The Blue Afternoon

'What is it?' Carriscant said. 'Can I have a discreet word?'

Carriscant had one of the hospital porters drive him down to the docks where the quays on both banks of the Pasig were as clotted as ever with shipping – steamships, square- and lateen-rigged schooners, junks and ferry boats, fat shallow-draught paddle steamers that could negotiate the silty reaches of the river upstream and the great wallowing cascos, barges cum houseboats, homes for the river's transient population, moored four or five deep along the wharves. He was happy to be out of the hospital, quite content to do this favour for Pantaleon, as it gave him an opportunity both to compose himself and also scrutinise every European and American he saw in the passing carriages in the fervid hope of glimpsing that pale freckled face again and feeling the cool gaze of those candid brown eyes…

The carriage pulled up at the foot of a narrow lane, Calle Crespo in Quiapo, where it seemed every second shop was a tinsmith's and the air vibrated dully with the sound of hammers on galvanised iron. As he descended Carriscant saw a new illuminated advertisement across the junction: coney island shooting gallery – clearly the Americans were here to stay. At number 89, Crespo, he found the sign he was looking for: between 'Sam. M. Goodforth, marine surveyor' and 'Pablo Eulegio, hat cleaner' was his destination – 'Udo Leys, tobacco merchant'.

After A

He turned at the sound of a door opening and saw Udo emerge from a small cupboard at the rear of the office carrying a chamber pot, the buttons on his flies still undone. He looked unwell, a stout, compressed old man with a florid, noduled face and a small ungroomed bristling moustache that looked as if it were trying to grow in four directions simultaneously.

'Ah, Salvador, my boy, what a pleasant surprise,' he said. 'One second and I'm with you.'

He limped to the window, opened it and flung the contents of the chamber pot over the bucket makers. The hammering never faltered.

Udo shrugged. 'Those shit bastards are meant to stop at lunchtime, but who cares?' He spoke English with a marked German accent. Carriscant shook his extended left hand as the right still clutched the chamber pot: he was fond of the old man but A

Udo waggled his plump fingers over the display, selected a cigar and rolled it sensuously under his veined and bulbous nose.

' La Flor de la Isabella,' he said, wistfully. 'As good as the finest Havana. Have I ever told you that?'

'Emphatically,' Carriscant said. 'How are the pianos going?'

'Slowly. Did I tell you I was opening a laundry?'

They speculated a while on the inevitable success of this venture before Carriscant told him why he had called. A friend, he said, had ordered a piece of industrial machinery from France and he needed it shipped to Manila, but with discretion. This friend was concerned that as a Filipino he might not be permitted to import such a component.

'What is it?' Udo asked. 'A Howitzer?'

'An engine. It's… it's a special kind of engine. For a type of automobile.'

'Is he building a motor car? Very shrewd. I saw one the other day, down here at the docks. Astonishing. German, of course.'

'Something like that. And he can't afford to pay the duty.'

Udo assured him that the whole matter was very straightforward. It might cost a little extra but he knew many agreeable ships' captains and many shipping firms who would be happy to oblige. If the engine could be conveyed to Hong Kong then from that point forward the maximum discretion could be assured.

Udo limped to the top of the stairs to see Carriscant off.

'What's wrong, Udo?'

'Gout, or something. My leg's changing colour. Turning blue.'

'Come to the hospital, I'll have a look at it.'

'You'll have it off, more likely.' He looked at him dolefully. 'No disrespect, Salvador, but I don't trust you lot.'

He called down the stairs: 'How's A

'Ah… Well. Very well.'

'I'd love to see her again.'

'Of course, Udo. Very soon. Thanks for your help.'

Paton Bobby's office was on the second floor of the Ayuntamiento, Manila 's town hall, a huge over decorated coral and white building on the Plaza Mayor adjacent to the cathedral. Bobby sat behind his desk, out of uniform, wearing a light tweed suit and a bow tie. The effect was surprising: as if the burly law officer had turned into a university professor or music teacher. From his chair Carriscant could see one of the cathedral's domed towers with a seagull sitting preening itself on the top of the surmounting cross. Bobby was informing him of the series of unsatisfactory interviews he had undertaken with the men of Ephraim Ward's platoon: it seemed unlikely now, he reluctantly concluded, that Ward had been murdered by a fellow soldier.

The gull hunched itself into the air and soared off beyond the frame of the window.

'Somebody got him, though. He left his post and somebody fucking got him.'

Carriscant shifted in his seat: Ephraim Ward's fate seemed remote from him now.

'He definitely wasn't shot, was he? Someone couldn't have gouged out a bullet? You thought he was stabbed, right?' Bobby scratched his skull through his thin hair with the end of a pencil.

'I'm sure. By the way, Cruz has still not returned the heart. The liver, but not the heart.' Carriscant closed his eyes briefly and tried to set his tone of voice to neutral. 'My wife,' he began slowly, 'my wife met an American woman at one of her church functions the other night but she's completely forgotten her name. A young woman, late twenties, tall, freckled with reddish brown hair. Apparently'

'Jesus, Carriscant, do you know how many American women there are out here now? Wives, nurses, missionaries, teachers… Must be hundreds.'

'I told her. She wanted me to ask all the same… ' He paused. 'Perhaps she has a position of authority, some rank. She mentioned the Malacanan Palace. Some sporting club?'

Bobby thought. 'Reddish hair, you say. Quite a striking woman?'

'Yes. I mean, as far as I can gather.'

'Now you mention it, it sounds rather like Miss Caspar. What's her name? Unusual… Yeah, Miss Rudolfa Caspar. Rudolfa, that's it.'

'Miss?'

'Headmistress of the Gerlinger school. The new one in Binondo.'