The Jade Figurine Read Free

or Malaysian specialties. I went back near the river and stopped at the first one I saw and sat on one of the foot-high wooden stools they have, under a white canvas awning. It was crowded, and it took a while for one of the waiters in white singlets and white shorts to make his way to where I was sitting. I ordered shashlik and rice and a fresh mangosteen.
    I ate slowly, listening to the hum of conversation. There were a score of tongues and dialects; Singapore is the melting pot of Southeast Asia. I had gotten down to the mangosteen—a thick, pulpy, very sweet fruit—when the three men appeared in front of my table.
    The two on either side were copper-skinned, stoic-featured, and flat-eyed. The taller of the two was Eurasian —almond-eyed, but with fine, straight brown hair; the other was a Malay. They were both dressed in freshly pressed white linen jackets and matching slacks and thin cotton shirts, open at the throat.
    The man in the middle was about fifty, short and plump, and he appeared to be very soft; his skin had the odd look of kneaded pink dough, like a gigantic gingerbread man before baking. His hair was sparse, a kind of neutral straw color, and his eyes were a mild, liquidy blue. There was a distinctively Teutonic look about his face, but it struck me that he was probably Dutch or Belgian, rather than German or Austrian. He wore white also, but there any similarity between his dress and that of the other two ended. The suit was British cut, impeccably tailored; the shirt was Thai silk with long sleeves fastened with jade cufflinks initialed JVR in gold; the shoes were of hand-made leather and polished to a fine gloss. On the little finger of his left hand he wore a huge gold ring with a jade stone in the shape of a lion’s head—symbolic, I supposed, of the Lion City.
    He sat down, carefully adjusting the razor crease in his slacks, on the stool next to me; the other two remained standing. A group of Americans, obviously on some kind of tour, had finished their sugared beancurd at an adjacent table and departed; there was no one, now, within the immediate vicinity.
    The soft man smiled, as if he had just found a missing relative. “You are Mr. Connell, are you not?” he asked. His voice had a saccharine quality that was almost condescending.
    “That’s right.”
    “I am Jorge Van Rijk.”
    I went on eating the mangosteen. “Good for you.”
    He thought that was amusing. Gold fillings sparkled. His laugh had a burr in it that made my neck cold. “I am given to understand that you had a conversation with an acquaintance of mine this morning,” he said. “Monsieur La Croix.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Quite right. He was observed leaving the building which houses your flat in Punyang Street.”
    “Interesting.”
    “Isn’t it?” Van Rijk said. “I wish to know the current whereabouts of Monsieur La Croix.”
    “Why?”
    “A small business matter.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said.
    “Where might I find him, Mr. Connell?”
    “I don’t have any idea.”
    “He did not tell you where he could be reached?”
    “No.”
    “Really now, Mr. Connell,” Van Rijk said in a mildly reproving voice.
    “Think what you want. I don’t know where he is.”
    He studied me with his mild blue eyes. After a time he said, “May I inquire, then, as to the nature of your conversation this morning?”
    I met his gaze. “I don’t suppose that’s any of your business.”
    “Ah, but it is, Mr. Connell. It is, indeed, my business.”
    “Then ask La Croix if you find him.”
    “An excellent suggestion, of course,” Van Rijk said. “But time is of the essence in this matter. Necessarily, then, I must ask you.”
    “Sorry. It was a private discussion.”
    “I see.” Van Rijk smiled. From the inside pocket of his tailored suit he produced a squarish box of cigarettes. I saw that they were of English manufacture—Players. He flicked the box open with a manicured thumbnail and extended it to me. “Cigarette?”
    I