Read Message From -Creasy 5 Online

Authors: A. J. Quinnell

Tags: #Thriller, #Crime

Message From -Creasy 5 (4 page)

BOOK: Message From -Creasy 5
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Jens
asked: "Did he know it was you who shot him?"

"Yes. I didn't shoot him in the back. Before I pulled the trigger I said: 'This
is for Ming'. He knew she was a friend of mine. He knew why he got the
bullet."

The
Dane was again tapping at his computer. He said: "Can you remember the
date that you shot him?"

"Is that relevant?"

"Yes. It's possible I can find a way to check the hospital records and find out if he
died or lived." He looked up with a smile that was almost smug.
"That's what detectives do. Common soldiers like you wouldn't know about
things like that."

Creasy
glanced at The Owl and remarked: "Sometimes this prick forgets that I'm
paying his expenses."

The Owl
replied: "You're quite right. But the problem is that his brains are
bigger than his balls."

"Enough
levity," Jens said. "Try to remember the date, or at least the
week."

Creasy
dropped his chin onto his chest and thought. After half a minute he said:
"It was sixty-eight, the week before Christmas. It was a Thursday
evening."

The
Dane's fingers tapped the keys of the computer. "I'll get a calendar and
check the dates for sixty-eight."

The Owl
did something surprising. He stood up and started pacing the floor. He was
normally a sedentary man. He began to talk to Jens as though Creasy were not in
the room.

"If
this guy, Van, did survive, and had a motive of revenge against Creasy, why
would he wait all those years? If that dogtag was the bait on a hook, he would
know that Jake Bentsen's father would find Creasy. Which means that he would
know where to find Creasy himself; in which case he could have gone to Brussels
and bushwhacked him."

"That's
true," Jens answered. "He obviously wants to lure Creasy back to
South East Asia. My guess is that Jake Bentsen is dead long ago. The dogtag and
the scrap of paper are just bait. There's got to be somebody else behind Van
Luk Wan."

Creasy
pushed himself back into the conversation. "And how do the brilliant
detectives deduce that?"

The Dane
lifted the computer from his lap, closed it, and laid it reverently on the bed.
He stood up and stretched his portly frame, then gave one of his
ultra-intelligent looks to Creasy and said: "Sometimes even geniuses rely
on intuition. To use an Americanism: some big shot in South East Asia wants
your ass. How many big-shot enemies have you got over there?"

Creasy
thought about that for a moment, then looked at his watch and said: "Let's
go get something to eat and I'll think about it. Then I'll write you a
list."

Chapter 06

She had
a curved face and at first glance it appeared beautiful. A second glance
changed that perception. The cheekbones were just a bit too high and the nose
slightly too hooked: but it was the eyes that dispelled any thoughts of real
beauty. Behind her back she was known as 'the Cobra', and it was the latent
venom in the eyes that gave her that name. Nobody would be so foolish as to say
it to her face.

Her real name was Connie Lon Crum, and she combined cruelty with sophistication;
designer jeans with a black heart. The well-dressed Thai businessman seated
opposite her knew something of her history. Her father was the notorious Bill
Crum, a half-Chinese, half-American rogue. During the Vietnam war he had
amassed a fortune selling whisky and other merchandise to the US Army PX's.

In order to do so, he had bribed scores of American soldiers, from two-star
generals down to supply staff. He had met his death in 1977 in a mysterious
fire in the New Territories of Hong Kong.

Her
mother had been a Cambodian prostitute. Connie Lon Crum had contrasted a French
education with marriage to a senior Khmer Rouge officer, whom she had later
killed in a fit of jealous rage. She had inherited her father's gift for shady
business and her mother's wiles for manipulating men.

As he
looked at her, the Thai businessman felt a surge of sexuality, tainted by the
tinge of fear.

Standing
behind her to each side were two short, wide, young Cambodian women. They were
dressed in black tunics and trousers and had holstered pistols strapped to
their waists. Their faces were flat and expressionless but their eyes never
wavered from the man.

He was
incongruously dressed in an Italian suit, a silk cream shirt and a silk striped
tie. His shoes were by Gucci. It was not the normal attire for a meeting in a
hot jungle on the Thai-Cambodian border; but then, it was not a normal business
meeting.

She
pushed the flat wooden box across the table towards him and said: "I'm in
a hurry. You have fifteen minutes to make an offer. Payment will be in US
dollars, Swiss francs or gold."

He
opened the box and looked down at the gemstones. They were sapphires and pieces
of uncut jade. He picked up a piece of jade weighing about fifty grams. A tiny
'window' had been sliced open on one side. The colour was pale green,
almost translucent.

He
looked up and saw the mirthless smile on her lips. She said: "Of course,
under normal circumstances, you would like to take it back to Bangkok and have
an even greater expert than yourself look at it: but you have no time, Mr
Ponnosan. In this place, life is always a gamble."

The hut was not air-conditioned. He could feel the sweat running down his chest under
his shirt. He had an urge to loosen his tie, but he resisted it. It was the
first time that he had done business with the woman. Others from Bangkok had
traded with her for many months. Some had made a lot of money and others had
not. He realized that he was in a sort of jungle casino. She glanced at her
gold Rolex and he concentrated on the stones. There were about two dozen. He
separated them within the box.

She watched and said: "You take all or nothing."

He knew the procedure. He said: "Fifty thousand US dollars."

She gave him a cynical smile. "Calm down, Mr Ponnosan. You are buying jewels,
not glass."

The trading lasted for less than five minutes, after which they agreed to $85,000.
She reached forward, closed the box and pulled it back to her side of the
table, saying: "Hold out your left hand, palm upwards."

He complied, knowing what was coming. One of the two young women behind her came
round the table, took his hand in hers and studied the palm intensely. She then
turned to Connie Crum and nodded. Connie pushed the box into the centre of the
table. He had passed the test. He stood up, unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and
pulled out the canvas money belt from around his waist. He first extracted a
single thousand-dollar bill and passed it to her. She held it up to the light,
examined it closely and then nodded. He counted out eighty-four more bills, and
then departed with the box.

As his
Mercedes drove off down the dirt track towards Thailand, a battered Willys jeep
pulled up at the hut. A middle-aged man jumped down. He wore thick spectacles
and faded denims. As he walked into the hut the two Cambodian women looked at
him alertly, then they relaxed. Connie Crum was putting a thick elastic band
around the dollar bills. She gave him a genuine smile.

"Welcome
back!"

He sat
down, glancing at the big wad of money. He spoke in French: "A good
trade?"

Her
smiled widened. "No, Van. A very bad one. He paid eighty-five thousand
dollars for stones worth twice that much."

"Have
you become a philanthropist?"

"Not
at all. He was a virgin. It was his first time. When he gets back to Bangkok he
will make a big profit and believe that I'm not as clever as he had heard.
He'll come back for more, and again he'll make a very good profit. That will
happen three or four times, and then he will be both confident and very greedy.
That's when I'll castrate him."

The
Vietnamese grinned at her with affection.

She
asked: "What news do you bring from America?"

"It
moves along," he answered. "I delivered the dogtag and the piece of
paper on the third of last month. The old man left for Europe two days later
and returned to San Diego after a week. Our people saw Creasy entering his
house on the evening of the thirteenth. He stayed for one hour. As instructed,
our people did not try to follow him."

She had
sat back in the rough wooden chair. Her eyes were fixed at a spot on the wall
above and behind Van's head. "Can you trust those people?" she asked.

He
shrugged. "They are American and they love money. The detective agency has
a good reputation. They did not know Creasy's name; they only had his
description. They described the man who entered the Bentsens' house exactly.
There is no doubt it was Creasy."

She
reached for the dollars, stood up and stretched her lithe body. She did not
look feline. It was the body of a racing snake: but her smile was as contented
as that of any cat that had just spied a sleepy mouse.

Chapter 07

It has
been said that if you want to make contact with any individual in any city
anywhere in the world, it should not take more than three phone calls.

Jens
Jensen believed in that saying. In this case, he needed a reliable Danish
contact in Ho Chi Minh city. During his years as a policeman he had done a few
favours for journalists but never asked for anything in return. But now he was
no longer a policeman. He picked up the phone and called the foreign editor of
the Morgenavisen Jyllandsposten. After an exchange of pleasantries and the
promise to meet for a drink or a lunch next time he was in Arhus, he raised the
subject.

"Do
you have a correspondent in South East Asia?"

"We
have two. One in Hong Kong and one in Bangkok. They cover the whole area, so
they travel quite a lot. What do you need...?"

"I
need to make contact with somebody in Ho Chi Min city...That's the new name for
the old Saigon."

He
heard the snort of disgust down the phone. "I happen to know that. I
happen to be the foreign editor of the Danish newspaper that has the most
foreign correspondents around the world."

Jens
laughed. "OK, relax. I know you're a genius...Can you help?"

"Are
you at home?"

"Yes."

"I'll
call you back."

Jens' wife Birgitte had prepared lunch of skipperlabskovs, which translates as 'the
ship's captain's favourite dish'. It was a sort of
stew with potatoes, meat and vegetables with a topping of ham. It was also
Jens' favourite dish, and he had just sat down to a piping hot plate of it when
the phone rang. Birgitte answered it, then held it out, saying: "It's
Henrik from Arhus."

Jens
cursed, but went to the phone. He said: "You always did pick the worst
time to return a call."

Henrik laughed. "Were you having sex with your lovely wife?"

"No. Something better than that. I just sat down to a plate of
skipperlabskovs."

"My
sympathy. But when you ask a favour you can't stipulate the time...Do you have
a pen and paper?"

"Yes.
Go ahead."

"I
talked to my guy in Bangkok. He's got a drinking friend who has just been
transferred from A. P. Moller's office there to their new liaison office in Ho
Chi Minh city; which by the way used to be called Saigon."

"Good.
So forget the sarcasm and give me the details."

After
his meal and lavish compliments to Birgitte, he roughly calculated the time
difference between Copenhagen and South East Asia. It would be late evening in
Ho Chi Minh city. He looked up the international code and then dialled the
number.

His
contact was at home, and obviously very happy to hear a Danish voice. After
establishing his credentials, Jens made his request. He gave the name of the Vietnamese
policeman and the date when he was shot. Then he hung up, put on his overcoat
and went to watch the football match between Brandby and OH, reflecting that it
was nice to have other people doing the legwork for a change.

Chapter 08

"He
lived."

"Who
did?"

"Your
friend Van Luk Wan. He entered the hospital on December 19 1968 with a severe
gunshot wound. They operated immediately and he survived. He was discharged on
January 27 1969."

Creasy
was in Guido's penzione in Naples, with the phone in one hand and a glass of
wine in the other. He was impressed.

"How
did you find out?"

In
Copenhagen, Jens chuckled down the line. "For a man like me it was very
simple. I chartered a plane to Saigon, managed an introduction to the head
nurse, took her to dinner at the Continental Hotel and plied her with
champagne; seduced her and persuaded her to break into the records of the
hospital that night and, using the Minox camera I supplied, she photographed
all the records during that period...I can tell you, Creasy, my expenses bill
is going to be spectacular."

Creasy
chuckled. "I don't mind as long as it's less than ten bucks." He
thought for a moment, and then said: "The next thing is to find out
whether he's still in the city; and if so, what happened to him after the
communists took over."

"You
want me to get on with that and sniff around?"

Again
Creasy paused for thought, then said: "Give me a couple of days. I know he
was in San Diego recently. Maybe he got to the US as a refugee. I can probably
check that out. I'll get back to you...Thanks, Jens. It was good work."

He put
down the phone and walked out of the kitchen onto the broad terrace. It was one
of his favourite spots on earth, high on the hills above the city with the wide
sweep of the bay below.

Sitting
at the solitary table was his closest friend. He and Guido Arrellio had first
met in the French Foreign Legion during the Algerian war of independence in the
early sixties. They were in the second R.E.P., and had been kicked out after
their battalion had joined the Generals' Putsch. Fighting was all they knew, so
they had teamed up as mercenaries and fought in a series of wars in Africa and
the Far East. Finally Guido had met a Maltese girl, married her and bought the
Pensione Splendide in Naples. He and Creasy had gone their separate ways until
Guido's wife died in a car crash. In his turn Creasy had married her younger
sister, who had also died tragically. That shared bond drew them even closer.

BOOK: Message From -Creasy 5
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