by A. M. Stuart
“Time of death?” Curran inquired.
Mac shrugged. “When was he last seen?”
“Monday evening.”
“I’d say he’s been dead twenty-four hours. No longer.”
Curran did a quick mental calculation. Twenty-four hours meant he had probably been killed sometime on Tuesday and the body dumped into the canal under cover of darkness. It raised the unpleasant question of where he had been held between Monday night and his death.
Mac, engaged in tidying his work, looked up. “Do you think there’s a connection with the other murder?”
“I’m certain there’s a connection with Newbold but I’ve no idea what it is.” Curran closed his notebook with a snap.
Mac nodded to his assistant and walked outside with Curran.
Both men lit cigarettes, letting the smoke overcome the stench of death.
“Days like today, I regret taking on the role of police surgeon,” Mac said. “A young man with his whole life ahead of him, dead in the worst way possible.”
Curran shot him a sympathetic glance. He knew from his time in South Africa there were worse ways for men to die. At least Visscher’s death had been quick.
“Why did you become a policeman, Curran?” Mac asked.
Curran shrugged. “I needed a job,” he said.
Mac cast him a skeptical glance. “If you needed a job, there were plenty of others. Bank clerk, for example.”
Curran laughed. “Can you see me as a bank clerk?” He stubbed out his cigarette and sighed. “In South Africa, I saw a great deal of injustice meted out by our side as well as the Boer. I decided there had to be ways of seeing justice done properly.”
“You could have become a lawyer.”
Curran curled his lip in distaste. “I’d rather be a bank clerk. In my opinion lawyers are responsible for some of the gravest injustices I’ve seen.”
Mac flicked his cigarette stub into the nearest bougainvillea. “It’s been a bad week for both of us, Curran. I tell you what, Louisa is putting together a party for the Van Wijk musical evening on Saturday. Care to join us?”
It was on the tip of Curran’s tongue to decline. He had seen enough of the Van Wijk and the week wasn’t over yet. Then again, a social evening could serve the purpose of allowing him to observe the workings of the Van Wijk while he was out of uniform.
“Thank you for the invitation. I’d be delighted. Who else is going?” he inquired casually.
“I think she’s invited Maddocks, you know—the journalist fellow—and Harriet Gordon and her brother.”
No invitation would be extended to Li An, although Mac, more than anyone on the island, knew about the nature of their relationship. However, it was easier to ignore any social improprieties if they weren’t being forced into the public eye.
As if reading Curran’s thoughts, Mac asked after Li An, his faded-blue eyes creasing at the corners.
“She’s well, thank you,” Curran said, oddly grateful to Mac for being the one person who at least acknowledged Li An’s existence.
Mac straightened and huffed out a breath, the stiff, formal police surgeon once more.
“We will need the body formally identified. Is there someone at the Van Wijk? Someone with a strong stomach, preferably.” As he spoke his gaze traveled to a woebegone Earnest Greaves, who crouched in the shade of a tree, his head in his hands.
Curran’s lips tightened in a grim smile. He knew just the person.
* * *
* * *
Curran found Van Gelder in the kitchens, supervising the lunch menu. Despite his lack of breakfast, the unpleasant morning had taken the edge off Curran’s appetite and the smell of rich curry for once did not provoke a visceral response. A kitchen skivvy working near to where he stood glanced at him with an inquiring look in his eye. Curran indicated the harassed hotel manager.
“This is not a good time, Inspector,” Van Gelder, red-faced and sweating in the heat of the kitchen, steered him out into a hallway. “My best chef is late.” He mopped his streaming face. “Have you found Visscher?”
“Yes,” Curran replied.
“You can tell him from me he is out! He will be on the next boat back to Rotterdam without a reference.” Van Gelder punctuated his words with a dramatic flourish. “He cannot leave me in the lurch like this—”
“He’s dead, Van Gelder.” Curran cut across the manager’s outrage.
Van Gelder stared at him, all his pomposity and arrogance leaching from him. He took a step back, leaning against the wall, and despite the heat, his face appeared to drain of color.
“Dead? An accident? Please tell me it was an accident.”
“I need someone to identify the body.”
“Of course, I . . .” Van Gelder glanced back at the kitchen.
“Mr. Paar will do.”
Van Gelder looked relieved. “He will? Then, you will find him at the house, taking an early lunch.”
Perfect, thought Curran as he crossed the gardens.
The door was answered by the little Chinese maid, who glanced at him fearfully.
“Who is it?” Mrs. Van Gelder’s voice came from inside.
“The policeman, mevrouw,” the girl said.
The lady appeared behind her maid, her plump cheeks pink with the midday heat. “Inspector. How can I help you?”
“Is Mr. Paar within?”
“He is having his lunch.”
“Then I am afraid I must interrupt. May I come in?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Van Gelder stood aside, admitting Curran into the living room. She led him to a room at the rear of the house, where Paar sat by himself at a table, using a piece of bread to mop his plate. He rose to his feet, the chair scraping on the boards.
“Inspector?”
“I apologize for interrupting your lunch, Mr. Paar, but I was hoping you would be so good as to accompany me.”
“Accompany you where?” Paar’s eyes widened. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Curran held up a placating hand. “We’ve found a body and I was hoping you might help with the identification.”
Mrs. Van Gelder gave a sharp cry, her hand going to her mouth. “I heard stories this morning of a body being found in the Stamford Canal. Is it . . . could it be . . . Visscher?”
“We believe it is.”
She lowered herself onto the nearest chair, fishing in the sleeve of her blouse for a lace-edged handkerchief, which she employed in dabbing at the corners of her mouth and eyes.
“How . . . ?” she began. “An accident? Did he take his own life?”
Startled by her response, Curran asked, “Why do you think he would take his own life?”
Her lips quivered. “Homesickness? This infernal heat? Maybe his girl has found another?”
“He was murdered,” Curran said bluntly, and Mrs. Van Gelder closed her eyes, crossing herself, her lips moving as if in prayer.
“Why do you need me to identify him?” Paar glared at Curran from under his thick, dark brows. “Surely Mr. Van Gelder . . .”
“Mr. Van Gelder is unable to get away from the hotel and I can hardly ask Mrs. Van Gelder.” Curran shot the woman a sympathetic glance, although he would bet a pound that Mrs. Van Gelder would be more than up to the task.
“We go now?” Paar looked less than enthusiastic.
“First, I would like to look at Visscher’s bedroom,” Curran said.
Paar glanced at his landlady and Curran added, “In the presence of both of you.”
Mrs. Van Gelder rose to her feet, nodding.
“Poor boy, poor boy,” she muttered as she led them through a door at the far end of the living room and up a set of narrow stairs. She threw open another door at the top of the stairs and stood back.
“We have beds for four clerks but at present we have only Mr. Visscher and M
r. Paar.”
Curran stood at the door and surveyed the gloomy, hot, airless attic room. Four small, mean windows shut tight with wooden shutters appeared to be the only means of ventilation. Mrs. Van Gelder hurried into the room, throwing open the shutters to allow the light in.
The room reminded Curran of his boarding school. It was sparsely furnished with four iron cots, surmounted by mosquito nets, wrapped out of the way and tied into a knot. Two washstands, four bedside tables and four small wardrobes completed the furnishings. The mattresses on two of the beds were rolled up and unoccupied. Two traveling trunks stood at the foot of the other two beds, which were neatly made up with sheets and a light cover of a cheap, colorful cotton material of the sort sold in Little India.
Mrs. Van Gelder indicated the bed on the left side of the room.
“That is where Mr. Visscher sleeps.” Mrs. Van Gelder ran a hand over the bed, smoothing an imaginary crinkle from its impeccable cover. “Slept.” Her voice cracked.
Curran directed both Paar and Mrs. Van Gelder out of the room and they watched from the doorway as he went through Visscher’s meager possessions. The wardrobe contained a number of sets of white ducks, the universal uniform of the clerical class in Singapore, but there were gaps in the wardrobe and shelves and no sign of a razor or other personal paraphernalia.
Curran gestured for Mrs. Van Gelder to join him. “What is missing?”
She frowned. “He had a linen suit and collars and his nightshirts. They are gone.”
Paar glanced up at the top of the wardrobe. “His suitcase is missing.”
Curran followed his gaze. “Suitcase? Describe it.”
Paar shrugged. “Leather, so big . . .” He indicated a small rectangle with his hands.
Curran looked at the young man and his landlady. He could conclude only that Visscher must have returned at some time on Monday night and packed a bag. Someone was lying.
He questioned Mrs. Van Gelder and Paar again but they were both insistent that they had not seen or heard from Visscher all evening. Curran did not press them further and turned back to his rudimentary search.
The drawers in the bedside table were empty. No photographs or letters or personal items of any description confirmed that Visscher had packed to leave permanently. He glanced around the room. He would need to return and do a proper search, but for the moment he had other matters to attend to.
“Mr. Paar, if you are ready we will go.”
Paar looked like a man being led to the gallows as he climbed into the motor vehicle.
* * *
* * *
Stefan Paar vomited in the sink of the hospital morgue while Mac and Curran watched without sympathy.
“Get him outside. Fresh air will work wonders,” Mac said.
Curran put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and marched him out onto the broad, relatively cool verandah. The stench of the mortuary still lingered in the air and Paar produced a crumpled and none-too-clean handkerchief, wiping his sweaty, pasty face.
He fixed Curran with a malignant glare. “Dear God, why did you make me do that?”
Curran regarded him without sympathy. “Someone had to identify him and you knew him as well as anyone.”
With a shaking hand, Paar restored his handkerchief to his pocket.
“I have something to tell you,” he said.
Curran regarded the man’s ashen face. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Paar complied, collapsing onto a wooden bench and burying his head in his hands.
Curran stood over him. “What do you have to tell me?”
“I might have forgotten to mention that I did see Visscher on Monday night.”
Curran fought down the rising anger. “Forgot?”
Paar did not meet his gaze. “I did not want to get into trouble with Mrs. Van Gelder. She can be . . . difficult.”
Curran had some sympathy with that sentiment.
“And?”
“Do you have a cigarette?”
Curran obliged, holding a match for the young man, whose hand shook so badly he had trouble holding the cigarette. When it was lit, Paar sat back, taking several draws and blowing out the smoke as Curran waited patiently for him to compose himself.
“What happened?” Curran inquired.
Paar’s lips curled in a humorless smile. “When I came home, he was hiding outside the house. He begged me to let him in after the Van Gelders had gone to bed.”
“And you did?”
“Ja. He asked me to keep watch downstairs while he went upstairs and packed.” Paar’s gaze dropped to his shiny shoes. “We argued.”
“About what?”
“He was scared.” All Paar’s bravado had gone and the hand holding the cigarette shook. “But he wouldn’t tell me what was scaring him. He just said it was out of his control and he wanted to get back to Holland. I pointed out that there were no ships due to sail for three days and told him to wait and sleep on his problem. It would not seem so bad in the morning but he wouldn’t wait. He said he was catching the next boat to Batavia and he would go on from there. He had to get out of Singapore. He took his suitcase and that’s the last time I saw him.” He lowered his head, his hands hanging limply by his side.
Curran regarded Paar’s bent head. The suspicion that Paar had been holding something back had now been confirmed.
“What time was this?”
Paar took another drag on his cigarette, and the ash fell onto the flagstones. “Well after midnight. One o’clock, I think. Yes. I heard the town hall clock strike the hour.”
“Had you noticed anything unusual in his behavior over the last few weeks?”
Paar looked up, his eyes wet with tears. “He was ordinary, Inspector. He wrote every week to his mother and went to church on Sundays. He talked about marrying Lissa. Everything he did was for that purpose.”
“Are you aware of any dealings he had with Sir Oswald Newbold?”
Paar shook his head. “You have asked me that before. Newbold was a frequent guest at the hotel. That is all. Now can I go home?”
“Thank you, Mr. Paar. If you’re feeling better, I will take you back to the hotel and break the news formally to your employer.”
Paar nodded and remained silent, huddled miserably in the back seat of the motor vehicle for the trip back to the Van Wijk.
Van Gelder bustled out of his office as Curran walked into the hotel with Paar in tow.
“Really, Inspector,” he protested. “I am trying to be as cooperative as I can but you have kept Mr. Paar away for too long. I simply cannot allow this on such a busy day, when I am already short staffed.” He glanced at Paar’s pale and miserable face. “Go and tidy yourself up. You look a mess. I want you back on the desk in half an hour.”
“Yes, Mr. Van Gelder,” Paar responded without enthusiasm, and turned to leave, his footsteps dragging.
“Don’t be too hard on the lad,” Curran said. “It was not a pleasant experience.”
Van Gelder looked up, as if remembering the reason for Paar’s excursion. “Was it . . . ?
“Shall we talk in your office?” Curran suggested.
“Yes, yes . . . of course.”
Behind the closed door, Curran confirmed Paar’s identification of Visscher.
Van Gelder shook his head. “How did he die?”
Curran judged it best to leave the details vague. “He was murdered.”
Van Gelder blinked. “No. Not Visscher. Surely there is some mistake.”
“Trust me, there is no mistake.”
The hotel manager groped for the edge of his desk and leaned against it, pulling out the large, spotted handkerchief with which he mopped his face and blew his nose loudly. His distress seemed genuine and, if anything, out of proportion for a young man who had been nothing more than an employee.
Curran said nothing and Van Gelder continued.
“No, indeed, Inspector Curran, a good boy who loved his mother . . . oh, his mother! I must write to her.”
“I am just on my way to the Dutch consul to arrange for her to be advised.”
Van Gelder shook his head. “She relied on him for her support. I must see that she does not suffer . . . oh . . . and I will see to the funeral too. Who do I need to contact?”
Curran left him with the details and, with a cursory nod at Stefan Paar, who had returned to his post on the reception desk, headed back to South Bridge Road.
TWELVE
Huo Jin didn’t so much set the bowls down as slam them down on the table. Julian raised his eyebrows and shot Harriet an inquiring glance as their amah stomped back to the kitchen, muttering under her breath.
Harriet sighed. “I think there is trouble in paradise. Huo Jin and Lokman were having a shouting match in the kitchen when I got home this evening. I found Aziz hiding in the stables.”
“Ah.” Julian poked at his bowl of rice accompanied by a stir-fry of vegetables and meat.
They had discovered early in their tenancy of St. Thomas House that the temperamental cook, Lokman, was quite capable of cooking excellent English meals but he chose to do so badly. Harriet had persuaded her brother that a local diet was far healthier and preferable to stodgy English fare and in the end Julian had capitulated.
Lokman had unbent enough to allow Harriet to accompany him to the local fresh food markets and in his uncertain English had taught her about the local produce. She still drew a line at pig entrails and tortoises but fish and chicken were fresh and plentiful.
“I do so long for a good old roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” Julian said.
“If you want English food, then eat at the school,” his sister chided.
He pushed the empty bowl away and ran a hand over his eyes, which seemed lost in the dark shadows left by the migraine. “Sorry, Harri. Are you all right, old thing?”
She smiled. “Just a little tired.”
