The Tale of the Lazy Dog

by Alan Williams

  Ryderbeit drank half his beer in one long swallow. ‘Background? Ralph Jones, learnt his navigating in Flying Fortresses and his manners in Virginia — the hard way. I think he once washed dishes in a bar in Richmond. He used to box too — middleweight champion for his unit in Germany. When he left the Air Force he did a whole list of jobs. His last one was disc jockey for some radio station in Miami.’

  ‘What brought him out here?’

  ‘Prejudice. Boredom. And money. A couple o’ hundred a week with tax doesn’t go too far in Florida — even when the most expensive places are barred to you. Anyway, No-Entry’s a pro — he didn’t want to waste his talents sittin’ around in a sound-proof studio playin’ late-night M.C. to a lot o’ teenagers jerkin’ themselves off in the back o’ their daddies’ cars. I mean, Jones has a certain professional pride. You follow me?’

  ‘Partly. What I don’t follow is how Jones puts up with you. Does he have any racial pride as well?’

  ‘He has a certain sense of humour, soldier. He thinks I’m amusing. He once told me that a white African Jew and a Welsh-American Negro adds up to quits. We’ve never discussed the matter since.’

  ‘Does he have a criminal record?’

  Ryderbeit’s head snapped round, his eyes bright even in the dimness of the bar. ‘What d’yer mean?’

  ‘Just what I said. Does Jones have a criminal record? Something extra that encouraged him to get out of the States, and can be traced back?’

  Ryderbeit sat hunched across the bar, picking his teeth. ‘He once killed a man. In Karlsruhe in forty-five. He was with a flaxen-haired Gretchen in an off-limits beerhall, and a gang o’ Krauts jumped him. Four of ’em had the sense to run, but the fifth tried to represent the master-race single-handed. No-Entry hit him somewhere rather sensitive just behind the ear and dropped him dead.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Not much. In those days you could do pretty well what you liked to Krauts and get away with it. He was court-martialled on a manslaughter charge and got off with a severe reprimand. But they also shipped him back to the States where the odds weren’t quite so loaded in his favour.’

  ‘That the lot?’

  ‘Otherwise clean.’

  ‘As far as you know?’

  ‘I’d know. Jones and I don’t have secrets.’

  ‘And what about you, Sammy? How’s your record — apart from the aircraft-carrier?’

  ‘Lousy. Bigamy in South America, but they’d have a problem tryin’ to prove it. And the Congo doesn’t count.’

  ‘What about here — Thailand and Vietnam?’

  ‘Clean as a nun’s knickers.’

  ‘Anything on the FBI or CIA files — apart from Conquest?’

  He shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t have hired me if there had been. But why all the interest?’

  ‘I should have thought that would be obvious enough. If we bring off this heist, and manage to hide that plane, there’s going to be the biggest world-wide manhunt since the Creation. And the first people they’re going to check on are the boys with records. A first-class pilot who’s just had the sack from Air U.S.A. would be a pretty high priority.’

  Ryderbeit laughed: ‘But by then it would be too late, soldier. All I need to do is get on that Tân Sơn Nhất airfield, Saigon. After that I just vanish. I’ve done it before, I can do it again. Samuel David Ryderbeit, the Vanishing Jew.’

  Murray nodded: ‘And how long is this job going to last now?’

  Ryderbeit looked at his watch, then threw some money across at the girl. ‘We’re on a six-month contract. I’m still part of the outfit, even if they stop me flying. So as long as the next flush-out comes within the next six months, I can still walk on to that airfield any time I like.’ He slapped Murray on the back. ‘Cheer up, soldier! I may be your weak link, but you’re not goin’ to find anybody better. See you at the “White Rose” at eight.’

  ‘You think you’re invited?’

  ‘It’s not a London club, y’know — you don’t have to be a member to get in. See you, Murray boy!’ — and he strolled out into the sunlight.

  CHAPTER 4

  There was nothing pretentious about the ‘White Rose’. A two-storey wood-frame house with a bamboo frontage and a strong smell of drains. Murray pushed past the cyclo drivers, through a bead curtain into a square dark room with tables round the walls, divided by low wooden partitions. The only light came from a couple of blue bulbs which had the effect of illuminating only those objects that were white — teeth, tiny triangular pants, the tops of white socks which are the hallmark of U.S. civvies in South-East Asia.

  There appeared to be a large number of girls in the room, most of them in varying degrees of undress. A jukebox was playing an unintelligible song and the smell of drains was replaced by sour cigars and insecticide. The main action was taking place in the centre of the room, where a huge American, wearing only his trousers and vest, had measured his length on the floor and lay groaning under a crowd of giggling girls who struggled helplessly to haul him to his feet.

  Small hands were already grabbing at Murray’s arms and thighs, and little voices called up through the dark, ‘You number-one boy, you wanna massage?’ It was some minutes past eight and he was peering about for Ryderbeit and Finlayson, when another voice, close beside him, cried: ‘Murray Wilde — well I never!’

  He swung round. The little man was leaning against the end of one of the partitions, his hands thrust down the pants of two girls who were otherwise naked. His pebble-glasses stared up at Murray under the blue light like dull metal knobs. ‘Surprised to see you alive,’ he said, swaying forward and steadying himself against the pair of little buttocks on either side. ‘Heard you made a forced landing up north yesterday? Phongsaly, wasn’t it? Must have been tricky.’

  Murray nodded. ‘How are you, Hamish? Come here often?’

  Napper chuckled, his lips loose and wet: ‘Twice a week. Can’t get too slow at my age. How ’bout you? Mixing work with pleasure, eh?’

  Murray frowned. He found Napper’s presence faintly disquieting. He began glancing round again for Ryderbeit and Finlayson; and this time, beyond the scrum of girls who had now got the American into an upright position, he saw Ryderbeit at a table in the far corner sitting with a shadowy figure he could not recognise.

  ‘Looking for somebody?’ said Napper: ‘Friend or foe?’

  ‘Nobody. Be seeing you, Hamish.’

  ‘Go careful!’ the little man cried, still gripping the girls’ bottoms and grinning beatifically now: ‘No more crash-landings. Might hurt yourself next time.’ Murray began to cross the floor, knowing that Napper was watching him: round the American who seemed to have had a relapse, his cropped head sunk between his knees, bawling dismally, ‘I weigh two hundred and fifty pounds without a hard-on!’

  Ryderbeit was lying back along the partition bench, wearing a cream slub-silk jacket over his black shirt. His companion was one of the house-girls sitting astride his knee, wearing nothing.

  ‘Hello there, soldier! Filling-Station with you?’

  ‘No. He’s not here?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Ryderbeit, patting the little brown belly on his lap. ‘Sit down and order yourself a girl.’ But one had already perched herself against Murray’s hip and began listlessly fluttering her fingers between his legs. He brushed her away, saying: ‘You know Hamish Napper? — works with the British Embassy?’

  Ryderbeit nodded. ‘Old fellah who smokes.’

  ‘He’s over by the door. And he knows about our crash yesterday.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘He’s with the Political Section, that’s what. Intelligence — D.I.5. I thought Air U.S.A. weren’t too keen to publicise their failures?’

  Ryderbeit shrugged: ‘Damn right they’re not. But in a place like this’ — he began patting his girl’s rump as she wriggled further up his thighs — ‘you don’t keep any secret for long out here.’

  ‘There’d better be one that is kept,’ M
urray muttered, watching Ryderbeit’s girl writhing with routine enthusiasm. Her companion took the cue and nimbly unzipped Murray’s trousers. He zipped them up again and Ryderbeit laughed: ‘Shy, soldier?’

  ‘I thought this was going to be a business meeting with Finlayson?’

  ‘Business with pleasure,’ Ryderbeit said, pinching the pair of nipples in front of him. ‘By the way, I had an interesting afternoon. Took a little trip up to that dam o’ yours. Pretty spooky place.’

  Murray glanced at the two girls. ‘Can they understand what we’re saying?’

  ‘Sure, they both got Ph.D.’s in English Lit. Haven’t you, darling!’ he cried, giving his girl a sharp smack on the buttocks that made her squeal. ‘You’re being over-sensitive, Murray boy. Relax.’

  Murray looked round the room again. Still no sign of Finlayson, although it was now nearly half-past eight. ‘So what do you think of the dam? Could you make a landing on it?’

  ‘For one billion greenbacks I could! Though I don’t say it’s goin’ to be a nice easy pitch. Especially in the dark, with no radar. The length’s about all right — always providin’ she’s a Caribou. But the width’s nasty. It’s not the curve I mind — that could even be a help, if I bring her down on a left torque, featherin’ the port engine just before touch-down, which means correctin’ a slight drift to the left. But even with a Caribou, I’m not goin’ to have more than a couple o’ feet to spare on each side. We’ll have to have strong flares — Finlayson can arrange that — and somehow we’ve got to fix that bum overseer, Donovan. He’s a nosey bastard, said I was the second person coinin’ up for a snoop round in three days.’

  ‘A few thousand dollars should square him.’

  ‘It’s not the money that’s the problem — it’s havin’ an extra person in on the know. Personally, I’d be in favour of disposing of Mister Donovan as quietly as possible.’

  Murray peered at him through the half-light. How did you rate a man’s life against a billion dollars? Even a dull broken life like Tom Donovan’s? The second girl was crooning in his ear: ‘You wanna whisky, Johnny?’

  ‘Beer,’ said Murray. Across the room the drunk American was being dragged by two compatriots towards the door where Hamish Napper still stood propped immobile between his two half-naked acolytes. ‘Our friend Finlayson’s taking his time,’ he murmured.

  ‘Not like him at all,’ said Ryderbeit. ‘He’s reputed to be the last punctual man left in Laos.’

  Murray’s girl came back with his beer, looking plump and bad-tempered. ‘Five hundred kip,’ she said, without sitting down. He paid her, looking hard at Ryderbeit.

  ‘If we’re going to start talking about murdering people, you can count me out, Sammy.’

  ‘Now, now, soldier, nobody said anythin’ about murder. Nothin’ specific, that is. Just a gentle hint. Because for a share of one billion you can’t expect it’s goin’ to be all kid gloves and satin slippers, can yer?’ He stood up suddenly, toppling the girl off his thighs like a doll. ‘If Filling-Station’s goin’ to keep us waiting, I’m goin’ to enjoy myself.’ He started to walk round the table, leading the girl who reached no higher than his waist, then paused, leering back round the partition. ‘What about you? Blown yer head o’ steam with that lovely French round-eye, I s’pose — you lucky bastard!’

  Murray watched them disappear together through a curtain at the back of the room. His own girl began murmuring about the price of a massage, but when he shook his head a third time, she walked away. He made his beer last ten minutes. When it was finished there was still no sign of Finlayson. He got up and crossed to the door. Hamish Napper had disappeared — whether outside or through the back, Murray had not seen. There was no telling how long Ryderbeit took to be pleasured; and the atmosphere in the room was stifling, making his eyes smart. He wanted fresh air, and time to think. It had been naive, he realised, to have assumed that Ryderbeit’s talents could be purchased merely with the promise of money. The man’s experience had probably convinced him that a plan on this scale was not complete — or at least not adequately insured — without the odd necessary killing.

  He began to walk down towards the river, shaking off the egregious cyclo-pousses, thinking now of Jacqueline Conquest. She had left him with a Saigon telephone number on the U.S. military exchange Tiger. As for her last week in Laos, she had told him only that she might contact him at the hotel. It had all sounded uncompromisingly vague. Perhaps she too was taking refuge in the fear of complications, the memory of a spontaneous, carnal, fruitless liaison.

  He reached the corner of the street where there was a little French cafe with a couple of iron tables set out on the dirt pavement. There was only one person inside, besides the Laotian waiter. Hamish Napper. He stood with his back to the street, talking into a wall-telephone behind the bar; but at the moment Murray passed he turned and saw him. He spoke hurriedly into the phone and hung up, giving Murray his floppy wave. Murray went in.

  ‘Hello again!’ Napper cried. ‘So your chap didn’t turn up?’

  ‘What chap?’

  Napper beamed up at him: ‘Thought you were waiting for someone just now?’

  ‘I told you I wasn’t,’ Murray said, trying to sound offhand. He smiled, nodding carelessly at the phone: ‘And what are you up to? Running out of the cat-house to tell tales?’

  ‘Now steady on, old boy.’ Napper stood wagging his bald pate: ‘I’m not that bad, y’know. As a matter of fact, I was just ringing the First Secretary to say I’d be a few minutes late for his dinner party tonight. You’re not going? Oh of course not — he wouldn’t have known you were going to be here, would he? Well, sorry we haven’t time for a drink.’ He started towards the door, then turned, with a suddenly sober, set expression. ‘Just one thing, Mr Wilde. That Rhodesian chap you were in there with just now. You want to go careful there. He’s a trifle tricky, from all I hear.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Napper shrugged lazily. ‘Not the sort of chap you want to get involved with if I was you. I don’t know too much about him, but from what I do — well, you know —’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Murray.

  Napper looked at his watch. ‘Can’t stay talking, old chap. First Secretary’ll bite my head off. It’s just that while you’re not actually a British subject, you do, as an Eire national, come under our diplomatic charge out here. Our responsibility, you see — if you should get into any kind of jam, that is. I was just mentioning it. Well, so long. Take care.’ He crossed the room with his little shuffling hop, turning to wave from the door, then climbed into one of the cyclo-pousses that had followed them down from the ‘White Rose’.

  Murray watched him lurch out of sight, then went behind the bar to the telephone where the waiter was already pumping up a stirrup-lamp in time for the nine o’clock blackout. Murray first dialled the number at the bottom of Finlayson’s notepaper. All he got was a long whine. After three attempts he tried the Bar des Amis. A girl’s voice chirped at him, first in Lao, then French. No, Monsieur Georges had not called — there had been no messages for Monsieur Wilde.

  Just then the lighting in the cafe failed. He tossed some notes at the waiter and hurried out, breaking into a run up the last few yards to the ‘White Rose’, where he ducked under the bead curtain into the candlelight, elbowing his way through the T-shirts and naked flesh to the table in the corner. Ryderbeit was back, alone with a cigar and looking sour.

  ‘And where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Where’s Finlayson?’

  ‘You tell me. He didn’t show up, the idle bastard!’ He turned a jaundiced eye on Murray and grinned: ‘But I got my two thousand kips worth upstairs. These girls must have been trained by the French.’

  Murray sat down. ‘Now listen, Sammy. I’ve got a feeling that things aren’t quite right.’

  ‘Huh? Just because Filling-Station stood you up?’

  ‘I just met Hamish Napper again up the street. He was making a phone call. It could have bee
n nothing — he said he was ringing his First Secretary about a dinner-date. But then he warned me against you.’

  ‘Me? Cheeky old bastard. What did he say? Anything nice and slanderous?’

  ‘He told me not to get involved. Didn’t say how. Any ideas?’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks I’m bad company — doesn’t want respectable journalists associating with nasty white Rhodesians with illegal passports. Bad form and all that.’

  ‘Even worse form to have one of his flock getting involved in the biggest robbery in the world — especially if it’s been planned and executed on Napper’s home ground. He was warning me off, Sammy.’

  ‘Was he high?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He also seemed to think I’d been waiting in here for someone — someone who hadn’t turned up.’

  ‘Filling-Station?’

  ‘He didn’t mention any names — except yours.’

  Ryderbeit stood up. ‘Let’s check on old Filling-Station.’

  ‘I’ve already checked. His FARC number’s out of order and he’s left no message at the hotel. Does he have any other number?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He said eight sharp in his note. It’s now gone nine. Let’s take a little walk round.’

  Finlayson’s house faced on to the Mekong, about ten minutes’ walk from the ‘White Rose’. It was a low wooden building in the traditional Lao style, raised on stone piles for coolness and to keep out snakes and scorpions, with a wide roof like a chalet and a verandah behind windows of wire mesh. There were no lights — only a dim moon under which they could just make out the dark shape of Finlayson’s Mercedes parked inside the gate. The only sound was the scream of crickets down by the river.

  They pushed open the gate and walked round the car, pausing at the steps up to the verandah. ‘George!’ Ryderbeit shouted. There was no answer. He bounded up the steps and unlatched the verandah door. ‘George?’ he called again, quietly this time; then crossed to the main door and turned the handle. It opened. He and Murray stepped together into a wide dark room. ‘Does he always leave his place open like this?’ Murray whispered.