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Bill Pronzini: The Jade Figurine

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Bill Pronzini The Jade Figurine

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I located it at the left of the structure, narrow and badly pitted. Its far border was a high cyclone-type mesh fence, topped with more strands of barbed wire. Behind me, in the alley, I could hear the Eurasian at the truck. I ran to the driveway and followed it to the front of the building. There, a double swing gate, of the same mesh as the cyclone fence, blocked the entrance. Around the two upright supports on either half, in the middle, was a heavy chain-and-padlock; across the top were still more strands of barbed wire. I climbed one half of the gate, monkey-style; my hands were stained a sticky rust-color in the moonlight, and pain throbbed in them at each contact with the mesh.

When I reached the top, I leaned my body against the wall of the building to which that half of the gate was attached and managed to get my legs over the barbed wire with a minimum of damage. Then I used the top support bar to climb down on the outside. Briefly, I peered through the gate. I saw nothing, but from the yard area I heard a ringing of metal and a sharp curse. The Eurasian had gotten over that fence, too.

I went up one block on the deserted street, down one, up another, running at first and then walking rapidly. On Hempole Street I woke a young Chinese boy sleeping on the front seat of his motorized pedicab and had him take me to my flat in Chinatown.

Once there, I put salve on my raw and bleeding hands. There was a charred hole in the side of the bush jacket, and I took it off and wadded it up and put it in with the garbage. Then I locked and barred the door and windows, opened an Anchor Beer, and sat down with it to do some thinking.

I didn’t know what to do about Van Rijk. I considered notifying the police of what had happened tonight, but even after two clean years my reputation with them was not good. Too, Van Rijk had not been present and I had no proof that he had ordered the attempt on me; and I had no doubt that he would be willing, and able, to supply both the Eurasian and the Malay with alibis if the need arose. With all of that, I was pretty sure the police wouldn’t make much of an effort in my behalf.

Van Rijk, as I saw it, was one of Singapore’s international profiteers, dealing in anything-legal or otherwise-if the potential return was great enough. And La Croix had managed to run afoul of him at some point during his big score. La Croix would have the score itself at the present time, and that was why Van Rijk wanted him-and why he had sent his two hirelings after me tonight; he was still convinced I knew the Frenchman’s whereabouts. But that goddam Eurasian had been trying to kill me, no mistake, and that didn’t make any sense. How could I tell Van Rijk anything if I was dead? Well, maybe he had already located La Croix-but no, if that were the case, what reason would he have for wanting me dead…?

My head began to ache dully, and after a time I said to hell with it. There was nothing I could do tonight about either Van Rijk or his two orang sewaan — sewaan — if there was anything I could do at all without meeting him on his terms; and I knew it could never come to that, not any more.

I went into the bedroom, switched on the fan in there, stripped down, and got into bed under the mosquito netting. I thought briefly of the girl, Tina, and hoped she had gotten back to her apartment safely. There was no way I could find that out; she hadn’t mentioned its location. Well…

I lay there for a long time, looking out at the moon through the bedroom window. I watched it drift higher and higher and finally disappear, leaving the stars alone and coldly bright in the patch of sky. Tropical night, lush and fragrant. The stuff of books, the stuff of dreams.

The stuff of dreams…

Chapter Five

The Penang jungle lies below us like a surrealistic basrelief map done in varying shades of black, and the sky is a smooth black canopy studded with pinpoints of coruscating light. On the seat beside me in the cockpit of the DC-3, Pete sits nervously rubbing his hands back and forth on his whipcord trousers. Neither of us has spoken in a long while, and the only sound is the steady, almost soporific drone of the Pratt amp; Whitney engines, port and starboard. We are flying low-five hundred feet now, by the altimeter — and all the running lights are off.

I glance at my watch. It is twenty-three minutes past midnight. My eyes move to the instrument panel and the magnetic compass there. On course. I peer through the windshield at the ebon jungle below.

Pete turns to look at me; his face is pinched in the flickering red light from the instrument panel. “How much farther?” he asks, and in his voice there is a touch of fear. Stage fright, I think, and I smile. “It won’t be long now, kid. Listen, relax, will you?”

“I don’t know, Dan. I’m not cut out for this kind of thing.”

I laugh a little to myself. I have made similar runs, longer ones, a dozen times. Nothing to them, nothing at all. But it’s his first time. I remember mine, a short push into Sumatra, near Palembang, with the old Belgian grinning beside me: dry throat, hands that shook just slightly on the stick coming in, stomach churning, asshole twitching. I laugh again, silently. He’ll be all right. Once we get down and he sees the money-twelve thousand Singapore dollars this wop, this Spindello, will have for the contraband silk we’re carrying-he’ ll be just fine.

I check my watch again. Twelve twenty-eight. Air speed indicator: one hundred, holding steady. The needle has not moved since I cut to half throttle as we passed over the tin smelters in Wellesley Province. Two more minutes, give or take. Spindello has promised to have signal fires lighting the strip. Nothing to it, nothing at all.

Compass reading: a few degrees off course, now. Soft left rudder. Okay. I watch the altimeter, easing forward on the yoke: three hundred feet, two hundred.

Twelve-thirty.

Below us, dead ahead in the blackness of the jungle, I see the orange-yellow flames of the signal fires. But there are only two of them, one on either side. I can only make out a small section of the strip; the rest is shrouded. Where have they built the two? At the head? In the middle? Where?

Pete leans forward on the seat, staring through the windshield. “I thought they were supposed to fire the length of the runway.”

“Take it easy, kid.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Cinch your belt. We’re on our way.”

I take her down, one eye on the altimeter. One hundred feet. I line up with the fires, cutting the power back. Landing gear down, flaps down. I hit the switch for the landing lights, and twin cones snap on, picking up the strip. I can see it clearly now, for the first time.

“Dan!”

It is short, much too short, and honeycombed with small holes and jagged cracks. God damn you, Spindello, God damn you to hell, you said it was in good condition, you said it was smooth and in very good condition…

“Dan, pull out!”

“Shut up!”

“You can’t land on that! This crate won’t stand up!”

“Shut up, shut up!”

It is my decision, and I know I have to take her down. We’re not carrying much of a payload in terms of weight, we’ll make it all right. And we can’t fly the silk back to Singapore, too dangerous, and the money, twelve thousand Singapore dollars…

“Pull out, Dan, pull out!”

“No! Can’t you shut up?”

“You’ll kill us both!”

“I can make it, hold on!”

I ease back on the yoke, chopping the throttles. The strip rushes up, the wheels touch, bounce, touch again. We’re almost down! I fight off the urge to work the brake pedals; wait, wait until she settles.. There! Now get set: brakes, reverse power-

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