Gelignite (10 page)

Mr Ting said, 'Late of the illustrious firm of Burrard, Wu & Son, Mr O'Yee, where I did the few unimportant tasks allotted me to the best of my poor ability.'

O'Yee swallowed. He felt very guilty.

Mr Ting said, 'Fortunate though I was to thriftily amass sufficient capital to establish my own unworthy competition to them, I feel my little premises in no way compares to theirs.' He waited.

O'Yee said, 'I'm sure your establishment is much nicer all round.'

Mr Ting said, 'Thank you, sir.' He sounded like a humble heterosexual tailor forced to accept the task of measuring inside legs, 'I fear you are much too generous in your praise, but thank you.' He said gratefully, 'My dear sir.'

O'Yee said, 'I fear my praise may not even begin to be adequate.'

'My dear sir—' No, that was really too much . . .

O'Yee said, 'Mr Ting—'

'My dear sir—'

'Mr Ting—'

'Yes, my dear sir—'

'I have a small enquiry—'

'At your service.' (O'Yee waited.) Mr Ting said,'—my dear sir.'

O'Yee said, 'I am a rather discerning collector of taxidermed feathered vertebrate fauna. I thought perhaps you might—'

Mr Ting said, 'My dear sir, I am at your every whim.' He repeated thoughtfully, 'Feathered vertebrate fauna.' He was working it out.

O'Yee said, 'Yes.'

Mr Ting worked it out. He said, 'Ah.'

'Ah.'

Mr Ting said, 'Perhaps a rather lovely and exquisite jade treasure of great antiquity representing the mythological bird of—'

O'Yee said, 'Taxidermed.' He said, 'Stuffed.'

There was a pause. Mr Ting said, 'I beg sir's pardon?'

O'Yee said, 'A stuffed bird. A toucan. A stuffed toucan.' He waited for Mr Ting to draw in his breath and say, 'My dear sir—!'

Mr Ting, at the other end of the line, drew in his breath.

O'Yee glanced at the blank apple-green ceiling of the interview room.

Mr Ting said, 'What?'

O'Yee forced a half-smile. It was a difficult thing to force. He said soothingly to Mr Ting without a trace of irony in his voice, 'Mr Ting— My dear sir—'

Mr Ting said, 'What?'

'People do collect stuffed birds, you know! I mean, just as many people collect stuffed birds as people collect jade treasures of great antiquity representing the—'

Mr Ting said, '
What
?'

'Have you got any bloody stuffed toucans for sale? Yes or no?'

Mr Ting said, 'WHAT?'

'Stuffed goddamned bloody dead extinct stuffed lousy toucans! Yes or bloody no?'

Mr Ting said, 'No!'

O'Yee said, 'Well, thank you very much! I'm dreadfully sorry I disturbed you!'

There was a terrible pause, then, after a long while, there was Mr Ting's voice back on the line. It had a lost, wounded note to it, like a Walt Disney Bambi wasting away in the forest with its great brown eyes raising themselves with aching tenderness to the memory of Cinderella or Mary Poppins or Marcus Welby (it was all in there). Mr Ting said utterly sadly, 'Oh...' Mr Ting said, 'Oh my dear sir...'

Mr Ting let out a single, long sigh. He said, very softly, 'Thank you ... my dear sir . . .' and then, barely perceptibly, let the line go dead.

In the empty interview room O'Yee took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. He looked at them and swallowed. His identity, at once, reflected back at him twofold in the lenses, became forever and finally, irrevocably clear to him.

O'Yee was the man who, in front of his own children, in the final scene of the very last reel, had shot Lassie.

*

In the sorting room of the Hong Bay Central Post Office in Wyang Street, the Assistant Chief Senior Sorter, Mr Choy, looked at his branch Postmaster and said incredulously, '
Bombs? Letter bombs?
'

The branch Postmaster, Mr Hwang, nodded. He looked very nervous. He jerked his head significantly to the fair haired European standing next to him. Mr Hwang said, 'This is Detective Inspector Spencer. If you suspect anything, leave it alone and call him.' He asked Mr Choy, 'Is that perfectly clear?' Mr Hwang said warningly to Spencer, 'I don't want any accidents.' He surveyed the sorting booths, the canvas bags, the steel chute, the roof, the floor, the walls, the personnel (with a little less concern), the—he surveyed everything in the Hong Bay Central Post Office that belonged to the Hong Bay Central Post Office and felt responsible. He said to Spencer, 'I hold you responsible.' He nodded. He went back to his office, shaking his head.

Mr Choy watched him for a moment. Mr Hwang's office door opened and Mr Hwang went in. Mr Choy said, 'Don't mind him.' He offered Spencer a cigarette.

Two floors below, at the unloading dock, the evening's collections were arriving in canvas bags and being sent upstairs on conveyor belts to be sorted. It was 6 pm.

Spencer took out a photostat of the bomber's handwriting from the inside pocket of his coat. He examined it. The first canvas bag reached the top of the conveyor belt and was hurled in the direction of a sorting table by one of the junior mail officers.

It went crash! onto the steel-topped surface.

*

The Wharf Cove granite quarry, set back from Hong Bay Beach Road on the western side of the district, was lit by a battery of floodlights. Feiffer pulled his car up to the padlocked wire gate entrance and glanced at his watch in the glow. It was 7.15 pm. He locked his car door and went up to the gate. There was a guard dog on patrol around a group of huts just inside the gate. It came unhurriedly to its side of the wire fence and watched him. The dog was a young, ninety pound Alsatian in good condition with no need to prove anything. It made no sound. It crouched a little on its haunches without any concerted effort to be threatening and watched the man on the other side of the fence. Feiffer tested the padlock on the wire. The dog made a deep growling noise and went down a little lower on its spring loaded thigh muscles. Feiffer stepped back from the gate. He went back to his car, unlocked it, and pressed the horn button three times. Behind the wire, the dog sat and watched him.

A man's voice from somewhere to one side of his car asked Feiffer out of the darkness in English, 'Yes?' The dog got up and began making low snarling noises. There was someone in the shadows, coming towards him: a tall man wearing a cap. He came closer: he was in uniform. He asked again, 'Yes?'

'Who are you?'

The tall man in the uniform (it had a flash on the shoulder with the word SECURITY embroidered on it in gold letters) ignored the question. He had a truncheon on his belt and something slung over his shoulder. Like the dog, he made no effort to be frightening. The thing slung over his shoulder was a shoulder-stocked Mauser broomhandle automatic pistol. The man asked in accented English, 'Who are you?' He asked, 'Are you lost?'

Feiffer said, 'I'm a police officer. Who are you?'

The security guard (now that he was closer Feiffer could see he was prematurely bald under the cap) said, 'May I see your identification?' He had an unhurried, even sort of voice with an accent that sounded Portuguese. He said reasonably, 'You'll appreciate my request.'

Feiffer took out his warrant card and opened it. The security guard shone a flashlight into it and looked hard at the photograph. He said in that same, calm tone, 'What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?' He said to the dog in an easy conversational tone, 'Friend.'

'You are—?'

The security guard said, 'Mr Mendoza.' He moved forward to the wire gate and took out a key for the padlock, 'Come inside and have a cup of coffee.' He unlocked the gate, held it open for the Chief Inspector (the dog cast a final glance at Feiffer), and then, when he had come through himself, re-locked the door. (The dog came up and licked Feiffer's hand.) He said to the dog, 'Coffee,' and to Feiffer, 'He likes it. He has it out of a bowl.'

'Oh.'

Mendoza said, 'He'd have it out of a cup like me only his nose is too long.' He patted the dog man-to-man on the head and said, 'I told him you liked coffee but your nose is too long to drink out of a cup.' He said to the dog, 'Ha, ha.'

The dog made a sound that Feiffer could have sworn was 'Ho, ho.'

'Hmm,' Mendoza said, 'What can I do for you?' They went into Mendoza's hut where there was a pot of coffee percolating on a primus stove under a shelf. There was a box of ammunition on the shelf and something that looked like a disassembled battery-electric toothbrush. He asked, 'Sugar and milk?' and wishing the Mauser and propped it carefully in a corner.

'Black.' It was a toothbrush. The man must have been repairing it.

Mendoza said to the dog, 'The same as you.' He poured the dog a cupful of coffee into its bowl and then went to pour out Feiffer's and his own.

Feiffer glanced at the dog. Dogs usually made slurping noises drinking out of bowls. This one didn't. It sipped. Feiffer said pleasantly, 'I'm looking for a man named Wong. I thought there'd be a night shift working.'

Mendoza shook his head. 'New Government regulations about noise. Can't fire off any explosions after 6 pm.' He said unnecessarily, 'The dog and I keep an eye on things until the morning shift starts at 5 am.' He said, 'Wong's a fairly common name.' He said, 'Funnily enough though, in all the time I've been here we've only ever had one Wong work for us.' He said by way of explanation, 'When I get bored I read the personnel records in the office to make sure everyone's who and what they say they are.'

'This particular Wong has a brother who runs a chestnut stall on the corner of Yellowthread Street and Canton Street'

'That's right.' The dog finished its coffee and waited for Mendoza to refill the bowl.

'You know him?'

'Which one?'

'The chestnut—'

'I knew his brother worked here.'

'What's he like?'

The chestnut—'

'The one who works here.'

'I've seen worse. Why?'

Feiffer asked, 'And are explosives kept here on the site?'

'Sure.' Mendoza nodded at the dog, 'That's why we're here. Him and me.' He glanced at the Mauser, 'We don't really need that, but the company thinks it's necessary.' He said, 'If you've come to check the Arms Licence it's all right with me if you take it back.'

'No.'

The dog looked disappointed. He glanced at the gun and sniffed. Mendoza said, 'They keep about two hundred pounds of explosives in the magazine at any one time.' He said, 'It's locked up, but I've got the key if you're interested.'

'This man Wong, does he have access to the magazine?'

'No.'

'You don't know what sort of explosives?'

'Polar amnion gelignite and detonators.'

'New stuff?'

'It is, as a matter of fact You can't get the old brand any more.' Mendoza said, The factory blew up or something. It's all a different brand now.'

'And this man Wong, he wouldn't have been able to get his hands on any of it?'

'Not the new stuff, no. He might have pinched some of the old stuff.' The dog came up to Mendoza to be patted. Mendoza patted it. The dog made a faint baby-burping sound in its throat. Mendoza said, 'Why do you ask?' He smiled at the dog and said, 'The Chinks are a funny lot. They wouldn't pinch explosives.' He said more to the dog than anyone else, 'They're all too superstitious, aren't they?'

'About explosives?'

Mendoza laughed. Compared to his normally pleasant voice it was a harsh grating sound. He said to the dog, 'About everything! ' He said, 'If you knew a way to tap Chinese superstition for profit you could make a fortune!' He looked to the dog for agreement, 'Isn't that right?'

The dog made a growling noise and licked Mendoza's hand.

'Who checks the explosives records?'

'The police.' (Feiffer nodded) 'And me.' Mendoza said, 'Chinks can't count. So I do it' He said, 'They need a levelheaded European to do anything important.' He said conspiratorially to Feiffer, 'You know that.'

'And has there been anything missing lately?'

Mendoza laughed. He glanced at the dog's fangs significantly. He shook his head.

'What time does Wong start work here again?'

Mendoza laughed for the third time. The dog also looked amused. 'Never!' Mendoza said, 'He was fired.'

'When?'

'About four months ago. He was late two days in a row without an excuse.'

So much for the brother theory. 'No.' Feiffer said, 'His brother told me he still worked here.'

Mendoza paused. He patted the dog pleasantly on the head. Mendoza said, 'Superstition.' He smiled at the dog, 'You see. Face. Bad joss to be fired. Too proud to admit he's been given the arse. Bad luck for the family.' He said, 'It's all superstition and luck with the Chinks, all gods and ghosts and spirits.' He said as one round-eyed trustworthy white face to another, 'All they are is a load of shit.' He said, 'If you could find a way to tap all the shit they talk you could make a fortune.' He said happily to Feiffer, 'Have another cup of coffee.' He asked the dog, 'How about you? What do you think?'

When he got back to the Station, Feiffer's phone was ringing.. It was the Commander. It sounded as if he had had a good dinner. He asked in an extremely tranquil tone of voice, 'Harry, tell me straight if you think there's anything at all in my idea about the Triads.' He said, 'I've been having a few confidential words to a Superintendent I know in the anti-secret societies squad and he doesn't give it much credence.' He asked, 'How much do you give it?'

Feiffer paused. He said, 'To be honest, Neal, not very much.'

'Why not?'

'Well, for a start, the Triads usually don't bother about letter bombs. They prefer planted ones.'

The Commander said, '—working on the assumption that for all their many iniquities they don't care for blowing up people by accident—innocent people?' He asked Feiffer, 'Is that what you mean?'

Feiffer said, 'It's bad for business.'

'And the other reason? You said, "for a start" so I assume you have more than one thing against it?'

'The Triads don't make a habit of signalling their moves to the police.' He said, 'If they want a bomb to go off then it goes off. They don't give the local cops a chance to get to it first. That's my other reason.' He asked the Commander pleasantly, 'Does that accord with what the Superintendent said?'