A Lotus for Miss Quon

by James Hadley Chase

  He stood staring at the telephone, his heart contracting with shock.

  Who could it be? Someone wanting to come round? Someone inviting him for a drink?

  He was too frightened to answer the telephone. He might get caught up in one of those ghastly chit-chats that could go on and on and on.

  He remained motionless, staring at the telephone. The bell continued to ring: the sound tore at his nerves. He realized that Dong Ham and the girl must also be listening to the bell. They were probably standing as motionless as himself, looking at each other, wondering why he wasn’t answering the telephone.

  The bell abruptly ceased to ring. The sudden silence in the room pressed down on him. Carefully, he stepped away from the broken pieces of glass. He must get out of the house, he told himself. He couldn’t stay here a minute longer. Later, he would come back, but right now, until his nerves settled, he must get out.

  He went quickly up the stairs, took off his shorts and had a shower. He put on a pair of trousers and a shirt that were lying on a chair, thus avoiding opening the closet. He checked his money and was dismayed to find he had only 500 piastres in his wallet. He rummaged among his handkerchiefs in a drawer in his closet and found another too piastres note.

  This wasn’t so good, he thought. He needed money. If he was going to get out of the country, he would have to have money. His mouth tightened when he remembered it was Sunday and the banks were closed. He would have to cash a cheque at one of the hotels. He was pretty well known now in Saigon. It surely wouldn’t be difficult to get some hotel to cash his cheque.

  As he was about to leave the room, he suddenly remembered he had left the diamonds in the hip pocket of his shorts and this forgetfulness frightened him.

  I must pull myself together he told himself as he took the envelope from the pocket of the shorts. I’m risking my neck for these stones and here I am, walking out without them.

  He opened the envelope and examined the stones under the ceiling lamp. The sight of them sent a surge of excitement through him.

  He returned to the sitting-room and searched in his desk drawer for something more solid to hold the diamonds. He decided on an empty typewriter ribbon box. He put the diamonds into the box, again pausing to admire them, then put the box in his trouser pocket. He found his cheque book which he put in his wallet, then he walked into the kitchen and looked across the courtyard through the slit in the shutter.

  Dong Ham was squatting outside the cookhouse door, staring blankly towards him. There was no sign of the girl. Wondering where she had got to, Jaffe returned to the sitting-room and looked through the shutters into the street beyond. He stiffened when he saw the girl squatting on the edge of the kerb opposite, looking towards the house.

  These two obviously suspected something, he thought, but with the inevitable, dim-witted Asian patience they were waiting to see what happened. But at the same time, they were taking no chances. While the old man watched the back door, the girl was watching the front.

  At this moment, he was past caring. He had to get away from the atmosphere of the house.

  He took a last look around the room, then he picked up his car keys, the key of the back door and the newspaper parcel and went into the kitchen. He slid back the bolt, opened the back door and stepped into the stifling heat of the evening sun. Studiously ignoring Dong Ham, he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. As he passed the old man o his way to the garage, he said, without looking at him, TI be back late. No dinner.”

  He drove the red Dauphine which he had bought when he had first come to Saigon because of its ease of parking, down the short runway to the double gates. He stopped the car, got out and opened the gates, aware of the girl, staring intently at him.

  He got into the car, and leaving the gates wide open, he drove fast towards the centre of the town.

  2

  Sam Wade (Second Secretary: Information. United States Embassy) parked his Chrysler car outside the Majestic Hotel, and heaved his bulk out on to the sidewalk. He paused to look across the road at the miniature golf course where two Vietnamese girls were playing with considerable skill watched by a large crowd of Sunday loafers.

  He thought the two girls in their blue tunic sheaths and white silk trousers made an attractive picture. He never ceased to admire the Vietnamese girls. Their charms for him were as sharp edged as when he had first come to Saigon eighteen months ago.

  Sam Wade was a squat, fat man, balding, with a red, good-natured face. He wasn’t brilliant at his work, but he was well liked and known for his weakness for women and loud pattern Hawaii shirts.

  Freshly shaved and showered, and basking in the glory of a new colourful shirt, Sam Wade felt on top of the world. He had spent the afternoon water skiing. In half an hour’s time, he had a date with a Chinese girl with whom he had arranged to spend the night. So for Sam Wade, the world was revolving satisfactorily.

  He entered the empty bar of the Majestic Hotel and lowered his bulk into a chair with a grunt of satisfaction.

  The ceiling fans revolved lazily, stirring the hot, humid air. In a little while, the bar would become crowded but for the moment, Wade appreciated having the place to himself. He ordered a double whisky on the rocks, lit a cigar and stretched out his short fat legs.

  After the inevitable delay the whisky was placed before him, and he savoured his first drink of the day.

  Leaning back in his chair, he regarded the activity of the street outside with its traffic of cycle rickshaws, known in Saigon as pousse-pousse, the dangerously driven motor cycles and the stream of bicycles ridden by the Vietnamese. He spotted Jaffe’s red Dauphine as it pulled out of the stream of traffic and edged its way to a standstill behind his Chrysler car.

  Watching him, as Jaffe crossed the sidewalk and came into the bar, Wade thought he looked fine drawn and worried.

  He thought: looks as if he has something on his mind. Maybe he’s got a touch of dysentery.

  He raised a fat hand in greeting when he caught Jaffe’s eye. He was puzzled to see the big, muscular man hesitate as if he were in two minds whether to join him or not. With an obvious effort, he came over, pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Hi, Steve,” Wade said and smiled, “what’ll you have?”

  “A Scotch I guess,” Jaffe said and fumbled for a cigarette. “That’s a hell of a shirt you’re wearing.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it?” Wade smiled complacently. “It even scares me a little,” and he laughed. He ordered a double Scotch and soda for Jaffe and paid for both drinks. “I didn’t see you on the river this afternoon.”

  Jaffe shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “No,” he said in a cold, flat voice. “Have you been skiing?” He was telling himself it had been a mistake to come into the bar. He should have gone immediately to the desk, cashed his cheque and left. He should have remembered you always ran into someone you knew at the Majestic bar.

  Wade said he had been skiing. He grumbled about the filth of the Saigon river while Jaffe only half listened.

  Seeing he wasn’t holding Jaffe’s interest, Wade said, “I’ve got hold of a piece of Chinese tail for tonight,” and he leered. “She’s a real dish. I ran into her at L’Arc-en-Ciel the other night. If she performs the way she looks, I’m in for one hell of a night.”

  Looking at the fat, good natured man who lolled opposite him, Jaffe felt a sharp twinge of envy. He too expected to have a hell of a night, but horribly different from the one Wade was anticipating. In an hour or so, he would have to decide what he was going to do, and on that decision, his freedom and life depended.

  “Apart from the girls and the Chinese food,” Wade was saying, “this is a hell of a dump to live in. I’ll be mighty gladwhen I go home. These goddam restrictions give me a pain in the pants.”

  Jaffe was staring past Wade out on to the street at the two Vietnamese policemen who lounged outside the hotel; small, brown-skinned men in white drill with peak caps and revolvers at their hips. The sight o
f them gave him a sickish feeling. He wondered how Wade would react if he told him he had murdered Haum and had hidden his body in his clothes closet.

  “I see you’re still running that little car,” he heard Wade say and realized the fat man had been talking for some time and he hadn’t been listening to what he had been saying. “Do you still like it?”

  Jaffe dragged his mind away from his problem.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m hiving trouble with the automatic choke, but the car wasn’t new when I bought it.”

  “Well, I guess it’s handy for parking, but give me a big car,” Wade said and glanced at his wrist-watch. The time was three minutes to seven. He got to his feet. As he stood beside Jaffe, he wondered what was bothering he guy. He seemed so far away and unfriendly. This wasn’t like Jaffe. Usually he was a good guy to drink with. “Are you okay, Steve?”

  Jaffe looked up sharply. Wade had an uneasy idea he was suddenly scared.

  “I’m all right,” Jaffe said.

  Wade frowned at him, then gave up.

  “Watch out you’re not sickening for a dose of dysentery,” he said. “I’ve got to run along. I promised to feed my girl friend before she performs. See you, pal.”

  As soon as Wade had driven away, Jaffe took out his cheque book and wrote out a cheque for 4,000 piastres.

  He went over to the reception desk and asked the clerk if he would cash the cheque. The clerk, a pleasant-faced Vietnamese who knew Jaffe, asked him politely to wait. He disappeared into the Manager’s office, reappeared in a moment or so, and smiling, handed Jaffe eight five-hundred piastre notes.

  Relieved, Jaffe thanked him and tucked the notes into his wallet. He left the hotel and drove up Tu-Do and parked outside the Caravelle Hotel. He entered and asked the reception clerk if he could cash him a cheque. Here again, the clerk knew him, and after a brief visit to the Manager’s office, he cashed Jaffe’s cheque for another 4,000 piastres.

  As he was leaving the hotel, he paused abruptly in the entrance, feeling his heart give a violent kick against his side.

  A policeman was standing by the red Dauphine, his back to Jaffe. He appeared to be examining the car.

  A few hours ago such an occurrence would have merely irritated Jaffe and he would have gone to the policeman and asked him what he was looking at, but now the sight of the little man in his white uniform frightened Jaffe so badly he had to resist the urge to run.

  He remained motionless, watching the policeman who moved slowly to the front of the car and looked at the number plate, then he slouched away, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt to pause a little further up the street to examine yet another car.

  Jaffe drew in a sharp breath of relief. He went down the steps to his car, unlocked it and climbed in. He glanced at his wrist-watch. The time was twenty-five minutes past seven. He drove back to the river, past the Club Nautique where he could see a number of people on the terrace having drinks before dinner, on towards the bridge that led to the docks. He pulled up by the little ornamental garden by the bridge, parked his car and went into the garden. At this hour it was deserted except for two Vietnamese who sat on a seat under a tree: a boy and a girl, their arms around each other.

  Jaffe moved well away from them and sat in the shade. He lit a cigarette. Now was the time, he told himself, to decide what he was to do. He had a certain amount of money. He had to get out of Vietnam. He couldn’t hope to do this without help. He considered for a moment a quick dash to the frontier in the hope he could get to Phnom-Penh where he was certain to get a plane to Hong Kong, but the risk and difficulties were too great. If it weren’t for the diamonds, he would have been prepared to take the risk, but it would be stupid, he told himself, now that he had a potential fortune in his pocket to go off at half-cock. He was sure that somehow, given the right contacts, it would be possible to get new identity papers and an exit visa. He would have to change his appearance of course. That shouldn’t be difficult. He could grow a moustache, bleach his hair, wear glasses.

  He had read often enough of people obtaining false passports. Exactly how this was done, he hadn’t the faintest idea. It would probably be easier to get a faked passport in Hong Kong and have it brought to him here than it would to attempt to get it in Saigon.

  He moved uneasily, flicking the ash off his cigarette.

  Who could he approach to get him a false passport? He knew no one in Hong Kong. He couldn’t think of anyone in Saigon either. Then he remembered Blackie Lee who ran the Paradise Club. He was a possibility, but was he to be trusted? Once the news broke that Haum had been murdered and the diamonds were missing would Blackie betray him? Even if Blackie was to be trusted, could he get a false passport? Had he contacts in Hong Kong?

  Jaffe realized this business couldn’t be rushed. It might take a couple of weeks before he had the slightest chance of getting out of the country. What was he going to do while he was waiting? Where could he stay where he wouldn’t be found by the police?

  By tomorrow morning, he felt sure, the hunt for him would be on. He had to get under cover tonight. But where?

  The obvious person who would and could help him was Nhan, but Jaffe hesitated to involve her. He had no knowledge of the Vietnam Criminal Code, but he was sure anyone harbouring a murderer would get into trouble, and yet, if he didn't involve her who else could he turn to?

  He was wasting time, he told himself. He would have to rely on her: he would see and talk to her. He couldn't stay at her place. He had never been there but she had often described it to him. She lived in a three-room apartment with her mother, her uncle and her three brothers. She often complained sadly of her lack of privacy, but maybe she knew of someone: maybe she would have some ideas.

  He got to his feet and walked over to his car.

  The boy and girl sitting on the seat didn't look his way. They were too wrapped up in each other to be aware even that he was there.

  Looking at them, so obviously happy in their secure, safe dreams, Jaffe suddenly felt more lonely than he had ever felt before in his life.

  Chapter Three

  1

  ON the way up the Boulevard Tran Hung, Jaffe was boxed in on either side by motor cycles, pousse-pousse, enormous American cars driven recklessly by rich Vietnamese and small taxis driven with equal recklessness by amateur taxi drivers who had no idea where they were going, but were quite happy so long as they kept their cars in motion.

  For the unwary, the boulevard was full of menace. The multicoloured Chinese signs were dazzling. The older generation of the Vietnamese residents, dressed entirely in black, refused to walk on the sidewalks and marched steadily in the road. It was only when your headlights picked them out, a few yards ahead of you, you realized you were on the point of running them down. Quick braking meant the chance of another car slamming into your rear.

  As you approached Cholon, the Chinese district, the street narrowed. The vast, loitering population spilled off the pavements and into the street, offering suicidal hostages to fortune.

  Jaffe had been driving in this district for months and he had no difficulty in weaving his car through the congested traffic and avoiding the wandering pedestrians. The distraction of driving took his mind off his immediate problems.

  Finally, and not without some difficulty, he managed to park his car within a hundred yards of the Paradise Club. He waved aside three ragged Chinese children who had rushed up to open his car door and help him wind up the windows in the hope of earning a piastre or two, then he walked down the narrow, stifling street, brilliantly lit by Chinese neon signs to the entrance to the Paradise Club.

  As he climbed the stairs that led to the club, he heard the Philippine dance band blasting and a girl screeching: the music and her voice trebly magnified by microphones to a nerve shattering volume that delights the Chinese who believe the louder the sound the better the music.

  Jaffe lifted aside the curtain that screened the entrance to the dance hall. Immediately a tall Chinese girl her f
ace whitened by powder, her figure under a white Cheongsam provocative, came tip to him. She was Blackie Lee’s wife, Yu-lan, and as soon as she recognized Jaffe she smiled at him.

  “Khan hasn’t come yet,” she said, caressing his arm with her slim fingers. “She will be here very soon.”

  Her welcome relaxed Jaffe. He went with her into the dance hall. The place was crowded, but the lighting was so dim it was impossible to see more than a crowd of silhouetted heads outlined against the light from the band’s dais.

  She led him to a table, away from the band, and in a corner. She pulled out a chair for him.

  “Tu va bien?” she asked, smiling at him. She always tu-toi-ed him.

  “Ca va,” he said and sat down. “Blackie around? I’ll have a Scotch on the rocks.”

  “Toute de suite,” she said, and he was aware she looked quickly at him and he realized he had spoken more sharply than he had intended.

  She went away and he sat there, his mind dulled by the violent sound of the dance music and the impact of the woman singing into the microphone. The power of her lungs was shattering to Western nerves.

  With scarcely any delay, Blackie Lee appeared out of the shadows and eased his fat body gently on to the chair next to Jaffe’s.

  Blackie Lee was a squat shaped man of thirty-six with broad shoulders, black oiled hair, parted in the middle and a broad yellow face that at any crisis remained expressionless.

  One shrewd glance at Jaffe told Blackie that something was wrong. His alert mind quickened to attention. He liked Jaffe. He was a free spender, a non-trouble maker, and it was good for Blackie’s business to have non-trouble making Americans for clients.