"M. Heng," I asked. I shook my head at the tea: I wasn't in the mood to begin another long course of that trivial bitter brew. "II faut absolument que je voie M. Heng."* It seemed impossible to convey to them the urgency of my request, but perhaps the very abruptness of my refusal of tea caused some disquiet. Or perhaps like Pyle I had blood on my shoes. Anyway after a short delay one of the women led me out and down the stairs, along two bustling bannered streets and left me before what they would have called I suppose in Pyle's country a "funeral parlour",* full of stone jars in which the resurrected bones of the Chinese dead are eventually placed.* "M. Heng," I said to an old Chinese in the doorway. "M. lleng." It seemed a suitable halting place on a day which had begun with the planter's erotic collection and continued with the murdered bodies in the square. Somebody called from an inner room and the Chinese stepped aside and let me in. Mr. Heng himself came cordially forward and ushered me into a little inner room lined with the black carved imcornfortable chairs you find in every Chinese ante-room, unused, unwelcoming. But I had the sense that on this occasion the chairs had been employed, for there were five
little tea-cups on the table, and two were not empty. "I have interrupted a meeting," I said.
"A matter of business," Mr. Heng said evasively, "of no importance. I am always glad to see you, Mr. Fowler." "I've come from the Place Gamier," I said. "I thought that was it."
"You've heard.. "
"Someone telephoned to me. It was thought best that I keep away from Mr. Chou's for a while. The police will be very active today." "But you had nothing to do with it." "It is the business of the police to find a culprit." "It was Pyle again," I said. "Yes."
"It was a terrible thing to do."
"General The is not a very controlled character." "And plastic isn't for boys from Boston. Who is Pyle's chief, Heng?"
"I have the impression that Mr. Pyle is very much his own master." "What is he?
O.S.S.?"* "The initial letters are not very important." "What can I do, Heng? He's got to be stopped." "You can publish the truth. Or perhaps you cannot?" "My paper's not interested in General The. They are only interested in your people, Heng." "You really want Mr. Pyle stopped, Mr. Fowler?" "If you'd -see him, Heng. He stood there and said it was all a sad mistake, there should have been a parade. He said he'd have to get his shoes cleaned before he saw the Minister."
"Of course, you could tell what you know to the police." "They aren't interested in The either. And do you think they would dare to touch an American? He has diplomatic privileges. He's a graduate of Harvard.* The Minister's very fond of Pyle. Heng, there was a woman there whose baby-she kept it covered under her straw hat. I can't get it out of my head. And there was another in Phat Diem." "You must try to be calm, Mr. Fowler." "What'll he do next, Heng? How many bombs and dead children can you get out of a drum of Diolacton?" "Would you be prepared to help us, Mr. Fowler?" "He comes blundering in and people have to die for his mistakes. I wish your people had got him on the river from Nam Dinh. It would have made a lot of difference to a lot of lives"
"I agree with you, Mr. Fowler. He has to be restrained. I have a suggestion to make." Somebody coughed delicately behind the door, then noisily spat. He said, "If you would invite him to dinner tonight at the Vieux Moulin. Between eight-thirty and nine-thirty."
"What good...?"
"We would talk to him on the way,"' Heng said. "He may be engaged."
"Perhaps it would be better if you asked him to call on you-at six-thirty. He will be free then: he will certainly come. If he is able to have dinner with you, take a book to your window as though you want to catch the light." "Why the Vieux Moulin?"
"It is by the bridge to Dakow-1 think we shall be able to find a spot and talk undisturbed." "What will you do?"
"You do not want to know that, Mr. Fowler. But I promise you we will act as gently as the situation allows."
The unseen friends of Heng shifted like rats behind the wall. "Will you do this for us, Mr. Fowler?" "I don't know," I said. "I don't know." "Sooner or later," Heng said, and I was reminded of
Captain Trouin speaking in the opium-house, "one has to take sides. If one is to remain human."
(2)
I left a note at the Legation asking Pyle to come and then I went up the street to the Continental for a drink. The wreckage was ail cleared away; the fire-brigade had hosed the square. I had no idea then how the time and the place would become important. I even thought of sitting there throughout the evening and breaking my appointment. Then I thought that perhaps I could frighten Pyle into inactivity by warning him of his dangerwhatever his danger was, and so I finished my beer and w&nt home, and when I reached home I began to hope that Pyle would not come. I tried to read, but there was nothing on my shelves to hold the attention. Perhaps I should have smoked, but there was no one to prepare my pipe. I listened unwilhngly for footsteps and at last they came. Somebody knocked. I opened the door, but it was only Dominguez. I said, "What do you want, Dominguez?" He looked at me with an air of surprise. "Want?" He looked at his watch.
"This is the time I always come. Have you any cables?" "I'm sorry-I'd forgotten. No."
"But a follow-up^ on the bomb? Don't you want something filed?"
"Oh, work one out for me, Dominguez. I don't know how it is-being there on the spot, perhaps I got a bit shocked. I can't think of the thing in terms of a cable." I hit out at a mosquito which came droning at my ear and saw Dominguez wince instinctively at my blow. "It's all right, Dominguez, I missed it." He grinned miserably. He could not justify this reluctance to take life: after all he was a Christian--one of those who had learnt from Nero how to make human bodies into candles.*
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. He didn't drink, he didn't eat meat, he didn't kill-1 envied him the gentleness of his mind.
"No, Dominguez. Just leave me alone tonight." I watched him from the window, going away across the rue Catinat. A trishaw-driver had parked beside the pavement opposite my window: Dominguez tried to engage him but the man shook his head. Presumably he was waiting for a client in one of the shops, for this was not a parking place for trishaws. When I looked at my watch it was strange to see that I had been waiting for little more than ten minutes, and, when Pyle knocked, I hadn't even heard his step.
"Come in." But as usual it was the dog that came in first.
"I was glad to get your note, Thomas. This morning I thought you were mad at me."
"Perhaps I was. It wasn't a pretty sight." "You know so much now, it won't hurt to tell you a bit more. I saw The this afternoon."
"Saw him? Is he in Saigon? I suppose he came to see how his bomb worked."
"That's in confidence, Thomas. I dealt with him very severely." He spoke like the captain of a school-team who has found one of his boys breaking his training. All the same I asked him with a certain hope, "Have you thrown him over?"*
"I told him that if he made another uncontrolled demonstration we would have no more to do with him."
"But haven't you finished with him already^ Pyle?" I pushed impatiently at his dog which was nosing around my ankles. "I can't. (Sit down. Duke.) In the long run he's the only hope we have. If he came to power with our help, we could rely on him. . ."
"How many people have to die before you realise...?" But I could tell that it was a hopeless argument. "Realise what, Thomas?"
"That there's no such thing as gratitude in politics." "At least they won't hate us like they hate the French." "Are you sure? Sometimes we have a kind of love for our enemies and sometimes we feel hate for our friends."