In the Mouth of the Tiger (16 page)

‘No,' I said flatly. ‘Why do you ask?'

He didn't answer directly. ‘This is what we'll do, Nona. Precisely one hour after we've all retired I'll tap on your door.'

‘You will do no such thing,' I said sharply. I was suddenly sick of the whole underhand business, and grabbed his arm, steering him towards the darkened verandah. Once outside I faced him squarely. ‘All right, Malcolm. No one can overhear you here. If you have anything to tell me, tell me now.'

He sensed my growing irritation and came straight to the point. ‘We are puzzled about Denis,' he said. ‘Our checks show there is no such person as Denis Elesmere-Elliott. No such birth certificate at Somerset House. No record of such a person attending Taunton School, or Aberdeen University. Yet he has what appears to be a perfectly valid British passport in that name. And when we tried to find out why, the powers that be in London shut us up pretty sharpish. Meaning the man has friends in the very highest places. The big battleships are on his side.'

‘Doesn't that mean he must be trusted?' I asked. ‘The people in London would hardly go out of their way to protect some criminal, would they?'

‘I think he's a Communist agent,' Malcolm said bluntly. ‘And I'm afraid that the Russian Third Internationale has influence in the highest ranks of the British Establishment. One could have no idea who might be shielding Denis.'

I really couldn't believe what I was hearing. Here was an Inspector of the FMS Police suggesting to me, at a crowded, raucous club dance, that one of KL's best known and respected young men was a Communist secret agent. I felt almost like laughing.

‘Do you have a single shred of evidence?' I asked. ‘Apart from your doubts about who he is?'

‘You're aware the Communists have been stirring up trouble throughout the FMS?' he asked. ‘Well, Denis is friendly with the worst of the people causing that trouble.'

‘Denis is friendly with all sorts of people. He is very popular, as you well know.'

Malcolm clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘We know for a fact that Loi Tak – the head of the Malayan Communist Party – was at his place in Ampang Road the night before the attack on Batu Arang,' he said. ‘Batu Arang was a dreadful business, you know. Scores of people died.'

‘And what are you suggesting?' I asked.

‘I am suggesting that at the very least Denis knew about the Batu Arang
insurrection before it happened. And for what it's worth, I think he more than knew about it. I think he was involved. I think Loi Tak is his creature, and that Denis is the real head of the Communist Party in this country.'

At that instant Denis appeared, peering into the darkness towards us. ‘Nona!' he called sharply.

For a second, for a heartbeat, I thought I might stay quiet, wait for Denis to move away so that I could hear more of what Malcolm was saying.

But of course I didn't. ‘Denis!' I called, and moved towards him. Malcolm put out a hand to restrain me, tried to say something softly and urgently into my ear. But I brushed him away and took Denis' arm.

‘I'm so glad you've found me,' I said. ‘Denis, can we please go home?'

Chapter Seven

I
had so much on my mind that I thought I wouldn't sleep a wink that night, but in fact I slept like a log, to wake only when the boy tapped on my door with tea and biscuits. It was a glorious morning, and I sipped my tea staring out the French doors at the immense blue sea beyond the coconut palms. There is something about the sea that nourishes the soul: its moods ever changing but its character eternally the same. I remembered Sister Felice telling me that the ancient Greeks worshipped these characteristics, and made the sea-god Poseidon one of the most powerful in their pantheon.

A good night's sleep had put things into perspective, and I remembered my jealousy of Evelyn the night before, and Malcolm's clumsy attempts at wooing, as mere echoes from a bad dream. Hurdy-gurdy nonsense, all of it. I nibbled my biscuits and decided that the best thing would be to simply forget that any of it had ever happened.

But I couldn't forget what Malcolm had said about Denis. He had accused him of being an agent of the Comintern, the Communist International Organisation, a very serious charge in 1936. The Comintern was big news, with the popular press ascribing to it the most extraordinary and devilish powers. There were supposed to be secret Comintern agents implanted at the highest levels in all the Western governments, preparing to launch bloody revolution at Moscow's command.

Did I believe that Denis was a Communist? I refused even to think about the question. It was enough that Malcolm had made the accusation: it was now my duty to warn Denis, and to leave it up to him how he dealt with the matter. I thought about when I might tell him, and decided that it would have to be when we were driving back to KL. It would be just too awkward, having to deal with something like that when we were all cooped up for a weekend together.

Of course, there was always the possibility – and I snatched at the idea gratefully – that Denis might be a British agent, planted on the Communists by MI6 or some similar organisation. One of my favourite authors was E. Phillips Oppenheim, who wrote spy stories full of convincing details about MI6, and in my naivety I regarded myself as something of an expert on secret agents, and double agents, and all the arcane paraphernalia of the Intelligence world.

The men had gone off for an early game of golf, so the ladies of the party ate breakfast without them. It was a rather taciturn meal. Evelyn was nursing a hangover, Fiona seemed jumpy and embarrassed about something, Dorothy had been disappointed by the quality of the single men at the Kuantan Club, and I was in a distinctly reflective mood. So it was a relief when the meal was over and we could move out onto the patio for coffee. I wandered away from the others to the beach, where I walked along the tide-mark looking for any treasures that might have been washed up overnight. It was something I had often done as a child. A schoolboy had once found a lump of ambergris on a Penang beach and become immensely rich, and ever since I'd read the story in the
Malay Mail
I had dreamed of doing the same. There was also something rather nice about the concept of a beachcomber, with its suggestion of carefree, foot-loose freedom. I considered myself a beachcomber as I strolled the wet sand, my sandals in my hand and my sunhat tilted back so that I caught the breeze on my cheeks.

When I got back to the patio, the ayah had brought out the Hornungs' baby, a lovely little boy who gurgled delightedly at the ring of faces around his crib.

‘We call him Denis, of course,' Evelyn said looking at me with a malicious little smile, ‘for obvious reasons.' It was a stupid comment if it were intended to suggest that Denis was the baby's father, because he was the spitting image of Roger.

I was tempted to respond but simply couldn't be bothered.

The men arrived back just before lunch, bustling out onto the patio full of golf talk and with their cards in their hands. ‘Sun's over the yardarm,' Roger called out cheerfully, clapping for the boy. ‘What are we all going to drink?'

Malcolm looked hot and angry, and hardly had a glance for me. ‘You have to admit,' he was saying, ‘that Denis had the devil's own luck. If my ball hadn't rolled into the confounded bunker on the tenth, I would have been right on his heels when he had that spot of bother on the eleventh.'

Denis had clearly starred on the day but was his usual nonchalant, indifferent self. He lay back in his deck chair and raised his glass to Malcolm. ‘I think Malcolm was the best player on the course this morning. What do you all say, chaps? Bit more luck and he would have thrashed the lot of us.'

There was a crash as Malcolm suddenly shot to his feet, knocking his chair over. ‘Don't patronise me, Denis,' he said furiously. ‘I don't mind your winning – golf at this level is trivial nonsense anyway – but I won't have you patronise me afterwards.' He seemed about to say something more, but flashed me a cold look and then turned on his heel and strode back towards the house. Dorothy got up quickly and followed him, radiating sisterly concern.

There was a brief silence and then Denis half rose, a bemused look on his face, as if to follow Malcolm.

‘Leave him be, Denis,' Mac said quickly. ‘Dorothy is with him and he'll be over it in a moment or two.'

Denis shook his head and sat down. ‘The silly ass really is his own worst enemy. If he'd only learn to relax instead of getting so steamed up about everything.'

Nobody seemed particularly bothered by Malcolm's sudden departure, and the chatter resumed quite quickly. It was clear that Malcolm had acted like this before, and I asked Mac what the trouble was.

‘Oh, nothing very sensible,' Mac said quietly. ‘Malcolm's developed a complex about Denis. I think it all started when Denis dropped him from the Selangor rugger team a couple of seasons ago. I'm sure there's some pretty serious resentment there, but Denis chooses to blithely ignore it. It comes out whenever the two of them compete for anything.'

Evelyn had heard the comment, and made a circular gesture around her head with her index finger. ‘You can't blame it all on Denis, Mac. Malcolm's been an odd fish since he first came out to Malaya. You know he arrested the Deputy Commissioner of Police for drunken driving in his first week on the job?'

‘Malcolm is a policeman,' I couldn't help saying. ‘If the Deputy Commissioner was driving while drunk, it was his job to arrest him.'

‘That's the trouble,' Evelyn said. ‘The court found that the Deputy Commissioner was not drunk. Ugh!'

We were to christen the new yacht that afternoon, and then take her for a sail up the East Coast to a sheltered cove where we would sleep the night.
The prospect frightened but excited me. The only sailing I had done had been on fishing sampans in the Penang Roads, where I had seen big yachts like the Hornungs' gliding past with their owners sipping champagne on their scrubbed teak decks. In those days they had seemed to be people from another world.

The christening went according to plan, with a small crowd of friends clapping on the Yacht Club jetty as Evelyn smashed the traditional bottle of champagne and named the yacht
Evelyn II
. She was a beautiful sixty-foot ketch, with a spoon bow and a stained teak doghouse above her white enamelled hull. We scrambled aboard with our luggage, and minutes later we were careening north, our sails straining and cracking under a stiff onshore breeze.

‘This is the life!' Denis shouted as he crouched beside me in the open cockpit. I clung to his arm, too frightened by the speed at which things were happening to talk sensibly. Just as we cleared the stone breakwater a particularly fierce gust caught us and we heeled so hard that the port scuppers ran with white water. I was convinced we were about to turn turtle and scrambled up onto the starboard deck, my heart beating like a trip-hammer.

‘Everything's fine, Nona,' Denis said firmly, scrambling up beside me. ‘You'll get used to it in a moment or two.'

It didn't look fine to me. All the loose gear had crashed to the lee side of the cockpit and I could see Evelyn's white face peering out of the cabin hatchway, panic in her eyes. We heeled even further, and the racing sea began to sweep over the port decking. Malcolm appeared, concern on his face. ‘Stick close to me, Nona,' he ordered. Then he turned to Denis. ‘What in thunder is Roger doing? Can't he see we're about to go over?'

‘Don't be an idiot, Malcolm,' Denis snapped. ‘You'll frighten the ladies.' Then he turned to me with a reassuring grin. ‘You'd need a typhoon to knock a boat of this size over.'

Suddenly I knew that what he said was true.
Evelyn II
was now scudding along beautifully, her rigging humming in the strong wind, the whole boat vibrating like something alive as she cut through the green seas. Roger looked unperturbed at the wheel and the two Malay crewmen were methodically stowing loose equipment into the cockpit lockers.

I let out a long sigh, and then began to grin at the sheer magic of it all. Away to port the white beaches and coconut palms of Malaya were slipping past like stage scenery on well-oiled castors. Within minutes, Berserah came
into sight, first the straggling kampong, then the manicured lawns of the Hornungs' home.

The wind blew hard all afternoon, and then abated sharply as evening approached. By the time the sun was setting behind the Pahang hills we were just ghosting along, the sails barely filling and the water chuckling softly under the bow. The crew had set up deck chairs, and the whole party sat on deck in companionable silence as our anchorage came into sight. We were to anchor in a sheltered bay on the lee of Pulau Orang Laut, a deserted island off the jungle-covered coast of northern Pahang.

‘Pulau Orang Laut – Island of the Sea People – was once a pirate hide-out,' Roger told us. ‘There are supposed to be ruins on the island, and they do say there is buried treasure.' Roger's personality had changed since coming aboard. His diffidence had become quiet assurance, and I noticed that even Evelyn was treating him with respect.

‘Treasure? What sort of treasure?' asked Dorothy. ‘And how did it get here?'

‘The Orang Laut lived by plundering coastal trade in this part of the world,' Roger said. ‘A hundred years ago, praus from Siam used to pass this way servicing the small kingdoms to the south. Pirates would relieve the praus of their cargo and hide the stuff on deserted islands such as this. Very much as our own Caribbean pirates used to do.'

‘Has anyone ever looked for the treasure?' Mac asked.

‘Often. But while it's a small island there's an awful lot of ground to dig up if you don't have a treasure map. And besides, the locals say the treasure is protected by ghosts. The ghosts of the dead pirates, I suppose, or perhaps their victims.'