The Devil's Circle, page 23
The Bidor meeting was by all accounts a success. On behalf of Southeast Asia Command Captain Broome signed a formal alliance with the Malayan Communist Party. The British would supply arms, ammunition, food and money in return for cooperation against the Japanese. Politics would be forgotten for the duration of the War. They stood arm in arm against a common enemy. The MPAJA regiments would receive Force 136 advisers. Command and control would remain with the MCP. Working together, they would create a formidable guerilla army, ready to strike when the Allies landed once more in Malaya. Toasts were drunk and promises of friendship made. The British officers were well-satisfied with what had been accomplished. Things were looking up.
Within three months the whole network of agents in Perak had unravelled.
AFTER the Bidor meeting Choo Kee, Leong Yeok and Koh Kim Seng went north to rejoin the OCAJA patrol at Grik. Goh Beng Chye and Helen made their way to Ipoh, where the main branch of Goh’s business Chop Wan Seng was located. Helen stayed with him, posing as his niece. She needed the time to learn more about living in Malaya. As it was, some of the older Communists were becoming suspicious of her. A stranger from Shanghai was suspect, especially since Shanghai had been controlled by the Japanese for nearly six years. She hadn’t been entirely comfortable in Bidor. It seemed to her that Chang Hong, for all his protestations of comradeship, looked askance at Lim Bo Seng. He knew that when Malaya was liberated, there would be a reckoning between the Kuomintang and the MCP. Lim, with his dynamism, courage and status as a war hero, would be a rival for leadership among the Chinese. It didn’t take a genius to see that. She was relieved to leave the camp and get away from the guerillas.
In February 1944 Lim Bo Seng emerged from the jungle to expand the network of agents and make contact with the submarine sent from Ceylon. Force 136 had brought transmitters with them, but unfortunately they didn’t work in the damp climate of Malaya. The Nationalist radio operators found themselves out of a job. The only way to get information back to Ceylon was to physically send it out by submarine. They were also running out of money to finance the intelligence network. The MCP had no leverage with any of the towkays. Lim decided that he had to go himself. He made it to Ipoh, where he stayed in one of the safe houses while waiting for the rendezvous with the submarine. On March 21 the Kempeitai struck. They blockaded Pulau Pangkor and picked up the local agents. Within days they had rounded up practically the whole network. Lim Bo Seng tried to escape. He was stopped at a roadblock driving out of Ipoh. Even though he gave a false name, the Kempeitai arrested him. They obviously knew exactly who they were looking for. He didn’t survive the interrogation.
Helen was lucky to escape the disaster. When the Kempeitai came to pick up Goh Beng Chye she had been in the back room of Chop Wan Seng. She heard their chatter before she saw them and understood immediately what they had come for. Fortunately, she had taken the precaution of preparing for precisely this contingency. Rushing back to her bedroom, she scooped up her small suitcase and made her way to the top floor. Already, she could hear the sounds of scuffling as the Japanese subdued Goh and his assistants downstairs. The noise of their boots could be heard on the steps. She pulled the cord that lowered the ladder to the attic. Scampering up quickly, she retracted the ladder. It would take some time for them to find it, hidden as it was in the ceiling. Chop Wan Seng was in a terrace house. The attics of the adjoining terraces abutted one another. A hole had been made in the wall separating the shop from the next building. She wriggled through it, then through another similar passage into the building beyond. She lowered the ladder from the attic carefully and went downstairs. Pausing only to ensure that she had not been pursued, she made her way out the front door. The road was swarming with troops. Fortunately, their attention was focussed on Chop Wan Seng. She slipped away unnoticed.
Ipoh Railway Station was only a few minutes’ walk away. She had her ticket, a forged one showing her point of departure as Bangkok. A quick visit to a public convenience allowed her to transform herself. Gone were the samfoo and the pigtails. She hurriedly applied her makeup and slipped on a floral frock. When she reached the guard at the platform, she presented her papers with regal condescension. He stared at them for a long moment. She put him in his place with exquisite courtesy, in perfect Japanese. The soldier, a peasant from Korea, clicked to attention and bowed. She swept past him into the first class carriage.
The trip to Singapore took the whole day. The train stopped at every station along the way. There were few passengers in first class. She had a bit of luck. A couple of Japanese officers boarded at Kuala Lumpur and asked to share her compartment. She agreed readily. They were pleased to be in the company of a pretty girl, and a Japanese-speaking one at that. They were so tired of the peasant women of the country. Her companions proved good company on the 17-hour journey from KL to Singapore. They were cultured and entertaining. It was obvious to them that she was not Japanese; they were all the more delighted to discover that she had been in cosmopolitan Shanghai. There was no talk of politics and the war. Instead, they bantered and spoke of music and art. Best of all, they kept others away. A civilian tried to enter the compartment but retreated hurriedly when he saw the uniforms. When night fell, the officers gallantly allowed her to have the whole compartment to herself. They stood guard outside to make sure that she was not molested. It was not an unpleasant journey.
At Keppel Road Station she managed to hail one of the few taxis. The driver took her straight to the address that she gave. It was Lao Leong Ann’s shop in Jim Chuan Place.
“And that’s how I came to be with him,” she said. “He set me up in the house next door with the comfort women.”
I was astounded. “You were a comfort woman?”
“No,” she said with a wicked smile, “I was the mama-san. Lao ran the comfort house for the Japs and the locals who could pay. Having a Nippon-jin mama-san was good for business. It was really a great place to hear things. Men can’t keep their mouths shut in bed. They’re always bragging about how important they are, what great things they’ve done — even when they’re paying for the girl. I got a lot of info from the girls. I passed it on to Chungking and the Americans.”
“And the singing?”
“Nope, got that job myself after the Liberation. A girl’s gotta eat. But it’s a good place too. Lots of folks with big mouths and money to burn. I even saw that Commie bastard from Bidor once, that Chang Hong. He had some tart on his arm and was shooting his mouth off about having got rid of all his rivals.”
This was interesting information, but a question burned in my mind. I had to ask. “Were you Lao’s mistress?”
She laughed, an incongruously girlish laugh. “Hell, no. Not that he didn’t try, though. I told him, nothing doing buster, this is strictly business. Though it might have made getting my hands on the property easier if I had agreed.”
I was shocked. “You’d have become his mistress for the property?”
“Gimme a break, he wasn’t my type. You can take that look off your face now,” she said, with her eyes twinking mischievously, “I’m just yanking your chain.”
“So he was working for the resistance all along,” I mused. “I’ve misjudged him.”
“Nope, don’t think so. Old Lao was working for number one,” she replied. “He needed us to protect himself. Yeah, I know, he was a bastard; but he was our bastard, and that’s what counts, right?”
I realised with a start that it was getting light. There was a moment of panic before I remembered that we were no longer on Tokyo time and that sunrise was at six o’clock and not seven-thirty. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Miss … er … Helen,” I said awkwardly.
She laughed again. “Yeah, you sure got me going there. What was it you wanted? It wasn’t to hear the story of my life for sure.”
In my fascination I’d completely forgotten the purpose of my visit. “Oh, right. We wanted to get in touch with your friends from Kelantan. They might be able to say something helpful for Habibullah. If there’s some way … I’d appreciate it.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a go, but no promises,” she replied. “It’s not like I can just get them on the phone, if you know what I mean. It may take time.”
“Thanks,” I answered. “It was … interesting.” I backed out the door.
“Come anytime,” she called after me coquettishly. “You’re real cute. Gimme a call, Dennis Chiang.” Her teasing discomfited me for some reason I could not fathom. I retired, trying hard not to show it.
29
I WENT straight back to the office from Great World. It was a long walk, but the morning was cool, with a little mist left over from the rains. My path took me along the banks of the Singapore River, where the godowns were already bustling even at that early hour. Tongkangs were chugging up and down, laden with cargo. In the last year of the War trade had practically stopped. Most of the Japanese merchant marine was at the bottom of the sea, sunk by Allied submarines. The Allies practised unrestricted submarine warfare and didn’t give any warning before sinking freighters. They roamed the seas at will like wolves, singly rather than in packs. With peace came trade. The Inner and Outer Roads were full of shipping again. The port of Singapore was the lifeline of Malaya.
George was already in when I reached the office. He had sharp eyes. “That must have been some night out,” he remarked, scanning my rumpled suit. “I thought you just went to have a quick word with Ah Moy.”
“Turned out to be more interesting than I thought,” I replied. “She’s had some real adventures.”
“And the contact?”
“She’ll let us know.”
“She’d better. I’ve drawn a complete blank with the Bhurtpores. The only INA men still around are fellows recruited from around here. We’ve got no witnesses who can testify to the shooting of Holmes.”
“I don’t understand what the old man wants with the guerillas,” I said. “They won’t have been there when Holmes was killed either.”
“The old man thinks that the guerillas may have some knowledge of the incident,” said a voice from behind me. “One never knows.”
I spun around, cursing d’Almeida’s cat-like tread. “Mr d’Almeida,” I sputtered, “I didn’t know you were in.”
“Evidently not,” he said drily. “What news did you get from Miss Ah Moy?”
I gave him the highlights of her story, summarising the night’s narrative in ten minutes. “Interesting, very interesting,” he mused, rubbing his spectacles. He turned to go. “Please have her come to see me this morning before tiffin.”
“Before tiffin?” I queried. “Aren’t we going to be in court?”
“No, I fancy not,” he replied. “After last evening’s tragic turn of events I am certain that the courthouse will need to be properly secured. They will have to screen all visitors to the building. I do not anticipate having to resume until the afternoon at the earliest.”
I had forgotten all about poor Ward. Death had become so commonplace in the last few years that it could be erased from memory in an instant. The lack of sleep and the fascination of Helen’s story had driven it from my mind. “Get some rest,” d’Almeida called out to me as he left.
IT seemed like I had only put my head down on the cushions of the settee when I was woken by a commotion. I looked at the wall clock; it was nearly eleven. I roused myself quickly and went out to have a look. A dishevelled Indian man was in the foyer, being bundled into Simon’s room by two rough coolies. George was directing operations. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“Got one,” answered George, “a Bhurtpore, alive and kicking.”
“How ever did you manage that?” I asked with admiration. George was getting to be like his Uncle Clarence when it came to pulling rabbits out of hats.
“I had my friends in the League look out at the courthouse for anyone who might have been in the INA,” he answered. “We picked him up this morning when he came back to watch the proceedings.”
“I thought that you and the League had parted company long ago,” I commented.
“Parted company, yes. Lost contact, no. They still owe me for services rendered and favours done. I called in the markers.” We were in Simon’s room now. Our unwilling guest was seated in front of his desk, staring at us truculently. He was wearing a stained civilian shirt and what appeared to be khaki army trousers, tattered at the cuffs. Round his throat a dirty towel was wound. With the air of a conjurer George introduced us. “May I present to you Lance-Naik Nisar Ahmad, late of the 1st Battalion, Bhurtpore Regiment.”
I was elated. We had our witness at last. But Nisar Ahmad didn’t appear in the mood to cooperate. He said not a word. “Will you testify for Habibullah?” asked George. “He needs you.”
Nisar Ahmad shook his head. He unwrapped the towel from his throat. An ugly scar disfigured it. He grunted and motioned for pencil and paper. George handed them to him. He wrote on the paper in indecipherable scratches and handed it to George, who squinted at it for a minute. “Damn!” exclaimed George, “the man’s lost the power of speech. Took a bullet through the throat.”
“So you mean he can’t testify?”
“Not orally,” responded George.
“But he can write, can’t he?” I suggested hopefully.
“Barely,” answered George bitterly. “Those squiggles are about as much as he can manage. It’s kindergarten stuff. I could just about make them out. But how he’s going to give evidence is beyond me.” George turned to Nisar Ahmad and fired a series of questions at him in Hindustani. He nodded repeatedly after each one. “Just as I suspected,” said George, “he’s practically illiterate. He can write his name and a few military terms in Urdu, but that’s it.”
“We could put questions to him and he could nod,” I ventured. “He seems to understand English well enough.”
“Hah! I can just see Selwyn-Jones on his feet like a jack-in-the-box. Literally putting words in the mouth of the witness he’ll say, and he’d be right.” George slumped back into Simon’s chair and swivelled, his fingers touching under his chin. Strange how he had adopted d’Almeida’s habits.
Singh the jaga entered. “Tuan,” he said to me, “there is a woman to see you.”
I left George and Nisar Ahmad and went back to my little broom-closet of an office. It was Helen. She was dressed simply, without the full warpaint of the previous night but still fetching. The last time she had been in our office she looked like a proletarian worker. The transformation was unbelievable.
“Hi, Dennis,” she said brightly, “got word that your boss wanted to see me. I brought you a present.” She tossed a cloth bag onto my desk. It made a metallic sound and an oval object rolled out. I sprang forward to catch the grenade before it hit the floor. She laughed her little laugh again.
“Take it easy,” she said, “they’re duds. Least, I think so. We steamed the TNT out of them to make bombs, but we might have left some in. I heard that the Limeys are paying good money for ammo and guns to be handed in. You could make a couple of bucks.”
I put the wretched thing back into the bag and gingerly lifted it up. Half-filled grenades are not my favourite playthings. After showing her to d’Almeida’s room, I returned to George. Simon had just arrived and wasn’t amused to find George, two burly coolies and what appeared to be a tramp in possession of his room. I was the last straw. “What do you want?” he demanded, losing his customary suaveness. “What have you got there?”
“Just grenades,” I answered, putting the bag down on his desk.
He shrank back alarmed. “What in heaven’s name … take them away immediately. Don’t just leave them there!”
“There’s nowhere else to leave them. You’ve got a filing cabinet. Put them in there,” I replied, indicating the old-fashioned cabinet in the corner.
“There’s no lock,” he protested.
“No one’s going to steal them,” I responded as we hurried Nisar Ahmad out of the room. “Just hold onto them for me, there’s a good fellow.”
WE confronted Habibullah within the hour. “Why didn’t you tell us that Nisar Ahmad was in Singapore?” demanded George.
Habibullah looked tired, much more tired than I’d seen him before. “What good would it have done? He can’t speak. His windpipe is shot through. He’s no use to you. If the Britishers had known they’d have arrested him too. He’s gone through enough. Leave him in peace. What have you done with him?”
“Nothing,” answered George, “he’s out there in the car. He can’t take the stand. You realise that you’ve no witnesses at all.”
“Yes, I realise that,” he replied, “I’ve realised that from the start. My men are all dead somewhere in Burma, or in a cage in India. I have no illusions. Let me be.”
D’Almeida had joined us. “Are you instructing us to change your plea to guilty?” he queried. “Before you do, remember your promise to Miss Barron. The last thing she needs now is to hear that you have surrendered.”
“What do you mean, the last thing she needs now?” asked Habibullah, looking up abruptly. “What’s happened to her?”
“Nothing yet,” responded d’Almeida. “Colonel Newman just informed me not an hour ago that the Supreme Commander has agreed to a recommendation to take her into protective custody until the matter of her guardianship is resolved. Major Ridley is just waiting for the official order.”
