The Singapore Wink

Chapter XIII

Lim told me the rest of it. After Angelo Sacchetti came back from the dead, via Cebu City and Hong Kong, he gave what amounted to a marathon party that lasted for almost a month. It went on night and day in his fashionable apartment, an open house for friends who brought friends who, in turn, brought their friends and eventually Sacchetti met the persons that he wanted to meet, the minor politicians who might be bought and the hard cases who were not at all averse to expanding their activities if there were prospect of a tidy profit. Sacchetti simply showed them how to make it faster.

He also made a few enemies along the way, but opposition melted after two of his more intransigent opponents were found, floating face-down in the Singapore River. The secret societies, badly fragmented, backed Sacchetti as long as he didn’t interfere with their indent graft and as long as they received a cut from the proceeds. The only real opposition was the Singapore government and Sacchetti fixed that by marrying the youngest daughter of Toh Kin Pui, a politician who had a large and extremely left-wing following, and who just happened to be down on his luck at the time.

“Mr. Toh now espouses his rather China-oriented political philosophy from the back seat of a handsome Rolls-Royce which his son-in-law gave him for his birthday,” Lim said. “Although we can’t prove it, we strongly suspect that a percentage of Mr. Sacchetti’s profits are being channeled into his father-in-law’s political war chest. By now, I rather think that the chest is almost full.”

“What will he do with it — buy votes?”

Lim shook his head. “No, there’s no election for another four years and the Prime Minister’s party now controls every seat in Parliament — fifty-one out of fifty-one, a most regrettable situation.”

“Why?”

“You need some opposition, you know. Otherwise your own politicians will have nothing to rail against. Suppose, for example, that your Democrats suddenly won every seat in your Congress.”

“They’d fight with each other,” I said.

“Exactly. That’s why Toh is useful to the government. He provides a target, a whipping boy, and Lord knows one is needed.”

“But he has no real power?” I said.

“Yes, Mr. Cauthorne, he has power. With the money he now controls he can launch a full-scale race riot whenever he chooses. That’s the threat that Angelo Sacchetti’s father-in-law holds over our government, and it’s a gravely serious one. We simply cannot afford another riot at this time.”

“You had one some time ago, as I recall.”

“Two. Back in 1964.” Lim shook his head and turned to stare at the ships in the harbor again. “We in Singapore like to pride ourselves on our multi-racial harmony. We like to think that despite the preponderance of Chinese we are Singaporeans first, and that all of us — Chinese, Malay, Indian, Pakistani, Eurasian and what have you — can live in harmony and peace. This is what we like to think, but in 1964 we had race riots — bad ones. The first started in July and another in September and thirty-five persons were killed, hundreds injured, and the property damage was enormous. The first riot began over a small incident: there was a Malay religious parade and a Malay spectator got into a fight with a Chinese policeman. In September, a Chinese trishaw operator was murdered. But I suppose I don’t have to tell you how race riots start, Mr. Cauthorne. Your country has had its share.”

“More than our share.”

Lim spun around from his study of the harbor. “Then you realize what a powerful weapon the threat of a riot can be.”

“A form of blackmail, isn’t it?”

“One could call it that, I think. But the price we pay is far cheaper than a riot.”

“Couldn’t you get the U.S. Embassy to revoke his passport?”

“Sacchettti’s?”

“Yes.”

Lim shook his head again and closed the file on his desk. “Passports or citizenship don’t mean very much to men like Angelo Sacchetti. If your government were to revoke it, he would acquire a new one the next day from another government that is in the business of selling them. I can name you four or five who would be most eager to supply him with any credentials that he might need. You see, Mr. Cauthorne, for a person without money, citizenship is most important. But for a person with virtually unlimited funds, and who is inclined to live outside or above the law, one country is very much like another. Although again I have no proof, I seriously doubt that Mr. Sacchetti ever intends to return to the United States. But I’ve talked enough. Now tell me, what is your interest in him? Your real interest, I mean.”

“I thought I had killed him,” I said. “It bothered me. It still does.”

Lim looked at me searchingly and then smiled. It was a tight, thin smile, not his usual happy grin. “It’s really a pity that you didn’t. It would have saved everyone a great deal of bother.”

“Everyone but me,” I said.

“When did you learn that he was still alive?”

“Only a few days ago.”

“Really?” Lim sounded surprised. “It’s strange that your State Department didn’t notify you.”

“Not so strange, considering our State Department.”

This time Lim smiled happily. “I hesitate to confess that I agree with you. But apparently you wish to find Sacchetti and see for yourself that he is alive and well.”

“Just that he’s alive,” I said. “Do you have an idea where I can find him?”

Lim reached into his desk and brought out a pair of powerful-looking binoculars. “I can do better than that; I can show you where he lives — at least most of the time.”

He rose and moved to the window where he gazed down at the harbor through the binoculars. I joined him and he pointed with his forefinger. “The rather large, white one with the raked stack.”

He handed me the binoculars and I looked. It was a white yacht, not more than 150 feet long, that probably cost no more than a million or so. But then I hadn’t priced 150-foot yachts lately. It rode nicely at anchor in the basin, and I could see some figures moving around its main deck, but the binoculars weren’t strong enough for me to tell whether they were crew or passengers. I handed the glasses back to Lim.

“Nice,” I said.

“Yes, isn’t it? It formerly belonged to the Sultan of Brunei. Sacchetti bought it for a song, I understand.”

“How much does a song bring in North Borneo?” I said.

“Around two million Singapore dollars. I believe it cost four originally.”

“The Sultan hard up?”

“His oil reserves are playing out and I understand that he needed some ready cash.”

“Mr. Lim,” I said, extending my hand, “you have been most helpful. Thank you.”

“Not at all, Mr. Cauthorne,” he said as we shook hands. “Just one thing. As head of Singapore’s Secret Service—” This time he did giggle. “I really should ask you what your plans are as far as Mr. Sacchetti is concerned. Just a matter of form, you understand.”

I looked out at the yacht again. “I suppose I’ll go calling.”

“Would you like one of my staff to accompany you? When I say staff, please don’t misunderstand. I have three good men and when they are not busy with their counter-espionage duties — if you’ll pardon the term — and that’s most of the time, they work here in the office. One is office manager, and the other two are accountants.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“The reason I made it is that Sacchetti’s open house has long been over. He’s not at all as social as he once was and I understand that unexpected callers are turned away, often in the most abrupt manner. On the other hand, a more or less official visit...” Lim made a slight gesture as his sentence trailed off.

“I understand what you’re saying. But I’m sure Angelo will see an old friend — especially an old friend who once helped him die for a while.”

I was looking for a cab in Raffles Place, not too far from Change Alley, a kind of a joyous Thieves Market, when a four- or five-year-old Chevelle sedan that looked like a cab pulled over towards me. The driver slowed to three or four miles an hour and the passenger in the back seat rolled down a window. The closed car indicated air conditioning and I was just getting ready to say how happy I would be to share it with him when I saw the revolver pointing at me. A voice behind me said, “Watch it, buddy!” but he needn’t have bothered. I was already dropping and the shove that I got may have helped. I hit on my right shoulder with my hands breaking the fall and my chin tucked down into my chest. I landed hard, but that was all right. I had landed hard lots of times before when the star was too hungover to try it. The revolver went off and something seemed to smack into the pavement beside me, but it may have been my imagination. I continued the roll and came up on my feet. There weren’t any more shots and the cab, with the window rolled back up, was busy losing itself in the thick traffic. I brushed myself off while the pedestrians flowed around me on the sidewalk with only an occasional curious glance. No one said anything; no one yelled for the police; no one wanted to know whether I’d torn my slacks. But then they may have thought that the shot was a firecracker. Firecrackers go off night and day in Singapore and the citizens there, like every place else in the world, put a very high premium on personal involvement.

“You did that real nice,” a voice said behind me. It was the same voice that had told me to watch it. I turned and saw a compact, deeply sunburned man who could have been either thirty-five or fifty-five. He wore a faded khaki shirt with officer epaulets, white duck trousers that were held up by a wide leather belt with a brass buckle, and grimy white tennis shoes, the kind that come up to the ankles.

“You give me the shove?” I said.

“You didn’t really need it.”

“I’m not so sure. An inch or two either way could have made a difference.”

The man jammed his hands in his trouser pockets and squinted his green eyes up at the sun. “I was just heading across the square for a beer. You look as if you could use one.”

“You’re probably right.”

We settled ourselves at a table in a bar that was air-conditioned, not too brightly lighted, and almost empty. The waiter brought us a couple of beers and then went back to his newspaper. The man in the khaki shirt ignored the glass and drank his out of the bottle, a long, gulping drink. When he finished he put the bottle back on the table and took out a flat tin of tobacco, some papers, and rolled himself a cigarette. He rolled it quickly, not concentrating on it, just doing it as automatically as I would if I were to shake one out of a pack. When he had the cigarette going, he squinted at me through the smoke and I noticed that the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes didn’t disappear when he stopped squinting. I put his age at closer to fifty-five than thirty-five.

“I’m Colonel Nash,” he said.

“Colonel in what?” I said and told him my name.

“The Philippine Guerrilla Army.”

“That goes back a few years.”

He shrugged. “If you don’t like Colonel, you can call me Captain Nash.”

“Of the Philippine Guerrilla Navy?”

“Of the Wilfreda Maria.”

“What’s that?”

“A kumpit.”

“And a kumpit is a what?”

“It’s an eight-ton ship. I bought it from a Moro pirate. I’m a smuggler.”

“We all have to make a living,” I said, “but I don’t know if we have to be so explicit about how we do it.”

Colonel or Captain Nash took another drink of beer from the bottle. “What the hell,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “we’re both Americans, aren’t we?”

“You have me there.”

“Anyhow, I don’t smuggle anything into Singapore. I just sell stuff here.”

“What?”

“Timber, mostly from Borneo, out of Tawau. I load up a cargo of copra in the Philippines, sell it in Tawau where I get a good price for it in U.S. dollars, take on a cargo of timber, and sell it here. They use it for plywood.”

“When do you find time to do your smuggling?” I said.

“When I get back to the Philippines. I load up here with watches, cameras, sewing machines, English bikes, cigarettes, and whisky and then run it into either Leyte or Cebu.”

“You ever get caught?” I said.

“Not any more. I’ve got four engines in the Wilfreda Maria now and she’ll do thirty knots easy. I can always duck around in the Sulu Islands if things get too hot.”

“Where do you live in the Philippines?” I said.

“Cebu City.”

“For how long?”

“Twenty-five years. I was with the guerrillas from forty-two on and then I was liaison between the Americans and the guerrillas towards the end of the war.”

“I knew a guy who was in Cebu City about two years ago,” I said. “An American.”

“What’s his name?”

“Angelo Sacchetti.”

Nash had his beer bottle halfway up to his mouth when I mentioned the name. He stopped, looked at me with green eyes that suddenly seemed wary, and said: “Friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance.”

Nash took his interrupted drink of beer, a long, gurgling draught that emptied the bottle. “You looking for him?”

“In a way.”

“Either you’re looking for him or you’re not.”

“All right. I’m looking for him.”

“Why?”

“A personal matter.”

“I don’t think he wants to see you,” Nash said, and signaled for another beer.

“What makes you think so?”

Nash was silent until the waiter served the beer and returned to his newspaper. “Sacchetti dropped into Cebu City about two years ago and he didn’t have a dime. Well, he may have had a couple of bucks, but he wasn’t eating filets and his name wasn’t Angelo Sacchetti then either.”

“What was it?”

“Jerry Caldwell.”

“How long was he there?”

“About three or four months. He looked me up with a proposition. Loan sharking. You know, borrow five pesos and pay back six. I told him I wasn’t interested so he put the touch on me for a couple of thousand.”

“Why you?”

“Hell, I was an American like him.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“So I loaned it to him and he loaned it out to a couple of gamblers. For one week. They were supposed to pay him back twenty-five hundred, but they didn’t get around to it. Caldwell or Sacchetti didn’t push them too hard, at least not for a couple of weeks. Then he went downtown and bought himself a baseball bat. You know what he did with that bat?”

“No, but I can guess.”

“He got those two gamblers and broke their legs with it, that’s what. They paid up real quick after that and I don’t know of anybody else who borrowed from him who was late.”

“Why did he leave?”

“Cebu? I don’t know. He hung around the race track mostly. Gamblers were his best customers. Then one day he comes by my place. I wasn’t home, but my old lady was and she told me he took out a roll the size of a cabbage and paid off the two thousand he owed me. Then he left town. Just like that. Disappeared. The next time I see him is about two or three months later. He’s in the Hilton here with this good-looking Chinese doll. I was supposed to meet a guy there but he hadn’t showed up, so I go up to Caldwell and say: ‘Hello, Jerry.’ He just looks at me like this.” Nash made his face go cold and blank. “Then he says, ‘Sorry, mister, you’ve got the wrong party. The name is Sacchetti. Angelo Sacchetti.’ So I said, ‘Okay, Jerry, any way you want it.’ Then he turned around and walked off. So later I checked him out with this guy I’m supposed to meet in the Hilton and this guy tells me that Sacchetti is the latest local power. He’s in everything, even numbers. So I keep track of him.”

“Why?” I said.

“Hell, why not? I gave him his start, didn’t I? I knew him when and all that crap. So now he’s married into society or whatever they call it here and he lives out in that yacht of his that he named The Chicago Belle and ain’t that a hell of a name for a yacht?”

“He’s probably just sentimental.”

“I thought he was from L.A. At least that’s what he told me. He also told me that he used to be in pictures, but I sure never saw him in any.”

“He was in pictures,” I said.

“Is that where you knew him, in L.A.?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re a friend of his?”

“Let’s just say I know him.”

Nash took another giant swallow of beer. “Well, it’s like I said, I don’t think he’s too anxious to see you.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The guy in the back of the taxi, the one that took a shot at you.”

“What about him?”

“He works for Sacchetti.”

I suppose I didn’t have to say anything. It was all there in my face and I found that it took a conscious effort to close my mouth. Nash grinned at me.

“Not used to getting shot at, huh?”

“Not for real.”

“Well, if you think it over and still want to find him, I’ll run you out in my launch. You can get me at this number.” He wrote something on a scrap of paper with a ballpoint pen and handed it to me.

“Why stick your neck out?” I said.

Nash waved his hand in a deprecatory gesture. “Hell, we’re both Americans, aren’t we?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I almost forgot again.”