‘No. Call it women’s intuition, if you like, but, as I said, I got the distinct impression she wasn’t free to decide for herself. So if she won’t attend the awards dinner or agree to the proposal, there goes a fine idea.’ Molly paused. ‘But we need somebody like her, a beautiful young woman with brains, to promote tourism.’ She took another mouthful of trout. ‘By the way, Simon, I’ve been meaning to ask, why did you call your portrait “Thursday Girl”?’
‘Oh, you know, a picture needs a title,’ I laughed. ‘Nothing important, really. We met on a Thursday – a rainy one, as I remember. This glamorous young creature met me at the airport. I was hugely chuffed, told myself whatever happened to me it couldn’t be all bad.’ It was a fib, of course, but, as Mercy B. Lord had noted, nobody was likely to check that I’d landed on a Saturday and within minutes had lost massive face with the Chinese-woman-and-baby incident. In fact, if Thursday hadn’t meant what it did, I could well have named the portrait ‘Saturday Girl’.
Molly smiled. ‘Simon, you’re a lousy liar. This is Singapore. It was a Saturday. By Sunday morning we all knew about the hilarious incident of the Chinese mother, the umbrella and the newcomer from Australia. It was one of the things that endeared you to me when you made your new business presentation for the tourism account.’ She laughed. ‘Sir Galahad comes to Singapore!’
‘Oops!’ I’d been caught out a second time. I could feel myself blushing. Chairman Meow and my sisters could always tell if I was fibbing as a kid. ‘I keep forgetting Singapore is a very small place.’ I laughed, a little shamefaced.
‘Not just small, Simon, it’s the so-called “upper-middles” who form a small but very nosy part of society. And then there’s a government that likes to know who’s in town and who they’re dealing with. For instance, we probably know rather more about you than you think.’
‘Oh? Why would that be? Not much to know – ad man and a bit of a painter, that’s all, really.’
‘Oh, Simon, you are so naïve,’ Molly laughed again. ‘As a matter of routine, the Tourist Promotion Board would have checked your background. The government doesn’t like nasty surprises. If I know, then you may be sure others know as well. There is no such thing as going incognito on this island.’
‘Oh, dear,’ I said.
Molly threw back her head and laughed at my obvious embarrassment.
Eager to change the subject, I said, ‘Molly, I’ve got an idea for a Singapore Girl promotion. It could still work and get you what you want.’
‘Well, go on, then – let’s have it, Simon.’ She smiled.
I outlined the idea, modifying it on the run, suggesting an exhibition of the portrait in the town hall, with first prize being a big cheque and a portrait painted by me or some other painter. I was aware it lacked the zing of scandal: the disgraced artist, the idea that the portrait was a fiction and Singapore was being accused of lacking beauties to match the girl in the peacock-tail chair. It had lost a bit of its original motivation, its big idea – meeting the beauty challenge, finding the missing girl and so vindicating the nation, which was what is known in the ad business as its ‘drive’.
Molly was too nice to dismiss it out of hand. ‘I can see how well it might have worked,’ she said. ‘How do we get you back to being a disgraced artist, Simon?’ she teased. Then she let me down gently. ‘I’m still not convinced that Mercy B. Lord would enter, but I’m glad you told me. Don’t lose that promotion. There’s something in the pipeline that I can’t speak about yet, but it could be useful. I especially like the idea of the public voting – it gives it a wonderful sense of community involvement.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. No guarantee she’ll enter and, I agree, the promotion has lost its drive.’
‘If only I knew what or who Mercy B. Lord fears. What it is that prevents her attending the dinner or sharing in the glory of your portrait. She struck me as a happy, outgoing sort of girl when we met at the cocktail party, someone who might enjoy a little of the limelight. She must be seriously frightened to pass up an opportunity like this.’
‘You could try Beatrice Fong and Sidney Wing,’ I said, attempting to sound offhand.
‘Really?’ Molly said, not missing a beat.
‘Well, it would be a damn good start. I confess I’ve never met the old crone personally, but there’s no doubt the two are in cahoots and that Mercy B. Lord is somehow involved.’
Molly grinned. ‘Aha! Are you sure, Simon?’
I nodded.
She paused, thinking. Then, with her head to one side and her eyes narrowed, she said, ‘And it wouldn’t affect you if we took a closer look at the two of them?’
‘No, I’m leaving the agency anyway. Oh shit! I shouldn’t have said that. Dansford was going to announce it after the Hong Kong dinner.’
Molly was already well into her third glass of wine, the ever-hovering Denmeade waiting to fill it the moment it reached the halfway mark. ‘Leaving? Oh, Simon, don’t say that! You’re the major reason we’re with Samuel Oswald Wing.’
‘Thanks, Molly. I’ve enjoyed every minute with you and Long Me. Learned a heap from both of you as well. But my contract expires soon and the three senior Chinese elements in the agency don’t want it renewed, and I confess I feel the same. I’ve had enough of the Three Wing Circus, although the Yanks are pushing for me to stay another six months to put the new Colgate-Palmolive campaign to bed. It’s really unnecessary – all the work has been done. It’s just that those big international accounts are paranoid something will go wrong in a foreign market. After Big Lather, they’re convinced I have the magic touch.’
‘Oh, but you do! Right from day one, your new business presentation was miles ahead of the others.’
‘Thanks, Molly, but the presentation for your account was largely Mrs Sidebottom’s idea, with only a soupçon of Dansford and myself mixed in.’ I smiled, I hoped, enigmatically. ‘Everything comes to an end. You’re in good hands with Dansford, and the Yanks are bound to send a crackerjack creative director to replace me.’
‘Simon, Singapore needs expats like you. Don’t leave us. You guys open the windows and let in a breath of fresh air. Not every expat, but certainly the good ones. Singapore is a small and somewhat incestuous island with everyone —’
‘Molly, I’m leaving the agency, not Singapore. I have one or two things – opportunities – I’d like to explore.’
‘I’m delighted to hear that, Simon. Though I shall miss working with you,’ Molly replied graciously, then she stopped dead. It was as if a momentous thought had suddenly occurred to her, the proverbial light bulb flashing on above her head. She leaned back and drained her glass as if the action were an exclamation mark. ‘The girl is right! It’s all about face! The Achilles heel of the Chinese!’
I laughed. ‘That’s a mixed metaphor from opposite ends of the body, but what’s all this about face?’
‘We need to do a little digging to uncover the past,’ Molly cried. ‘So simple when you know whom to target.’
I watched as Owen Denmeade filled her wine glass with a barely concealed look of triumph; the level in the bottle was well below the halfway mark. He placed it in the ice bucket and asked me if I cared for another beer. I nodded, hoping to hell Molly hadn’t had too much wine to think straight.
She was absorbed in thought, absently bringing the newly filled glass to her lips then replacing it on the table. ‘Yes … yes, that’s it,’ she said as if to herself, a smile on her very pretty face. ‘Should be enough time to dig a small mountain of dirt. God bless the British colonial archivists – they made a habit of keeping records of the notable, culpable, good, bad and indictable people in the past. Wing and Fong …’
‘Sounds like a Chinese brass band,’ I quipped.
‘Maybe it’s time to bang the big bass drum and see what we shake out,’ Molly replied. If she was stonkered, it wasn’t affecting her wits.
The following Monday I arrived in the agency to be told by Alice Ho that Mr Sidney had le
ft for America. A little later, apropos of nothing, Ronnie told me, keeping a very bland expression, that Sidney had gone to visit his golf course in Florida, where he was constructing a state-of-the-art retirement village for golf-o-holics (a Ronnie word).
Then, just before 10 a.m., Alice called from reception to say a courier had delivered an envelope she thought I might want right away. She gave me a knowing look as she handed it to me. ‘Maybe good news, Simon?’ she said as I recognised the handwriting on the envelope. I didn’t kid myself that Alice was unaware of all the salient details concerning Mercy B. Lord, but she was letting me know I could now count on her silence.
The enclosed note, also in Mercy B. Lord’s handwriting, said:
Miss Otis no longer regrets she cannot attend and would be delighted to accept your kind invitation to dinner in Hong Kong.
Miss Mercy B. Lord.
P.S. Kindly send the cheongsam and shoes.
The miraculous Molly Ong worked fast. I called to thank her. ‘Molly, I’m hugely impressed. Mercy B. Lord has accepted!’
Molly giggled like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘Simon, this is Singapore. The past has its chin resting on the shoulders of the present – that is, when it concerns the old Singapore Chinese families.’
‘Well, you certainly lost no time doing the pick and shovel work.’
She laughed. ‘It never got to pick and shovel, Simon. With a little help from my friends in the government archives, digging the dirt wasn’t hard work. In both cases I simply had to scuff the ground once or twice with the toe of my shoe.’
‘Have you contacted Mercy B. Lord?’ I asked.
‘Yes, of course, a couple of hours after the minister made a phone call to each of the evil empires.’
‘So you know Mercy B. Lord has accepted the invitation to the awards dinner?’
‘Yes, but she told me she wanted to answer your invitation formally.’
‘And the Singapore Girl?’
‘That too.’
I’m sure Molly must have heard my sigh of relief. ‘Does this mean Mercy B. Lord no longer has anything to fear from you-know-who?’
‘Well, for the time being, but once she becomes the Singapore Girl she’ll be hard to touch.’ Molly paused, then said, ‘There’s a hitch, though, and I think you may be able to help, Simon. She insists she has to be free on Thursdays until Friday evening.’ Molly seemed to take a breath because the tone of her voice changed markedly. This was now a Molly who demanded answers. ‘Simon, last time I asked, you fibbed shamelessly in an attempt to protect Mercy B. Lord. I’ve done my part, now you have to do yours; it’s time to come clean. Why is your portrait named “Thursday Girl”?’
‘Molly, you have to believe me. I simply don’t know what the hell happens on those days. It nearly drove me crazy and ultimately caused our break-up. Whatever it is, it’s pretty bloody serious and involves Sidney Wing, maybe all three Wing Brothers, and Beatrice Fong. She simply won’t say and she won’t budge.’
There was a silence at the other end, then, ‘And that’s all?’
‘I’m pretty sure she travels overseas.’
‘Overnight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that shouldn’t be too hard to check. Anything else?’
‘She carries a reinforced briefcase. It looks normal enough from the outside but when you tap it, the interior is obviously a metal box. The two combination locks are not for decoration.’
‘I take it you don’t know what’s inside.’
‘Haven’t a clue, except that it doesn’t rattle.’
‘Right, we’ll check customs. Anything else?’
‘No, I don’t think so … Oh, yes, she never brought the briefcase back to the flat on her return. Claimed she’d leave it with Mohammed, Beatrice Fong’s chauffeur, who returned it to the office.’
‘The briefcase – was it always the same one?’
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure it was. I think she was telling the truth about it, the point being that she’s never lied about anything. She just clams up, doesn’t answer questions.’
‘So it seems she’s a regular courier, delivering something to someone somewhere. We’ll soon know the somewhere but not the what or the who.’
I didn’t reply. Was I risking everything by telling Molly this?
‘Think, Simon. Is there anything else you can remember?’
‘She sometimes carries a burqa.’
‘As a disguise?’
‘I suppose. Honestly, Molly, I don’t know any more. I lost her because it was driving me nuts, but I tell you what, provided I know she’s safe, if she’d come back to me, I’d never broach the subject again.’
‘Simon, those kinds of secret arrangements always end badly, like one partner having a secret lover. Sooner or later the relationship falls apart.’
I gave a rueful laugh. ‘I’d happily take my chances to have her for five days of the week.’ It sounded as if Molly, a magnificent-looking woman in her mid-thirties and still single, knew what she was talking about.
‘Oh, Simon, you do truly love her, don’t you?’
‘I don’t want to see her hurt. I know she wouldn’t willingly be part of anything bad.’
‘But you feel she’s in real danger? I must say, I agree. Those two are both nasty pieces of work.’
‘But clever,’ I added. ‘Also very careful. I think finding out where Mercy B. Lord disappears to on a Thursday, and why, may require a bit more than scuffing your toe in the dirt.’
‘Never know what you can find if you use the sharp end of a stiletto heel,’ Molly replied.
After putting down the phone I called Connie Song at Corona Flowers and ordered a dozen red roses, telling her that I’d pick them up in a couple of hours. Then I took a taxi to Robinsons, the department store, and asked if I could buy a box big enough to carry a pair of shoes and a dress, with sufficient tissue paper to wrap them in. I’d had the cheongsam dry-cleaned in one of my sadder examples of magical thinking – if I keep the dress fresh, perhaps … Robinsons were kind enough to give me the box and paper and I then bought a yard of wide dusty pink grosgrain ribbon. I know it sounds a bit sissy, but I’m an art director and a painter, and appearances matter. Besides, delivering Mercy B. Lord’s gorgeous gear in a brown paper shopping bag was not on.
I knew there were several goldsmiths, mostly Indian, in Raffles Place, just down from the department store. I soon located one, an old Indian man with a three-day growth of white stubble. He was sitting outside his shop, touting. ‘Beautiful signet ring for lovely gentleman, sir. Eighteen carat, going very, very cheap today!’ he said as I approached.
‘Do you manufacture on the premises?’ I asked.
‘Of course. We are making for you special. Maybe initials? Or diamonds, ruby also. Opal, topaz, amethyst too soft, but I can do emerald, or zircon semi-precious … first-class good one from Ceylon. Also, number-one workshop. In Singapore you cannot have better. Branches in India.’ He rose to his feet and, with a sweep of his arm, indicated the doorway. ‘You come inside, please, sir. We are at your service always and most definitely.’
The shop smelled of incense and marigolds, and once inside I asked him for a small piece of paper. With my ballpoint I designed a chisel brooch or pin about the size of the toggle fastening the dragon’s tail and head on the mandarin collar of the cheongsam. Then I drew the flip side to indicate the brooch pin. ‘Can you make this for me?’ I asked, handing him the slip of paper.
The old guy examined my design, then called out in what I took to be Hindi. Moments later, a younger guy wearing a soft leather apron and leather slip-on sandals came through the beaded curtains separating the back of the shop from the front.
‘Number-one goldsmith, Calcutta-trained, also my son, at your humble service, sir.’ The old bloke handed him the drawing and they were soon locked in a rapid conversation. Finally the old bloke turned to me. ‘He can make it.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘But not cheap – very complicated.
I
gave him the eternal bargainer’s sigh. ‘How much in eighteen-carat gold?’
He brought his hands to his cheeks in alarm. ‘My goodness gracious me! We are thinking always fourteen carat! Eighteen carat, that is fish of another kettle!’ He turned and spoke rapidly to the goldsmith, then turned back to me. ‘His children will go hungry, but we are making in eighteen carat the cost of fourteen carat, that is our pleasure, sir.’
‘Hey, wait on, you didn’t give me the cost of the fourteen carat.’
He smiled, revealing gummy gaps punctuated by half a dozen brown teeth stained with betel nut. ‘This is your most lucky day, sir. You are getting a nice and excellent bargain, definitely and absolutely!’ The goldsmith, looking down at his sandalled feet, nodded sagely.
‘May I enquire what this definite and absolute bargain might be?’
‘Eighteen carat for fourteen carat and no questions asked.’ He took a breath, ‘Just for you, sir, 150 Singapore dollars.
I attempted to gulp convincingly. ‘You must be joking!’
The old guy completely ignored my protest. He pointed to the goldsmith. ‘He must make special mould, pour gold, cut, polish; big, big, very, very delicate job. When must you have this masterpiece, sir?’
‘In three days, Friday morning at the latest. The handle must be wood – persimmon, if you can find some.’
‘What is this wood, sir? We are now carpenters? Goldsmith then abracadabra, we are becoming all at once carpenters? I beg your pardon, sir, but wood?’
‘Well, you can save on some of the gold.’
‘That observation you are making is true and not true. Where am I finding this persimmon wood in three days?’
‘Any good Chinese cabinet maker.’ I held up my pinkie. ‘You need a piece no bigger than the size of the first joint, even less. Ask for the heartwood.’ I pulled out my wallet, withdrew five bucks and handed it to him. ‘This will cover your taxi fare and the cost of the wood. You’ve saved the gold you’d use for the handle and that should easily pay for the labour that goes into the handle.’
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