A Lotus for Miss Quon Page 15

  Jaffe wished he knew the value of the smaller diamonds. For all he knew, he might be throwing away a small fortune in parting with these stones, but he had no alternative. The finality in Blackie’s voice warned him that Blackie had the last word.

  “I have one more diamond,” he said. “It’s worth a thousand dollars. I’ll owe you the rest.”

  Blackie shook his head.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t like taking diamonds. I had trouble in selling the last two you gave me.”

  “What did they fetch?” Jaffe demanded.

  “Under a thousand dollars,” Blackie lied. “If this stone you’re now offering me is the same as the other two, the sum realized won’t be enough.”

  Jaffe had brought two of the diamonds with him, each screwed up in a separate scrap of paper. He took out one of the screws of paper and gave it to Blackie.

  Blackie leaned forward and put on the dash-light. He examined the stone. It seemed to him very similar to the other two stones he had sold. He was breathing a little faster now. Charlie had been right. The American had found all the diamonds.

  “This will only fetch five hundred dollars,” Blackie said. “It is not nearly enough.”

  A big hand reached out and caught hold of his shoulder. Fingers that felt like steel pinchers dug into his fat flesh. He was jerked around. He stared at Jaffe, his heart giving a little kick of fright. The expression on the American’s face alarmed him.

  “That’s all I’ve got,” Jaffe said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “You haven’t any choice now, my friend. If they catch me, I’ll tell them about you. They’ll trace those two diamonds back to you. You know what they’ll do to you; I don’t have to tell you. You’re going to fix this for me or you’ll go down with me.”

  “You’re hurting me, Mr. Jaffe,” Blackie said unsteadily. He could understand now how easily Jaffe had killed the house-boy. The strength in these steel fingers horrified him.

  Jaffe let him go.

  “You’ve got three diamonds out of me. When I get to Hong Kong, you’ll get the rest of the money, but no more until I get there.”

  Blackie’s mind worked swiftly. With the three diamonds, he now had more than four thousand dollars in hand. It would be enough to pay the pilot and take care of Charlie’s air passage. He saw that it would be dangerous to push Jaffe further. He pretended to hesitate, then he smiled, lifting his fat shoulders.

  “Because I trust you, Mr. Jaffe, it’s a deal,” he said. “I will have to pay something out of my own pocket to make up the difference, but for you, I’ll do it.”

  “You’d better do it,” Jaffe said grimly. “Don’t forget - if I go down, you go down with me.”

  “There’ll be no question of that.”

  “That’s up to you.” There was a pause, then Jaffe went on. “What’s the set-up?”

  “I’ll return now and fix it,” Blackie said. He gently massaged his aching shoulder. “Be ready to leave the day after tomorrow. Either my brothel or I will come here at eleven and pick you up in my car. You will be taken to a place to be decided upon where the helicopter can safely land. Not here: it is too close to a police post. Is that understood?”

  Jaffe nodded.

  “You will bring Nhan?”

  “I will bring her.”

  “Okay: Thursday night here at eleven and with Nhan.”

  Blackie watched the big American get out of the car, then he started the engine.

  “I’m relying on you,” Jaffe said, bending to look in through the window at Blackie. “Remember what I said: we go down together.”

  Blackie had a feeling of uneasiness. He suddenly wished he wasn’t mixed up in this thing. It could go wrong. He remembered his brother’s warning about a shooting squad. He felt the damp sweat of fear break out on his face.

  “It will be all right,” he said. “You can rely on me.”

  He backed the car through the gateway of the temple, turned it and started down the narrow road to the main road.

  The policeman whose name was Din-Buong-Khun had arrived breathlessly a few minutes before, and was now lying in the long grass, his bicycle hidden close by behind a clump of young bamboo. He watched Blackie’s car turn to the right as it reached the main road and drive fast towards Saigon. Khun knew that three miles further down the road there would be another policeman waiting to pick up Blackie and follow him back to the police post. He looked towards the temple, wondering what Blackie had been doing up there in the old ruins. He wondered if he should go up there, but he had no flashlight and he knew he wouldn’t be able to see anything inside the temple. This was something he would do in the morning.

  As he was about to rise to his feet, his sharp ears picked up the sound of movement. He flattened down in the grass, looking towards the temple.

  Unaware that he was being watched, Jaffe walked out through the temple gateway and paused, trying to remember where he had left his bicycle. It was a dark night: a few pale stars hung in the sky, but the moon was hidden by a heavy mass of cloud.

  Two more days, Jaffe was thinking, then Hong Kong! He felt confident, and sure now that he had thrown a big enough scare into Blackie to bring him and keep him to heel. He worried about the diamonds he had given Blackie. Before he paid Blackie another dollar he would get the remaining stones valued. Blackie wasn’t going to swindle him if he could help it.

  Without thinking, he took out his pack of cigarettes and lit a cigarette.

  Khun watching, saw the tiny flame of the match. He could see Jaffe’s massive frame outlined against the sky, and his thick lips pulled off his teeth in a grimace of excitement.

  His hand slid to his revolver holster, flicked up the flap and his fingers closed on the gun butt.

  It was the American: Jaffe, he told himself. There was no mistaking the man’s size. The sergeant at the police post had given him his orders.

  “This man is armed and dangerous. Your instructions are to shoot to kill.”

  The gun slid easily out of the holster. Khun lifted it and sighted along the barrel. It was a difficult shot: sixty yards at least and only a black shape to aim at. Not for the first time in his police career did Khun feel a sudden doubt if he could hit his target. He had always been an indifferent marksman, and this would be good shooting with a.38 even for a crack shot.

  He began to crawl forward, sliding over the thick rough grass like a snake, his head just sufficiently raised to keep his eyes on Jaffe.

  Jaffe at this moment was thinking of Nhan. By the end of the week, they would be in Hong Kong together, he told himself. They would have one of the best suites at the Peninsula Hotel. Their first meal would be at the Parisian Grill. King Prawns, he thought, smiling to himself: they had nothing like them in Saigon.

  He drew in a lungful of smoke. Now where had he left his damn bicycle? He set off across the rough grass just as Khun, now within thirty yards, had once again lifted his gun.

  This target was even more difficult. A moving man, his instructor had warned him, is the hardest thing in the world to hit with a revolver shot. If you have to shoot, then aim slightly ahead, but it is better to wait until your target stops moving. Khun began to slide over the grass again as Jaffe lengthened the distance between them.

  Jaffe found his bicycle half hidden in the grass and he picked it up. As he straightened, Khun, seeing the bicycle and realizing in a moment or so, he would have missed his chance, sighted hurriedly along the short barrel of the gun and fired.

  Jaffe was just throwing his leg over the saddle of his bicycle when Khun fired at him. For Khun, it was a remarkably good shot, considering he was flustered and had scarcely taken aim.

  Jaffe heard something zip past his face, so close he felt a burning sensation on his skin. This was immediately followed by a gun-flash which seemed to come from a point only a few yards away. The bang of the gun was violently loud in the silence of the night.

  Instinctively, Jaffe jerked back, lost his balance and sprawled on the grass, the bicycle entang
ling his legs.

  Khun felt a great surge of excited triumph run through him. He had fired and he had seen Jaffe fall. He had lost sight of Jaffe in the long grass, but he was certain he had hit him. Whether he had killed him or not remained to be seen, but at least, he was sure he had hit him.

  Jaffe’s first reaction was to throw off the bicycle and get to his feet, but he restrained himself. Whoever had shot him was some thirty yards away from him and lying in the grass. If he moved he would be inviting a second shot and this time, the man with the gun might not miss. Very slowly and cautiously, he moved his hand to his hip-pocket and pulled out his gun, sliding back the safety catch, aware that his heart was hammering and he had difficulty in breathing.

  Khun remained where he was, his gun pointing in the direction of his last sight of Jaffe. A thought had dropped into his mind that had given him pause and badly shaken his confidence. Suppose, by ill chance, he thought, cold sweat starting out on his face, this big man he had fired at wasn’t the American, Jaffe? He had jumped to the conclusion the big shadowy outline of the man he had seen against the skyline could have been no one else but the wanted American, but suppose he wasn’t? Suppose he was some other American?

  Jaffe lifted his head slowly and sighted along the rough ground. He couldn’t see anything except big grass and a few shrubs. He listened intently, wondering who could have fired at him.

  Khun had decided to investigate. He couldn’t be certain that the man he had shot was dead. He might only be slightly wounded. If it was Jaffe, Khun knew he was armed. He didn’t intend to rise up and present a target of himself.

  Jaffe suddenly saw him. The white uniform showed up against the blackness of the grass. The man was creeping forward like a snake, and he wasn’t more than fifteen yards from Jaffe.

  Khun also spotted Jaffe. His khaki shirt was also visible against the dark grass. Khun stopped moving and stared at the dim outline of the fallen man, his gun thrust forward, sweat trickling down his face while he watched for the slightest movement.

  Jaffe could just make out the gun in Khun’s hand. He guessed rather than saw it was pointing at him.

  He doesn’t know if I am alive or not, Jaffe thought, trying to control the panic that gripped him. He’ll probably shoot again before coming any closer. If I make the slightest movement, he’ll fire. Even if I don’t he could still shoot.

  He was holding his gun down by his side. He would have to lift it and aim. By lying flat in the grass, Khun had made himself an almost impossible target. Jaffe told himself he couldn’t afford to miss. He began to lift the gun, inch by inch.

  Khun lay in the grass, staring at the man lying some fifteen yards in front of him. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to shoot at the dim outline, and yet his mind kept warning him that if this wasn’t Jaffe, he might be tried for murder.

  He lay there, trying to make up his mind. The minutes ticked by. Jaffe watched him. He had got his gun up and it was levelled in the direction of the peak cap Jaffe could just make out against the dark background, but it was still too tricky a shot. So he waited.

  After what seemed to be an eternity and was actually five minutes, Khun began to relax. The man was dead, he told himself. No one badly wounded could lie so still for so long. He had to see if it was Jaffe.

  Spurred on by the feeling of panic, he rose to his knees, then straightened up and began to walk cautiously towards the fallen man.

  Jaffe raised the barrel of his gun, keeping the gun down by his side so the approaching man couldn’t see it against the skyline, and when Khun was within five yards of him, he gently squeezed the trigger.

  The firing pin came down on the cap, making a loud click, but the gun didn’t fire. The three-year-old cartridge had betrayed Jaffe in his most urgent need.

  Khun heard the sound and jumped aside, his breath whistling out of his open mouth. He saw a vast shape rise off the ground and come towards him in a lunging dive and he fired blindly.

  The bullet scraped Jaffe’s arm. He felt the burning pain but it didn’t check his dive. Khun had no chance to fire directly at him again. Jaffe’s arms encircled his bony legs and his shoulder thudded into his groin. Khun felt as if he had been charged by a bull. IIe felt himself being flung up in the air and he pulled the trigger of his gun, the bullet whizzing into the night sky, the flash of the gun momentarily blinding Jaffe.

  The two men crashed down on the grass. The gun flew out of Khun’s hand. He screamed out in terror as he felt an agonizing pain sweep through him. Jaffe struck him on the side of his head with his clenched fist and the little man, hopelessly outmatched, jerked upwards and then fell back]imply.

  Jaffe knelt over him, breathing heavily. His hands rested lightly on Khun’s throat, ready to nip back a second scream. Khun mumbled something in Vietnamese which Jaffe couldn’t understand. Then from his throat came a curious dry rattling sound, like the rustle of dry leaves. The sound made Jaffe’s hair stand on end. Khun’s head flopped sideways, and Jaffe knew he was dead.

  He remained kneeling over the little man for some minutes too stunned to move, then finally he made an effort and stood up.

  Another one dead! he thought. These little people are as brittle as matchsticks. I guess I must have broken his spine. Well, at least, this was in self defence. If I hadn’t gone for him, he would have killed me.

  Now what was he going to do? he asked himself. If they found this little man’s body here, they might set a trap at the temple. Blackie was coming back the day after tomorrow. He would have to move him.

  Walking stiffly, his mind jumping with alarm, he went back to his bicycle. He groped around for several seconds before he found his gun. He shoved it into his hip-pocket. The gun was no good, he told himself. It had been just luck that it had fired the first time. He couldn’t trust it any more.

  He straightened his bicycle and wheeled it over to where Khun lay. Without much trouble, he hoisted the dead man over his shoulder, then wheeling his machine, he started across the rough grass towards the main road.

  Just before he reached the road, he came upon Khun’s bicycle. He couldn’t leave it where it was. Balancing the dead man over his shoulder, he started off again, wheeling the two machines, holding them in either hand. When he reached the road, he got on his bicycle and steering the other, he pedalled off down the road.

  I only need to run into someone, he thought. That’s all it needs to round off a hell of a lousy night.

  But he didn’t run into anyone. And after riding four or five miles, he dumped Khun’s body in a ditch and the bicycle on top of him.

  Before leaving, he took Khun’s gun and cartridge belt.

  As he rode back to Thudaumot, he hoped the police would think the little man’s death was yet another Viet Minh outrage.

  2

  Blackie Lee arrived back at the club at twenty minutes to one a.m. He parked his car, got out and stood for a moment breathing in the hot used-up air.

  There was no movement in the street. Three rickshaws stood nearby along the kerb. The three rickshaw boys were sleeping in their vehicles. The neon lights that plastered the front of the club were out. They went out every night exactly at twelve. Looking up at the dark building, Blackie smiled to himself. In Hong Kong those lights would blaze until the early hours of the morning. There was no crippling curfew in Hong Kong.

  He started towards the club, then paused as he saw a shadowy figure rise up out of a dark doorway and come towards him. He recognized the hard Mexican hat that Yo-Yo always wore and he frowned impatiently.

  Yo-Yo sidled up to him.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Blackie,” he said. “I wanted to speak to you.”

  “Some other time,” Blackie said curtly. “It’s late. See me tomorrow,” and he walked across to the entrance of the club and fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

  Yo-Yo followed him.

  “It won’t wait until tomorrow, Mr. Blackie. I wanted your advice. It’s about the American, Jaffe.”

  Black
ie restrained a start of alarm with an effort. His agile mind worked swiftly. What a fool he had been! He had for-gotten he had sent Yo-Yo to follow Nhan. This little rat knew where Jaffe was hiding! He must have read about the reward in the newspapers.

  “Jaffe?” he said, looking over his shoulder at Yo-Yo, his fat face expressionless. “Who’s Jaffe?”

  “The American who was kidnapped, Mr. Blackie,” Yo-Yo said, a derisive sneer in his voice.

  Blackie hesitated, then he said, “You’d better come up,” and he waved Yo-Yo to goon ahead.

  As Blackie followed him up the stairs, his elation left him. If this little rat has put two and two together, he thought, and made it four, he can ruin the whole of our plans.

  There was only one light on in the dance hall. It was over the cash desk where Yu-Ian was checking the cash. The desk was covered with money. She glanced up as the two men came in. Her head jerked up when she saw Yo-Yo.

  Blackie didn’t say anything to her. He continued across the floor to his office, followed by Yo-Yo who had paused for a moment to stare at the money on the desk.

  In his office, Blackie sat down behind his desk. Yo-Yo stood in front of the desk, chewing on the thin leather strap that hung from his hat.

  “Well? What is it?” Blackie said.

  “They’re offering 20,000 piastres for information about the American,” Yo-Yo said. “I know he hasn’t been kidnapped and I know where he is. I thought I’d better talk to you first before I claim the reward.”

  “What makes you think it’s anything to do with me?” Yo-Yo picked at a food stain on his coat.

  “Isn’t it?” he said, not looking at Blackie. “He’s the man I saw in the villa at Thudaumot. The man Nhan visited.”

  “How do you know?”

  Yo-Yo looked up and his thick lips parted in a sneering grin.

  “I know, Mr. Blackie. I thought I’d come to you first. You’ve always been good to me. I didn’t want to get you into any trouble.”

  Blackie breathed heavily through his wide nostrils. He felt a cold clutch of fear at his heart, but his face remained expressionless.