But why the hotel? Murray suddenly wondered. Didn’t Ryderbeit have a place of his own? Or perhaps it wasn’t that kind of meeting he’d had in mind? He broke into a run, beginning to wonder if he could have been wrong about Ryderbeit after all. Then he remembered the heavy bulge of Finlayson’s wallet bumping against his hip, and he felt the panic hit him in a rush. It had all been very clever. They’d probably never find out why a respectable Irish journalist should break into an Englishman’s house in Laos, nail him to his bed, strip him of a few hundred dollars, then run amok in his office and finish up floating in the Mekong. Perhaps they’d write it off against drink, drugs, the climate, a bout of madness induced by yesterday’s crash.
He had the wallet in his hand, and without hesitating over whether to help himself to a few dollar bills, flung it far out into the river — not even waiting for the splash, as he headed into the trees where he crashed blindly about for a few moments before coming out again with a stout shard of bamboo. He stayed for several seconds on the edge of the path, crouched forward with elbows raised, the bamboo held across his palms like a long knife, listening. But there was nothing above the din of the jungle and the soft swish of the river.
He began to run again, head down, dodging, holding the bamboo stave low, ready to jerk it up into Ryderbeit’s groin the moment he was jumped. Napper had warned him less than an hour ago to keep away from Ryderbeit; yet how much did Napper know? Could he really have known that Finlayson was in danger — was even dead — and still done nothing about it?
Murray turned a bend in the track. Ahead were pricks of light between the trees. Paraffin lamps in open doorways; jangle of a transistor radio. He sprinted up a stinking village lane and suddenly came out into the main street, not thirty yards away from the Hotel des Amis.
He slowed and dropped the bamboo, feeling limp and a little ridiculous as he started across the street, into the dark bar under the red awning. A glance round showed him there was no one he knew. He walked up to the girl at the cash register and asked for his bill for the four nights, telling her he would need a taxi to the airport in the morning to catch the 8.30 flight down to Bangkok. He settled the bill in dollars — beginning to regret now that he hadn’t held on to at least some of Finlayson’s pocket money — as the girl handed him a lighted candle. Up in his room he opened a new bottle of Scotch, poured half a tumblerful and swallowed it straight; then he began to pack. Shaving tackle, dirty shirt, socks and underwear, notebook and half a dozen cassettes of undeveloped film. He was stuffing these carefully down the side of his grip-bag when there was a quick rap on the door. Ryderbeit came in, rubbing his hands and grinning.
‘You got something to drink up here, soldier? I could do with a couple!’
‘So, it wasn’t me and it wasn’t his mistress. Who does that leave?’
They sat facing each other on the twin beds, stripped down to their vests in the hot airless room, sharing the whisky warm and neat out of the single tumbler.
‘It leaves a few of the teeming millions of South-East Asia,’ Murray said at last, feeling the sweat itching down through the hairs on his chest. ‘Did he have any enemies you know of? Jealous husbands? Anything political? CIA? Or the other side?’
Ryderbeit spread his hands. ‘Nothing. He was just a friendly old legalised crook running his own show. Sure, he did a few deals on the side — everyone out here does, but it’s all aid money so there are no real losers — except the American tax payer. Nobody disliked old Filling-Station. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Unless it was a maniac, it has to make sense.’
‘Yeah, but why the nail? That’s really kinky.’
‘Or a professional speciality. Professional killers prefer their own tools. Ice-picks were quite a favourite in the thirties and forties in the States. Trotsky was even done in with one. And a hammer and nail’s not so different. Quick and neat, especially if you know your victim’s going to be asleep.’
‘So you think it was a hired job?’
‘What does it look like? Someone who knew Finlayson’s habits well enough to get in while he was having his late nap — and someone who knew what he was after. Something in the office. Some correspondence, document, notebook — but certainly not money. And probably someone from outside Laos — hence the trick of cutting the phone to give him time to get away. He was probably gambling on no one calling round tonight. And unless he took the train to Bangkok, he’s almost certainly still here. Which means we ought to report it. Now.’
Ryderbeit gave a twist of a smile. ‘And help the police with their inquiries? Sorry, soldier. Where the police are concerned Samuel Ryderbeit is strictly one o’ the boys who walks by on the other side.’
Murray shrugged. ‘If it was a real professional, they probably wouldn’t spot him anyway. He may even lie low here for a few days before getting out. It’s
