The cops didn’t expect any resistance. My opening came when one motioned for me to step over and place my outstretched hands on the edge of the bar. Madame Peacock backed away.
I looked over to where Willow had gotten herself erect again. From the way her shoulderbag dangled from one hand, I knew her defense mechanism was in gear. “This play is known as sack the quarterback,” I signalled.
“Got cha,” Willow called back, and got a firmer grip on the straps of her purse.
I acted dumb. I gave the cop the impression I was unfamiliar with the spread-legged stance he wanted me to take. He was patient, but also careless through overconfidence. I leaned forward against the bar, but kept my weight on both feet. The policeman moved in behind me. I watched his feet and legs from under my arm. When he was close enough, I brought one leg up between his in a fast backswing. It came up stiff-kneed and heel first. My foot arched upward like the head of a hard-swung sledge hammer. My aim wasn’t quite on target, but his forked legs guided my driving heel. He bellowed as my surprise kick drove at least one of his balls up into his rib cage. He dropped like a fighting bull taking a matador’s sword in the heart. He groveled on the dirty floor, gasping and drawing his knees up into a fetal position.
I snapped around to face the other cop. He was momentarily stunned. His hand started for his sidearm. He shreiked with pain as Willow’s wide swinging, gun-carrying shoulder bag struck him squarely in the elbow. The blur of motion that followed was Willow throwing a jarring, knee-buckling block that toppled the giant of a man backward. With only one useful hand to break his fall, he didn’t. His head struck the floor with the sound of a ripe melon being hit with a plank. He lay still. Blood trickled out of one nostril. His chest no longer moved.
Willow got up and stared down at her victim. She looked toward me, but her eyes were diverted. I turned around again to look at the man I had incapacited. Bu Chen was cradling the cop’s head in his lap. It took a second look to see that Bu Chen had taken a large handkerchief from his pocket and was in the last stages of garroting the man.
Madame Peacock was the first to move. She came directly to me. She spoke passable English. “I’m not yet sure whether you did me a favor. Nevertheless, these two won’t bother me any more... and good riddance. There are other proprietors of businesses along here who will be thankful for what you did for them. You, Bu Chen, get on the phone and have someone come to get rid of this trash. You know what to do with the police car out front too. Come, you two,” she beckoned with a long finger, “I must show my gratitude which you have truly earned.”
As we passed the line of ashen-faced bar girls, Madame Peacock gave instructions which Willow later told me were for them to forget what they had seen.
Twelve
Madame Peacock was outwardly calm. Her hand was steady as she poured tea. She and Willow conversed in a common language while I sat with them in the well-furnished, combination parlor-office adjacent to the main bar. When our unusual hostess took a seat and sipped the aromatic brew from a wafer-thin, hand-painted china cup, she switched to French.
Madame Peacock got right to the point. Her voice was high pitched, almost rasping. The apparent tightness in her throat could be caused by apprehension of events to come. “You must wait until Bu Chen returns. He will find a place where you can be safe — not here. You need not worry; I will see that none of my girls talk, but they will not keep silent forever. I hope your stay in Bangkok was to be a short one.”
That gave me the chance to tell Madame Peacock we’d be ready to leave as soon as we collected Keith Martin. Willow, the incurable romantic, had to inject the bit about Martin’s love-driven crusade to rejoin his war-time sweetheart.
A small smile grew on Madame Peacock’s thin lips. “Her name is Phan Wan Quan, a delightful flower. You have not been misled. Mister Martin’s search ended here. In failure, I’m afraid. You see, Phan Wan, who succeeded in establishing herself as a refugee from Hue, was actually a North Vietnamese woman sent by her owner to Saigon so she could make a fortune selling herself to rich Yankee soldiers. After the Americans left, Phan Wan was sent here because I had an arrangement with the man in Hanoi.
“It is true that Phan Wan loves your friend Martin very much. It is possible, despite what you might think to the contrary. I did not dissuade Phan Wan from the idea that her Yankee lover would someday return. She never gave up hope. It gladdened my heart to see that he came. I never thought he would.”
I grew impatient. “Where are they now?” I asked.
“Phan Wan now lives in the home of Nho Phu Thone, her master. He withdrew her after the Americans were sent out of Thailand.” She saw the look on my face. “Oh, yes. She was taken away weeks ago. To Hanoi, of course. I told that to your Mister Martin as well. Then he left.”
I knew that was what she was going to say. I had two questions. “When was this?”
“A little before midnight the day before yesterday.”
In time to put into motion the rash of assassinations, I thought. The most important question came next. “Do you have any idea where he went?”
“None at all. He seemed to be in a hurry.”
I was too. With none of the answers I needed forthcoming, my mind picked over the few facts and many possibilities that had developed from Martin’s peculiar actions. It didn’t make sense to me that Martin would claim he was hung up on a prostitute to the extent he’d risk his career by disappearing and create a lot of diversions to keep his movements secret. I was sure Martin had come to Bangkok for reasons more likely linked to the premise that he was part of a fanatical group bent on avenging American POWs. Whatever the plan — mad as it was — Martin was being helped.
At that point, my brain came to a dead stop.
I still wasn’t sure what part his old flame, Phan Wan Quan, played in his scheme. I decided that was an issue apart from the main thrust of Martin’s obsession. But now I was almost certain just how much of a grip the madness had upon him.
“How did Martin get here? By taxi? Did he walk in?”
Madame Peacock’s thin, arched eyebrows bent in thought. “A private automobile. A big, black American sedan. With an American at the wheel. I went with Mister Martin to the door. He was both sad and angry, it seemed. He got in the car next to the driver, a broad-shouldered, yellow-haired man with a short haircut. I didn’t see his face.”
“The license plate?”
She shook her head.
“Are you onto something?” asked Willow.
I didn’t have a chance to reply. Bu Chen came in from an alley entrance. He was perspiring. “It’s done,” he announced.
“I’ll get you a drink,” Madame Peacock said, rising. She was a smart woman. What she didn’t hear she couldn’t repeat.
“We’ve got big trouble,” Bu Chen said in a low voice. “When I saw that the big pig Willow clobbered had been zapped, the other one had to go,” he explained. “Those two bastards have been pressuring folks along this street for years. They deserved what they got. But the law will be down here in force soon. They’ll intimidate those birdbrain chicks out there. One of them will eventually spill her guts. They all know me. My life isn’t worth dog shit. Yours neither, now. Sorry I gotta lay this on you, but we’d better figure out what to do.”
He could have been making a subtle threat. Even if he was, I understood his position, which was little worse than the one occupied by Willow and myself. Willow looked pale. She had never been in a spot as tight as this one. “Can you get us to the American Embassy?” I asked.