by Ovidia Yu
I jumped to my feet. ‘He didn’t die of a fever! He was fine earlier that evening. All ready to go out to party—’
Mrs McPherson held up a plump hand. ‘That’s the official stand, dear. We can’t say anything to upset the men now, with the economy doing so badly. But Lilian Glossop sent me a personal message, saying her mother wants to know what really happened to Victor.’
‘And there’s some other information here that may help you find out.’ Governor McPherson passed a plain brown envelope to Le Froy. ‘You can trust it. You don’t need to know where it comes from. But for now, as far as we are concerned, the boy officially died of an eastern fever.’
Lipstick and Pigtails
The plain brown envelope contained a private investigator’s research into Mrs Nicole Covington. It seemed to have been commissioned by Victor’s family and put together in a hurry. I had already seen most of the information in newspaper articles and Pip’s Squeaks. The only thing new was the name Eric Schumer, an old flame of Nicole’s.
‘Is he a Jewish university professor in an ivory tower?’ I wondered. ‘Could Eric Schumer be trying to get Nicole back?’
‘Eric Schumer is dead.’ Le Froy passed me the next page of the report.
It added weight to Nicole’s black-widow image, but didn’t increase our pool of suspects. And officially there was now no case. Until the autopsy report came back, maybe even after that, Victor Glossop had died of some unnamed fever. There was also no information on the woman who might have been with Victor that night, although a ten-dollar reward had been offered to her for coming forward.
When I collected my crime-scene photographs from Dr Shankar, Sergeant de Souza (with some embarrassment) said the betel and lipstick patterns on Victor’s body resembled the erotic designs with which some of the Japanese prostitutes adorned themselves. ‘Not as professionally done, of course. Looks like he drew them himself.’
‘Yes.’ Le Froy was studying the prints intently. Dr Shankar had magnified them, so you could see the individual dots that made up each photograph. ‘He was right-handed and clearly drew them on himself. But someone else painted his back.’
The patterns there were crude outlines but clearly done by a more experienced hand.
‘De Souza, you say the Karayuki-san paint these patterns on themselves?’
‘On themselves and their partners, sir. They are known for drawing erotic pictures on their skin before sex. To be licked off, I believe. Sometimes men picked up drunk have lipstick traces left on them.’
Le Froy seized a pencil and scribbled questions he wanted passed to Mrs McPherson or wired to London.
Later I typed them out with three carbons because his handwriting was a schoolteacher’s nightmare. I could only decipher it because I had learned to follow his thought processes. When his brain was fermenting wildly, he might forget his questions before the answers came.
But I’d been surprised when he slipped out of the office soon after without giving any further instructions. His mind was clearly on something else, his secret project. But what was it?
‘I wish the boss would send me to interview Mrs Covington,’ Sergeant Pillay said. ‘I’m sure I could get her to talk. You have to know how to talk to women.’
Sergeant Pillay fancied himself a ladies’ man and we still had not managed to get a statement from Nicole Covington. Le Froy had gone to see her at the Farquhar again. When he asked why she had not mentioned the fight between her and Victor, she became hysterically upset and refused to say more. After that, to our (my, at least) surprise, Le Froy had let her alone. I hoped her womanly wiles hadn’t won him over.
‘She wasn’t at the stag party,’ Sergeant de Souza went on. ‘She can’t know anything about what killed him if you think he was given poison that evening. And what poison takes two days to act? Anyway, I don’t care if she poisoned him or not. And I’m sure she didn’t. I just wish I could interview her. I want to ask her for a photograph.’
I was irritated by how stupid men could be. Even the men who were supposed to be detectives wouldn’t take a female suspect seriously if they thought she was good-looking. The Farquhar Hotel was not pleased that Victor’s death had been officially ascribed to malaria or yellow fever, possibly both. The Colonial Office was so afraid of those diseases that it advised travellers to avoid Singapore.
With the boss out of the office, I slipped away to look for Parshanti. Never mind interviewing Nicole Covington, I hadn’t even managed to have a good talk with my old friend since I’d followed her with Kenneth Mulliner.
I had tried to get Parshanti alone several times, not only to tell her she was better off without him (which even she must realize by now!) but because I wanted to find out exactly what he had said. The lies people come up with can tell you a lot about them.
But Parshanti was suddenly too busy to meet me.
‘It’s important,’ I pleaded, when I finally found her helping with the hemming in her mother’s workroom behind the pharmacy. ‘I have to talk to you.’
‘You can talk in front of Mam. She’ll keep whatever you say secret, won’t you, Mam?’
‘What’s that, dearie?’ Mrs Shankar paused the treadle on her Singer sewing machine. It was super-speedy and much faster than hand sewing, but so noisy. She had a lot of work to catch up on since she had been shut out of her sewing room when her husband had commandeered it to develop our prints.
‘Has Su Lin found a young man?’ She smiled at me sweetly and seemed to think my glare at her daughter confirmed this.
Mrs Shankar might be much more liberal than my family, but I didn’t want to tell her that her daughter might have fallen in love with a murderer. Much as I distrusted Kenneth Mulliner, I couldn’t betray Parshanti in that warm, busy workroom.
So, I went back to the Detective Shack. I had run out of typing and filing and was wiping down the backs and undersides of the desks when I saw, standing in the doorway, Dr Taylor Covington with Junior. It gave me a blip of pleasure to see grandfather and grandson together. Le Froy had returned and stood looking at them with a preoccupied expression.
‘Dr Covington,’ I said.
‘Wanted a word with you. I hope we’re not interrupting anything,’ Dr Covington said politely. He must have thought Le Froy was not busy and could be interrupted.
But Le Froy, his mind spinning complicated connections, looked impatiently at them. ‘What do you want? The autopsy results aren’t out yet. We’ll let you know.’
‘If Victor Glossop died of fever, why are we still being kept here?’
‘Germs. Possibility of spreading infection. As a doctor you must understand.’
‘You know very well—’ Dr Covington stopped.
‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’ I pulled a stool forward. ‘I’m going to make tea,’ I said. ‘Would you like some orange squash, Junior?’
The child nodded, without releasing his grandfather’s hand.
‘He’s crazy about orange squash,’ Dr Covington said, ‘aren’t you, Junior? And I would appreciate coffee over tea, if there’s any available. But don’t put yourself to any trouble on my account.’
Le Froy also preferred coffee.
I wondered if American fathers spent more time with their children than Asian or British fathers. In fact, Junior seemed more comfortable with his father than with his mother . . . Startled, I caught myself. I had forgotten that Taylor was Radley’s grandfather, not his father.
This was even more unusual. In my experience, grandmothers and unmarried aunts helped with children, not grandfathers. I had few memories of my own grandfathers, apart from being pushed towards them to offer my respects at Lunar New Year and at family weddings.
I returned with coffee, orange squash and a plate of Huntley & Palmer’s biscuits. We had been given a huge tin by a trader after Le Froy had traced how his imported cigarettes were disappearing.
‘Cookies!’ Junior cried. ‘Grandpa, may I?’
‘Ask the pretty lady.’
/> ‘She’s no lady. You said she’s a pig’s tail, not a lady.’
Taylor Covington made a little gesture that any adult would have recognized as ‘not now’. Junior interpreted it as ‘Repeat that more loudly, please,’ and obliged with a little hop of pleasure as he looked up at his grandfather. ‘Pig’s tail. You said she’s a pig’s tail.’
Le Froy was looking at the doctor with interest now.
‘I probably said she has a pigtail,’ he explained genially to Le Froy. ‘Like so many Orientals, you know. Men and women all with their pigtails.’ He tugged gently at the hair at the base of Junior’s head, making him squeal in laughing protest. ‘Do you want a pigtail?’
I didn’t have a pigtail. My hair was plaited and coiled around my head as usual. I wasn’t offended by Junior. It was Taylor Covington taking the trouble to explain himself to Le Froy that made me think he had used the term as an insult. And I wondered what else Junior might have picked up from his grandfather. The black-widow-spider comment, for example.
‘How is Mrs Covington?’ I asked.
‘That’s why we’re here, actually. Nicole wants to leave.’ He was clearly glad of the change in subject. ‘She heard on the grapevine that you’ve been questioning a local pilot. If you’ve got your man, there’s no point in keeping us hanging on, eh?’
Harry Palin had indeed been taken in for questioning at Police Headquarters. But he had been released that morning without charge after the Colonial Office had decreed Glossop’s death was due to fever.
‘After what happened, you can imagine this place has unpleasant associations for her. She’s eager to move on. I thought that, once you’ve given us the okay, we’d stop by the Cunard Line offices on the way back to the hotel so that I can book our passage. We thought of going on to Australia, given it’s just a hop and a skip away from here.’ He stopped as though waiting for Le Froy to comment.
Le Froy nodded. He didn’t tell Dr Covington we knew that he and Kenneth Mulliner had already tried to book passage for their party out of Singapore and been refused till the police gave permission. ‘We should be getting the autopsy results soon.’
‘You’ve been saying that for days! Surely it makes no difference where we are when you get them. Nicole’s impatient to be gone. She’s not used to Singapore’s climate and it’s getting to her. No matter what caused Glossop’s death, there’s no reason to keep us here. And if it wasn’t an accident, why, I’m sure you can sort it out without us. We’re not vindictive folks. We’ll leave it to your justice system. Look, man to man, how much is it going to cost me to speed up this business?’
Was the man openly offering to bribe Le Froy? I waited for Le Froy to tell him off or take him down.
‘What do you think of the rise of Aryan supremacy and German nationalism in Europe?’ Le Froy asked.
Dr Covington
‘I beg your pardon?’ Dr Covington looked as taken aback as I felt.
‘You took your daughter-in-law to watch Mr Hitler speak at a rally in Germany. That was where she met Victor Glossop, wasn’t it?’ That had also come out of Governor McPherson’s envelope. I couldn’t see how it was relevant but it was interesting to observe Dr Covington’s reaction.
He nodded. ‘We’re not political. A lot of influential Americans think Herr Hitler’s got something we can learn from and I thought we could see for ourselves. Yes, we met Victor Glossop there. There were a lot of British aristocrats around. I thought it would be a bit of a change for the poor girl, that’s all.’
‘Why did you tell us they met in London? Which was it?’ Le Froy’s voice was calm and conversational but he didn’t smile when Dr Covington tried to laugh it off.
Le Froy always said there were two kinds of liar: those who lie for a purpose and those who lie out of habit. He said those in the second category were more dangerous because they so manipulate the truth that they fool even themselves. I could see he was trying to figure out which category Dr Covington belonged in.
‘Is that the big question that’s made you see us all as suspects? Well, let me explain things to you. They met first in Germany, then again in London. When you travel the world, you’re thrown together with all sorts of people. And if they’re civilized and English-speaking in a sea of damned foreigners, you become the closest of friends within ten minutes of meeting. But once you’re back on home soil it’s over. Nicole and I ran into Victor and Kenneth in Germany and we shared an English translator at those rallies. He told her to look him up if she got to London and she did. That’s where they were officially introduced, if you like. Satisfied?’
‘How did Mrs Covington enjoy the Hitler rallies?’
‘Nicole’s not intellectual.’ Dr Covington shook his head. ‘She goes in more for society than social improvements. She wasn’t much interested until she met that young man. She perked right up on meeting him. She was taking an interest in life, fussing about clothes and talking about getting married again. I couldn’t stop her heading for England once Victor left, although I’d planned for us to do a tour of the Alps. When they got engaged, I thought at least some good had come of it. And then this happened. The woman has bad luck with men. I can’t explain it, but you can’t deny it.’
Dr Covington saying ‘bad luck with men’ made me feel sorry for Nicole. I knew only too well that having people decide you’re ‘bad luck’ makes your luck bad. I had been labelled ‘bad luck’ after polio and my parents’ death. But it was to counter this that my grandmother had sent me to an English school, which had turned out to be a huge stroke of good luck for me. I felt sorry for Nicole Covington and wondered if she had been allowed to go to school.
The teachers at the mission school scoffed at the idea of ‘luck’. ‘There’s only God, no such thing as luck!’ I remember Miss Johnson saying. But if not for my childhood polio, I would never have gone to school. There is definitely an element of luck in our lives. Or you might call it an element of chance that you can’t control, no matter how hard you work. It’s never certain whether, in the long term, something will turn out bad or good.
‘Losing her husband doesn’t mean Nicole has bad luck with men,’ I said. ‘Her husband was your son. Losing him doesn’t mean you have bad luck with children.’
Le Froy looked curiously at me. Then even more curiously at Dr Covington, to see how he would take it. For a moment the older man stiffened. He paled, and it was as though his brain was having difficulty processing what I’d said. His son’s death was obviously still raw and painful. I was about to apologize (and never bring it up again) when he let out a great roar of laughter.
‘You’ve got a brain on you, girl. I like that. That’s a good point you made.’ He reached over and squeezed my shoulder approvingly with a huge hand, and Junior grinned at me. ‘I lost my Radley, that’s true. He was my only son, my pride and joy and my hope for the future. And Junior here lost his only father. But we’re making it up to each other. We’re a good team, aren’t we, Junior?’
‘Yes, Grandpa,’ the child said. ‘We’re the Covingtons!’ His serious sweetness made us all smile.
‘But my son and Victor weren’t the only men Nicole has lost.’ Dr Covington lowered his voice: ‘You must have read or at least heard about the most famous book in America, Gone With the Wind?’
I’d heard of it, and nodded. Again, Dr Covington looked approving. ‘It’s all about the civil war in America. Well, our family roots are in Clayton County, Georgia, where the most important parts of the book are set. And, like Miss Scarlett O’Hara in the book, our Miss Nicole is every inch a Southern belle. That means she’s almost as pretty as she makes people think she is.’
‘I read Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ I said. At school there had been a copy in the cupboard that served as a library.
Dr Covington snorted. ‘Don’t waste your time. That book started the war that crippled the South. Anyway, after what happened to my Radley, Nicole just couldn’t settle down. She was talking about wanting to get away from everything. I thought i
t might be a good idea. And I had some business to take care of. So I took a house in New York for half a year. But we hadn’t been in the city more than a couple of weeks when Nicole met someone new.’
‘What was his name?’ Le Froy glanced in my direction and I reached for my ever-ready notebook.
‘Eric Schumer. A very pleasant young man but not at all the sort I would have thought Nicole would be attracted to.’
Eric Schumer! I turned to a new page in my notebook and underlined the name.
‘Why wouldn’t she?’ Le Froy asked casually.
‘Nicole’s always had admirers, of course. That’s not surprising. I suppose I thought she would want to take some time to get over Radley. To be with her boy. And young Mr Schumer – well, back home Nicole would never even have come across someone like him to say “Good day” to, let alone be thinking about getting married again.’
‘Was she thinking of marrying him? What happened?’
Before answering Le Froy’s question, Dr Covington glanced at Junior. The boy was fully occupied, colouring pictures in an old newspaper with the crayons Sergeant de Souza had produced. Satisfied, he continued, his voice even lower. ‘I was informed by my banker that a Mr Schumer had made enquiries as to Nicole’s accounts. He even enquired into my affairs. That was how it came to my attention. Old Harrison’s son called me to verify that I had agreed to the investigation and I told him I had done no such thing. I knew nothing of it. Naturally I ordered everything stopped. I asked Nicole if she knew anything about it and she said Eric had asked if she knew how much Radley had left her to live on and she’d told him she had no idea. Apparently he’d taken that as licence to dig into our affairs. Good thing I’ve been dealing with Old Harrison for years. His son knows I wouldn’t stand for some stranger snooping around my accounts.’
