by Eric Ambler
“Okay. I will accept them unseen. Now, we can start loading.”
He grabbed the rope handle of one of the rifle boxes and looked up at Girija.
Girija smiled, but made no move to take the other handle. Once the boxes were in the truck, there was nothing to prevent Mr. Lee’s hitting him on the head with the case-opener, and taking the receipt from him while he was unconscious. He had a feeling that Mr. Lee was aware of the fact.
“Do you not think, Mr. Lee,” he said, “that we should complete our business first?”
“There is plenty of time for that.”
Girija held up the flashlight. “By the time we have finished the loading, this battery will be very weak. Let us complete our business now, Mr. Lee, while there is light.”
Mr. Lee stared at him resentfully, then shrugged. “As long as you help with the loading, I do not care.”
“I will certainly help you.” Girija produced Mr. Lee’s receipt from his pocket and held it up.
Mr. Lee shrugged again and got out the promissory note. The two pieces of paper changed hands. The moment he had his note, Girija lit a match and burned it. Mr. Lee did the same with his receipt. The transaction was complete.
It took an hour to load the truck, and Mr. Lee became abusive over Girija’s refusal to use the flashlight to guide them across the scrub. When the job was finished, Girija went back alone to the oil store to replace the padlock on the door. As he did so, he heard the truck start up and drive off. Mr. Lee had not had the elementary courtesy to wait and say good-bye.
Girija went back to the track, picked up his bicycle, and started for home. When he had gone about a mile, he remembered that he had left the trolley with the scooter wheels in the oil store. For a moment or two, he wondered if he should go back and get rid of it; then, the absurdity of the notion struck him. What could a pair of wheels and a strap tell anybody? He had nothing to hide any more; nothing, that is, except a cheque for twenty-five thousand dollars.
When he reached his house he examined the tin trunk to see that the lock had not been tampered with. He did not open it. He did not even wait to undress before he lay down on the charpoy and went to sleep.
III
It was one in the morning when Tan Yam Heng drove the truck up to the gate of the Anglo-Malay Transport Company’s compound. The Sikh night watchman came out of his hut and opened the gate. Yam Heng told him to remain at the gate and then drove through to the un-loaumg bay of number two godown.
The unloading platform was level with the tailboard of the truck. It did not take him long to drag the boxes out and stack them inside the two large machinery crates he had brought in some hours earlier. He had only been able to guess at the various dimensions of the boxes, and they had to be wedged and braced inside the crates ; but he had anticipated this, and had provided himself with the wood and tools he would need to do the job. By two-thirty both crates were ready to ship. He left them on the platform and drove himself back to his brother’s house in the truck. Tan Siow Mong had waited up for him.
“Was everything in order?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Were the goods according to specification?’’
“I opened and counted everything except the ammunition. Those boxes are sealed.”
“And he has the cheque.”
“Of course.”
“You do not seem pleased. Has anything gone wrong?”
“That Indian clerk is insufferable. He treated me as if I were a crook.”
His brother nodded calmly. “I warned you he was no fool,” he said.
The following morning Tan Siow Mong had a brief interview with Kwong Kee, master of the Anglo-Malay Transport Company’s motor junk, Glowing Dawn, just back from her weekly run to Manila.
Kwong Kee was a square, pot-bellied man with a cheerful disposition and a venereal appetite that bordered on satyriasis. He was not greatly interested in the commercial reasons Mr. Tan gave him for switching the Glowing Dawn temporarily to the Singapore run. Nor was he interested in the cargo she carried. And if Mr. Tan’s young brother were fool enough to want to go home by sea instead of comfortably by train, that was no business of his either. He was quite content to do as he was told. It was some time since he had sampled the Singapore brothels.
The Glowing Dawn sailed that afternoon with a cargo of latex and two machinery crates. When she was well out to sea, Yam Heng went down into the hold and stencilled the consignee’s name and address on the crates: “G. NILSEN, C/0 CHEN WAREHOUSE CO. SINGAPORE. IN BOND.”
IV
The night before the Silver Isle was due in at Saigon, there was a ship’s gala dance. The notice had said: “Fancy Dress Optional.”
On the advice of his cabin steward, who had lived through many of these occasions, Greg went as a Spanish hidalgo. It was easy. All he had to do was wear the black pants belonging to his tuxedo, an evening dress shirt with a black string tie, and two cummerbunds instead of one to raise the waist line. The steward provided the extra cummerbund and also a flat-topped black hat with a wide brim. He always carried them in his baggage. They had earned him many an extra tip. As he explained to Greg, the advantage of the costume was that a gentleman did not have to wear a jacket with it; and in the steamy heat of the South China Sea, that was a real blessing. Dorothy painted on the long sideburns he needed with her eyebrow pencil.
She herself had been undecided what to wear. She had discussed the problem with Arlene; but Arlene had been curiously unhelpful, and had even refused to say what she was going to wear herself; she wanted it to be a surprise. Finally, with the aid of the stewardess, Dorothy had settled for a German doll costume. The stewardess happened to have the dirndl skirt and the blouse with embroidered smocking. Dorothy made herself a coif with two white napkins from the dining-room, and put big dabs of rouge on her cheeks.
Both she and Greg were ready early, but lurked in their cabin with the door on the hook until, by watching their fellow passengers passing along the alleyway outside and listening to their conversation, they had assured themselves that they were not going to be the only ones who had opted for fancy dress. Then, they went up to the bar.
Most of the passengers had decided on some form of fancy costume for the evening; and, although many had contented themselves with funny hats, false noses and other easily discarded fripperies, a few had allowed their enthusiasm to run away with them. In the bar, the pirates, AI Jolsons, hoboes and Indian maharajahs were already drenched with sweat and in difficulty with their burnt cork make-ups. Over their Martinis, Greg aad Dorothy congratulated themselves on having hit it off just right; they had taken trouble, but not too much trouble; and they were comfortable.
Arlene did not appear until just before the ship’s speakers announced dinner. Then she made a slow, regal entrance through the double doors leading to the lounge. She was wearing a cheong sam, the silk formal dress with the high collar and split skirt that Chinese women wear, and long jade ear-rings. Just inside the door, she stopped and smiled as if expecting a round of applause.
The cheong sam can be an attractive and becoming garment; but it makes certain demands on the wearer. She must be small-boned and very slender, with invisible hips and near-to-invisible buttocks, a flat stomach and minute breasts. Her arms and neck must appear fragile, and her face must be round with high cheek-bones. She must, in other words, be Chinese. On Arlene’s shapely, but large and well-padded body, and surmounted by her equine head, it looked grotesque.
Greg said: “My God!”
“She bought it in Hong Kong,” muttered Dorothy. “It’s the most lovely material.”
“It still looks ridiculous.”
“I didn’t see it on her at the fitting.”
“She must be out of her mind!”
Arlene’s entrance created a minor sensation, and there were one or two uncertain whoops of gallantry as she swayed over to the Nilsens’ table. If she was kidding, everyone was prepared to laugh. If she were serious, they were ready
to be polite. Meanwhile, they were embarrassed.
Arlene sat down beside Dorothy and the splits in her skirt gaped to reveal, on Greg’s side, a large area of thigh and one pink suspender. She smiled archly.
“Well, what do you think of Chinese laundly girl?”
“It’s a lovely dress,” said Dorothy eagerly.
“It certainly is,” said Greg. “Martini?”
“No.” Her smile was challenging now. “Tonight, I am drinking champagne.”
They went down to dinner twenty minutes late, and had to run a gauntlet of eyes as they crossed to their table. Arlene’s half-bottle of champagne seemed to have gone to her head, and she began calling Greg “Don Gregorio” and Dorothy “Gretchen”. She was thoroughly pleased with herself, looking about her with the calm assurance of a woman who knows that she is the most attractive in the room.
When the dancing began, she became skittish, breaking away from her partners to execute little hip-waggling solos in the middle of the deck. Greg and Dorothy, dancing sedately on the outskirts, glanced at one another.
Dorothy was worried. “I don’t understand it,” she muttered; “she usually has such good taste in clothes.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you must admit she has.”
“If you ask me,” said Greg; “she had a few belts of gin in her cabin before she came up.”
“Now, darling, that’s a nasty thing to say.”
“Well, look at her.”
Arlene, with her arms stretched out wide, her head turned over her right shoulder and her chin tilted imperiously, was now dancing a flamenco. Her partner, one of the ship’s officers, was rotating around her somewhat helplessly. He had an uneasy grin on his face.
“She’s just a little excited,” said Dorothy defensively. “Anyway she’s having a good time.”
“In my opinion, she’s making a horse’s ass of herself.”
“Really, Greg!”
Arlene did not return to their table. When a ‘Leap Year’ dance was announced, she made a bee-line for the Captain and after that dance returned with him to his table; whether by invitation or not it was impossible to determine.
The following morning, when they were going up the river to Saigon, she did not appear at her usual time ; but Greg and Dorothy were too busy shooting with their movie camera and watching the sampans and the river banks go by to give her much thought. They found her, immaculate but a trifle pensive, sitting in the bar after the ship had docked.
“What happened to you last night?” she asked Dorothy as they joined her.
“We went down around eleven-thirty.”
“Four o’clock, me,” Arlene said grimly; “the barman opened up a can of weinies. He’s got an electric grill back there. That was after I’d switched to scotch.”
“Who else was there?” Dorothy asked.
“Nobody. Just the barman and me. He comes from L.A. and he’s a Dodger fan,” she added stoutly.
But after lunch she felt fine again and they all went ashore. At Arlene’s suggestion they crushed into a small Renault taxi for a tour of the city.
It was insufferably humid, and the driver, a handsome young Vietnamese, smelt peculiarly of rotting fish. Arlene explained that the smell came from a sauce used in all Vietnamese cooking and was no reflection on the driver’s personal cleanliness. The driver grinned.
“Is made from fish,” he said suddenly in English. “You like me show where make it?”
Up to that moment he had spoken nothing but French, and Arlene had been the interpreter. Nobody had troubled to ask him if he understood English, Greg remembered. Arlene, proud of the French she had acquired in her Red Cross days, had just gone ahead and spoken for them. As a result, they had unwittingly hurt the man’s feelings. That was precisely the sort of stupid incident, Greg thought, that made Americans unpopular abroad.
However, the driver did not seem offended. “I show you on way back ship,” he went on. “Make bad smell, but many vitamins.”
“That so?”
They were travelling along a broad, tree-lined street that reminded Arlene and Dorothy of Paris, when the driver turned to Greg.
“Now I show you where Quiet American made bomb explosion,” he said.
“How’s that?”
“That café there.” The driver pointed. “That was where Quiet American made bomb explosion. Many killed.”
They were crossing a square now. Greg looked from the café to the driver.
“But The Quiet American was a novel,” he said.
“Yes, sir. That is café back there. I was near at time of explosion. Was very bad.”
“But it was fiction,” Dorothy said. “It didn’t actually happen.”
“Apparently there was a bomb explosion there,” Arlene explained. “I had this when I was here before. Somebody told me Graham Greene was in the city at the time.”
“Graham Greene, yes.” The driver nodded emphatically. “Presently I will show you bridge where Fowler found dead body of correspondent, and place where there was restaurant where they talk. Real restaurant now gone, pulled down.”
“You mean people here believe that story?”
“Is true, sir. I show you the place.”
“But it was just a novel.”
“Look,” said Arlene impatiently; “if you go to Marseille, they take you out to the Chateau d’lf and show you the hole in the wall that the Count of Monte Cristo made when he scratched his way through to the Abbe Faria. They show you the dungeon occupied by the Man in the Iron Mask. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just to make the tourists feel they’re getting their money’s worth.”
“But that was an anti-American novel. If they believe all that stuff, my God ! We’re giving these people millions in aid.”
“That’s right,” said Dorothy.
Arlene smiled. “I can see you two have got a few surprises coming to you on this trip.”
They returned to the ship hot, tired and out of temper. On their way down to shower and change, Greg and Dorothy had to squeeze their way past a pile of baggage in the alleyway. Their steward told them that three new passengers had come on board. When they went up on deck, they saw Arlene sitting talking animatedly to a florid, thick-set man in a khaki bush shirt. They were drinking Pernod.
At cocktail time, Greg and Dorothy were sitting in their usual corner when Arlene appeared with the same man. He had changed into a white sharkskin suit. Evidently, he was one of the new passengers. They came over.
“Ce sont mes amis, Greg et Dorothy Nilsen,” said Arlene. “Je veux vous présenter Monsieur Seguin.”
“How do you do?” said Monsieur Seguin.
They shook hands. Greg said: “Will you join us?”
“Thank you.” With a courteous bow to Dorothy, Monsieur Seguin sat down.
He had small blue eyes, a merry smile, and large pudgy hands with little mats of gleaming blond hair on the backs of them.
“Monsieur Seguin est ingénieur civil,” Arlene explained. “Il va nous accompagner jusqu’à Calcutta. Monsieur Nilsen est ingénieur aussi.”
“Indeed?” Monsieur Seguin looked interested. “In what branch of our profession, sir?” His English was excellent.
“How do you say die-casting in French?” Arlene asked.
Greg shrugged helplessly.
“Oh, but I understand,” said Monsieur Seguin affably. “Mr. Nilsen makes the small pieces of all those things that the world thinks of when it hears an American use the phrase ‘standard of living’.”
Arlene laughed heartily. Greg and Dorothy smiled. More Pernods were arriving.
“Isn’t it lucky?” Arlene said. “I had a word with the Chief Steward and he’s fixed it for Monsieur Seguin to sit at our table.”
The Silver Isle was an American ship and most of her passengers were Americans. Not unnaturally the cooking was American, and served in the American style.
Monsieur Seguin did not like it. He did not like the shrimp cocktail and tried to re
move all the sauce from it. He asked for his steak bleu and, when it came rare, regretted that it had been overcooked. He did not want his salad on the side, but as a separate course, and requested that the slices of avocado pear be removed. He ignored the baked Idaho potato, and refused the ice-cream. He took one mouthful of the Wisconsin Brie, made a face and ate no more. However, he remained, apparently, good-humoured. His only comment seemed mild enough for a Frenchman who had not enjoyed his dinner.
“I needed to lose some weight,” he said with a smile. “This ship will be very good for me. Here, it will be easy to maintain a régime.”
“I don’t know what they think they’re doing,” Arlene burst out angrily. “You could get better food at a drug store.”
Dorothy chuckled. “The other day you were saying you thought the food was great.”
“Great is a relative term, dear. Even an American chef must be able to cook eatable food one day in thirty.” She was sharing a bottle of wine with Monsieur Seguin and now she drained her glass.
Monsieur Seguin refilled it. “Mademoiselle, I think you are being very unfair to America,” he said. “She has made some very important contributions to world civilisation. Let us see—” he pretended to search his memory —“she has given us chewing gum, and Coca-Cola, and gangster films, and she has given us atomic bombs.” He smiled slyly at Greg. “As well as a lot of advice.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you forgetting popcorn?”
“Ah yes. Pardon. And I was forgetting democracy also. McCarthy style, of course.”
Arlene laughed. “That’s telling ’em!”
Dorothy’s face froze.
Greg smiled placidly at Monsieur Seguin. “I expect you have a lot of jokes about American tourists, too. And foreign aid.”
Monsieur Seguin shrugged. “It is sad,” he said. “You Americans give away billions of dollars to defend yourselves against Communism, but you ask everyone to believe that you give it because you are good and kind. Why?”
“Because big daddy-o wants to be loved,” said Arlene promptly.
“America,” said Monsieur Seguin, “is rich, and behaves like the rich always behave. When they begin to fear death, they become philanthropists.”
