John Ball: Five pieces of jade

"I understood that Thailand was an opium-producing country," Tibbs said.

"True, but the Thais don't ordinarily produce heroin, and that's what concerns us most." He paused, then walked over to one of the windows where he turned and gripped the sill with his hands as though he wanted to brace himself for what was to come next. "The war in Vietnam, and the presence of American troops there in strength, provided a ready-made opportunity to carry this policy forward. An intensive campaign was begun to get our service personnel hooked on drugs in one form or another. Large amounts of marijuana were left behind whenever the North Vietnamese or the Viet Cong abandoned an area. Other harder drugs were made easily available and all kinds of inducements were used to get our people to try them. In August 1970 Admiral William Mack admitted to a congressional conmiittee that the drug problem within the American military in Vietnam had become a very serious matter."

Lonigan stopped again and began to walk slowly across the room. "About the most threadbare words in the American political arena are ^communist plot,' but in this instance it's quite true. And while most plots, when there are any, are by their very nature expensive, this is one which pays almost fantastic profits to its promoters."

Washburn stirred in his chair.

"You said that you're a homicide man," Duffy said. "This is mass homicide-slow death by poison. And heroin is poison; take a little too much and that's it."

"All right, how can I help?" Tibbs asked.

At that moment the phone on Washburn's desk rang once softly. The executive picked it up, listened, and then nodded to Virgil. "It's for you," he said.

Tibbs walked over and took the instrument "Virgil," the j voice of Bob McGowan came over the wire, "I'm calling I you myself because no one else knows where you are. When i you've finished, come back as soon as you can. We've got i a killing and this one is far enough out to be right in your I line."

In a tight agony of desolate grief Yumeko sat very still; her eyes were closed so that she could at least partially shut out the world that surrounded her. Misery was nothing new to her; she had known it most of her life because of who and what she was, but all of the buffeting she had endured had not been suflBcient to prepare for her what confronted her now. The one brief happiness she had known had been the time she had spent in Mr. Wang's house, for he was the only person who had been truly kind to her. Now it was all over, finally and completely, because Mr. Wang was dead.

And by the hand of a murderer.

This final chmactic cruelty made her want very much to bring her own life to an end. She had nothing whatever to look forward to, not even the expectation of a smaU amount of normal happiness such as is granted to most people- for a little while at least. Because there was no one else to mourn Mr. Wang she knew that she would have to remain alive at least long enough to see that his memory was properly revered and that aU of the things necessary to insure his complete happiness in the following world were attended to. After that, if she could rejoin him it would represent her dearest wish.

One of the policemen who had answered when she had called in after her terrible discovery squatted down beside her. After an awkward moment of nothingness he laid his hand on top of hers. "I'm terribly sorry. Miss Wang," he said.

His words were painful to her because she wasn't Miss Wang, but she understood that he was attempting to be kind. She opened her eyes and nodded to acknowledge his sympathy.

"I'm afraid," he continued gently, "that we won't be able to move your father for just a little while. Someone is coming-to help. After he has been here, then well take care of everything."

Yumeko struggled to find her voice. "Thank you."

"It won't be very long."

Yumeko had no idea how long it actually was. A blessed numbness took the sharp edge off reality, and the closed draperies before the front window shielded her from the unwanted waning sunlight. She was vaguely aware that someone else did come into Mr. Wang's house, but what had once been an event was no longer of any consequence. Again she was stabbed by the thought that she could no longer serve him and announce his callers.

Outside the rear room Virgil Tibbs hstened quietly while Barry Rothberg, the uniformed officer who had first answered the summons, fiJled him in. "We got the caU just under an hour ago. Apparently there were only two people living here, the victim and his daughter, who discovered the body. She's still here. Badly shocked, I'd say-no one's tried to question her yet."

"Any other witnesses?"

Rothberg shook his head. "None that we know of. Chief McGowan himself passed the word that nothing was to be disturbed until you got here. By which I take it that this one is all yours."

"It looks that way,'* Virgil said. Then he entered the room where the dead man lay on the floor. Calmly, and quite deliberately, he first looked around him at the display cabinets filled with their rare treasures, then at the thick, tightly closed draperies which entirely blocked out the windows. He noted the rich red carpeting and then, the preliminaries over, he gave his full attention to Mr. Wang as he lay in death in the midst of what had been his cherished possessions.

Before he came any closer to the body, Tibbs knelt down and with the palm of his hand tested the ability of the carpeting to hold any kind of a footprint His finding was negative; the pile was of a weave that would betray nothing. That determined he took a step or two forward and carefully studied the bizarre sight before him.

Mr. Wang lay on his back with his hands at his sides as though he had assumed that position voluntarily. His face, while vacant, was almost serene; even his unflinching eyes appeared to be fixed on something of their own choosing. In the center of the room there was a small sturdy table which was draped with a piece of black velvet; a tiny spotlight set in the ceiling directed a pencil of light down toward its center. Between the table and the display cases on the right-hand side of the room the body of Mr. Wang rested at an angle of approximately thirty degrees to the wall. Two of the jade cabinets were open, although they gave no external evidence of having been forced. Their contents were only slightly disturbed. From their resting places on the glass shelves four of the jades had been removed and placed on the floor; they sat in a rough semicircle, two on each side of the head of their late owner. One more piece of jade had also been taken from its display position; the Ya-Chang ritual knife protruded obscenely, and with deadly finality, from the left-hand side of Mr. Wang's chest.

Virgil studied the scene for some time, standing quietly still in one spot, his right hand slowly massaging the underside of his chin. When he had satisfiewi himself he bent over the body where it lay on the floor and studied it carefully. Behind him Agent Floyd Sanderson waited patiently; he had seen Virgil work before and he knew enough not to interfere.

"What did the doctor say?" Tibbs asked.

"Not a great deal; he pronounced him dead and fixed the time of death as of about four or five hours ago."

Virgil took hold of one lifeless hand and flexed the arm slightly. Then he asked another question without looking up. "Has the air conditioning been on?"

"I'm not sure, Virg," Sanderson answered. "Perhaps the girl can tell you. From the feel of things when we arrived here, I'd guess not."

Tibbs nodded. "I think you're right; it's quite warm in here."

He continued his inspection of the body of the dead man, dropping down on his knees to do so, but being very careful in his movements not to disturb the jades that had been placed on the rug. "How about pictures?" he asked.