by Ross Thomas
“Well,” Lynch said, “the symptoms started about a couple of months ago when this fella Homer Necessary came into town with his two-toned eyes and started asking around. He didn’t come to any of us. He just nosed around asking questions that were sort of personal. We checked him out and found that he used to be a police chief himself up north. And not too honest a one at that, was he, Chief Loambaugh?”
“Crooked,” the FBI poster said. “Crooked as cat shit.”
“So after about a week or ten days of Necessary, we get your Mr. Orcutt and that girlfriend of his, Miss Thackerty. Well, she’s all right, but we’re kind of country down here and maybe we’re just not used to the likes of your Mr. Orcutt, especially if he’s messing around with all the wrong people.”
“Who’re they?” I said.
“Well, let’s just say that they’re not on our side.”
“Who is?”
“The folks, Mr. Dye,” Lynch said and his tone was no longer genial. “The folks in town are on our side.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
“Folks can get foolish if they catch the notion. And with a little investigation, we found out that your Mr. Orcutt was going to try to turn them into fools.”
“How?”
“I hear,” Lynch said in a gentle voice, “I hear that’s where you come in.”
I looked at my new watch. “I’ve been here for half an hour and you haven’t said anything yet. You’ve talked a lot, but it’s all been the kind of bullshit that I can hear in any four-table poolhall. You’ve got five more minutes. That’s all.”
“My brother said you were a little impatient, Mr. Dye.”
“Your brother lies a lot.”
“But good. Well, since your time is limited, I’ll come to the point. We have some of our people in the other camp, so to speak, who tell us things, and they told us about how Mr. Orcutt was trying to find someone out in Asia who might be useful to him here in Swankerton. So, because Gerald’s located out there and all, I spent about a couple of hundred dollars of my own money and called him up, told him the situation, and asked him to do what he could. I think he did real fine.”
“By recommending me to Orcutt?”
“Well, he really recommended you to us first, if you know what I mean. He gave us a pretty good rundown on you and we told him to go ahead and recommend you to Mr. Orcutt. He said you’re pretty good, Mr. Dye, but that you’re awfully unlucky. I’m serious now. Bad luck just seems to dog some people and from what I hear, you’re one of them. I mean what happened to your wife and all.”
“You can leave that alone,” I said.
Lynch nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. Really am. But you’ve had your share of bad luck, Mr. Dye. My brother Gerald seems to think that it’ll probably continue. But he made me promise him one thing before he would recommend you to Mr. Orcutt.”
“What?”
“Well, Gerald isn’t really as superstitious about luck as he lets on. Deep down inside he really feels that people make their own. So he made us promise that we’d make some for you here in Swankerton. You can guess what kind. So you got a choice. We can either make you some bad luck or some good luck, despite what I promised my brother. Now just which one are you going to choose?”
They were all leaning forward a little, staring at me. “How much is the good luck worth?” I said.
“Twenty-five percent more than what Orcutt’s paying you, whatever it is.
“And how much is your bad luck going for?” I said.
Lynch shook his head sadly and his chins bobbed alone in funereal time. “Well, Mr. Dye, bad luck is just bad luck. Let’s say that the kind you might come by would be about as bad as luck can be.”
I rose and looked at each of them, one at a time. “I’ll think about it and let you know,” I said and then moved to the door, stopping only at the sound of Lynch’s voice. I turned and he was twisted around in his chair.
“Don’t study about it too long, Mr. Dye,” he said. “Neither good nor bad luck’ll wait forever.”
“You’re forgetting one kind,” I said.
“What’s that, Mr. Dye?”
“Dumb luck—the kind you’re going to need.”
CHAPTER 15
They flew Carmingler, of course, out to Hong Kong to deal with Gerald Vicker and me. I met him at the airport and he seemed none too happy with his assignment.
“I was on leave,” he said, rather than hello or how are you. “My first in three years.”
“I didn’t ask for you.”
He grunted at that, but said nothing else until we had picked up his bag and were in my rented Volkswagen. “Where’s Vicker?”
“Waiting for you.”
“At the office?”
“We flipped a coin to see who’d meet you. I lost.”
“I read your report,” Carmingler said. “Vicker’s, too.”
“That was thoughtful.”
Carmingler turned to look at me. “I didn’t fly out here just to listen to your smart cracks. Vicker writes a better report.”
“He has a flair,” I said.
“You’re in trouble,” Carmingler said.
“What about Vicker?”
Carmingler didn’t say anything until he had used his usual three or four matches to light his pipe. “He’s in trouble, too.”
“Who’s in deeper?” I said.
Carmingler puffed away on his pipe before answering. I glanced at him and he seemed to look less confident than usual. He looked gloomy. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “That’s why I’m here.”
“And when do you decide?”
He looked out the window at a new building that was going up. “Those workmen on the scaffolding,” he said. “They’re the highest-paid skilled labor in Hong Kong. Did you know that?”
“I live here,” I said. “What are you going to do?”
Carmingler slumped down in the seat and put his bony knees against the dashboard. It didn’t look very comfortable, but they weren’t my knees. “You know what Star Chamber justice is?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s what you’re going to get. Both you and Vicker. I’m judge and jury.”
“Old Judge Carmingler,” I said. “The hanging judge.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Who did?”
Carmingler looked at me and smiled for the first time. “Vicker. He asked for me.”
I said, “Oh.”
Carmingler smiled again. Contentedly. “I thought that might cheer you up.”
It could have been called a trial, I suppose. Whatever it was, it was held in my office late that afternoon after we sent the secretary home. Carmingler sat behind my desk and Vicker and I sat in front of it. Our Star Chamber judge carefully arranged six sharpened pencils on the desk beside a fresh yellow legal pad. Next he produced his pipe, tobacco pouch, and match box, and placed them within easy reach. He then adopted an expression which he may have thought was his best horse-sense look. He made his face as long as possible, showed both of us his teeth in an impartial manner, and nodded several times as if he were adjusting to some invisible halter. I almost expected to hear him neigh us to order.
“This place been swept recently?” he asked.
“This morning,” Vicker said. “I had the consulate’s man over.”
“Good,” Carmingler said and made a note that I was too far away to read upside down. He put the pencil on the pad, leaned back in his chair, and locked his hands behind his head. “Let’s begin with the facts—the ones that nobody disputes. Both of you went to the rendezvous with Pai Chung-liang, the chap who worked for the Bank of China. Vicker hid in the back room. Dye stayed in the shop itself. Pai came in, said something to Dye, who handed him an envelope. Then Pai said something else, something that only Dye could hear. About that time the two Chinese busted in. Vicker shot Pai. The two Chinese snatched his briefcase and fled. Dye bent down and Pai either said or did not sa
y something before he died.” He looked at both of us. “Is that a fair summation?”
I nodded. So did Vicker.
Carmingler picked his briefcase up from the floor and rested it in his lap. He fished out a single sheet of paper that had some typing on it and placed it on the desk before him. He put the briefcase back on the floor.
“You were issued a side arm,” he said to me. “A .38 Smith & Wesson, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have it the day that Pai was killed?”
“No.”
“Where is it now?”
“At home.”
“In your hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Do you always keep it there?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“You mean where in the room?”
“That’s right.”
“In a locked suitcase. The suitcase is in a closet. The closet is also locked. It’s a special lock. I’m the only one with a key.”
“Why?”
“Do you mean why do I keep it there?”
“Yes.”
I shrugged. “It seems safe enough.”
“Don’t you ever carry it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have any use for it.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
Carmingler tapped the single sheet of paper. “It says here that you’re very good with a gun. Or used to be. I seem to remember that you were. Why don’t you ever carry it?”
“I just don’t. I don’t need it.”
“You still don’t think you needed it the day that Pai got shot?”
“No.”
“And you don’t think that Pai needed shooting?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You’ve got my report.”
“Vicker doesn’t have it.”
“All right,” I said. “I think they were on to Pai. I think they would have shot him that morning if Vicker hadn’t saved them the trouble.”
“Who tipped them off about your rendezvous with Pai?”
I looked at Vicker. “Ask him.”
Carmingler nodded and made another note. I still couldn’t read it. He turned to Vicker. He looked at him for several moments and for all I knew he may have been admiring Vicker’s suit. It was a new one.
“You carry your side arm, don’t you?” he said.
Vicker nodded. “Always.”
“Why?”
“It’s a tough town.”
“Any other reason?”
“I’m in a tough business.”
“In a tough town,” Carmingler said.
“I think so.”
Carmingler looked at the sheet of paper again. “Let’s see. Mr. Pai was thirty-nine years old. He liked flowers. He liked figures and his wife. He was a bank clerk. He was just a little over five feet tall and weighed a hundred and twenty-eight pounds. And he didn’t carry a gun. So you shot him.”
“That’s right,” Vicker said.
“When?”
“Just after the two with the guns came in.”
“Did they have their guns out when they came into the shop or did they start waving them around later—after you’d shot Pai?”
Vicker seemed to think about the question. “They had them out when they came in.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Carmingler nodded. “All right. We’ll come back to that.” He turned to me. “What do you remember? Did they have their guns out when they came in or did they pull them later?”
“They pulled them later. After Pai was shot.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He turned back to Vicker. “You say just the opposite—that the two men came into the shop with their guns drawn?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew that they were opposition?”
“It was obvious.”
“So you shot Pai.”
“Yes.”
“To keep him from doing what?”
“From fingering Dye.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Vicker looked pained. “You know what fingering means, for God’s sake. They were on to Pai. He was going to accuse Dye.”
“Of what?” Carmingler said and made it sound as if he were deeply interested.
“Of having bribed him to feed Dye information from the bank.”
“I see,” Carmingler said and made another note.
“How long were you in the back room before Pai came in the shop?” Carmingler asked Vicker.
“Two or three minutes.”
“Pai was prompt?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have your gun in your hand when he entered or did you wait until the two men came in?”
“I didn’t draw it until they came in.”
“And you still say that they came in with their guns drawn?”
“Yes.”
“They pulled the guns from their pockets on Upper Lascar? Wasn’t it crowded as usual?”
Vicker crossed his legs. It was the first thing that he had moved other than his mouth. “It was crowded.”
“Doesn’t it seem strange that they would pull guns on a crowded street?”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“I find it very unlikely that they would.”
Vicker shrugged. “Maybe they pulled them just as they entered the shop.”
“Did you see them do that?”
“No.”
“But if they hadn’t pulled the guns, then you would have thought they were just a couple of customers?”
“I suppose. Maybe.”
“And if they hadn’t pulled them, and if you had taken them for a couple of customers, you wouldn’t have shot Pai? You would have let him tell Dye what he came to tell?”
Vicker waited before answering that one. Then he said yes.
“All right,” Carmingler said, making another note. “Let’s suppose, just for the hell of it, that Dye’s version is correct. The two men didn’t pull their revolvers or automatics or whatever until after you had shot Pai. If that’s true, then you couldn’t have known that they were the opposition, could you?”
“No.”
“And you would have had no reason for shooting Pai? I mean he couldn’t have fingered Dye to a couple of strangers?”
“That’s right.”
Carmingler reached for his briefcase again and produced a sheaf of papers. “This is the Hong Kong Special Branch report on the murder of one Pai Chung-liang. It’s quite interesting. They’re most thorough people, you know. They interviewed twenty-three persons before they came up with a reliable eyewitness. They then interviewed another fifty-two before they found one who could corroborate his story. Let’s see, I’ll just paraphrase it for you.” Carmingler ran his right forefinger down the first sheet, flipped it over, and then ran it halfway down the second sheet. “Yes, here it is. At about ten o’clock on the morning in question two male foreigners (that’s you two) dressed thus and so entered the shop on Upper Lascar … then the proprietor left … then a Chinese in a white suit carrying a briefcase entered … then two other Chinese entered… and, yes, here it is, no guns were visible. A few minutes later there was the sound of a single shot and the two Chinese were seen running from the shop carrying a briefcase. They disappeared. That’s from the first witness. Another witness, a twelve-year-old-boy, actually saw the whole thing. Through the shop’s window. He backs up the first witness in full and then swears, or whatever they do here, that the two Chinese gentlemen in question did not pull their guns until after Pai was shot. So…” Carmingler put the report back into his briefcase. He put the briefcase on the floor and then smiled at Vicker.
“So,” he said again. “We have two witnesses now who swear, or affirm, or whatever it is, that the pair didn’t draw their gun
s until after you shot Pai.”
“Who’s the other witness besides the twelve-year-old?” Vicker said.
“Dye, of course,” Carmingler said.
“Shit,” Vicker said.
“So it would seem that you knew who the two gentlemen were before they even produced their guns. It would also seem that you had a very good reason for shooting Pai. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what it was.”
“It’s the reason I gave you,” Vicker said.
“Yes,” Carmingler said. “Well, I think that does it nicely. You’re through, Vicker. Don’t remove anything from the office. Any personal effects will be sent to you. So will your back pay and leave time, if you have any coming. And by the way, don’t try to stir this up in any fashion. Special Branch is still awfully anxious to talk to you and we’ve had a hell of a time smoothing things over.”
Vicker looked at me and then back at Carmingler. “This goes to the review board, fella.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Carmingler said. “Not if you think about it, it doesn’t. Those two Chinese gentlemen. The opposition, as we’re so fond of calling them. Unless they came in with drawn guns, you couldn’t possibly have known who they were. But they didn’t. That indicates that you knew who they were and that, I think you’ll agree, might lead us all down a rather rocky path. We don’t want that, Vicker, and you’re lucky that we don’t. Very lucky. So don’t press.”
Vicker frowned, first at Carmingler, then at me, and then back at Carmingler. It was a very sincere frown. His voice was level and low when he spoke. His brown eyes were steady. He lied beautifully. “I thought it was a setup when I shot Pai. I still do. What I think is in my report to you and I don’t care how many so-called eyewitnesses Special Branch dug up. Somebody had to be the goat. Someone picked me and then sent you out to give me the news. I don’t blame you, Carmingler. You’re just the chore boy.” He turned to look at me then. “But you’re something else, Dye. You’re really something. I owe you a lot. I really mean that. I owe you a hell of a lot and one of these days I’ll remember to pay it all off.” He rose then and headed for the door. He stopped when he was almost there and then his right arm flashed under his coat and a .38 revolver appeared in his hand, the twin of the Smith & Wesson that I had locked away in a suitcase. He was fast. Too fast for his age. He looked at the gun, smiled slightly, and then walked over and laid it carefully on the desk next to the sharpened pencils. “This belongs under office equipment, I believe,” he said, nodded at Carmingler, but not at me, and left.
