As Haum’s sweating fingers closed over the door handle, Jaffe’s fingers closed over his shoulder and jerked him around. Haum was horrified by the strength of those fingers. It was as if his flesh was being squeezed in steel pincers. The agony of the grip made him cry out: a thin scream like that of a terrified rabbit. He tried to break free, struck feebly at Jaffe’s wrist, then opened his mouth to scream again.
Jaffe clamped his hand over Haum’s mouth, digging his fingers into the Vietnamese’s face, cutting off his scream. Haum writhed in the grip, trying to bite Jaffe’s hand while he kicked at Jaffe’s legs: his soft soled shoes making no impression on Jaffe’s hard muscles.
“Shut up!” Jaffe snarled and gave the Vietnamese a vicious shake.
He heard a faint dry sound like the snapping of a stick. Haum’s face suddenly became heavy in his fingers and seemed to come adrift from his thin neck. Jaffe saw his eyes roll back and felt his knees sag. He found he was holding the Vietnamese up by his face and that his legs were no longer supporting him.
In sudden panic, Jaffe released his grip and watched Haum slide down against the wall and spread out on the floor like a doll whose sawdust had leaked away.
He saw a trickle of bright-red blood coming from Haum’s half-open mouth. He knelt beside the Vietnamese and touched him cautiously.
“Hey… Haum! Hell! What’s the matter with you?”
Then with a shudder, he stood up.
The full force of his predicament struck him.
Haum was dead, and he had murdered him!
Chapter Two
1
With a violently thumping heart, Jaffe stared down at Haum’s crumpled body. His immediate reaction was to get help. He turned to the telephone, but paused, frowning and shaking his head.
There was nothing anyone could do now for Haum. He was dead. This was not the moment to think of him, but of himself.
He looked at the ladder standing against the wall. Suppose he told the police that Haum had fallen off the ladder and had accidentally broken his neck?
His eyes shifted to the hole in the wall. The moment the police saw that hole they would suspect it had been a hiding-place for something. They would remember that this house had once belonged to Mai Chang, General Nguyen Van Tho’s mistress. It wouldn’t take them long to assume that the general’s diamonds had been hidden in the wall.
Jaffe moved over to Haum’s body. He peered down at the little man. He saw the skin around Haum’s mouth and throat was bruised and broken. These tell-tale marks would rule out any story of an accident with the ladder.
Suppose he told the police that he had come upon Haum stealing the diamonds and that Haum had attacked him and that during the struggle, Haum had been accidentally killed? Such a story might get him off a murder charge, but it would mean giving up the diamonds, and there was always the risk he would receive a prison sentence.
It was at this moment that Jaffe made up his mind that whatever the risk, he was going to stick to the diamonds, and having decided this, his panic subsided and he began to think more clearly.
If he could get to Hong Kong with the diamonds, he could get lost without any difficulty. He would be a very rich man. He could begin a new life. With the money from the sale of the diamonds, he would be free to do anything he liked. But the trick question was, of course: how to get to Hong Kong?
He poured himself a stiff shot of whisky, drank half of it, then after he had lit a cigarette, he finished the drink.
You couldn’t leave Vietnam just when you thought you would, he reminded himself. The authorities entangled all travellers in a web of restrictions and regulations. You first had to apply for an exit visa, and the granting of this could take a week. Then there were forms to fill in regarding the movement of currency. There were photographs to be supplied. He couldn’t hope to get out under ten days, and in the meantime, what would be happening to Haum’s body?
A sudden sound broke in on his thoughts that made him stiffen and set his heart thumping again. Someone was knocking on the back door!
He stood motionless, scarcely breathing while he listened.
The gentle knock came again, then he heard the back door creak open.
In a surge of panic, he stepped over Haum’s body and moved into the kitchen, closing the sitting-room door behind him.
Dong Ham, his cook, was standing on the top step, the back door half open and he peered cautiously into the kitchen.
The two men stared at each other.
Dong Ham appeared to be very old. His brown face was a network of wrinkles, like crushed parchment. His thin white hair grew in straggly wisps from his bony skull. Wisps of white hair sprouted from his chin. He wore a black high-collared jacket and black trousers.
Had he heard Haum’s cry for help? Jaffe wondered. It was possible that he had; why else should he be standing here? He never entered the house. His place was in the cookhouse across the courtyard, and yet here he was about to walk in, and Jaffe was sure if he hadn’t moved so quickly, the old man would have come into the sitting-room.
“What is it?” Jaffe asked, aware his voice sounded husky.
Dong Ham picked at a lump of hard skin on the side of his hand. His watery black eyes shifted from Jaffe to the door leading to the sitting-room.
“Haum is wanted, sir,” he said. He spoke French badly and slowly. He pushed back the door and moved to one side so Jaffe had a clear view of the outer courtyard and the cookhouse.
Standing in the shade of the cookhouse building was a Vietnamese girl. She was in white and her conical straw hat hid her face. For a moment, Jaffe thought she was Nhan, and his heart gave a little lurch of surprise, then the girl looked up and he saw she was Haum’s fiancée.
Jaffe had often seen this girl waiting with Asian patience for Haum to finish his work. Haum had told him he planned to marry the girl when he had finished his political studies.
Jaffe had never paid any attention to the girl. He had only been vaguely aware of her when he went out to get the car from the garage, but now, he stared at her, realizing how dangerous she could be to him.
How long had she been here? he wondered. Had she too heard Haum’s cry?
The girl looked very young. She wore her hair in a ponytail that hung in a black thick rope to her tiny waist. For a Vietnamese, he thought, she was very plain and unattractive.
By the tense way she was standing and by her staring alarmed eyes, Jaffe was sure she had heard the cry, but had she recognized Haum’s voice?
Jaffe suddenly became aware that both the old man and the girl were regarding him in a hostile, suspicious way, although both of them were obviously uncertain of themselves and frightened.
Jaffe said the first thing that came into his mind: “Haum has gone out. I have lent him to a friend to help with a dinner party. It’s no use you waiting for him. He won’t be back until late.”
Dong Ham slowly backed down the three steps that led up to the kitchen. His wrinkled face was expressionless. Jaffe looked quickly at the girl. She had lowered her head. The straw hat hid her face.
He crossed to the back door and shut it gently, then very quietly he slid home the bolt. Then he stepped to the shuttered window and peered through one of the slits into the courtyard.
The old man was staring blankly at the closed door and he picked nervously at the hard skin of his hand. The girl too was staring at the door. She said something. The old man went to her with slow, shuffling steps. They began jabbering together: their voices discordant and loud in the hot silence of the courtyard.
Not a good lie, Jaffe thought uneasily, but the best he could have thought of in the circumstances. He had had to say something. It was true that from time to time he did lend Haum to one or the other of his friends who happened to be throwing a party. On these occasions Haum always wore his white drill coat and trousers. He always spent some time in preparing himself. He enjoyed these outings, and invariably boasted to Dong Ham where he was going.