The Jade Figurine by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page B

change; the brightness was back in her eyes. “When?”
    “I’m not sure. How do I get in touch with you?”
    She smiled wisely. “You don’t. I’ll come to you.”
    “When and where?”
    “At a safe time and location.”
    Impasse. I got a cigarette out of the pocket of my bush jacket and lit it and blew smoke at the electric punkah rotating sluggishly on the ceiling. “Tell me,” I said, “where does Van Rijk fit into all this?”
    She reacted, but not in the way I had expected. The surface of her forehead crinkled, and she looked suprised and suddenly, inexplicably, unsure of herself. Blankly she said, “Van Rijk?”
    “Jorge Van Rijk.”
    “Who is he?”
    “You tell me.”
    “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
    “A fat, soft, well-dressed little man who travels with a pair of armed bodyguards. He’s supposed to be a tobacco merchant.”
    “No. Why do you mention him?”
    “He tried to pry information out of me about La Croix yesterday, and I told him to lump off. Last night he sent his bodyguards to take a couple of shots at me.”
    “Shots?”
    “Shots.”
    “I don’t understand,” she said. “How would this Van Rijk know about La Croix?”
    “Maybe La Croix agreed to sell him the figurine.”
    “No.” She shook her head positively. “He would have gone to the buyer in Bangkok. He couldn’t have gotten anywhere near the price in Singapore.”
    “Well, Van Rijk figures in somewhere,” I said. “He knew La Croix, and he was after La Croix; it doesn’t add up that it would be for any reason except the figurine.”
    “Do you think Van Rijk killed him?”
    “It’s possible.”
    “Then . . . Van Rijk has the Burong Chabak?”
    “Maybe.” I smiled at her. “And maybe I’ve got it. At any rate, I know where I can get it.”
    She swept up the sun hat and got to her feet in a single motion. There was confusion and uncertainty in her face and in her motions, as if she didn’t know what to say or do next. She looked at me, worrying a corner of her lower lip with sharp white teeth—and somebody rapped out shave-and-a-haircut on the door.
    I turned and the door opened and Harry Rutledge put his head inside. He glanced at me, fastened his eyes on the swell of Marla King’s breasts, and said loudly, “Here, here, this ain’t the afternoon tea, y’know. Sorry, miss, but we’ve got a shipment to offload.” He was smiling, but there was an edge to his voice; Harry had some Scottish blood in him, and he wanted full value for the lousy wages he paid.
    “Miss King was just leaving.”
    “Yes,” she said, “I was just leaving.”
    “Will I see you later?” I asked her.
    “I’ll call you.” She stepped past me, moved around Harry, and started away toward one of the godown’s side entrances. I went out and watched her; her hips rolled sensually beneath the tight white skirt, and the wide brim of the jarang hat flopped up and down like the wing of a bird about to take flight. When she had gone through the entrance, into the bright sunshine beyond, Harry looked at me a little enviously. “Love-ly,” he said, and rubbed the side of his peeling red nose with a forefinger. “Your current dolly, ducks?”
    “No,” I answered. “Just the friend of a friend.”
    “You ought to get next to that. She’s prime for a bit of slap and tickle. The Aussies are all bunnies, y’know.”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    He shook his head sadly. “You bloody Yanks have all the effing luck, I swear it.”
    I said, “Yeah,” again, and then I left him there and went out into the midday heat and got back to work with the barrels of palm oil.
    But I couldn’t put Marla King and La Croix and this Burong Chabak out of my mind. Some things made sense now. I knew what it was La Croix had been involved in, and I knew why he had wanted me to fly him to Thailand, and I knew at least part of the reason he had been killed. Poor La Croix. A petty crook in way over his head, hooked up with a green-eyed cat like