That was the worst part about it — he had nothing to report. His investigation was stymied. The trail was growing colder by the day, and Ngy knew that with each passing hour the killers moved a little farther out of reach. Now the Yankee would come in and offer to solve the matter, just like that. He had dealt with Americans before. Arrogant. Presumptuous. Conceited. Superior. And yet he would have to be almost obsequious. The chief’s memo was quite clear about that. Be friendly, it said. Not just courteous, friendly!
It was not going to be a good day.
He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes. In fifteen minutes the American would arrive. Oh, he would be prompt. My God, were these people never late? He would make the usual salutatory comments. He would be patronizing. He would smile a lot. Then he would offer to assist the local police. It was always assist.
At two minutes before the hour, Ngy’s assistant tapped on his door and almost reverently announced the arrival of Hatcher.
Ngy walked over very close to the police sergeant. ‘He is an American Army officer, not the president of the United States,’ he hissed under his breath.
‘Y-y-yes, sir,’ the sergeant stammered, surprised at the major’s subdued but vehement outburst.
‘Show him in,’ Ngy said, marching back to his desk.
Hatcher approached the meeting with the same anxieties as Ngy. He didn’t want to stir up anything. He wanted the Americans to stay off the case, but he wanted copies of the police reports and a sense of their progress. He wasn’t sure just how to pull that off without raising Ngy’s suspicions. But he was sure that he would not mention Wol Pot, Cody, Thai Horse or any other aspect of the case.
Hatcher was surprised at how big the office was. This was, after all, the office of a homicide cop, not the prime minister. It was a high room, hollow-sounding, with spotless tiled floors, its sparse furniture polished and free of dust and blemishes. Papers fluttered listlessly on desks, stirred by the ceiling fan. The sounds of traffic and bells ringing and people moving were a murmur from behind closed shutters.
The major was short and trim, neatly dressed in a khaki business suit, a pale blue shirt and a yellow tie. His mustache and hair were trimmed with infinite care, his nails were manicured, his black boots buffed to a blinding shine. His face was a mask, revealing neither pleasure nor pain, surprise nor ennui, friendliness nor antagonism.
Murder at a poker table, thought Hatcher.
Hatcher knew all about him. He had worked his way up through the ranks, attended the American FBI training academy, spent six months working with police in New York City, had once been part of a team that had tracked heroin movements from the Golden Triangle into Malaysia, a team comprised mostly of U.S. Drug Enforcement agents. His arrest record was the envy of most department heads.
Ngy was a precise man, it wasn’t hard to tell. Everything about him was precise. The way he was dressed. His office. His desk! Everything on it was arranged in perfect geometric patterns, letters, pens, blotters, phone, all in tight little squares.
Precise, precise, precise. A man with a big ego and one easily bruised. Hatcher would have to be very careful dealing with this cop whose underlings, behind his back, called him the Mongoose.
‘Major,’ Hatcher said in his most sincere tone, ‘I’m Hatcher. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate your time.’
Ngy’s smile struggled not to be a sneer. 1t is my pleasure, Colonel,’ he said earnestly. ‘I am embarrassed that such a thing could happen here. I had hoped Bangkok was more civilized.’
Uh-oh, thought Hatcher, he’s having trouble with it.
‘These things happen,’ Hatcher said. ‘Do you think robbery was the motive?’
Aha, fishing, thought Ngy. He’s being subtle. Well, it won’t hurt to give him a little bit.
‘No,’ Ngy answered. ‘Nothing was taken. It appears he stepped into a fight and was killed for his trouble. There are witnesses who saw the whole thing.’
This is a smart cop, thought Hatcher. If there are witnesses he’s picked them clean., no need for me to appear interested. That’ll throw him off a little.
Hatcher decided to give him a little something in return.
‘That sounds just like Windy — that was his nickname, Windy — anyway, he was that kind, always ready to help someone in trouble.’
Ngy nodded, still smiling. ‘I see,’ he said. He seems to be leading me down this dead end, thought the Thai policeman, a chance killing. Didn’t he know that Ngy knew that Porter was an intelligence officer? Intelligence officers were not likely to be killed by chance.
‘Ironic, isn’t it,’ Hatcher went on, ‘an intelligence officer getting killed like that. He . . . deserved . . . I don’t know, a more . . . exotic death.’
Clever! thought Ngy. That clears the air about Porter’s job. He poses the problem and then answers it. What is the game here?
‘Well, we haven’t ruled out other considerations yet,’ Ngy said. ‘It’s just that from all the surface evidence it appears he was just an unfortunate good Samaritan.’
Is he here because he knows something we don’t know? thought Ngy. Perhaps Porter was on some questionable intelligence job and Hatcher is here to find out how much we know. Ngy decided to drop his hook a little deeper. ‘Was he . . . uh, involved in anything that might have a bearing on the case?’ Ngy asked.
Hatcher shook his head. Good, thought Hatcher, he doesn’t know a thing. He’s really fishing now.
‘No, actually his job was pretty much confined to embassy security. He wasn’t a working field agent. Windy was close to retirement. This was considered a kind of easy job to go out on.’
Ngy thought, Do I trust him? If what he says is true, then the Porter case could very likely be a chance encounter that ended in death. It would make the lack of arrests somewhat more palatable to his superiors.
‘Well, rest assured we are doing everything in our power to find the killers. We have adequate descriptions of both of them, and the man in the other boat.’
‘Other boat?’
Well, obviously he hasn’t spent a lot of time on this matter, thought Ngy. Even the papers had reported that there was a man in the other boat. I’ll give him some more free information. See how he reacts.
‘The one who seemed to be the intended victim,’ Ngy said. ‘He jumped in the river when this all started. It could very well be some kind of grudge fight between Street gangs and your Major Porter stumbled on to it. There was also a prostitute involved — but there was no implication that the major even knew her. I assure you we don’t suspect any connection between them.’
‘Thank God for that. This has been rough enough on his wife.’
Ngy thought, perhaps he can help with the note. He reached into the folder and tool out a five-by-seven sheet of lined three-ring notebook paper. It was stiff and faded and the blue ink was smeared.
‘We found this,’ Ngy offered. ‘But even our handwriting experts cannot decipher what was written on it.’
Hatcher looked closely at the paper, turned it over and looked at the back. It was the page from Porter’s diary on the day he died. He dropped it back on Ngy’s desk, not wanting to seem too eager.
‘Probably his grocery list,’ Hatcher said with a chuckle.
‘Probably,’ Ngy said with an equally forced smile.
‘Perhaps I could show this to some of his associates. I may be able to turn something up that will help you.’
Ngy was immediately suspicious again. But he decided his fears were unfounded. This Hatcher appeared to have no interest in the case other than to officially report he had looked into it. Thus far he had made no attempt to interfere. Ngy decided a concession or two would be all right.