“You lost the manuscript!” I exclaimed as soon as we sat down at a table in a nearby bar.
“Shh!” she said, looking about her carefully and speaking in virtually a whisper. “I didn’t lose it. I destroyed it. And it wasn’t the whole manuscript anyway. It was just the introduction.”
“But why?” I said. “What happened to the movie?”
“It didn’t pan out,” she said, but I could tell she was lying.
“That’s too bad,” I said, trying to keep my irritation and curiosity out of my voice. “It sounded interesting. I guess that means you don’t need the sword anymore. Too bad. I spoke to the soon-to-be owner, and he seemed interested. There’d have to be insurance and everything, but he was willing to at least discuss it.” If there was a contest on to tell more lies than anyone else in Thailand, I intended to be part of it.
“That was nice of you,” she said. “So few people these days do what they say they will.”
I felt like a worm.
“I think you should just forget about what I told you about the sword,” she said. “It was pure fabrication.”
“Did you invent the story?” I said. “You obviously have a vivid imagination. No wonder you work in film.”
“Too vivid,” she said.
I said nothing.
“I’ve been getting phone calls,” she said. “Nasty ones. Telling me to go home.”
“From whom?” I said.
“Don’t know,” she said. “But they are really scary. Obviously I’ve stirred up something with this movie idea. I wish I hadn’t. Probably they’re watching me right now. They said they were. You shouldn’t even be here with me.”
“There’s nobody in here but us,” I said, looking around. “It’s too early for anybody else.”
“They seem to know what I’m doing. They said if I went back to the States right away, nothing would happen to me. That’s what I’m doing. If I were you, I’d go back home, too.”
“And you’re convinced these calls have something to do with the film about Helen Ford?” I said.
“Of course they do,” she said. “I work for a travel agency, for God’s sake. Do you think people call in death threats because the airline I booked them on ran out of the chicken entree before they got to them? What else would it be?” Her hands were shaking badly as she spoke.
“These were death threats? Really?”
“Yes,” she said. “They started out as ‘Go home, you don’t belong here,” to ’If you stay around, you could get hurt,“ then on to ‘If you don’t leave you’ll die.” “
“These calls,” I said. “Man? Woman? Thai? English?”
“Man,” she said. “They’re in English, or I wouldn’t understand them, I don’t think. My Thai isn’t that great, yet.”
“But do you think it’s a Thai man calling you?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Not sure. I’ll bet they follow me right to the airport and see I get on the plane.”
“It’s a big airport,” I said. “And that’s hard to do these days.”
“You think this is a joke!” she said.
“No, I don’t, but I like to think these are idle threats. Have you thought about calling the police?”
“No,” she said. “I’m going home. I don’t know whatever made me think I belonged here.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I meant it. “Look, could you at least tell me what it said, the manuscript, I mean?”
“That’s the ridiculous thing about this,” she said. “There was nothing in it that you couldn’t read in the Bangkok Herald archives. Helen Ford killed her husband, or had him killed, depending on which version you prefer, then his body was chopped up and disposed of. The torso was buried near the Chao Phyra, the head and limbs were burned. Her child was never found, but there was an assumption he, too, was killed. Helen was charged, convicted, sentenced to die, appealed, won the appeal, and then disappeared.”
“Nothing about corruption, scandal?”
“No,” she said. “Scandal, of course. The whole story is scandalous, but other than that, there were only hints of corruption in high places. Nothing specific. It ends with something about this being the story they didn’t want you to know. All rather melodramatic, but not very exciting when it came right down to it.”
“Who is they?”
“No idea.”
“When you spoke to Will, did you get the impression he’d finished writing the book?”
“Yes,” she said. “Or just about, anyway. He said he might have more work to do on it, that the more he looked into it, the more he learned, and that in a way, it would never really be finished. But yes, I got the impression that at least the first draft was done.”
“So why do you think that someone would be threatening you over something everyone could read in the archives?”
“Good question. I don’t plan to hang around to find out.”
“Did you invent the story about the sword and Helen Ford?” I asked her again.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t. Will told me.”
Robert Fitzgerald was next on my list. The first thing that struck me as I cut through the hole in the hedge was how untidy the grounds around the tree had become. On the previous visits, the grass and gardens had been immaculate. Now there was litter everywhere. A breeze caught a piece of paper, and it swirled across the yard. The tree house itself looked a little more welcoming than it had the first time: the stairs were down. That might have meant he was expecting someone, but he certainly hadn’t felt the need to make me feel welcome the first time I came. Still, when I’d come back to purchase the carvings for David Ferguson’s spirit house, he’d left them down for me. Nothing like being a paying customer to improve relations with someone, even someone as crusty as Fitzgerald. The stairs also might mean he already had a visitor, which, if so, was going to put a crimp in my line of questioning. Still, I decided to haul myself up, to use his expression.
I called out his name a couple of times as I ascended, but again there was no reply. That left a third option, which was that he had gone out and left the stairs down for his return. That certainly seemed to be the case. The sala was empty, but I could see he was working on the chess set, which warmed my heart. I stopped for a moment or two to admire them. He’d done one complete set of pieces in a black wood. The little pieces were really lovely, and he’d used tiny Thai houses for the castles. The king and queen were in traditional Thai dress, seated on elephants. Rob was going to be thrilled.
It was then I heard the faintest of sounds. It was difficult to identify, a wounded animal perhaps, a moan. It could have been the wind in the leaves of the trees, or the house merely creaking. Still, I felt I couldn’t ignore it. I tiptoed along the passageway to the other side of the house. There was no one in the kitchen, but the hall was littered with books and papers. I heard the moan again.
Cautiously I peered into the studio/bedroom. Fitzgerald sat on the floor, propped up against the side of the bed, legs straight out in front of him like a large rag doll. There was blood pouring from a wound on his head. His father’s diaries were everywhere, scattered about the room.
“Are you all right?” I exclaimed, kneeling beside him. It was a stupid question.
“You’re late,” he barked.
“What happened?” I said. “And how could I be late if you didn’t know I was coming?”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “Someone told me. That’s why I put the stairs down.”
“Who?”
He looked baffled for a moment. “I don’t seem to recall,” he said, after a pause. “They didn’t get it, though.”
“What?”
“Whatever it was they wanted.” He took a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and wiped blood from his face. “I don’t suppose you could go to the kitchen and get me some of that brownish liquid we fancy? Straight up. You can skip the ice. I feel rather strange.”