by Eric Ambler
“Very decent of you to put it that way.” Captain Lukey seemed genuinely pleased.
“Is it?”
“Frankness begets frankness, Nilsen. So I’ll be frank with you. How much do you know about Tan?”
“Very little.”
“Do you know what he does for a living?”
“Import-export—at least that’s what I gathered.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Not in so many words, no.”
“What would you say if I told you that he ran a labour protection racket down at the docks?”
“How do you know?”
“Made inquiries about him. You see I know most of the people in this business. Part of my job. I didn’t know you and I didn’t know him. Could have been a trap.”
“A what?”
The Captain looked surprised. “Well, of course. Naturally the Indonesian Government knows what’s going on. You know as well as I do that they’ve only got a few old destroyers and gun boats to patrol a huge area. They can’t stop more than a fraction of the stuff getting through. So, naturally, they go for our weak spot.”
“What’s that?”
“Money. If they can get me tied up in a phony deal they will.”
“I’m afraid I don’t get it. Are you suggesting I’m operating a phony deal?”
“Good God no! Please don’t misunderstand. This is nothing personal.”
“Then what’s the problem? You inspect the stuff first. You don’t pay until you take delivery, do you?”
“No. But I take delivery in bond. As soon as I start to move it, things happen. First some cheap lawyer comes along and claims that the goods have been obtained by trickery and gets a court order holding them. By the time that’s straightened out, there’s some other stooge claiming that all the ammunition is phony, and that instead of having cordite inside them the cartridges are loaded with morphine. So then the narcotics people have a go. And so on.”
“But the stuff gets there in the end.”
“If you’re lucky.”
“But you said yourself that the Indonesian Government can’t maintain an effective patrol.”
“If they know exactly when the stuff is going, the size of the consignment, and the approximate delivery area, they’ve got at least a fifty-fifty chance of intercepting it. It stands to reason.”
“You said money was the weak spot.”
“You don’t know these people, Nilsen.”
“What people?”
“The people I work for. Oh, they’re good types in lots of ways, but when they pay out money that’s something special.”
“Who are they? Tan said something about their being a religious group.”
“They’re devout Moslems if that’s what you mean. Most of the anti-Communists are. That doesn’t mean they’re not tough though. Life and death don’t mean much to them. They’d kill a man or be killed themselves without turning a hair. But they’re funny when it comes to money. If things go badly they give up.”
“And you think Tan’s working for the Indonesian Government?”
“I don’t know. In my opinion he’s the type who’d work for anyone who paid enough. Anyway, I don’t want to risk it.”
“Then you don’t want to deal?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I don’t want to deal with Tan.”
“But Tan already knows about all this. If what you say is true, he can cause just as much trouble whoever deals.”
“Not if you’re the principal. Are these goods bonded in your name?”
“They are.”
“Then we don’t need Tan at all.”
Greg was silent. He was inclined to believe what the Captain had said, or some of it anyway; and his own instincts were against having business dealings of any kind with Mr. Tan. Unfortunately, they were almost equally against having dealings with Captain Lukey. And there was the overriding complication of the fact that he was not in reality a principal at all, but an agent. To some extent he was deceiving Captain Lukey. He temporised.
“I’ll have to think about that, Captain.”
“Sure. Don’t get me wrong—” the Captain was Americanising again—“I’m not trying to pressure you, old boy.”
The sudden lapse into British made Greg smile. “Oh, I didn’t think you were, Captain,” he said hastily.
His smile and his tone of voice combined to create an effect he had not intended.
“No need to apologise,” said Captain Lukey cheerfully. He suddenly snapped his fingers. “I tell you what. Have you and Madam made any plans for the evening?”
Greg looked quickly at Dorothy. “Well, we …”
But it was too late. The Captain swept on enthusiastically. “I tell you what. Why don’t we stop talking shop now and all go out to dinner, the four of us?”
“Four?” For one wild moment Greg thought that the Captain was proposing to include Tan in the invitation.
“I know my good lady wfll be dying to meet you. She’s mad about America. Do you like Indian food? I mean the real stuff, not those ghastly Madras curries the planters ruin their livers on. There’s a little restaurant we found where it’s absolutely the real thing. You know India, of course?”
“Well, no. But I’m sure you don’t want to …”
“Then that’s settled, then.” The Captain smiled broadly at them both. “Sorry to butt in again like this. Supposing I pick you up at seven. No jackets. Just a tie. We might have a spot of the cup that cheers first.”
He gave them a mock salute and left.
Greg looked at Dorothy. “Sorry, darling,” he said, “I didn’t think fast enough.”
But Dorothy did not seem unduly put out. “Well, at least we’ll go somewhere we wouldn’t have been to on our own,” she said. “I wonder what Mrs. Lukey’s like.”
Promptly at seven, Captain Lukey called up from the lobby and they went downstairs. He was alone.
“Left my good lady outside in the taxi,” he explained.
It was dark and Mrs. Lukey was sitting in the shadows at the back of the taxi; but even in the brief glimpse Greg had of her as they were introduced, he saw that she was strikingly beautiful. Her husband got in beside the driver and told him to go to the Cathay Hotel. On the way there he talked almost continuously, identifying buildings which they could not see, and having rapid conversations in Malay with the driver which they did not understand. Dorothy, sitting next to Mrs. Lukey, exchanged one or two brief courtesies with her. From her English, which was fluent but over-precise, Greg deduced that Mrs. Lukey was not British. It was not until they were in the elevator which took them up to the Cathay Hotel bar, that he saw her clearly.
She had dark hair, cut short, and a long face with a delicate, high-cheeked bone structure that reminded him of a bust of Queen Nefertiti which he had seen illustrated in Life. Her skin was pale without being pallid. She wore no powder and very little lipstick. Her figure was slender, with a small waist that the flared silk skirt she was wearing made seem even smaller. Only her legs were disappointing. Greg thought them too straight and shapeless. Nevertheless, she was an exquisite creature and it was difficult to understand how she had been captivated by Captain Lukey. Beside her, he looked oafish and gross. She smiled readily, revealing excellent teeth. However, the smile did not reach her eyes, and at those moments she became less beautiful. It was possible, Greg thought, that she had a dull mind.
Her husband was an overpowering host. He drank deeply and talked incessantly, mostly about people whom he had known in South Africa and Egypt. Many of the stories he told seemed pointless to Greg, until he realised that, in deference to Dorothy, and possibly also to his own wife, the Captain was censoring his tongue. He was the kind of man who has a stock of anecdotes packed away in his mind like the contents of a kit-bag; he cannot rummage about and select what he wants, everything must be pulled out as it comes to hand, dirty clothes as well as clean. It was noticeable, too, as the evening progressed, that the social pretensions
of those who peopled his memories became more and more modest. Brother army officers, generals, senior civil servants, important businessmen and embassy attachés gradually gave way to sergeant-majors, canteen managers, stewards, bartenders and seedy men encountered in pubs. Captain Lukey’s accent also deteriorated, or at least changed; earthier tones and racier speech rhythms replacing the plummy affectations of the afternoon. Greg and Dorothy found him easier to understand, and, as some of his stories were quite funny, even began to warm to him. Captain Lukey the officer and gentleman might verge on the odious, but Lukey the soldier of fortune was not un-engaging.
The Indian restaurant was in a street off Orchard Road. It was small and squalid. The waiters were Indians wearing dhotis and striped shirts with the tails hanging out. They spread sheets of white wrapping paper on the table instead of a cloth. A single fan stirred the warm, curry-laden air. There were a great many flies. Greg made up his mind that the first thing he and Dorothy would do when they got back to the hotel would be to take full doses of the Entero-Vioforme which they had bought in Saigon.
Mrs. Lukey ordered dinner in a language which she told Dorothy was Urdu. It took a long time to prepare, and Captain Lukey had drunk four more stengahs and paid two visits to the toilet before it arrived. There were four dishes, two of them curries, and a bowl of boiled Patna rice. To Greg’s surprise, it was all delicious. He often ate curried dishes; the University Club in Wilmington always had curried shrimps or curried turkey on the lunch menu; but he had never tasted curries like these. They were hot, but not harsh, and there were undertones of flavour that he could not begin to identify.
“In the west you use curry powder already made,” Mrs. Lukey explained. “Here, the spices are ground fresh and mixed according to the needs of the dish. In this case, for instance, there is less turmeric and more cumin. That is what you taste.”
A plate of Indian condiments was put on the table. Among the seeds and sauces and shredded coconut, there were sliced bananas.
“If a curry is too hot,” said Mrs. Lukey, “you add sliced banana and it becomes milder.”
“You mean it seems milder?”
“No. It is milder. I do not understand why. Some say it is the juice of the banana. Try.”
Dorothy tried and was impressed.
Mrs. Lukey smiled. “Some curries are so hot,” she said, “that even I could not eat them without banana, even though I have lived many years in India.”
The Captain, returning from yet another visit to the toilet, overheard her.
“If you think this is a good curry,” he said, “you wait until you taste Betty’s. She’s a wonderful cook.”
This was the first time they had heard Mrs. Lukey’s first name. The Captain’s endearments, which had ranged from ‘darling’, through ‘the mem-sahib’, to ‘old girl’, had not hitherto included it.
Suddenly the Captain slapped the table. “I tell you what. One night you must come over to our place and have a binge. The old girl will cook and if we can still move afterwards we’ll have a rubber of bridge. You play bridge?”
Greg admitted that they did.
“Then, it’s a date. As a matter of fact, why don’t we go back now and have a drink? It’s only a furnished place we’ve taken while we look around, but it’s not all that bad, and at least we’ll be able to drink some decent whisky.”
Greg had opened his mouth to hedge, but Dorothy spoke first. “I think that would be a lovely idea,” she said.
The Lukeys’ apartment was a few minutes’ walk from the restaurant. It was over an electrical appliance showroom and was approached by a long steep stairway at the side. The living-room had pale green walls and contained a polished teak table and some bamboo-framed lounge chairs. In one corner there was a card table with some papers and a desk pad on it. Light came from a frosted glass ceiling fitting. The effect was bleak.
“Make yourselves at home,” said the Captain. Going to a wardrobe in the small hallway, he got out bottles and glasses.
Dorothy and Mrs. Lukey retired to the bedroom. Greg sat down in one of the lounge chairs.
“You know,” Captain Lukey continued as he made the drinks, “the trouble with my job is that you never know where you’re going to be next. Can’t put down any roots.”
“I suppose not.” Greg had not thought of the Captain’s occupation as one about which it was possible to generalise in such terms. Acting as purchasing agent for Sumatran insurgent forces scarcely seemed the basis of a career. Whether the insurgents won or lost, their need for a foreign representative with Captain Lukey’s special qualifications seemed bound eventually to disappear; and, while there might be other insurgent forces in other parts of the world who could use his services when available, the business of contacting them would be hazardous as well as difficult. The Captain did not strike him as being a particularly robust type of adventurer. “How did you come to get into the job?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Friends, influence.” The Captain grinned. “Never could stand the ordinary desk job. ‘Sing ho for the open road’, that’s me.” He reached for the soda siphon. “Say when.”
“That’s enough, thanks.” Greg went over and took the drink.
“Yes, always on the go.” The Captain shook his head ruefully. “Take next week now. I’ll probably have to go off to Macao for a few days.”
“On business?”
“You can bet your sweet life I wouldn’t go for pleasure.”
Greg was beginning to understand the Captain. When dissembling he had the too artless look of a boy telling a lie.
“I shouldn’t have thought there’d be much for you there at the moment,” he said casually. “My information is that the buyers are all moving in here.”
The Captain looked at him quickly. “The Dutchman’s still there.”
“I’m only telling you what I heard.”
The Captain stared at him gloomily for a moment and then, with a visible effort, relaxed. “No shop in the mess,” he said. “Cost you drinks all round in the old days. All the same, I’d like to know where we stand pretty soon. About Tan, for instance, you said you’d think it over. How long do you want?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“Cards on the table, Nilsen. Got another buyer on ice ?”
“Could be.” Greg was enjoying this.
“Is he dealing with Tan?”
“Look, I said I want twenty-four hours to think it over. Until tomorrow evening. I’d like to deal with you. Captain, and as long as there’s no misunderstanding about price range, I’m sure we can work something out. If you want to save time, you can arrange with Tan to inspect the stuff at the warehouse in the morning.”
“I told you. I don’t want to deal with Tan.”
“He’s merely holding the customs documents at present. You wouldn’t be committing yourself to anything.”
“All right. As long as we understand one another.”
The women came out of the bedroom and the Captain returned to his reminiscences. Soon, Greg and Dorothy left.
As they were walking to the taxi rank by the Cathay Greg told her about his brief business discussion.
“You know,” he added, “I’m a bit sorry for that man.”
Dorothy laughed.
“Oh, I know he’s a phony,” Greg said; “all that gobbledy-gook he talks, all those stories, all that false bonhomie.”
“And all those trips to the men’s room.”
“It’s not his fault if he has a weak bladder.”
“He shouldn’t drink so much.”
“I think he’s a pretty depressed character. I think he has to have a few drinks to stay in one piece. You know he wants those arms badly and tried to pretend that he didn’t. It was pathetic, bush league stuff. It made me feel like a con man.”
“Famous last words.”
“All right. We’ll see.”
They walked on in silence for a moment or two. “I liked her,” said Dorothy.
“Y
es, what about that! How in the world did he do it? She looks like something out of Vogue. Do you think she really likes him?”
“Oh yes.”
“Attraction of opposites, I suppose. What nationality is she? Betty sounds British enough, but she’s got a funny sort of accent.”
Dorothy glanced at him wonderingly. “You mean you didn’t get it?”
“Get what?”
“She’s Eurasian.”
“She’s what?”
“Well, Anglo-Indian she called it. Her mother came from Bombay. She didn’t say much, but I think it must have been very important to her to marry an Englishman.”
“Even that one?”
“I told you. She’s very fond of him.”
He drew her arm through his. “I’m glad we came on this trip together,” he said.
Dorothy smiled.
When they got back to the hotel, there was a message for Greg. Mr. Lane Harvey of the American Syndicated Wire Service had telephoned, and would call again in the morning.
Before he went to sleep that night, Greg booked a person-to-person call to Mr. Tan Tack Chee in Manila.
III
While they were at breakfast the following morning, the Singapore overseas operator called to say that Mr. Tan was not then in Manila but was expected back that afternoon. Greg placed a call for 4.00 p.m. Manila time.
just as he put the telephone down, it rang again.
“Mr. Nilsen? This is Lane Harvey, American Syndicated Wire Service.”
“Yes?”
“You’re from Wilmington, Delaware, I believe.”
“That’s right.”
“And you have a die-casting business there?”
“Yes. What’s all this about? The plant hasn’t burned down, has it?”
Mr. Harvey chuckled. “No, nothing like that. It’s just that I’d like to send back a story on you, if you could spare me half an hour sometime today.”
“Well, yes, of course. But, Mr. Harvey, it’s not a very big plant, you know, and I’m not an important man. Mrs. Nilsen and I are just tourists stopping over for a. few days. I don’t want to waste your time.”
