by Eric Ambler
He found his way back to the cane thicket without difficulty and started hacking a path through it with the parang. The new growth had not yet had time to harden, and the going was fairly easy. He had no fear of running into surviving members of the band. If this were indeed the way to their camp, it had not been used for several months.
The path was uphill. After he had gone fifteen yards, the cane thinned out and he found himself on a shallow ledge from which he could see down into the stream bed. On the ground there were some dead tree branches arranged to form a sort of chair. It looked as if the ledge had been used as a vantage point from which a sentry could cover the approach along the stream bed. A well-worn track led off to the right. He followed it, his heart pounding.
The camp was in a clearing shielded both from the sun and from air observation by the branches of a large flame-of-the-forest. The jungle apes had been there before him. Pieces of clothing had been torn apart and scattered over the clearing amid cooking pots, an earthenware chatty and empty rice bags. The only thing that seemed to have escaped the apes’ attentions was a metal box. It was full of leaflets, printed in Malay and Chinese, calling upon the people of Malaya to rise against the imperialist exploiters and establish a people’s democracy.
There was another path leading down from the clearing and Girija followed it. About twelve yards down, a hole had been dug and used as a latrine. He walked back slowly to the clearing. In the long search for the camp site his doubts had been forgotten. Now, he remembered them and faced the bitterness of defeat. Lieutenant Haynes had been right. He, Girija, had been wrong. For Sunday after Sunday he had exchanged the pleasures of tiffin with his future mother-in-law, and the soft glances of Sumitra, for senseless walks in the jungle and the pursuit of an illusion. There was no arms dump ; there never had been.
He had started to retrace his footsteps when his foot struck something that tinkled. He looked down. Lying on the ground was a brass cartridge-case. As he bent down to pick it up he saw another one. A minute later he had found three more. He stared at them, puzzled. They were of .303 calibre. He went over the ground again and found what he was looking for; the clip which had held the five rounds.
There was no doubt about it. A .303 rifle had been fired there. But no rifle of any kind had been found at the scene of the ambush. And none of the weapons had been of .303 calibre. Where, then, was the rifle?
He searched the camp site thoroughly first. He found a small fixed frequency radio in a teak box; but no rifle. He began to search the hillside above the camp, taking any route that looked as if it might conceivably have been used before. After about an hour he came upon a clump of bamboo from which a number of thick stalks had been cut. Then, about twelve yards away, he saw it.
Braced between the steep hillside and the trunk of a tree was a triangular roof of bamboo. Cane screens had been plaited to enclose the sides of the structure and form a shelter.
Girija scrambled towards it, slipping and sliding on the spongy carpet of dead leaves and slashing wildly with the parang at the undergrowth in his path. When he reached the shelter, he stood for an instant, breathless and trying to prepare himself for the crushing disappointment of finding it empty. Then, he pulled one of the screens aside.
There was a sudden, swift rustle and his heart leapt as some small brown animal rushed out past him. He pulled the screen back farther and looked inside.
The hillside beneath the roof had been dug out to make the space roughly rectangular. It was about six feet high and ten feet long, and filled from floor to roof with wood and metal packing cases.
He sat down on the ground to get his breath back, and stared at the cases. A number of them, he could see, were long and narrow and had rope handles. One of these was near the screen, and looked as if it had been opened. He crawled over to it and prised the lid off with the parang.
Inside, carefully packed on slotted wood bearers were six .303 rifles. Five of them were heavily greased and wrapped in thick, oiled paper with the name of a Belgian manufacturer printed on it. One had been unwrapped. Girija took it out and opened the breach. It had been fired, presumably down at the camp site, and put back without being cleaned. The barrel was corroded.
Girija clucked disapprovingly. That was no way to treat valuable property. He returned the rifle to its case and began to examine the rest of his find. He soon discovered that there was more there than he had at first supposed. There were ten cases of rifles and at least thirty other boxes and cases of various sizes, in addition to ammunition containers.
He began to move some of these so as to get a look at the stencilled markings on the bigger cases, and then stopped. He would have to start back soon and there was no hope of taking an inventory that day. Besides, he had no need of an inventory.
He knew that all he had really found was hope. Of course, it would have been agreeable to dream of what was there in terms of wealth; but wealth that could only be realised, if at all, in some unmeasurable fullness of time was meaningless. It would be the hope that mattered in the days to come; and if he could draw from it the strength to go on quietly reading his transport trade journals, and turning the pages of his catalogues, and revising notional time-tables, and faithfully continuing to serve Mr. Wright; if, in short, he could be patient and discreet, he might perhaps one day fulfil himself.
He waited, patiently and discreetly, for three years.
In the beginning it had been comparatively easy. There had been practical matters to attend to.
First, he thoroughly cleaned and greased the rifle that had been fired; then he gave some thought to the long-term problems of storage and preservation. The monsoon rains would arrive shortly, and the bamboo roof was not waterproof.
He decided to reconstruct the shelter. One Sunday he moved all the boxes out of it and laid a framework of bamboo on the ground to ensure a proper circulation of air. Over this he put a heavy tarpaulin taken from the estate compound, and then rearranged the boxes on top of it. Another tarpaulin went over the boxes and was lashed down firmly with wire rope. A third tarpaulin he incorporated in the roof. He also repaired the screens.
Thereafter, he only went to the place once a month to make sure that all was in order. He would have gone more often if he could have trusted himself; but, rather to his surprise, he had found patience easier to cultivate than discretion.
In spite of his initial resolution, it had proved hard not to make an inventory of what was in the shelter and keep it in his tin trunk. He knew that such a document was premature and pointless. He knew that, if through some mischance, Mr. Wright happened to see it and ask questions, his lies would be unconvincing. Yet, the temptation had persisted. There had also been an insane desire to confide in Sumitra, to bask in her admiration and flattery, and bind her future more securely to his. He knew that she would certainly tell her mother, who would tell the father, who worked in the bank at Bukit Amphu and was a notorious chatterbox; but that temptation, too, had continued to haunt him.
During the second year he had other troubles. His mother died; and two of the cases resting on the lower tarpaulin were attacked by termites. Fortunately, he noticed the fact in good time and was able to minimise the damage. The ammunition boxes were metal and, having given them a thick coat of bitumen paint, he moved them to the bottom of the stack. The damaged boxes he repaired with strips of teak; and sprayed all the wood containers with a powerful solution of benzine hexachloride.
The second year went by; and the third. General Templer’s policy of winning the co-operation and goodwill of the people of Malaya, and enlisting them in the fight against the terrorists, began to succeed; and, as success snowballed into victory, curfews were lifted and road blocks removed. Areas free of terrorists were declared ‘white’, and restrictions on unescorted civil transport movements cancelled.
The day that the province in which he worked was declared ‘white’, Girija wrote to England for a new bus body catalogue. The following Sunday, he went to the shelter and
spent two of the happiest hours of his life, making an inventory.
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN THE rubber estates in the Pangkalan district had latex for shipment, they generally notified the Anglo-Malay Transport Company at the port of Kuala Pangkalan. The company would then send their trucks to collect the latex, store it temporarily in their godowns, and finally, when instructions came through from Singapore, ship it out in one of their big motor junks.
The founder, manager and sole proprietor of this useful enterprise was a Chinese, Mr. Tan Siow Mong.
Mr. Tan had been educated at a mission school in Macao, and spoke Hokkien and Portuguese as well as Cantonese, Malay and English. His father had owned a fishing junk, and had divided his working years between snapper fishing and carrying cargoes of rattan up the coast to Hong Kong. When he died, in the early thirties, Mr. Tan and his two brothers had taken over the junk and turned to the more lucrative business of opium smuggling. They had been caught, in the end, by a British gunboat, and their junk had been impounded. By that time, they had had a substantial sum of money saved and could accept the forfeiture of the junk with equanimity. However, a family council had considered it advisable for the Tans to leave the China Coast for a while, and seek their fortunes elsewhere. One brother had gone to Singapore, another to Manila. Tan Siow Mong, the eldest, had taken his mother to Kuala Pangkalan. There, with his share of the family capital, he had started to deal in copra and lend money to Malays at forty per cent. During the Japanese occupation he had accepted a disused godown in discharge of a debt. After the war he had tried to sell it. Unable to find a buyer, he had eventually decided to make it pay for itself. The Anglo-Malay Transport Company had grown from that decision.
Mr. Tan was in the late forties now, with greying hair and rimless glasses. He wore well-cut tussore suits, and was never seen without a dark tie even in the hottest weather. He had an air of well-bred dignity that was much admired in the Chinese business community of Kuala Pangkalan.
His office was so placed that he could, without moving from his desk, see the trucks in the unloading bay of number one godown and the wooden quay at which the junks discharged and took on cargo. By turning his head he could also see, through a glass panel let into the wall beside the door, his four Chinese assistants. Mr. Tan did not believe in elaborate organisation. Working sixty-five hours a week, the four assistants were well able to take care of most of the routine paper work of the business. The accounts he preferred to look after himself.
Two of the trucks were unloading bales of latex which had come down that afternoon from one of the Cheang Thye Phu Syndicate estates, and he could see the Indian clerk from the estate office checking off the weights with the godown foreman.
Mr. Tan did not like that. Mr. Wright, the estate manager, had always, and rightly, trusted the company before. Why had he suddenly felt it necessary to send his clerk to check the weighing?
The clerk and the godown foreman had evidently agreed the figures now, for, as Mr. Tan watched, the clerk smiled and turned away. Mr. Tan had made a note to ask the foreman what reason, if any, had been given for this uncomplimentary change of procedure, when he saw that the clerk was walking across the yard towards his office.
Mr. Tan looked down at the papers on his desk. It would be undignified to be seen peering out. A moment or two later one of his assistants came in to say that Mr. Krishnan desired the pleasure of a few moments’ conversation with him.
Mr. Tan disapproved of Indians. He had often found them to be disagreeably acute in business matters. He also disapproved of estate clerks, who, if they were not given occasional presents, could delay the payment of accounts and cause other inconveniences.
This one he remembered only from having seen him with Mr. Wright, the estate manager. He was lean and very dark, with bright, intelligent eyes and a predatory mouth that smiled too much. It would be interesting to discover how accurately he would estimate his nuisance value.
He greeted Girija with grave courtesy and asked him to sit down.
“It is not often,” he went on in English, “that we have the pleasure of seeing you, Mr. Krishnan.”
Girija smiled. “Thank you. Mr. Wright sends all compliments and best favours.”
Mr. Tan congratulated himself on choosing English for the conversation. His own, he knew, was excellent. The clerk’s was little better than the illiterate commercial patois that the British called ‘Babu’. It placed him at a disadvantage, small but possibly useful.
“And are Mr. and Mrs. Wright well?”
“Both very well. We hope ditto for Mrs. Tan, self and family.”
“Thank you, yes.”
Tea was brought in from the outer office and served in minute cups. Tentative moves might now be made towards a discussion of the real object of the visit.
“This must be a busy time for you at the estate,” observed Mr. Tan.
What this banality was in effect asking was why Mr. Wright had thought it necessary to waste his clerk’s time by sending him in to Kuala Pangkalan to supervise a normal warehousing operation.
Girija smiled and answered in Malay. “With the rubber market so firm, we are always busy now.”
Mr. Tan nodded. He was wondering if by some faint flicker of expression he had revealed his amusement at the clerk’s English. The Malay was fluent. Courteously, he answered in the same language.
“Let us hope the bad times are ended for good.”
“Good business for one is good business for all,” said Girija.
“Very true.” Now, Mr. Tan decided, they were coming to the point. Reference to mutual advantage was the accepted preliminary to a squeeze.
“This tea is excellent, sir,” said Girija.
Mr. Tan instantly sent for more. This again postponed pointed discussion and further inanities were exchanged. Grudgingly, Mr. Tan had to admit to himself that the young man was handling the interview well. He found himself becoming interested.
When they were alone again, he said: “Mr. Wright is a very good manager. It must be a pleasure to work for such a man.”
Girija nodded. “Indeed it is. He is, as you say, a fine manager. But he is also a man of good heart.”
“I can well believe that.”
“In fact,” Girija went on, “when I asked him if he would allow me to come down to Kuala Pangkalan on personal business, he did not even question me before giving his permission.”
“One has always known that he values your services highly.” Mr. Tan was making the pace again now. The use of the phrase ‘values your services’ would, he was sure, bring the matter to a head.
“And yet,” said Girija, “I was glad he did not ask me questions.” He paused.
Mr. Tan was silent. He was certain that the moment had arrived.
Girija flashed a smile. “For if he had, I would have been forced to hurt his feelings or to lie. I would not wish to do either of those things.”
“Both are offences against good taste,” agreed Mr. Tan sententiously.
“Mr. Wright has been my father,” said Girija. “How could I tell him that, being in need of the wisest advice on a matter of great importance, I was turning not to him but to Mr. Tan Siow Mong?”
Mr. Tan said nothing. He had nothing relevant to say. He was hurriedly revising his estimate of the situation. If the clerk were choosing this way of leading up to a request for money, he must have some absurdly large sum in mind.
Girija leant forward earnestly. “Nowhere in Kuala Pangkalan is there a wiser head in important matters of business,” he said. “It is well known.”
Mr. Tan noted the qualifying phrase, ‘in important matters of business’. He said: “You pay me an undeserved compliment.”
“My friend,” continued Girija, “could think of no one else whose advice on this matter would be so valuable.”
“Your friend?” Mr. Tan was becoming confused again and in consequence also a little annoyed; but his tone remained polite.
“You do not know
him, sir,” said Girija; “and he knows you only from your high reputation. When I said that I would ask your advice on this important matter that is troubling him, he begged me not to mention him by name. The matter is highly confidential.”
“Most business matters are.” Mr. Tan spoke dryly. He guessed that ‘confidential’ in this context probably meant ‘criminal’.
Girija’s smile became tentative. For the first time, Mr. Tan saw him ill at ease, and decided to offer a word of reassurance. It would be irritating if the man took fright and left without revealing the object of his visit.
“If your friend respects my wisdom,” he remarked, “he must also acknowledge my discretion.”
Girija’s smile went back into place and his eyes met Mr. Tan’s. “Of course. But he is a nervous man. You will see why when I explain.” He paused to choose his words before going on. “It appears that some years ago during the emergency, when the terrorists were bringing in arms from the north, my friend found some of these arms—rifles, machine-guns, ammunition.” He looked up to see how Mr. Tan was taking this.
Mr. Tan smiled; but very faintly. “And so he turned them over to the police?”
“That, of course, is what he should have done.” Girija shrugged. “But, as I said, my friend is a nervous man. He did not wish to call attention to himself. At the time, it seemed best to do nothing. Now, he is in a difficulty.”
“Yes?”
“My friend is in need of money. He thought of these arms. If he told the police about them now, there would be questions and trouble. But if a buyer for the arms could be found, perhaps his debts could be paid, and no one would be the worse. The emergency is over. No harm could come of it, only good for my friend.”
Mr. Tan sat very still. “You wish me to advise your friend?”
