until they were bright mirrors.
I let my body relax and pulled the door wide. He said, “You are Mr. Daniel Connell?”
“That’s right.”
“I am Inspector Kok Chin Tiong, of the Singapore polis. I would like to speak with you, please.”
“What about?”
“May I come in?”
“I’m a lousy housekeeper.”
“Tida apa,” he said without smiling.
I shrugged and stood aside for him. When he had entered, he stood looking around and wrinkling his nose as if something smelled peculiar to him. His eyes were expressionless. He waited until I had closed the door before saying, “You have had an accident, Mr. Connell?”
“What?”
“The bandages on your hands.”
“Yes, an accident,” I said shortly.
His black eyes searched my face for a moment, and then he put his hands behind his back and walked to the window. He looked down at Punyang Street below, at the palpitating ebb and flow of Chinese there, at the arcaded market stalls with their infinite variety of goods spread out in rows on the littered street and in the shadows of the Five Foot Ways-covered walkways which are formed by the supporting pillars and the jutting overhang of the buildings. I could hear the voices of hawkers extolling the virtues of their wares, rising above the strident, excited singsong of their potential customers. An automobile horn punctuated the din with short, sharp, angry blasts.
Tiong said finally, turning, “Do you know a French national by the name of La Croix, Mr. Connell?”
I went to the rattan armchair and shook a cigarette from the pack there. “Why?”
“Do you?”
“I might.”
Tiong rubbed at his upper lip with the tip of one forefinger. “Are you familiar with the Severin Road, near Bedok, Mr. Connell?”
“A little. It runs through a mangrove swamp, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. “The French national was found there shortly past two o’clock this morning by a native boy hunting frogs,” he said. “Shot once through the heart-and five times in the face-with a. 25-caliber weapon.”
Very carefully, I stubbed out my cigarette in a ceramic ashtray on the table near the bedroom door. I held a long breath and then let it out slowly between my teeth. “Five bullets in the face does a lot of damage,” I said. “How did you make an identification?”
“His papers had not been disturbed. And we discovered a rented automobile, leased by him, not far from his body.”
“I suppose you think I had something to do with it. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Did you, Mr. Connell?”
“No.”
“Among the French national’s effects was a scrap of paper containing your name and address,” Tiong said. “Do you know why he would have such a paper?”
I decided to level with him; there was no point in doing anything else. “He came to see me yesterday morning. It was the first time I’d laid eyes on him in over two years.”
“What was the purpose of his visit?”
“He wanted to hire me.”
“To do what?”
“Fly him out of Singapore.”
“To what destination?”
“The Thai coast, near Bangkok.”
“Singapore has excellent airline service to Thailand,” Tiong said pointedly.
“Yeah.”
“What was his reason for not utilizing the normal modes of transportation?”
“He didn’t give me one.”
“He only said he wished you to fly him to Thailand?”
“That’s all.”
“Did you agree to do this?”
“No.
“And why not?”
“I don’t fly any more,” I said.
“Ah yes,” Tiong said. “Your commercial and private pilot’s license was revoked two years ago, was it not? Because of a certain incident on the island of Penang?”
I said nothing. He was obviously well aware of the incident on Penang, and the ensuing investigation of it.
Tiong smiled faintly. “Why do you suppose, Mr. Connell, that the French national would seek you out in particular with his request?”
“We had dealings once, a long time ago.”
“What type of dealings?”
I met his eyes squarely. “I’d rather not say.”
He touched his upper lip again, and we stood for a time with our eyes locked. Finally he said, “I would like to know your whereabouts last evening, Mr. Connell.”
“The Old Cathay Bar.”
“All evening?”
“Most of it.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“Midafternoon.”
“And what time did you leave?”
“Around ten o’clock.”
“Do you own a gun, please?”
“No,” I said.
“Have you ever owned one?”
“A long time ago.”
“What was it?”
“A German Walther.”
“Where is it now?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
“Would you object to a search of your quarters?”
“Be my guest,” I said, “but I’ll tell you something, Inspector.”
“Yes?”
“You’re wasting your time coming around to me. I didn’t kill La Croix. I didn’t have any reason to kill him. But I’ve got an idea who might have done it. Look up a guy named Van Rijk, Jorge Van Rijk, and ask him the same questions you’ve just asked me.”
Tiong’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of Van Rijk?”
I still didn’t want to get involved in whatever this thing was. But what had happened last night on Betar Road, and La Croix’s death-the way Tiong had said he died-seemed to make it necessary now. “We had a little chat yesterday,” I told him. “He knew I had spoken with La Croix, and he thought I knew where La Croix had gone after he left here. He tried to find out what we had discussed. I wouldn’t give him any answers, and he made a few very plain threats. Last night, when I left the Old Cathay, the two men he had had with him earlier jumped me on Betar Road. One of them, a Eurasian, took a few shots at me with a small caliber automatic-a. 25, maybe.” I lifted my bandaged hands. “I had to go over a couple of fences, one of them capped with barbed wire, to get away from him, and that’s how this happened.”
Tiong digested the information. Then he said slowly, “I see.”
