by Morris West
My final call was to the clinic. They told me Doctor Kukrit was resting in his office. He had been up all night doing an autopsy and writing a report. They asked me to spare him any calls until later in the day. I had them connect me to Marta’s room. She told me, calmly enough, that Kukrit had told her the news of Miko’s death, describing it as a ‘one-in-a-million accident’ and the police investigation as a ‘necessary and quite normal routine’. She had cried for a while, but she was over it now. I told her I would be in to see her at lunch hour with an extended version of the news.
That was the last of my duty calls and it was with a real sense of relief that I put down the receiver. These days people did not kill the bad-news messenger, but they certainly did not thank him. Rather, they seemed to regard him as a kind of tax-gatherer, levying compassion and care that folk were no longer prepared to give freely. I found myself wondering about the last dark hour of Miko’s life as she finished her packing, alone in her bedroom, and then moved out on to the balcony to see and hear the nocturne of the great river.
I found myself wondering, too, about Tanaka and the vast difference between his version of the night’s events and the brief, poignant narrative in Miko’s letter. I had no doubt at all that, by Western norms, Tanaka was lying and Miko was telling the truth. But it was not as easy as that to render the right judgment. It never had been, it never would be. Each one, the living Tanaka, the dead Miko, was making the same plea: wakatte kudasai, please understand; what seems is not what truly is; what truly is demands to be accepted, tolerated at least, because it cannot be changed.
I could almost hear the cogs and ratchets clicking inside Tanaka’s brain: This is my woman. She has grown up under my patronage. She has been ennobled by my esteem. I have opened my heart to her. I have caused her to be respected among my peers. Now she has dishonoured me, disprized me, exposed me to public and to private shame. She has to go, and go quickly!’
He would say none of it, of course, even to me, his friend. It was my obligation to accept what he presented to me. I could not even suggest that the woman’s story might be more acceptable than his own. I must know that honour in such a one was as rare as a square duck-egg. I must know, too, that only my acceptance would make the new circumstance tolerable to him. Came then the questions: how much was I prepared to accept, to what limits would my tolerance stretch? To murder? Conspiracy to murder? To suicide under duress or in a crisis of desperation? I had heard a long time ago of Tanaka’s capacity for teasing cruelties. He had warned me himself that, given a choice between his interest or mine, I would be the one who went to the wall. I should have no illusions about what he could do. The question now was what he had done. In default of a clear answer, what was I going to do to a friend who already had the mark of death on his forehead?
I carried the thought with me to the breakfast table, where Tanaka sat, calm and composed, the elder statesman wholly dedicated to the business in hand. When the waitress had taken our orders he invited me to sum up the opinions of the group.
‘As I interpret them, we all agree to continue until the end of this week, then suspend sessions until further notice. If members desire, working committees could continue during the second week, but this could complicate matters, since their reports and recommendations would not receive adequate study. For the press and public relations generally, a clean break is easier to handle: the danger of a Gulf war, the problems within the Soviet Union itself both dictate a temporary postponement. Boris here is aware of your requirement for protection of your existing interests. He sees that your control of existing funds is the best guarantee of Soviet compliance. And that, gentlemen, is about all I can usefully say, except that I think you should be agreed before you go into the conference room. It will save a lot of time and make it a lot easier to handle the press, who will be baying at our heels today.’
‘For obvious reasons,’ said Boris Vannikov, ‘I have to bow out of today’s press conferences. Can you handle it, Gil?’
‘If you trust me, Boris.’
‘I would trust you even with my own wife, Gil, only because she is a singularly disagreeable woman.’
‘It’s a tasteless question,’ Laszlo addressed himself directly to me. ‘But how do you propose to treat the question of Miko’s death?’
‘As far as we are aware, it was a sad and tragic accident. Unless the police pronounce differently, that’s the word for the press, too. We refuse to speculate. I’ll instruct Alex Boyko accordingly. They will, however, ask about funeral arrangements.’
‘My people will take care of those.’ Tanaka waved the subject aside. I myself may leave for Tokyo before the end of the week. There is nothing more I can do here and I am in urgent need of medical attention.’
I was tempted to remind him that the Thai police might have something to say about his departure, but I held my peace. Tanaka was rich enough and potent enough throughout South-East Asia to put up a hefty bond against his return and leave it as a charge against his estate when he made his final act of abdication. Suddenly I felt an enormous sense of anticlimax. The event which had been planned for so many months, for which astronomical sums of money had been pledged, was fizzling out like a firework display on a stormy night. The real lightnings and the real thunders, the torrential downpours, dwarfed and then doused the puny gunpowder games of our contrivance. We had so inflated the importance of our commercial enterprise that we had forgotten how fragile its foundations really were. We had forgotten that the whole world floated on oil and that, as old Haushofer had foretold, the fate of the nations, East and West, was being determined by events in the heartland of Eurasia.
Since we were now back to banalities, I asked my colleagues whom they would choose to make the announcement to the assembled delegates. Tanaka suggested I should do it, as a neutral spokesman. I refused. Leibig supported me. Vannikov saved the day by claiming the right for himself as leader of the Soviet delegation. His reasoning was simple: Moscow had invited the proposal, Moscow was entertaining it, Moscow had requested a postponement of decision. The consortium had graciously agreed. It would be Gil’s job to carry and interpret that decision to the press. All in favour? So carried.
Since there seemed little likelihood that I would be needed for consultations during the morning sessions, I begged to be excused so that I could confer with our press people. I had also to call Tokyo to discuss a staff acquisition of Tanaka’s holding in Polyglot Press. If anyone needed me, I would be in my suite for the next hour. I was glad to be free of them for a while, to begin at least to make sense of my relationship with Kenji Tanaka. There was all the more reason to do so because I knew it would be very brief now and I did not want it to end in enmity.
I went back to my suite and called Tanizaki in Tokyo. He was delighted with the prospect of buying into Polyglot Press and asked what I thought Tanaka would accept for his interest and what rate he would charge for loan money. I told him to send me an offer based on book value and three years’ profits after tax and a request for a loan at one per cent over prime. I would try to set the deal before Tanaka left for Tokyo. Then I told him about Miko. He gave a long, doleful whistle.
‘Sad, Gil, very sad. Also very strange. This is not a country girl dying of disappointed love. This is Nisei woman, running her own life and her own business. So her protector is dying; she is not going to climb into the grave with him. Take my advice, Gil-san, and stay always two steps away from the rest of that drama.’
It was good advice and I was only too ready to take it. However, there was no way to side-step the ladies and gentlemen of the press, so I called Alex Boyko and his cohorts and briefed them for the day’s encounters. They had an extra problem for me: a carefully crafted piece in the Washington Post, linking German geopolitical theory with the long suppressed Kokutai no Hongi, Cardinal Principles of the National Entity of Japan, which had once been the prescribed textbook of the prewar imperialists. By linking the two themes the writer had raised once again the most s
inister ghosts of the forties. His conclusion was cogent.
There is a hard core of truth in the geopolitical thesis. Geography is still a major determinant in human affairs. Eurasia is an enormously large, diverse and rich continent. Germany, united again, is the natural land bridge to those resources. Japan, hungrier than ever for natural resources, controls the sea routes to Vladivostok. The world should beware of any bargains, such as that now being negotiated in Bangkok, which set the world spinning again on the Berlin/Tokyo axis.
This was Max Wylie’s prophecy fulfilled. The immediate question was how to answer it or whether, given the short term which the conference now had to rum, it should be answered at all. Alex Boyko thought it should. However, he confessed himself ill-equipped in the subject. I suggested that if Marta were well enough we should take the article around to the clinic and have her outline the counter argument for him. It was still early enough to have the meeting and be back in time for the press conference at noon.
No sooner said than done. I called Marta and explained our mission. She was delighted to have something to do. Five minutes later we were on our way. I introduced Boyko and Marta and left them to their discussion. As I walked through the foyer, I came face to face with Captain Aditya, who had just arrived. He greeted me with warmth and enthusiasm.
‘My dear Mr Langton. What a fortunate encounter. I have just come to discuss with Doctor Kukrit the results of his autopsy. After that, I intended to call on you and Mr Tanaka to go over some of the ground we touched last night. But since you are here and you are such a good friend of Doctor Kukrit, why don’t we combine the two exercises? Do you have any experience of forensic pathology?’
‘Fortunately, or regrettably, no.’
‘Then you will find this session very instructive. Come!’
Kukrit was pleased to see me, but friend enough to warn me that a cadaver after an autopsy was not a pretty sight. He suggested we deal first with his report and leave the inspection of the body until the end. Kukrit’s clinical explanation was brisk and lucid.
‘We have established beyond doubt that she was alive on the balcony and that she died when she hit the ground. There are massive fractures throughout the whole bony structure and ruptures of internal organs. Details of the damage are listed in my report. There was no evidence of recent sexual congress. There was food in the stomach, consistent with Mr Tanaka’s description of the light meal they had taken together. She was dressed in bra and panties over which she wore one of those silk dressing gowns supplied by the hotel to all the guests. The feet were bare; but I understand you found a pair of mules on the balcony – again, the type supplied by the hotel. There were no marks of gross violence, strangulation, beating, scratching, none of those things. However, violence had been used, of a particular and professional kind. That violence rendered her swiftly unconscious. She was then lifted and tossed over the balcony like a sack of rice. Let me demonstrate. Gil, would you stand up please. Now, move behind your chair and lean on the back of it, facing Captain Aditya. Hold that position for a few moments.’ He touched both sides of my neck with a pencil, while the policeman watched intently. ‘Here and here, we found bruise marks. Watch how they were made. Don’t move please, Gil. The victim is standing thus, leaning on the rail. The killer approaches from behind, braces his knee in the small of her back and depresses both carotid arteries. The supply of blood to the brain is shut off, the victim becomes unconscious. It’s one of the most dangerous holds in wrestling. It is called, obviously enough, the sleeper. That’s how it was done.’
When, and by whom?
‘Immediately before she was thrown off the balcony. Once the pressure is removed from the arteries, the victim returns fairly quickly to normal.’
‘By whom then?’
‘I don’t know. There is no tissue under the victim’s fingernails, because no struggle took place. Effectively, he was holding her at arm’s length from behind.’
‘Could she have cried out?’
‘Possibly.’
Captain Aditya supplied the rest of the answer: ‘From up there with the longboats roaring by, the clatter and buzz of the restaurant, who would have heard? Certainly no one would have seen, because the room was in darkness and the angle of light from the terrace precludes it. Nevertheless, doctor, you are sure it was murder.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Two more questions then. Who did it? And why?’
‘Both beyond my competence,’ said Doctor Kukrit firmly.
‘Mr Langton? Do you have any comment?’ He smiled engagingly. You can sit down before you answer.’
‘I presume you have checked Mr Tanaka’s account of his movements that evening.’
‘Most thoroughly. There is no doubt at all that at the relevant time he was downstairs with his colleagues.’
‘Then someone else must have entered the room in his absence.’
‘The room waiter came in to remove the dinner things. The maids came in to turn down the beds and tidy the rooms for the night. But all that was much earlier, before ten.’
‘The floor staff saw no one else enter any of the three rooms?’
‘No. They admit they do not see everyone who comes on to the floor; they never challenge anyone who has a key or who is known to them as a resident on that floor.’
‘Suppose a stranger comes and knocks on a guest’s door?’
‘The floor staff will wait to see whether the guest admits the visitor. It is the guest’s room, after all; he or she may receive anyone, except, be it said, professional prostitutes, who are easily recognised if they are locals.’
‘But clearly someone did enter the Tanaka suite and that someone killed Miko.’
‘You can’t suggest who that someone might be, Mr Langton?’
‘Regrettably, no.’
‘Could you suggest a reason why anyone would want to kill this woman?’
‘Captain, in a matter of such importance, I must refuse to speculate. You must not ask me to do so.’
‘Does the name Domenico Cubeddu mean anything to you?’
Yes. In Tokyo Cubeddu was introduced as a possible investor in the Tanaka/Leibig consortium. He is the President of the Palermitan Banking Corporation. It is my understanding that his offer was declined.’
‘Do you know of any connection between Cubeddu and the deceased?’
‘Miko had made contact with him about logging rights in South America. Then he paid her a finder’s fee for an introduction to this syndicate. She was to have earned a much more substantial fee if Cubeddu had been accepted into the group.’
‘So in fact she had already forfeited that fee?’
‘Yes.’
‘What else can you tell me about Domenico Cubeddu?’
‘He came to Bangkok. We had a brief conversation last Sunday by the pool.’
‘Do you know whether he met with the victim?’
‘I believe he did. I am told the meeting was recorded by the police.’
His head came up like that of a cobra, ready to strike: He demanded: ‘Who told you that?’
‘A reliable and official source.’
‘I would remind you, Mr Langton, that you are a guest in this country.’
‘A law-abiding and profitable guest, Captain. I am therefore entitled to certain courtesies and obliged to certain privacies.’
He was obviously taken aback. He made a gesture of apology. ‘Forgive me. I am, as you may imagine, under a certain stress. You and I, Mr Langton, must take pains to understand each other, to be friends if we can.’
‘I know no reason to the contrary, Captain.’ I turned to Kukrit, who had sat silently through the exchange. ‘What time is Marta to be discharged tomorrow?’
‘Nine-thirty.’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘You? Nothing. She will have a diet chart, a list of medications and a set of simple instructions: no liquor, no spices, no tobacco, minimal stress. The only permitted indulgence is sex.’
‘You’ve explained all that to her?’
‘All of it in great detail. See you, Gil.’
‘I’ll see you, too,’ said Captain Aditya amiably. ‘One of the things I miss in the crime business is stimulating dialogue.’
I went back to Marta’s room to pick up Alex Boyko. He retired discreetly while I talked to Marta. I told her she would be discharged in the morning. Once again, there was the question of what clothes she would need. This time she wrote a list, which she folded into my breast pocket. As I kissed her goodbye, she clung to me for a moment and said: ‘I shouldn’t say it, to you of all people, but I have the strange feeling Miko is in the room with me, trying to tell me something.’
‘I can tell you what it is.’ The words were out before I realised what I was saying. Marta stared at me in disbelief.
‘How can you possibly know?’
‘Because she told me herself.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said you’d never be happy until you decided what side of the fence you wanted to live on – and until someone wanted you enough to lift you over the barrier.’
‘Why are you telling me this now?’
‘Because it was her last message. Only you can judge how important it is. By the way, if you’d like a hairdo, I’ll have the salon send a girl around this afternoon.’
‘I’d love that. This time I’d like to make a decent entrance. The last one was very messy.’
‘I think, my love, we’d better take your mother’s advice and revise the whole act. See you in the morning.’
It was an odd, abrupt farewell and it shocked me almost as much as it did Marta. But murder was out now and in the end a lot of other ugliness would come out with it. Bluebeard’s chamber was about to be opened. The key was in Miko’s letter, locked in my briefcase at the Oriental. I still had to decide whether to hand it to Captain Aditya or fit it myself into the lock and open the fateful door.