Standing there was a little, wiry, dark-skinned man wearing a pith-style helmet, white shorts, knee-high white socks, and a short-sleeved bush jacket. The outfit was a uniform, and he wore it proudly as native Malayans in an official capacity often do.
“I am Inspector Kok Chin Tiong of the Singapore polis,” he said. “I would like to speak with you, please.”
“What about?”
“May I come in, Mr. Connell?”
“If you don’t make any comments about my housekeeping.”
I stood aside to let him walk in past me. He stood in the middle of the room, looking around, then turned to confront me as I shut the door. His face and eyes were expressionless.
“You are acquainted with a French national named La Croix,” Tiong said. It wasn’t a question.
“I know him, yes.”
“When did you last see him?”
He already knew the answer to that or he wouldn’t be here. I said, “Yesterday. He looked me up. First time I’d seen him in three years.”
“Why did he look you up, as you say?”
“He wanted me to do something for him.”
“And that was?”
“Fly him out of Singapore.”
“To what destination?”
“He didn’t get around to telling me.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“I wasn’t interested enough to ask.”
“Did you agree to his request?”
“No. I don’t fly anymore.”
“Ah, yes,” Tiong said. “There was an accident two years ago on Penang Island. Involving an aircraft belonging to you and a Mr. Lawrence Falco.”
“Yeah,” I said. “An accident.”
“You and Mr. Falco were co-owners of an air cargo company. The plane, piloted by you, crashed late one night in the jungle near a remote airstrip. You escaped serious injury but your partner was killed.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Explain, please, what you and Mr. Falco were doing in such a place at such a late hour. No flight plan was filed for the trip.”
“There was a full investigation at the time. I gave a statement. Look up the records.”
He smiled faintly. “I have already done so. There was strong suspicion that you and Mr. Falco were involved in the smuggling of contraband.”
“Nothing was proven.”
“Yes, both the plane and its cargo were destroyed in the explosion following the crash. But your commercial license was revoked.”
My head had begun to ache. “Listen,” I said, “I don’t know why you’re here, Inspector, but what I was or wasn’t doing two years ago is a dead issue, just like Larry Falco. I haven’t been up in a plane since, and I never will again. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to wash up and get dressed.”
His black eyes searched my face for a few seconds, then he put his hands behind his back and walked to the window. He stood looking down at noisy activity on Punyang Street. After a time, as I finished putting on my pants, he turned and said, “I would like to know your whereabouts last evening, Mr. Connell.”
I told him, leaving out Tina Kellogg and the incident with Van Rijk’s toughs.
He rubbed at his upper lip with the tip of one finger. “You are familiar with the East Coast Road, near Bedok?”
“A little.”
“The French national was found there early this morning,” Tiong said. “He had been dead for several hours. Quite badly used and then shot through the temple with a small caliber weapon.”
I went to the bureau, shook a cigarette out of my pack and lit it. “How do you mean, badly used?”
“Tortured. With lighted cigarettes,” he added pointedly.
I stubbed mine out; it had tasted foul anyway. “So you think I had something to do with it.”
“Did you?”
“I told you where I was last night.”
“Do you own a gun, please?”
“Would you object to a search of your room?”
“Be my guest,” I said. “But you’re wasting your time, Inspector. I didn’t kill La Croix. I didn’t have any reason to kill him.”
“Have you any idea who did?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Look up a guy named Van Rijk, Jorge Van Rijk, and ask him the same questions you’ve asked me.”
Tiong’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of Van Rijk?”
“He looked me up yesterday, too, after I saw La Croix. Wanted to know where La Croix was and what his plans were. I brushed him off. He didn’t like it, made a few veiled threats — and last night, when I left the Gardens, the two men he’d had with him jumped me. They didn’t have any better luck.”
“I see,” Tiong said slowly. “Most interesting.”
“I take it you’re familiar with Van Rijk. Who is he?”
“A Dutch merchant currently living in Johore Bahru. But we have reason to believe he has other interests illegal and quite profitable interests. He is also known to be an avid collector of rare jade.” Tiong paused. “You are aware, of course, of the recent theft from the Museum of Oriental Art?”
“No,” I said.
“It has been prominent in the newspapers.”
“I’m not much of a reader.”
“Early last week,” Tiong said, “a valuable white jade figurine, the Burong Chabak,was taken from an exhibit at the museum. The robbery was cleverly planned and executed.”
“You think Van Rijk was involved in it?”
“We do. We believe the French national was involved as well.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. La Croix would do just about anything for the right price... but then I guess you know that.”
Tiong nodded.
“If you’re right,” I said, “La Croix must have double crossed Van Rijk and tried to keep the figurine for himself. That’s why he was in such a sweat to have me fly him out of Singapore.”
“So it would seem.”
“Van Rijk and his boys must’ve caught up with him last night. Which means that now they have the figurine.”
“Possibly.”
“Have you picked up Van Rijk yet?”
“No. But we will. Everyone involved in the theft of the Burong Chabak will be taken into custody eventually.”
“If you’ve got some idea that I’m mixed up in it, you’re dead wrong. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”
“I hope so, Mr. Connell. Is there any more information you can give me?”
“No.”
“Very well. I will take up no more of your time. You will, of course, keep yourself available in the event I need to speak with you again.”
“I hadn’t planned on going anywhere.”
He nodded curtly. “Then, selamat jalan, Mr. Connell,” and he went away and left me alone. For now.
The sun bore down mercilessly on the bared upper half of my body. My khakis were soaked through with a viscid sweat; the back of my neck was blotched and raw from the roote hond.
I rolled another barrel of palm oil from the deck of the tongkang across the plank and onto the dock. One of the Chinese coolies took it there and muscled it onto a wooden skid. An ancient forklift waited nearby.
I paused for a breather, rubbing the back of my forearm across my eyes. I was thinking how good an iced Anchor beer would taste once we were done for the day, when Harry Rutledge came walking over to me.
“How’s it going, lad?”
“Another hour or so should do it.”
“Well, you have a visitor. An impatient one, at that.”
“Visitor?”
“Bit of a pip, too,” Harry said. “You Americans have all the luck.”
“A woman? She tell you her name?”
“Tina Kellogg.”
I frowned. “Where is she?”
“My office. You know where it is.”
I put my shirt on, then went inside the huge, high-raftered godown and threaded my way through the stacked barrels and crates and skids to Harry’s cluttered office. Tina Kellog was sitting in the bamboo armchair near the window, wearing a tailored white suit with a skirt short enough to reveal long, slender legs. She stood as I entered, smiling hesitantly. Her eyes were green and full of pleading.