by A. M. Stuart
Harriet raised her head to look at him, hoping her face gave him the answer.
Paar gestured at the other man and their guard released the boy.
“Fetch something to drink,” he said, and the man moved silently out of the room.
Paar looked from Harriet to Lawson and then to Will and gestured at the floor at his feet. “Sit down, boy.”
Will complied, his anxious gaze fixed on his father.
“So, we have two hostages and no sapphire. How exactly are you proposing we retrieve the missing property, Lawson?” Paar said.
Lawson replied. “I’ve said they are to expect a message. The boy for the sapphire.”
Paar shrugged. “We will see what they say in the morning.”
Paar stood aside as the Burmese man returned, carrying a tray on which balanced a pot of tea and teacups. It made such an absurd sight that if the circumstances had been different, Harriet would have laughed.
He set the tray down on the table and, with a gesture from Paar, untied Harriet’s restraints. Harriet let out a sigh of relief, moving her fingers to try to restore the circulation. Paar poured the tea and handed her the cup. She drank thankfully and greedily, holding out the cup for more.
When Paar had poured it, she stood up and leaned over Lawson, holding the cup to his lips.
“Drink,” she said. “You’re badly dehydrated.”
As her hand brushed the man’s unshaven cheek, heat radiated from him.
“Are you feverish?” she asked.
He closed his eyes. “Could be,” he said. “Head aches like the devil.”
Harriet straightened and looked at Paar. “Untie this man. He’s hurt and ill.”
Paar ran a hand through his dark hair. “My orders are to keep you restrained. You will have to wait until they return.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Harriet demanded. “Who are the VOC?”
Paar’s eyes widened. “What do you know about the VOC?”
Harriet shook her head. “Only what Visscher told me.”
Paar threw his head back. “Visscher! Visscher poked his nose in where it was none of his business. He should have just turned away.”
“Is that why he had to die?” Harriet asked.
Paar’s silence gave her the answer.
She sank back on the chair. “What now?”
Paar glanced at his companion. “Take the woman and the boy and lock them up.” He addressed Harriet. “They won’t be here until the morning so I suggest you get some rest.”
The Burmese man hauled Will up by his arm and, pulling one of the revolvers from his waistband, he gestured at Harriet. She rose to her feet and, with a quick backward glance at John Lawson, preceded her captor out into the darkened corridor.
The door slammed shut behind them.
The only relief from the darkness seemed to be a small square high up in the wall, through which she could glimpse a few twinkling stars. These rooms were not designed for comfort; they were merely shelters for the servants. At best they might contain a bed or a sleeping mat but not much else.
Beside her, Will gulped and she drew the boy into her, allowing them both to sink down to the floor.
She sat with her back against the wall, holding Will as the child finally gave in to the stress and misery of the last twenty-four hours. He had been so brave but he was still only a nine-year-old child, lost in a confusing world where the adults in his life had only ever let him down. His mother had died and now his father, wounded and beaten, had been the cause of the most terrifying time of his life. He needed to cry; he needed to be held, comforted and told it would be all right.
Exhausted and emotionally battered, Harriet thought of happier times when she had been part of a family. James Gordon, laughing as he lifted his baby son up. She could not have imagined that it would ever be any different.
James had left her, and Thomas, that happy child who would throw his arms around her and tell her how much he loved her, had been taken from her too. She, more than anyone, understood the desolation of desertion.
Now she held another woman’s child in her arms and she knew she owed it to that dead mother to do everything in her power to shield this child from fear and danger.
She bent and kissed Will’s hair. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It will be all right.”
TWENTY-SIX
Wednesday, 16 March 1910
As day broke over South Bridge Road, Curran paced his office. All the available information indicated that the carriage had taken the Beach Road heading east. East to where? He surveyed the map on the wall in his office and shook his head. Jungle and fishing villages. They could be anywhere.
He slumped down on his chair and rested his elbows on the desk, running his fingers through his hair. He had rarely felt so useless in his life. Until he received a message from the kidnappers, all Curran could do was sit and wait.
To occupy his mind, he laid the physical evidence out on his desk and his focus moved to the two identical statues of the Buddha, one the genuine antique from Newbold’s study, the other a smaller replica. He tapped his pen on the original, antique statue. It was undeniably beautiful, the long fingers of the Buddha curled in his lap, his closed eyes downcast.
He picked up the replica. It had been very neatly done and, viewed by an inexperienced eye, apart from size, the two were nearly identical. There would be several homes on the Continent now boasting a genuine forged antique Burmese statue.
Newbold—Newbold was the key to the whole conspiracy. The man with the painted face, Li An had called him on the first day. She had been right.
Drawing a sheet of paper toward him, he wrote NEWBOLD and LAWSON and drew a line between them. He drew a circle around Lawson’s name and added notes. Motive: Connected to the ruby-smuggling operation? Stolen sapphire? Means: Dha already used to finish off Newbold but second knife used in initial attack on Newbold and to kill servant? Opportunity . . .
Lawson’s movements on the weekend Newbold died had not been hard to track. He had arrived in town with the rubber shipment on Saturday morning. It had been delivered to a godown on Boat Quay and Lawson had taken a room at a nearby hotel. In the afternoon he had met with the owners of the plantation. According to the chairman, the board was not pleased with Lawson and were considering sacking him. He had persuaded them to keep him on for a little longer.
Lawson had retired to a bar to drown his sorrows, not returning to the hotel until the early hours of Sunday morning. He had not reappeared until the early afternoon, when he had left his hotel and returned to the same bar, where he spent the afternoon drinking alone, and heavily, until around five, returning once more to the hotel around eleven. The hours between six in the evening and eleven on that Sunday night, the hours when Newbold had died, were unaccounted for.
Curran wrote, Opportunity: No alibi for night of murder.
He sat back and considered the paper and underlined the word Motive.
Lawson was cheating the thieves. He had stolen the stolen sapphire. At least, Curran assumed, it was a stolen sapphire.
He picked up the scrap of paper he had found in Visscher’s Bible with the remains of the initials VOC and studied it thoughtfully. Lawson had been back in Kranji on Monday, so even if he had something to do with Newbold’s death, he was innocent of Visscher’s.
He dipped his pen in the ink and down the side of his paper he wrote the initials VOC.
Against O he wrote OSWALD NEWBOLD? And against C he wrote CARRUTHERS? Carruthers. Yes, there was a strong connection to Newbold and the man may have had a motive to kill him, based on his father’s participation and death on Newbold’s expedition.
That left V . . . the dominant letter. Who was this V that held them all together?
Leaving that for a moment he went back to his conversation with Maddocks and wrote AMSTERDAM in capital let
ters and circled it. Gem dealers or . . . ? He straightened in his chair. Cornilissen, the dealer in Asian antiquities and gems. Was it coincidental that Cornilissen was in Singapore?
Another C. He wrote the name beside Carruthers’s.
Newbold, Cornilissen and Visscher all had one thing in common. A connection with the Hotel Van Wijk. The proprietor of the Hotel Van Wijk was . . . VAN GELDER.
He let out a deep breath and wrote the name next to the initial V.
Jumping up from his desk, he threw open the door to his office and yelled for Singh and his constable.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Harriet sat up, stiff and sore from sleeping on the unyielding wooden floor. She swallowed, trying to restore some moisture to her parched mouth, and pushed her disordered hair out of her eyes as she surveyed her prison. A fitful daylight struggled in through the only window set high up in the wall of the tiny and airless room. As she had surmised in the dark, it contained no furniture except the one thin sleeping mat, which she had given to Will.
Exhausted from the ordeal, Will slept, curled up like a little dog on the mat. Harriet smiled and pushed a lock of matted hair away from the boy’s pale, tearstained face. Let him sleep. She just hoped his dreams were pleasant.
The atmosphere in the room was close and stuffy and smelled of bad drains. A jug of water and a tin cup had been placed by the door and a covered bucket stood in one corner. She realized with mingled horror and relief that it was there for her convenience.
Her watch showed the time as seven thirty. By the time Will had settled, Harriet had been so weary that she had no problem falling asleep. Lying awake and worrying did not help the situation and she would need all her wits about her to get through the day ahead.
She stood up and stretched her cramped limbs. Stepping over the still-slumbering child, Harriet poured a cup of water. She forced herself to drink it slowly, savoring each mouthful before swallowing. Who knew how long she needed to make it last?
The sound of the water hitting the tin cup woke the boy and he sat up, looking around him with red-rimmed, bleary eyes.
“Where’s Papa?” he asked.
“I’m sure he’s not far away,” she said, hoping that John Lawson had been similarly incarcerated and was no longer tied to a chair in the living room. She didn’t like to think about the alternative, but she was under no illusions. They had fallen into the hands of ruthless individuals who would not quibble at the life of a man who had tried to cheat them at their own game.
“Papa’s in trouble, isn’t he?” Will said.
Harriet nodded. No point in making light of the situation. They were all in trouble.
Will’s mouth tightened and Harriet, familiar with the bashfulness of small boys, understood his dilemma. She explained the delicacies of the bucket and the boy flushed beetroot red. Harriet promised not to look and busied herself pouring him a cup of the tepid, brackish water.
Lacking a comb or a washcloth, she did the best she could to tidy her hair and her clothes, and their ablutions complete, there seemed nothing for it but to sit and wait . . . and wait.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Breakfast was still being served in the dining room of the Van Wijk as Curran marched into the reception area, followed by Sergeant Singh and Constable Greaves. An unfamiliar Chinese clerk on the desk scuttled into the back room in response to Curran’s demand to see Van Gelder. Curran didn’t wait. He followed on the boy’s heels and arrived at the door of Van Gelder’s office just as the hotel manager rose to his feet.
“Inspector Curran, it’s very early . . .” Van Gelder began, a whine of annoyance in his voice.
“Sit down,” Curran ordered. “Singh, stay with me. Greaves, clear the office and make sure no one comes in.”
Van Gelder subsided into his chair and mopped his forehead with a spotted handkerchief as with a curt nod Curran turned to his sergeant. Singh set the large parcel he carried down on the desk and pulled off the wrapping to reveal Lawson’s forged statue.
“Have you seen this before?” Curran inquired.
Van Gelder stared at the object for a long moment and shook his head. “No, should I have?”
Curran had hardly expected a full admission but the bewilderment in the man’s eyes seemed genuine and a nagging doubt tugged at the back of his mind where previously he had been so certain.
He changed the subject, hoping to catch Van Gelder off guard.
“Where’s Cornilissen?”
Van Gelder, his gaze still riveted to the statue, mopped his face once more and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. He straightened his shoulders and looked up, on surer ground now.
“He will be at the godown on Clarke Quay. He has a shipment of antiquities being loaded this morning.”
Curran’s mind raced. He wanted to question Van Gelder, but if the rest of the rubies were in Cornilissen’s shipment, it had to be stopped.
“Which ship?” Curran demanded.
“The Tasman. It sails tonight.”
Curran turned on his heel. “Singh . . . take Mr. Van Gelder straight to South Bridge Road. No phone calls, no contact with anyone.”
Van Gelder rose to his feet. “Inspector, I must protest . . . I have done nothing!”
“Protest all you wish, Mr. Van Gelder. I will speak with you later.” He threw the office door open. “Greaves, with me.” Halfway across the office he turned and looked back at Van Gelder. “Do you know which godown?”
Van Gelder’s neat moustache twitched. “It is a private godown. Toward Ord Road with a green door.”
As Singh took the man by the elbow, preparatory to leading him out, Van Gelder pulled back. “Please, not through the hotel. It will upset the guests.” He gestured at a side door. “We can go out that way.”
Singh glanced at Curran, who nodded, and as Singh and Van Gelder crossed to the door, it opened and Mrs. Van Gelder stood framed in the doorway. She looked from her husband to the policemen and back to her husband.
“Henrik? What is happening?”
Van Gelder held up a hand. “Nothing to concern you, my dear. These gentlemen have some questions for me and I am going with them to the Central Police Station.”
Mrs. Van Gelder turned her blue eyes on Curran. “Are you arresting my husband?”
Curran shook his head. “No. He is merely helping us with our inquiries.”
Van Gelder attempted to wrest his arm from Singh’s grip. Singh glanced at Curran, who nodded. The large policeman released his hold. Van Gelder straightened his collar and drew himself up, his head barely reaching Singh’s shoulder.
“Please, just one thing before we go. My dear, have you seen Paar this morning?” Van Gelder sounded querulous. “I need him to cover for me, while I am away.”
Mrs. Van Gelder shook her head. “It is his day off. I have no idea where he is. He did not come down for breakfast this morning. I will return to the house and see if he is there.” She turned and looked back at her husband. “And if he isn’t? You know what he is like on his days off.”
“Then you will have to cover for me, my dear.”
Mrs. Van Gelder stiffened. “But I am going out. I am meeting friends at John Little’s tearoom.”
“Then you will have to send word that you are detained. Nothing is more important than our guests.”
Mrs. Van Gelder’s rosebud mouth turned down at the corners. A morning rendezvous with friends spoiled, Curran thought.
Singh bustled Van Gelder away, leaving Curran alone with Mrs. Van Gelder. He was not greatly versed in the ways of women but she didn’t seem dressed for an excursion to Raffles Place. Apart from the practical but inelegant sola topee and the large, leather handbag she clutched, she wore a plain dark-blue skirt and a light-blue shirt, more like the sort of working dress that Harriet Gordon would wear.
“You surely don’t suspect my husband of in
volvement in anything illegal, do you?”
“I am investigating serious crimes, Mrs. Van Gelder, and your husband can probably help me.”
She shrugged. “That is doubtful. He notices nothing. Now, if you will excuse me, Inspector, I should see if I can find that lazy boy.”
Catching her skirt in her hand, she turned to head back toward the manager’s bungalow.
“Let me escort you,” Curran said.
She paused and looked back at him. “There is no need. I am sure the idle lad is still in bed.”
“I have one or two questions for him,” Curran lied. He didn’t know himself quite why he needed to see Stefan Paar but his policeman’s instincts prickled, his sense of unease growing as he mounted the steps and Mrs. Van Gelder ushered him into the parlor.
“You wait here. I will fetch him,” she said, turning for the stairs, but Curran moved ahead of her, taking the stairs two at a time.
He flung open the door without knocking. In one sweep of the room he saw Paar’s bed had not been slept in. Clothing lay scattered around the room and the door to Paar’s wardrobe and the drawers of his chest stood open, clothing spilling from them, as if the occupant had rushed into the room and changed hurriedly. On the other side of the room, Visscher’s bed had been stripped of all bedding, the mattress rolled up.
“See.” Viktoria Van Gelder shrugged. “He probably spent the night with a girl in Serangoon Road. He is a godless heathen.”
Curran walked over to Paar’s bed and stooped to pick up the crumpled, sweat-stained white jacket of his uniform.
“Was there anything else, Inspector?” Her foot tapped. Clearly she was in a hurry to be somewhere.
Curran hesitated. “With your permission, Mrs. Van Gelder, I would like to search this room again.”
Mrs. Van Gelder scowled. It was not an attractive look on her round face. “Why?”
“I am still investigating the death of Visscher and I want to be sure my men didn’t miss anything.”
He thought he detected the faintest flicker of hesitation in her eyes. “Of course, but I will stay.”
