The Singapore Wink

Chapter XX

The phone rang while I was trying to decide whether a drink would help to pass the time or ease the pain or both. The caller was Lim Pang Sam, the spymaster of Singapore’s four-man counter-espionage network, and he wanted to know how I was feeling.

“Rotten,” I said.

“That’s what Detective Huang reports,” Lim said. “He rang me up just a few minutes ago.”

“Were they satisfied?”

“With what?”

“With my answers to their questions.”

Lim chuckled. “I don’t think they believed a word you said, but you’re no longer their prime suspect.”

“Was I?”

“At first, but there turned out to be too many witnesses to your movements last night.”

“I did see a few people,” I said.

“But not the one you were looking for,” Lim said.

“No. I didn’t see him.”

There was a pause and then Lim said, “I think it might prove useful if you could drop by my office this afternoon, say around two-thirty? Would be that convenient?”

“Fine,” I said.

“I have some news for you,” Lim said. “And then I have something else, too.”

“At two-thirty then.”

After I hung up I mixed a drink and stood at the window and watched it rain a hard, tropical downpour, the kind that puts a wet chill into the air conditioning and gives even synthetic fabrics the clammy smell and feel of damp wool.

I thought about Carla Lozupone and who had killed her and why. Somewhere, just out of reach, a nebulous, unformed idea skittered around, saw that I was trying to sneak a glance at it, blushed, panicked, and disappeared. Having nothing better to do I stood there at the window and watched the rain and went back over it all, from Callese and Palmisano to Huang and Tan. No revelation burst through; no shining truth glimmered; there was only that something, small and elusive, that seemed to nag and snicker just over the next mental hill, just out of sight.

After a while I gave it up and rang the bell for the houseboy. He agreed to produce a plate of sandwiches and a pot of coffee and I reminded myself to increase the size of his tip if I were ever lucky enough to check out of the place. I ate the sandwiches slowly, chewing on the left side of my mouth because the right side still ached where the tall Chinese had slammed the edge of his hand against it. I refought last night’s battle and remembered the times when I had taken on three and four and even five of them and had won handily before an admiring audience of cameramen, actors, grips, script girls and assorted hangers-on. Then, of course, there had been a couple of rehearsals and the script had called for me to win, but last night’s performance had neither script nor rehearsal and the scene, as well as myself, had suffered because of it.

At two o’clock it was still raining and I went in search of the turbaned doorman to see whether he could find a cab. After five or ten minutes he whistled one to a stop and held a large umbrella over me while I climbed in. I gave the driver Lim’s address and he sped off through the rain, apparently unaware that windshield wipers could have proved useful.

Lim Pang Sam smiled broadly as he walked around his desk and extended his hand which I shook. “Except for right here,” he said, touching his own right jaw, “you don’t look bad at all. That’s a nasty bruise.”

“It feels nasty,” I said.

Lim moved back to the chair behind his desk and picked up the phone. “I’ll have some tea brought in,” he said. “It has marvelous curative powers. As the British are so fond of saying, ‘There’s nothing like a nice cup of tea.’”

“Nothing,” I agreed.

When the tea ritual was completed, Lim leaned back in his chair, holding his cup and saucer against his comfortable stomach. “Tell me about it,” he said and smiled, adding, “and you can leave out the more obvious fabrications, if you like.”

I told him what had happened from the time I had left his office the day before until Huang and Tan arrived. I didn’t bother to tell him about Carla Lozupone and me; I don’t think I ever told anyone about that.

When I was through Lim put his cup and saucer on the desk and spun his chair around to see how the ships in the harbor were doing in the rain. “So it would seem that someone is mounting a clumsy effort to make it look as though Sacchetti killed the Lozupone woman,” he said. “A frame, as you say.”

“That’s the way it looks, but then I’m no expert.”

“But your Mr. Dangerfield is.”

“He’s an FBI agent. That might make him an expert in some circles.”

“But he is not in Singapore officially?”

“No.”

“I can’t say that I like the idea of an FBI agent running about, officially or otherwise, but I even less like his theory that Toh and his daughter are responsible for the death of the Lozupone woman.”

“I don’t think he likes it too much either,” I said. “I just think he wants to like it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he just wants everything tidy.”

Lim brought out his Lucky Strikes and offered me one. While I was accepting a light, he said, “This is a most untidy affair, Mr. Cauthorne. Assault, blackmail and murder. Most untidy. Yet there is the possibility that some good may come of it.”

“You mean there’s a chance to get rid of both Sacchetti and Toh.”

Lim nodded. “A very good chance, I think, unless it’s bungled badly.”

“By outside amateurs such as myself.”

Lim smiled. “Not at all, Mr. Cauthorne. If anything, your efforts have brought matters to a head. In fact, I was just going to make you a proposition. But first I must ask you a question. Satisfactory?”

“All right.”

“Are you still determined to find or confront — I’m not sure which term to use, but nevertheless, do you still intend to find Angelo Sacchetti?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you don’t mind if we use you as a stalking horse.”

“I don’t know whether I mind or not,” I said. “But there’s probably not much I can do about it.”

Lim smiled again as if delighted with my answer. “My proposition is this: we would like you to continue just as you are with one exception.” He opened a desk drawer, took out a revolver, and placed it on his blotter. “We would like for you to have this.”

“Why?”

“For protection,” Lim said.

I leaned over and picked up the revolver. It was surprisingly light.

“Aluminum alloy frame,” Lim said. “It’s become very popular throughout Asia.”

It was a Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special that fired the.38 caliber Special cartridges and it didn’t seem to weigh much more than half a pound, if that. I put it back on the desk.

“What would happen if I pulled the trigger and someone got shot?” I said.

“It depends,” Lim said.

“On what?”

“On whom you shot.”

“Let’s say I shot Angelo Sacchetti.”

“Then it would be self-defense, wouldn’t it?” Lim said.

“No fuss, no bother?”

“None. I might not be able to convince the Prime Minister to strike a special medal for you, but I’m sure you understand.”

“Perfectly,” I said. “You wouldn’t mind at all if I killed Angelo Sacchetti and saved you the trouble.”

“In self-defense, of course.”

“Of course.”

I shook my head and pushed the revolver an inch towards Lim; he pushed it back an inch. “Mr. Cauthorne, let me say that we do not hand out firearms in Singapore lightly or without a great deal of thought. I hope you will believe me when I also say that you need this revolver. You need it very much. You already have been shot at once.”

“That was only a warning.”

“Possibly,” Lim said and raised a cynical eyebrow. “You have been beaten severely. If you continue your search for Sacchetti, there will be a third, and probably final, incident.”

“No more warnings?”

“None.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll take it, but what do you want me to do with it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean I’m not wearing a coat, so how do I carry it — by the barrel?”

“Oh, dear,” Lim said, clucking his tongue. “I do believe I have a paper bag here somewhere.” He rummaged through his desk and found one. I put the Smith & Wesson in it.

“Very handy,” I said.

“I think you’ll have to wear a coat,” he said.

“I’ll manage. You said over the phone that you had some news.”

Lim took off his Ben Franklin glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. “It’s about Dickie,” he said. “I talked to him today.”

“To Trippet?”

“Yes. He called from Los Angeles. He’s worried about you.”

“Why?”

Lim put his glasses back on and they promptly slid halfway down his broad nose to where he habitually wore them. “Well, I believe that I mentioned you had been attacked.”

“What else did you mention?”

“That the girl had been murdered.”

“So what did he say?”

“I tried to dissuade him.”

“From what?”

“From flying out, I’m afraid.”

“Christ,” I said. “May I use your phone? I’ll call him collect.”

“You’re perfectly welcome to the phone, my dear chap, but it’s probably useless.”

“Not if I talk to him.”

Lim looked at his watch. “That could prove rather difficult to do. I expect he’s just leaving Honolulu now and he’s due in tomorrow at 12:30 P.M.”

“What in God’s name am I going to do with Trippet?” I said.

“Well, you could meet him at the airport and then pass him over to me. I quite look forward to seeing him, you know.”

I rose and walked around Lim’s desk to take a look at the harbor. I rested my forehead against the window and it felt cool and somehow comforting. “Mr. Lim, you have given me a pistol in a paper sack and virtually declared open season on Angelo Sacchetti. You have upset my partner to the point where he’s making a ten-thousand-mile wild goose chase out here when I would a hell of a lot rather have him back in Los Angeles running the business on which I depend for my livelihood. Now have we reached the bottom of today’s surprise bag or do we have one more grab?”

“One more, I’m afraid, Mr. Cauthorne.”

“What?”

“Look a little to your left and down.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“That’s because it’s not there.”

“What?”

“The Chicago Belle. She weighed anchor three hours ago.”

I turned to look at Lim who had spun his chair around towards the window. “Was Sacchetti aboard?” I said.

Lim shook his head. “No. As soon as we learned that she was moving out, we had a marine police launch alongside. They boarded and made a thorough search. There was no one aboard except the crew.”

“Where was she headed?”

“The captain wasn’t sure. He was sailing under sealed orders.”

“Who gave him the orders?”

“Mrs. Sacchetti.”

I moved around the desk to my chair and sank into it. “Anything else?”

“Only the suggestion that we might well have a drink.”

“At least we can agree on that,” I said.

Lim rummaged through his desk once more and produced a bottle of Ballantine’s and two glasses. He poured us both a generous measure and we toasted each other’s health, although he put a little more feeling into his because he seemed to think that I could use it. After that we talked for a while longer, but about nothing consequential, and then we shook hands and I headed towards the door.

“Mr. Cauthorne,” Lim said.

I turned. “Yes.”

“I think you forgot something.”

“So I did.” I went back and got it and then went down the elevator, out to the street, into a cab, and back through the rain to the hotel carrying my Smith & Wesson.38 caliber Chiefs Special in its convenient brown paper bag.