John MacDonald - The Good Old Stuff

I was standing in my cool shower, still preoccupied with devising a plan of action, when I remembered her opening conversation about intrigue. Intrigue might be the answer. I toweled myself and walked out to the desk in my room. There was some hotel stationery in the drawer. I took a razor and cut out two small pieces a couple of inches square. I was careful to avoid the watermark. I sat down at the desk with a pencil stub. On the first one I wrote in block letters, YOU GAVE HIM TOO MUCH INFORMATION. On the second one, in smaller, back-hand printing, I wrote, HE KNOWS TOO MUCH. WHAT DID YOU TELL HIM?

I dressed quickly and took a rickshaw back to the Princess. It was growing dark rapidly. The sun had just finished its abrupt drop into the Western sea. I told the boy to stand and wait about fifty yards from the entrance to the Princess. I hoped that she hadn’t left, and that her date hadn’t planned dinner at her hotel. The lights flashed on over the hotel entrance. It was nearly a half hour before she came out. I recognized her slim tallness and her pale hair. The rickshaw coolie was smart. He grinned at me when I gave him his instructions and followed along a discreet distance behind her rickshaw. I suddenly realized that I had had stupid luck. If she had taken a taxi, I would have been lost. The night was quiet. The bare feet of the coolie slapped on the streets that were still warm from the sun. He ran easily, his shoulder muscles moving under the brown skin with the movement of the poles.

The trip lasted nearly fifteen minutes. Her rickshaw stopped on the Galle Road in front of a brightly lighted bungalow. I thought at first that it was a private home and that my plan would be spoiled. Then I saw the sign, China Sea Inn. There were numerous cars parked closely in the small lot beside the bungalow. I paid off my boy and walked carefully up the sidewalk. She was nowhere in sight. I knew that I was taking a risk in going up on the porch, as she might be just inside the door. I walked slowly up the steps and looked into a wide window. There were dozens of small tables in a large room. Only a few of the tables were unoccupied. Music blared from loudspeakers set high in the walls.

I stood in the door and looked quickly around. I couldn’t see her. Off to the left were stairs. A small sign hung over the stairs announcing additional space upstairs. That was disturbing. The place was too small and too brightly lighted. If the upstairs was one large room like the downstairs, I realized that she would surely see me the second I reached the top. I had to take the chance. If she did see me, it would have to be an accidental meeting and my plan could wait. I fingered the slip of paper in my jacket pocket — the one for her. I crossed my fingers and walked up the stairs. To my relief, I came out in a small hall. Apparently, little dining rooms opened off the hall on both sides. Waiters scurried along the hall carrying steaming trays of food.

I located her. She was sitting alone at the table for two just inside the door of the first room. By luck, she was looking at the menu when I saw her. I hurried across the hall and found a table in the opposite room. She couldn’t see me, but by leaning forward I could see her shoulder and the left side of her face. I had a good view of the empty chair across from her without having to lean forward.

A waiter came over to me and I ordered bean sprouts, bitter squash, and chicken with sweet and sour sauce. I had a plan for getting the note to her. It would depend a great deal on luck and timing. I saw her order. Again I crossed my fingers. Then she pushed her chair back and got up. She went out into the hall and I ducked far back into my corner. She passed my door and walked down the hall. I pulled a silver rupee out of my pocket and rolled it across into the next room, following behind it. It stopped under another table. I excused myself and fumbled for it. I dropped it on the floor and kicked it as I reached for it. It slid under her table. I put my hand near her plate as I reached for it. I walked back across into my own room. As I had placed my hand on the table, I had slid the note under the edge of her plate. I sat down and waited. She returned in a few minutes. Shortly after that, her food arrived, and so did mine. She didn’t notice the note. I realized that I had probably pushed it too far under her plate.

I glanced in at her table and nearly dropped my fork in surprise. There was a man with her. He had slipped in without my noticing it. I had half expected it to be O’Dell. This was a stranger. He was a small man with thinning black hair plastered firmly across an oval skull. His face was the color of very weak tea with too much cream. His eyes were imbedded in small pads of flesh. He talked to her, and he used his hands too much and with too much grace. The shoulders on his white linen suit were heavily padded.

I tried to eat without taking my eyes off him except when I could anticipate his glancing up. He seemed to do most of the talking. I couldn’t hear a word. When I leaned forward, I could see her head nodding. It was as though he were giving instructions. I wondered how I could find out his name. I realized that I might have been unintelligent about the way I had handled it. If I hadn’t seen her, then possibly I could have dared to sit near enough to her to overhear portions of the conversation. Then I remembered that talking to her had given me my first feeling of true confidence that there was more to Dan’s death than had been reported.

She was finished before I was. I watched her lay down her fork, and I waited for the waiter to pick up her plate. When he did, I saw her hands pick up the note and unfold it. She had been holding it down near the table. Suddenly she lifted it closer to her eyes. Her hands looked tense. She was reading YOU GAVE HIM TOO MUCH INFORMATION. She must have said something to the man with her. I saw his black marble eyes widen, and he snatched the note. He read it and crumpled it slowly in his fragile hand. He stared at her in the same way that a man might stare at a disfigured corpse. He pushed back his chair and stood up. He didn’t speak to her. He tossed some crumpled rupee notes onto the table and left. As he turned down the hall I heard her call, “Guy!” Her voice had a frightened note in it. He didn’t stop.

In a few moments she got up and left. I had a glimpse of her face as she turned into the hall. She was chewing her underlip.

I was sitting in her hotel lobby when she came in. I stood up, and she stopped. She didn’t look pleased to see me.

“Hi, Conny. Thought I’d have to wait longer than this. Short date?”

“What do you want?”

“No hidden motives this time. Just a normal male impulse. You’re the only gal I know in this town, and I want to make a date.”

She brushed by me and I caught her arm. She flung my hand off and spun around. Her eyes looked small. “Don’t touch me! Don’t talk to me! I don’t even want to be seen with you.” She turned and nearly ran toward the elevator. That was her second slip.

I walked over to the desk. There was a chocolate-colored smooth-shaven Pancho Villa standing behind it. I took a ten-rupee note out of my pocket and stood in front of him, folding it into a small square.

“Miss Severence has many admirers?” I said.

“A great many, master.”

“Could a jealous American learn their names?”

“There are a great many.”

I took another ten-rupee note out of my pocket and started to fold it around the first one. “I am only interested in one, a small man whom she calls Guy. A man with black hair which he is losing.”

“Possibly, master, you speak of a man called Guy Wend, who owns a small rubber plantation a dozen miles south of Colombo. I know little else about him.”