James Chase: A Lotus for Miss Quon

These two obviously suspected something, he thought, but with the inevitable, dim-witted Asian patience they were waiting to see what happened. But at the same time, they were taking no chances. While the old man watched the back door, the girl was watching the front.

At this moment, he was past caring. He had to get away from the atmosphere of the house.

He took a last look around the room, then he picked up his car keys, the key of the back door and the newspaper parcel and went into the kitchen. He slid back the bolt, opened the back door and stepped into the stifling heat of the evening sun. Studiously ignoring Dong Ham, he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. As he passed the old man o his way to the garage, he said, without looking at him, TI be back late. No dinner.”

He drove the red Dauphine which he had bought when he had first come to Saigon because of its ease of parking, down the short runway to the double gates. He stopped the car, got out and opened the gates, aware of the girl, staring intently at him.

He got into the car, and leaving the gates wide open, he drove fast towards the centre of the town.

Sam Wade (Second Secretary: Information. United States Embassy) parked his Chrysler car outside the Majestic Hotel, and heaved his bulk out on to the sidewalk. He paused to look across the road at the miniature golf course where two Vietnamese girls were playing with considerable skill watched by a large crowd of Sunday loafers.

He thought the two girls in their blue tunic sheaths and white silk trousers made an attractive picture. He never ceased to admire the Vietnamese girls. Their charms for him were as sharp edged as when he had first come to Saigon eighteen months ago.

Sam Wade was a squat, fat man, balding, with a red, good-natured face. He wasn’t brilliant at his work, but he was well liked and known for his weakness for women and loud pattern Hawaii shirts.

Freshly shaved and showered, and basking in the glory of a new colourful shirt, Sam Wade felt on top of the world. He had spent the afternoon water skiing. In half an hour’s time, he had a date with a Chinese girl with whom he had arranged to spend the night. So for Sam Wade, the world was revolving satisfactorily.

He entered the empty bar of the Majestic Hotel and lowered his bulk into a chair with a grunt of satisfaction.

The ceiling fans revolved lazily, stirring the hot, humid air. In a little while, the bar would become crowded but for the moment, Wade appreciated having the place to himself. He ordered a double whisky on the rocks, lit a cigar and stretched out his short fat legs.

After the inevitable delay the whisky was placed before him, and he savoured his first drink of the day.

Leaning back in his chair, he regarded the activity of the street outside with its traffic of cycle rickshaws, known in Saigon as pousse-pousse , the dangerously driven motor cycles and the stream of bicycles ridden by the Vietnamese. He spotted Jaffe’s red Dauphine as it pulled out of the stream of traffic and edged its way to a standstill behind his Chrysler car.

Watching him, as Jaffe crossed the sidewalk and came into the bar, Wade thought he looked fine drawn and worried.

He thought: looks as if he has something on his mind. Maybe he’s got a touch of dysentery.

He raised a fat hand in greeting when he caught Jaffe’s eye. He was puzzled to see the big, muscular man hesitate as if he were in two minds whether to join him or not. With an obvious effort, he came over, pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Hi, Steve,” Wade said and smiled, “what’ll you have?”

“A Scotch I guess,” Jaffe said and fumbled for a cigarette. “That’s a hell of a shirt you’re wearing.”

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Wade smiled complacently. “It even scares me a little,” and he laughed. He ordered a double Scotch and soda for Jaffe and paid for both drinks. “I didn’t see you on the river this afternoon.”

Jaffe shifted uneasily in his chair.

“No,” he said in a cold, flat voice. “Have you been skiing?” He was telling himself it had been a mistake to come into the bar. He should have gone immediately to the desk, cashed his cheque and left. He should have remembered you always ran into someone you knew at the Majestic bar.

Wade said he had been skiing. He grumbled about the filth of the Saigon river while Jaffe only half listened.

Seeing he wasn’t holding Jaffe’s interest, Wade said, “I’ve got hold of a piece of Chinese tail for tonight,” and he leered. “She’s a real dish. I ran into her at L’Arc-en-Ciel the other night. If she performs the way she looks, I’m in for one hell of a night.”

Looking at the fat, good natured man who lolled opposite him, Jaffe felt a sharp twinge of envy. He too expected to have a hell of a night, but horribly different from the one Wade was anticipating. In an hour or so, he would have to decide what he was going to do, and on that decision, his freedom and life depended.

“Apart from the girls and the Chinese food,” Wade was saying, “this is a hell of a dump to live in. I’ll be mighty gladwhen I go home. These goddam restrictions give me a pain in the pants.”

Jaffe was staring past Wade out on to the street at the two Vietnamese policemen who lounged outside the hotel; small, brown-skinned men in white drill with peak caps and revolvers at their hips. The sight of them gave him a sickish feeling. He wondered how Wade would react if he told him he had murdered Haum and had hidden his body in his clothes closet.

“I see you’re still running that little car,” he heard Wade say and realized the fat man had been talking for some time and he hadn’t been listening to what he had been saying. “Do you still like it?”

Jaffe dragged his mind away from his problem.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m hiving trouble with the automatic choke, but the car wasn’t new when I bought it.”

“Well, I guess it’s handy for parking, but give me a big car,” Wade said and glanced at his wrist-watch. The time was three minutes to seven. He got to his feet. As he stood beside Jaffe, he wondered what was bothering he guy. He seemed so far away and unfriendly. This wasn’t like Jaffe. Usually he was a good guy to drink with. “Are you okay, Steve?”

Jaffe looked up sharply. Wade had an uneasy idea he was suddenly scared.

“I’m all right,” Jaffe said.

Wade frowned at him, then gave up.

“Watch out you’re not sickening for a dose of dysentery,” he said. “I’ve got to run along. I promised to feed my girl friend before she performs. See you, pal.”

As soon as Wade had driven away, Jaffe took out his cheque book and wrote out a cheque for 4,000 piastres.

He went over to the reception desk and asked the clerk if he would cash the cheque. The clerk, a pleasant-faced Vietnamese who knew Jaffe, asked him politely to wait. He disappeared into the Manager’s office, reappeared in a moment or so, and smiling, handed Jaffe eight five-hundred piastre notes.

Relieved, Jaffe thanked him and tucked the notes into his wallet. He left the hotel and drove up Tu-Do and parked outside the Caravelle Hotel. He entered and asked the reception clerk if he could cash him a cheque. Here again, the clerk knew him, and after a brief visit to the Manager’s office, he cashed Jaffe’s cheque for another 4,000 piastres.

As he was leaving the hotel, he paused abruptly in the entrance, feeling his heart give a violent kick against his side.

A policeman was standing by the red Dauphine, his back to Jaffe. He appeared to be examining the car.

A few hours ago such an occurrence would have merely irritated Jaffe and he would have gone to the policeman and asked him what he was looking at, but now the sight of the little man in his white uniform frightened Jaffe so badly he had to resist the urge to run.