The Thai Amulet (26 page)

The warehouse was lined with shelving on which sat terra-cotta Buddhas by the hundreds, if not thousands. Khun Wichai’s office was at the back. Before I was allowed to enter it, a young woman searched me. She was polite but thorough. Two very large men stood outside the office door. They didn’t
wei,
perhaps because it would have taken their hands too far away from their guns. “Come in, Ms. Lara,” Wichai said at last. “Sit down, please. Tea? Or perhaps something stronger. Whiskey?” A man who looked capable of picking me up and wringing my neck like a chicken at the smallest of provocations stood in one corner.

“No, thank you. This is not a social visit. I’m here for what I hope will be a mutually beneficial exchange of information,” I said. “I have a number of questions, or rather, I need to test some hypotheses, and I hope you can help me. I’ve brought you a gift, something I thought you might like to have. A remembrance of things past.” I handed him a large package wrapped in brown paper.

The guard stepped forward and seemed about to whip the package away, but he was stopped by an impatient gesture on the part of my host, who after a few moments’ hesitation, opened it.

“You’ll perhaps want to have it fully restored,” I said. “This was just a first effort. It will clean up very well, though, don’t you think? If you’re looking for someone to do it, I’d suggest Robert Fitzgerald. You and he have a lot in common.”

“Where did you find this?” he said. His voice was even, but I could see he was wrestling with strong emotion.

“A man named William Beauchamp bought it from the artist’s son. It came to me through a series of circumstances.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Yes, I do.”

A slight smile crossed his face. “Then perhaps you should ask your first question, test one of your hypotheses.”

“Thank you. I am trying to confirm some details of the death, perhaps I should say
murder,
of William Beauchamp. Did you kill him?”

The guard, who apparently understood English, stepped forward in a rather menacing way. Wichai said something in Thai, and the man left the room, obviously reluctantly.

“There. That’s better, isn’t it?” Wichai said. “You are either brave or foolhardy, I’m not yet sure which.” Actually, I was desperate, but I didn’t say so. “But, to your question: the answer is no.”

“What about Bent Rowland, his agent?”

“I realize I have something of a reputation, but again, no. Perhaps at some point in this conversation you might tell me why you think I would be responsible for these deaths.”

“William was writing a book that somebody didn’t want published, and given it reflects rather badly on the Chai-wongs, I naturally think it must be one of them, or possibly one of their friends, concerned that its publication might reflect badly on certain business interests they have in common. Bent Rowland, Beauchamp’s agent, was, I believe, being paid by the Chaiwongs to make sure the book never got published, and died for the same reason Will did.”

“I haven’t killed anyone in connection with this at all yet.” There was just the slightest emphasis on
yet.
“Nor do I know with any certainty who did it. I could, however, speculate.” Up to this moment he had been looking around the room, or out the window, or on a spot just above my head. But suddenly he looked right at me. He had the most extraordinary eyes, almond in both shape and color, flecked with green.

“Helen Ford,” I said.

He looked out the window for a minute before replying. “I had occasion to introduce someone I assume was representing the Chaiwong family—they spoke to me through an intermediary, you understand—to an associate of mine who would be the sort of person who would undertake such an activity. The family was in some distress about the situation, and as their friend, and as you have hinted, a business associate, one who has plans for the company, naturally I felt obliged to help them.”

“Naturally,” I said.

“Speaking as a dispassionate observer, I must say it was all rather ineptly handled. I believe in killing someone only as a last resort. I would have thought large sums of money would have been effective, and if that failed, then intimidation. How could they have thought he wouldn’t find out about the false contract?”

“I see you know a fair amount about this matter. I have obviously come to the right place. Money worked with Bent Rowland, at least it did until he either became frightened or expendable. And certainly, given the fact that Will chose to move some of his belongings, including this portrait, to a safe place would indicate he was frightened. But I have more questions. Was this intermediary you spoke of Mr. Yutai?”

“Possibly.”

“And this colleague of yours you introduced him to? Would he have a stall in the amulet market?”

“That, too, is possible.”

“And I suppose that once the connection had been made, the two men might continue their business relationship on other related projects: intimidation, a little roughing up, and so on.”

“I suppose that, too, is possible, although I have to tell you I have no direct knowledge. I am only a dispassionate observer.”

“What if I told you the book was actually about her?” I said, pointing to the portrait.
Still dispassionate?
I thought.

“Was it?” He seemed momentarily disconcerted. “Then I regret my involvement, no matter how peripheral.”

“Your English is impeccable,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. “It is a skill I acquired in my very early years as a purveyor of various commodities to American troops enjoying a respite, well deserved I’m sure, from the hostilities in Vietnam. My parents both died when I was quite young, and I was forced to support myself. I found I was rather adept at it. This book: is there a copy? No, of course not. That was the point, wasn’t it?”

“That was the point, yes,” I agreed.

“If there were,” he said. “I would very much like to see it.

“I would be interested in knowing, if you’d care to share them, those plans you mentioned for Ayutthaya Trading,” I said.

He chuckled. “You Western women really are very amusing. In keeping with the rapport we seem to be establishing here—you’ll notice I have found a smattering of French useful for my interests on the other side of the border with Vietnam, or should I say Indochine?—I will tell you. I plan to take over the company. My whole life I’ve looked at the Chaiwongs and aspired to be like them, wealthy and socially acceptable. I plan to acquire that wealth and acceptance. One way or another, I might add. I had hopes for a marriage union. But so far that has not worked out. I rather liked young Chat. I would have been happy to have him as a son-in-law. But he apparently loved another. That is not your Miss Jennifer’s fault. I know that. She has nothing to fear from me. There is still Dusit, but I love my daughter, and I think he is not the sort of young man I would choose for her. He is spoiled and will never amount to anything. That leaves me the business option.”

“The marriage idea wouldn’t have been a good one, anyway. Your daughter would have been marrying her cousin.”

Several long seconds went by, a lifetime almost. I thought I heard a plane overhead, and the buzz of an insect somewhere. Outside the door, I could hear the low murmur of the guards.

“Is that right?” he said at last.

“I believe so,” I said.

“You surprise me,” he said. “I am not often surprised. I have tried to ensure I can’t be. I knew the minute I saw that painting in the living room, the one with the sword, there had to be a connection. It took me back to my childhood in a flash. I was allowed to play with it, you know. In the scabbard, of course, and never when I was alone. But I never dreamt… There was a man there, in my memory. His face is a blur. You are going to tell me he was my father.”

“Virat. Thaksin’s older brother. Your father.”

“Is that right?” he repeated. There was another long pause. “So I am the bastard son shipped off to the north and forgotten, am I?”

“I think it was for your protection,” I said. “People who actually cared about you.”

“And who might these people be?”

“Your mother and her family. Your mother felt that if Thaksin knew of your existence, you would not survive. I have no idea whether that is true or not. Perhaps if they had known, they would have killed you. On the other hand, perhaps they would have welcomed you into the family, and you would have had the life of luxury and social acceptability you wish.”

“Knowing what I do of the family, I have no doubts as to which of those two options they would have chosen,” he said. His eyes turned very dark.

“Your aunt has worried about you over the years,” I said. “She’s Robert Fitzgerald’s widow, the man who painted the portrait, and mother…” I hesitated for a second, but I’d made a promise, even if it meant depriving this man of a brother. “Mother,” I repeated, “of another Robert Fitzgerald, the one who started cleaning up the painting. If you’re interested in meeting them.”

“I will have to think about that,” he said. “And
my
mother?”

“Her former sister-in-law says she’s dead, that she went back to the U.S. under an assumed name.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I don’t know. Your mother would be almost eighty. I’ll have to leave that one to you.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Now to get back to your plans for Ayutthaya Trading,” I said.

“If anything, you have strengthened my resolve,” he said. “While I have not yet read this book, should I find myself with a copy, I am reasonably sure I will not be happy with what it says, enlightening though it may be.”

“You aren’t in it. It was only the portrait that put me on to you. But, as for Ayutthaya, I take it you plan to have-Busakorn Shipping take over Ayutthaya Trading,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“What do you ship, Khun Wichai?” I said.

“Whatever my customers need me to ship,” he said. “I am a mere cog in the international service industry.”

“Things like these amulets?” I said, setting a plastic bag filled with the broken shards in front of him. “Sapphires and rubies?”

He didn’t even look at them. “I am as surprised as you are, of course,” he said with the hint of a smile.

“And all those Buddhas out there in your warehouse. The blasphemous ones, with Buddha holding the world like an alms bowl. I assume that’s how one goes about identifying the, shall we say, special ones, is it? What would be in those? Rather large for sapphires and rubies. What about plastic bags filled with white powder? Heroin out of Burma by way of Chiang Mai? Or pills? Ice, for example? You could ship a
lot
of pills in those things.”

“As I said, I ship whatever my customers want me to. Some things I ship officially. Others I ship unofficially. You are treading on dangerous ground here, Ms. Lara.”

“And Wongvipa would be one of the latter kind of customer?” I went on, ignoring him.

“Possibly,” he said. “She has expensive tastes. I could marry the widow, I suppose—my wife died two years ago— but I would not be able to sleep for fear of my life.” He laughed at the thought. “But tell me, why would you think that?”

“Because of the book, actually. The information in it would have been embarrassing, certainly, to the family. The events in it, though, took place half a century ago. One could easily shrug them off, in a way. But the book would have been a sensation, and it would focus attention on the family and its businesses, some of which might not stand up very well to intense scrutiny.”

“I see.”

“Wongvipa was seeking my assistance in developing the North American market for whatever it is she is actually selling.”

“I expect you find that offensive,” he said.

“She also engaged the assistance of William Beauchamp. I expect when he figured it out, he was offended, too.”

“You are implying, I think, that he wrote the book as a way of trying to stop her, by focusing attention on the family and their business interests. That is possible, I suppose, but a dangerous strategy. He was perhaps out of his depth. You will forgive me, I hope, for saying that those among us with scruples are at a disadvantage in these situations. As to your discomfort with her unofficial business dealings, perhaps you had a more privileged upbringing than either she or I had.”

“You are saying that I can afford to do the right thing, and that is true,” I said. “But so now can Wongvipa.” And so, of course, could he.

“Some people never have enough,” he said. “Their childhood experiences color their lives forever. Perhaps this sounds as if I am speaking of myself. My personal code, if you are wondering, is that I deal honorably with those who deal honorably with me.”

“You are in business with Wongvipa,” I said. “You should take a good look at the financial statements.”

“I see them every month,” he replied.

“To use your terminology, there are official financial statements, and unofficial ones.”

“She’s skimming, is she?”

“Possibly,” I said.

“All the more reason to take over,” he said. “But to go back to something you mentioned a minute ago: perhaps your reference to the contents of the Buddhas, should there be any such contents, is your way of accusing me of giving young Chat the pills that killed him. I did not do that. I was less than amused to find that the young man I had in mind for my daughter did drugs. I do not, nor does anyone in my employ. If they do, they are sent into rehab. If that does not work, then they are disposed of. As I have already told you, my plans to take over the company involved either marriage or a takeover.”

“You have competition, Khun Wichai,” I said, softly. “And no, I am not accusing you of killing Chat. I know who did that. Let’s just say that someone without your scruples gave the pills to him, someone whose ambition is, if anything, greater than yours, someone whose greed is insatiable. Chat had a headache, and thought he was taking painkillers. The person who did that wants to own the company, too. Like you, he is prepared to consider marriage, in this case to Wongvipa, and if that doesn’t work, then he’ll try something else. Murder, apparently, is one option he is rather partial to.”