I walked down to the waterfront.
South Bridge Road was quiet, except for those of the ever-present European and Pacific island tourists who had gotten up early to take in the sights. They were walking in pairs or in groups, talking animatedly, taking pictures the way they do-like giant dolls running through a programmed series of maneuvers. Ever since Singapore became an independent island republic in 1965, the government has made a concentrated effort to lure more visitors and thereby increase the primary contributor to the gross national income. This program, to the bitter disgust of a minority of inhabitants-myself included-has been an overwhelming success.
I walked along South Bridge Road for two blocks and then turned left, passing the Hong Lim Green. After a while I could see the river. The water was a dark, oily bluish-green, and sampans and prahus and small Chinese junks huddled together under their bamboo awnings like old men in a village square. There were dozens of the heavily laden, almost flat-decked tongkangs or cargo lighters that shuttle between the godowns and the freighters waiting in the Inner Roads of Singapore Harbor, and a multitude of smaller, motorized barges similarly laden. The perennial smells of rotting garbage, intermingled with those of salt water, spices, rubber, gasoline, and the sweet, cloying odor of frangipani, were thick and palpable; and the rust-colored tile roofs which cap most of Singapore’s buildings shone dully through the thick heat haze on both sides of the river.
I followed the line of the waterfront for a short way, passing some of the larger godowns. In the shade beneath their sloping eaves, Chinese and Tamil coolies squatted in silent stoicism, or gambled with small, shiny coins, or worked sluggishly among crates and boxes and barrels and skids. Finally, I came upon one of the smaller godowns and found Harry Rutledge-a large, florid-faced, good-natured Englishman; he was supervising the unloading of a shipment of copra from one of the lighters.
“Hello, ducks,” he said affably as I approached.
“Harry.”
“Another effing scorcher, ain’t it?”
I admitted that it was, and then asked him, “Can you use me today, Harry?”
“Sorry, ducks. Plenty of coolies on this one.”
“Tomorrow?”
He rubbed at his peeling red nose; it glistened like the polished hood on one of the government limousines you see parked before the Legislative Assembly Hall on the other side of the river. “Got a cargo of palm oil coming in,” he said musingly. “Holdover, awaiting transshipment. Could use you, at that.”
“What time is it due?”
“Ten, likely.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Right-o, ducks.”
I retraced my steps along the river. It was damned hot, all right-I’ve been in the South China Sea since the end of the Korean War, but I’ve never been able to get used to the heat-and I decided an iced Anchor Beer would taste just fine, early as it was. I walked back along South Bridge Road to a connecting alley and a place called the Seaman’s Bar, which catered mostly to the waterfront types. It was deserted now except for the bartender and three German seamen who were drinking stout at one of the tables in the rear.
I ordered my beer, and while I sat drinking it I wondered if it might not be a good idea to drop in on a man named Samuels, who was the tuan besar of a huge rubber plantation in Selangor and who had an office in Collyer Quay. I had worked for him some months previously, and the last time I had seen him, three weeks ago, he had invited me to check back with him “after a fortnight or so” about an assistant overseer’s position that was supposed to open up on one of his kaboons.
I finished the beer and walked down to Collyer Quay. I went into Samuels’s building-an old, ponderous, heavystone-facaded structure that had about it an air of stuffy British imperialism-and rode a self-service elevator up to the sixth floor. Samuels’s offices were thickly carpeted, teak-paneled, and their air-conditioned coolness was a welcome respite from the heat. I gave my name to a pretty Indian secretary, and she disappeared into another office through a door near a harbor-view window. She returned again after a time and asked me to please sit down, Mr. Samuels would see me presently.
I waited for over an hour, and then Samuels came out and apologized for the delay and told me with a sad shake of his silver-maned head that the overseer’s position had been filled just last week. But if I would check back with him “after a fortnight or so,” there was a possibility that he would have something else for me.
I thanked him for no reason at all and went out and stood on the burning sidewalk in front of his building. It was past noon now, and even though I wanted another Anchor Beer I thought it would be a better idea if I had something to eat first. I hadn’t had any breakfast.
Here and there along the waterfront are small open-air eating stalls where you can buy a variety of Chinese or Malaysian specialties. I went back near the river and stopped at the first one I saw and sat on one of the foot-high wooden stools they have, under a white canvas awning. It was crowded, and it took a while for one of the waiters in white singlets and white shorts to make his way to where I was sitting. I ordered shashlik and rice and a fresh mangosteen.
I ate slowly, listening to the hum of conversation. There were a score of tongues and dialects; Singapore is the melting pot of Southeast Asia. I had gotten down to the mangosteen-a thick, pulpy, very sweet fruit-when the three men appeared in front of my table.
The two on either side were copper-skinned, stoic-featured, and flat-eyed. The taller of the two was Eurasian — almond-eyed, but with fine, straight brown hair; the other was a Malay. They were both dressed in freshly pressed white linen jackets and matching slacks and thin cotton shirts, open at the throat.
The man in the middle was about fifty, short and plump, and he appeared to be very soft; his skin had the odd look of kneaded pink dough, like a gigantic gingerbread man before baking. His hair was sparse, a kind of neutral straw color, and his eyes were a mild, liquidy blue. There was a distinctively Teutonic look about his face, but it struck me that he was probably Dutch or Belgian, rather than German or Austrian. He wore white also, but there any similarity between his dress and that of the other two ended. The suit was British cut, impeccably tailored; the shirt was Thai silk with long sleeves fastened with jade cufflinks initialed JVR in gold; the shoes were of hand-made leather and polished to a fine gloss. On the little finger of his left hand he wore a huge gold ring with a jade stone in the shape of a lion’s head-symbolic, I supposed, of the Lion City.
He sat down, carefully adjusting the razor crease in his slacks, on the stool next to me; the other two remained standing. A group of Americans, obviously on some kind of tour, had finished their sugared beancurd at an adjacent table and departed; there was no one, now, within the immediate vicinity.
The soft man smiled, as if he had just found a missing relative. “You are Mr. Connell, are you not?” he asked. His voice had a saccharine quality that was almost condescending.
“That’s right.”
“I am Jorge Van Rijk.”
I went on eating the mangosteen. “Good for you.”
He thought that was amusing. Gold fillings sparkled. His laugh had a burr in it that made my neck cold. “I am given to understand that you had a conversation with an acquaintance of mine this morning,” he said. “Monsieur La Croix.”
“Is that right?”
“Quite right. He was observed leaving the building which houses your flat in Punyang Street.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it?” Van Rijk said. “I wish to know the current whereabouts of Monsieur La Croix.”
“Why?”
“A small business matter.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Where might I find him, Mr. Connell?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
“He did not tell you where he could be reached?”
“No.”
“Really now, Mr. Connell,” Van Rijk said in a mildly reproving voice.
“Think what you want. I don’t know where he is.”
He studied me with his mild blue eyes. After a time he said, “May I inquire, then, as to the nature of your conversation this morning?”
I met his gaze. “I don’t suppose that’s any of your business.”
“Ah, but it is, Mr. Connell. It is, indeed, my business.”
“Then ask La Croix if you find him.”
“An excellent suggestion, of course,” Van Rijk said. “But time is of the essence in this matter. Necessarily, then, I must ask you.”
“Sorry. It was a private discussion.”
“I see.” Van Rijk smiled. From the inside pocket of his tailored suit he produced a squarish box of cigarettes. I saw that they were of English manufacture-Players. He flicked the box open with a manicured thumbnail and extended it to me. “Cigarette?”
I shook my head. “Not my brand.”
He shrugged lightly, extracted one from the box. He put it between his soft lips and lit it with a thin gold lighter encrusted with tiny jade stones. Through bluish smoke he said, “It is my information that you are a former airplane pilot, Mr. Connell, one not averse to transporting unauthorized cargo for a proper price.”
I didn’t say anything.
“This is, of course, the reason Monsieur La Croix spoke with you.”
“Is it?”
“He wished you to transport him from Singapore, correct?”
“No.”
“Of course he did.”
“Were you there? I don’t fly any more, Van Rijk.”
“Did you agree to his proposal?”
“There wasn’t any proposal.”
“How much did he offer you?”
“Nothing at all.”
“What was his destination?”
“If he had one, he didn’t confide it to me.”
Van Rijk made a sucking sound on his cigarette, and we sat looking at each other like a pair of old enemies. Pretty soon he said, “I have become rather bored with this game of verbal chess, Mr. Connell. You would be most wise to tell me what I wish to know.”
He was beginning to get on my nerves. “I don’t have to tell you a goddam thing,” I said, keeping my voice equable. “I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t really care much. I do know that I don’t like you or your manner or your implications. Do I make myself clear?”
I watched his eyes change. They were no longer liquidy, and they were no longer mild. He didn’t look quite as soft as he had before. “I am not a patient man,” he said softly. “When I have lost what little forbearance I possess, I am also not a very pleasant man. Ordinarily I abhor violence in any form, but there are instances when I find it to be the only alternative.”
“So that’s the way you want to play it” I put my hands flat on the table and leaned toward him. “All right, Van Rijk,” I said. “You’ve made your point, now I’ll make mine. I’m not going anywhere with you, if that’s what you had in mind. I’m sure your two bodyguards or whatever they are are armed to the teeth, but I doubt if you’d have them shoot anybody in a crowded bazaar like this one. In fact, I doubt if you’d want to make any trouble at all. So you’ve got about thirty seconds before I push your fat face in where you sit. Those two would get into it, too, and I think you know what that would mean. Would you care to spend some time in a city penjara for street brawling, Van Rijk?”
Anger blotched his pink cheeks. The other two were poised on the balls of their feet now, watching me with their flat eyes. They were waiting for some sign from Van Rijk.
But I had judged him accurately. Abruptly, he stood. “There will be another time, Mr. Connell,” he said; the words dripped vitriol. “When the streets are not so crowded, and when the sunlight is not so bright.”
“Piss off, fat boy,” I said.
Van Rijk pivoted and stalked away between the closely set tables. The other two were at his heels. The three of them disappeared into the waterfront confusion.
I sat there for a time, thinking. I was a little bothered by Van Rijk’s threats, but they could have been a bluff and I decided I had handled the situation as well as could be expected. I was also a little curious about Van Rijk, and about his relationship with La Croix-but not enough to pursue the situation. I didn’t want, and could not afford, to let myself become involved in anything.
I got on my feet and put it out of my mind. It was, I thought, time for another iced beer.