The Rose of Singapore (34 page)

“That's a good looking bird,” said Sergeant Muldoon approvingly.

“I'll wrap it up for you,” said Peter.

“It's from the swill-man?” ventured the sergeant.

“He's happy to get the swill,” said Peter nonchalantly.

“That's funny, he's never given me anything.”

“Well, you don't speak to him in Chinese. I do.”

Sergeant Muldoon laughed good-humouredly. “You're a bit of a devil, Pete. Nevertheless, this bird's going to look damned appetizing when it's a golden brown and sizzling sitting on our dining room table. You know, Pete, it really is a long time since I've eaten fresh chicken. Frozen stuff is never the same.”

“I must agree with you there, Sarge.”

Minutes later, whistling a merry tune, and with the hen wrapped in paper under his arm, Sergeant Muldoon again pedalled his squeaky bike out of the kitchen. “Thanks, Pete. See you tomorrow,” he shouted as he disappeared, homeward bound.

Peter returned to the office thinking how he and Sergeant Muldoon were a good working team. Neither of them put up with RAF bullshit, and together they kept the kitchen running without undue problems. Of course, there was the occasional complaint from one or another fusspot member of the mess. Peter always allowed the sergeant to deal with these. But generally, all went smoothly. He sat down at the table and was about to open the menu book when the chief of the provost police, Flight Sergeant Cameron, strode into the office.

“Good morning, Cookie,” he said, pleasantly enough.

“Oh! Good morning, Flight. How are you? Can I help you?”

“You can, by babysitting at my home this Thursday evening,” replied the flight sergeant matter-of-factly.

“Oh, come off it, Flight. You know I don't babysit. I've told you enough times that if I did, I'd be the laughing stock of the catering section.” Changing the subject, Peter said, “Would you like some bananas? A fresh supply came in yesterday.” Peter was well aware that the flight sergeant was a living-out member of the mess and therefore not entitled to any foodstuffs from the mess, not even a few bananas. Regardless, Peter often supplied him with fresh fruit, especially when the flight sergeant was about to go on night duty, which was often. Also, because of the flight sergeant's ulcer, which at times played up, Peter cooked him soft boiled eggs and toast, which the flight sergeant ate in the office.

“Cookie, thanks, but no thanks. I don't want bananas today,” he said, shaking his head and frowning. Always there had been a definite ‘no' from Peter to his requests for him to babysit his two children. But Thursday night he and his wife were invited to a special event. He needed a babysitter he could trust and LAC Saunders was certainly that, and seemed to be the ideal person for the job. Smiling gravely to Peter, he said, “You're a hard nut to crack, Cookie.”

“Well, I'm sorry, Flight, but I'm not cut out for babysitting. I'm not interested.”

“Och, man! But you may become interested. I do have certain information which may change your mind.”

“What do you mean, Flight?”

“Can't you guess?”

“No. You've lost me.”

“Well, let's put our cards on the table. By visiting this girlfriend of yours, you must be aware that you are breaking at least one military regulation and quite a serious one at that.”

Peter shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe,” he said.

“There is no ‘maybe' if the girl happens to live in an out-of-bounds area.”

“Flight, you must catch a person in an out-of-bounds area before you can charge him or her with breaking that regulation.”

“Perhaps, but don't be too sure. Your girlfriend lives in an out-of-bounds area close to Lavender Street, correct?”

“How do you know where she lives?” asked Peter, suddenly ill at ease at the flight sergeant's knowledge.

“It so happens that I am the head of the provost police on this island,” answered the Flight Sergeant. “I know the Lavender Street area like the back of my hand. I know every brothel, almost every pimp and just about every woman who solicits in that area. I certainly ought to know your little girlfriend by now.”

“You know her?”

“Och, man, of course I know her. As a matter of fact, I knew her long before you ever set eyes on her.”

“You did,” said Peter, amazed.

“We keep tabs on almost all the working girls, as well as where they hang out. Most of them are OK. Generally they are clean, almost always honest, and only a few use pimps.”

“And my girlfriend, what do you know about her?”

From an inside pocket of his tunic, the Flight Sergeant calmly withdrew a yellow sheet of paper that had been torn from a legal pad. “Here, read this and correct me if I'm wrong,” he said, handing the sheet of paper to Peter, a peculiar smile playing on his rugged face. “You'll read and find that all the facts are correct, Cookie, I assure you. I, myself, have checked every detail.

“You're a nosy bugger, aren't you, Flight?” said Peter. He carefully studied the contents of the double-spaced lines of typewritten words, his face not showing the surprise and indignation he felt as he finished reading. Then, slowly he reread the lines, his face expressionless. It was all there, everything about the girl he loved. Black typewritten words upon yellow paper. At the top of the page a heading seemed to scream out at him, followed by facts.

ROSE OF SINGAPORE

There followed a brief account of Lai Ming's activities: her main sources of contact were made at the Butterfly Club and the Raffles Hotel. It was all there in writing, even mentioning the date and facts concerning her last visit to the Social Welfare Department for a free-from-infection check-up. She had no known criminal record and had never been arrested. Below these remarks, written in ink were the words, “She's a good woman, Cookie. You're a very lucky man. But the fact still remains that her home is a brothel in an out-of-bounds area.”

“Obviously it was you who wrote those last few words,” said Peter.

“Och! Of course, mon. But do you find anything written there that's incorrect?” asked the seemingly jubilant chief of the provost police.

“Not quite,” replied Peter acidly.

“No! Then what's incorrect?” demanded the flight sergeant.

“You've omitted the fact that she has a big brown birthmark on her backside,” Peter said, his voice full of sarcasm.

“Och! Has she now? Well, you should know. I'll enter that wee bit of very important information into my records. Would you say that birthmarks come under ‘other means of identification?'” the flight sergeant asked, a grin appearing on his face.

“Also for your records, Flight, and if you'd like to jot this down, she wears super-duper delux, sheer black silk knickers, lace-edged, zip-fastened, with ‘all police are a shower of bastards' embroidered on them,” said Peter, pouting.

“Cookie, there's no point in you getting up the pole with me,” said the flight sergeant. “What I'm getting at is the fact that you visit her frequently. In fact, you more or less live with her. Unfortunately for you, her home happens to be in an out-of-bounds area. Do you catch my drift?”

“I do, Flight. But you must catch me before you can charge me or prove anything against me,” Peter answered testily, his face tense and beginning to show anger towards the giant of a man confronting him.

The flight sergeant's rugged face barely concealed his amusement. Chuckling, he said, “It may interest you to know that a couple of my men tailed you to the home of the lady in question on or about your third visit to her. That was months ago. Since then the same two men could have nabbed you on several occasions but it was on my orders that they did not arrest you. On the night you had the attack of malaria they were sorely tempted to return you to Changi but at the time they were not sure whether you were sick or drunk. Regardless, so I was told, your little friend appeared to have the matter well in hand, so they simply waved her goodnight. You were much too sick to notice their jeep stopped behind your taxi when you stepped from it and staggered through the alleyway to the door of the lady's home.”

“That's true,” acknowledged Peter. “Rose did tell me some days later that RAF military police had seen me get out of the taxi. She wondered why I was not arrested.”

“Oh, aye, it's true,” smiled the flight sergeant. “Furthermore, Cookie, it may interest you to know that I, myself, accompanied by Corporal Symes of the SIB, trailed you one afternoon as you walked along Lavender Street towards the lady's home. It was a sort of relaxing fun game for us. But we could have nabbed you at any time.”

“So! Why didn't you?”

“Och, man, I couldn't do that to our wee Cookie, now could I? Especially when he is so obliging to my needs. And can you imagine how The Muldoon would react if I put you away for a while? Live and let live, that's what I say, especially when dealing with the sergeants' mess cook.

“At least that's nice of you.”

“Yes. We thought so, too. We considered the incident amusing. We both laughed about it and let you go unsuspectingly on your way, to enjoy, I presume, a delightful afternoon with your lovely lady.”

Peter simply shrugged his shoulders, and apart from saying, “Thanks,” he remained silent.

Flight Sergeant Cameron also paused from further speech. Instead, he stroked his chin and appeared as if deep in thought. Eventually, he said, “The two SPs who trailed you have since been posted to Kai Tak. And Corporal Symes has returned to the UK and is now demobbed, so you have nothing to worry about from those three.”

“Therefore, I presume you're the only cop who knows.”

“Yes.” The flight sergeant coughed an artificial cough, as he was apt to do. “She's a lovely wee lass, Cookie, and I admire your taste. If I were single I'd envy your luck in having such a beautiful girlfriend. But I'm married and I also happen to be a cop so I should do my duty when need be. You are well aware that you're breaking SSOs, and if caught it means seven days over the wall for you. Twice caught and you'll get six months. You understand me, of course, don't you, Cookie.”

“Yes, I'm reading you loud and clear, Flight. It's what's commonly known as blackmail.”

“Oh, come now, Cookie, blackmail is such an ugly word. We mustn't use that word between us. We're friends.”

“But that's what it boils down to. Either I babysit, or you eventually catch me out of bounds and turn me in.”

“No, Cookie, I don't see it that way,” said the flight sergeant, shaking his head, his granite-like face unusually solemn. “Let's talk man to man. You realize that I am in a position to get you into serious trouble and should that happen, it would considerably affect your whole way of life here.”

“Yes, of course it would.”

“Fortunately for you, however, I have no wish to cause you grief. I would never turn you in regardless of whether or not you babysit my two kids. You see, Cookie, I like you. You've always been more than helpful to me. I'm grateful to both you and The Muldoon for the many favours you've done me, especially before the arrival here of my wife and children.”

LAC Saunders sighed wearily but he felt relieved and was no longer angry. “What day do you require my babysitting services, Flight?” he asked resignedly.

“This coming Thursday evening, if you can make it.”

“I'll do it. But I still say it's blackmail.”

“No, not at all. Let me explain further. I said I liked you, OK? Well, there are two other reasons why I prefer you to babysit my kids. It's because of your dependability and trustworthiness. Also, I'd like to show you my appreciation for all the little things you've done for me these past months.”

“You've a funny way of showing your appreciation, Flight.”

“No. I don't think so, Cookie. You've got me wrong. By babysitting for us, you'd not only be doing Floss and I a valuable service but you'd have a home away from camp life.”

“But I already have a home away from camp, the home of my girlfriend, and that suits me fine. When off duty I can go to her home anytime I wish.”

“Any time and on any day? Surely not.”

“No. Not every day but on most days.”

“In that case, on the days you remain on camp, you could enjoy the comforts of our home. The refrigerator is always well stocked and you could help yourself to beer. You'd be welcome at our home, not only to babysit, but anytime. Sometimes Floss gets very lonely so she'd welcome your company.”

“Thank you, Flight,” said Peter. “Yes, I can imagine how she must feel. It's a very different lifestyle here than in the UK.”

The flight sergeant moved his huge frame from the doorway, and Peter followed him out through the kitchen door. “More rain this evening, I'm thinking,” said the flight sergeant looking up at the sky.

“It looks that way,” agreed Peter. “Cheers, Flight. Have a good night.”

“Thanks. Don't poison anyone, Cookie. I'll probably call in tomorrow.” With those words Flight Sergeant Cameron strode across the kitchen courtyard whistling the song “Rose, Rose, I Love You” as he headed for the main guardroom