Authors: Ross Thomas
I went through the door and into what Fat Annie had called the parlor and found that her description was accurate. It was a medium-sized room filled with dark Victorian furniture and lighted with softly glowing lamps that sat on marble-topped tables whose legs were carved into whorls and clefts and curlicues. The floor was covered with a dark oriental rug and the pale green walls held gilt-framed nostalgic paintings of rural England. In the center of the room was a small table of dark wood that held a chess set. Bent over the pieces were Nash and a very young, very pretty Chinese girl dressed in a miniskirt It apparently was Nash's move and he didn't seem too sure about what it should be.
“Hello, Cauthorne,” Nash said without looking up. “Be with you in a moment.”
He studied the chessboard and then moved a bishop. The girl shot her queen down the board and said: “Check and mate in two move.”
Nash studied the board a few moments and then sighed and leaned back in bis chair.
“That's three in a row,” he said.
The girl held up four fingers. “Four in row. You owe me four dollah.”
“All right, four,” Nash said and took the money out of his shirt pocket and paid her. “You run along now, Betty Lou.”
The girl rose gracefully, smiled at me, and left through the door that I had entered.
“Betty Lou?”
“It's close enough,” Nash said.
“When can we leave?” I said.
“Let's eat first.” He shouted something in Chinese and an old man dressed in a black blouse and black trousers shuffled in. Nash spoke again in Chinese and then handed over some money. The old man asked a question, Nash replied, and the man, who looked eighty, but may well have been forty-five, shuffled out.
“He'll pick it up along the street,” Nash said.
“Where did you learn Chinese?” I said.
“I got a Chinese wife. Nothing's better, unless maybe a Japanese one, but I still don't like the Japs on account of I got to know them too well during the war. Mean bastards. But let's have a drink.” He rose and crossed the room to a table where a bottle of whisky and some glasses stood. I started to say “fine,” but I never got it out because the shakes hit, and Sacchetti started falling into the harbor again, and when I came out of it Nash stood in front of me, holding two drinks, and staring at me the way everyone stared at me, as if they were afraid they might miss something really interesting when I swallowed my tongue.
“Malaria?” he said. “If it is, its the goddamndest case I ever saw.”
I found my handkerchief and dried my face and hands. My shirt was soaked. “It's not malaria,” I said.
“Happen often?”
“Often enough.”
He shook his head in what I assumed was sympathy and handed me a drink. “You feel up to going?”
“It won't happen again. At least not today.”
We had the drink and some ten minutes later the old man was back with a tray full of food that he served on the small table. I could identify the rice, the noodles drenched with thick brown gravy, the strips of pork, and giant prawns. A couple of dishes were unfamiliar. We ate with chopsticks and considering my lack of practice, I got along well enough.
“What's this,” I said as I picked up a morsel from a common bowl and chewed it thoughtfully. “Veal?”
Nash sampled a piece of the meat, frowned, shook his head, and then tried another. “Puppy,” he announced. “Good, isn't it?”
“Delicious,” I said.
Nash's boat was a fairly new fiber glass speedster that was about fifteen feet long and powered by a large outboard engine. It was tied up at a crowded quay on Singapore River between two broadbeamed
tonkangs
with eyes the size of automobile tires painted on their bows to ward off evil spirits. At least, that's what Nash said. We went down the ten steps to the water's edge where Nash used his foot to wake a sleeping Indian who had a line to the runabout tied to a big toe.
“My watchman,” he said.
“Where do you keep your
kumpit?
” I said.
“Out in the roads. One of these tonkangs will lighten my cargo tomorrow or the next day.”
The watchman held the runabout while we climbed in. He then sprawled out on the bottom step and went to sleep again. Nash started the motor, backed us out into the river, and headed for the harbor and
The Chicago Belle.
“What are you going to do when we get there?” he shouted above the engine.
“Ask to see Sacchetti.”
He shook his head and then shrugged as if he had dealt with fools before.
The Chicago Belle
was riding at anchor about one hundred yards out into the basin and the closer we came, the larger she looked.
“She's a beauty, isn't she?” Nash yelled.
“I don't know that much about yachts.”
“Built in Hong Kong, 1959,” he yelled.
All I could tell about it, or her, was that she looked large, fast, and expensive. We came alongside where an accommodation ladder led down from the deck to a foot or so above the water. Nash tossed me a line and I made the runabout fast to the lowest step of the ladder. I stood up in the runabout and started to step onto the ladder when a blinding light from the deck hit me in the face and a voice asked: “What do you want, please?”
“My name's Cauthorne. I want to see Mr. Sacchetti.”
“I knew it wasn't going to be simple,” Nash said as I ducked my head and used a hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the searchlight.
“Mr. Sacchetti is not here,” the voice said. “Please go.”
“I'm coming aboard,” I said and started up the steps.
The blinding light went out and I looked up. A tall, lean Chinese in a white shirt and dark slacks stood at the top of the steps, illuminated by the lights from the yacht. He looked familiar and I suppose he should have because the last time I had seen him he had been pointing a gun at me through the window of a taxicab on Raffles Place. He still had a gun, it was still pointed at me and it looked very much like the one that I had seen before.
CHAPTER XVI
There seemed to be only one thing to do so I did it. I moved up another step.
“You're crazy,” Nash said.
“I know,” I said.
“No more,” the man at the head of the steps said.
“Tell Sacchetti that I want to see him,” I said and stepped on to the next riser.
The man at the top of the steps called something in Chinese but he didn't turn his head to do it. A male voice answered in Chinese and the man at the top of the steps nodded slightly. “You wait there,” he said to me and the revolver in his hand moved a little as if to underscore the suggestion.
“What did he say?” I asked Nash.
“He sent for somebody.”
“Sacchetti?”
“I don't know,” Nash said. “He didn't say, but I wouldn't take that next step if I was you.”
It was a two-minute wait. I stood on the third step of the accommodation ladder, gripping its rail and staring at the Chinese at the top of the ladder who stared back as he aimed the revolver at what seemed to be the fourth button on my shirt. He didn't seem to feel that it would be a difficult shot.
The male voice that I'd heard before spoke again in Chinese and the man at the head of the steps replied. Then he waved his gun at me. “You come up,” he said. “The other one, too.”
“I'll just stay here and mind the boat,” Nash said.
“You come,” the man said and shifted the aim of his revolver so that it pointed down at Nash.
“All right,” Nash said.
“He's convincing, isn't he?” I said as I started up the steps.
“For a hundred dollars I don't get shot at,” Nash said.
At the top of the steps the man with the revolver stepped back. “Follow him,” he said and gestured with the revolver at another man, a stocky Chinese with a crescent-shaped scar on his left cheek and a small automatic in his right hand. We followed the man with the automatic down a flight of stairs and along a corridor that was carpeted in dark grey. The walls looked as if they were paneled in teak and if the yacht had cost as much as I had been told, they probably were.
The man with the scar and the automatic stopped at a door and knocked. Then he opened it, waved at me with the automatic, and said: “Go in.”
I went in, followed by Nash and the two Chinese. The cabin or saloon was larger than I had expected. There was a thick, dark red carpet on the floor or deck and the color was repeated in the silk drapes that covered the oblong portholes. The furniture was of a dark, almost purplish wood that was intricately carved and all of its arms and legs seemed to end in dragons' mouths and claws. At the far end of the room was a low table that held a silver tea service. She sat behind the table in one of two matched chairs that were large enough to serve as thrones in some minor kingdom. She sat, leaning slightly forward, her hands resting comfortably on the arms of the chair which were carved into the heads of two dragons who seemed to be snarling at each other about something. She wore a dark blue dress whose collar mounted high on a slim white throat and whose hem ended several inches above her knees. Two strands of pearls hung halfway to her waist She wore her black hair piled high, perhaps to give her more height and to lengthen her delicate face which may have been a trifle round. But there was nothing delicate about her gaze which flicked over me, made a bleak assessment, rested briefly on Nash, seemed to discover some more shoddy goods, and then settled again on me.
“Who is your friend, Mr. Cauthorne?” she said.
“He speaks English,” I said.
“I'm Captain Jack Nash.”
“Captain of what?”
“The
Wilfreda Maria,
” Nash said.
“I remember now,” she said as if she wished that she hadn't “My husband once spoke of you. I believe you're a smuggler of sorts.”
“You're Mrs. Sacchetti?” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Cauthorne, I am.”
“Where's your husband?”
“My husband is not here.”
“Where is he?”
She was small, delicate, and almost perfectly proportioned. The voice that came out of her full, slightly lipsticked mouth was clear, musical, with no trace of sing-song, and sounded as if she either had been educated in England or had spent a lot of time there. “My husband,” she said, “sent you a message today. He very much hoped that you would understand and accept its content.”
“I got the message,” I said, “but I still have to see Angelo.”
“You really don't seem to understand, Mr. Cauthorne. My husband is not going to see you and I'm afraid that's quite final.”
“That's it, pal. Let's go,” Nash said.
“You should heed your friend's advice, Mr. Cauthorne.”
“I'm here for two reasons. One is personal and the other is to give Angelo a message from his godfather.”
“You can give me the message,” she said. “I shall see that my husband gets it.”
“All right,” I said. “Angelo gave me three days to leave Singapore. You can tell him that his godfather has given him exactly the same time in which to return it.”
“Return what?”
“What Angelo stole from him.”
She laughed then. It was a light laugh that tinkled up and down the scale. “You are a ridiculous man, Mr. Cauthorne, and even a little pathetic. You try to force yourself aboard and then you make such melodramatic threats. I hope that there's more to your performance.”
“There is,” I said. “The rest of it is all about what happens to Angelo if he doesn't return what he stole.”
“And what is supposed to happen?”
“There are three men sitting in a hotel room in Los Angeles waiting for a telegram. If your husband doesn't return his godfather's property to me in three days, then they won't receive the telegram and they'll catch the next plane to Singapore.”
“These men are friends of yours?” she said.
“No. They've been hired by the godfather.”
“To do what?”
“To kill Angelo Sacchetti.”
It was step number one in the Dangerfield Plan and she laughed at it. I couldn't blame her. With two guns aimed at me, it didn't seem to amount to much of a threat. In fact, it didn't seem to amount to anything at all.
“My only regret,” she said, “is that my husband is not here to watch your performance. He would be highly amused.”
“It was no performance,” I said. “I was just delivering a message.”
“And now you've done it,” she said.
“Yes.”
She tapped a finger against the arm of the chair. “My husband thought that you might not heed his earlier message.”
“You mean the one that came with the bullet?”
“If you like. In such an event, he gave me certain instructions. So it would seem, Mr. Cauthorne, that we both have our assignments.”
“Let's go,” I said to Nash.
She said something in Chinese and the two men with guns moved a step or two towards me. I backed up.
“My husband said that you might need to be convinced of the sincerity of his earlier messages. You will find these two gentlemen most persuasive.”
“You're kidding,” I said.
She rose and moved to the door. “No, I'm not kidding, Mr. Cauthorne. Nor am I quite sure how they will go about convincing you. I really don't care. Good night.” She opened the door, turned to say something in Chinese to the two men, and then left.
“What was all that?” I said to Nash.
“You mean the Chinese?”
“Yes.”
“She told them to mind the furniture,” he said and backed toward a corner.
The tall, lean Chinese turned to Nash. “You,” he said, “sit over there.” Nash quickly sat in one of the heavy carved chairs.
“What are you going to do, just watch?” I said.
“Friend, I don't have much choice.”