The Thai Amulet

Chapter 4

The king certainly had much more than a serious little boy to worry about. The Burmese, long a weakened state with no power to threaten us, had suddenly grown strong under the leadership of King Tabinshwehti of Toungoo, who captured the Mon state of Pegu, acquiring all its people and wealth.

When Prince Yot Fa was only two years old, King Chairacha was forced to raise a large army and march against the Burmese, when the evil Tabinshwehti attacked a müang, Chiang Krai, which sent tribute to Ayutthaya, and was thus entitled to our protection. A brilliant tactician and soldier, the king dealt firmly with his enemies, driving them from our region, and for a time, Ayutthaya enjoyed peace.

But it was not to last for long.

“I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?” Khun Wongvipa said to me the next day. “A private word, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” I replied. A twinge of apprehension tugged at the back of my mind.

“I would appreciate your advice on a subject of some delicacy,” she said. I sincerely hoped I didn’t know what it was.

“My husband, you see, is not really supportive.”

No kidding, I thought.

“Would you mind accompanying me to the fourth floor?”

“Not at all,” I said. I did, after all, have to be nice to my host and Jennifer’s beau’s mother, although what the fourth floor had to do with the subject was a mystery, and there was absolutely no way I wanted to discuss her love life. We emerged from the elevator into a bright, airy space with a wonderful view of the river. A desk and workstation had been set up, along with two drafting boards, and two young men were working away at drawings. There were bolts of fabric everywhere and some very fine reproductions of old Thai carvings and furniture.

“This is the home of what I call Ayutthaya Design,” she said. “It has nothing to do with Ayutthaya Trading. I have started my own little business. My husband thinks it is a silly notion of mine. He doesn’t understand why, given we obviously don’t need another business, I would do such a thing. Before I met my husband, I was poor, and I worked very hard. Even in the early days of our marriage, I worked in the company. But then I had children, and the business did exceptionally well without me. Still, I would like to have something of my own. I cannot help but feel you will understand. Jennifer has told me about your shop, which sounds quite wonderful, and even though I am sure it is easier for North American women than it is for Thai, you must still have had many challenges. I really could use your advice as to whether you think there might be a market for my lines in North America, and if so, how I might go about getting started there. I’m hoping you could help me, if it is not too much of an imposition.”

“Of course I understand,” I said. “And I’m flattered you would ask me.” And relieved, too, that it was such an innocuous subject. “I know very little about business in Thailand, but I will help in any way I can. I loved the china last night, by the way. Yutai told me you designed it. I am terribly impressed.”

“You flatter me, I think,” she said, but she looked pleased. “It isn’t a new design, really, just an updating of a very ancient one.”

“I think that’s a real talent,” I said.

She made a self-deprecating shrug. “I only make what I like myself. Now let me show you what I’m thinking about. And please, be absolutely honest with me. I need to know if this will work, so don’t feel you have to be polite.”

“I will tell you exactly what I think,” I said. This is something Clive and others have told me I do rather too often, but it made me smile to hear her say it. If anything, I have found Thai people to be way too polite.

We spent a very pleasant hour or so talking about business in general and discussing her plans. She had designed a china pattern similar but not identical to the Chaiwong pattern I’d seen the night before, a flatware pattern to go with it, and an interesting line of bamboo and rattan furniture. She also had, she told me, a warehouse full of both antiques and reproductions, a few of which she had brought in to show me. There were some lovely sterling silver pieces, including some reproductions of the betel nut containers she’d given me, some puppet heads on stands that were quite striking, lovely silk cushions, some made from old textiles, and a line of terra-cotta products, including the kinaree lamp bases that were in my room, and some attractive Buddha statues. Everything was high quality and chosen or designed with impeccable taste.

In the end we agreed that she would send me details on prices and so on when she was ready to go, and in the meantime that I would make inquiries on her behalf. I told her I’d be interested in carrying the flatware and china, although in relatively small quantities, and would try to find her a suitable importer. I thought I might even consider doing it myself, starting my own little business on the side, but didn’t say as much.

“You have been most kind and helpful,” she said, smiling at me. “I knew I had found a kindred spirit the moment I met you.”

“I’ve enjoyed this immensely,” I said, and much to my own surprise, I had. Not once during that hour or so did so much as the most oblique allusion to the previous night’s activities cross her lips or mine.

“Here, please,” she said. “A gift.” She handed me a lovely terra-cotta Buddha about twelve inches high. “To take to your home.”

“You mustn’t,” I said. “I’m only too happy to help.” She looked hurt. “You don’t need to give me anything. You have already showered me with gifts, and I am glad to be able to help you.”

“Please,” she said again. “I would like you to have this.” It seemed churlish to refuse further. It occurred to me that it looked familiar, similar if not identical to the Buddha images on the postcard Will Beauchamp had sent months ago asking for our business.

“Do you mind if I ask your help with something?” I said.

“Of course not,” she said.

“I’m a friend of Will Beauchamp’s wife,” I said. “He was the antique dealer mentioned briefly at dinner last night.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know him. Not well, but we met several times, and he visited our home.” There was something in her tone, the same note I’d heard last night on the same subject, a hint of disapproval, perhaps. I wasn’t sure what nerve I was touching, but I felt I had to continue asking questions.

“Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“I assume he’s in Bangkok. He had a shop there. I haven’t seen him in several months, however.”

“His shop is closed,” I said, watching her carefully.

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

“Actually Ayutthaya Trading seized the contents for nonpayment of rent and is going to auction off everything.”

“I didn’t know that either,” she said. “I have no real dealings with Ayutthaya Trading. I am sorry about your friend, though.”

“I’m wondering if he left a forwarding address, or any hint at all where he might now be,” I said. “Would it be possible for someone to have a look? His wife is desperate to know where he is, and I told her I would look. There would be a file on him at Ayutthaya Trading somewhere, wouldn’t there?”

“I expect so,” she said. “I’ll ask my husband.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“It would be my pleasure to help you in return for your kindness,” she said. “It is interesting to hear what you say about William. Perhaps this explains something. You have been honest with me, and I should return the favor. He was here, in my studio, on more than one occasion. I showed him what I have shown you, and he, too, offered to help me, just as you have. He said he had all kinds of contacts in Canada and the U.S. he’d get in touch with. But I never heard from him. I was a little disappointed. He seemed very nice, but then nothing. I suppose when you mentioned him last night and then again today, I was still influenced by what I saw as rudeness. I know you won’t be like that.”

“I’ll certainly try not,” I said.

“I know you won’t, and I am telling you this only because I want to explain my rather dim view of him. Perhaps I was wrong.”

“He has disappointed a lot of people. I’m sorry to hear you are one of them,” I said.

“Maipen rai,” she said, as we parted company. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not blood,” Ferguson whispered, sliding into the seat beside me. “I assume that’s good news.”

“I guess it is. So what is it?” I whispered back. As we spoke, an auctioneer was trying to whip up enthusiasm for a particularly uninspired painting of the Thai countryside.

“Good question. They didn’t say. I expect once they’d determined it wasn’t blood, everybody pretty much lost interest. Any chance we could talk outside? I’m afraid I’ll wave my arms around in here and be the proud purchaser of an extraordinarily expensive treasure. Or is there something coming up soon you want to bid on?”

“There’s something I’m interested in, but it’s not coming up for awhile. How about a coffee?”

* * *

“You know,” Ferguson said as we looked around. “I’ve lived in Bangkok for three years, and I’ve never been here. This is really something.”

It is. The River City Shopping Complex is four floors, atrium-style, around a central indoor courtyard, right on the edge of the Chao Phyra. It is filled with very fancy shops, many of them antique dealers. The third and fourth floors house some of the most gorgeous Asian antiques and antiquities I have ever seen. Just being there made my pulse race. I knew I could do serious damage at the auction if I put my mind to it. I was trying not to.

The auction was to take place in what is referred to as the exhibition center, a glassed-in space on the top floor. From where we were standing with our coffees, leaning against the railing overlooking the atrium below, the auction was well in view through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, so I could keep one eye on the proceedings.

“So where does this latest information get us?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I had several scenarios in mind when I got here. My personal favorite is the one in which I find Will the day I arrive, he tells me he really wants to go home but has been afraid to call his wife, then Natalie welcomes him with open arms.”

“I can see you’re a romantic at heart, but presumably that one has to go. Was there a scenario B?”

“I think B is the one that Natalie was working herself up to, which is that I get enough information to have Will declared legally dead so she can collect the insurance. If that had been blood, I would have had a start on that one. Then there’s C, of course, which may be the option I’m left with.”

“Which is?”

“That’s the one where I track him down and give Natalie and her lawyers enough information to nail his ass.”

“I see. I must remember to try to stay on your good side. I have some additional information that may or may not help clarify your thinking,” he said. “Will had, still has, in fact, 500,635 baht in his account with the Krung Thai Bank.”

“Isn’t that more than he owed Ayutthaya Trading?”

“It is.”

“And could you check the activity on the account?”

“I could, and did. Regular deposits and withdrawals, usually on a Thursday. Nothing spectacular, but reasonably regular was our Will. Last deposit and withdrawal July third, except for his rent checks for the apartment that cleared on the first of every month. Presumably he had left a year’s worth with the building manager or owner.”

“I’ve been thinking about the amount owing his landlord at the store. Now that I’ve seen the place, I’m wondering about it. I don’t know rents in Bangkok, but on the assumption that he owed rent for three months before Ayutthaya moved in on him, that lease is fairly steep.”

“I thought so, too. I checked into that as well. I talked to Ayutthaya’s lawyers. Apparently Will borrowed a reasonably substantial sum from Ayutthaya to get started—to acquire merchandise for the store. The monthly sum was rent plus loan repayment, which was based on a percentage of sales, and to my eyes at least, once again there was nothing particularly unusual about it.”

“I suppose he could have oodles of money somewhere and was able to leave that much in his account as a clever ruse, to make it look as if something bad happened to him, I mean. That seems to be a little farfetched, though. He left Toronto with whatever he had in his suitcase. His wife had the store and the house.”

“But she still couldn’t manage?”

“I think there’s a pretty sizable mortgage on the house, and she couldn’t run the shop. The daughter has some problems that require twenty-four hour care. Did he strike you as well off?”

“Not particularly. Certainly by Bangkok standards he lived reasonably well, on the river and everything. But the building is no luxury condo. He had nice furniture, but not a lot of it, as you saw. There was the art, of course. You’d have a better idea what he had to pay for that. There are still bargains here if you know where to look, and he should have been an expert.”

“You said you got together for drinks from time to time. What did you talk about?”

“Not much really. I’ve been thinking about him since you arrived in my office. We met from time to time, I got invited to his place a couple of times—the most recent was that Fourth of July party—but we didn’t talk about anything important. I didn’t even know he was married. He was certainly chatting up the young, unattached women at his own party. We talked sports, weather, guy stuff and not particularly revealing. I had the impression he partied pretty hard, but it was an impression only. I didn’t run into him that often at social events. I saw him a couple of times at the Royal Bangkok Sports Club. I don’t know if he was a guest or a member.

“The only thing even remotely out of the ordinary was that he claimed to be writing a book. Not that that in and of itself is all that extraordinary. There are lots of us Westerners planning or trying to write about their experiences in exotic Thailand. He must have been more serious than most about it, though, because he had an agent. Met the guy at the party. Rawlings, something like that. Unusual first name, but I can’t remember it. It will come back to me. Anyway, one of those nights in the bars of Bangkok, Will told me that he was almost finished with it. He wouldn’t tell me what it’s about, but said it would blow the lid off Bangkok society, or words to that effect. Corruption in high places or something, I suppose. He was convinced he’d be able to retire on the proceeds. Not much to go on, is it?”

“No. He seems to have been a model citizen in many ways, or at least a typical bachelor even if he wasn’t one. He goes to work every day, pays the rent, has a reasonably nice apartment, which is paid for until the end of the year, he meets friends for drinks, he holds a party every now and then, goes to a number of others, chats up young women, and in his spare time, like millions of would-be authors, he attempts to write a book. One day he just stops. He lets his landlord take over the store and leaves all his possessions behind. Anything else you can tell me?”

“No. Well yes, one thing. We check airline records, of course, to see if he has left the country. It will take a few days to check that out. However, so far we have discovered he made regular trips to Chiang Mai in northern Thailand last spring. That wouldn’t be unusual, by the way. Lots of dealers go to Chiang Mai to find antiques.”

“Not much to go on, is there?” I said.

“Unfortunately not,” he said.

“Surely in this day and age you can’t just disappear,” I said. “Without someone noticing.”

“Apparently you can.”

“I don’t think so. No matter what the scenario, someone knows where he is,” I said.

We stood in silence for a minute or two, digesting that thought. “We seem to be at a dead end here, don’t we?” Ferguson said. “We’ll keep checking, of course, and if you come up with anything, let me know. The police are no longer terribly interested, with no clear evidence of a crime. I’m not sure what more we can do.”

“I can’t think of much, either,” I admitted.

“Let’s stay in touch,” Ferguson said. “I’ll let you know what I hear, if anything, and you do the same. Did you say you were planning to buy something here, by the way?” he said, indicating the auction.

“Maybe,” I said. “I did go to the preview yesterday, and there’s a very interesting sword there—sixteenth century, they say, and I believe them—with a carved bone handle and a silver repousse scabbard. I went to an Internet cafe and scanned the photo and description from the catalog and sent it to a fellow I know who has a fantastic military collection to see if he’d like me to get it for him. I’ve already inquired about an export permit, and I think it shouldn’t be a problem, so if the price is right, I’ll try to get it for him. And I may see if there is something I could get for Natalie. I’m not sure what would be appropriate, particularly under the circumstances, but perhaps something from his shop. Some Bencharong dishes, maybe, would be nice. Just in case I’m wrong and he’s dead, that is.”

“I’m surprised how boring this auction thing is,” he said. “I expected vicious battles, screams of disappointment from the loser, tasteless hoots of satisfaction from the victor. People don’t even call out their bids, just kind of signal some way. All terribly civilized, unfortunately. Half the time I can’t tell who got the thing.”

“This one has been rather sedate so far,” I conceded. “It can get pretty exciting, though, even if you’re not bidding but other people are fighting it out for something. We’ll have to see how it goes. Do you see those two portraits on easels over against the far wall, the two rather pompous looking men?”

“Yes,” he said.

“They came from Will’s store.”

“Did they?”

“Anything strike you about them?”

“Not really.”

“They don’t remind you of anything?”

“Should they?”

“They’re by an artist by the name of Robert Fitzgerald. The Chaiwong family has two portraits by the same man. I was wondering if you thought Fitzgerald might have done the portrait that’s missing from Will’s apartment.”

“Could be, I suppose,” he said. “Can’t say I’m an expert on art, though. They’re about the same size. That’s as far as I could go. So, are you enjoying this?” he asked, changing the subject. “The auction?”

“Actually it was making me slightly nauseous, all those antiquities being sold to private buyers,” I said. “I’d be willing to bet at least one of the heads in an earlier lot came off a temple at Angkor Wat.”

“In Cambodia, you mean? Museums could buy them, couldn’t they?”

“They can’t afford to, and even if they could, most won’t touch stolen antiquities. It’s one of the little paradoxes of this business. Stolen artifacts come on the market, the museums won’t buy them, and they fall into private hands never to be seen again. How’s that for a little speech?” I added.

“Impassioned to be sure,” he said. “If you like, I could give you mine. It’s about Americans who travel abroad having to respect the customs of the country they’re in, which in Thailand means no shorts, sleeveless tops, and sandals in the temples, nor public displays of affection, among other things. I think I’ll stop there.”

“I think that’s fair, one speech for another. You said you’d only been here three years. Have you been posted a lot of other places?”

“I’ve been in Asia for almost twenty years,” he said. “I was born here, in fact, in Thailand. My mother died when I was very young, and my aunt raised me in the States. It was interesting to come here again. I do have some memories of the place, and the Thai language came back pretty quickly. I’m due to retire in a couple of years, and I’m thinking I may just stay here. I feel very much at home, if that’s possible for a white guy like me. Is it time you were going back in?”

“Probably. I don’t suppose you would happen to know that young woman, the Caucasian woman in the red suit in the back row?”

“She looks familiar, but I’d have to say no, I don’t. I wouldn’t mind if I did, though. Nice-looking woman. I’d never thought of an auction as a place to meet women, but maybe I’ve been missing something good. Why do you ask?”

“She was here yesterday, too.”

“Surely that’s what previews are for,” Ferguson said. “To give people a chance to check out the merchandise before it goes on the auction block.”

“I’m just checking out potential competition. I’d say she’s new to auctions. She’s very focused on the sword, almost exclusively so. Yesterday she was looking it over very carefully, ignoring everything else. She was completely engrossed in it. She even reached out to touch it. The security guard stopped her. A veteran wouldn’t spend that much time looking at what they really wanted, or if they did spend that kind of time on an object, it would be because they actually wanted something else. You wouldn’t want to give the competition, in this case me, any ideas. That sword is going to be very expensive, but my client can afford it. I’m just wondering whether she can afford it, too. Whoever she is, she hasn’t bid on anything so far. It will be interesting to see what she does when the sword comes up.”

“Maybe auctions are like flying a 747 to Europe,” he said. “You know, several hours of boredom followed by a few minutes of excitement as you try to land the thing, in this case outbid someone for something you want. I can’t wait to see you battle it out for the sword—in a refined way, of course. Should we go in?”

It did get rather exciting, for a few minutes at least. The young woman did, indeed, want the sword, and at first she and I were in it with three others. Then there were just the two of us. At several hundred dollars, I relaxed. I could tell by the way she kept shuffling in her seat and looking over her shoulder in my general direction, that she wasn’t going to be able to keep up forever. Soon her shoulders slumped, and the sword was mine. She left a few minutes later.

“Congratulations,” enthused Ferguson. “That was rather more fun once I had a personal interest in it. I’d better get back to the office, though. Are you staying?”

“Yes,” I said. “There are a couple of other things I might be interested in. I’ll see how it goes.”

It was another hour, at least, before I was ready to leave. I paid for the sword and a couple of other purchases and had them wrapped up. I thought I’d send them off to a shipper if I found a lot more for the store, but would just pack them in my luggage if I didn’t.

I’d kept the Chaiwong family’s car and driver with me that day, so that I wouldn’t be standing out in ninety-five -degree weather trying to hail a cab. The driver had told me he would wait for me in the parking garage attached to the shopping complex, so I went through the doors between the well-lit shopping area into the dimly lit garage.

I couldn’t see the driver, so I started to walk along the aisle thinking he might be napping in his car, or had parked on a lower level. As I walked, I heard footsteps coming up fast behind me, and I clutched my purse tightly as someone grabbed my arm. I opened my mouth to yell for help, but then I heard a woman’s voice.

“Sorry, sorry to startle you,” she said. It was the young woman in the red suit. I glowered at her.

“We have to talk,” she said.

“No, we don’t,” I said. She had scared me, and I wasn’t feeling too kindly disposed.

“My card,” she said, undeterred. Tatiana Tucker, Producer, it said. There was no address, except for E-mail and a cell phone number.

“Producer of what?” I said.

“Films, of course,” she replied, looking offended. “Film, video, TV movie of the week.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, what can I do for you? If you’re thinking I’ll sell you the sword cheap, I won’t. I’m sorry there weren’t two of them so we could both have one, but that’s life.”

“I’m sure we could work something out,” she said. “Perhaps we could borrow it from you, or, if you insist, rent it.”

“For what?”

“A film!” she said, as if I was stupid. I just turned and walked away from her.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, catching up to me. I caught sight of my driver and signaled to him. He nodded and went bounding off to get the car. “I’m not doing this right, am I?” she said. I could see on closer examination that she was younger than I had at first thought, barely older than Jennifer, probably, despite her confident air and tons of makeup. And Jennifer, too, at university in California, had been bitten by the movie bug and was talking about a career of some kind there. Rob had been horrified, of course.

“You’re talking to the wrong person, I’m afraid,” I said, softening at the thought of Jen. “I’m just a dealer, and I’ve purchased this for a client. If you’d like me to ask him if he’d be interested in lending or renting it, then send me the details.” I handed her my card.

She stared at it for a moment. “I guess that’s it then. I’ll have to come up with something else. This is not my day.”

“Could I give you a lift somewhere?” I asked her as my car pulled up. “It’s air-conditioned,” I added. She was looking rather hot in that red suit.

“I was just going back to work,” she said. “I could probably walk.”

We both looked down at her red suede high heels. “I’d take me up on my offer if I were you,” I said.

“So much for power dressing,” she said, smiling for the first time. “I accept.” She gave directions to my driver in what I took to be passable Thai, because he nodded and pulled away.

“I work for a travel agency,” she said. “It’s not too far, although in this traffic, it will take awhile.”

“I thought you were in films,” I said.

“So far, that’s really just a dream,” she said. “I’m sure that the project I’m working on will change all that.”

“Have you been in Thailand long?”

“A couple of years. I came out here to work on a film, actually. That’s what I did in the States. I fell in love with Thailand, everything about it, even the heat. So when the time came to go back, I quit and got the job with the travel agency. I manage two of their offices. It’s not the best job ever, but it’s not bad, and it allows me to stay here awhile longer.”

“So what is this film about?” I asked. “The one you need the sword for.”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said. “It’s all very hush-hush.”

“I see,” I said. “It will be difficult for me to convince my client to lend you this if I can’t tell him what it’s about. I’m sorry to have to say that a card with Tatiana Tucker, Producer, on it is not very reassuring in terms of lending an exceptionally valuable antique.”

“You really would talk to him?”

“Sure. I have no idea what he’d think of the idea, but yes, of course I would as him. So is this a historical drama of some sort? Sixteenth-century Siam or something like that?”

“Sixteenth century!” she exclaimed. “Who cares what happened that long ago?”

“I do,” I said. “Perhaps I delude myself, but I can’t help feeling there are others like me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve offended you again.” She looked about as if she thought someone might be hiding in the trunk with a listening device, or that the driver might be a spy. “Helen Ford,” she whispered.

“What?” I said.

“Helen Ford,” she repeated. “You probably never heard of her, but you will.”

“Isn’t she the one who… ?” I paused, searching through my memory to the newspaper clippings Will had sent Natalie.

“Chopped her husband into little bits? That’s her. Don’t you think it’s a fabulous idea? I’ve pitched it to a major studio, and they’re interested, but they need more before they make a final decision. Docudramas are huge right now. I’m thinking I might even be able to find her.”

“But she’s dead,” I said. “She was executed March 1, 1952.”

“No, she wasn’t. There was an appeal, and the sentence was commuted. She was supposed to serve life in prison, but I think she was only there a couple of years, maybe three, and then she just disappeared. I think this is really interesting, don’t you? I mean normally when a farang is charged with something and found guilty, they are simply deported to their home country to deal with, particularly when the crime is against another farang, if you see what I mean. But the whole expat community was up in arms about this crime, and it really was horrendous. So how did she get off, and where did she go?”

“Back to the States?” I said.

“Maybe, but there is no record of her doing that.”

“That was fifty years ago. She could be long gone.”

“Yes, but if she’s alive, she’s only seventy-eight. That’s not impossible.”

“So what gave you this idea?” I said. “I went to an Independence Day party,” she said. “At the apartment of an antique dealer, just like you. He told me all about her, or at least I managed to extract the information out of him after a few drinks and a lot of eyelash batting. He was writing a book. He gave me a copy of the first chapter. He had an agent and everything, Rowland, some name like that. The agent was at the party, but I didn’t like him. Will said that what was really interesting was not the murder but the fact that she’d been able to just disappear. He said somebody must know where she went, even if they hadn’t talked in fifty years, and he had a pretty good idea who might know, even if she wasn’t saying. I told him it would make a fabulous documentary, and he agreed. I sent an E-mail proposal off to a couple of studios right away, and got a semipositive reply. I was hoping Will—that’s his name—would be a consultant and help me out a bit, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with him since. I don’t want you to think I was just stealing his idea, or anything.”

“Will Beauchamp,” I said. “You know him? No kidding!”

“I know him. He’s gone missing, I’m afraid.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “What do you mean by missing?”

“No one seems to have seen him since the July fourth party.”

“No kidding? I’m really not having much luck here, am I? He had a portrait of her, Ford, I mean. It was really eerie, kind of scary even. It was going to be a real feature of the film. I was going to get someone to scan the image and then computer age her, to see what she might look like now. I don’t suppose you know where that picture might be.”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“I remembered the artist’s name: Robert Fitzgerald. Will told me that he was the painter of choice in those days when the rich and famous wanted their portrait done. I phoned Fitzgerald, asked if he happened to have another, or a photograph of it, but he didn’t. I was hoping it would be part of the auction, but no such luck.”

“The artist is still alive after all this time?”

“Sure, although now that you mention it, he didn’t sound all that old. He knew which portrait I was talking about. I told him I’d seen it at Will Beauchamp’s place, and he didn’t argue with me or anything. But he said it was an original and there were no photos and no copies. I didn’t tell him who I thought it was, though.”

“So you haven’t seen Beauchamp since July fourth either?” I asked.

“No. I’ve tried. We exchanged phone numbers. He gave me two, one for his store and one for his home, but I haven’t been able to reach him at either. I thought he was kind of interested in me, if you get what I’m saying. As a potential lady friend, I mean. I was surprised not to hear from him. I wasn’t really interested in him that way, though, although I’ll admit I flirted a bit. He was kind of old. Oops, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”

“I’m sure he was too old for you. He was also married, with a child.”

“Eew,” she said. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“He was trying to forget it,” I said. “Is this it?” I said, pointing to the street as the car pulled over and the driver turned to look at us. “Give me your work number, too. We’ll talk again soon. You might like to join my sort of stepdaughter and her boyfriend and me for dinner one evening.”

“Wow,” she said. “That would be great. Thanks. I really hope I’ll hear from you.”

“You will,” I said. “Is there any chance you might let me read the first chapter of Will’s book? I would like to find him, and maybe that would help. I realize this is grasping at straws.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “He gave it to me in confidence. Let me think about that, okay? You aren’t with a rival studio or anything, are you?”

“No, I promise, and I also promise to try and get you the sword once you’re ready to film. By the way, why would you need a sixteenth-century sword in a film about Helen Ford?”

She looked at me as if I was really dim-witted. “Will was almost certain he had the sword that she used to chop up her husband,” she said. “I’m assuming this is the one.”

“Sorry to bother you, David. I know we just parted company a few hours ago, but I really have to show you something,” I said. “Can I meet you somewhere just for a few minutes before I head back to Ayutthaya?”

“Is it in connection with the Beauchamp business?”

“It is.”

“Then, sure,” Ferguson said. “Why don’t we start the cocktail hour a little early?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Have you ordered yet?” he said a few minutes later.

“No. I just got here.” Here was the lobby lounge of Bangkok’s Regent Hotel, a most cool and beautiful spot filled with flowers and graced with a wonderful mural depicting scenes from the life of Prince Rama and ceilings hand painted in gold and cream, green, blue, and coral. A young woman in a phasin hovered nearby.

“For the lady?” Ferguson said, looking at me.

“A glass of Chardonnay,” I said.

“And a single malt scotch on the rocks,” he said. The woman brought her hands, palms together, up to her nose and bowed her head in a wet before backing away to get our order.

“This is nice,” I said. Upstairs on the mezzanine overlooking the lobby, a quartet was playing lovely afternoon tea—type music. The noise and heat of Bangkok could be neither heard nor felt, and Natalie Beauchamp’s problems seemed very far away. I could have stayed there forever.

“Thought you’d like it. Now, what have you got?”

“You know that portrait you talked about in Will’s apartment, the one with eyes that followed you?”

“Sure,” he said.

“I don’t suppose the woman in the portrait would bear any resemblance to this one,” I said, pulling a newspaper clipping out of my bag and pointing to a photo.

“No question in my mind. They are one and the same. I’m as certain as I can be without having the portrait in front of me,” he said. “Who is she, and how would you come to have this?”

“It’s a portrait of someone by the name of Helen Ford. She was an American, convicted here in the early fifties for hacking her husband to pieces and possibly killing her child.”

“You’re kidding! Will Beauchamp had a painting of an axe murderer in his bedroom?” he exclaimed.

“I’m not, and he did, if this is the same person.”

“Whew,” he whistled. “I thought it was bad enough the way she stared at you. Funny, isn’t it? I found that portrait disturbing, but I didn’t know why. Now that I know who she is, I’m wondering if you can sense these things, just looking at a picture. I’d like to think Will didn’t know about her grim past.”

“Actually, he did. He sent the clippings from the Bangkok Herald of that time to his wife as part of the package of junk I told you about. That’s why I have them. I spoke to the young woman who was my competition for the sword, and—”

“You didn’t happen to get her name, did you?” he said.

“Tatiana Tucker, film producer,” I said. “She was at the Fourth of July party at Will’s place.”

“Right. That’s why she looked familiar,” he said. “If I remember correctly, Will was all over her. Did you get her phone number?”

“I did, and I’ll ask her if she’s interested in meeting you. She would confirm that Will was interested in her, yes. She managed to extract from him the information that he was writing a book about Helen Ford and that he had a portrait of her. I really just needed your unbiased confirmation.”

“I can confirm it, but I wish I couldn’t. An axe murderer! Over his bed! He looked like a perfectly normal guy,” Ferguson said. “I think I need another scotch,” he added, signaling for the waiter.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds,” I said. “Will may simply have picked the portrait up at a sale somewhere, because he was captivated by it as a work of art, and then started researching to find out who she was. That kind of research would hardly be unusual, or even particularly difficult, for someone in his business.”

“If you say so,” he said. “You couldn’t just give me that phone number? I’m a nice guy.”

“I know you are. I’ll talk to her. I have to warn you, though, that she thought Will Beauchamp was an old geezer.”

“Oh. Scratch that one, then. Forget I mentioned it. What has this Helen Ford business got to do with Beauchamp’s disappearance, do you think?”

“No idea. It’s all I’ve got, though.”

“Be careful,” he said.