by A. M. Stuart
“It would be quite proper for you to do so.” Curran gave her the benefit of his most charming smile.
Paar’s wardrobe, like Visscher’s, contained the usual clerks’ white ducks. He searched pockets and shoes and, finding nothing, turned to the chest of drawers. Paar’s sparse possessions were jumbled into the drawers without any order or concern. Curran searched each drawer from corner to corner, turned over the mattress, went through the nightstand and learned nothing about Paar. There were no personal letters, no photographs, nothing. Like Visscher, any item of personal use, such as a razor, was also missing. Paar had gone.
Curran stood in the middle of the room, looking at the young man’s world.
Where would I hide something I didn’t want anyone to find?
He turned back to the chest of drawers, removing all the drawers and checking the undersides. With the drawers out, he ran a hand across the internal spaces of the chest and gave a grunt of satisfaction as his questing fingers touched leather. Peering up, he could see that a space had been made between the two top drawers, allowing a leather folio to be secreted securely, invisible to the curious eye.
He pulled it out and smiled as he scanned the documents it contained. Trust a clerk to keep an accurate record of the illegal transactions. He had it all right there in neat columns: the date the “goods” (which lacked any further description) arrived, the quantity, the amount paid to JL—John Lawson, he assumed—and the outgoing manifest right down to what ship it had been transported on.
On a separate sheet of paper, folded and tucked into the back of the book, he found the details of the payments made to Paar for his role. What the records didn’t tell him was who was paying the young man. The only indication were three letters: VOC.
Everything came back to VOC.
The last piece fell into place as he withdrew a sheet of paper, the corner of which had been torn away, leaving only the diagonal line of the V and its superimposed letter C. Without doubt it matched the torn scrap Visscher had secreted in his Bible. Had Visscher found the ledger and made the connections?
He turned to Mrs. Van Gelder, who stared at the folio in his hand, her expression unreadable.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Have you ever seen it before?”
She raised two wide blue eyes to meet his. “Never.”
“It is evidence that your Mr. Paar and possibly Visscher were involved in something illegal, Mrs. Van Gelder. Tell me, have you ever heard either of them mention the letters VOC?”
She laughed. “The VOC is the old Dutch East India Company, Inspector. It has been defunct for years. Now, if you have what you want, I must return to the hotel.”
Curran replaced the drawers and turned to the woman. “If Mr. Paar returns here or to the hotel, you are to say nothing to him. Telephone the Detective Branch at the Central Police Station and leave a message for me that he has returned.”
She nodded but said without enthusiasm, “This is all terribly inconvenient, Inspector.”
Curran raised his eyebrows. “Murder is,” he said, and bade her good morning.
Singh had taken Van Gelder away in the motor vehicle but there were plenty of rickshas waiting at the stand outside the hotel. Before he followed after Van Gelder, he took Greaves aside, silently cursing not bringing one of the local constables with him. A European policeman loitering outside the hotel was more likely to attract attention.
“Stay here and watch the hotel,” Curran ordered. “Keep yourself out of sight. I’ll send one of the undercover constables to relieve you shortly.”
“What am I watching for?”
“I want to know if Stefan Paar returns, and if he does, bring him into custody. And”—he lowered his voice—“if Mrs. Van Gelder leaves the hotel, I want her followed.”
“But I can’t follow Mrs. Van Gelder and watch out for Paar,” Greaves pointed out.
Curran frowned and said without conscious thought, “Follow her.”
As Curran strode across to the ricksha stand, a familiar red motor vehicle, driven by Colonel Foster, pulled up beside him. Foster pushed up his driving goggles and hailed Curran.
“I say, Curran, what brings you here at this hour of the morning?”
“Colonel, good morning,” Curran said.
Foster glanced in the direction taken by the police motor vehicle. “What’s going on here? Was that Van Gelder in your motor vehicle that I just passed?”
Curran had no interest in indulging the idle curiosity of passersby, however well acquainted he was with them.
“If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I don’t have the time to stop and chat.”
“Of course.” Foster glanced up at the hotel. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
Curran hesitated. “If you can drop me back at South Bridge Road?”
“Of course, hop in, my boy.”
As Foster turned back into Stamford Road, Curran came to regret his decision as the colonel wove in and out of the traffic, scattering pedestrians and scaring ricksha wallahs.
“Where’s your driver?” Curran gasped.
“On other duties. Anyway, I like to drive this beauty. One of the first motor vehicles on the island.” He patted the steering wheel affectionately.
With white knuckles Curran gripped the side of the vehicle and could not restrain a yelp as a hapless ricksha was sent skittering to the side of the road, almost tipping its passenger into the drain.
With a squeal of brakes Foster drew up in front of the Central Police Station and Curran dismounted to solid ground and with some relief thanked the colonel. Foster fired the vehicle back up and with a cheery wave and a cry of “My breakfast calls,” executed a turn across the traffic and disappeared back in the direction of the Van Wijk.
Curran hefted a thankful sigh for his safe delivery and turned to enter the building and organize his forces.
TWENTY-NINE
Normally Curran enjoyed the shifting tide of humanity to be found crowding the quayside down on the Singapore River. Chinese, Malay, Indian, Arab and African cultures met on the slimy steps leading down to the river, where the little bumboats crowded the water, waiting for the consignments of goods to be loaded so they could take them out to the cargo ships waiting in Keppel Harbour. The goods themselves, everything from rubber and gambier and spices through to fine china and antiques, were housed in godowns—warehouses fronting the quay—owned by shipping companies or private individuals.
But today the stench from the river and the crowds caused even Curran’s nose to twitch. He made his way to the customs office to wait for his men.
Singh, Tan and two other uniformed constables arrived within the half hour.
“Expecting trouble, sir?” Singh inquired after Curran had ordered his men to unbuckle the holsters of their Webleys and have the weapons ready.
“Yes. We are looking for a godown with a green door near the Ord Road bridge,” Curran replied.
“And what will we find there?”
“We are looking for the forged statues Lawson brought to town on Saturday,” Curran said.
The men glanced at one another and Singh nodded. Accompanied by a sweating customs officer clutching bills of lading, Curran and his men plunged into the crowd.
The authority of uniform caused the crowd to part like the Red Sea. Many of the men of all races who inhabited the port area preferred not to be seen, let alone spoken to, by the police and slunk away into the shadows and alleyways as the officials passed.
Nothing distinguished the godown they were seeking from its neighbors, except the faded and chipped paint on the door. It had long since ceased to have any natural affinity to the color green. Indeed, the color of the mold and damp that stained its walls was brighter.
Curran did not knock. With his hand on the butt of the Webley, he opened the door and stepped into the glo
omy interior.
It took a moment or two for his eyes to adjust but the unmistakable tall, angular figure of Cornilissen standing in the middle of the floor immediately caught his attention. Cornilissen was neatly dressed in a frock coat and he held a leather folder. Around him were tea chests and other wooden boxes of varying sizes, some with their lids still ajar, fresh straw spilling out onto the floor.
As the door swung open, Cornilissen removed his glasses and set the folder down on the nearest box.
His eyes flicked to the party of officials now blocking the doorway. “Inspector Curran, is there a problem?”
“Your bill of lading?” Curran held out his hand.
“I must protest!” Cornilissen exclaimed. “This cargo must be loaded this morning. My ship sails this evening.”
When Curran did not reply, Cornilissen glared at him and handed over the leather folder. Curran flicked through the papers. They contained an impressive list of objets d’art that would, no doubt, fetch a pretty penny on the European market. He handed the papers to the customs official to compare against his list.
“Search,” he said to his men, adding, “gently,” as one of the larger constables bumped against a chest, causing Cornilissen to gasp and reach out a hand as if to steady the box.
The men began cracking open boxes to reveal elegant rosewood furniture, no doubt pilfered from China, as well as fine china and statuary that had probably been looted from temples in Indochina.
The customs man handed back the bill of lading, indicating a line that read: Statues, stone, Shan period Burmese. Quantity four.
Curran gave a grunt of satisfaction and pointed out the item to the agitated Dutchman.
“It would save us time and you further expense and the risk of damage if you were to indicate which box these statues are in.”
Cornilissen glanced at the policemen with their crowbars surrounded by splintered wood and sawdust. He heaved a sigh and indicated two wooden chests.
Curran nodded and one of the men stepped forward, levering open the lid of the first chest. He stood back to allow Curran to search the box.
Curran pulled out the packing straw, revealing two wooden boxes, identical to the one he had found in Will Lawson’s trunk. The lid had been secured with screws. A screwdriver lay on the table and he undid the screws and lifted off the lid. With the sense of anticipation he had as a child for a long-awaited Christmas present, he slowly unwrapped the well-shrouded figure, setting the smaller copy of Newbold’s statue on its waisted podium on the table. Buddha’s closed eyes inclined downward as if looking at the long-fingered hand that lay in his lap. The elongated lobes of his ears rested on his shoulders.
“That’s what you were after?” The customs officer leafed through his own file. “Receipts look to be in order.”
“I think you’ll find they’re forged,” Curran said. He turned the statue upside down and, using the screwdriver, began to scrape at the plaster of paris that concealed the hidden cavity. Cornilissen let out a squawk and lurched forward but Singh’s heavy hand on his shoulder prevented him from reaching Curran.
As the powdery flakes drifted to the table, every head in the room strained forward for a better look. Curran eased the well-wrapped package from its hiding place. He undid the string securing the package and let the stones fall to the table. The gentle thunk of the uncut rubies hitting wood echoed around the silent room. Someone gasped and every face turned from the stones to Cornilissen.
Cornilissen’s face shone with perspiration in the close gloom of the godown.
“I must speak with my wife,” Cornilissen demanded. “She knows nothing, Inspector. I need to reassure her . . .”
“About what precisely, Mr. Cornilissen? You’ve been caught in the act of smuggling stolen goods out of Singapore. You will certainly be going to prison. I’m not sure how she would find that reassuring.”
A muscle in Cornilissen’s cheek twitched.
“Tan, secure this man and take him to South Bridge. You men, I want those two boxes resealed and brought with him.”
“Sir . . .” Singh had pulled back the lid from another wooden box and he gestured for Curran to inspect the contents.
Curran let out a snort of laughter. Two large Chinese vases of some antiquity nestled in the straw and sawdust. Another mystery solved. Cuscaden would be pleased.
“Chin Lee’s stolen vases, unless I am gravely mistaken.” Curran turned back to face Cornilissen. “My dear Mr. Cornilissen, you will not be leaving Singapore for quite some time.”
Cornilissen sank down onto a stool and covered his face in his hands.
Curran waited patiently as the formalities were concluded and Cornilissen and the men with him had left. Alone with Sergeant Singh and two remaining constables, Curran surveyed the gloomy, dank interior of the godown. As the heat of the day intensified, the atmosphere inside the building grew more unpleasant.
Curran looked up at the heavy beams of the old building. There would be another floor above this one and he had a feeling that this godown had more secrets to reveal.
“I want every inch of this building searched from top to bottom,” he ordered.
“What are we looking for?” Singh inquired.
“The boy,” Curran replied grimly.
He remained downstairs, intending to go through boxes while Singh led the search on the upper floor.
After only a few minutes, Singh summoned Curran to a small room on the top floor at the back of the building. Singh had lit a lantern and held it up. Curran recoiled, holding his sleeve to his nose at the rotting stench of the slaughterhouse.
The dark, oppressive, windowless space contained nothing except a table and a chair. Ropes had been piled on the table and around the chair. A dark, noisome substance stained the floor around the innocuous piece of furniture. A man’s shoe had been kicked under the table.
Curran stooped and picked it up, knowing that he had seen its pair. It had been Visscher who had been tied to that chair and had bled to death, his throat cut to the bone.
He skirted the chair with its grisly patina of dried blood. As if he needed confirmation that it had been Visscher who had been held and died in this room he found a small leather suitcase, thrown into a corner of the room, its contents strewn around it as if it had been hastily searched. He turned to Singh, who stood in the doorway, his face, as usual, implacable.
“Pack this up and bring it to South Bridge and when Greaves gets back to Headquarters, send him down here. We need photographs and fingerprints.”
At the door, he took one last look around the miserable room, raising the lantern high above his head. The swinging light illuminated something he had not noticed before. It had been kicked against the far wall and lay half-hidden among a pile of leaves and other debris, a flash of red among the dust and detritus. Curran stooped and picked up the St. Thomas school tie. His lip curled in anger.
The bastards had kept William Lawson in this ghastly room.
THIRTY
Although Harriet schooled herself not to look at her watch, the minutes and the hours dragged with leaden feet and by midmorning her patience with inaction had worn thin.
If they’re going to kill us, why not do it now? she thought as she looked up at the window.
It was too small and too high off the ground for a grown woman but a small boy could, with a bit of help, probably squeeze through it. She glanced down at Will.
“If I lift you up, can you tell me what you see out of that window?”
The boy nodded and Harriet hoisted him up on her shoulders as she used to do with Thomas. Will was older and a little heavier than Thomas. The badly healed wound in her heart gaped open and she had to swallow back the old grief that sometimes threatened to engulf her as it had done in the long days and weeks after her stay in Holloway. She could not succumb to it now. It was a self-indulgence that,
under the circumstances, she did not need.
“What do you see?” she asked.
The boy craned his head. “We’re at the back of a big house. The kitchen is on our left.”
“Are there any other houses nearby?”
“Can’t see any. Just palm trees and jungle at the back.”
“How far to the ground?”
The boy craned forward. “There’s a big bush underneath.”
“Does the window open?”
Will jiggled the latch.
“It’s stuck,” he said.
“Damn,” Harriet swore. “It’s probably rusted shut. I’m going to let you down and see if I can find a tool we can use to loosen the catch.”
After casting around the cell and finding nothing useful, she pulled out a long, glass-headed hairpin and inspected it. While it might not be of much use as a tool for moving rusty windows, it could make quite a useful weapon. She tucked it into the top of her boot and pulled out one of her ordinary pins, causing her hair to tumble down her back.
“You have long hair,” the boy observed. “So did Mama. I used to watch her brushing it. Papa said it looked like spun gold.”
No one had ever described Harriet’s ordinary brown hair as “spun gold.” She pulled the boy in toward her and kissed the top of his head.
“Are you feeling brave?” she whispered.
He looked up at her, his eyes huge in his dirty face. “What do you want me to do?”
“If we can get that window open, I want you to squeeze through it and then run as hard as you can, as far away from this place as you can get.”
His grave little face seemed to consider her for a long moment before he said, “What about you and Papa?”
“We’re adults; we can take care of ourselves.”
And we will both be much better off knowing that we are not worrying about you, she thought.
She hoisted Will back up onto her shoulders. Weakened by lack of sleep and food, Harriet had to keep letting the boy down to allow herself to gather her strength. He scraped and scratched but the window remained obstinately rusted shut.
