A Lotus for Miss Quon

by James Hadley Chase

  This was something Blackie was not expecting to be asked.

  However his face remained bland and smiling although his mind was startled. He immediately remembered Jaffe’s strange hints about obtaining a false passport. Now here was the police officer inquiring about him.

  “Ah yes,” Blackie said. “He comes here quite often.”

  “Was he here last night?”

  “Yes, I believe he was.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About nine o’clock. I can’t say I noticed the exact time.”

  So Jaffe had been here, the Inspector thought, five hours after he had murdered the houseboy. What had he done in the meantime?

  There was a pause, then Blackie asked, “Has something happened to this gentleman? I should be sorry if it had.”

  “He has been kidnapped by Viet Minh bandits. You will read about it in tomorrow’s newspapers.”

  To say Blackie was astonished would be an understatement. He stared at the Inspector in bewilderment.

  “Kidnapped by Viet Minh bandits?” he repeated. “Where was this then?”

  “You will read about it in tomorrow’s newspapers,” the Inspector said curtly. “There are certain things we wish to know about the American. What is the name of the woman he associated with here?”

  Blackie’s eyes went dull. He reached for a cigarette and lit it.

  “He associated with no particular girl,” he said. “He came here and hired any girl to dance with him he happened to fancy.”

  “I have reasons to believe he favoured one particular woman,” the Inspector said. “I want to know her name.”

  “If I could help you, I would,” Blackie said, bowing. “But I had no idea he was associating with one particular girl.”

  “His servant says a girl used to come to his house two or three times a week,” the Inspector said, staring hard at Blackie. “He used to come to this club quite often. It is reasonable to assume he met the girl here.”

  “I should be surprised if he did,” Blackie said. “My girls don’t sleep with Americans. It is possible he met this girl at some other club.”

  “The girl has to be found quickly,” the Inspector said and got to his feet. “Extensive inquiries will be made. Are you quite sure you don’t know the girl? I ask you again because if later it is found that you did know her and you withheld this information deliberately from us, you will be in serious trouble. It would be a simple matter to close this club.”

  Blackie was quite certain none of the girls working at the club would give Nhan away. The few Americans who came to the club probably had seen Jaffe with Nhan, but they wouldn’t know her name. He felt reasonably safe in refusing to be bluffed by the Inspector.

  “If it will assist you, I will make some inquiries myself,” he said blandly. “It is possible someone I know will be able to help. If I get the girl’s name I will telephone you.”

  The Inspector had to be content with that. When he had gone,

  Blackie left the club and took a pousse-pousse to the house where Nhan lived. The time was a little after noon: a good time to call. Nhan’s uncle was at the Temple and her mother was with a neighbour across the street.

  He knocked on the door. After waiting a few moments, he knocked again. Nhan opened the door. He could see at once that she had been crying and she seemed in a very nervy and frightened state.

  “I want to talk to you,” Blackie said and moved into the room. “The police called on me this morning, making inquiries about the American.”

  Nahn stared at him, backing away, her eyes wide with terror.

  Without appearing to notice her terror, he went on, “They asked me the name of the girl who goes to his villa.”

  Nhan leaned against the wall. She put her trembling hands behind her, out of sight. She continued to stare at Blackie. She seemed unable to speak.

  “They told me the American has been kidnapped by bandits,” Blackie went on. “This I do not believe. I decided to see you first before I told them you are the girl they are looking for.”

  Nhan closed her eyes, then slowly opened them. She still said nothing.

  Blackie waited for a few moments, then asked, “Were you with him last night?”

  Nhan nodded.

  “What has happened to him?”

  “We drove to the river and we talked until eleven o’clock. He drove me home and I then went to bed,” Nhan said in a quavering voice: the words came out so automatically Blackie was sure she had rehearsed and rehearsed them.

  “Where is he now?”

  There was a long pause before she said, “I don’t know.”

  The fact that she looked so quickly away from him, told him she was lying.

  He took out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette and lit it. During this pause, he continued to stare at her and she seemed to shrivel under his stare.

  “The police are anxious to find him,” he said. “They threaten me with trouble if I don’t tell them your name. If you know where he is and if you didn’t see him after eleven o’clock last night, I see no reason why I shouldn’t give them your name.”

  Nhan stiffened. Her face blanched, but she said nothing.

  “If the police think you are lying,” Blackie said, “they will persuade you to tell the truth. They have a number of ways of persuading people to tell things they don’t wish to tell. Even the bravest people finally tell them what they want to know.” He paused and asked quietly, “Are you very brave, Nhan?”

  She shuddered.

  “Please don’t tell them,” she whispered.

  “You know where he is?”

  She hesitated, then squaring her shoulders and looking directly at him, she said, “No, I don’t,” but the tone of her voice was so unconvincing that Blackie felt sorry for her.

  He drew on his cigarette and released a cloud of smoke down his nostrils.

  “Last night, the American came to me and asked me if I could get him a false passport. He didn’t say it was for himself, but I am sure it was. This told me he wants to leave the country and also that he is in trouble.

  I don’t believe he has been kidnapped. I think he is hiding somewhere. Without help, he will eventually be found. It is possible I could help him, but before I do help him, I should want to know what the trouble is and how much he would pay for my help. If the trouble is very bad, the payment naturally would be high. It is possible he will get into touch with you. If he does, will you tell him I am anxious to help him?”

  Nhan remained frozen. She didn’t say anything, but by the way her dark eyes flickered Blackie was satisfied that she had understood what he had said. He got to his feet.

  “I think it would be unwise for you to come to the club for a few days,” he said. “If you need any money, I will be happy to finance you. If you see the American, please don’t forget to tell hint what I have said.”

  Then as she still said nothing, he put on his hat, nodded to her and walked slowly down the stairs into the hot street.

  He paused for a moment on the edge of the kerb, a puzzled frown on his face, then waving to a passing pousse-pousse, he told the boy to take him back to the club.

  Chapter Seven

  1

  While Blackie Lee was being conveyed back to his club in the pousse-pousse, a curious scene was being enacted at the Headquarters of Security Police.

  At the back of the Headquarters building where the police cars were garaged, there was a narrow lane screened on one side by the high brick wall that surrounded the Headquarters’ building and on the other side by a high, thick hedge.

  This narrow lane was seldom used except by a few peasants, taking a short cut to the General Market.

  At a few minutes past noon, two uniformed policemen opened the double gates of the garage yard and walked briskly down to the far ends of the lane. There they stood with their backs to each other, separated by fifty yards of dusty gravel roadway. They had been given strict orders to stop anyone using the lane for the ne
xt twenty minutes.

  While they were taking up their positions, another uniformed policeman, thin and boyish-looking, got into a police jeep and started up the engine. Anyone looking at him closely would have seen that he was sweating profusely and his brown face revealed a tension that seemed unnatural for the simple job he appeared to be doing.

  At exactly fifteen minutes past twelve, just as Blackie Lee was paying off the Mousse-pousse boy, My-Lang-To who had been sitting in a hot dark cell for the past three hours, heard a key grate in the lock and the lock snap back.

  She got to her feet as the steel door swung open. A uniformed policemen beckoned to her.

  “You are no longer required,” the policeman said. “You can go home.”

  My-Lang-To came timidly out of the dark heat into the sunlit corridor.

  “Is there no news of my fiance?” she asked. “Has he been found?”

  The policeman took her thin arm in a hard grip and pushed her down the corridor and into a courtyard where a number of police jeeps were parked.

  “When we have news of your fiance, you will be told,” he said and pointed to the open gateway. “That is your way out. Be satisfied that you have your freedom.”

  There was something in the man’s voice that frightened the girl. She suddenly felt an urge to get away from this place: a frantic urge that stifled her and made her quicken her steps into a near run.

  She made a neat and charming figure in her white tunic sheath, her white silk trousers and her conical straw hat as she hurried across the sun-filled courtyard.

  The policeman sitting in the jeep, its engine running, shifted the gear stick into first gear. Sweat from his face fell onto the white sleeves of his immaculate jacket.

  My-Lang-To passed through the open gateway and into the lane. She turned to the right and began the long walk to the main street. Ahead of her, she saw the back of a policeman who was standing at the top of the lane.

  She walked rapidly for some twenty yards before she heard the sound of a fast moving car coming up behind her. She looked over her shoulder at the police jeep that had swung out through the open gateway and was coming straight at her.

  She stepped to one side and leaned against the wall to give the jeep room to pass. It was only in the last brief seconds of her life that she realized the driver of the jeep had no intention of passing her. He suddenly swung the wheel and before My-Lang-To could move, the steel bumper of the jeep slammed into her, crushing her against the wall.

  Neither of the policemen at the far ends of the lane looked around when he heard My-Lang-To’s scream. They had been told not to look around. They heard the jeep reverse and drive back to the courtyard, then there was a long silence in the lane.

  Following instructions, they moved off into the main streets and went about their daily routine, but neither of them could blot from his mind the shrill scream of terror they had heard.

  My-Lang-To’s body was found ten minutes later by a passing peasant who was hurrying to the market with a load of vegetables skilfully balanced on a bamboo pole which he carried on his shoulder.

  He stared for some horrified minutes at the crumpled figure and the white nylon sheath dyed red with blood before he dropped the bamboo pole and ran frantically to the gates of Security Police and hammered on them as he wailed out his discovery.

  While My-Lang-To was walking to her death, in another quarter of Security Police, Dong-Ham was also about to die.

  He was sitting in his small cell, nervously picking at the lump of hard skin on his hand when the cell door opened.

  Two men, wearing only khaki shorts came in. One carried a large bucket of water which he set down in the middle of the cell. His companion beckoned to the old man to stand up.

  Dong-Ham knew he was going to die. He stood up quietly and bravely. He allowed himself to be up-ended by the two men who handled him with the skill of experienced executioners. He didn’t even attempt to struggle as they inserted his head into the bucket of water and held it there. He drowned after a few minutes with scarcely a movement. He was a man who accepted the inevitable with the belief that death was a release into a better world and that at his age, this release should be welcomed.

  The man who had caused the death of these two simple people was lying full length on three narrow planks of wood, staring bleakly up at the wooden ceiling and smoking a cigarette.

  Jaffe kept looking at his watch. It would be another three hours before Nhan came with some news. He could hear her grandfather moving about in the downstairs room. He hoped the old man wouldn’t come up and start talking again. He had had more than enough of him.

  Anyway, Jaffe told himself, he was lucky to be here. The house stood alone. The nearest building was fifty yards down the road: a big lacquer factory. He had looked out of the window during the morning while the old man had been talking to him. Very few cars had passed: the majority of them full of tourists going to see over the factory. He thought he would be reasonably safe here so long as he didn’t show himself.

  He now turned his mind to the problem of getting out of the country. He had already decided reluctantly that he would have to ask Blackie Lee to help him. He wished he knew how far he could trust the fat Chinese. There was a chance once Blackie knew the reason why he was in hiding that he would attempt to blackmail him.

  He rolled on his side, grimacing at the hardness of the planks and took from his pocket the tin box containing the diamonds. He opened the box and examined the diamonds, feeling a surge of excitement run through him again at the sight of their brilliance. He counted them. There were fifty large stones and a hundred and twenty smaller ones. There was no doubt they were the highest quality. Carefully he picked one out of the tin and held it up to the light. He had no idea of its value, but it couldn’t be less than six hundred dollars. It could be considerably more.

  While he lay day-dreaming of how he would spend the money once he had sold the diamonds, Blackie Lee was busy using the telephone. He rang several numbers before he finally tracked down Tung Whu, a newspaper reporter who wrote for the local Chinese newspaper.

  Tung Whu didn’t sound very pleased to speak to Blackie Lee, but that was of no importance to Blackie. Tung Whu owed him twenty thousand piastres which he had borrowed to meet an urgent gambling debt. He was therefore under an obligation to Blackie who up to now had told Tung Whu there was no hurry for the money.

  Over the telephone, Tung Whu said he was very busy. Blackie said a busy man should be a grateful man. It was the man who had no work and no money (stressing the word) that he was sorry for.

  There was a pause, then Tung Whu, now that the word ‘money’ had been mentioned, asked in a much milder tone if there was anything he could do for Blackie.

  “Yes,” Blackie said. “You can come here and lunch with me. I shall expect you,” and he hung up as Tung Whu began to protest.

  Thirty minutes later, Yu-lan ushered Tung Whu into Blackie’s office.

  Tung Whu was an elderly Chinese, wearing a shabby European suit and clutching a worn leather briefcase that contained a battered camera and a number of notebooks.

  Blackie bowed to him and shook hands. He waved him to a chair and nodded to Yu-lan who stood waiting at the door.

  Tung Whu said he really couldn’t stay long. He was extremely busy. Something unexpected had occurred and he had as yet to write his article for tomorrow’s edition.

  Blackie asked innocently what had happened. Tung Whu said an American had been kidnapped by Viet Minh bandits.

  While he was speaking one of the club waiters came in with a tray containing bowls of Chinese soup, shrimps in sweet sour sauce and fried rice.

  While the two men ate, Blackie drew all the known facts about the kidnapping from the reporter.

  “It is puzzling the American authorities why this man Jaffe should have driven on the Bien Hoa road with his houseboy when he told his friend he was going to the airport with a woman,” Tung Whu said as he gobbled up his soup. “It is thought
the American was passing the police post when the first grenade was thrown. Both Security Police and the American police think the American might have been killed by the shrapnel from the grenade and the bandits have taken his body and hidden it somewhere. A search is going on for the body.”

  “So there is no truth that the American went to the airport with a woman?” Blackie asked casually.

  Tung Whu nipped a large shrimp between his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth. He shook his head.

  “It is thought this was an excuse the American made to persuade his friend to lend him his car. It is puzzling why he wanted the car because his own Dauphine has been found and examined. There is nothing wrong with it but he told his friend the car had broken down. There are a number of puzzling features to the affair.”

  At this moment the telephone bell rang and when Blackie answered it, a voice asked excitedly if Tung Whu was there.

  Blackie handed over the receiver and watched Tung Whu while he listened to the explosive chatter at the other end of the line. Tung Whu said, “I will come at once.”

  He replaced the receiver and got to his feet.

  “There is a new development,” he told Blackie. “The house-boy’s girl went to Headquarters for questioning. As she was leaving, she was hit by a car and killed.”

  Blackie’s eyes went suddenly dull.

  “And the driver of the car?”

  “He didn’t stop. The police are looking for him now. I must get back to the office.”

  When he had gone, Blackie lit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully into space. Ile was still sitting motionless when the waiter came in to clear away the remains of the meal and he waved the waiter impatiently away.

  His thoughts were far too important to be disturbed.

  2

  A young Vietnamese lolled against a tree, watching the traffic move up the stately avenue that led to the Doc Lap Palace. He wore a black and white striped coat which he had had specially made from a picture he had seen in an American newspaper. It was a bad imitation of a ‘Zoot’ coat: exaggerated, heavily-padded shoulders, narrow cuffs, and cut so that it reached to his knees. He wore black drain-pipe trousers, a dirty white shirt with a string tie, and on his head, a Mexican hard straw hat.