The devils circle, p.12
The Devil's Circle, page 12
17
“WHAT put you on to him?” I asked d’Almeida. We were back in the office. George had joined us after tidying up Habibullah’s preliminary hearing.
“It was the yukata,” answered d’Almeida. “He folded it left over right, as you or I would with a shirt. But that is not the Japanese way. Only corpses are dressed with the yukata or kimono folded left over right.”
“Well,” chipped in George, “it was a stroke of genius to get his fingerprints on the tin mug. That was the clincher.”
“You might have told me,” I said reproachfully, “and saved me from making a fool of myself.”
“I could not be absolutely certain,” d’Almeida responded. “It could have been that Nakamura – or Lim Tay Lin as I should properly call him – was symbolically indicating that he was a dead man. It was only after the identification evidence was presented that I was sure.”
“You certainly cut it very fine,” I said.
“It was not my intention to be quite so dramatic,” replied d’Almeida. “Although I had asked for the fingerprints to be identified when I got them, I only obtained confirmation myself during the luncheon recess. Mr Newman was most helpful in procuring the assistance of Special Branch. But it took more time than I had desired or planned for.”
D’Almeida’s precipitate entrance had thrown the proceedings in an uproar. To the great credit of the President, he had not ordered the redcaps to bung him into the cells on the spot but heard him out instead. D’Almeida produced the nominal roll of Nakamura’s bunkentai, which he had obtained from Newman’s contacts. Among the members of the unit was one Lim Tay Lin, a native of Formosa. He was a clerk, employed because he spoke Hokkien as well as Japanese. The fingerprints lifted from the enamel mug that d’Almeida had given him to drink from matched those found in the Kempeitai’s own personnel records.
Major Beatty was a perfect gentleman. He did not object to allowing the defence to be re-opened. This time d’Almeida took charge, with the great indulgence of the tribunal and my infinite gratitude. ‘Nakamura’ was put on the witness stand and confronted with the evidence. He readily admitted that he was indeed Lim Tay Lin. Apparently, when news came of the surrender, Lieutenant Saito told his men that they should all commit seppuku. The whole bunkentai got roaring drunk on sake and beer, except for Lim, who had no desire to join his ancestors just yet. He went and hid himself in the lavatory until it was all over. His problem was what to do next. MPAJA death squads were hauling collaborators out onto the streets and brutally killing them after unspeakable tortures. He knew what his fate would be if they got their hands on him. The Communists reserved special treatment for renegade Chinese who had worked for the hated invaders. He decided that it would be far safer to get sent to a POW camp. So he took over the identity of Warrant Officer Nakamura, who was about his height and build. The trick worked. The British and Indian soldiers couldn’t tell a Formosan from a Japanese. He was put in the Jurong Camp like the rest of the Japanese garrison.
Things started coming unglued when an officer from ALFSEA arrived demanding to see Nakamura. He was arrested and brought to the Pearl’s Hill Police Barracks. No one thought to check his identity. Who would be crazy enough to pretend to be a member of the universally-loathed Kempeitai? Later, he was told that he, Nakamura, was to be charged with war crimes. He didn’t know what that meant, but it seemed that prison was a better bet than being let out onto the streets and left to the tender mercies of the Communists.
That was when we came into the picture. Eng Tong discovered right away that Lim wasn’t Nakamura and wasn’t even Japanese. When Lim told him that he was from Formosa, Eng Tong had nearly beaten him up. It was only my intervention that had prevented it. Then Eng Tong told him that it was vital that he should keep up the act, no matter what the pressure. It was his only hope, said Eng Tong. Otherwise, the British would hand him over to the MPAJA. As a Japanese, he would be tried and sent to jail but that would be all, Eng Tong assured him. So it was that he went quietly like a brainless lamb to the slaughter. If it hadn’t been for d’Almeida’s intervention, he would have been hanged for someone else’s crimes. Who would have believed him if after the sentence had been pronounced he had protested that he wasn’t really Nakamura?
Faced with the new evidence, the tribunal had no choice but to acquit. Lim was discharged, still looking completely bewildered. He immediately sought sanctuary with us when it was made clear to him that he was free to go. Freedom was the last thing on his mind.
“But what of the identification evidence?” pressed George. “Didn’t two witnesses identify him?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied d’Almeida, “but never underestimate the fallibility of human memory. An officer came to each of the witnesses more than a year after the event with a folder of photographs. The Legal Department of HQ ALFSEA had some of those photographs taken in the POW camps. Others were from the Kempeitai files. The investigating officer asked each witness whether he recognised anyone. Both recognised Lim, amongst others, but of course they did not know his name. According to the POW records he was Warrant Officer Nakamura. Nakamura was listed as the chief interrogator. The case against him seemed perfectly clear.”
“But Howard was pretty positive that Lim was there,” I pointed out.
“Indeed so,” said d’Almeida, “but not in the interrogation room. He was the clerk who kept the records and picked out the detainees to be interrogated in turn. It was an easy mistake to make. After all, Mr Howard had been told that the authorities were going to bring the torturers to book. He was given photographs and recognised Lim as one of the men who was present at the YMCA. What could be more natural than that he should connect Lim in his mind with the torturers? He honestly believed that Lim was one of the torturers, because his mind had been subtly predisposed to think so.”
“All I can say is that Lim’s jolly lucky,” commented George. “What’s to become of him now?”
“He will be handed over to the Chinese authorities in Formosa,” replied d’Almeida. “They will decide what is to be done.”
“And Eng Tong?” I added. “He deliberately tried to get Lim killed. We can’t let him get away with that.”
“What would you have us do?” asked d’Almeida. “He was not a sworn interpreter, so there is no oath-breaking. It cannot be attempted murder, because the act of killing would have been done by the British. I doubt that the legal authorities would expend resources to prosecute Yeo, even if an appropriate charge could be laid. They understand the depth of feeling against the Japanese and their collaborators. If they catch him, they would just let him go.”
“What do you mean, ‘if they catch him’?”
“Yeo has absconded,” replied d’Almeida simply. “We do not know where he is.”
18
“CONGRATULATIONS on your win,” said Ralph when we met the next day.
“Don’t congratulate me,” I responded morosely. “I lost the case. Nakamura was tried and found guilty. The client got off because he wasn’t Nakamura. Justice was done, but not with my help.”
“Cheer up,” said Ralph, “no more war criminals, only renegades left for you to defend.”
There was no respite for me after the disposal of the Nakamura case. D’Almeida handed me the Habibullah file with instructions to get everything from the accused — his whole life story from the start of the war to the very end. George had already taken his statement, but d’Almeida was a stickler for detail. “One never knows what might be relevant,” he always said.
I asked for the rest of the day off, which d’Almeida was kind enough to give. I had to make sure that everything was secure at home. Eng Tong’s absence bothered me. He doubtless thought that I had ruined his chances with June. Now his plot to have Lim hanged had been laid bare. I didn’t know what mischief he might be up to. On top of that, I could imagine how the mob would react. They would be baying for blood. All they would see is that ‘Nakamura’ had gotten off. You can’t count on hotheads to read the papers carefully; in the febrile atmosphere of the time, the word would go round that I had got the torturer off with clever legal tricks and devices.
Ironically, we had been safer during the Occupation. The fact that I worked for the Japanese gave me a certain protection from casual crime. My contacts with the Communists provided me cover from that angle. No one would have dared to molest us for fear of one or the other. Now that the British were back, our protection had disappeared. The house was wide open to intruders. Anyone could come in over the fence or even through the gate, which we did not lock. Baba houses were designed to be airy, not secure.
June at least was safe. Staying with d’Almeida, it would be difficult for Eng Tong to get at her. Between Karim in the house and Ridley’s men in front of the gate, June was about as secure as anyone could be without actually being in prison. I dropped by to see how she was doing. I also needed to enlist her help with Habibullah, at George’s suggestion. Taking down a life story is a two-person job. June was the only one free to help. Apart from keeping an eye on Marge and helping Simon with his cases, June was still watching over Gim Huat.
“He is quite happy now,” she reported with satisfaction. “To see him laugh warms the muscles of my heart.”
“You mean cockles,” I corrected, “it warms the cockles of your heart.”
Her brow creased. “Why cockles? Aren’t cockles see-hum?”
“Yes, I suppose they are,” I replied, “but that’s the expression.”
“But why see-hum? They are shellfish. What have see-hum got to do with the heart?” she persisted.
“I honestly don’t know,” I responded, getting a trifle exasperated, “I can’t be responsible for all the strange quirks of the English language.”
“I think my version makes more sense,” said June decidedly. “Muscles of the heart, not cockles.”
“Cockles, muscles, alive alive-oh,” George interrupted. “Children, we really must focus now. It’s less than a month until the trial and we’ve an awful lot to do. June, you’ll have to pitch in.”
“No can do,” answered June. “Mr Simon has given me a lot of work to do. And there is Marge. She does not like it when I leave her alone. When Towkay goes out there is no one in the house. She is scared to be here by herself. It is a big old house. She thinks there are hantu.”
“Hantu in my house?” said a soft voice. It was d’Almeida. He had a disconcerting ability to move around noiselessly and startle people by materialising suddenly behind them. No hantu in its right mind would have stuck around.
June reddened. “No, Mr d’Almeida, Sir, I did not mean …”
“I can assure you that there is no one here that I haven’t invited,” he responded with mock severity. June, who wasn’t used to him, took it as a reprimand and subsided. He softened his tone, “There is nothing to be afraid of, my dear.” She gave him an uncertain half-smile.
George explained the situation shortly to him. “Bring young Miss Barron along with you,” he instructed. “Let her take the notes. It will be good for her. She should not be shut up here like a prisoner. For you, June, I have a special task.”
June was overwhelmed and mute for once. She had never done any work for d’Almeida personally. “This case that you are helping Mr da Silva on,” he continued, “have you done any research on marriage and divorce in the Malay States and the Colony?” She nodded her head, still unable to bring herself to speak in his presence. “Good,” he went on, “I want a summary of the law pertaining to marriage.”
When he had gone she turned to me. “What to do?” she asked plaintively. “Where to start?”
“Do what the King of Hearts suggested,” I said, “begin at the beginning, go on until you reach the end, then stop.”
She threw a cushion at me. “Ayoh, don’t joke. Help-lah!”
I took pity on her. “Start with the Christian Marriage Ordinance. There’s also a Civil Marriage Ordinance I think, but it may not be in force yet. Oh, and don’t forget, the Muslims have their own Shariah law. The books are in the firm’s library. I’d have a look there if I were you.”
June acknowledged my aid gratefully and retreated to find a sheaf of paper and a new pencil. Meanwhile, I took Marge in hand and briefed her on what was necessary. She was apprehensive at first, but the prospect of getting out of the house was appealing. After a short pause for reflection she agreed.
Ahmad had no objections, but Karim remonstrated. He didn’t like letting Marge out of his sight. To allow her to wander into a British camp was for him the height of folly. He made his opposition clear. I stood my ground firmly, invoking the orders of the All-Highest. Karim had to agree, albeit with bad grace. So it was all arranged. But he made it quite clear that he was holding me personally responsible for Marge’s safe return. To emphasise the point, he stroked the sharp edge of his parang with his fingers.
THE British were surprisingly open about access to their prisoner. I suppose that there was no reason not to be. He wasn’t going anywhere, not on an island full of British troops surrounded by a sea controlled by the Royal Navy. The Red Fort trials in India were stirring up dangerous passions. If there had been any suggestion that Habibullah was not being treated fairly, those passions could have spilled over to Malaya. As it was, the British no longer took for granted the loyalty of the Indian Army in Malaya. The War was over. The jawans wanted to go home to their families. Instead, some of them had been deployed to the Netherlands East Indies to fight the Indonesian nationalists. Mountbatten didn’t want to risk British lives to reinstall the Dutch colonialists; the Indians were asking why theirs should be risked instead. The Dutch had not been model colonial masters. They had exploited the East Indies mercilessly and brutally. Now they needed the wealth of the Indies to get back on their feet after the devastation of the War. The average Indian jawan didn’t see why he should die to help rebuild Rotterdam.
I found that I got on quite well with Habibullah and rather liked him. This was a surprise to me, since my initial impression of him — formed when I worked under cover at Batu Sembilan — was that he was a trouble-maker. I didn’t tell him about our earlier encounters, though. D’Almeida had persuaded the British authorities to let Habibullah stay under house arrest in one of the flats that had formerly been occupied by married NCOs. It had two bedrooms and a small living room. We conducted the interviews there. It was so much more civilised than the lockup under the Police Courts. Marge proved surprisingly adept at taking notes. Relieved of the necessity of copying everything down, I concentrated on the task of learning all I could about our client.
HABIBULLAH’S father Imran Khan was the brother of the wazir, or chief minister, of Bhurtpore. Habibullah’s family were wazirs by hereditary right and practical political necessity. The Hindu Rajahs kept the peace among their Muslim subjects by making sure that they were supported by people like the Khans. The British had placed the present Rajah’s grandfather on the throne, having deposed his brother for being insufficiently enamoured of the Queen-Empress. Since then, the Rajahs had been great supporters of the British Raj. At the end of the day, they knew that if their subjects grew too restive their throne rested ultimately on the bayonets of the Indian Army.
Imran Khan joined the Indian Army and rose to the highest rank possible for a native: Subedar-Major in Wilde’s Rifles, a Frontier Force regiment that saw constant action on the Northwest Frontier. A Pathan himself, he fought to keep the pax britannica among people of a kindred race; not for love of the King-Emperor but for the honour of the Regiment and of his family. For his services, Subedar-Major Imran Khan became a King’s Indian Orderly Officer to George V and travelled to England. He brought along his eldest son, Habibullah Khan. Habibullah was enrolled in a minor public school at the expense of the Rajah. After six years, he returned to India planning to join the Indian Army, as his father and his grandfather before him. Only this time, the Indian Army was in transition.
After the Great War, Britain had promised self-government to India at some unspecified future date as a reward for the sacrifices of the Indian Army in Europe and the Middle East. Indian soldiers had borne the brunt of the fighting that had taken General Allenby all the way from Egypt to Jerusalem and Damascus. The Jodhpur Lancers had made the last great mounted cavalry charge in history to capture the fortified port of Haifa; a deed that had been promptly forgotten by the British and Australians, who chose to celebrate the less significant action by the Australian Light Horse at Beersheba. The Indian Army had won with blood the gratitude of Great Britain and gained the prospect of autonomy for India. Something had to be done to adapt the Army to fulfil that promise.
It was decided that some regiments would be ‘Indianised’ and eventually officered by Indians rather than British officers. The idea was that Indian officers would be posted in at the bottom and by a gradual process of attrition replace the British officers. The whole process would take, say, 40 years. This leisurely pace of reform would ensure the minimum disruption to entrenched interests. But opposition there was, even at this glacial pace. The plan was scaled back. Only a few regiments would be converted to start with. The Rajah offered to let his Bhurtpore Regiment participate in the grand experiment. The Bhurtpore Regiment was not formally part of the Indian Army. Rather, it was a field service unit paid for by the Rajah personally and placed at the disposal of the Commander-in-Chief. Legally, the Rajah was a sovereign prince bound by treaty to the Empire. For the British, it was politically advantageous have the active support of the princely states in the creation of the new Indian Army. For the Rajah, it was a matter of shrewd political calculation; if there was to be a new Indian Army, better that it should be officered by men well-disposed towards him rather than by rabble-rousing nationalists. The British graciously accepted the Rajah’s generous offer.
