The Thai Amulet

Chapter 2

I remember vividly the first time I saw The Royal Palace of Ayutthaya. My dear mother told me often how I stood, transfixed by the sight of the soaring buildings, the gold, the exquisite carving, the splendor of it all. It was the most beautiful and astonishing sight of my young life, and I confess I have never lost the feeling of awe that I felt at that moment. The city has the power to overwhelm me still.

Now that I have been forced to some introspection, I see that my enchantment blinded me to the raw ambition, the poisonous intrigue that rested so close to the heart of the palace. The signs were there, even then, and certainly later, but as a boy in a place so very different from anything he had known until that moment, I lacked the ability to read them.

It is a fact of life that being in the antique business puts you in touch with wealth, and those who possess it. While scouring the world to find the perfect objets d’art to grace the showroom of McClintoch Swain, I’ve been in homes that are palaces, yachts the size of the average house. I have met people with more money than most of us can even imagine. By and large, with the exception of a few pangs of envy from time to time, I like to think I keep my feet firmly planted in reality, and I am always glad to get home to my little house in Cabbagetown with its tiny garden, and my store, even if, at 3,000 square feet, it would fit into the living room of some of the mansions I’ve visited. I have never, however, seen anything like the residence of the Chaiwong family. Nor am I likely to forget it, or them.

I was met at the airport by a car and driver and quickly whisked away from the masses of humanity that one finds in international airports: the travelers; their friends; the totes selling transportation, hotels, visits to “special” shopping places with the best of prices. In the car was an English-language newspaper, the Bangkok Herald, a damp towel, neatly packaged in plastic, for my hands and face, and a bottle of ice-cold water.

“I hope you will enjoy the journey to Ayutthaya,” the driver said. “Please rest, and if there is anything you need, you will tell me.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, sinking back into the leather seat. I would have liked to enjoy the sights, but there wasn’t much to see. We took a major highway, heading north from Bangkok, and as it was ten o’clock at night, all was in darkness. After thirty-some hours of traveling, it wasn’t long before I dozed off in the cool comfort of the backseat.

I awakened to the sound of the driver’s voice speaking quietly into his car phone. He saw me in the mirror and said, “Only five minutes more. I have alerted the household of your arrival.”

We pulled up in front of what looked to be an office tower or perhaps a hotel, ten stories of attractive enough white stucco at the summit of a slight incline on a circular driveway. Two stone elephants about three feet high marked the entranceway, which was also lined with orchids. In my jet-lagged state, I couldn’t figure out why I would be at such a place, but I didn’t have time to wonder for long, because within seconds of my stepping out of the car under the portico, I caught sight of a familiar blond head hurtling toward me.

“I am so glad to see you,” Jennifer said, hugging me tight. A shy young man hung back a few feet.

“Hello, Chat,” I said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “It’s nice to see you again, too.”

He blushed. I would have to remember that public displays of affection were frowned upon in Thailand, and now that he was back home, my greetings should be less effusive. “Hello, Aunt Lara,” he said. “I am very happy to welcome you to my home.”

A very efficient-looking man in a crisp beige suit came forward, his palms pressed flat together and up to touch his forehead in the traditional Thai greeting, the wet. I find it difficult sometimes to tell people’s ages in foreign countries like Thailand. My usual reference points are gone. But I would put him in his late thirties, with rather owlish glasses over high cheekbones and a quite distinctive somewhat flattened nose. “I am Yutai,” he said. “Secretary to Khun Wongvipa. I am most pleased to meet you. You are most welcome to the residence of the Chaiwong family. The family has retired for the evening, except for Mr. Chat here, but I will see you to your room. The family hopes you will sleep well, rest tomorrow, and that you will join them for dinner tomorrow evening.”

I turned back to the car, but my bags had already disappeared. “Your suitcase will be brought to your room,” Yutai said. “Please,” he said, gesturing toward the entrance, an enormous carved wood double door, which swung open as if by magic, but in fact was opened by two young men in uniform. A gold sign beside the door said Ayutthaya Trading and Property.

“Wait until you see this place,” Jennifer whispered.

I found myself in a marble lobby. The ceiling was wood, painted in the most extraordinary colors of gold and coral and blue. Ahead were two elevators, and beyond that, glass doors through which I could see banks of computers and office cubicles.

“Those are the offices,” Jennifer said. “Ayutthaya Trading. The offices are on the first six floors; the family lives on the top four. We go this way.”

A separate lobby with another two elevators was off to one side. Yutai beckoned me into one, and using a key, pressed Nine. “The guest floor,” Jennifer explained. “There’s just you and me, and we have the whole wing to ourselves. I’m really glad you’re here. It was a little daunting all by myself.”

“Khun Wongvipa would like you to have the gold room, if it is to your liking,” Yutai said, as the elevator door opened to an entranceway the size of my living room. The walls were stenciled in gold, figures of some kind of deities as guardians, perhaps. Extraordinary carved wood doors led off the foyer on either side.

“This way,” Yutai said, sliding out of his shoes before turning left. I stopped gawking long enough to follow him. Jennifer, beside me, giggled.

The gold room was just that. It was paneled in teak, but then gold leaf had been rubbed into the wood to give it a rather sensuous sheen. There was a canopy bed in black lacquer, already turned down. In addition to the bed there was a sofa, a coffee table, an armchair with a reading light, and a desk. There was a platter of fresh fruit on the coffee table and a large bouquet of orchids on the desk. Heavy silk curtains were pulled against the darkness. “Your dressing room,” Yutai said, leading me into another paneled room with rows of hangers and a bench where my suitcase already rested. Beyond that was a huge bathroom with tub, glass shower stall, two sinks, and a toilet and bidet. Fluffy white towels and a bathrobe awaited me. A spray of orchids graced the space between the sinks. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

“And now I will leave you, if there is nothing else I can do for you,” Yutai said. I assured him there wasn’t. “I have arranged for jasmine tea to be sent up. It will be here in a minute or two. Extension forty-three,” he said, pointing at the phone beside the bed. “Call me at any time, day or night, if there is something you require, or, if you wish, you can come to my quarters, which are on this floor on the other side of the foyer. In the morning when you wish breakfast, dial forty-two. The cook will have whatever you like sent up. There is a small kitchen, again on the other side of the foyer, which you are most welcome to use. There is bottled water and some light food in the refrigerator. Dinner is at eight P.M. tomorrow evening on the tenth floor. This key activates the elevator. In the meantime, the car and driver are at your disposal if you wish to do some sight-seeing while you are here.”

“I, too, will leave you,” Chat said. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow and hearing about your journey, Aunt Lara. Also telling you about ours,” he said, smiling at Jennifer.

“Isn’t this something else?” Jennifer said as their footsteps faded. “Rather grand, wouldn’t you say? Especially after the dump we stayed in on the beach near Phuket.”

“This would be rather grand after Buckingham Palace,” I said. “So where is your room?”

“I’m just down the hall. The silver room, my dear. Do join me, won’t you?” she said, affecting a veddy British accent. “Oops, here’s the tea.” A pleasant woman in bare feet knelt by the coffee table and set down a tray, then poured tea into exquisite little celadon porcelain cups, before backing out of the room.

“Who is Khun Wongvipa?” I said.

“Chat’s mother,” she said. “The woman I have been incorrectly referring to as Mrs. Chaiwong. You’ll meet her tomorrow. I don’t know what you’ll think of her. I find her kind of scary. His dad seems nice, but he’s really old. Everybody calls him Khun Thaksin. I call him sir.”

“What do you mean by old? Marginally older than your father and I?”

“Even older than you and Dad. Like ninety or something. Well, eighty anyway. His first wife died, and he married Chat’s mother. Chat has a half brother, the first wife’s son—I haven’t met him—and a younger brother named Dusit, and a little sister, who is a bit of a brat, called Prapapan. Her nickname is Fatty, if you can believe it. I have no idea why. She’s actually rather tiny.”

“What do they call you? Miss Jennifer?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s just as well. They’d have trouble with Miss Luczka. It comes out sort of Roocha.”

“I love this room, this suite, I should say,” I said, walking over to a carved chest. “I think this is quite old, and rather fine. It’s a manuscript cabinet, did you know that? It’s used to store religious manuscripts, or would have been at one time. The gold and black lacquer is wonderful. Probably mid- to late eighteenth century.”

“I’d like to talk to you about this,” she said. “Not tonight. I know you’re tired. But this place is all rather overwhelming.”

“And look at these gold boxes. Gold nielloware. Did you know these were once made exclusively for royalty?”

“If you think this floor is something,” Jennifer said. “Wait until you see where they hang out. I swear they own half of Bangkok. I exaggerate, of course, but only slightly.”

“And those doors when we came in. Did you see the carving? Exquisite! I think they’re temple doors, real ones, I mean, off a real temple.”

“I had no idea Chat came from this kind of home. He has a nice enough apartment off campus, and yes, he drives a BMW, but this is way beyond well off, you know. I find it all a bit much.”

“Do you know what this is?” I said, picking up a small bowl on the desk. “It’s called Bencharong, which means ”five colors“ in Sanskrit. This kind of ceramic was made in China for Thai—at the time it would have been Siamese—royalty. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“I feel as if they’re sizing me up all the time, and I’m sure I don’t measure up. I don’t think he wanted his family to meet me, but they insisted.”

“Look at these lamps. The bases represent deities. They’re called kinaree. See, they’re half human, half bird. What did you say?” I said, pausing for a moment in my catalogue of the treasures.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Yes, you do: something about not measuring up. Of course you do,” I said. “They may have lots of money, but they’re lucky their son likes someone like you. So there!”

“I guess,” she said. “Now you better get some sleep. It’s almost midnight. We’ll get all caught up tomorrow. Shall we have breakfast together?”

“Yes,” I said. “Please wake me when you want to eat. We have a little project while we’re here, by the way.”

“I love a project,” she said. “What is it?”

“We have to find an antique dealer by the name of William Beauchamp,” I said.

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” she said. “Where’s his store? I’m sure Chat will know where it is.”

“I know where the store is,” I said. “At least I have an address. But he hasn’t been seen in months. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

“I like it!” she said. “A little detective work, just like Dad. I can’t tomorrow, though. Khun Wongvipa wants me to go somewhere with her. I figured you’d need the day off, given how long it takes to get here. Sleep well.”

I had a shower and gratefully crawled into the big bed. I was asleep almost instantly and awoke some time later, I’m not sure when, to the sound of footsteps padding down the hallway. I was reasonably sure they went into Jennifer’s room, and I was almost certain it was Chat. I wondered what her father would think if he heard about that. And then I wondered where Will Beauchamp was.

I was in Bangkok early thanks to a combination of a twelve-hour time change that got me up at the crack of dawn and a car and driver who dropped me off at the Sky-train and promised to pick me up again at five.

I love Bangkok. Sometimes it’s hard to explain why, even to myself. The traffic is horrendous, the air even more so, the poverty relentless, the sex trade highly visible and unpleasant. Still, when the sun touches the golden spires of The Grand Palace or reflects off the glass mosaics on the temple facades, making them sparkle as if wreathed in a million tiny, multicolored lights, when I smell for a moment, even in the city, the heady scent of jasmine and fran-gipane, or catch a glimpse of the rhythm of daily life on the klongs, then I am seduced once more. It is as if I have arrived for the first time, to be overwhelmed by the sights and smells, drugged by the heat, confused by sights so foreign. But it is also as if I’ve been there all my life, that somehow it is where I belong. For a few moments, I just stood there, taking it all in.

As Clive had pointed out, more than once since we’d had our first conversation on the subject, I held wildly divergent views on Will. Part of me thought he’d be easy to find. All I had to do was wait for an hour or two outside his home, and he was bound to come crawling out. The other pact held that he was off on some beach somewhere, a drink with an umbrella in it in one hand, suntan lotion in the other. Both these scenarios were based on a single premise, however: that he was trying to avoid paying a dime to his wife and daughter.

I had no trouble finding Fairfield Antiques. It was located on a soi, or lane, off Silom Road, in an old mansion that had been converted into the Bangkok version of a shopping plaza. The area was once the center of town from the point of view of foreigners, or farang as they are called. It is near the river, off what was then referred to as New Road, now by its Thai name of Charoen Krung, a street built in the mid—nineteenth century to accommodate the carriages of foreign diplomats, and many of the embassies were nearby. The neighborhood then centered, and perhaps still does, on the exotic Oriental Hotel, which played host to writers like Joseph Conrad, Somerset Maugham, and Graham Greene, and where the expatriate community liked to gather and socialize.

The mansion, which may well at one time have housed an embassy or perhaps an adventurer who had made his fortune in the East, was now a maze of tiny shops, most of them purporting to sell antiques. I say purporting, because my experience is that some of the best fakes in the world can be found in Bangkok, an alarming proportion, indeed, of what is an offer. Worse yet, a disturbing number of those left over after the fakes are factored out have been ripped illegally from temple sites, in other words, stolen. A quick look around confirmed my opinion. It is one of the reasons that my buying trips to Asia often bypass Thailand, and when I do go there, it is to find interesting articles—carved doors, windows, furniture, other decorative pieces—that McClintoch Swain offers as reproductions to our clients who like the look but don’t insist upon or can’t afford the genuine antique article.

Fairfield Antiques was there, on the second floor. At least the sign was, in English, and presumably in Thai. The display window was covered with brown kraft paper, however, and the door was securely locked and fastened with a padlock and chain. A few advertising flyers had been partially stuffed through the mail slot, but there was nothing of any interest in them, at least the ones I could read. A notice taped to the door, again in two languages, indicated exactly what the lawyer’s letter had, that the contents had been seized by the landlord—in this case the landlord was mentioned, a firm called Ayutthaya Trading and Property as it turned out; I don’t know why I was surprised, given Jennifer had told me they owned the proverbial half of Bangkok—and would be auctioned at the River City auction facility on the weekend.

I peered through a tear in the paper. It was dark inside, although a window on the far side did shed some light, enough that I could see the place was completely empty.

I did a canvass of some of the stores surrounding Fairfield’s. All said they hadn’t seen Will for some time. One young woman, who perhaps had not been employed long, had no idea whom I was talking about. It was in a tailor’s shop that I made some headway, although not much.

“Mr. William, yes,” the proprietor said. “I know Mr. William. You like to buy Thai silk?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, reluctant to bring the conversation to a close before I learned anything.“

“This color very good for you,” she said, pulling a jacket in a gorgeous sapphire blue off a rack.

“It’s lovely,” I said. “Now, about Mr. William. Have you seen him recently?”

“No recently,” she said. “I think this color more better,” she added, this time showing me a mustard yellow jacket. “You very white. With skirt, very good. Same color or maybe black silk. Good for your parties.”

“It’s too small, I’m afraid,” I said. I towered over this woman and most of the Thai women I met. Nothing in this shop would fit me. But a tape measure was produced with lightning speed.

“You come back tomorrow,” she said. “I have for you. Perfect fitting.”

An assistant, a pretty teenage girl, miraculously appeared from the back and started writing down my measurements as the diminutive woman called them out. Fortunately, I couldn’t understand them—she was speaking in Thai—so I didn’t have to sink into a deep depression at the mention of my waist size.

“I think we make jacket a little longer for you,” she said. “Covers, you know,” she said, patting her hips. “Not so much extra you pay.”

“But about Mr. William,” I said, doggedly determined to get something out of this. “When do you think you saw him last?”

“Two, maybe three months,” she said. “How you like skirt? I think at the knee, on top, is good for you. To show your legs, yes?” She pushed up my pant leg and peered at my calves. “Leg is okay,” she said.

“Do you know Mr. Narong?” I asked, referring to the name Mr. PPKK, as I was coming to think of him, had mentioned. The girl who was helping out tittered.

“Of course,” the tailor said, also smiling. “Is my husband. He will make for you the clothes. Not here now. I think you need also silk pants. Black is very good. Also blouse for under jacket. Maybe two. One yellow like jacket, one black. With sleeves, I think. The arms you know,” she said lifting up her arm and pulling at the fleshy part of her upper arm. “For older women not so good to show. Very versatile for you.”

“I’m not sure I need all this,” I said. “Maybe just the jacket.”

“Thai silk best in the world,” she said, severely. “Why you not buy more? You will be most beautiful in your country. Now you stand here,” she said, pointing to a raised platform. “I measure for your pants and I tell you about Mr. William. You wear shoes like this always?”

I sighed and silently cursed Clive for about the thousandth time since he’d first mentioned Will Beauchamp’s disappearance.

“Very sad man, Mr. William,” she said. “Turn please.” I turned.

“I think he want to go home,” she said. “At first he find Bangkok very nice, but after he misses very much his home, I think. Why he not go home I don’t know.”

“What happened to the business?” I said. I was already in a mental debate about whether or not to tell Natalie about this most recent revelation. “Fairfield Antiques. Do you know why it’s closed?”

“Mr. William has very good antiques,” she said. “Not like some of the others,” she added, waving her arm in the general direction of the other shops: “Maybe not so many people know the difference between his antiques and the others. I don’t know. One evening I see him lock the door. He stops here to say good night as always. I never see again. Soon the others came. Turn again please.”

“What others?” I said.

“From Ayutthaya Trading. They own this plaza. They ask many questions, then they take away all Mr. William’s lovely antiques.

“What kind of questions did the people sent by Ayutthaya Trading ask?” I said. My, but dinner that evening was promising to be useful.

“Just like you,” she said. “When did you see him? Things like that.”

“How long after you last saw him did they come?”

“Maybe one month, maybe more.”

“Do you know a Mr. Prasit?” I asked.

“Many Mr. Prasit,” she said.

“The Mr. Prasit who is assistant manager of PPKK,” I said. I felt like an idiot saying that.

“What is this PPKK?” she said.

“I was hoping you would know,” I said.

“No,” she said. She spoke to her assistant in Thai, but the girl shook her head.

“My daughter not know also,” she said. The girl said something to her mother.

“My daughter tells me there was a young man came here asking for Mr. William. He spoke to my husband. My husband knows nothing of Mr. William also, so the young man left. Maybe he is Mr. Prasit.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Has anybody else asked about Mr. William?”

“No,” she said. “You like blouses, yes?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“I am mistaken. There was a woman like you.”

“You mean a farang?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Not so nice as you, though. She not buy Thai silk.”

“What did she look like?”

“A farang,” the woman replied.

“Hair color,” I said. “Like mine?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But more,” she added, indicating a spot just below my shoulder blades.

“Eyes?” I said.

“Like you,” she said. “Farang eyes.” I meant what color, but it seemed hopeless to pursue this.

“Was she taller than me?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think also slimmer. I didn’t measure, but I know. Twenty years in business.”

“Did she tell you her name?”

“No,” she said. “She came here only one time. She do the same as you—try to look into store.” She put her hands up to shield her eyes and pretended to be peering at something. “Nothing there to see.”

“Nobody else?”

“No,” she said. “What time you come back tomorrow for fitting? Same time?”

“Okay,” I said. Why argue? A rather tall man in a very fine dark suit entered the store, and the three of them began a heated discussion.

“Mr. Narong. My husband,” the woman said. “He says there was one other who asked for Mr. William. Thai girl. Very pretty. No name also. Now,” she said, whipping out a calculator and showing me the tally. “Very good price, yes?” I stared at it for a moment, thinking what a fool I was. It was awfully pretty though, I thought, fingering the bolt of fabric, the color so rich and the texture, with its hint of roughness, so pleasant against my hand. I could picture myself wearing it at the next CADA Gala, even if it was a year away. Maybe I would bring Jennifer in and get something made for her, too.

“Okay,” she said, taking my hesitation for reluctance.

“For you, special, as friend to Mr. William, another ten percent. You pay half now,” she said. I paid.

Having forked over about a hundred and fifty dollars, with the same amount to come, for a “versatile” outfit and very little information, I went on my way. Will’s house was my next stop. It was as easy to find as the shop, and for the same reason. I had the address from the lawyer’s letter in Natalie’s packet. My vision of Will hiding out at home, embellished over the thirty hours or so of traveling to reach Bangkok, was one of a house on a klong, or canal, complete with teak floors and walls, exquisite art—he was, after all, an antique dealer who specialized in Asia—and a terribly young and beautiful Thai woman, a sort of Madama Butterfly who catered to his every whim, at his side. At some point in my jet-lagged reverie, there had even been a baby gently rocking in a cradle nearby. Or maybe it was a grass hut on a beach in the south I was thinking of, open to the ocean breezes, a la Paul Gauguin in Tahiti. Or something like that.

What it wasn’t, was the six-story concrete apartment building I found myself standing in front of, checking the address several times to make sure I’d made no mistake. The building was supremely unattractive, sitting stolidly on its footings in a neighborhood that had lovely temples, markets, and gardens, and poor but at least interesting houses on stilts.

Next to it was a shell of a building, similar in design. It looked as if construction had halted in an instant, and the workers had dropped their tools and walked away, which is probably exactly what had happened a few years earlier when the white-hot Asian economy had abruptly hit the brakes. There were steel rods exposed in several places, including the top, and no glass in any windows. A couple of the units had some sheets hung up, some squatters presumably having taken up residence. It was a very depressing sight, a blight really. My shattered visions, totally without foundation and inappropriate as they had been, had been considerably more romantic than the reality.

The building did, however, boast a view of the river, which is not inconsequential. The Chao Phyra is a fascinating waterway. The heart of the city, it functions as a major roadway. On it, rice barges ply their trade alongside speeding longtail boats that serve as water taxis, and ferries that work much like buses, stopping every few hundred yards at jetties along the river’s banks. From the river one can see beautiful temples, spires of gold and tile, thousands of little businesses, and even tiny houses almost falling into the water. Will’s building towered over a group of these houses where children played in the water, while their mothers cooked and cleaned. If he lived on the river side of the building, Will would have a rather splendid view.

I went into the building foyer and found a letterbox with Will’s name on it, and, lo and behold, an apartment number. Obviously they were not as obsessed about security as we are. Even the front door was unlocked.

Will’s apartment was on the top floor, arrived at on a creaking elevator, off a dreary hallway that may have been somebody’s idea of American modern. I pounded on the door but received no answer. I listened for a time, just standing in the hallway, but I had no sense there was anyone moving about inside.

Having interpreted the letter from Mr. PPKK—the part about Mrs. Praneet live beside—as the apartment next door, I knocked on the door to each side of Beauchamp’s as well.

There was no answer at either one. The place was as still as a tomb. No doors opened in response to all the pounding I was doing, nor did anyone come in or out. It was almost as if no one lived there.

I bought a bottle of water in a little greengrocers just down the lane, with a clear view of the apartment building, and they offered me a chair in the shade outside. It was the time of day when the heat, noticeable but bearable to this point, suddenly becomes oppressive. It’s as if everything, the streets, the buildings, even the chair I was sitting on, has soaked up the heat in the early hours, and then starts to radiate it back into the air. The humidity seemed to have reached saturation point. I must have dozed off, a combination of jet lag and heat, because I had a rather grotesque dream in which Natalie Beauchamp cried, as a man in a referee’s striped uniform blew his whistle in a most annoying way, and Will sank beneath the waters of a lagoon. It was a watery kind of dream, perhaps because it had started raining while I was still asleep. I awoke to find the shop proprietor staring at me as if I was some kind of lunatic, as drops began to seep through the awning onto my head.

On the street, the gutters, such as they were, rushed with water as the rain came down in sheets.

As I pulled myself together, I heard several sharp blasts of a whistle, and a ferry pulled up to a pier a hundred yards or so away. That at least explained the referee, the ferry conductor, if that’s the right term, signaling its arrival and departure. A stream of people disembarked and dashed through the rain, several of them running into the building I was supposed to be watching. Not one of them, however, bore the slightest resemblance to Will.

Given that at least two ferries had come and gone while I dozed away, if my dream was anything to go by, it seemed pretty clear I wasn’t in any shape for a stakeout, and having learned next to nothing so far, except that another farang had also been inquiring about William, I decided I needed some official help. I made my way to the American Embassy on Wireless Road and asked to speak to a consular officer about a missing American.

I can certainly understand why everyone visiting the embassy would be carefully screened before being permitted in, but after being treated like a terrorist and made to wait for an hour and a half before seeing anyone, I was in rather bad mood by the time I was finally ushered into a small office.

“I’m David Ferguson,” the man said, standing up to shake my hand. He was an attractive man, very tall and thin, with dark hair peppered with gray. “How may I be of assistance?”

“I am looking for an American citizen who has been living in Bangkok for some time, but who has been missing for about three months.”

“Name?” he said.

“William Beauchamp,” I replied.

“Not Will Beauchamp, the antique dealer?”

“Yes,” I said. “You know him?”

“I do,” he said. “Good fellow. I didn’t know he was missing. Was a report ever filed?”

“His wife reported it to the U.S. Consulate in Toronto,” I said. “They told her it would be passed along to Bangkok.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, rising from his seat and then heading down the hall. It was considerably more than a minute, but he did return with a document in his hand. “Found this in the pile,” he said. “We would have got to it eventually. It’s just we have all these congressmen and senators asking us to look at their constituents’ files first. Okay, fill me in.”

I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much.

“He was still here July fourth,” he said. “I saw him at a party he threw to mark the occasion. I think that’s how I actually met him, last year, at a party at his apartment. A lot of us Americans throw parties on the Fourth of July. That and Thanksgiving. Lots of drinks and nostalgia, and sometimes even fireworks. There’s always a party here, of course, but people just go from place to place pretty much the whole day.”

“I’ve been to his apartment,” I said.

“Fabulous, isn’t it?” he said.

“You think so?” I said.

“I do,” he said. “Not much on the outside, but inside— I’d kill for that place.”

“I only saw the outside,” I said. “And the hallway.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Great view of the river, and he had really wonderful stuff there. He made me start getting serious about finding myself a decent place to live. I was quite envious of his place when I first saw it. I’d been posted here for a couple of years, and was still living in a bachelor apartment that looked as if I was still in college. Hot plate, bed with an Indian cotton throw, nothing on the walls, except a poster of the Stones. You get the idea. And here’s this guy Will who has made the place really nice. He had a balcony with a great view, small and there wasn’t much room on it because he had two huge pots filled with those flowers, whatever they are, that girls strap on their wrists for the school dance—purple things.”

“Orchids?” I said.

“Right. Orchids. But the view! And his furniture! He’d really got into Thai style. Every piece looked like a treasure to me. I don’t know antiques at all, but he had a stone Buddha head that looked pretty authentic. And he had framed paintings, Jataka tales, if you know what those are: stories about the Buddha in previous lives. The walls were covered with paintings and carvings. It was a guy kind of place, though. The furniture was solid, not that flimsy stuff that often passes as valuable as long as you don’t want to sit on it. He had a real dining room table, carved jade, with lots of chairs. No standing up at the kitchen counter to eat for our Will. The only thing I didn’t take to was a painting he kept in the bedroom. It was of a beautiful woman, but it had those eyes, you know, the kind that follow you around the room. I mean who wants someone watching everything you do in your bedroom even if it is only a painting? Otherwise, I was quite envious of everything and in fact set out almost immediately to find myself a decent home. Even the coffee table was something—it’s one of those jobs that has a glass top but a drawer underneath where you can put stuff, and see them through the top, if you know what I mean. He had these terra-cotta amulets, several of them, all different, arranged there.”

“Sort of like this?” I said, reaching into my bag and handing him the amulet Natalie had given me.

“Exactly like that,” he said, looking at it carefully. “How did you get this one?”

I told him.

“Weird,” he said.

I couldn’t disagree.

“Did his wife report this to the local police here?”

“No,” I said. “I think she thought you would do that. I don’t mean you personally…”

“And I don’t take it personally. We would have eventually, as I said.”

“Did he have a companion, a lady friend?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “We didn’t know each other very well. We got together for drinks a couple of times, in addition to the July fourth events. We didn’t talk about our personal lives, though. But as for girls, a lot of guys who come to Thailand… how should I put this?”

“Rent one for the weekend?” I said.

“I’d have preferred ‘play the field.” But there is no question that it’s a great place for an unattached guy.“

“Except he wasn’t unattached,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “I see. I’m not attached. Not anymore, anyway. Are you?”

“Yes, I am, and I don’t forget it just because I’m in Thailand,” I said rather primly. I couldn’t believe my school-marmish tone. Maybe Clive was right. I was turning into an old prune in my dotage.

“Ooooo-kay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Back to the apartment,” he said. “You see, once you get our attention, we get right down to work. Do you have a rental car?”

“Are you kidding? Drive in this traffic?”

He laughed. “Are you prepared to risk coming with me?”

“I guess,” I said.

“Well, here we are,” he said about an hour later. “You can loosen your death grip on the armrest now. We could have done it in about a third the time if we’d taken the ferry, but I just like to prove I can drive in Bangkok.”

“You’re a brave and possibly foolhardy man,” I said.

The heat made me gasp as I got out of the air-conditioned car, and my sunglasses fogged over instantly. Ferguson repeated my door knocking of earlier that day and then said, “Wait here,” before disappearing down the stairs. He returned a few minutes later with a man introduced to me as Mr. Poon, the building superintendent.

“Mr. Poon here has informed me, several times, in fact, that he is unable to let us into the apartment. However, he has been persuaded for a small monetary consideration.”

I looked over at Mr. Poon.

“It’s all right,” Ferguson went on. “He doesn’t speak English. He has been persuaded to open the door and let us look in from the hallway.”

Mr. Poon turned out to be one of those people for whom even the smallest task is an effort. He fussed around with the keys, decided he had the wrong ones, went away for what seemed a long time, and fussed again on his return, trying first one key, then another.

“I’m starting to feel like Howard Carter waiting for his workers to break through into what was to be King Tut’s tomb.” I whispered. “Sorry. That was a poor choice of metaphor.”

Ferguson laughed. “Let’s not rush to conclusions,” he said. “Here we go.” Poon turned the key at last, and the door swung open.

I was surprised how quiet it was in the apartment. Outside there was the sound of traffic, the boats on the river, the din of a large city. Inside, the place had an airless quality to it, along with a certain dankness, like a summer home that’s been abandoned all winter, closed and silent. “I’m going in,” I said.

“I’m right behind you,” Ferguson said, as Poon started to protest. “I’ll claim diplomatic immunity for us both.”

It was, as Ferguson had said, a lovely apartment. The orchids on the balcony had definitely seen better days, but the view was fabulous, as were the furniture and the art. The teak dining room table was all that Ferguson had said it was, and the Jataka paintings were really lovely.

“Does it look to you as if some amulets are missing?” I said, pointing to the display beneath the glass coffee table top. “There are some spaces. It doesn’t look symmetrical somehow.”

“I think you’re right,” he said. “I can’t recall exactly.”

“I wonder if they’re the ones he sent Natalie,” I said.

“Could be.”

“Kitchen next,” I said. The kitchen, off the dining area was spotless, with not so much as a crumb on the counter or the floor. I opened a couple of cupboards. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Ferguson had a look in a small pantry, and shrugged. We both eyed the refrigerator. “Women’s work,” he said, pointing to it.

I opened it carefully. “Yuck,” I said as the odor of rotting food reached me. “Green slime and sour milk,” I said, closing it firmly.

This way,“ he said, gesturing down a short hall. Mr. Poon followed us, jabbering away. There was a bathroom at the end of it, spotlessly clean, towels folded and hung just so, medicine cabinet filled with perfectly normal stuff.

“That’s the bedroom,” Ferguson said, pointing to a closed door.

“Your turn,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. He put his hand on the door handle and paused for a second. Then, giving me a mock terrified expression, he pushed the door open and peered inside. “I think it’s okay,” he said.

The bed was neatly made. I opened a couple of drawers. Will Beauchamp was a meticulous man. His socks and underwear were sorted by color and carefully folded. The only thing in the room that wasn’t just so was the closet, the door having been left open. Inside, though, shoes lined up nicely and there were a couple of suits and carefully ironed shirts and jeans all in a row.

“Hmmm,” Ferguson said.

“Yes?” I said.

“Well he’s certainly not here.”

“No.”

“Neither is the painting,” he added. “The one with the eyes that follow you. You can see the mark on the wall. A couple of missing amulets, no painting. Other than that, everything is as I remember it. What do you figure this means?”

“I don’t know. My theory all along has been that he is hiding out from Natalie and her lawyers. I guess the question is, if that’s what you’re doing, would you take all your stuff with you, or, for that matter, clean out the refrigerator before you left?”

“Maybe he just couldn’t pay the rent here either, and was clearing out before the landlord caught up to him,” Ferguson speculated. He said something to Mr. Poon, and the man replied.

“I’m wrong on that score. The rent is paid up until the end of the year, and Poon had no idea Beauchamp was gone,” Ferguson said. “Well, I guess we might as well be going. There isn’t much to learn here, I’m afraid. I’ll drop you off at the Sky train station.”

And then I made one of those unconscious gestures we train ourselves to do, like turning off the lights when we leave a room, or giving the door handle one more turn, just to be sure, after we’ve locked it. Without much thinking about it, I closed the closet door.

A splatter of dark reddish brown droplets, now dry, speckled the wall behind the door. We both looked at it in silence for a moment of two. “I suppose it could be tomato sauce or red curry paste,” I said finally.

“In the bedroom?” Ferguson said. “I think it’s time we called the police, don’t you?”