The Jade Figurine Read online

  Other Books by Bill Pronzini

  The Hangings

  Firewind

  With an Extreme Burning

  Snowbound

  The Stalker

  Lighthouse (with Marcia Muller)

  Games

  “Nameless Detective” Novels by Bill Pronzini

  The Snatch

  The Vanished

  Undercurrent

  Blowback

  Twospot (with Collin Wilcox)

  Labyrinth

  Hoodwink

  The Jade Figurine

  Bill Pronzini

  SPEAKING VOLUMES, LLC

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  2012

  The Jade Figurine

  Copyright © 1972 by Bill Pronzini

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  9781612321165

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by Bill Pronzini

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  THIS ONE IS FOR ERNIE HUTTER AND

  Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine:

  THE BEST IN THE BUSINESS

  Chapter One

  LA CROIX had not changed much in the three years since I had last seen him. He still resembled a young and slightly anemic Charles Boyer; his clothes—white linen suit, white Hong Kong-tailored shirt, brown-and-white wing-tip shoes—still looked as if he had slept in them for perhaps a week; his smile was still ingratiating and just a little unctuous; and he still smelled almost whorishly of red gardenia-scented cologne.

  But there were some differences: deep pockets of shadow lay beneath his guileless brown eyes, as if purplish actor’s make-up had been heavily applied there. His pale face was gaunt-cheeked—and even though he was making an effort to veil it behind the smile, he had a harried, hunted look about him.

  He stood in the doorway of my flat in Punyang Street, in Singapore’s Chinatown, and pumped my hand vigorously. His palms were slick with perspiration. It was just a little past eight of a midweek morning, and despite the fact that the tropical sun already lay outside my bamboo-shaded window like a burning hole in the bright eastern sky, I didn’t think it was the heat that was causing him to sweat.

  He released my hand and said in a too-cheerful voice, “It is good to see you again. It has been a long time, a very long time. I may come in?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not, La Croix.”

  He came inside and stood in the middle of the bare wood floor, letting his eyes wander about the small, cluttered room. There was not much for him to see: a few pieces of antiquated and mismatched rattan furniture, a secondhand ice cooler I had purchased from a merchant in Change Alley, a two-burner kerosene stove, a wooden box with an accumulation of garbage, and a narrow, linoleum-topped all-purpose table.

  He turned to face me as I shut the door. “Things are not well with you, mon ami?” he asked then. From the tone of his voice, the state of my well-being was of great concern for him; but I knew La Croix, and the only thing he had ever been greatly concerned for was his own well-being.

  I said, “Things are just fine.”

  “But this place . . .”

  “There’s nothing wrong with this place.”

  “Ah, but it is not the villa on Ponggol Point.”

  “No, it’s not the villa on Ponggol Point.”

  He laughed nervously. “Do you remember the last time we saw one another, just before I left for Macao? We spent the afternoon with the two Eurasian girls from Kota Bahru on the sun porch of your villa. We drank many gin pahits that day, did we not.”

  “I suppose we did.”

  “It was always my belief that when I returned to Singapore, I would find you there still—drinking many gin pahits in the company of other belles filles. Can you imagine my surprise when I discovered, upon arriving yesterday, that you were now to be found here—in Chinatown?”

  “Things change, La Croix.”

  “Not always for the better, I fear.”

  “That depends on your outlook.”

  He sighed. “I may sit down?”

  “Help yourself:”

  He sat heavily on the long rattan settee near the window, placing his hands flat on his knees. He looked up at me, moistening his lips with quick, snakelike movements of his tongue. “Perhaps I might have a small brandy, if it would not be an imposition.”

  “Isn’t it a little early for that?”

  “I have had a most difficult night.”

  “I don’t keep any brandy,” I said. “Or arrack or whiskey. I can give you an iced Anchor Beer.”

  “S’il vous plait, mon ami.”

  I crossed to the cooler and took a beer out and opened it. He accepted it with a small grateful nod, and drank half of it before setting the bottle down on the low table in front of the settee. Breath escaped slowly between pursed lips, and his slender hands scuttled like sand crabs over his thighs. You couldn’t wind yourself up any tighter than he was right now.

  I had had a pot of Lapsang Souchong tea steeping when his knock came on the door; I poured some of it into a pewter mug and took it over and sat down on the rattan armchair facing him. “Okay, La Croix,” I said, “what’s on your mind? You didn’t look me up to revive a lot of dead memories about the old days.”

  “You are right, of course. That is not why I came.”

  “Let’s have it, then.”

  “I am in need of your assistance.”

  “To do what?”

  “I must leave Singapore.”

  “I thought you said you’d just arrived.”

  “That is true,” La Croix said. “But now I must leave again

  —vitement. It is . . . imperative that I do not remain on the island.”

  “So that’s the way it is.”

  “Yes.”

  “The police?”

  “I do not know.”

  “But there’s the chance of it”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want me to fly you out.”

  “But of course. Tonight, if it can be arranged.”

  “Where? Macao?”

  “No, Thailand. An airstrip on the coast near Bangkok.”

  “I see.”

  “I will pay you five thousand dollars.”

  “Singapore or American?”

  “American.”

  “Yes? That’s a lot of money.”

  “A great deal of money, yes.”

  I tasted my tea; it had steeped too long and had a bitter, acrid quality to it. I put the mug down and lit an American cigarette from the rumpled package in the pocket of my khaki trousers. La Croix watched me expectantly. I looked away from him and smoked my cigarette and listened to the faint humming of the Javanese fan on the little table by the bedroom door. The air in there had a stagnated feel, and the fan succeeded only in stirring it sluggishly. My bare chest was already slick with the kind of mucilaginous perspiration you seem to be constantly exuding in the tropical climate of Southeast Asia.

  Outside, on Punyang Street below
, a Hindu cobra charmer began to play a dirgelike melody on a flageolet. The discordant music seemed to further unnerve La Croix; his hand trembled noticeably as he took a stained handkerchief from the pocket of his white linen coat and mopped the back of his neck. He smiled tentatively, his eyes bright. “You will do it, n’est-ce pas?”

  “No,” I said.

  The smile went away, and a mixture of fear and disbelief dulled the brightness of his eyes. He leaned forward on the settee. “Is my offer not large enough? Mon Dieu, I will pay you ten thousand, then . . .”

  “The money has nothing to do with it, La Croix.”

  “But . . . I do not understand.”

  “I’m not in the business anymore.”

  The smile came back. “You are joking, of course. Ah, you were always one for the jokes. But at a time such as this—”

  “I’m not laughing, am I?”

  Again, the smile vanished. It was like watching one of those comedy-tragedy mask things you see in neon bar signs, blinking first one and then the other. A tic started high on his left cheekbone, jumping in a steady rhythm. He said something in rapid French in a hoarse, stricken voice, and his eyes seemed to be looking at something distant and frightening. Finally, he gave himself a small shake and looked at me and said, “Please, mon ami! You must help me, I beg of you. If I were to tell you of—”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” I said. “Listen, La Croix, I don’t fly any longer. I haven’t flown in two years and I have no intention of starting it up again. That’s all there is to it.”

  “But how—?”

  “How do I make my living? Simple enough: I work for it. Coolie labor down on the docks, and when I can’t get that, road construction or as a kaboon worker on one of the rubber plantations here or in Malaya. The days of the Eurasian girls and the gin pahits and the Ponggol villa are gone—dead and buried.”

  There was incredulity on La Croix’s pale face. He was sweating profusely. “I cannot believe this!”

  “You’d better believe it, all right.”

  “What of your air freight concern? You no longer . . . ?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “There isn’t any more Connell and Falco Transport. The Singapore government and the Federation revoked my license two years ago, closed down our quarters, and forced me to sell what they didn’t confiscate. They were almost able to kick me out of Singapore as an undesirable. Didn’t you hear about it in Macao? I understand it made most of the papers in the South China Sea.”

  He shook his head in a numb way.

  I didn’t offer to go into the reason behind the revocation of my license; I had no desire to discuss the incident with him or with anyone else. I said, “So that’s it, La Croix. I couldn’t help you, even if I wanted to. I hope you find somebody else. There are others on the island who’ll take you out for a lot less than five thousand dollars.”

  La Croix caught up the bottle of Anchor Beer and drained it; foam bubbled whitely at the corners of his mouth and ran down over his chin, onto the front of his soiled Hong Kong shirt. He didn’t seem to notice. Very softly he said, “But I have already—” Abruptly, he broke off and gained his feet. He stumbled across to the door in a manner that was almost somnambulistic.

  I rose from the armchair and went over there. I felt a little sorry for him at that moment, perhaps because we had once been friends of a sort. “Listen,” I said, “there’s a Swede named Dinessen who runs an air freight service off Bukit Timah Road. You can try him. I’ve heard it said that he’s in the business.”

  “Dinessen,” La Croix said. “Yes, I will see him.”

  I reached out and opened the door. “I hope you make it all right.”

  A trace of the smile returned, fleeting, humorless. “I will make it,” he said. “Au revoir, mon ami.”

  “Good luck, La Croix.”

  I stood there for a moment, listening to his footsteps fading on the wooden stairs outside, and then I closed the door and went back to the armchair. I lit another cigarette and took the pewter mug of tea into the half-bath and emptied it into the sink. In the bedroom, I looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost nine.

  I thought about La Croix as I put on a thin gray bush jacket and a pair of white canvas shoes. Whatever he was involved in this time must have been a major league activity —and one that had gone at least a little sour, judging from his agitated state—for him to have offered as much as ten thousand dollars for a flight out of Singapore. He had always been one of the little men, fronting for big money, skirting the fringes of it, but never really holding any of his own; now that he had gotten in on what appeared to be a large score, he was, ironically, out of his element. I wondered briefly what kind of thing it was, and then decided I did not particularly want to know. All the scores, big and small—and the kind of life that went with them—were behind me now, dead and buried, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  I finished dressing, locked the flat, and went out into what the Dutch call the roote hond—the oppressive, prickly heat—that was the island and city of Singapore by day.

  Chapter Two

  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-façaded 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.