On the gravel drive to Pyle's apartment were several motor-cycles and a Vietnamese policeman examined by press-card. He wouldn't allow Phuong into the house, so I went in search of a French officer. In Pyle's bathroom Vigot was washing his hands with Pyle's soap and drying them on Pyle's towel. His tropical suit had a stain of oil on the sleevePyle's oil, I supposed. "Any news?" I asked.
"We found his car in the garage. It's empty of petrol. jli'must have gone off last night in a trishaw-or in some-lody else's car. Perhaps the petrol was drained away."
"He might even have walked," I said. "You know what Americans are."
"Your car was burnt, wasn't it?" he went thoughtfully on. "You haven't a new one?"
"No."
"It's not an important point." "No."
"Have you any views?" he asked. "Too many," I said. "Tell me."
"Well, he might have been murdered by the Vietminh. They have murdered plenty of people in Saigon. His body was found in the river by the bridge to Dakow-Vietminh territory when your police withdraw at night. Or he might have been killed by the Vietnamese Surete-it's been known. Perhaps they did not like his friends. Perhaps he was killed by the Caodaists because he knew General The."
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"Did he?"
"They say so. Perhaps he was killed by General The because he knew the Caodaists. Perhaps he was killed by the Hoa-Haos for making passes at the General's concubines. Perhaps he was just killed by someone who wanted his money."
"Or a simple case of jealousy," Vigot said. "Or perhaps by the French Surete," I continued, "because they didn't like his contacts. Are you really looking for the people who killed him?"
"No," Vigot said. "I'm just making a report, that's all. So long as it's an act of war-well, there are thousands killed every year."
"You can rule me out," I said. "I'm not involved. Not involved," I repeated. It had been an article of my creed. The human condition being what it was, let them fight, let them love, let them murder, I would not be involved. My fellow journalists called themselves correspondents; I preferred the title of reporter. I wrote what I saw: I took no action-even an opinion is a kind of action. "What are you doing here?"
"I've come for Phuong's belongings. Your police wouldn't let her in."
"Well, let us go and find them." "It's nice of you, Vigot." Pyle had two rooms, a kitchen and bathroom. We went to the bedroom. I knew where Phuong would keep her box-under the bed. We pulled it out together; it contained her picture books. I took her few spare clothes out of the wardrobe, her two good robes and her spare trousers. One had a sense that they had been hanging there for a few hours only and didn't belong, they were in passage like a butterfly in a room. In a drawer I found her small triangular pants and her collection of scarves. There was really very
45
little to put in the box, less than a week-end visitor's at home.
In the sitting-room there was a photograph of herself and Pyle. They had been photographed in the botanical gardens beside a large stone dragon. She held Pyle's dog on a leash-a black chow* with a black tongue. A too black dog. I put the photograph in her box. "What's happened to the dog?" I said.
"It isn't here. He may have taken it with him." "Perhaps it will return and you can analyse the earth on its paws."
"I'm not Lecoq,* or even Maigret,* and there's a war on."
I went across to the bookcase and examined the two rows of books-Pyle's library. The Advance of Red China, The Challenge to Democracy. The Role of the West-these, I suppose, were the complete works of York Harding. There were a lot of Congressional Reports, a Vietnamese phrase book, a history of the War in the Philippines, a Modern Library Shakespeare. On what did he relax? I found his light reading on another shelf: a portable Thomas Wolfe* and a mysterious anthology called The Triumph of Life, and a selection of American poetry. There was also a book of chess problems. It didn't seem much for the end of the working day, but, after all, he had had Phuong. Tucked away behind the anthology there was a paper-backed book* called The Physiology of Marriage. Perhaps he was studying sex, as he had studied the East, on paper. And the keyword was marriage. Pyle believed in being involved.
His desk was quite bare. "You've made a clean sweep," I said.
"Oh," Vigot said. "I had to take charge of* these on behalf of the American Legation. You know how quickly rumour spreads. There might have been looting. I had all his 46
papers sealed up." He said it seriously without even smiling. "Anything damaging?"
"We can't afford to find anything damaging against an ally," Vigot said.
"Would you mind if I took one of these books-as a keep-sake?" "I'll look the other way." I chose York Harding's The Role of the West and packed it in the box with Phuong's clothes.
"As a friend," Vigot said, "is there nothing you could tell me in confidence? My report's all tied up.* He was murdered by the Communists. Perhaps the beginning of a campaign against American aid. But between you and me-testen, it's dry talking, what about a vermouth cassis* round the corner?" "Too early."
"He didn't confide anything to you the last time he saw you?" . "No.".
"When was that?"
^"Yesterdaymorning.Afterthebigbang." "He paused to let my reply sink in-to my mind, not to his: he interrogated .fairly. "You were out when he called on you last night?"
"Last night? I must have been. I didn't think. . ." "You may be wanting an exit visa. You, know we could delay it indefinitely."
"Do you really believe," I said, "that I want to go home?" Vigot looked through the window at the bright cloudless day. He said sadly,"Most people do." "I like it here. At home there are-problems." "Merde,"* Vigot said, "here's the American Economic Attache. He repeated with sarcasm, "Economic Attache."
"I'd better be off. He'll want to seal me up too." Vigot said wearily, "I wish you luck. He'll have a terrible lot to say to me."
The Economic Attache was standing by his Packard when I came out, trying to explain something to his driver. He was a stout middle-aged man with an exaggerated bottom and a face that looked as if it had never needed a razor. He called out, "Fowler. Could you explain to this darned driver...?" I explained.
He said, "But that's just what I told him, but he always pretends not to understand French." "It may be a matter of accent."
"I was three years in Paris. My accent's good enough for one of these darned Vietnamese." "The voice of Democracy," I said. "What's that?"
"I expect it's a book by York Harding." "I don't get you." He took a suspicious look at the box I carried. "What've you got there?" he said.
"Two pairs of white silk trousers, two silk robes, some girl's underpants-three pairs, I think. All home products. No American aid." "Have you been upthere?" he asked. "Yes."
"You heard the news?" "Yes."
"It's a terrible thing," he said, "terrible." "I expect the Minister's very disturbed." "I should say. He's with the High Commissioner now, and he's asked for an interview with the President." He put his hand on my arm and walked me away from the cars. "You knew young Pyle well, didn't you? I can't get
48
over a thing like that happening to him. I knew his father. Professor Harold C. Pyle-you'll have heard of him?" "No."
"He's the world authority on under-water erosion. Didn't you see his picture on the cover of Timetbe other month?"
"Oh, I think I remember, A crumbling cliff in the background and gold-rimmed glasses in the foreground."
"That's him. I had to draft the cable home. It was terrible. I loved that boy like he was my son." "That makes you closely related to his father." He turned his wet brown eyes on me. He said, "What's getting you?* That's not the way to talk when a fine young fellow..."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Death takes people in different ways." Perhaps he had really loved Pyle. "What did you say in your cable?" I asked.