A Lotus for Miss Quon

1

With a violently thumping heart, Jaffe stared down at Haum’s crumpled body. His immediate reaction was to get help. He turned to the telephone, but paused, frowning and shaking his head.

There was nothing anyone could do now for Haum. He was dead. This was not the moment to think of him, but of himself.

He looked at the ladder standing against the wall. Suppose he told the police that Haum had fallen off the ladder and had accidentally broken his neck?

His eyes shifted to the hole in the wall. The moment the police saw that hole they would suspect it had been a hiding-place for something. They would remember that this house had once belonged to Mai Chang, General Nguyen Van Tho’s mistress. It wouldn’t take them long to assume that the general’s diamonds had been hidden in the wall.

Jaffe moved over to Haum’s body. He peered down at the little man. He saw the skin around Haum’s mouth and throat was bruised and broken. These tell-tale marks would rule out any story of an accident with the ladder.

Suppose he told the police that he had come upon Haum stealing the diamonds and that Haum had attacked him and that during the struggle, Haum had been accidentally killed? Such a story might get him off a murder charge, but it would mean giving up the diamonds, and there was always the risk he would receive a prison sentence.

It was at this moment that Jaffe made up his mind that whatever the risk, he was going to stick to the diamonds, and having decided this, his panic subsided and he began to think more clearly.

If he could get to Hong Kong with the diamonds, he could get lost without any difficulty. He would be a very rich man. He could begin a new life. With the money from the sale of the diamonds, he would be free to do anything he liked. But the trick question was, of course: how to get to Hong Kong?

He poured himself a stiff shot of whisky, drank half of it, then after he had lit a cigarette, he finished the drink.

You couldn’t leave Vietnam just when you thought you would, he reminded himself. The authorities entangled all travellers in a web of restrictions and regulations. You first had to apply for an exit visa, and the granting of this could take a week. Then there were forms to fill in regarding the movement of currency. There were photographs to be supplied. He couldn’t hope to get out under ten days, and in the meantime, what would be happening to Haum’s body?

A sudden sound broke in on his thoughts that made him stiffen and set his heart thumping again. Someone was knocking on the back door!

He stood motionless, scarcely breathing while he listened.

The gentle knock came again, then he heard the back door creak open.

In a surge of panic, he stepped over Haum’s body and moved into the kitchen, closing the sitting-room door behind him.

Dong Ham, his cook, was standing on the top step, the back door half open and he peered cautiously into the kitchen.

The two men stared at each other.

Dong Ham appeared to be very old. His brown face was a network of wrinkles, like crushed parchment. His thin white hair grew in straggly wisps from his bony skull. Wisps of white hair sprouted from his chin. He wore a black high-collared jacket and black trousers.

Had he heard Haum’s cry for help? Jaffe wondered. It was possible that he had; why else should he be standing here? He never entered the house. His place was in the cookhouse across the courtyard, and yet here he was about to walk in, and Jaffe was sure if he hadn’t moved so quickly, the old man would have come into the sitting-room.

“What is it?” Jaffe asked, aware his voice sounded husky.

Dong Ham picked at a lump of hard skin on the side of his hand. His watery black eyes shifted from Jaffe to the door leading to the sitting-room.

“Haum is wanted, sir,” he said. He spoke French badly and slowly. He pushed back the door and moved to one side so Jaffe had a clear view of the outer courtyard and the cookhouse.

Standing in the shade of the cookhouse building was a Vietnamese girl. She was in white and her conical straw hat hid her face. For a moment, Jaffe thought she was Nhan, and his heart gave a little lurch of surprise, then the girl looked up and he saw she was Haum’s fiancée.

Jaffe had often seen this girl waiting with Asian patience for Haum to finish his work. Haum had told him he planned to marry the girl when he had finished his political studies.

Jaffe had never paid any attention to the girl. He had only been vaguely aware of her when he went out to get the car from the garage, but now, he stared at her, realizing how dangerous she could be to him.

How long had she been here? he wondered. Had she too heard Haum’s cry?

The girl looked very young. She wore her hair in a ponytail that hung in a black thick rope to her tiny waist. For a Vietnamese, he thought, she was very plain and unattractive.

By the tense way she was standing and by her staring alarmed eyes, Jaffe was sure she had heard the cry, but had she recognized Haum’s voice?

Jaffe suddenly became aware that both the old man and the girl were regarding him in a hostile, suspicious way, although both of them were obviously uncertain of themselves and frightened.

Jaffe said the first thing that came into his mind: “Haum has gone out. I have lent him to a friend to help with a dinner party. It’s no use you waiting for him. He won’t be back until late.”

Dong Ham slowly backed down the three steps that led up to the kitchen. His wrinkled face was expressionless. Jaffe looked quickly at the girl. She had lowered her head. The straw hat hid her face.

He crossed to the back door and shut it gently, then very quietly he slid home the bolt. Then he stepped to the shuttered window and peered through one of the slits into the courtyard.

The old man was staring blankly at the closed door and he picked nervously at the hard skin of his hand. The girl too was staring at the door. She said something. The old man went to her with slow, shuffling steps. They began jabbering together: their voices discordant and loud in the hot silence of the courtyard.

Not a good lie, Jaffe thought uneasily, but the best he could have thought of in the circumstances. He had had to say something. It was true that from time to time he did lend Haum to one or the other of his friends who happened to be throwing a party. On these occasions Haum always wore his white drill coat and trousers. He always spent some time in preparing himself. He enjoyed these outings, and invariably boasted to Dong Ham where he was going.

This Sunday, he had worn his blue working dress. He would never have gone to any of Jaffe’s friends in this dress. The old man would know that. He and the girl had only to go to Haum’s sleeping quarters, to find the white drill clothes and nail Jaffe’s lie to the mast. Then what would they do? Jaffe wondered. He felt pretty certain they wouldn’t have the initiative nor the courage to call the police. Even if they had heard Haum’s cry and knew he was lying about Haum going out, they wouldn’t go to the police. Probably they would wrangle and talk together for the rest of the evening. They would try to persuade each other they hadn’t heard the cry. They would try to believe that Haum had gone out wearing his blue working ciothes. But eventually, of course, they would be forced to accept the fact that something had happened to Haum, and then trouble would begin for Jaffe.

At least he had a little time. He felt certain these two would wait to see if Haum returned. They would wait until the morning, then, possibly,

the girl would go to the police.

Jaffe returned to the sitting-room. He stood looking down at Hum’s body with revulsion. He felt tempted to go to someone and ask for help. Maybe if he went to the Embassy…

He took a grip on himself.

I’ve got to keep my nerve, he said to himself. I’ve got to gain time. I’ve got to work out a way to get out of this goddam country. But first things first. I can’t leave him lying here. Suppose someone called? You never knew who might drop in on a Sunday afternoon. I must get him upstairs and out of sight.

Steeling himself, he picked Haum up and carried him upstairs. The little man was a pathetically light burden: it was like carrying a child.

Jaffe went into his bedroom. He put Haum down gently on the floor, then he went over to his big clothes closet, opened it, made space at the bottom of the closet and then put Haum in a sitting position in the closet, his back against the wall. He hastily shut the closet door. He turned the key and put it in his pocket.

Although the bedroom was cool, he went over to the air conditioner and turned the machine on fully. He was feeling slightly sick, and it irritated him that his legs felt boneless, and the muscles in his thighs were fluttering.

He went down the stairs and bolted the front door, then he went into the sitting-room. Several large bottle flies were buzzing excitedly around the small patch of drying blood on the parquet floor. Grimacing, Jaffe looked from the blood to the hole in the wall and at the mess of dust and plaster on the floor. He must clear up this mess, he told himself. If someone came…

He went into the kitchen but there was nothing there he could use to sweep up the dust or wipe off the blood. All the house things were kept in the cookhouse. This discovery worried him. He glanced through the slit in the shutter.

Dong Ham and the girl were out of sight, but he could hear their voices coming through the open window of Haum’s room. They had probably discovered by now that Haum hadn’t changed his clothes.

Jaffe took out his handkerchief, dipped it in water and then went back into the sitting-room. He squatted down and wiped away the patch of blood. It left a brownish stain on the polished parquet, and although he scrubbed at it for some minutes, he couldn’t get rid of it.

After he had flushed the soiled handkerchief down the toilet, he returned to pick up the largest pieces of plaster. Then he knelt and blew at the plaster dust, distributing it about the floor. It now didn’t look quite so obvious. It was the best he could do. He wrapped the bits of plaster in a sheet of newspaper and left the small bundle on the table.

He would have to do something about the hole in the wall, he told himself. When the police eventually came and when they saw the hole, they would guess very quickly what had been in the hole.

He searched for and found the nail, then he climbed the ladder and gently tapped the nail into the wall, just above the hole. He reached down and picked up the picture and hung it in place, concealing the hole.

He stepped back and looked at the picture. There was just a chance the police wouldn’t think to look behind it: not much of a chance, but still, a chance.

He carried the ladder into the kitchen and put the hammer in the tool drawer. He felt the need for a drink and he went back into the sitting-room and poured himself another stiff shot of whisky. As he lifted the glass to his lips, the telephone bell began to ring: a violent, persistent sound that shattered the silence in the room and made Jaffe start so violently the glass of whisky jumped out of his hand and smashed to pieces on the floor, spraying whisky and water over his bare feet.

He stood staring at the telephone, his heart contracting with shock.

Who could it be? Someone wanting to come round? Someone inviting him for a drink?

He was too frightened to answer the telephone. He might get caught up in one of those ghastly chit-chats that could go on and on and on.

He remained motionless, staring at the telephone. The bell continued to ring: the sound tore at his nerves. He realized that Dong Ham and the girl must also be listening to the bell. They were probably standing as motionless as himself, looking at each other, wondering why he wasn’t answering the telephone.

The bell abruptly ceased to ring. The sudden silence in the room pressed down on him. Carefully, he stepped away from the broken pieces of glass. He must get out of the house, he told himself. He couldn’t stay here a minute longer. Later, he would come back, but right now, until his nerves settled, he must get out.

He went quickly up the stairs, took off his shorts and had a shower. He put on a pair of trousers and a shirt that were lying on a chair, thus avoiding opening the closet. He checked his money and was dismayed to find he had only 500 piastres in his wallet. He rummaged among his handkerchiefs in a drawer in his closet and found another too piastres note.

This wasn’t so good, he thought. He needed money. If he was going to get out of the country, he would have to have money. His mouth tightened when he remembered it was Sunday and the banks were closed. He would have to cash a cheque at one of the hotels. He was pretty well known now in Saigon. It surely wouldn’t be difficult to get some hotel to cash his cheque.

As he was about to leave the room, he suddenly remembered he had left the diamonds in the hip pocket of his shorts and this forgetfulness frightened him.

I must pull myself together he told himself as he took the envelope from the pocket of the shorts. I’m risking my neck for these stones and here I am, walking out without them.

He opened the envelope and examined the stones under the ceiling lamp. The sight of them sent a surge of excitement through him.

He returned to the sitting-room and searched in his desk drawer for something more solid to hold the diamonds. He decided on an empty typewriter ribbon box. He put the diamonds into the box, again pausing to admire them, then put the box in his trouser pocket. He found his cheque book which he put in his wallet, then he walked into the kitchen and looked across the courtyard through the slit in the shutter.

Dong Ham was squatting outside the cookhouse door, staring blankly towards him. There was no sign of the girl. Wondering where she had got to, Jaffe returned to the sitting-room and looked through the shutters into the street beyond. He stiffened when he saw the girl squatting on the edge of the kerb opposite, looking towards the house.

These two obviously suspected something, he thought, but with the inevitable, dim-witted Asian patience they were waiting to see what happened. But at the same time, they were taking no chances. While the old man watched the back door, the girl was watching the front.

At this moment, he was past caring. He had to get away from the atmosphere of the house.

He took a last look around the room, then he picked up his car keys, the key of the back door and the newspaper parcel and went into the kitchen. He slid back the bolt, opened the back door and stepped into the stifling heat of the evening sun. Studiously ignoring Dong Ham, he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. As he passed the old man o his way to the garage, he said, without looking at him, TI be back late. No dinner.”

He drove the red Dauphine which he had bought when he had first come to Saigon because of its ease of parking, down the short runway to the double gates. He stopped the car, got out and opened the gates, aware of the girl, staring intently at him.

He got into the car, and leaving the gates wide open, he drove fast towards the centre of the town.

2

Sam Wade (Second Secretary: Information. United States Embassy) parked his Chrysler car outside the Majestic Hotel, and heaved his bulk out on to the sidewalk. He paused to look across the road at the miniature golf course where two Vietnamese girls were playing with considerable skill watched by a large crowd of Sunday loafers.

He thought the two girls in their blue tunic sheaths and white silk trousers made an attractive picture. He never ceased to admire the Vietnamese girls. Their charms for him were as sharp edged as when he had first come to Saigon eighteen months ago.

Sam Wade was a squat, fat man, balding, with a red, good-natured face. He wasn’t brilliant at his work, but he was well liked and known for his weakness for women and loud pattern Hawaii shirts.

Freshly shaved and showered, and basking in the glory of a new colourful shirt, Sam Wade felt on top of the world. He had spent the afternoon water skiing. In half an hour’s time, he had a date with a Chinese girl with whom he had arranged to spend the night. So for Sam Wade, the world was revolving satisfactorily.

He entered the empty bar of the Majestic Hotel and lowered his bulk into a chair with a grunt of satisfaction.

The ceiling fans revolved lazily, stirring the hot, humid air. In a little while, the bar would become crowded but for the moment, Wade appreciated having the place to himself. He ordered a double whisky on the rocks, lit a cigar and stretched out his short fat legs.

After the inevitable delay the whisky was placed before him, and he savoured his first drink of the day.

Leaning back in his chair, he regarded the activity of the street outside with its traffic of cycle rickshaws, known in Saigon as pousse-pousse, the dangerously driven motor cycles and the stream of bicycles ridden by the Vietnamese. He spotted Jaffe’s red Dauphine as it pulled out of the stream of traffic and edged its way to a standstill behind his Chrysler car.

Watching him, as Jaffe crossed the sidewalk and came into the bar, Wade thought he looked fine drawn and worried.

He thought: looks as if he has something on his mind. Maybe he’s got a touch of dysentery.

He raised a fat hand in greeting when he caught Jaffe’s eye. He was puzzled to see the big, muscular man hesitate as if he were in two minds whether to join him or not. With an obvious effort, he came over, pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Hi, Steve,” Wade said and smiled, “what’ll you have?”

“A Scotch I guess,” Jaffe said and fumbled for a cigarette. “That’s a hell of a shirt you’re wearing.”

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Wade smiled complacently. “It even scares me a little,” and he laughed. He ordered a double Scotch and soda for Jaffe and paid for both drinks. “I didn’t see you on the river this afternoon.”

Jaffe shifted uneasily in his chair.

“No,” he said in a cold, flat voice. “Have you been skiing?” He was telling himself it had been a mistake to come into the bar. He should have gone immediately to the desk, cashed his cheque and left. He should have remembered you always ran into someone you knew at the Majestic bar.

Wade said he had been skiing. He grumbled about the filth of the Saigon river while Jaffe only half listened.

Seeing he wasn’t holding Jaffe’s interest, Wade said, “I’ve got hold of a piece of Chinese tail for tonight,” and he leered. “She’s a real dish. I ran into her at L’Arc-en-Ciel the other night. If she performs the way she looks, I’m in for one hell of a night.”

Looking at the fat, good natured man who lolled opposite him, Jaffe felt a sharp twinge of envy. He too expected to have a hell of a night, but horribly different from the one Wade was anticipating. In an hour or so, he would have to decide what he was going to do, and on that decision, his freedom and life depended.

“Apart from the girls and the Chinese food,” Wade was saying, “this is a hell of a dump to live in. I’ll be mighty gladwhen I go home. These goddam restrictions give me a pain in the pants.”

Jaffe was staring past Wade out on to the street at the two Vietnamese policemen who lounged outside the hotel; small, brown-skinned men in white drill with peak caps and revolvers at their hips. The sight of them gave him a sickish feeling. He wondered how Wade would react if he told him he had murdered Haum and had hidden his body in his clothes closet.

“I see you’re still running that little car,” he heard Wade say and realized the fat man had been talking for some time and he hadn’t been listening to what he had been saying. “Do you still like it?”

Jaffe dragged his mind away from his problem.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m hiving trouble with the automatic choke, but the car wasn’t new when I bought it.”

“Well, I guess it’s handy for parking, but give me a big car,” Wade said and glanced at his wrist-watch. The time was three minutes to seven. He got to his feet. As he stood beside Jaffe, he wondered what was bothering he guy. He seemed so far away and unfriendly. This wasn’t like Jaffe. Usually he was a good guy to drink with. “Are you okay, Steve?”

Jaffe looked up sharply. Wade had an uneasy idea he was suddenly scared.

“I’m all right,” Jaffe said.

Wade frowned at him, then gave up.

“Watch out you’re not sickening for a dose of dysentery,” he said. “I’ve got to run along. I promised to feed my girl friend before she performs. See you, pal.”

As soon as Wade had driven away, Jaffe took out his cheque book and wrote out a cheque for 4,000 piastres.

He went over to the reception desk and asked the clerk if he would cash the cheque. The clerk, a pleasant-faced Vietnamese who knew Jaffe, asked him politely to wait. He disappeared into the Manager’s office, reappeared in a moment or so, and smiling, handed Jaffe eight five-hundred piastre notes.

Relieved, Jaffe thanked him and tucked the notes into his wallet. He left the hotel and drove up Tu-Do and parked outside the Caravelle Hotel. He entered and asked the reception clerk if he could cash him a cheque. Here again, the clerk knew him, and after a brief visit to the Manager’s office, he cashed Jaffe’s cheque for another 4,000 piastres.

As he was leaving the hotel, he paused abruptly in the entrance, feeling his heart give a violent kick against his side.

A policeman was standing by the red Dauphine, his back to Jaffe. He appeared to be examining the car.

A few hours ago such an occurrence would have merely irritated Jaffe and he would have gone to the policeman and asked him what he was looking at, but now the sight of the little man in his white uniform frightened Jaffe so badly he had to resist the urge to run.

He remained motionless, watching the policeman who moved slowly to the front of the car and looked at the number plate, then he slouched away, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt to pause a little further up the street to examine yet another car.

Jaffe drew in a sharp breath of relief. He went down the steps to his car, unlocked it and climbed in. He glanced at his wrist-watch. The time was twenty-five minutes past seven. He drove back to the river, past the Club Nautique where he could see a number of people on the terrace having drinks before dinner, on towards the bridge that led to the docks. He pulled up by the little ornamental garden by the bridge, parked his car and went into the garden. At this hour it was deserted except for two Vietnamese who sat on a seat under a tree: a boy and a girl, their arms around each other.

Jaffe moved well away from them and sat in the shade. He lit a cigarette. Now was the time, he told himself, to decide what he was to do. He had a certain amount of money. He had to get out of Vietnam. He couldn’t hope to do this without help. He considered for a moment a quick dash to the frontier in the hope he could get to Phnom-Penh where he was certain to get a plane to Hong Kong, but the risk and difficulties were too great. If it weren’t for the diamonds, he would have been prepared to take the risk, but it would be stupid, he told himself, now that he had a potential fortune in his pocket to go off at half-cock. He was sure that somehow, given the right contacts, it would be possible to get new identity papers and an exit visa. He would have to change his appearance of course. That shouldn’t be difficult. He could grow a moustache, bleach his hair, wear glasses.

He had read often enough of people obtaining false passports. Exactly how this was done, he hadn’t the faintest idea. It would probably be easier to get a faked passport in Hong Kong and have it brought to him here than it would to attempt to get it in Saigon.

He moved uneasily, flicking the ash off his cigarette.

Who could he approach to get him a false passport? He knew no one in Hong Kong. He couldn’t think of anyone in Saigon either. Then he remembered Blackie Lee who ran the Paradise Club. He was a possibility, but was he to be trusted? Once the news broke that Haum had been murdered and the diamonds were missing would Blackie betray him? Even if Blackie was to be trusted, could he get a false passport? Had he contacts in Hong Kong?

Jaffe realized this business couldn’t be rushed. It might take a couple of weeks before he had the slightest chance of getting out of the country. What was he going to do while he was waiting? Where could he stay where he wouldn’t be found by the police?

By tomorrow morning, he felt sure, the hunt for him would be on. He had to get under cover tonight. But where?

The obvious person who would and could help him was Nhan, but Jaffe hesitated to involve her. He had no knowledge of the Vietnam Criminal Code, but he was sure anyone harbouring a murderer would get into trouble, and yet, if he didn't involve her who else could he turn to?

He was wasting time, he told himself. He would have to rely on her: he would see and talk to her. He couldn't stay at her place. He had never been there but she had often described it to him. She lived in a three-room apartment with her mother, her uncle and her three brothers. She often complained sadly of her lack of privacy, but maybe she knew of someone: maybe she would have some ideas.

He got to his feet and walked over to his car.

The boy and girl sitting on the seat didn't look his way. They were too wrapped up in each other to be aware even that he was there.

Looking at them, so obviously happy in their secure, safe dreams, Jaffe suddenly felt more lonely than he had ever felt before in his life.