Gelignite (7 page)

Moss grows there between the cracks in stone and paint-cracking timber. If ever one went back in time to a time already past, the past would be the greyness of Soochow Street.

The odd smell was of something dying. The figure in the half light looked steadily out of the window. The grey picture out of the window that brought a little light into the darkened room was the cemetery. It was the smaller cemetery, the Double Tranquillity Resting Place of Heavenly Peace. Now closed.

'Mr Tam?'

The thin voice said, 'Yes.' There was nothing in it: no fear, surprise, a little interest.

Feiffer said in Cantonese, 'My name is Feiffer. I'm a Detective Chief Inspector from the Yellowthread Street Station.' He tried to make out the facial features, but the room was too dim. From the way the neck bent forward, it was an old man.

The thin voice said, 'Yes?' There was another chair by the table. The thin voice said, 'Please.'

Feiffer sat down. The chair creaked. It had not been used for a very long time. Mr Tam said, 'Yes?'

'I believe you are a partner in the firm of Leung Ivory in Yellowthread Street?'

'The shop?' There was a soft sigh, 'Yes.'

Feiffer peered at the face. There was something odd about it. It was too dim to see. But there was something definitely odd about it. Feiffer said quietly, 'Mr Leung is dead.'

There was a pause. Feiffer asked, 'Did you hear what I said? Did you understand me?'

'Your Cantonese is very good.'

'Thank you. Did you understand what I said?'

There was another pause. The thin voice said, 'Yes.' There was a second soft hissing sound of breath.

'He was killed by an explosive device. A bomb'—there was no reaction— 'A letter bomb. Someone manufactured a letter bomb with gelignite and a detonator set to explode when it was opened.'

'Yes.'

Feiffer said, 'Was it you?'

The thin voice asked, 'Why should I wish to kill anyone?'

'Mr Leung was your financial partner.'

'No.' Whatever it was the eyes saw from the window, they did not deviate from it. The voice said again softly, 'No.'

'Mr Leung's widow claims you are.'

'I am not.'

'You have no connection with the business? When I asked you a moment ago you said yes.'

The figure made a slight movement There was the strange smell again. 'Mr Leung was a financial partner in the sense that he took money from it on a percentage basis, but he was not, in the sense you mean, a full partner.'

Feiffer asked, 'Who owns the business?'

Mr Tarn's voice said softly, 'I do.' He sounded very frail and tired.

'And Mr Leung was an employee?'

'Yes.'

"Then why would his widow claim he was a partner? All it would take from you is a word.'

The figure was silent.

'I see.'

The figure was silent.

'When was the last time you were in the shop, Mr Tam?'

Mr Tam said softly, 'I have not left this room for the last three years.' He said, 'I am provided for by the profits from the business.' He said softly, 'I have received nothing for three months now.'

Feiffer said—

The thin voice said, 'It doesn't matter.'

'Did you make the bomb?'

There was a strange note in the voice. The voice said, 'The cemetery is closed now, but there is a place reserved there for me.' The voice said, 'I used most of the profits to endow in a small way, an orphanage.' The voice said, 'So.'

'So there will be people to mourn you and tend your grave.'

The voice said, 'Yes.' There was a quickened note in the tone, 'Yes.' He said, 'The most important thing in life is to be buried properly.' He said, 'That is a Chinese view.'

'Yes, I know.'

Mr Tam said, 'I have not killed anyone. I have done a few little things of merit and nothing much that is too bad.' He said, 'I am hopeful that my meritorious works will be enough.' He said sadly, 'I can do no more now in any event.'

Feiffer drew a breath. Something pushed against his ribs. It was the butt of his gun. He moved his hand down to the holster and slipped the retaining leather loop over the hammer to secure it. 'Mr Leung's widow seems to think you are a very evil man.'

Mr Tam did not reply.

Feiffer said, 'She claims you are a pariah.'

Mr Tarn's head nodded.

Feiffer said, 'Plague-poxed.' He said, 'Dog's diarrhoea. Rat-turd. Leper. Vermin-infested.' He told the figure, 'She accused you over the body of her husband.' He asked, 'Have you any idea what gelignite does to a human body at close range?'

Mr Tam said, 'No.'

'She claims you and her husband were equal partners in the business and that you were content to sit back and take the profits while he put in the work. She feels that you will now take the entire business and her income will cease.' He said evenly, 'I think you'll admit that it makes a very convincing motive.'

The figure was still.

Feiffer said, 'Wouldn't you say so?'

The figure nodded. The thin voice said, 'She may have the business.'

'Pardon?'

'If she wants the business she may have it.' The thin voice said, 'It is of no use to me.' He said to Feiffer, 'Do you know what feng shui is?' He added quickly, 'Of course, you must.'

Feiffer said, 'Wind and water. They're supposed to be the propitious elements for a house or a grave, or whatever.'

The figure nodded.

Feiffer asked, 'How is the feng shui in that cemetery you can see?'

'It is the best in Hong Kong.' The figure said, 'The cemetery was built in the middle of the last century. It was one of the first on the island, so there were any number of sites to choose from.' He said, 'A feng shui diviner was brought from Canton to locate the best site.' He said, 'A tomb has belonged there to my family for generations. I am the last of my family to use it.' He said, 'It will not be very long.' He said, 'I am waiting.'

'
Did you make the bomb that killed Mr Leung
?'

Mr Tam said, 'The last. I am one of the last. The cemetery has been closed for over twenty years and I am one of the very last.' He said, 'A man was brought all the way from Canton to divine the spot.' He said, 'I am one of the very last.' He said, 'I have been waiting for ten years, but it will be soon.' He said, They said on the island that it will be soon.' He told Feiffer, 'They brought me over.' He asked him, 'They wouldn't do that if it wasn't soon would they?' He reassured himself, 'No.'

'Which island?'

'Oh, the—' Mr Tam said, 'Hei Ling Chau Island.' Mr Tam said, 'A long time ago I used to carve ivory. I could have made something then.' He said, 'That was a long time ago.' Feiffer was very aware of the smell. He knew what it was. There was a silence.

The figure said, 'Mr Feiffer?'

'Yes.' Feiffer stood up. He went to the window. He could see the cemetery on its little hill, with its rows and rows of tombs set out like neat houses on an estate. On the other side of the hill was the harbour.

Mr Tam said, 'What do you think?'

'Yes.'

'Beautiful?'

Feiffer said, 'It's a fine place.'

'Yes.' Mr Tam said, 'Do you think I am an evil man?'

'No.'

Mr Tam said, 'If she wishes the business, Mr Leung's widow may have it.' He asked, 'Will you put it in writing?'

'I will telephone someone for you.'

Mr Tam said, 'That would be an act of merit.'

Feiffer looked out at the cemetery. As far as he could see to the top of the hill, there were little grave markers. He asked, 'Where is your family's tomb?'

'On the other side of the hill.'

'Overlooking the water?'

'Yes.'

Feiffer said, 'The best feng shui is probably over there.'

Mr Tam said, 'It is.' He asked, 'Did I tell you a man was brought all the way from Canton to divine the site?'

'No.'

'It is true.' The smell was very strong.

Feiffer said, 'I'm sorry to have bothered you.' He said quietly, I envy you your place.'

Mr Tam said, 'There are no more places left.' He said, 'The New Government Cemetery is a good place, but it does not have the feng shui of this site.'

'No.'

Mr Tam said, 'I will not have to wait much longer.'

Feiffer nodded. He stood by the window looking out at Mr Tarn's place for a long time until Mr Tam finally dozed off into an uneasy sleep, then he went quietly out of the room and shut the door softly behind him.

Leprosy is a disease that often takes up to thirty years to kill. Now known to be normally non-contagious in many forms, it is, neverttheless, in many ways, totally unpredictable. What is not totally unpredictable however are the parts of the body it attacks: the nose, eyebrows and limb extremities. These, often to the accompaniment of a pungent smell, become deadened and, apparently of their own accord, mortify and, finally, drop off. These symptoms are certain, as indeed, is the fact that, without fingers, it is very difficult to fabricate anything as delicate as a bomb.

Feiffer turned out of Soochow Street. A stream of taxis went by on their way back from the cross harbour tunnel, but he let them go by. He decided to walk back to the Station.

He stopped at the corner of Great Shanghai Road and Jade Road and lit a cigarette.

*

The first letter was addressed to a man named Wong. The postman handed it to him and then passed on down Yellowthread Street towards the Police Station. Apart from the dozens of other letters to be delivered on the way, he had a long manilla envelope to be dropped into the Detectives' Room at the Police Station.

The late sorting had put him behind time and he quickened his pace.

Mr Wong looked at his letter. A customer came up to his hot-chestnut stall outside the Paradise Cinema on the corner of Canton Street and Yellowthread Street and proffered a ten cent coin. Mr Wong put the letter to one side next to his charcoal burner and filled a brown paper cornet from a metal scoop. The customer nodded. Mr Wong dropped the ten cents into his box and looked at the letter for the second time. Mr Wong thought about it for a moment. He scooped up his scoop, his money box and his letter and ran after the postman. He thought the letter must be a mistake. He never got letters. The few letters he had had in his forty-three years had been from the Government. They were always bad news: always something to pay. This one, though, was a mistake. Letters from the Government were always addressed in Chinese.

He caught the postman by the shoulder and tried to give him back the letter. The postman, in a hurry, refused to take it

Mr Wong showed him the spidery black ink address. He said reasonably to the postman, 'It's in English.'

The postman said, 'So what?' There was a heavy pumice dust in the air and the postman coughed. Encouraged, a pneumatic drill on the fifth or sixth floor of one of the half torn down buildings coughed with him, then went BERAMABER-AMABRRAMA! A hammer started going BANG! BANG! BANG! The postman said, 'I can't wait around here, I've got work to do!' He looked at Mr Wong's eyes. They seemed very worried. The postman wasn't a hard man. He said, 'It's for you. It's got your name on it.' He took the letter and turned it over to show Mr Wong his name in the strange letters. He said, 'See?'

Mr Wong said, 'No.'

'
Wong
.'

Mr Wong said, 'It's not me.' He had troubles enough of his own without opening anyone else's. He said, 'It's the wrong Wong.' He nodded. He turned to go back to his chestnuts and an undisturbed life. He was glad that was over. The nail guns fired a volley or two, then the hardiest went POW! POW!

The postman stopped him. He handed the letter back. Mr Wong refused to take it. The postman said, 'Wong Tung Shing, right? That's you, isn't it? Street Vendor Number 5817, corner Yellowthread Street and Canton Street, Hong Bay.' He said, That's you, right? That's your location.' He warned Mr Wong. 'Don't tell me it isn't I've seen you there every day for years.' He said with the power of his uniform and his Government job with a pension attached to it, 'That's you!' He pushed the letter into Mr Wong's hands and crushed the corners of the stamp.

Mr Wong said, 'It isn't mine!' He tried to give it back.

'It's yours!' The postman shoved his shoulder to move him along.

'Well, I can't read it!'

'That's not my problem!'

Mr Wong said, 'You read it to me!'

The postman looked at him. His mouth said in silent horror at the suggestion that he should demean his position, 'Haw!' He told Mr Wong in a scandalised voice, 'I'm not employed to read letters to illiterates!'

'I'm not illiterate! I don't read English! That doesn't make me illiterate!' He demanded from the postman, 'Do you read Arabic?'

'Of course not!'

'Well, I do!'

The postman paused. He asked, 'Do you?'

Mr Wong said, 'Well—no.' He asked quietly, 'Would you mind reading it for me?'

The postman glanced at his watch. He hesitated. He took the envelope back and gazed at it. He said quietly, 'Look, I'm sure it isn't bad news.' He indicated the handwritten address, 'It isn't from the Government.' He said, 'The Government wouldn't employ anyone with such bad handwriting. And they're always written on a typewriter.' He said, 'They always have a return address to the Government Office.' Mr Wong looked impressed. The postman added, 'And they never have a stamp on them because Government letters don't need one.' He said with the final crushing deductive powers of a Sherlock Holmes, 'So it isn't from the Government.'

Mr Wong said, 'Oh . . .' So that was what it took to get a Government job. Mr Wong said humbly, 'I'm very impressed.' (The postman made a deprecating move of his head.) He could see why a man like this wouldn't have the time to stop to read other people's letters. He said, 'I'll take the letter to a letter-writer at the Post Office.' He said firmly to show he had taken the point, 'It's their business to read letters in other languages, not yours.'

The postman wasn't a hard man. He said, 'Nor yours either.' He said, 'You've got your own business to think of. You haven't the time to run about learning languages you never use.' He smiled and hoisted his bag higher on his shoulder.