Nury Vittachi - The Feng Shui Detective

‘Could have been,’ said the Superintendent. ‘But whoever said “murder”, does it matter? Does it take us any further? I think not.’

Silence returned.

Wong wrinkled his brow. ‘Which company was having a cocktail party that evening in that room?’

The question was unexpected. The Superintendent blinked. Then he looked through his notes. ‘Didn’t think to ask. Let me have a look. Er, it should be here somewhere, it must be here. I have the banqueting schedule. Hang on a minute. Here it is: Eagle Flight Life. It’s an insurance company, I think. What’s the relevance?’

‘So,’ said Wong. ‘The American’s spirit was taken away by an eagle. That seems fitting.’

‘What are you on about, Wong? You’re going all metaphysical on us, is it?’ The Superintendent sat up in his chair.

‘No, no,’ said the geomancer. ‘I only point out the symbolism. When did you last go to a corporate cocktail party in Singapore which did not have a centrepiece?’

Sinha was getting interested. ‘You mean, flowers or a logo of some sort? A statue?’

‘Or an ice sculpture.’

‘Of course.’

‘You always have an ice sculpture. Almost always,’ said the geomancer. ‘Large, heavy, hard. Perfect for a strong man to pick up, use to smash over the head of another man. When you have finished? You just stick it into the hot oven or sink. By the time someone has a look at it, it will be nothing but water.’

The Superintendent was scribbling notes. ‘I like your thinking, Wong. The ice sculpture.’

‘An ice sculpture would make sense,’ said Madam Xu. ‘You think von Berger did it, then? Hit him with an ice sculpture? Stuck it in the oven, and then cried murder?’

‘Ice sculptures are usually the job of younger assistants in the kitchen. I think if I was the Superintendent, I would ask the cooking staff about Mr Wu’s jobs. One of them may well have been to make ice sculptures. Or look after them in the kitchen freezers.’

‘But if Wu did it, he wouldn’t have had much time. Ms Chen saw Leuttenberg alive-and alone-in the kitchen, and von Berger arrived a few minutes later,’ said the Superintendent.

‘But did the waitress see the chief chef in the kitchen?’ asked Wong, lifting his floor plan of the kitchen. ‘She said she saw him getting something out of the freezer. This is in the northeast. Back of the room. Far from the main door. Fridge doors always open on the left side, except for some funny ones in Japan. Hotel fridges are always big. If he was getting something from the fridge, the door would be open. She would not be able to see him from the main door, which is in the south of this room.’

‘Maybe, like, she could see his tall hat over the top of the fridge door,’ said Joyce.

‘Maybe she did see his hat. But who was wearing it? Maybe it was not the chief chef taking something out of the fridge. Maybe it was Wu Kang re-arranging the things in the freezer. So that people did not notice that the ice sculpture was missing.’

‘Could be. Maybe so.’ The Superintendent was sitting bolt upright now. ‘But how did he get out of the kitchen in the two minutes before von Berger arrived?’

Wong looked at his floor plan again. ‘I think maybe the dead man did not say anything about a stupid waiter. I think he said something about a dumb waiter. Now this is a technical term used in architecture. In kitchen architecture, especially so. It means food elevator.’

‘Food elevator.’ Madam Xu considered the unfamiliar phrase carefully.

‘There are no food elevators in this kitchen,’ said Tan.

‘No. Not now. But I think there used to be. Just here, behind the cabinets over the washing part. I think maybe they are still there. Not used. That is how he got out.’

‘How on earth could you possibly know that?’ asked Sinha.

Madam Xu was equally amazed. ‘If you can tell that with your feng shui powers, I will give up fortune-telling and start taking feng shui lessons from you.’

‘Well, it is not really a guess. I did the feng shui for this hotel when it was refurbished about five years ago myself. That is why the kitchen is arranged perfectly. Remember I was telling you?’ He folded his arms, proudly.

‘Ah, inside information,’ said the fortune teller.

‘Prior knowledge. This is not fair,’ said the astrologer. ‘It is not truly making use of the mystic arts.’

Wong looked put out. ‘The sage Hsun Tzu said: “We should think about Heaven but also not reject what man alone can do.”’

‘I still think it was von Berger,’ said Madam Xu. ‘Young Wu has no motive. But von Berger has many dealings with the chief chef, and also would be likely to get the man’s job after he died.’

This appeared to be a direct attack on the geomancer’s theory, and all eyes turned to him. ‘Always a little mystery remains,’ said Wong. ‘We help Mr Tan. We give him ideas. But we do not do his job.’

Madam Xu leaned forwards. ‘But Wong, why did von Berger shout “murder” before he knew it was a murder? There was no weapon around, so how did he know? I think this throws suspicion on him. He was trying to throw people off the scent.’

‘That I cannot say,’ said Wong.

Sinha said: ‘Could it have been the victim who shouted “murder”?’

‘No. I think not. Watch,’ said Wong. He suddenly stood up and picked up the soup tureen and swung it as if he were about to strike his assistant with it.

‘Hey!’ shrieked Joyce, lifting her arms to protect her head. ‘What are you doing?’

Wong halted abruptly and put the dish down. Then he sat down. Joyce sat with her arms still in front of her head, blinking at him from behind her wrists.

‘Sorry. Just a demonstration,’ said the geomancer. ‘You see? When you are being attacked, you shout “hey” or “no” or “help” or “don’t” or you just scream. A man being attacked does not shout “murder”. He is not murdered yet.’

Joyce lowered her arms. ‘Hey, you know, I think I can answer that one. My sister went out with a French guy once.’

‘Do enlighten us, Miss,’ said Sinha.

‘The guy, Pascal, is Swiss, right? People say Swiss and you think he speaks Swiss-German, right? But he was from Lausanne. That’s the west bit, the Frenchy bit of Switzerland.’

‘And…?’ said Madam Xu.

‘Pascal von Berger didn’t go: “Murder!” He sees the body and the blood and he’s like, “Merde”. It’s a bad word in French. French guys say it all the time, whenever they are angry or surprised or anything. It means “shit”, if you’ll pardon my French.’

‘Shit is also a French word?’ asked Wong.

‘No, shit is English. I just said “pardon my French” because, well, never mind. And “merde” is French for “murder”, I mean, for “shit”. To someone who doesn’t know any French, it maybe sounds like “Murder”. He goes in there and he goes, “Oh shit”, only, he says it in French: “Merde”.’

The Superintendent clapped. ‘Well done, Missy, very good.’

The police officer turned and looked at the others. ‘I knew I could count on you to push this little mystery along a bit. You have my head buzzing with ideas so well that I am not even going to wait for the Sichuan beef, but I am going to race back to the station. Oh, hang on.’

A sizzling dish of dark pieces of meat flecked with slivers of kumquat peel arrived and was placed in the centre of the table.

‘Perhaps I’ll just have a taste,’ said the Superintendent, his chopsticks already digging into the steaming platter.

Joyce, looking down, realised that she too had emptied her bowl and was ready for more.

In the fourth century BC, there was a man named Chuang Tzu. He went to sleep. He had a dream. And in his dream he was a butterfly. He could fly. He fluttered over the bushes and the grass and the flowers. He was part of the wind. The wind was part of him. He forgot that he had ever been a man. He thought only of his life as a butterfly.