The findings for Hok were similar to those of the second Tran, but for two major discrepancies. Although there were signs of shock, there was also a huge wound, apparently from a gun fired at close range. It entered his chest a few centimeters from his heart, and exited by the shoulderblade. Nguyen shook his head.
“This really makes no sense. This wound alone should have killed him.”
“You don’t think it did?”
“Well, it couldn’t have. Look.”
Siri leaned over the wound and saw what had confused his colleague. The point of entry was still open and angry. But there were clear indications of scabbing around the exit wound. There was no doubt that Hok’s bullet wound was an old one, one that was still healing when he died.
“What’s he doing running around with delegations with a big hole in his chest? He should have been recuperating somewhere.”
“Question one,” said Siri. “And then there’s question two. Explain this to me.” He held up the rubber-coated electric wire that he’d just unwound from Hok’s ankle. “It just gets more and more weird.”
“You mean, if they had this stuff, why didn’t they use it to tie down all three?”
“There’s enough on this fellow for a whole regiment. Do you suppose it all means something?”
“That we’re being left clues?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then, no offense, but I fear they’ve badly overestimated us. I don’t have any idea what it all means. Do you?”
“Not yet. But I will. When we’re finished here, I think we should go have another chat with Mr. Dun.”
Dun was sitting happily on the veranda of his packing-case bungalow, smoking and drinking his earnings. The thought of offering the doctors anything didn’t enter his mind.
“It was a bomb.”
“What kind of bomb?”
“The type the shithead Americans used to blow us all to nirvana and back. There was three of ’em down there, half-buried in the muck. They had writing on ’em.”
“Do you know what language it was?”
Dun laughed at the idea that he might have ever been blessed with the ability to read. “No. But I tell you what. There was a Chinese flag on one of ’em.”
“It isn’t my job, I tell you. I don’t have to do this. I’m putting in an official complaint to the embassy. This won’t be the end of it.”
Siri wondered whether there’d be an end to the complaining. The Vietnamese driver hadn’t stopped since they left Nam Ngum. Siri had to put up with the brunt of it because he was sitting beside him in the front of the limousine. “It isn’t…natural.”
“I know. Watch that bicycle, will you?”
The trunk of the car might just have been large enough, had it not been for the spare tire and the eight liter cans of petrol. The armed guard had positively refused to have him on the motorcycle pillion. So there really had been no choice.
Mr. Hok, wrapped tightly in canvas but still dripping, leaned stiffly against the back seat beside Dr. Nguyen. Even with the air conditioner full on, the smell was quite overpowering. The driver had half a roll of toilet paper stuffed up his nostrils. Siri turned to Nguyen Hong.
“Do you speak French?”
“Some. It’s a bit rusty.”
“Driver, do you?”
“Ha. Where do you think I would have earned the privilege of a French education? I’m a pauper. I’m a man of the earth. The soul of the new regime.”
“Good.” Siri switched to French. “Any theories yet, doctor?”
“Hundreds, but not a one that makes any sense. You?”
“Let’s try this. Tran and Hok were here on a mission that was so urgent Hok didn’t even wait for his bullet wound to heal. Let’s assume it was something damaging to us, and we picked up the delegation before it could reach its destination. They were brought out here to the islands with all the other criminals, tortured until they talked, then dumped in the lake and weighted down with old Chinese ordnance.
“But our people wanted your people to know we’d caught them, so they used dissolving string. They knew we’d then go looking for the third man and discover the Chinese shell casing which, given the chilly relationship between you folks and Beijing, would only serve to rile you even more. How’s that?”
“Sounds like a perfect incentive for an international incident. Probably enough to make us break off relations,” Dr. Nguyen opined.
“It’s exactly the kind of thing our respective hot-headed politburos would latch on to.”
“You don’t sound very convinced.”
“I just feel, I don’t know…I feel that if something’s so clear-cut that I can work it out, there obviously wasn’t that much effort spent on trying to cover it up. Maybe they didn’t expect us to figure out this much. If it had been left up to the police, they’d have put in a report that would have gone straight to the committee. If it hadn’t been for the news getting to your embassy, the Vietnamese wouldn’t have heard anything about the incident. It would have been covered up and denied.
“It was either an amazing coincidence that someone identified the tattoos, or it was set up step by step. There just happened to be a military person on hand who just happened to recognize the tattoos? I can’t believe our side would go to so much trouble to break off ties with Vietnam.”
“What do you think we should do?” Dr. Nguyen asked.
“Look, I have to go south for a couple of days. Do you think you could stretch out your official autopsy till I get back?”
“I don’t write very fast.”
“Good. I’d feel better if we didn’t start another war until we knew exactly what was happening,” Siri said.
“I agree.”
Assassination
They took Hok directly to the morgue, where Siri introduced him and Nguyen Hong to the team. He explained that while he was away in the south, Dr. Hong would be doing tests on Hok and using the office. As Nguyen Hong didn’t speak Lao, and apparently Dtui and Geung didn’t speak anything else, it wasn’t likely to be a chatty few days. But Siri had a feeling they’d all get along nicely.
With the unknowing assistance of Mr. Ketkaew, they put together a bamboo platform on short legs from what was left over from the khon khouay office construction materials. By placing it carefully around Tran, they were able to slide Hok into the freezer above him as if he were lying on a very shallow bunk bed.
Siri went to clear a space at his desk for Nguyen Hong and found a large sealed envelope with his name on it propped up against the plastic-skull pencil holder. He assumed it was from Haeng, so he decided not to open it. Now that he was enjoying his work, he didn’t really want to be sacked. What he’d said to the judge was all bluff.
But after the Vietnamese doctor left, and Dtui and Geung were out tending their hospital papaya and mango trees, he could put it off no longer. He sat and slit open the plain brown envelope. Inside was a typed note, and it was indeed from the Justice Department. He wondered whether the committee would let him retire peacefully or if he’d be punished again.
He looked down at the signature and was pleased to see the name of Manivone the clerk. She explained that Siri had a seat on the early flight to Khamuan from Wattay Airport at six the following morning. The words “if convenient” were added, probably at Haeng’s insistence, as a postscript. He would be met in Khamuan by a Captain Kumsing. Fishing in the envelope, Siri found his travel papers and three thousand kip in large notes.
A satisfied smile spread across his face like lard on a hot wok. He stood at his desk and did a little jig around the chair.
“What’s her name, then?”
Siri looked up to see Inspector Phosy leaning against the doorframe grinning.
“Claudette. Claudette Colbert.”
“Sounds foreign.”
“You see? That’s the investigative mind at work. Normal people wouldn’t have picked up on something like that.” Phosy came over to the desk and they shook hands warmly. “How’s
life for a policeman in a city without crime?”
“Lots of interesting meetings and political seminars. In fact, there’s only one case that’s causing me any trouble, and that’s your friend Mrs. Nitnoy.”
Siri put his finger to his lips and nodded toward the open window. “I’m just off for a walk. Want to come?”
“Pleasure.”
Siri packed everything he’d need the next day, locked up the morgue, and walked with Phosy down to the river.
In front of the Lan Xang Hotel was a makeshift outdoor bar that had seen better days. People didn’t have the money for wining and dining. This little bamboo affair only really did business at sunset. Then the out-of-towners, the government advisers, the “experts” and Party people, came down to enjoy the sunset. Locals gave themselves a treat once a month and sat nursing one soft drink for an hour.
As there were no walls or rules, customers could move the rickety tables wherever they liked to get a view of the sun taking its leave. Phosy and Siri carried their chairs almost down to the water’s edge, and the grunting bar mama lugged the table after them. She was delighted when they ordered half a bottle of Saeng Thip Thai rum and some quail eggs. Siri did have three thousand kip in his pocket, after all.
“You probably weren’t going to talk about Mrs. Nitnoy at all,” Siri said at last. “But the hospital’s got its own chicken counter camped right behind our morgue. I get the feeling everything we say in there is on record somewhere. Were you? Going to talk about Mrs. Nitnoy?”
“I was. You sure we can trust the frogs down here?”
Siri laughed. “I didn’t ever think it would get to be like this. I know there’s no great system of eavesdropping agents and spies. I know it’s all in our minds, but a mind is a powerful thing.”
The mama came jogging down to the water with a tray. On it were the rum, drinking water, little speckled eggs, and, miracle of miracles, ice. They looked at it as if it had just landed from a different planet.
“Where did you get this, mother?”
She lowered her voice in case there were any police around.
“I’ve got friends in the kitchen, over there.” She nodded toward the austerely tacky frontage of the country’s premium hotel. It was a hostelry unlikely to gather ratings stars on the international circuit, but the Lan Xang was the pride of the capital. It seriously overcharged and the staff could only have been trained by Mack Sennett, but at least it was somewhere to put up foreigners.
“I don’t suppose they could rustle up some steaks for us, could they?” Phosy asked.
“If you don’t mind ’em raw. You’d be shocked if you knew what they’ve got over there in that friggin’ kitchen. Makes you wonder who’s got the money to afford any of it. Wine and all, they tell me. Wine!”
“Disgraceful.”
“Yell if you need me.” She waddled back up the bank.
They poured themselves drinks and were generous with the ice while it lasted.
“So. Mrs. Nitnoy?”
“It’s been difficult. I couldn’t just stroll up and interview people. You can imagine. But from rumor and hearsay, and goodness knows there’s no shortage of that, everything pointed to your comrade having a minor wife.”
“H’mm. That’s very traditional of him.”
“It turns out she’s a hairdresser, Mai, at a salon up at Dongmieng. She’s from Sam Neua, didn’t come down here till early this year.”
“You suppose she followed him down?”
“It looks that way. She’s only a young thing, about twenty-one. But according to the girls at the salon, she—”
“You went to the salon?”
“I needed a trim and a massage anyway. She was off the day I went. The girls think young Mai has very high ambitions. She doesn’t take this hairdressing training seriously at all. According to the others, she said she wouldn’t have to be a hairdresser for long.”
“Planning a step up.”
“Looks like it.”
“You think that’s enough reason for the comrade to bump off his wife?”
“Why not?”
“Why? He was getting the best of both worlds. He had his official wife for show and official engagements, and his hairdresser for—”
“—in-depth analysis of Das Kapital.”
“Exactly. He had nothing to gain from it. But she did.”
“Ah, you’re a devious man, Dr. Siri. How would she get access to pills?”
Siri looked across the water, imagining himself with a pipe. “What if she wasn’t working on this by herself?”
“Meaning?”
“A boyfriend. I mean a real boyfriend. Or what if she’s a member of some anarchist movement? It would be to everyone’s advantage to get the minor wife into the comrade’s house. This is a small world. They just needed to get someone close enough to borrow her pills, slip in the cyanide.”
“Someone at the Women’s Union?”
“Or at a reception. She liked her beer.”
“It still doesn’t make sense. If Kham wasn’t involved, why….”
“You boys all right there?” the mama yelled from the bar. They signaled they were fine.
“Why would he go to so much trouble to cover up the murder? Why would he submit a false report?”
“He did?”
“I got into the files. Your report is the official autopsy document.”
“But it wasn’t finished. It wasn’t signed.”
“It is now.”
“Bastard. Well, can we get him for that? For forging an official document?”
“We don’t know it was him.”
“I do. He stole it from my office. Right under my nose.”
“Your word against his.”
Siri took a long swig of his rum and almost choked on an ice cube. Phosy slapped him on the back.
“Thanks. So what do we do now?”
“What we do is continue to keep quiet. I’ll see what I can get on the hairdresser, and make discreet inquiries about Kham. We still don’t have enough to make an official complaint, not even if we knew who to submit it to.”
“This stinks. I thought we’d taken over so we could clean up society. But all we’re doing is changing the variety of the corruption.”
“Don’t be so negative. This is just one isolated case. Things are better, you know that. The country the way it is now is a much healthier place to bring children into.”
“Is that re-education talking?”
“No. It’s me. I believe it. Laos is doing all right.”
They watched the sun land somewhere in Thailand and the pink sky turn to purple, then mauve. On a rock down by the water, a boy with regulation short hair and a girl with regulation long hair sat two feet apart. They weren’t allowed to hold hands.
The rum was gone and Phosy refused to let Siri walk him back to the hospital to get his bike. They shook hands in front of the hotel, comrades in crime prevention. Siri held on to the hand after it was shaken.
“Thanks for doing this. I know you’re taking a risk.”
“Me? No. I’m a born-again communist. Nobody’s watching me any more. But your friends need to be careful. Who else knows about this?”
“Only Teacher Oum at the Lycée. She did all the tests.”
“Well, you tell her to be careful. She should tell nobody else.”
“She knows.”
“Good. I’ll keep in touch.”
Siri walked back through the deserted streets. It was only 8 P.M., but Sethathirat Road was as quiet as the grave. Only an unlit bicycle passed him on his way home. Small pyres of burned rubbish were smoldering on street corners. A rat emerged from a drain and chased a skinny cat through the portal of Ong Teu temple.
These were streets that used to ignore time. Clubs and bars that closed only when the last drunk fell out into the street. Whores and addicts had littered the sidewalks. He’d heard about that other extremity, and here he was at this one. He couldn’t bring himself to believe there wasn�
��t something safe and joyful between the two.
Even before he reached his lane, the dog howls struck up. After the quiet of a Vientiane night, he felt responsible for disturbing the peace. The uneven surface of the unpaved road caused him to stagger once or twice. The rum had affected his balance. He wanted it under control before Miss Vong spotted him from her curtain observatory. He turned onto his front path, where Saloop crouched, growling, in front of him.
The curtain quivered.
“Good night, Miss Vong.”
There was no response. He looked down at the dog. Perhaps if he made an effort, perhaps if he could befriend this mangy critter, word would get around the neighborhood that he wasn’t such a bad human after all.
Instead of walking around the animal as he usually did, he stepped directly toward it. He uttered soft sounds to calm the beast. For every step Siri took forward, the confused mongrel took one backward. It was scared, but it growled on. This tango continued until Saloop was backed right up against the front door.
Not wanting to lose a finger, Siri cupped his hand as if he were holding a treat and crouched down to offer it to Saloop. Instantly the dog barked, and there were two sharp cracks like the sound of a whip. Siri looked around, not sure where the sound had come from, and the dog used the diversion to scurry off into the vegetables.
Siri stood, looked back toward the pitch-black lane, then back up at the house. The only light came from a gas lamp in an upstairs window. There was nothing to be seen but shadows. Something unnerved him about the sound, but there was nothing he could do. He walked inside and closed the door.
With his alarm clock set for four-thirty, Siri showered and went to bed early. Even before the musty smell of the kapok pillow reached his nostrils, he was asleep.
Tran, Tran, and Hok were walking with him along a busy city street. It was the West: an English-speaking country. There were cars and throngs of impatient people. It was evening, and the neon lights all around flashed and glowed, spelling out words he couldn’t read.
The three Vietnamese were huddled about him like security guards around a corrupt president. Whenever someone from the street tried to approach Siri, one of the men would step between them and push the person off roughly. Even though many were twice the size of the little Vietnamese, they yielded to the bodyguards.
The Coroner's Lunch Page 11
