Thai Horse

SMOKE

A pale, dyspeptic, extremely nervous young under-under- under-secretary named Lamar Pellingham, Jr., greeted Sloan at the entrance to the embassy and immediately confided that this was his first experience with death on a foreign shore.

‘It’s impossible, absolutely impossible. Forms, forms, forms,’ the pasty-faced man groaned. ‘I’ve never seen such red tape.’

‘Yes, I know what a problem these things are,’ Sloan agreed solicitously. ‘You’d think they’d be glad to get rid of the remains instead of making it so difficult.’

‘Yes. Right. Of course,’ the diplomat answered, somewhat startled by Sloan’s nonchalance. ‘Uh, the maids packed up everything — that is, everything but what was in his desk. We sealed that room, left — the desk, I mean — alone. You know, in the event there was, uh. . . classified material there.’

He spoke every word as though it were a hot coal he was spitting out of his mouth. It was obvious he found the entire matter repellent.

‘Excellent decision,’ said Sloan. I’ll check it out.’

‘Have you seen the police?’

‘Not yet. I came straight here after checking into the hotel. Do you have the police reports?’

‘No, the investigator, a major, Ngy, wouldn’t give anything up. A real mean one, he needs it for the investigation,’ Pellingham stammered quickly. ‘But I have the other things. Come with me, please.’

The nervous junior diplomat led Sloan back through the ornate passages of the Thai embassy to his office, a cheery but small cubicle near the back of the building. He riffled through a stack of folders in his ‘Hold’ box and handed Sloan an envelope marked, ‘Porter . Final Papers. Confidential.’

‘Everything’s in there,’ Pellingham said. ‘All the forms, his insurance papers, even his last expense report.’

‘Interesting. I’ll just take these along,’ Sloan said. ‘Perhaps I should, uh, make a copy?’ Pellingham stammered, rubbing his cheek with the palm of a sweaty hand and turning what started as a statement into a question.

Sloan smiled his reassuring smile. ‘If it would make you more comfortable,’ he said, ‘a copy will be fine.’

‘They say it’s, uh, a case of innocent bystander, killed more or less by accident, if ‘ possible for someone to be murdered by accident.’ He hesitate and, when Sloan made no response, added, ‘Not exactly a hero’s death. But I suppose it’s best for our purposes. I mean acceptable under the circumstances.’

‘Acceptable,’ Sloan said. ‘An excellent way of putting it. I can see why you picked the diplomatic service.’

‘Well, thank you, sir,’ Pellingham responded. ‘I meant for the family and all.’

‘Of course. I know exactly what you mean, and I agree,’ Sloan said, trying to put the young man at ease. ‘Look here,’ he went on, ‘no need to worry about this any further. I’m here now. It’s in my hands.’

‘But...’

Smiling, Sloan handed the envelope back to Pellingham. ‘Why don’t you make your copy while I check out Porter’s things.’

‘Yes, yes, good idea. You, uh, know where to ship the remains and his effects?’

‘It’s all arranged.’

‘Oh, thank God,’ the neophyte diplomat said with relief.

‘Just show me Porter’s suite while you’re copying the report, hmm?’

‘Right, right.’

The young man watched as Sloan entered Porter’s suite, wondering whether he should accompany him. But Sloan closed the door and he stared at it for a full minute before scurrying off to the copy machine.

An hour’s search produced nothing .of value to Sloan but a five-by-seven leather-bound, three-ring notebook. Porter’s diary, a veritable autobiography f the man beginning in January of that year. Sloan stuffed it in his briefcase. He checked over everything else and found nothing else related to the Cody-Wol Pot case. After getting the copy of the Porter documents, he headed back to his hotel.

He peeled off a soggy shirt, pulled a table under the ceiling fan and spent the rest of the afternoon going through the diary. Porter had certainly been keeping a wary eye on the little Thai. The notebook was complete up to the day Porter died. The expense account meticulously included fifty cents for a Coke at a place called the American Deli in Patpong ‘while performing surveillance.’ Porter had turned into the ultimate bureaucrat.

Then the need began gnawing at Sloan. He became distracted and finally closed the file folder and the notebook. As the sun began to set he stared out the window at the city of golden spires and domes, shimmering in the dying rays of the sun, watched as they got dimmer and dimmer until finally they winked out like dying candles. The need was in him and the night lured him out of the room, down to the crowded main street.

A two-seater with a wiry, energetic little driver waited near the entrance of the hotel, ‘Sir, sir,’ the little fellow said, trotting beside Sloan as he walked toward the row of taxis at the door. ‘Got good tuk-tuk, best price in town. Very fast.’

Why not, thought Sloan. There were hundreds of the noisy machines in the city. It would be impossible to trace his movements.

‘All right, lead on,’ Sloan said.