The Feng Shui Detective Goes South

by Nury Vittachi

  As he rose in the elevator, he shook his head with wonder at his own strange behavior. He had astonished himself, agreeing to go to Sydney on what appeared highly likely to be a wild goose chase. And to have allowed himself to have been persuaded by his irritating intern, of all people! What hope did he have of finding two people in a place as large as Australia, without any clues as to their address or itinerary? Especially since at least one of the two people had no intention of allowing himself to be found. It all seemed a gamble with the longest possible odds.

  But the news that Joyce had delivered of Madeleine Tsai’s status as heiress to a business fortune could not be ignored. Her father Tsai Tze-ting had a fortune of legendary proportions and was once reputed to have given a million Hong Kong dollars to a man who had recovered a hat he had left in a park.

  Wong believed that everybody got one golden opportunity in life—and this just might be it for him. There was a possibility that Joyce could be bringing him his chance to make enough money on which to retire. The gods were known to have an ironic sense of humour. It would have been just like them to use his pestilent junior to deliver a golden rice bowl to him.

  But if that was so, it would be the practicalities that counted. No cash gift would be forthcoming unless he found the missing girl and made sure she got through this difficult period alive. Their best hope, Wong had immediately realised, was to find out exactly what had motivated Amran Ismail to go to Australia. It was simple logic: certain feng shui charts showed that Australia, and a few other more distant southerly places, were the worst possible locations for Madeleine Tsai’s prospects on this date. Or, to see it from Ismail’s point of view, Australia was the best possible location for him to fulfil his aim of seeing her suffer an untimely death and become eligible to collect his winnings from insurance companies.

  But Ismail was a bomoh, not a geomancer. He would be highly unlikely to know the right feng shui lore about locations at specific times—the heavenly stems and earthly pillars of destiny. He must have consulted someone from the same school of feng shui as the one to which Wong himself belonged. This gave a limited number of options. If he limited himself to professional geomancers, he reckoned there were a total of nineteen people in Singapore who could have done the necessary calculations that would have prompted Ismail to head for Sydney.

  Wong was carrying a list of these names. Before leaving Singapore the previous night, he had given a similar list to Dilip Sinha and Madame Xu.

  After touching down on schedule at Kingsford Smith Airport after nightfall, they had arrived at the hotel in Sydney much too late to make any calls. And the time difference meant that he would be unable to make any calls himself to Singapore numbers for about three hours.

  Wong got back to his room at the hotel at 8.42 a.m. to find the telephone light blinking. There were two messages. One was from Joyce McQuinnie at 8.01 a.m., informing him that she had woken up ‘really really early’ and was ready for action. The other was from Dilip Sinha at 8.39 a.m.—5.39 a.m. in Singapore—asking him to return the call as soon as possible.

  He quickly dialed Sinha’s number.

  ‘Sinha? Is me.’

  ‘Ah, Wong. Good to hear your voice. How was the journey? Comfortable, I hope? I am always amazed at what a long journey it is from Singapore to Australia. One thinks of Australia as being just below this part of East Asia. But when one hears that it takes as long to get to major cities in Australia as it does to get to, say, Europe from Singapore, then one realises that Down Under is actually not just down under us, but is in reality an enormous distance from here, equivalent to crossing the world, but in a southerly—’ ‘Never mind,’ snapped Wong impatiently. ‘Did you phone all those feng shui men last night?’

  ‘Indeed I did. Not all of them were in, but we were diligent. We made careful notes of those who were in to take our calls, those who only received recorded messages—goodness, how I hate talking to a tape recorder, it’s so discomfiting—and those who were not contactable, but would need repeat calls . . .’

  ‘Any one of them met Amran Ismail?’

  ‘I was just coming to that. At about 9 p.m. last night, we managed to get though to Eric Kan, who was, I believe, second to last on our list of people whom we had not yet been able to speak. As soon as I mentioned the name of Mr Ismail, Eric gave a cry of recognition.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He sort of said, “Yes,” or perhaps, “Sure-lah,” in the Singaporean style.’

  ‘No. What did Kan say to Amran Ismail? Where did he tell him to go?’

  ‘Ah, right. Yes, of course. That’s the key bit of information. Well, let me tell you. Ismail apparently told Eric exactly the same news that Madame Xu and I heard, about this girl Clara being due to die this week. And then Eric looked through the papers that Ismail had bought. Eric did pretty much the same feng shui calculations as you did. And he came to the same conclusion that you did. Eric said that he should head north from Singapore.’

  ‘North?’

  ‘Yes, north. He said that Madeleine’s luck was extremely bad here, but would be better if he headed north. I think he actually gave a suggested compass destination—like nor’ nor’ east 358 degrees or something. I can’t remember. Chong Li wrote it down. Then Ismail asked what would be the worst destination. Interesting, huh?’

  ‘Yes. And . . . ?’

  ‘And Eric Kan told him that whatever he did, he should not take her southwards. Tell your friend not to even think about going to Australia over the next few days, he said. He probably said it as a joke. He said it would be the worst place—as you yourself said at lunch yesterday.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Then Ismail gave him a small cash tip, thanked him profusely, and headed off. No doubt straight to a travel agent to buy a pair of tickets to Sydney. Now let me just look at my notes. Um. Ah, that’s right. Amran Ismail saw Eric on Wednesday at about 10.30 in the morning, and the travel agent said that he bought tickets to Australia for that evening’s flight just after lunch on the same day. That afternoon, no doubt he made up some cock and bull story to tell to Clara that Australia was the safest place for her, and off they went.’

  ‘Thank you. Did Eric say where in Australia to go? Or just say, Australia?’

  ‘He just said Australia. So I’m sorry. It doesn’t narrow it down for you. Oh, the only comment he made was some sort of joke. He told me he said something like: Don’t even think of sitting under a hanging knife in a graveyard in Australia. In other words, he was telling him to avoid bad feng shui spots in Australia. So I would suppose that if he had gone to Sydney, he would find the worst feng shui spot in Sydney. I mean, that’s logical. It’s not a very big clue, as far as clues go, I’m afraid. Is that any help?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Wong was about to thank Sinha and ring off when the elderly Indian astrologer spoke again.

  ‘Then there were the other chaps who came round about teatime to help with the search. I presume you put them up to it, Wong?’

  ‘Ah?’

  ‘The other chaps.’

  ‘Other chaps.’

  ‘What was the guy’s name? Jackie Something was the leader.

  He had a couple of friends who didn’t say very much.’

  ‘Mm-mingbaak. Don’t understand.’ Wong wondered if Sinha was getting confused in his old age. ‘Don’t know any Jackie Something.’

  ‘These guys turned up at Madame Xu’s door—we were doing all the calls from her place, so as to be coordinated—and said that they were looking for Madeleine Tsai. Chong Li said she had no idea who Madeleine Tsai was—she is so forgetful, that dear girl. I of course pointed out that Madeleine was the name that Clara used when talking to Joyce. So I presume that Jackie Something must be a friend of Joyce.’

  ‘Jackie Something. Funny name. Gwai lo?

  ’ ‘No, he was Chinese. I’m not saying his name was Jackie Something in the sense that his family name was Mr Something. I’m saying that I can’t remember what his fami
ly name was. Maybe Madame Xu can remember. You could give her a call. She should be at Sago Street now. Although perhaps not awake yet. It’s not yet six here.’

  ‘Jackie is name of girl in most places. In Hong Kong, it is name of boys. This man: he was from Hong Kong?’

  ‘Yes, I think he probably was. He had that sort of hard-nosed slickness that the Hong Kong young men have. Not soft and fat like Singaporean boys. So did his friends.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Very elegantly dressed. Dark suit, probably Zegna or something like that. Dark glasses. Like a movie star. He was, I can honestly say, almost impeccably well dressed. There was just one thing wrong.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was quite amusing, really. Everything was perfect in every detail—but he had unfortunately forgotten to cut the fingernail on his pinky. It stuck out a good half inch, maybe more. Maybe an inch.’

  ‘Aiyeeaah,’ said Wong, closing his eyes.

  ‘He seemed a perfectly charming young man, although he spoke English with a very strong accent, presumably a Hong Kong accent. I don’t think there is anything to worry about.

  He said he considered himself a brother to Clara.’

  ‘Big brother?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Aiyeeaah. What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him that we had no idea where Clara was. But I told him that she was somewhere in Sydney and that you and Joyce had gone to find her. I told her that Joyce was her big buddy, and knew her personally. He said he would get on the next plane to Australia to lend you guys a hand. I gave him the name and address of your hotel. I thought it would be helpful. He said he would go straight to the airport. If he managed to get a plane last night, he’s probably already in Sydney now. He’ll probably have been on the first flight to have arrived this morning.’

  Wong dropped the phone and raced to find Joyce.

  The young woman had just finished getting dressed when her bedside phone rang.

  ‘CF?’ she asked.

  ‘Ms McQuinnie?’ asked an Australian female voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is reception. There are some young men here to see you.’ The voice spoke to someone else: ‘What name shall I give, sir?’ The receptionist returned to Joyce. ‘The name is Jackie Sum. Shall I send them up?’

  ‘Jack what?’

  ‘There’s a young man named Jackie Sum who is here with two other gentlemen.’

  ‘To see me? Are you sure they want me? I’m Joyce McQuinnie, in room, er, 706?’

  ‘That’s right. That’s who they asked for. Do you want to speak to one of them?’

  ‘No worries,’ said Joyce, slipping back into the Australian lilt that she had had as a child. ‘Just send ’em up.’

  She had not missed the fact that the receptionist had specified that they were young men. She raced to the mirror to see if she looked all right. She dabbed some perfume under her ears and on her wrists, and started trying to get her hair into some kind of order. Who could they be? Must be friends of CF’s. Actually, he had talked about getting in touch with the local feng shui masters here in Sydney. It must be them. Wong was sometimes a surprisingly fast worker. That was the advantage of being an early riser, she supposed.

  Two minutes later, there was a knock on her door.

  Joyce took one last look in the mirror, and then went to open the door. ‘You’re a fast mover, Mr Sum,’ she said. ‘Oh. It’s you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wong, stepping into the room. ‘Good you woke up. We have plenty work to do. Must get started. Must leave immediately. Right now.’

  ‘Yep. I’m ready to rock ’n’ roll.’

  He gave her a look.

  ‘Not literally,’ she added. ‘Even I don’t go dancing at this time of the morning.’ She strolled over to the desk and started picking up things to put in her handbag. ‘Ready to start searching, I mean.’

  ‘Quick. We must leave now. Who is Mr Sum? You mention Mr Sum. When I came in.’

  ‘Isn’t he one of your friends?’ Joyce replied. ‘He phoned from downstairs. He and his friends are coming up now.’

  ‘Must be mistake.’

  ‘You don’t know him? Could he be a Sydney feng shui man?’

  ‘I didn’t call any yet.’ His expression was becoming increasingly concerned.

  Joyce shrugged her shoulders. ‘Anyway, we’ll find out in a minute. I think reception said his name was Jackie. Funny name for a guy.’

  At this news, Wong seemed to jump out of his skin.

  ‘Jackie! Come,’ he said. ‘We go. Quick!’

  He grabbed her hand and tugged her violently towards the door.

  ‘Wait. Let me get my bag. What’s the deal here?’

  ‘Fai-dee! ’ he shouted.

  They moved out of the door, Wong pushing her unceremoniously like peasant shoving a reluctant bullock to a cart.

  ‘The lift’s that way,’ Joyce said.

  ‘I know. So we go this way.’

  Escaping from a hotel is much harder than it seems in the movies. After running down four flights of stairs, both Joyce and Wong slowed to a crawl. And there were still three more stories to go. They could barely move.

  ‘Phooo!’ said Joyce. ‘It’s a—long—way—down. Let’s— take—the elevator.’ Each word came out as a gasp.

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Wong, his chest rising and falling as he took deep draughts of air. ‘Maybe there is service elevator.’

  They went through a couple of swing doors and eventually found a metal lift the staff used to transport baskets of laundry and other goods between floors.

  It trundled slowly and noisily down towards the ground floor, but stopped at the second. The doors opened, and a chambermaid entered. She was fortyish and had rosy cheeks. ‘G’day,’ she said. ‘You’ve come the wrong way. This is the staff lift. You should use the main lifts. They’re much nicer.’ There was a strong smell of disinfectant from her basket.

  ‘He’s a feng shui man,’ Joyce explained, pointing to her companion. ‘He won’t use the other lifts because they have bad feng shui.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the woman. ‘Really?’ She looked around at the ugly non-slip steel plates of the cargo lift in which they stood. ‘But this lift has good feng shooee, does it? Does that mean it gives me good luck to use it?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Joyce.

  ‘That’s good. I go up and down in it a hundred times a day if at all. Mind you, it hasn’t brought me any good luck yet. Does it take a long time to come through?’

  ‘Um. Paint your room pink and drink a glass of orange juice every morning,’ ad-libbed Joyce. ‘The good luck will start to flow.’

  Thanking her, the woman advised them to get off at the first floor and go through a door on the right. ‘That leads you back into the hotel main lobby. Or you can turn left and go to the back of the hotel, to the place where the buses pull up. I’ll get some orange juice straight away. Thanks for the tip.’

  They thanked her in turn and raced out of the back door of the hotel into the car park. The morning air was cool and reviving.

  ‘Come on,’ said Joyce. ‘We can sneak out through the side gate and get a taxi around the front.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Instead, Wong insisted they walk at a brisk pace to the right, where he vaguely recalled from his morning walk that there was a narrow alley leading to a busy main road. It seemed to be a good route for people who wanted to quickly leave the immediate area of the hotel and get lost in the rush hour crowd.

  Wong looked at his watch. It was 8.49. The pavements were fairly busy, and the pair quickly blended in with office workers racing to their workplaces. They found a small park by taking a tortuous route on the other side of a busy road called Day Street Harbour and sat on a secluded bench, watching pigeons peck at the ground.

  ‘So who IS Jackie? You’d better tell me what is going on.’

  Wong looked nervously around. ‘I th
ink he is Big Brother.’

  ‘Maddy’s brother? That’s nice. So why are we—’ ‘No, Big Brother. Goh-goh. Daai-loh. It means—’ ‘Step brother? Adopted brother?’

  ‘Let me talk. You know what is a triad?’

  Joyce thought for a moment. ‘Yeah. They’re like bad guys—I saw a Chow Yun-fat movie once. Like the mafia?’

  ‘Yes. I think Jackie Sum is a Hong Kong triad. They are looking for Maddy. He is called Big Brother. He is senior rank.’

  ‘They want to rescue her?’ Joyce asked hopefully.

  ‘They want to kill her.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She appeared not to have believed her ears. She repeated: ‘They want to kill her?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Joyce was speechless. She froze like a statue. She seemed to have stopped breathing entirely.

  Silence descended. They watched the pigeons peck at the ground. There was a chiming sound, like an old-fashioned ice cream van in the distance. Somewhere, a duck quacked. A child’s voice could be heard shouting: ‘It’s over here. Mama. Mama.’ The traffic lights in the distance changed colour, triggering a roar of vehicles.

  A flood of questions burst out of her. ‘Why did they want to come up and see me? Where did they get my name? How did they know we were in Australia? How do they know who I am? What are they doing here? I don’t understand any of what is happening. Why are we running? Why do they want to kill Maddy? Do they want to . . .’ She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

  ‘No. They don’t want to kill you,’ he answered quietly.

  ‘So why are we running from them?’

  The geomancer sighed. ‘It all start to make sense to me now. Maddy comes from family who is involve with triads in Hong Kong. 14K is name of big triad group, one of the biggest. Remember Cady Tsai-Leibler?’