master's ear for a full minute, and our host put down his sherry glass and opened his slit eyes a fraction wider, which for him was the equivalent of leaping to his feet and shouting 'Great Scott!' Then he tapped the table, and they shut up.
'If you will forgive my interruption,' says Whampoa, 'I have information which I believe may be vital to us, and to the safety of the beautiful Mrs Flashman.' He ducked his head at me. 'A little time ago I ventured the humble opinion that her abductor would not sail beyond the Indies waters; I had developed a theory,, from the scant information in my possession; my agents have been testing it in the few hours that have elapsed since this deplorable crime took place. It concerned the identity of this mysterious Don Solomon Haslam, whom Singapore has known as a merchant and trader - for how long?'
'Ten years or thereabouts,' says Catchick. 'He came here as a young man, in about '35.'
Whampoa bowed acknowledgement. 'Precisely; that accords with my own recollection. Since then, when he established a warehouse here, he has visited our port only occasionally, spending most of his time - where? No one knows. It was assumed that he was on trading ventures, or on these estates about which he talked vaguely. Then, three years ago, he returned to England, where he had been at school. He returns now, with Mr and Mrs Flashman, and Mr Morrison.'
'Well, well,' cries Catchick. 'We know all this. What of it?'
'We know nothing of his parentage, his birth, or his early life,' says Whampoa. 'We know he is fabulously rich, that he never touches strong drink, and I gather - from conversation I have had with Mr Morrison - that on his brig he commonly wore the sarong and went barefoot.' He shrugged. 'These are small things; what do they indicate? That he is half-caste, we know; I suggest the evidence points to his being a Muslim, although there is no proof that he ever observes the rituals of that faith. Now then, a rich Muslim, who speaks fluent Malay—'
'The Islands are full of 'em,' cries Brooke. 'What are you driving at?'
`-who has been known in these waters for ten years, except for the last three, when he was in England. And his name is Solomon Haslam, to which he attaches the Spanish honorific `Don'.'
They were still as mice, listening. Whampoa turned his expressionless yellow face, surveying them, and tapped his glass, which the wench refilled.
'This suggests nothing to you? Not to you, Catchick? Mr Balestier? Your majesty?' This to Brooke, who shook his head. 'It did not to me, either,' Whampoa continued, 'until I considered his name, and something stirred in my poor memory. Another name. Your majesty knows, I am sure, the names of the principal pirates of the Borneo coast for several years back - could you recall some of them to us now?'
'Pirates?' cries Brooke. 'You're not suggesting—' 'If you please,' says Whampoa.
'Why - well then, let's see,' Brooke frowned. 'There's Jaffir, at Fort Linga; Sharif Muller of the Skrang - nearly cornered him on the Rajang last year - then there's Pangeran Suva, out of Brunei; Suleiman Usman of Maludu, but no one's heard of him for long enough; Sharif Sahib of Patusan; Ranu—'
He broke off, for Catchick Moses had let fly one of his amazing Hebrew exclamations, and was staring at Whampoa, who nodded placidly.
'You noticed, Catchick. As I did - I ask myself why I did not notice five years ago. That name,' and he looked at Brooke, and sipped his sherry. ' `Suleiman Usman of Maludu, but no one has heard of him for long enough',' he repeated. 'I think - indeed, I know, that no one has heard of him for precisely three years. Suleiman Usman - Solomon Haslam.' He put down his sherry glass.
For a moment there was stupefied silence, and then Balestier burst out:
'But that can't be! What - a coast pirate, and you suggest he set up shop here, amongst us, as a trader, and carried on business, and went a-pirating on the side? That's not just too rich - it's downright crazy—'
'What better cover for piracy?' wonders Whampoa. 'What better means of collecting information?'
'But damn it, this fellow Haslam's a public school man!' cries Brooke. 'Isn't he?'
'He attended Eton College,' says Whampoa gravely, 'but that is not, in itself, necessarily inconsistent with a later life of crime.'
'But consider!' cries Catchick. 'If it were as you say, would any sane man adopt an alias so close to his own name? Wouldn't he call himself Smith, or Brown, or - or anything?'
'Not necessarily,' says Whampoa. 'I do not doubt that when his parent - or whoever it was - arranged for his English education, he entered school under his true name, which might well be rendered into English as Solomon Haslam. The first name is an exact translation; the second, an English name reasonably close to Usman. And there is nothing impossible about some wealthy Borneo raja or sharif sending his child to an English school - unusual, yes, but it has certainly happened in this case. And the son, following in his father's footsteps, has practised piracy, which we know is the profession of half the population of the Islands. At the same time, he has developed business interests in England and Singapore - which he has now decided to cut.'
'And stolen another man's wife, to carry her off to his pirate lair?' scoffs Balestier. 'Oh, but this is beyond reason—'
'Hardly more unreasonable than to suppose that Don Solomon Haslam, if he were not a pirate, would kidnap an English lady,' says Whampoa.
'Oh, but you're only guessing!' cries Catchick. 'A coincidence in names—'
'And in times. Solomon Haslam went to England three years ago - and Suleiman Usman vanished at the same time.'
That silenced them, and then Brooke says slowly:
'It might be true, but if it was, what difference does it make, after all—'
'Some, I think. For if it is true you need look no farther than Borneo for the Sulu Queen's destination. Maludu lies north, beyond the Papar river, in unexplored country. He may go there, or take cover among his allies on the Seribas river or the Batang Lupar—'
'If he does, he's done for!' cries Brooke excitedly. 'I can bottle him there, or anywhere between Kuching and Serikei Point!'
Whampoa sluiced down some more sherry. 'It may not be so easy. Suleiman Usman was a man of power; his fort at Maludu was accounted impregnable, and he could draw at need on the great pirate fleets of the Lanun and Balagnini and Maluku of Gillalao. You have fought pirates, your majesty, I know - but hardly as many as these.'
'I'd fight every sea-robber from Luzon to Sumatra in this quarrel,' says Brooke. 'And beat 'em. And swing Suleiman Usman from the Dido's foretop at the end of it.
'If he is the man you are looking for,' says Catchick. 'Whampoa may be wrong.'
'Undoubtedly, I make frequent mistakes, in my poor ignorance,' says Whampoa. 'But not, I think, in this. I have further proof. No one among us, I believe, has ever seen Suleiman Usman of Maludu - or met anyone who has? No. However, my agents have been diligent tonight, and I can now supply a brief description. About thirty years old, over two yards in height, of stout build, unmarked features. Is it enough?'
It was enough for one listener, at any rate. Why not - it was no more incredible than all the rest of the events of that fearful night; indeed, it seemed to confirm them, as Whampoa pointed out.
'I would suggest also,' says he, 'that we need look no further for an explanation of the attack by Black-faces on Mr Flashman,' and they all turned to stare at me. 'Tell me, sir - you dined at a restaurant, before the attack? The Temple of Heaven, as I understand—'
'By God!' I croaked. 'It was Haslam who recommended it!'
Whampoa shrugged. 'Remove the husband, and the most ardent pursuer is disposed of. Such an assassination might be difficult to arrange, for an ordinary Singapore merchant, but to a pirate, with his connections with the criminal community, it would be simple.'
'The cowardly swine!' cries Brooke. 'Well, his ruffians were out of luck, weren't they? The pursuer's ready for the chase, ain't you, Flashman? And between us we'll make this scoundrel Usman or Haslam rue the day he dared to cast eyes on an Englishwoman. We'll smoke him out, and his foul crew with him. Oh, let me alone for that!'
I wasn't thinking that far ahead, I confess, and I didn't know James Brooke at this moment for anything but a smiling madman in a pilot-cap, with an odd taste in friends and followers. If I'd known him for what he truly was, I'd have been in an even more agitated condition when our discussion finally ended, and I was helped up Whampoa's staircase to a magnificent bed-chamber, and tucked in between silk sheets, bandaged shoulder and all, by his stewards and Dr Mackenzie. I hardly knew where I was; my mind was in a perfect spin, but when they'd left me,
