Singapore Wink (28 page)

“So's Dangerfield.”

“Oh?”

“Drowned.”

“I heard you shouting at him, but I couldn't make out what you said.”

“I told him to stop being drowned.”

A rowboat bumped against the side of the
kumpit
and a man's voice muttered something, but nothing I could understand. I handed the pistol back to Trippet and motioned him to one side of the rope ladder that hung down to the water's edge. I crouched on the other side, the hooked stick ready to push somebody else overboard. I could hear the labored breathing of whoever was coming up the ladder. There was a gasp when a hand or a foot slipped, a curse upon recovery, and then a head stuck up above the railing. The head was topped by a mass of dark wavy hair, decorated with old acne scars, and belonged to Tony Cea.

I stood up. “You're late,” I said.

Cea stared at me and then at the pistol that Trippet aimed at him. “Up yours, Cauthorne,” he said and swung his legs over the rail. He was followed by Terilizzi whose grey eyes, even in the dim light, looked just a little mad.

“How'd you find us?” I said.

“We just followed the cops all night until that Chevelle run them off the road,” Cea said, “and then we followed the Chevelle. Then we waited some more and you guys showed up with somebody else and then took a boat. We spent all the rest of the time looking for a boat to steal. Where's Sacchetti?”

“Dead,” I said.

“Let me see,” Cea said. “I want to make sure.”

“He's been dead for almost two years,” Trippet said. “But there are two other corpses in the cabin if you care to examine them.”

“Who?”

“The ones you're looking for,” I said. “The ones who killed Carla.”

“You sure?”

“We're sure,” I said.

“Come on, Terilizzi, let's look,” Cea said.

They entered the cabin and stayed for two or three minutes. Then they came out, Cea first, with Terilizzi following as he wrapped something carefully into a large white handkerchief.

“You're sure those are the two who got Carla?” Cea said.

“That's right,” I said.

“Well, Terilizzi took their ears along to show the boss. We got to have something to show when we get back, you understand. Terilizzi wanted to work on them a little more, but I told him it didn't make no sense seeing as how they were already dead.”

“Seeing as how,” Trippet murmured.

“The ears will cheer the boss up anyway,” Cea said.

“Make him feel better,” I said.

“That's right,” Cea said. “They'll make him feel better.” He looked around the
kumpit
and sniffed as if he didn't care much for the smell of rotting copra. “Hot, ain't it?” he said.

“Rather warm,” Trippet said.

“Well, I guess there's nothing else for us to hang around here for,” Cea said. “Thanks for taking care of things for us, Cauthorne.”

“Don't mention it,” I said.

“Well,” Cea said, and nodded at both of us, “it's been nice talking to you. Let's go, Terilizzi.”

Terilizzi stared at me with his wet oyster eyes and then made an abrupt, flat slashing movement with his hand. “You,” he said and giggled as he patted the pocket that held the handkerchief-wrapped ears. He seemed quite mad.

At two in the afternoon the following day Trippet and I walked into Lim Pang Sam's office. I took the Chief's Special out of the brown paper bag and placed it on Lim's blotter.

“It came in handy after all,” I said.

Lim smiled. “So I understand.”

“Anything new since last night?” I said.

“There was an emergency cabinet meeting,” Lim said. “It was decided to put Toh in jail.”

“They had a cabinet meeting about that?”

“Well, to be frank, it wasn't so much about whether they should put Toh in jail; it was more concerned about who should be let out.”

“I don't follow you,” I said.

“The party does need
some
opposition, you understand, Mr. Cauthorne, and except for Toh, all of them seem to be in jail. So it was decided that two should be released.”

The Chinese secretary came in with the tea tray and we went through the ritual which Lim so thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated. He settled himself into his high-backed executive chair and rested the cup and saucer on his stomach.

“The fantastic part about it, of course,” he said, “is the discipline that they displayed throughout. Amazing discipline along with what can only be described as consummate acting.”

“Not really,” Trippet said. “Not when you think of who they were and the size of the stakes that they played for. They were all pros—Dangerfield and Nash especially. As Edward told Dangerfield, it was simply an expanded variation of the big con. All they had to do to make it pay off was to keep Angelo Sacchetti officially alive. When that no longer proved practical, they decided to let him disappear, taking with him all the responsibility for every major and minor crime that's been committed in Singapore for the last year and a half. He was a perfect whipping boy and there was nothing to tie either Dangerfield or Nash to him.”

Lim placed his cup and saucer on the blotter next to the revolver. He picked up some three-by-five index cards and thumbed through them. “There are a few things that have happened since we picked up Toh and his daughter this morning,” he said. “I wasn't quite sure what to do about Nash's son in Panama City so I got in touch with the British and they flew a man down from Mexico City.”

“The British?” I said.

“Well, as I told you, Mr. Cauthorne, we're not on the best terms with your CIA.”

“So what happened?”

“He found the young Mr. Nash and relieved him of a million dollars in currency. The only thing now is what to do with it. The British agent is quite concerned.” He looked at me over his Ben Franklin glasses. “It would be rather difficult to return it to Mr. Lozupone, wouldn't it?”

“Rather,” I said.

“Any suggestions?”

I shrugged. “Do you have a favorite charity?”

“Several most worthwhile ones.”

“Divide it among them.”

“Done,” he said and shifted the card to the bottom of the pile.

“Oh, yes. We talked—or rather, some friends of Detective-Sergeants Huang and Tan talked to Toh at length. He was most cooperative.”

“I can imagine,” Trippet said.

“About that information you were interested in, Mr. Cauthorne. The microfilm?”

“Yes,” I said. “I looked at the box that Toh gave me. It was just blank film.”

“I'm not surprised. We found the original material in his safe. Toh swears that there were no copies—only the ones that Sacchetti stole from his godfather. Although they intended to do so, they simply never got around to making copies. Under the circumstances, I must believe what Toh says.”

“Where are they now?” I said.

“The microfilm?”

“Yes.”

“As I said, they were in Toh's safe.” Lim opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a wrapped package, not quite as large as a cigar box. “He even gave us the combination to his safe. More tea?”

“Thank you, no.”

“I think that this information would prove more valuable to you than to us, Mr. Cauthorne,” he said. “Please,” and he moved the wrapped package towards me, three inches past the Chief's Special. I picked it up and put it in my lap. “Thanks,” I said.

“Not at all,” Lim said and leaned back in his chair with what seemed to be a real sense of accomplishment. “It has been a most rewarding venture, don't you think so, Dickie?”

“I have discovered a truth,” Dickie said, “and the truth is that I'm far too old for such adventures. I find I crave the quiet and honest chicanery of a used-car emporium.”

“Nonsense,” Lim said. “You're in your prime. In fact, I feel so smug and self-satisfied that I think we should have a drink.”

Nobody objected so Lim poured three drinks and then toasted our health. Once again he seemed to think it was necessary to put a little extra feeling into the toast that he proposed to me.

CHAPTER XXVI

When our flight landed at Los Angeles, Trippet and I went in search of a stamp machine. We fed dimes and nickels and quarters into it until we had almost three dollars' worth. He helped me lick them and we pasted them on the carefully wrapped package that Lim had pushed across his desk.

I borrowed Trippet's broad-nibbed fountain pen and printed the address on the package of microfilm. It read: “Mr. J. Edgar Hoover, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C.”

“You have the zip code?” Trippet said.

“No.”

“What about the sender's address?”

“I'm coming to that.”

I printed it carefully in the upper left-hand corner and then showed it to Trippet. It read: “Samuel C. Dangerfield, Bowie, Maryland.”

CHAPTER XXVII

Ten days later I was sitting in my glass cubicle with my feet on the desk trying to remember exactly what Angelo Sacchetti looked like and rejoicing a little over the blank that I almost drew. They came in together and once again the big man paused at the 1932 Cadillac and gave it a lingering glance of mild adoration.

They didn't stop long at the car, this time. Callese walked into my office, gave it a quick appraisal with his dusty eyes, and said, “What happened, Cauthorne?”

“Angelo Sacchetti finally died,” I said. “That's all.”

“That isn't all.”

“What else?”

“They got Charlie Cole.”

“Who?”

“The FBI picked him up yesterday.”

Palmisano was staring at the Cadillac through the glass walls of the office. “They got Joe, too,” he said. “Tell him about Joe.”

“They picked up Lozupone. In Jersey.”

“That's your problem,” I said.

“And about six others,” Palmisano said. “Maybe seven.”

“I figure it ties in to you,” Callese said.

“You figure wrong.”

“You better hope I'm wrong.”

“I'll have to think about that,” I said. “Sometime.”

His lips turned up at the corners again in what he passed off to the world as a smile. Then he took out his gold cigarette case and lit one of his oval cigarettes. When he was through with that he sat down and crossed his legs so that I could admire his pearl grey spats. “We're checking it out, Cauthorne. I just thought I'd let you know.”

“What happens when you're through checking?”

“We might drop around again.”

“I'll be here.”

Palmisano was still staring through the glass at the Cadillac when the two men came in. They were in their middle thirties and wore plain dark suits. They looked at the Cadillac, but not long, and then headed towards my office.

“Get rid of them,” Callese said.

“They're the first customers I've had all day.”

“Get rid of them,” he said again. “We're not through talking.”

“I think we are.”

The two men came into the office and looked at Callese and then at Palmisano. “FBI,” one of them said and they both whipped out their folding identification cases and showed them to Callese and Palmisano. They didn't bother to let me look.

“What's this?” Callese said.

“You'll have to come downtown with us, Mr. Callese,” one of them said.

Callese shrugged, dropped his cigarette on the floor, and ground it out with his neat black, shiny shoe. He stood and looked at me. “I'll be back,” he said.

“I'll be waiting.”

At the door Palmisano turned quickly. “That Caddy out there,” he said. “What's your last price?”

“Still six grand,” I said.

He nodded and smiled as if remembering something pleasant that had happened a long time ago. “I had one like that once. You know what color it was?”

“Green,” I said. “Real dark green.”

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copyright © 1969 by Ross Thomas

cover design by Jason Gabbert

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