My being aware of her seemed to make up her mind about something. She came forward jerkily and stopped in front of my table. “You’re... Mr. Connell? Dan Connell?” American, I thought. Or possibly Canadian.
“That’s me.”
“My name is Tina Kellogg. I’d like to talk to you. It’s... it’s very important to me.”
I indicated an empty chair and invited her to sit down.
“I don’t know quite how to say this,” she said. “I’m... I have no experience with this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing is that?”
She hesitated. “Well, intrigue, I guess you’d call it.”
“That’s a pretty melodramatic word.”
“Yes, I know.” She hesitated again. Then, in a rush, as if she needed to relieve herself of the pressure of the words: “Mr. Connell, I’m told that you fly people out of Singapore, people who can’t leave any other way.”
Christ, I thought. First La Croix, then Van Rijk, and now this woman. Some damn day this had been. “Who told you that?” I asked her.
“I don’t know his name. A man I talked to on the waterfront. I spent most of the day asking around and this man said the person I should see was Dan Connell and that I could find him here most nights, so I...” Her voice trailed off.
“I can’t help you,” I told her.
“But... the man said...”
“I don’t care what he said. I can’t help you.”
“It isn’t very far, where I want to... where I have to go.” Desperation put a tremble in her voice. “Just the Philippines. Anywhere near Luzon.”
I drank from my glass. I thought she might go away if I ignored her, but she didn’t.
“It’s my father,” she said. “The reason I have to get home so quickly. There was a telegram this morning, from the Luzon police. My father has been arrested. There have been terrorist attacks recently and they think he’s involved with the Communist guerillas responsible.” She took a deep, shuddery breath. “It’s not true! I know my father. He’s... we’re Canadian. He owns a small import-export business, his sympathies are all with the present government. He would never become mixed up with the Communists — he’d have nothing to gain and everything to lose. It’s all a mistake, a terrible mistake.”
I sighed. “Why don’t you just take one of the scheduled flights?”
“I haven’t enough money. Nor any credit cards — my father doesn’t believe in them.”
“Can’t someone in your family make the arrangements?”
“There’s no one but my father and me.”
“His business associates? Personal friends?”
She shook her head. “There’s no one. I suppose I might be able to arrange something with his bank, but that might take days. And he has no close friends in Luzon. Even if he had, they’d be afraid to help me — afraid of being implicated with the Communists.”
“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 spilclass="underline" 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.