelder’s already flushed cheeks pinkened further. “I would say not, but surely he is just off on some boyish frolic?”

  “Hopefully he is,” Curran agreed. “When did you last see him?”

  “At breakfast yesterday morning. The boys eat with us.”

>   “How did he seem?”

  “He was a very quiet boy, Inspector Curran. A good boy.”

  “And Sunday night?”

  The woman frowned. “Ah ja. It was his day off and he went out for the day. He would have attended church and then . . .” She shrugged.

  “What time did he get in on Sunday night?”

  She thought for a long moment. “I believe it was about eight. I asked if he had eaten and he said he hadn’t. I made sure he ate something and he went up to his room shortly after. I did not see him again until the morning.” Her lips tightened. “Unlike Paar, who did not come home until nearly eleven reeking of cheap perfume and who knows what else beside. I told him that the good Lord turned his hand against Sodom and Gomorrah and he should have a better care of his soul. It is a rule of my house that they must tell me if they are to miss a meal or have made some other arrangement for the night. The front door is locked at eleven o’clock each night and I do not let them keep a key. If they wish to return after that hour, they must answer to me.”

  “And pay a fine,” Mr. Van Gelder added.

  Curran redirected the woman’s attention back to Visscher, asking if she had noticed anything unusual about the boy on his return home on Sunday or over breakfast on Monday.

  “No.” She clasped her hands in front of her apron and drew herself up, every inch the outraged housewife. “He shall get such a scolding when I do see him.”

  I am sure he will, Curran thought, his sympathy entirely with the wayward young men who had the good fortune to lodge with this woman. He had met too many formidable Dutch ladies of Mrs. Van Gelder’s ilk in South Africa.

  Mrs. Van Gelder’s expression softened. “Don’t mistake me, Inspector. I hope no harm has befallen him. He is a nice young man. Never any trouble, always polite. Not like others.”

  He thanked Mrs. Van Gelder for the inconvenience and handed her his card with a request that she contact him if Visscher should return home. “Of course, Inspector Curran, whatever we can do to assist the police. I just pray the boy is safe and well.”

  “As do we all,” Curran agreed, but as he returned to the motor vehicle, the feeling that all was not right with Mr. Visscher settled on his shoulders.

  EIGHT

  Nothing distinguished the Explorers and Geographers Club from any other old bungalow of its vintage, except a discreet brass plaque beside the front door. It read simply EGC, NO ADMITTANCE TO NONMEMBERS.

  Friendly and welcoming, Curran thought, and rang the bell anyway.

  An Indian jagar in Punjabi dress answered the door, a man of immense size who would have dwarfed the not-insubstantial Sergeant Singh. It appeared the khaki uniform with its insignia of an officer of the Straits Settlements Police and highly polished Sam Browne were not sufficient to identify Curran as being an official who should be given appropriate deference. Instead the jagar filled the doorway with his looming, silent presence and eyed Curran as one would an insect that had strayed across his path.

  Curran said loudly, “The name is Curran, Straits Settlements Police. I wish to speak to the secretary.”

  The jagar moved his gaze to the brass plaque.

  With rising annoyance, Curran said, “I don’t care much for signs of that nature. I am investigating the death of the president of this club. Admit me now.”

  An English voice came from behind the massive man. “What is it?”

  “Inspector Curran, Straits Settlements Police. I wish to speak with the secretary of this club about the death of Sir Oswald Newbold.”

  “Of course,” the unseen man said. “Stand aside and allow the inspector in.”

  The jagar complied, without haste and without removing his inscrutable gaze from Curran, revealing a tall, slender man of middle age, his graying hair balding at the temples.

  The man held his hand out. “James Carruthers. I am secretary of the club. Do come in, Inspector Curran. We can speak in my office.”

  Carruthers led Curran through a large open room, furnished with rattan chairs and plantation furniture. Dusty punkas stirred the air, pulled by unseen hands behind the wall. Just like any exclusive gentlemen’s club in London, the ubiquitous glasses of whisky stood on tables beside the occupied chairs and newspapers rustled in disapproval at the intruder.

  Curran disliked such places. They reminded him of the time his uncle had summoned him to attend his London club and confronted him about the “disgraceful incident” that had led to him being sent down from Cambridge. The injustice of the accusation brought against him had set him forever against the establishment and everything his uncle and these exclusive gentlemen’s clubs stood for.

  The spicy aroma of curry permeated the building, reminding him it had been a long time since breakfast.

  “Smells good,” he remarked.

  “Next to the Van Wijk, we serve the best curry tiffin in Singapore,” Carruthers said, opening a glass-paneled door marked SECRETARY in gold lettering.

  The secretary’s office was a pleasant room, looking out onto Fort Canning Hill, wood paneled and furnished with solid, well-polished English furniture. Several hand-tinted maps of Southeast Asia decorated the walls, and statuettes of dancing maidens and elegant clay pots jostled with the books on a large bookcase.

  Carruthers indicated a chair and asked if Curran would like refreshment. Thinking fondly of a beer to wash down a plate of curry, Curran asked for tea. A white-clad club servant was summoned and dispatched with the order. As they waited for the servant to return, Curran asked how many members the club had.

  “At last count, forty-seven,” Carruthers said.

  “That seems like a lot of exploring,” Curran remarked.

  “Not all local, you understand. We’ve members who have done their life’s work in Africa, South America and Australia.”

  “And you?”

  Carruthers lowered his eyes and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Alas, there is nowhere on this planet that bears my name, Inspector. I am but a paid employee of the club.”

  The downturned mouth made Curran think that some members of the club probably took delight in reminding Carruthers of this status.

  The servant returned with a tray bearing a silver teapot and delicate crockery. Curran waited until the tea was poured before he turned to the main purpose of his visit.

  “I am inquiring into the murder of Sir Oswald Newbold,” he said.

  “Of course.” Carruthers set his teacup down and took out a handkerchief, which he used to mop his brow. “Terrible business. We are all shocked, Curran.”

  “He was, I believe, president of this club?”

  “Indeed. Had been for this last year.”

  “And what was his claim to membership?”

  “There is a Mount Newbold in northern Burma. Named for him during his explorations in the ’70s.”

  Remembering the map of the Mogok valley in Newbold’s study, Curran maintained a bland expression.

  “What was the nature of his explorations in that area?” he inquired in a neutral tone.

  Carruthers ran a finger around the stiff high collar of his shirt and cleared his throat. His obvious discomfort intrigued Curran.

  “Northern Burma was still an independent state but a dashedly wealthy one, based on rubies and sapphires, mostly. The British were keen to exploit that wealth.”

  Curran sat forward. “Go on.”

  “A syndicate was formed in London—the Burmese Ruby Syndicate. It commissioned a small expeditionary force in Rangoon to infiltrate the northern Burmese territory in secret and report back on the location of the mines. Of course, it all had to be very hush-hush. The Burmese would not have been pleased.”

  Possibly not, Curran thought. “And was it successful?”

  “Depends how you measure success,” Carruthers remarked with a twitch of his lips. “The expedition consisted of Newbol
d, an army officer, a clerk and three servants. Only two returned . . . Newbold and the army officer.”

  “What happened?”

  Carruthers shrugged. “It’s bloody thick jungle up in those parts, Inspector. Accidents, disease, run-ins with the locals . . . Newbold had a story to account for all of them.”

  The man could not disguise the bitterness in his tone and Curran felt the instinctive prickle of a story withheld.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Carruthers?”

  Carruthers stood up and walked over to the window. He stood for a long moment with his back to Curran.

  Curran had found through long experience that silences had to be filled and said nothing.

  Eventually Carruthers turned back to face him. “You’ll find out anyway. The clerk who went out with them was George Carruthers, my father. According to Newbold, Father contracted some sort of hemorrhagic fever and died in days.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eleven. My mother and I were living in Rangoon at the time.”

  “Who was the army officer?”

  “A man called Kent. Don’t know what became of him.”

  “What about the reports Newbold brought back?”

  “He didn’t just bring back reports. He brought back proof. A huge ruby. I saw it once it had been cut and polished. I think the syndicate sold it to a German royal family. Newbold had discovered extensive mines in the area just north of Mogok. That was all the British government needed. They annexed northern Burma and brought it under the administrative control of British India. Once the area was secure, the Burmese Ruby Syndicate went in with Newbold as the principal. A lot of people made a lot of money. Newbold was quite the hero. Got his knighthood for it.”

  Curran’s nerves tingled at the undisguised hatred on Carruthers’s face.

  “And your father was forgotten?”

  As if realizing he had given too much away, Carruthers straightened and held up a hand. “Please don’t mistake me, Inspector. I bore Newbold no ill will. Father made his choice to go, knowing it was a dangerous mission. My mother and I were looked after by the syndicate. We went back to England and my mother settled in Bournemouth, where she ran a lodging house. I sat for my Indian Civil Service exams and came back out East about fifteen years ago, just after she died.” He smiled. “Have to admit, I never got used to the weather in England.”