THURSDAY'S ORCHID

by Mitchell, Robert

  I was rich, but I didn’t have to be powerful; watching my back at every turn. I didn’t want electric fences and stone walls. I wasn’t going to need alarms and bodyguards; and have to search out traitors. We had more than we needed. I was finished with the business. I had done my last deal.

  “There’s no next one,” I replied. “That’s it for me. I’ve got enough, and I’ve had enough. Those bastards tried to kill me more times than I care to remember. It was close, too bloody close. I have nightmares just thinking about it. It’s time I settled down and did something else with my life, and, to be honest with you, I’ve lost my nerve. I’m buggered, washed out. All I want is to marry Mee Ling and buy a property somewhere and disappear into the scenery. I’m sorry, mate.”

  He remonstrated with me, but I was adamant. He could continue with the shipments and use the same idea, if he wanted. I wouldn’t interfere. I would keep quiet. He knew that.

  “Jeff,” he said finally. “If that’s the way you want it; if you’ve really made up your mind, then so be it. But for Christ’s sake, give it some more thought, please?” I didn’t answer. “You sound like you’ve found a wonderful girl though. Give her my best.”

  “Thanks, Nick. I was sure you’d understand. You’ve got Angeline and the girls, and your house. You know what I want. And don’t worry. As soon as the rest of the bonds are in my hands, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Okay. See you in a week or so.”

  I was surprised he had given in so easily. I didn’t think they would use the wool trick a second time. There were too many people who knew about it now. But there were other ways. I had already thought of one or two.

  The next couple of days were spent walking the city, waiting for Mee Ling to return, and waiting for the rest of the bonds; but somehow the bonds had taken second place. They weren’t as important as they had been.

  Mee Ling telephoned twice, telling me how much she missed me, and whispering what she was going to do to me when she returned. I proposed over the phone and she accepted; her tears bringing a lump to my throat.

  It was the third morning after she had left for Brunei. I was counting time by the number of days that she had been away. There was a knock on the door and this time it was Tek, alone. He came in and sat down, refusing a cup of coffee.

  “I have the rest of the bonds,” he said, handing the package to me. “The consignment weighed out a bit heavier than we had agreed, so I have added the difference.” My opinion of him had been correct.

  “I had a call from Nick,” he continued. “I am sorry to hear that you have decided to retire. We could have made a lot more money together. Is there no way that I can dissuade you?”

  He could see from my face that it was hopeless, that Mee Ling and a quiet life was all I wanted. I explained my ideas on life, of not wanting the world; and of my fears of death – of my own mainly; and now I had someone else to worry about. He nodded, resigned to the fact, rose from the chair and walked to the door.

  “Goodbye, my friend. May you live a long and happy life. Take good care of Mee Ling. You are a lucky man. You know what you want.”

  We shook hands and he went out the door. I watched as he made for the fire-stairs, and saw his nephew open the heavy door for him. He turned, waved once, and was gone.

  Again there were no problems at the bank, everything going like clockwork, well perhaps not exactly, but at least it was finished, at an end.

  Mee Ling would be back in three days. I had money to burn and a wonderful girl to help me stoke the fire.

  I walked out of the bank, leaving the world of finance behind me, and strolled along the street. The weather hadn’t changed, with everything still bright and shining, but it seemed to me as though the whole world was wearing a smile. I called Nick at a public phone on the way back to the hotel and gave him the news about the second payment; and arranged for an engagement party back in Adelaide in a week’s time.

  Back at the hotel I even tipped the elevator boy; the surprised look on his face worth every bit of the twenty dollars American I pushed into the top of his jacket; and then I did a sideways shuffle along the corridor whistling a tune as I reached into my pocket for the key.

  Only three more days. Three more days until Mee Ling would return.

  But the whistling died when I came to the open door; and the smile was gone in an instant when I saw the two men standing inside.

  Two men, one in the uniform of the Singapore Police.

  Twenty

  “Mr. Jeffrey Rider?” I nodded, puzzled. “We should like you to accompany us to Police Headquarters, please. I am Inspector Chung of the Singapore Police.”

  He passed his identity card across.

  Perhaps if I had made a break for it then and there. Tek kept a fast boat at the house and I could have been out of Singapore in under an hour. I had thought it would be just more routine questions.

  They charged me that same night. It was ironic really. I was charged with the murder on board a Singapore registered ship of one Peter Cameron, late of Adelaide, South Australia. An autopsy had revealed the bruising on the back of Pete’s neck. It was useless to tell the police about the marijuana. If I opened my mouth about that I wouldn’t have lasted the next twenty-four hours; and the only way I could count on help from Tek was to keep my mouth shut. He managed to get a message to me that night, slipped in with my evening meal. God only knows how he managed to open a pipeline so quickly. A lawyer had been instructed to act for me and Nick had remitted the necessary funds from Australia, keeping my Singapore connections in the background. They would look after me. They would get me out.

  I told the police about the Malay attacking me and accused him of killing Pete; but he couldn’t be found, naturally. They asked whether I had done away with him as well.

  They had found the murder weapon. It was a length of pipe, discovered on the floor of the paint-locker. They had also found my torch, with my fingerprints on it, lying under a bundle of wire just inside the door of the locker, next to the pipe. It was the torch that clinched it, the torch that George had given me. It was as though he had reached out to me through the mists of death.

  The steward told how I had barricaded my door after Pete had been killed, and of how nervous I had been. He told of how he had caught me going through Pete’s things in his cabin, and how I had tried to bribe him. It had been obvious I had been trying to steal something.

  The third officer admitted in court that he had fallen asleep on the night we had gone aground, but went on to say that he was certain he had been drugged. He told them how I had tried to convince him to keep quiet, threatening him with possible imprisonment if he mentioned it to anyone. They made out that it was me who had drugged the coffee, that I was trying to wreck the ship and get rid of Pete’s body, the torch, the pipe and anything else that might lead them to me. After all, the captain had shown me the chart of the area, so I knew where the reef was.

  One of the crew gave evidence of having gone past my cabin less than an hour before Pete had been killed and hearing Pete’s voice raised in anger, yelling about some woman. The way he told it, we were arguing – heatedly. I tried to tell them about Pete discovering that his steady girlfriend had given him gonorrhoea, but they wouldn’t listen.

  None of the crew liked me. I was the passenger, the outsider. I couldn’t even get the officers to say a word in my favour. Flint stood in the witness box, mumbling that I seemed to be a nervous kind of person, ready to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, and devious.

  The final nail in the coffin was my written statement declaring that Pete had been lying face down on the deck with an arm stretched out in front of him. One of the officers had taken several photographs of the body by torchlight. The pictures showed both arms were tucked well back.

  It was all circumstantial, but it was all they needed.

  I was convicted on a Thursday, the day that had haunted me all my life.

  Appeal was denied.

  T
ek couldn’t do anything. I know he tried, spending a fortune on bribes. He kept his distance from me, all communications coming through the lawyer, telling me not to give up hope, something would be organised.

  He arranged with the prison authorities for Mee Ling to come and see me, but the pain would have been more than I could bear, and I refused to see her.

  Let her remember me as I had been on the day we had walked happily through the streets of Singapore, laughing at the slightest thing, not a care in the world. Let her remember only that one single orchid, the symbol of our bond.

  She sent another.

  I have it here with me now.

  They dispense justice quickly here. There’s no delay, no time for petitions.

  I waited all week, waited for the quiet sounds in the middle of the night, the sounds of a paid force sneaking through the prison to break me free. They haven’t come. I am the sacrifice.

  It was sunny outside today, but this cell is like a block of ice. The padre has been and gone. He smiled when I showed him the orchid. He wasn’t any comfort. What comfort could he be?

  They’re taking me out in the morning, taking me out to that trapdoor and the rough, heavy rope. It’s quiet, Wednesday evening, not many hours left until the morning. And tomorrow….?

  Yes, tomorrow is………

  If you enjoyed Thursday’s Orchid, then why not read one or more of my other seven books:

  The Emperor’s Jade

  For over two thousand years the secret hiding place of the jade dragon seal of Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China, has been just that - a secret. But the accidental destruction of a small ancient porcelain pillow reveals that secret, and leads the young Australian teacher and his Scottish friend away from their peaceful college at Nandaihe on the shore of the Bo Sea, drawing them up into the freezing bleakness of the jagged mountains of Huangshan, as they try to outwit and elude those who would steal their secret, the jade seal, and their lives.

  Golden Eagles

  Are the iron chests, chests filled with Golden Eagles – gold coins issued by the United States of America in the 1930’s and coveted the world over for their rarity – still on board the USS President Coolidge as she lies in her watery grave off the island of Espiritu Santo in Vanuatu? Or were they removed soon after she sank in October 1942?

  Three people set sail from Townville, Australia, to seek those eagles out, to dive, to cut and force their way deep into the bowels of that once mighty passenger liner, but are they alone?

  Their yacht, the Belle, is tracked to the island by others determined to hijack the coins, regardless of the cost.

  The Coolidge lay quiet beneath the waves, and at peace. But that peace would never again be the same.

  The Khilioi

  For almost ten thousand years the Khilioi have lived in their city beneath the remote Australian desert, undisturbed and unknown. A small aircraft flying overhead loses power and lands nearby. The Deka, the lords of the Khilioi, rescue the pilot and his girlfriend and take them to the city, a city they will never be allowed to leave, not even after their purpose has been served - new bloodlines for the Khilioi. Their time is finite. There is no option but escape. But what of the Scroll of the Ancestors, and the gold, and the blue brilliance of the Khilioi’s diamonds?

  Beneath Yellow Clay

  For fifteen hundred years the tomb of a general buried during the Three Kingdoms dynasty has remained hidden beneath the pale yellow clay of Shanxi Province; guarding the secret to the mysterious tomb of the first great emperor of China – Qin Shi Huang. Two young Melbourne University tutors believe they can break into the general’s tomb, believe they can loot the tomb of its ancient artefacts, the jade, the porcelain, and whatever else is there for the tomb raider to take. But are they naïve or just foolish in their simple belief that they can enter China and steal its treasures and smuggle them away without running afoul of those who also want those beautiful things? Did they not realise that there are those who will take whatever measures may be needed to seize and sell the looted objects for the millions of dollars which they will fetch? Did they really believe they could steal these priceless antiques from an ancient time without the danger and death which would follow such wealth?

  Dark Eye of the Jaguar

  An antique mahogany campaign writing box is purchased from an old man at the Dirt Market in Beijing. A gold bishop's cross is found inside a secret compartment, long hidden since the last days of the Boxer Rebellion in 1900. At the centre of the cross is a large Columbian emerald, said to be cursed. In another secret compartment there is an unfinished letter telling of a brass chest containing church treasures and relics looted by the Boxers. The chest had been liberated from the Boxers by a captain of the Bengal Lancers and buried by him somewhere in the city once known as Peking. The captain had written to his wife telling her of its location, but the letter never left his writing box. After discovering its contents, the two Australians who bought the box return to China in search of the chest, hoping against hope that its hiding place has not been disturbed by the frenzy of development that has recently overtaken Beijing. But others have learned of their quest and, in the cold mist of Beijing's winter, what had seemed like a simple task back in their leafy riverside Brisbane suburb, has now become a deadly game.

  The Stone Dog

  20th September 1917 – Wakaya, Fiji.

  The Count Felix von Luckner, Master of the German raider Seeadler, lowers a sealed iron chest into the waters of a small unnamed bay under cover of darkness.

  17th December 1971 – Cairns, Australia.

  The chance mention of von Luckner’s name revives memories of boyhood tales of the secrets of that far-off night, and of the iron chest watched over by the stone dog.

  But were the tales, told by Uncle Max, bosun on the Seeadler those fifty-four years ago, true, or were they merely that, yarns, nothing more?

  And if true – would the chest still be there?

  And if true – will it be worth the bloodshed?

  The Lucinda Legacy

  Diamonds

  Eight million dollars' worth.

  The Lucinda, the pearl lugger that led the fathers of the sons to the sparkling stones. The lugger which bequeathed the legacy of that fateful day in March 1942 to those sons. A legacy kept hidden until.....

  But are they still waiting in their secret place? Do they still wail for the dead and those soon to be dead?

  The sons of the fathers, urged on by that legacy forty-four years further on. Mistrust fighting hate, anger curbed by greed, as the sons race across the great continent of Australia towards destiny, towards the once booming town of Broome, towards...

  Eight million dollars.