Greg was silent.
The Colonel drank half the contents of his glass, and then dabbed his lips with a black silk handkerchief. "Nowadays," he said, "we don't hear the phrase 'merchants of death' very much. It's all very sad. The idea that the act of selling arms somehow tricked people into making wars they didn't want never really stood up to very close inspection, did it? But it was good to have a fine, top-hatted bogy-man to put all the blame on. The trouble is we've learned a thing or two since nineteen-thirty-nine. Now, we can't even blame the politicians—not with much conviction anyway. The real bogy-man crawled out of the mud with our ancestors millions of years ago. Well, we all have a piece of him, and when we start to put the pieces together it's like one of those nuclear fission things—when the mass reaches a critical point a chain reaction starts and, poof!"
Greg raised his eyebrows. "I always thought there was a standard justification for any sort of illicit peddling, whether it was in drugs, smut or arms. 'If I don't, somebody else will.' Isn't yours a bit new?"
"I wasn't talking about illicit peddling," the Colonel replied huffily; "and I wasn't attempting to justify anything. I was merely trying to correct your rather muddled view of your obligations at this moment. Selling arms or selling the wherewithal to make them—what's the difference? What does your Government do with the die-castings you make for them—feed the hungry or put them into ballistic missiles?"
"The United States Government isn't selling arms for profit."
"I must remember that when the nuclear war starts. It'll be a great comfort."
Greg's temper was beginning to fray at the edges. "As I said before, Colonel, you change hats rather easily. Which one are you wearing at the moment?"
"Major Sutan's, probably."
Greg looked at him, startled.
The Colonel picked up his drink and examined it dubiously. "Of course," he said slowly, "you've had a trying time, a surprise or two, and not very much sleep. Apt to warp a man's judgment, those things. Same as a hangover. Alcoholic remorse and all that." He looked up with a small smile.
"What are you getting at, Colonel?"
"Well now. Let's suppose I'm Sutan. Rightly or wrongly, I'm buying arms with which to fight for something—freedom, power, social justice or one of the other delusions. You offer to sell me arms and I accept your offer. We're both men of good faith, eh? I give you a cheque and then something unforeseen happens. As a result, I and my friends have a choice. We can wash our hands of you and your wife and leave you both to rot, or we can, at some cost to ourselves, see that you go free. It's not an easy choice, but we decide in your favour, and you go free. To show your appreciation, you promptly call the deal we've made off, and try and arrange things so that nobody else can call it on again. How does that sound to you?"
Greg sighed. "As it was intended to sound, of course. However, the facts are a bit different."
"I'm sure they are. But you began by asking for advice. Then you asked me to help you. I couldn't do that, so perhaps you'll accept some advice after all. It's not your conscience that's troubling you, Mr. Nilsen, but a slight injury to your self-esteem. Officially, I'm not particularly interested now either in you or in what happens to those arms. Unofficially though, I would suggest that you do something about recovering your sense of humour."
"So that I can laughingly go ahead with the deal as planned?"
"Oh, I've no doubt you'll find a way of penalising yourself in the process, like sending that thousand dollar cheque back to Tan." He got to his feet. "I really must be going now. I think I'll let you pay for my drink."
"Good-bye, Colonel."
The Colonel hesitated, then sat down again. "I don't like to leave you in this despondent mood," he said. "If it's laughter you need, it's just possible that I may be able to help you."
"I'll stop you if I've heard it."
The Colonel ignored the remark. "What was your arrangement with Tan in Manila about payment?" he asked. "What were you to do with the money from Lukey?"
"Pay it into the Merchants' Security Bank here for the credit of his account."
"Was anything particular said about what you were to do if you received the money in cash?"
"No. Why? I seem to be missing the point of this story, Colonel. You know, I doubt very much if we laugh at the same things."
"Hov/ about poetic justice? That can sometimes be quite entertaining, can't it?"
"Oh, sure."
"Well, your Mr. Tan in Manila wasn't what you might call frank with you, was he? Don't you think you're entitled to a little joke at his expense?"
"What sort of joke?"
"You could give Tan Yam Heng here the money to bank for his brother."
"And give him a chance to take his double commission after all? Is that the idea ?"
The Colonel pursed his lips. "Something like that. Of course, you'd make the fellow give you a receipt in duplicate for the full amount. Keep one copy for yourself, send the other to Manila."
Greg smiled doubtfully. "Well, it's not exactly the biggest belly laugh of the year." He shrugged. "In fact it's sort of petty, isn't it?"
"I can assure you that Mr. Tan won't think so."
"You mean he'll lose face, or whatever they call it?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Well, I'll think about it. There's no chance of Tan Yam Heng being restrained by any feelings of family loyalty, I suppose?"
The Colonel grinned. "Don't worry. I know a little about that chap. No chance at all."
When he had gone, Greg remained there for a few minutes, finishing his drink and thinking about what the Colonel had said.
He had, he reflected, been called, directly or by implication, a prig, a simpleton, a hypocrite, a pompous ass, a self-satisfied
ingrate,
and a man who could mistake his self-esteem for his conscience. Together with the adjectives he himself had applied it all made quite a picture. Dorothy would have been highly indignant. The odd thing was that he did not feel at all indignant himself. For the first time in several days, in fact, he felt like laughing; not at anything in particular, certainly not at the Colonel's feeble vision of poetic justice, but because he had suddenly seen his own face.
He signed a chit for the sandwiches and drinks, and went back up to the suite. Dorothy had not stirred. He undressed, brushed his teeth and got back into bed beside her.
III
The following morning he met Captain Lukey and Tan Yam Heng at the Orchard Road branch of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank.
The Captain was boisterously cheerful and countersigned the cheque with a flourish. The "spot of bother in Labuanga", as he had called it over the telephone, had now, it seemed, been forgotten.
Greg watched Tan as the money was being paid out. His face did not move, but his eyes followed every bundle of notes as it was pushed across the counter, and the fingers of his right hand twitched in sympathy with the Captain's as he checked the bundles. It was more than likely, Greg decided, that the Colonel had been right. Once Tan Yam Heng had his hands on the money, brotherly love would not deter him from making a triple or even quadruple commission if he had a mind to.
From the bank they went to the Customs House. There, Greg signed the necessary papers transferring the ownership of arms and ammunition to Captain Lukey, and received the bulky canvas bag containing the money.
Captain Lukey beamed. "Signed, sealed and delivered," he said fatuously. "What about a drink to celebrate?"
They went into the lounge bar of a near-by hotel. When the drinks had been ordered, Captain Lukey left them to go to the toilet. Greg looked at Tan.
"I think this is where you give me another cheque for a thousand and fifty dollars," he said.
"Ah no." Tan pointed to the bag on the table in front of Greg. "That must be paid into the Merchants' Security Bank first."
"Where is the bank?"
"In Coleman Road.
We will take a taxi there."
Greg frowned. "I've got a lot to do today. Look, you're acting for your brother. Why don't I give you the money, and you pay it in? Then we can square everything away right now."
He had been prepared for some visible indication that the suggestion met with Tan's approval, but had not expected the reaction to be so manifest. It was remarkable. Not a muscle of the man's face moved; but suddenly it was glistening with sweat.
His lips moved slowly. "If that is what you wish, Mr. Nilsen, yes, I will go to the bank."
"Fine. Just a moment." Greg got up and, going over to one of the writing tables, wrote out on hotel stationery two copies of a receipt for sixty-two thousand five hundred Straits dollars cash received from Gregory H. Nilsen as payment in full for the goods listed on bill of lading number so-and-so, and the date. Then he addressed an envelope to Tan Tack Chee in Manila, marked it 'airmail', and went back to the table.
Captain Lukey had stopped to talk to someone on his way back from the toilet, and they were able to complete the transaction before he returned. Tan filled in the bill of lading number on the receipts, signed both copies and handed Greg a cheque for a thousand and fifty dollars. Greg put the cheque and one copy of the receipt into his pocket. Across the other copy he wrote 'Compliments of Gregory H. Nilsen', then put it in the envelope and sealed it.
Tan was sitting tensely, watching. Greg pushed the canvas bag over to him and smiled. "I guess you don't want to count that again."
"No." Tan took the bag and rested it on his knees.
Greg held up the envelope. "You don't happen to have an airmail stamp for Manila, do you?"
"I will get one from the barman."
"Don't trouble. I'll get one later."
"No trouble, Mr. Nilsen."
Tan put the bag under his arm and went to the bar. Captain Lukey came back to the table and began talking about the 'dear old chum' he had just run into. "White man through and through, which is more than you can say for some of the murky types who work for Afro-Asian nowadays."
Tan came back with a stamp and put it on the table at Greg's elbow. He did not sit down.
"If you will be good enough to excuse me now," he said with strained civility, "I think I will go to the bank."
"Won't you have a drink first?"
"No, I will go to the bank." He was still sweating, and obviously yearning to be gone.
"Okay. I'll be seeing you."
"Good-bye, Mr. Nilsen, Captain."
He hurried away. Captain Lukey chuckled. "You must have a trusting nature, old boy. If it was mine, I wouldn't let him hold that money even while I tied a shoe lace."
Greg smiled. He was putting the stamp on the envelope. "I don't think I need worry," he said.
As they were leaving, Greg went over to the hotel mail box. He was about to drop the envelope in it, when Captain Lukey stopped him.
"By the way, old boy. Couldn't help noticing, but if you want that to go airmail to Manila you'll have to put some more stamps on. That's the surface rate. It may take a week or more to get there."
Greg shrugged and put the envelope into the box. "It's not particularly urgent," he said.
IV
On his way back to the hotel, Greg called in at the Chase National, who were his own bankers' agents, paid in Mr. Tan's two American dollar cheques, and asked for special clearance on them.
At the hotel, he wrote out a cheque for two thousand one hundred dollars payable to the Wilmington Chapter of the American Red Cross. Dorothy, who knew a woman on the Volunteer Service Co-ordination Committee, wrote a covering letter. They mailed it on their way to see the man at Thomas Cook's.
CHAPTER TEN
TAN TACK CHEE and Tan Siow Mong were bland men with level heads and strong nerves ; but the arrival of Yam Heng's receipt in Manila threw them into a state of flustered consternation that Greg would have found gratifying, if puzzling.
Tack Chee took one long, appalled look at the receipt and then put through an overseas call to the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. He was told that Mr. and Mrs. Nilsen had sailed two days previously on the S.S. Gamboge for Colombo and Bombay. Next, he tried to call Yam Heng at the union office where he worked. A clerk there told him that Yam Heng had not been to his office for several days. He was presumed to be indisposed. Yam Heng had no telephone at his home, and Tack Chee knew that it would be useless to cable. Despairingly, he put through a call to the Merchants' Security Bank. The manager was helpful and efficient. No payment of any kind had been made into his account for the past month. Tack Chee hung up, turned his air-conditioner on to 'Full', and told his secretary to place a person-to-person call to his brother in Kuala Pangkalan.
Siow Mong had not been unduly concerned at the delay in collecting the twenty-five thousand dollars due to him in respect of Girija's cheque. He had received a satisfactory progress report from Singapore, saying that the sale was about to be completed. As there was still a clear week to go before the Indian could present the cheque for payment, he did not expect to have to draw upon his own resources in order to honour it. Only one thing was troubling him a little. So far, the clerk had shown himself to be shrewd, careful and discreet. The question was— would he go on being shrewd, careful and discreet with twenty-five thousand dollars in the bank? Money could affect people strangely; and for a young man in his position this would be a fortune. What did he propose to do with it? Something foolish, like buying an expensive sports car and driving about ostentatiously advertising his sudden wealth? And, if so, how was he proposing to explain where he had got it? Tan Siow Mong had decided to have a talk with him before the thirty days were up, to caution him if that seemed necessary, and to make sure that any explanations the young man contemplated using did not compromise either the Anglo-Malay Transport Company or its proprietor.