The advocates devil, p.4
The Advocate's Devil, page 4
“Isn’t this where Russell works... worked,” I queried.
D’Almeida nodded. “Go in and ask for him,” he instructed, “I’ll be right behind you.”
I glanced at him quizzically. “We know he isn’t in,” I said.
D’Almeida frowned. “I know that. But humour me. Keep asking for him until I tell you to stop.”
Obediently, I got out of the car and walked in. The premises were open-fronted like most of the shops and offices along the quay. It was cool and dark. A Chinese clerk sat at a desk. I glanced at my watch. After five. All the Europeans would long since have departed to down their stengahs at their clubs.
“Hello,” I called, “I’ve come to see Mr Russell.”
The clerk at the desk looked up at me with a puzzled expression on his face. To him, an English-speaking Chinese was a novelty. He said nothing. I pressed him again.
He answered reluctantly. “Mr Lussell no here.”
“Has he gone home then?” I persisted.
The clerk looked even more puzzled. “Mr Lussell no work here.”
It was my turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean, no work here. Are you saying he’s gone home?”
The clerk was getting irritated. “No, Mr Lussell no work here already. Long time no work. You talk to boss.”
I felt that this was a good suggestion. “All right, let me speak to the boss.”
“Boss no here.”
Heavens above, I thought to myself, here we go again. “You mean boss no work here already?”
The clerk seemed flustered. “Boss no here. Boss here tomollow. You come back tomollow.” He got up and began to shoo me out.
I was getting peeved. “Now hold on. Will Alec Russell be in tomorrow or not?”
“You talk to boss. You talk to boss.”
I was rescued by d’Almeida, who suddenly materialised at my side. “Right,” he said, “let’s go.”
Leaving one rather annoyed clerk at the door, we piled into the car and drove off.
“One more call and then we’re done,” remarked d’Almeida.
“You won’t mind working after hours?” I signified my assent.
To my surprise d’Almeida drove right back to the office.
“Wait here,” he commanded and disappeared up the back stairs.
He was back in ten minutes, in his proper guise. He gestured towards the wheel. I climbed into the front seat and took it.
He got in next to me. “His Majesty’s prison, if you please.”
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. There was the ghost of a smile on his lips.
THE GREAT gloomy edifice that was the prison loomed over us. Across the road were the grounds of the General Hospital looking tranquil and park-like. But His Majesty’s Prison brooded greyly and sombrely at the edge of town. They shot the 1915 mutineers outside its walls. The bullet holes were still there. It was not a pleasant place. I don’t think His Majesty would have been happy there.
As we passed through the gates they clanged shut behind us with a disquieting finality. I waited in the car while d’Almeida had a quick word with the Governor. They all knew him here. He was out in a moment. A doleful Sikh warder led us down the melancholy corridors.
“Are we going to see Iskandar?” I asked under my breath. D’Almeida nodded.
“How did you manage that? We’re not representing him.”
“I lied,” replied d’Almeida shortly.
We stopped in front of a heavy iron door. The warder opened it with much clanking and rattling. The door creaked as he drew it open. I’m sure they do that deliberately; it creates such a dramatic atmosphere. Iskandar was lying on a bare steel bed in the corner.
“Oy, bangun,” growled the warder, “lawyer datang.”
Iskandar looked at d’Almeida with surly eyes. Then he noticed me. He cast me a homicidal glance that would have felled an elephant at fifty paces.
“Hello Mr Iskandar,” began d’Almeida pleasantly, “we’re here to represent you.”
A look of puzzlement crept into his eyes, but still he said nothing.
D’Almeida turned to me. “Would you please ask the warder for a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar and make sure it’s hot.”
By now I knew better than to question him. I left him alone in the cell and sauntered down the corridor.
When I returned with the coffee, d’Almeida was sitting on the table staring at Iskandar. Iskandar was sitting on the bed staring at d’Almeida. For all I knew they might have been at it since I left. The warder let me into the cell again. d’Almeida took the cup from me. He stood up and began to pace. Iskandar watched him sulkily. He still hadn’t said a word.
D’Almeida spoke. “You know you could hang,” he said nonchalantly, as if this were some trifling inconvenience.
He held the coffee cup in one hand as he spoke. He had the habit of waving the cup to emphasise his words.
“A man comes up to a deserted house, carrying two hundred dollars. The man later disappears. You are found in possession of the house and the money. The man’s wife appears. What do you do? Do you pretend that nothing has happened, like a rational being? No, according to my young friend here, you make a murderous attack on them.”
D’Almeida paused and took a sip.
“But were you actually trying to attack them?” he said softly.
He moved up close to Iskandar, so that he was looming over him.
“Or were you trying to escape before you were recognised?”
He raised his voice suddenly. “You called Mrs Russell ‘Madeline’. How did you know who she was? You supposedly hadn’t met her. How did you, a servant, know her Christian name? Totally inexplicable unless...”
Here d’Almeida threw his arms out in an extravagant gesture. The coffee sloshed out of his cup onto Iskandar’s arm. He gave a yelp of pain and surprise. D’Almeida’s hand darted out and caught Iskandar’s arm. He wiped it on the bed clothes before the latter recovered from the shock. The sheet was stained with brown. But the arm was that curious off-grey pink colour that we call white.
“...unless you already knew her, Alec,” concluded d’Almeida quietly.
The whole episode had taken only a second. My mind was still reeling. He turned to me. “Dennis Chiang, Alec Russell. Alec Russell, my associate Dennis Chiang,” he said conversationally, introducing us.
I was struck dumb. d’Almeida was speaking again. “The game’s up Alec,” he said tranquilly, “you might as well come clean.”
Iskandar — or Alec — had his head between his hands.
“All right, all right,” he said, with a stifled groan, “you win.” He looked up and his face was drawn. “I am Alec Russell. How did you find out? Does Madeline know?”
D’Almeida shook his head. “The only people who know are in this room.”
“How did you find out?” repeated Russell.
“You’re not the only one who can impersonate a Malay, you know. You’ll have to do better than that if you want to get away with it. It’s the little things that will give you away. Iskandar – Alexander – Alec. Not very original. Never choose an alias related to your own name. I asked myself, isn’t Iskandar rather a grand name for a jaga. A few other things. Like using lard to cook your satay. What self-respecting Malay would use the fat of a pig? And the fact that your clothes hadn’t a tear on them. If someone had been slashed to death, you’d expect a rent or two wouldn’t you? And your knowing Madeline’s name. Little things.”
I could contain myself no longer. “But the parang. He attacked us. How about that?”
“You thought he was attacking you.” said d’Almeida, “A natural conclusion under the circumstances. But if he was intent on killing you, he would have raised the parang like this...” d’Almeida crooked his arm above his head. “...instead of holding it in front of him like you described.” He turned to Russell. “You were trying to get out before Madeline realised who you were, weren’t you?” Russell nodded.
My head was whirling. “But... but the blood?” I asked weakly.
“Unless I miss my guess, that’s chicken blood.”
Again Russell nodded.
“Why?” I asked, completely mystified. “Why this whole elaborate rigmarole? And what about Madeline?”
D’Almeida looked straight at Russell. “You lost your job didn’t you. Six months ago. Shortly after Miss Strachan died.”
I looked at d’Almeida with wonder. He answered my unspoken question.
“I peeked at the staff ledger at Masterson’s while you were having your tête-à-tête with the clerk.” He turned again to Russell. “You couldn’t bring yourself to tell your wife, am I right?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Russell in a strained voice, “you seem to know it all.”
“But why the fancy dress?” I persisted. “Why didn’t you just get another job?”
Russell rounded on me with vehemence. “Do you think that jobs for an orang puteh grow on trees like coconuts? You think you can just sit around and wait for one to drop into your lap.” His voice was bitter. “God knows I tried. But no one had anything. No one! I tried selling things in the streets. But some pompous ass of a Police Inspector rounded me up and gave me a lecture on the white man’s burden. ‘Not done for a tuan to go flogging stuff on the five-foot-way. What will the natives think? Can’t let down the side.’ Silly old goat!”
“So you went native,” remarked d’Almeida quietly.
“So I went native. I have, shall we say, a talent for impersonation. Not perfect, as you say, but still a talent. And I can cook.”
“Aunt Emily’s chickens!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” answered Russell sardonically, “Aunt Emily’s chickens. That’s what gave me the idea in the first place. Hundreds of the fat little buggers pecking around. I only did a couple at first, just to tide me over until I got a job. But things didn’t improve. And the money was good. You’d be surprised how much a street hawker can turn over each day. I used to cycle down to Raffles Place every tiffin time. I’d be sold out within an hour.”
“Where did Jefferies come in?” I asked curiously.
“Jefferies? What’s that old buffoon got to do with it?” Russell replied with surprise.
“He was selling your aunt’s possessions on the sly.”
D’Almeida broke in. “I think that I may have misled you. A white man with a moustache sold Miss Strachan’s possessions. But I think it is clear that Mr Russell here is an accomplished actor.”
I was flabbergasted. So I was right after all.
“You cheating bastard,” I exclaimed, “robbing Madeline blind behind her back.”
“Not robbing,” he rejoined with some heat. “I thought of it as... as a temporary loan. Besides, it’s as much mine as hers,” he replied rather defensively.
“To think that you almost got away with it,” I said angrily.
“Almost,” interposed d’Almeida. “Tell us what happened.”
“Almost,” repeated Russell. He sighed. “I suppose that I got over-confident towards the end. Today was to have been the last day. I’ve got a job in Colombo. We’re leaving at the end of next month. Besides, Madeline will be of age soon, and the trust money becomes hers. I was going to tell her. Honestly. I’d have paid back every cent to her. She’d have understood.”
“I drove up to the house after I’d collected the workers’ salary. That’s what I usually do. I have to do the cooking early to catch the tiffin crowd. I was in a hurry. Normally I’d change first, but this get-up takes a long time to put on. So I worked in my suit. I’d got the last four chickens ready. The blood was in a basin. You put it out in the sun to gel. I was careless. I tripped and splashed myself. So I changed into my Iskandar suit. I was cleaning up in the room when you came in. God, the shock I had. My only thought was to get out quick. That’s when you bolted the door on me. I really panicked. So I chopped up the floor and got out through there. And I’d have got away too if you hadn’t got such a hard head.” He rubbed his head at the memory.
“Why didn’t you tell the police?” I asked.
“How could I? I was out cold. When I woke up I was here already. Besides, they can’t hang me. They’ve got no proof that I’ve committed murder. I know my rights. They can’t make me say anything.”
“There is such a thing as theft,” remarked d’Almeida evenly. “Dishonest misappropriation of someone else’s property. You could be put away a long time.”
“Look,” said Russell desperately, “I didn’t mean to steal anything. I just couldn’t tell Madeline that I’d lost my job. It was only for a few months. I’d have paid her back. Every cent. Plus interest. Please, do what you like with me but don’t tell Madeline.” His eyes were pleading.
“Well,” said d’Almeida, “I think we can get you off. But Mrs Russell must be told.” He stared steadily at Russell. Russell nodded woodenly.
“There is just one other thing,” continued d’Almeida, “I’m afraid I... ah... misrepresented our position to get in here. I presume that you would like to retain us to represent you?”
Russell nodded again. “Good,” remarked d’Almeida, “I’d like your instructions in writing, if you please. And not a word to the Bar Committee.”
There’s little else to tell. In due course Alec Russell alias Iskandar was hauled up before the Police Courts to be committed to stand trial in the High Court for murder. It wasn’t a full dress trial of course. That would come later, complete with judge and wig and jury and press, but only if the Police Magistrate found that there was a case to go to trial. D’Almeida’s tactics were simple; say nothing. Let the prosecution put up a case.
The prosecutor was none other than our good friend Inspector Wyndham-Smythe. Wyndham-Smythe tried valiantly to spin a web of circumstantial evidence around Iskandar, but d’Almeida fenced skilfully, pointing out how each apparently damning piece of evidence was in reality but a mirage. And when d’Almeida boxed the good Inspector into a corner by getting him to admit that the lab report identified the bloodstains on the murder weapon and on Alec Russell’s clothes to be non-human, the Police Magistrate had no choice but to discharge the prisoner. The prosecution had failed to show a prima facie case he ruled, banging down the gavel. You could hear the gnashing of Wyndham-Smythe’s teeth from the other end of the courtroom. We left him swearing to high heaven that he would see justice done.
Unfortunately for Inspector Wyndham-Smythe, Alec Russell reappeared out of the jungle that very day. Iskandar for his part, disappeared, never to be seen again. The press had a field day. But Russell obstinately refused to answer any questions. The police gave it up as a bad job. Russell and Madeline left on the first boat to Colombo.
I NEVER saw her again. That is, not until today’s paper.
She makes a lovely widow.
I wonder if she still remembers me.
THE WIDOWS’ TALE
THERE IS a Chinese saying that wealth only lasts three generations. It has been my misfortune to be four generations removed from the fount of wealth. My father’s grandfather came to the Straits Settlements shortly after Raffles had conned the Sultan of Johore into ceding Singapore to the British. Great-grandfather did a little of this and a little of that, but his big break came when he was appointed gambier and opium farmer — he didn’t grow the stuff, just imported it and collected the taxes for the British. Anyway, a couple of years as the honourable East India Company’s tax collector provided him the capital to buy a small coastal vessel, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Unlike most of his countrymen, he didn’t go home to China when he made his pile. It is the ambition of every Chinese coolie to become a towkay and go back to the ancestral village to put up a grand mansion and generally swank around. Great-grandfather didn’t. He stayed in the Straits, married and founded a family. My suspicion is that he couldn’t go back — the southern Chinese are notoriously rebellious, and I think that Great-grandfather may have trodden on the pigtails of some mandarins. Anyway, whatever the reason may have been, we became Babas — Straits Chinese, born and bred in the Settlements, and owing allegiance to the British Crown. We were the King’s Chinese, British subjects, whose loyalty was beyond question. During the Great War, Eu Tong Sen even bought a tank for the war effort out of his own money, and the battleship HMS Malaya was paid for to a large extent by the contributions of the Baba community of Malaya and the Straits Settlements.
Grandfather carried on the family trading business, but decided that his two sons should be brought up as gentlemen. So it came to pass that my uncle and my father both attended the Anglo-Chinese School and in due course became lawyers. I have very little recollection of my parents, who died when I was two. In my mind’s eye they appear as shadows flitting at the edge of memory. My uncle took me into his house as a son; he himself had three daughters by his first wife. After the third, he stopped trying for a male heir, and as fate had provided him with an orphaned nephew (complete with the right surname), he felt that he had done his bit for the continuance of the family.
My uncle’s first wife is also a dim memory, for she too died shortly after I became part of my uncle’s household. Uncle married again, to a vivacious young woman ten years his junior. To me, she was Mak; she provided me with the warmth and love that my distant and rather Victorian uncle could not provide. I never felt anything less than a son towards her, and she treated me and her stepdaughters as her own children. Uncle tried again for a son of his own, but after two more daughters he gave it up as a bad job and resigned himself to the fact that the survival of the Chiang line rested on my bony shoulders.
Uncle determined that I should be brought up as a proper English gentleman. So it was that I was forcibly wrenched from my sun-filled childhood at the age of twelve and packed off to an English boarding school in the dank and dismal Fens. Over this episode I draw a veil; suffice to say that until I experienced a Japanese prison camp I always considered Fenton Abbey to be the hardest of penal institutions. I never saw my uncle again; he died just before I went up to Cambridge. I was fortunate in that my uncle as executor of my father’s estate had established a trust fund that paid for my education and subsistence. Mak was left to fend for her and the five girls on what was left of the family fortune.
