“He’ll pick it up along the street,” Nash said.
“Where did you learn Chinese?” I said.
“I got a Chinese wife. Nothing’s better, unless maybe a Japanese one, but I still don’t like the Japs on account of I got to know them too well during the war. Mean bastards. But let’s have a drink.” He rose and crossed the room to a table where a bottle of whisky and some glasses stood. I started to say “fine,” but I never got it out because the shakes hit, and Sacchetti started falling into the harbor again, and when I came out of it Nash stood in front of me, holding two drinks, and staring at me the way everyone stared at me, as if they were afraid they might miss something really interesting when I swallowed my tongue.
“Malaria?” he said. “If it is, its the goddamndest case I ever saw.”
I found my handkerchief and dried my face and hands. My shirt was soaked. “It’s not malaria,” I said.
“Happen often?”
“Often enough.”
He shook his head in what I assumed was sympathy and handed me a drink. “You feel up to going?”
“It won’t happen again. At least not today.”
We had the drink and some ten minutes later the old man was back with a tray full of food that he served on the small table. I could identify the rice, the noodles drenched with thick brown gravy, the strips of pork, and giant prawns. A couple of dishes were unfamiliar. We ate with chopsticks and considering my lack of practice, I got along well enough.
“What’s this,” I said as I picked up a morsel from a common bowl and chewed it thoughtfully. “Veal?”
Nash sampled a piece of the meat, frowned, shook his head, and then tried another. “Puppy,” he announced. “Good, isn’t it?”
“Delicious,” I said.
Nash’s boat was a fairly new fiber glass speedster that was about fifteen feet long and powered by a large outboard engine. It was tied up at a crowded quay on Singapore River between two broadbeamed tonkangs with eyes the size of automobile tires painted on their bows to ward off evil spirits. At least, that’s what Nash said. We went down the ten steps to the water’s edge where Nash used his foot to wake a sleeping Indian who had a line to the runabout tied to a big toe.
“My watchman,” he said.
“Where do you keep your kumpit?” I said.
“Out in the roads. One of these tonkangs will lighten my cargo tomorrow or the next day.”
The watchman held the runabout while we climbed in. He then sprawled out on the bottom step and went to sleep again. Nash started the motor, backed us out into the river, and headed for the harbor and The Chicago Belle.
“What are you going to do when we get there?” he shouted above the engine.
“Ask to see Sacchetti.”
He shook his head and then shrugged as if he had dealt with fools before. The Chicago Belle was riding at anchor about one hundred yards out into the basin and the closer we came, the larger she looked.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Nash yelled.
“I don’t know that much about yachts.”
“Built in Hong Kong, 1959,” he yelled.
All I could tell about it, or her, was that she looked large, fast, and expensive. We came alongside where an accommodation ladder led down from the deck to a foot or so above the water. Nash tossed me a line and I made the runabout fast to the lowest step of the ladder. I stood up in the runabout and started to step onto the ladder when a blinding light from the deck hit me in the face and a voice asked: “What do you want, please?”
“My name’s Cauthorne. I want to see Mr. Sacchetti.”
“I knew it wasn’t going to be simple,” Nash said as I ducked my head and used a hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the searchlight.
“Mr. Sacchetti is not here,” the voice said. “Please go.”
“I’m coming aboard,” I said and started up the steps.
The blinding light went out and I looked up. A tall, lean Chinese in a white shirt and dark slacks stood at the top of the steps, illuminated by the lights from the yacht. He looked familiar and I suppose he should have because the last time I had seen him he had been pointing a gun at me through the window of a taxicab on Raffles Place. He still had a gun, it was still pointed at me and it looked very much like the one that I had seen before.
Chapter XVI
There seemed to be only one thing to do so I did it. I moved up another step.
“You’re crazy,” Nash said.
“I know,” I said.
“No more,” the man at the head of the steps said.
“Tell Sacchetti that I want to see him,” I said and stepped on to the next riser.
The man at the top of the steps called something in Chinese but he didn’t turn his head to do it. A male voice answered in Chinese and the man at the top of the steps nodded slightly. “You wait there,” he said to me and the revolver in his hand moved a little as if to underscore the suggestion.
“What did he say?” I asked Nash.
“He sent for somebody.”
“Sacchetti?”
“I don’t know,” Nash said. “He didn’t say, but I wouldn’t take that next step if I was you.”
It was a two-minute wait. I stood on the third step of the accommodation ladder, gripping its rail and staring at the Chinese at the top of the ladder who stared back as he aimed the revolver at what seemed to be the fourth button on my shirt. He didn’t seem to feel that it would be a difficult shot.
The male voice that I’d heard before spoke again in Chinese and the man at the head of the steps replied. Then he waved his gun at me. “You come up,” he said. “The other one, too.”
“I’ll just stay here and mind the boat,” Nash said.
“You come,” the man said and shifted the aim of his revolver so that it pointed down at Nash.
“All right,” Nash said.
“He’s convincing, isn’t he?” I said as I started up the steps.
“For a hundred dollars I don’t get shot at,” Nash said.
At the top of the steps the man with the revolver stepped back. “Follow him,” he said and gestured with the revolver at another man, a stocky Chinese with a crescent-shaped scar on his left cheek and a small automatic in his right hand. We followed the man with the automatic down a flight of stairs and along a corridor that was carpeted in dark grey. The walls looked as if they were paneled in teak and if the yacht had cost as much as I had been told, they probably were.
The man with the scar and the automatic stopped at a door and knocked. Then he opened it, waved at me with the automatic, and said: “Go in.”
I went in, followed by Nash and the two Chinese. The cabin or saloon was larger than I had expected. There was a thick, dark red carpet on the floor or deck and the color was repeated in the silk drapes that covered the oblong portholes. The furniture was of a dark, almost purplish wood that was intricately carved and all of its arms and legs seemed to end in dragons’ mouths and claws. At the far end of the room was a low table that held a silver tea service. She sat behind the table in one of two matched chairs that were large enough to serve as thrones in some minor kingdom. She sat, leaning slightly forward, her hands resting comfortably on the arms of the chair which were carved into the heads of two dragons who seemed to be snarling at each other about something. She wore a dark blue dress whose collar mounted high on a slim white throat and whose hem ended several inches above her knees. Two strands of pearls hung halfway to her waist She wore her black hair piled high, perhaps to give her more height and to lengthen her delicate face which may have been a trifle round. But there was nothing delicate about her gaze which flicked over me, made a bleak assessment, rested briefly on Nash, seemed to discover some more shoddy goods, and then settled again on me.