I turned and walked towards the bar, my attention drawn to a woman sitting alone by the dance floor. A mane of yellow hair cascaded to her shoulders, while her face was buried in a newspaper. A glass of white wine sat on the table, beside a book. It was the woman who had rescued me during the air raid.
I considered stopping to talk to her, but then I remembered how reluctant she was to reveal her identity. I assumed she wanted privacy. I decided to discretely nod and wave when I caught her attention, but I was no rival for the newspaper. She never looked up.
I did want to know more about her. I wondered who she was, and if she had found whomever she had been looking for, why she had come to Singapore, and where she obtained her voracious appetite for reading. If nothing else, that was a habit we shared.
I saw Thomas seated at the bar but with a different appearance. Gone were the rumpled clothes and yachting cap he had worn that day, replaced by black slacks and a white silk shirt. He had shaved, and his hair was combed.
"Mr. Adams, he called. I'm glad you could come. How are you feeling?"
"Much better, thank you." I ordered a juice for me and a cocktail for you.”
“Did you write any articles about the air raid?” he asked. asked.
“Yes, I did.” I told him about the stories I had written, both on the air raid and about Henry Hyde. I described the two series I planned to create and briefly talked about my column in London. His interest seemed genuine.
“So tell me,” he said, his face reflective. “What does London think of the situation here?”
“It’s known asFortress Singapore. Its defenses are impregnable. A universe away from what we saw today. But the English government is confident it will survive.”
“Now that you are in Singapore, you should report the truth to those back home.”
“And what is the truth?” I asked. “A few air attacks and nothing more? A weakness in our defenses that has been momentarily exploited? Or an imminent defeat?”
He searched my face, wondering whether to trust me. It was a look I had seen a hundred times when conducting interviews. He glanced at those nearby, insuring he could not be heard. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “I’m afraid thatFortress Singaporeis actually a myth, developed as a propaganda ploy to boost morale. In truth, the British are on the verge of the worst defeat in their history.”
I thought about the air raid. It had been small when compared to what I had seen in London. Damage was limited to an apartment building, some broken windows and bullet-ridden cars. I suspected that was mirrored in different sections of the city. But there wasn’t a significant loss of life. It seemed a gross exaggeration to admit defeat; the battle had yet to begin.
“I think you might be mistaken,” I said. “And so does all of Britain. Our forces greatly outnumber the Japanese. We can deter an invasion.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Look at what you witnessed today. Who was the aggressor?”
The Japanese did attack. And for the most part they were unopposed. Although I did see an enemy plane shot down. “We don’t know what damage our forces did.”
“The Japanese forces are massed on the Malay Peninsula, ready to attack. But, I’ve heard rumors they have also occupied Ubin Island in the northeast.”
The whole world knew that the Japanese occupied the Malay Peninsula. But no one knew that they were on Ubin Island. So Thomas confirmed what Henry Hyde had told me. I thought it interesting that two such varied sources had the same information.
“Will they attack from Ubin Island?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “It’s probably a diversion. But it does pin some of our forces there in case they do attack. That’s what the Japanese want.”
“How do you know all of this?”
He shrugged. “I talk to people. I listen. There are many soldiers in the city. It only takes a liter of beer to loosen their tongues.”
“Why do you trust me with this information?”
“It’s nothing secret,” he said. “I’m sure someone will confirm it.”
“Do the residents of the island share your view of its defenses?”
“A few do,” he said. “But most hope for a miracle. But the truth is, unless the British send assistance, Singapore is doomed. Maybe you can write an article that rallies that support.”
“I need to confirm your assessment,” I said. “Facts are more persuasive than opinions.”
“I encourage you to do so,” he said. “If you want, I will take you around the island tomorrow. You can see the defenses for yourself.”
He was then distracted, and looked towards the dance floor and chuckled. I turned to see what captured his attention.
An American song by the Andrews sisters, an upbeat tune called “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” blared on the phonograph. The mystery woman sat at her table, her eyes still on the book, but consumed by the music. Her foot tapped on the floor, she was snapping her fingers, and her upper body swayed back and forth. As the song moved to the chorus, she raised her eyes from the page and mouthed the lyrics, oblivious to the rest of the room. I wondered how she could read and sing at the same time.
I looked at some of the other patrons. The Victoria Hotel was one of the most exclusive establishments in the world. Almost all its guests, except for me, were upper class socialites. Most were British. And upper class Englishman were staid and stiff. But they watched her also, amused by her behavior.
“You like her, don’t you?” Thomas asked.
I was uncomfortable with the question. My mind was focused on Maggie, as it should be, not some woman I didn’t even know. “I do find her interesting,” I admitted.
“So do I,” he said. “What do you find so appealing?”
I had asked myself the same question. “She’s brave, intelligent, unconventional, daring and unafraid. She has a beautiful smile and is very attractive, particularly her blue eyes and blond hair.”
“That’s what you see?”
I looked at him strangely. “Yes, that’s what I see. Why? What do you see?”
“I see someone hiding from the world. Someone vulnerable, afraid she’ll be hurt, who acts strong and defiant so no one notices.”
He surprised me. He was far more perceptive than I thought. I considered his statement, and watched the woman as she sipped her wine, oblivious to the excitement she had caused in the taproom.
“Isn’t it funny,” he said. “We see completely different things.”
“Maybe we each see what we want to see. Not what really is.”
CHAPTER 3
It was almost midnight when I prepared to depart, more than a little tired. I was not a drinker, so alcohol wasn’t the cause. My father was a Protestant minister, and I experienced a strict upbringing. There had been no alcohol in my house, as we believed it was dissipation. I did have a happy childhood, at least as happy as possible when confined to bed for most of it, but I had little opportunity to develop any other vices.
Thomas was determined to remain at the bar until it closed, which I would later learn was his custom. I said my goodbyes and made my way across the empty dance floor, past the tables that surrounded it, most of which were still occupied. I glanced at the patrons as I passed and smiled. I pictured them watching the mystery woman enjoying the music. Just as I left the lounge, I felt someone lightly tap my shoulder.
“Mr. Adams?”
It was her. She held up the business card I had given her.
“I think I’ll take that favor you offered.”
“Of course,” I said anxiously. “Just name it. But who are you? You wouldn’t tell me this morning.”
“I’d rather not,” she said. “It’s not important anyway.”
“But it is to me,” I said. “And I can always get it from the hotel registry.”
She smiled, that beautiful smile that had so overwhelmed me earlier. “All you’ll get is the name under which I registered. Which may or may not be mine.”
I studied her for a m
oment. She was determined but polite. I tried a different tactic. “You can trust me,” I said softly.
She arched her eyebrows. “I can trust a reporter? I bet I’m already in the morning papers. I’m sure you wrote about the air raid.”
She was right. I did write about the air raid. And I did mention her. “I’m sorry.”
“I thought so.”
“But I can keep a secret.”
She studied me closely, and a tense moment passed. “All right, I’ll trust you,” she said. Her eyes twinkled with a bit of mischief. “But if you betray me, I will make it very unpleasant for you.”
“Really?” I asked, detecting a sense of humor. “How so?”
“Let me see,” she said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “Suppose I pull out each fingernail, one by one, slowly and deliberately.”
“Ouch,” I said. She had probably gotten that idea from one of the murder mysteries she read. “I think that will make me keep my promise. Have I convinced you?”
She was pensive for a moment before surrendering. “I suppose.”
“And you are?”
“Lady Jane Carrington Smythe,” she said.
My eyes widened. I was surprised I hadn’t recognized her. But why would I? Who expected to find a titled Englishwoman, especially one as well-known as she, wandering around Singapore during an air raid?
The Smythe family had been entrenched in Ulster for centuries. Her father, the Earl of Carncastle, spent the past twenty-five years as a political advisor in India, helping the crown govern the colony. Some claimed he was banished from England after the Great War because he was a relative of the German Kaiser. It had created quite a stir, there were even accusations of aiding the enemy; it was a sordid scandal at the time. So Lady Smythe had spent most of her life in New Delhi while her family maintained a dominant voice in England’s oversight of the subcontinent.
“Lady Smythe,” I said with a bow, “I am honored to meet you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. But you can save all that rubbish. Call me Jane.”
“Lady Jane,” I said, unable to entirely forego the formalities. “What can I do to assist?”
She surveyed the area and, when satisfied we were alone, she continued. “I can use your help. But no one must know who I am. Not under any circumstances. Do you understand?”
My interest was piqued. I wondered why such secrecy. And what did she need my help for. She could have, and do, whatever she wanted. All she had to do was ask.
“I understand,” I said. “I will not reveal your identity.”
She eyed me for a moment and, when satisfied she could trust me, she led me into the lobby. We moved past the walls of Italian marble and around a group of broad- leafed potted plants. A secluded leather sofa was hidden by the shrubbery, and it was here that she chose to sit.
The room was deserted except for the clerk manning the registration desk. He yawned while he read a newspaper through half-lens glasses. He occasionally peeked over the frame to gaze about the room, but seemed to have little interest in us, assuming he noticed us at all.
Her continued need for secrecy only heightened my curiosity. I leaned forward, giving her both my undivided attention and the respect her social position demanded.
“I’ve been told that journalists have a network of global contacts,” she said.
She was partially right. I was a journalist. But I had no global contacts. In fact, I had barely left London. Not even for other regions of the United Kingdom. I had no idea what she wanted, but I was intrigued. Both by her and her dilemma.
“Please, continue,” I said.
“I was supposed to meet someone here, at the hotel, but he has not arrived. I would like you to help me find him.”
I remembered when she had rescued me. So she really was searching for someone. But why during an aerial assault? Maybe she thought he was in the immediate vicinity and might be injured or caught unaware.
“I think anyone could help you with that,” I said. “It doesn’t have to be me.”
“It’s a personal matter,” she said. “And I told you, I don’t want anyone to know that I’m here. That’s very important.”
I studied her for a moment. She was attractive on so many different levels. I knew it was wrong, given Maggie’s memory, but I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. I wasn’t sure if I could help Lady Jane. But I decided to try.
“Tell me about this person you were supposed to meet,” I said.
“He’s a soldier who is stationed here.”
“He never arrived?”
“Not at the hotel, but I assume he’s still in Singapore. And I must find him. We intend to go to Australia.”
I considered the many reasons she might be meeting the man. A love interest. He was a friend or relative. She might be helping him desert the army, or finding him for a friend, or maybe she was escaping from something worse, as Thomas had said. It was troubling that he hadn’t contacted her. I considered the turmoil of the last few months. There could be a dozen legitimate reasons why he didn’t. But he could also be dead.
“Do you know his regiment?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s with the Twelfth Infantry Brigade. His name is Captain Balraj Patel.”
I was a bit surprised. It was an Indian name. Although I knew she was also from India, it ruled out any relation.
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“I received his last letter about three weeks ago.”
If she had received his letter three weeks ago, plus the time it took to get there, he could now be anywhere. Three weeks in war equaled a lifetime in peace.
“You do realize that I’ve only arrived in Singapore this morning?” I said hesitantly.
“So,” she said. “I only arrived yesterday. But I never expected the Japanese to be so close.”
“Nor did I,” I admitted. “The situation is far worse than those in London know.”
I thought of racing down Orchard Road that afternoon with bullets firing and bombs bursting. I thought of the abandoned cars, panicked people, and diving planes. Singapore was a city at war. She was staring intently, almost as if she were trying to gauge my sincerity. Eventually she seemed satisfied. She stood abruptly and turned towards the bar. “Why don’t we have a drink?”
“A marvelous idea, but I don’t drink alcohol.”
We returned to the taproom, and I found the same faces I had left ten minutes before. We sat at the bar, and I ordered a sparkling water with lime while she had a glass of white wine. Thomas sat directly across from us talking to an Asian man whose head was shaved. I assumed this impeccably dressed gentleman was a city businessman. .
“I’m hoping you have contacts with the military who can tell me where he is,” she said. “I’m afraid something happened to him. I’m frightfully worried.”
“Considering the chaos of the last few days, he could be anywhere on the island,” I said. I tried to think of the best way to approach this. The location of specific divisions was likely classified. Each had their own area of expertise, vital information to the enemy.
“I suppose,” she said. “But I do think he is still here.” She sipped her wine, her lipstick leaving a faint outline on the glass. “Do you know anyone who can find him?”
I had to think of something. I didn’t want her to change her mind. Not only was she a fascinating person, but she would also be a valuable contact for my career, opening doors to a level of society that were currently closed, especially if she felt indebted to me.
I was about to admit that the issue may be more difficult than it seemed when my eyes met Thomas. I thought of the military discussion we had just shared, the specific information he had access to. He smiled broadly, nodded a greeting, and motioned discreetly to Lady Jane.
“I have met someone with detailed knowledge of military matters,” I said. “I can approach him. He may be willing to help.”
“And who is that?” she asked.
/>
“That gentleman directly across the bar.”
CHAPTER 4
“Who is he?” she asked.
“His name is Thomas Montclair.”
“English?”
“No, French, but from parts unknown.”
“Why do we need someone else?” she asked. “If there are more people involved, someone may find out who I am. Can’t you just make a few inquiries? You should have access to the authorities. I don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” I said. “But they may not be willing to tell me anything. Thomas is familiar with the geography of the island, and he knows a lot of local people. He may be able to get information more easily than us.”
She studied him from across the bar, a hint of skepticism crossing her face. “How well do you know him?”
“I’ve only spent a few hours with him. But I do think we can trust him. He’s an interesting person. Intelligent, well-traveled, he speaks five languages, and more importantly he knows Singapore.”
Her interest was piqued. “He speaks five languages?”
I watched her closely. She seemed to respect and admire intelligence; it was a quality she possessed, judging from the books she read.
“Yes, he does,” I said. “And when we were in the bomb shelter, he was looking at the book you had. He wanted to borrow it.”
“What book is that?” She looked uncomfortable, as if she had caught us spying on her.
I smiled, thinking of the title. “ Social Stratification of the Indian Subcontinent.”
She seemed a bit surprised, both that we had noticed what she was reading and that he found it appealing. She glanced at him again, studying him with different eyes. “Interesting,” she said slowly. “But what if he doesn’t want to help?”
“Let’s first see if he does.”
“All right,” she said. “And I agree with you. He can likely open doors that we cannot. Also, make it clear to him that money is no object. I’m saying that for your benefit also.”
To Parts Unknown Page 3