Sleuths

by Bill Pronzini

  "What about people here? You have a job or just on holiday?"

  "I've been working here four months," she said. "In a department store near Raffles Square. But it doesn't pay much and the owners won't help me. I've already asked them."

  "Uh-huh. You could try the Canadian consulate, or have you already thought of that?"

  "Yes. They wouldn't help, either, at least not to get me home quickly so I can be with my father."

  I finished my beer. "So you think your only option is somebody like me. That's too bad because there's nothing I can do for you. I don't fly anymore. I haven't flown a plane in two years."

  "But I can pay you, really I can. After we arrive I'll arrange with my father's bank—"

  "You could lay a fortune in cash on this table and it wouldn't make any difference," I said. "It's not a matter of money. There's no way I can help you."

  "Then . . . then what am I going to do?" She seemed on the verge of tears.

  "Find somebody else." I'd had enough of this. I shoved my chair back and got on my feet. "Good night, Miss Kellogg. And good luck."

  "No, wait . . ."

  But I was already leaving. Without looking at her again I threaded my way through the crowded bar and went outside.

  The night was dark—street lamps are few and far between on Jalan Barat. No wind and still muggy, but the fresh air cleared my head. I started away along the deserted street. Behind me I heard Tina Kellogg's voice calling my name; she'd followed me out. I didn't turn or slow my pace, then or when I heard her steps hurrying after me. It wasn't until I heard the sound of the car speeding down Jalan Barat past the Gardens, traveling much too fast from the whiny roar of the engine, that I swiveled my head for a backward look.

  The car, its headlights glaring, was less than fifty yards away. There was the pig squeal of brakes locking and tires biting into pavement as the driver swung the car in at an angle to the curb close behind me. Both front doors opened at the same time, and two men came out in a hurry. I saw their faces clearly as they ran through the headlight spill: the two flat-eyed orang séwaan-séwaan who had been with Van Rijk earlier.

  I had enough time to turn and set myself before the driver reached me. His right arm was raised across his body; he brought it down in a backward, chopping motion, karate-style. I got my left arm up and blocked his descending forearm with my own. The force of his rush threw him off balance, made him vulnerable. I jabbed the stiffened fingers of my right hand into his stomach, just below the breastbone. All the air went out of him. He stumbled backward, retching, and sat down hard on the sidewalk.

  The other one had got there by then, but when he saw the driver fall he came up short and fumbled beneath his white linen jacket. I took three quick steps and laid the hard edge of my hand across his wrist. He made a pained noise deep in his throat and there was a metallic clatter as the gun or knife dropped to the pavement. I hit him twice in the face with quick jabs, turning him, then drove the point of my elbow into his kidneys. The blow sent him staggering blindly forward; he collided with the side of a building, slid down along it and lay still.

  I looked at the driver again, but he was still sitting on the sidewalk, holding his stomach with both hands. I let my body relax, breathing raggedly, and scanned the street behind the stalled car. There was no sign of Tina Kellogg.

  Other people came running toward me, shouting. I started toward them, thinking that I could decide later what to do, if anything, about Van Rijk. The thing to do right now was to avoid any contact with the polis. My reputation being what it was, the less I had to do with them, the better. Even though it had been two years since the trouble on Penang, memories are long in the South China Seas.

  Somebody came up and asked me what had happened. "An accident," I said, and kept right on going. No one tried to stop me. And I did not look back.

  Somebody was pounding on the door.

  I rolled over on the sweat-slick sheets and opened my eyes. It was morning; the sun lay outside the bedroom window of my flat like a red-orange ball suspended on glowing wires. I closed my eyes again and lay there listening to the now-impatient knocking. Whoever it was did not give up and go away.

  "All right," I called finally. "All right."

  I threw back the mosquito netting, got up and went to where my clothes were strewn on the rattan settee. The fan on the bureau had quit working sometime during the night, which accounted for the hot, stale air. I opened a window, then put on my trousers and crossed to unlock the door.

  Standing there was a little, wiry, dark-skinned man wearing a pith-style helmet, white shorts, knee-high white socks, and a short-sleeved bush jacket. The outfit was a uniform, and he wore it proudly as native Malayans in an official capacity often do.

  "I am Inspector Kok Chin Tiong of the Singapore polis,"he said. "I would like to speak with you, please."

  "What about?"

  "May I come in, Mr. Connell?"

  "If you don't make any comments about my housekeeping."

  I stood aside to let him walk in past me. He stood in the middle of the room, looking around, then turned to confront me as I shut the door. His face and eyes were expressionless.

  "You are acquainted with a French national named La Croix," Tiong said. It wasn't a question.

  "I know him, yes."

  "When did you last see him?"

  He already knew the answer to that or he wouldn't be here. I said, "Yesterday. He looked me up. First time I'd seen him in three years."

  "Why did he look you up, as you say?"

  "He wanted me to do something for him."

  "And that was?"

  "Fly him out of Singapore."

  "To what destination?"

  "He didn't get around to telling me."

  "You didn't ask?"

  "I wasn't interested enough to ask."

  "Did you agree to his request?"

  "No. I don't fly anymore."

  "Ah, yes," Tiong said. "There was an accident two years ago on Penang Island. Involving an aircraft belonging to you and a Mr. Lawrence Falco."

  "Yeah," I said. "An accident."

  "You and Mr. Falco were co-owners of an air cargo company. The plane, piloted by you, crashed late one night in the jungle near a remote airstrip. You escaped serious injury but your partner was killed."

  I didn't say anything.

  "Explain, please, what you and Mr. Falco were doing in such a place at such a late hour. No flight plan was filed for the trip."

  "There was a full investigation at the time. I gave a statement. Look up the records."

  He smiled faintly. "I have already done so. There was strong suspicion that you and Mr. Falco were involved in the smuggling of contraband."

  "Nothing was proven."

  "Yes, both the plane and its cargo were destroyed in the explosion following the crash. But your commercial license was revoked."

  My head had begun to ache. "Listen," I said, "I don't know why you're here, Inspector, but what I was or wasn't doing two years ago is a dead issue, just like Larry Falco. I haven't been up in a plane since, and I never will again. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to wash up and get dressed."

  His black eyes searched my face for a few seconds, then he put his hands behind his back and walked to the window. He stood looking down at noisy activity on Punyang Street. After a time, as I finished putting on my pants, he turned and said, "I would like to know your whereabouts last evening, Mr. Connell."

  I told him, leaving out Tina Kellogg and the incident with Van Rijk's toughs.

  He rubbed at his upper lip with the tip of one finger. "You are familiar with the East Coast Road, near Bedok?"

  "A little."

  "The French national was found there early this morning," Tiong said. "He had been dead for several hours. Quite badly used and then shot through the temple with a small caliber weapon."

  I went to the bureau, shook a cigarette out of my pack and lit it. "How do you mean, badly used?"

  "Tortured. With l
ighted cigarettes," he added pointedly. I stubbed mine out; it had tasted foul anyway. "So you think I had something to do with it."

  "Did you?"

  "I told you where I was last night."

  "Do you own a gun, please?"

  "Would you object to a search of your room?"

  "Be my guest," I said. "But you're wasting your time, Inspector. I didn't kill La Croix. I didn't have any reason to kill him."

  "Have you any idea who did?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do. Look up a guy named Van Rijk, Jorge Van Rijk, and ask him the same questions you've asked me."

  Tiong's eyes narrowed. "What do you know of Van Rijk?"

  "He looked me up yesterday, too, after I saw La Croix. Wanted to know where La Croix was and what his plans were. I brushed him off. He didn't like it, made a few veiled threats—and last night, when I left the Gardens, the two men he'd had with him jumped me. They didn't have any better luck."

  "I see," Tiong said slowly. "Most interesting."

  "I take it you're familiar with Van Rijk. Who is he?"

  "A Dutch merchant currently living in Johore Bahru.

  But we have reason to believe he has other interests illegal and quite profitable interests. He is also known to be an avid collector of rare jade." Tiong paused. "You are aware, of course, of the recent theft from the Museum of Oriental Art?"

  "No," I said.

  "It has been prominent in the newspapers."

  "I'm not much of a reader."

  "Early last week," Tiong said, "a valuable white jade figurine, the Burong Chabak,was taken from an exhibit at the museum. The robbery was cleverly planned and executed."

  "You think Van Rijk was involved in it?"

  "We do. We believe the French national was involved as well."

  "It wouldn't surprise me. La Croix would do just about anything for the right price . . . but then I guess you know that."

  Tiong nodded.

  "If you're right," I said, "La Croix must have double crossed Van Rijk and tried to keep the figurine for himself. That's why he was in such a sweat to have me fly him out of Singapore."

  "So it would seem."

  "Van Rijk and his boys must've caught up with him last night. Which means that now they have the figurine."

  "Possibly."

  "Have you picked up Van Rijk yet?"

  "No. But we will. Everyone involved in the theft of the Burong Chabak will be taken into custody eventually."

  "If you've got some idea that I'm mixed up in it, you're dead wrong. Everything I've told you is the truth."

  "I hope so, Mr. Connell. Is there any more information you can give me?"

  "Very well. I will take up no more of your time. You will, of course, keep yourself available in the event I need to speak with you again."

  "I hadn't planned on going anywhere."

  He nodded curtly. "Then, selamat jalan,Mr. Connell," and he went away and left me alone. For now.

  The sun bore down mercilessly on the bared upper half of my body. My khakis were soaked through with a viscid sweat; the back of my neck was blotched and raw from the roote hond.

  I rolled another barrel of palm oil from the deck of the tongkang across the plank and onto the dock. One of the Chinese coolies took it there and muscled it onto a wooden skid. An ancient forklift waited nearby.

  I paused for a breather, rubbing the back of my forearm across my eyes. I was thinking how good an iced Anchor beer would taste once we were done for the day, when Harry Rutledge came walking over to me.

  "How's it going, lad?"

  "Another hour or so should do it."

  "Well, you have a visitor. An impatient one, at that."

  "Visitor?"

  "Bit of a pip, too," Harry said. "You Americans have all the luck."

  "A woman? She tell you her name?"

  "Tina Kellogg."

  I frowned. "Where is she?"

  "My office. You know where it is."

  I put my shirt on, then went inside the huge, high-raftered godown and threaded my way through the stacked barrels and crates and skids to Harry's cluttered office. Tina Kellog was sitting in the bamboo armchair near the window, wearing a tailored white suit with a skirt short enough to reveal long, slender legs. She stood as I entered, smiling hesitantly. Her eyes were green and full of pleading.

  "Mr. Connell, I . . . I'm sorry to bother you like this, but I wanted to make sure you're all right. Those men last night . . ."

  "Uh-huh. Muggers are a hazard in that district."

  She nodded. "I shouldn't have run away as I did. But I was frightened. It all happened so quickly."

  "You did the right thing."

  She sat in the armchair again, began twisting her hands nervously in her lap.

  "Okay," I said. "Now you can tell me the real reason you're here. As if I didn't already know."

  Color came into her cheeks. "I . . . I went back to the consulate this morning. They still won't help me. I have nowhere else to turn . . ." Abruptly she began to cry.

  I stood there in the heat and watched her. Then, as the tears slowed and became a series of snuffles, I moved over to Harry's desk and cocked a hip against it and lit a cigarette.

  She looked up at me, her face wet, her eyes shining. "Please, Mr. Connell, please help me. I'll pay or do anything you ask.

  "I told you last night, I don't fly anymore. I don't own a plane anymore, don't have access to one because my license was revoked two years ago."

  "But . . . the man I talked with yesterday, the one who gave me your name, he said you keep a DC-3 hidden at an abandoned airstrip here on the island." She snuffled, brushed at her eyes. "Isn't it still there?"

  I didn't say anything for a time. The smoke from the cigarette burned my throat; I butted it in Harry's overflowing ashtray. "Yes," I said then. "It's still there."

  "Then . . ."

  "I'm treading on thin ice with the government," I said. "One more mark against me, I'll be declared persona non grata and deported. I don't have any other home to go to."

  "No one will ever know," she said. "You'll be very careful, I know you will. And I'll pay you whatever you ask, any amount, as soon as I can make arrangements with my father's bank . . ."

  I was silent again, thinking. Not liking what I was thinking, but there it was just the same.

  "Mr. Connell?"

  "All right," I said.

  "You'll help me?"

  "I'll help you."

  She came up out of the chair, threw her arms around my neck. "Oh, thank you, thank you! You won't regret this, I promise you."

  I pushed her away gently. "I sure as hell hope not."

  "When can we leave?"

  "Tonight. It'll have to be late, around eleven."

  "We couldn't go sooner?"

  "No. Do you know the Esplanade on Cecil Street?"

  "Yes. Yes, I know it."

  "Meet me there at ten o'clock," I said, and left her and Harry's hot, cramped office and went back to work. Telling myself I was a damn fool and knowing I was going to go through with it anyway.

  It rained the early part of the evening, a torrential tropical downpour that lasted for more than an hour and left the air, as the daily rains always did, smelling clean and sweet. But by then, when I left my flat, it had grown oppressively hot and humid again.

  Tina Kellogg was waiting in the shadows near the Esplanade when I arrived at Cecil Street. Tonight she wore men's khakis and a gray bush jacket—her traveling outfit.

  "No luggage?" I asked her.

  "No. I didn't want to bother with it. I can send for it later."

  "All right. Let's get started."

  I hailed one of the H.C.S. taxis that roam the streets of Singapore in droves. The driver, a bearded Sikh, did not ask any questions when I told him where we wanted to go, even though he wouldn't get many fares to the remote Jurong section of the island that I named. There was nothing much out there but mangrove swamps and a few native fishing kampongs.

  It was n
early eleven when he turned onto Kelang Bahru Road, leading toward the abandoned airstrip, Mikko Field. The moon was up and nearly full, lighting the road brightly enough so that you could have driven it without headlights.

  When we neared the access road to the strip, the Sikh slowed and asked, "Do you wish me to drive to the field, sahib? The road is very bad."

  "Go in as far as you can," I told him. "We'll walk the rest of the way."

  He made the turn onto the access road. It was chuck-holed and choked with tall grass and tangled vegetation. We crawled along for about a quarter mile. Finally, in the bright moonshine, I could see the long, rough runway, raised some ten feet on steep earth mounds from the mangrove jungle on both sides. At its upper end, to our left, were the decaying wooden outbuildings, and farther behind them, the broken-domed hangar. The airstrip had been deserted since the end of the Second World War. Few people remembered, or cared, that it hadn't yet rotted into extinction.

  The Sikh brought the taxi to a stop. The road was mostly impassable from this point; the marsh grass was tall and thick, and parasitic vines and creepers and thorn bushes had encroached thickly in places.

  I paid the Sikh, and Tina Kellogg and I stepped out. The night was alive with the buzzing hum of mosquitoes, midges, the big Malaysian cicadas. There was the heavy smell of decaying vegetation, of dampness from the rain.

  The taxi backed around a jog in the road, its lights making filtered splashes through the mangroves. I stood looking toward the airstrip, listening to the throb of the engine as the Sikh got turned around and headed away.

  Tina Kellogg had not spoken during the ride out. Now she said, "The runway doesn't seem very well maintained. Are you sure it'll be safe to take off?"

  "You let me worry about that."

  I took her arm and pushed ahead through the grass. We hadn't gone far when I heard the engine sound. Not the taxi's; that one had faded to silence. This was a new, different sound—the unmistakable whine of a four-cylinder engine held in low gear—and it was coming this way. Coming fast and without headlights; when I turned to look back, all I could see was moonlight and thick shadow.