“I just looked at the name on the front and felt sure you couldn’t have resisted it,” Ascony said.
“Since you couldn’t possibly have been thinking of A. J. Raffles, the immortal Amateur Cracksman of fiction,” said the Saint, “I wonder what there can be about me that reminds you of Sir Stamford Raffles, the illustrious pioneer and Empire builder, whose name is commemorated on so many landmarks of this romantic city.”
Major Ascony permitted the vestige of a smile to stir under the shadow of his closely clipped mustache.
“Nothing, old chap. Positively not one single thing.”
“And why were you trying to find me anyway?” Simon inquired.
“I’m with the Police,” Ascony said, and modestly refrained from specifying that he was an Assistant Commissioner.
The Saint sighed.
“One day I’m going to have this printed on a card,” he said. “But if you’ll accept it verbally, I can save you a lot of time. No, I am not here to stir up any trouble. No, I am not looking for any crime or criminals. Yes, I am just an ordinary tourist. Of course, if something irresistibly intriguing happens under my nose, I can’t promise not to get involved in it. But I don’t intend to start anything.”
“What made you decide to come here? This is a bit off your beat, isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t always. As a matter of fact, one of my first big adventures started not far from here, though it came to a head in England. But that was an awful long time ago. And the other day, out of the blue, I had a sudden crazy belt of nostalgia: I just had to come back and see how much the place had changed. I hadn’t anything else in mind for a couple of weeks, and BOAC flies here awful fast. I remember the first time — it took me six weeks on a freighter from Lima.”
Ascony proffered his cigarette case, and Simon accepted one.
“How about a drink?”
“I’d like it,” Simon said.
They sat down at a table on the terrace overlooking the bustling Esplanade, and a soft-footed “boy” came quickly to dust it off.
“A Stengah, or something fancier?”
“Peter Dawson will be fine.”
“Dua,” ordered the Major. He rubbed his mustache thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ve already noticed a lot of difference?”
“Quite a bit,” Simon grinned. “The plumbing, especially. And air conditioning, yet. And no more rickshaws.”
“Yes, there’ve been a few improvements. But a lot of things are worse, too.”
“I’ve heard about that. You’re pretty high on the Russian list of places to make trouble in.”
“It’s not too bad right here. We’ve had a few nasty riots, but nothing so far that we couldn’t handle. But it’s a bit rugged for the blokes up-country sometimes.”
“You’ve still got those Red guerrillas? I thought a namesake of mine cleaned ’em out.”
“General Templer? Only he spelt it with an ‘E.’ You know, when he was sent here, one of the London papers ran a headline about ‘The Saint Goes to Malaya.’ And people used to ask him if he was any relation of yours. I never found out whether it really amused him or not.”
“I thought the manager gave me an odd look when I registered.”
Ascony nodded.
“Templer — Sir Gerald, I mean — did a darn good job. But there are still a few too many of those lads at large, with guns hidden away that we dropped to ’em during the occupation, and others that they captured when the Japs gave up. Every now and again they go on a rampage and shoot up a mine or a plantation, so the chaps up there still have to keep armed guards and barricade themselves in at night.”
“Sort of like Africa with the Mau Mau?”
“Sort of. Or like America with the Redskins, judging from what I’ve seen in the pictures.”
The boy returned and served them their highballs.
“Well, cheers,” Ascony said.
“Cheerio,” said the Saint accommodatingly.
Ascony drank, put down his glass, and lighted another cigarette.
“I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in seeing that sort of thing,” he remarked.
His tone was impeccably casual, so that it would have seemed embarrassingly hypersensitive to attempt to read into it a challenge or a sneer. Yet something deep inside the Saint prickled involuntarily.
“I hate to miss it,” he replied. “But I don’t suppose the Chamber of Commerce is featuring it as part of a guided tour.”
“I could arrange it.” Ascony said, and Simon knew then that he had given Ascony precisely the opening that Ascony wanted.
Simon said, “Is it worth all that trouble to get me out of town?”
The police official’s infinitesimal smile was permitted to make its tiny diffident movement under the scrubby mustache.
“I won’t deny that I’ll have a load off my mind when you leave. But I do have another ulterior motive. You could be quite a godsend to a pal of mine up there, while you’re having a spot of fun for yourself. Chap by the name of Lavis. A real good egg. Has a place up in Pahang, miles from anywhere, in one of the worst areas.”
“What makes you think I’d be a godsend to him?”
“He’s been having a rather rough time — ulcers, and fever on top of it. He ought to be in the hospital, actually, but he won’t leave the plant. I can’t blame him, in a way. You see, up till about a year ago he was doing very well for himself, in fact he was one of the most successful business men in Malaya, and then one day his partner simply skipped out with every penny he could raise on their assets. It was a shocking business. Ted Lavis was practically wiped out overnight. This plant up in Pahang was about all he managed to salvage, and he’s trying like the devil to make a go of it, but if anything happened to it he’d really be sunk. He’s got a white assistant, of course, and the usual native foremen and guards, but with Lavis himself laid up and his wife having to nurse him it’s no picnic for anybody.”
“His wife’s there with him?”
“Naturally, old chap. A stunning woman — used to be married to a doctor here. The assistant’s a bit of a bounder, in my private opinion. But you’ll see for yourself. How does it appeal to you?”
Simon was used to the unconventional hospitality of the tropics, but he knew that Major Ascony must have something more in mind than mere friendliness. But since Ascony was obviously not planning to put any cards on the table, the Saint decided to play along with equal inscrutability.
He said blandly, “I’d love it, if you think they’d put up with me.”
“I’m sure they’ll be glad to. I’ll send them a wire at once.” Ascony signed the chit which the boy had tucked under the ashtray, and stood up. He seemed to be a very decisive man, in his own way. “Sorry I have to run along now, but I’ll ring you first thing in the morning.”
Simon waited fatalistically to see what the call would bring. He was sampling his ketchil makan, the ritual eye-opener of tea and buttered toast without which the Englishman in the East Indies is not supposed to have the strength to get dressed for breakfast, when the telephone rang.
“Mrs Lavis wired back that they’ll be delighted to have you,” Ascony said. “The train leaves in a couple of hours. I hope that isn’t rushing you too much. If I can get away, I’ll drop by the station and see you off.”
With an odd sensation that he was already on an express train hurtling towards some unrevealed rendezvous with destiny, Simon dressed and breakfasted and re-packed the few things he had taken from his bag.
He was just settling himself in the corner of a first-class compartment when Major Ascony came along the platform, looking very military in a crisply laundered uniform with a swagger stick tucked under his arm, and stopped by the open window.