“Meaning?”
“Meaning the figurine.”
“What in hell is this figurine you keep talking about? Look, Miss King, we’re going around in circles.”
“You deny that you have it?”
“I don’t know anything about it ”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You think La Croix gave me this figurine, is that it?”
“Either that, or you killed him for it.”
I stared at her. She was the second person today who had all but directly accused me of murdering the Frenchman, and I was beginning to grow damned weary of it. Well, all right. It was time I found out what this was all about; you can only keep out of something, can only maintain your neutrality, if those who are involved allow you to-and nobody seemed to be willing to let me off the hook.
I said, “This figurine-tell me about it.”
“That would be pointless, under the circumstances.”
“Humor me.”
“The affair was reported in the Straits Times.”
“I make it a point never to read the newspapers.”
She stopped fanning herself with the sun hat and leaned forward on her chair, looking up at me with greed shining like firelight in the depths of her eyes. “All right, then. Early last week, a white jade figurine-the Burong Chabak — disappeared from an exhibit at the Museum of Oriental Art here in Singapore. The figurine is priceless, although it was insured for two hundred thousand Straits dollars. Double that can be gotten at the right source in the South China Sea, Connell. Four hundred thousand Straits dollars.”
“And you and La Croix were the ones responsible for the disappearance of this Burong Chabak.”
“He committed the actual theft.”
“Sure. What happened then?”
“Then?”
“How did La Croix get the figurine for himself? If you’re looking for it, the two of you had to have gotten mixed up on your signals somewhere along the line. Either that, or he tried to double-cross you.”
“Of course he tried to double-cross me!” Her hands gripped the bamboo arms of the chair, and the jarang hat dropped unnoticed to the dusty floor. “He was a fool, a stupid fool.”
“And so you killed him for it.”
“I killed him?” She laughed in a masculine, derisive way. “I had no idea where he was. But you knew, didn’t you? He’d been to see you.”
“How did you find that out?”
“There are ways.”
“And ways,” I said. “This is getting us nowhere.” I walked over to Harry’s desk and cocked a hip against it carefully, so as not to topple the farrago of miscellany perched precariously on its surface. “Let’s suppose I have this figurine of yours. What makes you think I’d pony it up for you? A one-way split is a hell of a lot more profitable than a two-way.”
“Quite true,” she said, and the smile was back now. She thought things were finally going to go as she’d expected. “But it’s unlikely that you have a buyer for the Burong Chabak, or could find one willing to pay much more than one hundred thousand Straits dollars.”
“But you do have a buyer.”
“Exactly.”
“Where?”
“In Bangkok.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred thousand Straits dollars.”
“Even split?”
“Of course. You produce the figurine and I produce the buyer. Fair exchange?”
“Sure,” I said. “If I had the figurine to produce.”
Anger smouldered in Marla King’s eyes, abrupt and barely contained. She was as unpredictable, and as volatile, as a vial of nitroglycerin. “Do you deny that you’ve got it, even now?”
I shrugged. “But maybe I can get it.”
Another change; the brightness was back in her eyes. “When?”
“I’m not sure. How do I get in touch with you?”
She smiled wisely. “You don’t. I’ll come to you.”
“When and where?”
“At a safe time and location.”
Impasse. I got a cigarette out of the pocket of my bush jacket and lit it and blew smoke at the electric punkah rotating sluggishly on the ceiling. “Tell me,” I said, “where does Van Rijk fit into all this?”
She reacted, but not in the way I had expected. The surface of her forehead crinkled, and she looked suprised and suddenly, inexplicably, unsure of herself. Blankly she said, “Van Rijk?”
“Jorge Van Rijk.”
“Who is he?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“A fat, soft, well-dressed little man who travels with a pair of armed bodyguards. He’s supposed to be a tobacco merchant.”
“No. Why do you mention him?”
“He tried to pry information out of me about La Croix yesterday, and I told him to lump off. Last night he sent his bodyguards to take a couple of shots at me.”
“Shots?”
“Shots.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “How would this Van Rijk know about La Croix?”
“Maybe La Croix agreed to sell him the figurine.”
“No.” She shook her head positively. “He would have gone to the buyer in Bangkok. He couldn’t have gotten anywhere near the price in Singapore.”
“Well, Van Rijk figures in somewhere,” I said. “He knew La Croix, and he was after La Croix; it doesn’t add up that it would be for any reason except the figurine.”
“Do you think Van Rijk killed him?”
“It’s possible.”
“Then… Van Rijk has the Burong Chabak?”
“Maybe.” I smiled at her. “And maybe I’ve got it. At any rate, I know where I can get it.”
She swept up the sun hat and got to her feet in a single motion. There was confusion and uncertainty in her face and in her motions, as if she didn’t know what to say or do next. She looked at me, worrying a corner of her lower lip with sharp white teeth-and somebody rapped out shave-and-a-haircut on the door.
I turned and the door opened and Harry Rutledge put his head inside. He glanced at me, fastened his eyes on the swell of Marla King’s breasts, and said loudly, “Here, here, this ain’t the afternoon tea, y’know. Sorry, miss, but we’ve got a shipment to offload.” He was smiling, but there was an edge to his voice; Harry had some Scottish blood in him, and he wanted full value for the lousy wages he paid.
“Miss King was just leaving.”
“Yes,” she said, “I was just leaving.”
“Will I see you later?” I asked her.
“I’ll call you.” She stepped past me, moved around Harry, and started away toward one of the godown’s side entrances. I went out and watched her; her hips rolled sensually beneath the tight white skirt, and the wide brim of the jarang hat flopped up and down like the wing of a bird about to take flight. When she had gone through the entrance, into the bright sunshine beyond, Harry looked at me a little enviously. “Love-ly,” he said, and rubbed the side of his peeling red nose with a forefinger. “Your current dolly, ducks?”
