The advocates devil, p.12
The Advocate's Devil, page 12
“I said we should smell out the rats and tell them to take a hike,” responded George smoothly.
“Ah, yes, precisely. Exactly what I was going to suggest, though not in quite such graphic terms.” He paused. “Ah, have you any suggestions how we might proceed?”
“Well,” said George, “I noticed quite a number of Chinese in the queue and even a couple of orang puteh. I suggest we get rid of those for a start.”
“Yes, excellent. Exactly what I was going to suggest myself.”
“Then we can shoo off those who are obviously too old. Anyone with wrinkled skin and false teeth is out, for instance.”
“Yes, yes, absolutely. Get rid of the old ones, what. That should thin the crowd.” Simon was looking a little happier now.
“And then you can interview the rest. With your brilliant cross-examination you should be able to pick out the real Evelyn Jayasiri in no time at all.”
Simon looked a little doubtful, but he nodded his head. “Yes, I think that’s how we should proceed.” He rummaged in his drawer for a folder. “I’ll question them about... about....” He trailed off.
“About their life in Ceylon,” suggested George, “and about old man Jayasiri and poor Herbert.”
“Yes, exactly. About their life in Ceylon. And Jayasiri and Herbert.”
He paused. His brow furrowed. Obviously a thought was trying to burrow its way to the surface. It finally broke through.
“But will she remember? She was only a baby then. A baby would hardly know, would she? But then again, I know that babies can be awfully smart. Take Aloysius, for example. Why just the other day he...”
George hurriedly broke in. “That’s precisely the point. Anyone who tells you a detailed tale is obviously a fraud. Evelyn was only a baby. She wouldn’t remember anything. Aloysius is after all unique.”
Simon beamed. “Yes, he is. As I was telling you, just the other day...”
We beat a hasty retreat, with George at the head. “Got to get started,” he called over his shoulder.
After the great culling, we were left with about twenty winsome maidens who looked about the right age and race. All professed to be Evelyn. One wanted to show me her birth marks, but I protested that I was still on duty and disappeared back into the throng.
We got them organised finally, and they trooped in one by one to be interviewed by Simon. We sat in to listen to their tales; and what a cornucopia of fairy stories we got. Everyone had a distinct recollection of dear old granddad, how nice he was, how he’d bounce them up and down, what a lovely place Colombo was. George started taking down notes, to be used in his great unfinished novel, he said.
By eight o’clock it was all over. The street was deserted and we were utterly spent. Simon was looking dejected. No one had fitted the bill. He packed up in silence, dispiritedly stuffing papers into his briefcase. Ralph had left by then, pleading an important engagement. George and I went through the office locking up the windows. Simon slipped out without saying goodbye.
“C’mon,” said George as I crashed the folding metal gate shut, “let’s get a drink at the Club.” I nodded.
We were only a few yards down the road when a large dark woman waddled up to us. She was clad in a greasy sari, and rolls of fat bulged under the folds. Her mouth was stained red with the juice of betel nuts. She clutched at my sleeve. Instinctively I drew it away.
“You want Evelyn Jayasiri,” she said, almost belligerently. She spoke with a strong Tamil accent, evidently unused to speaking English.
We stopped. George answered her, “Yes, we’re looking for Evelyn Jayasiri. Do you know where she is?”
“I know. You come.” She turned her attention to George and pulled at his sleeve. He hesitated. She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Come.”
“Come where?” asked George. “Is it far?”
“Serangoon. She is there. Come.”
“Serangoon? Walk to Serangoon at this time of the night? You must be joking. Let go of me. Go on, let go.” He shook himself free. “Besides, how do you know Evelyn? Have you any proof?”
The woman stopped. She fumbled in the folds of her sari. When she withdrew her hand, there was a shiny trinket in it. It was a gold bangle, of the sort they put on babies’ legs. She held it out to us. I took it.
“Look behind,” she said.
I held it up to the light of the street lamp. Incised in fine strokes underneath was the name Evelyn. I passed it on to George, who squinted at it. We drew back a little to consider the evidence.
“Well,” I said softly, “what do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “The name on the bangle fits, but then there must be a thousand and one Evelyns in the Settlements.” He looked at the woman. She stood there looking back at us, arms folded across her ample breast. George turned to her.
“Where did you get this?”
“It belong to Evelyn. Her grandfather give it. Come, I take you.”
“Wait a moment. How do you know her?”
“She is my daughter,” said the woman shortly.
WE WERE struck dumb momentarily by this information. Certainly, the woman before us hardly fitted my conception of what Evelyn’s mother should have been. I had pictured her as young, engaging — perhaps even pretty. But then, that was twenty years ago. A war widow would not have had an easy time. Hard work, a squalling child, penury. All these things take a toll. The creature before us looked work-worn and coarse. She was fat, but not with prosperity. She looked like she had gone completely to seed, given up totally on her appearance. Her dark skin had a sickly hue, and her eyes were tinged with yellow. A faint, stale smell clung to her, compounded of alcohol and spices.
While we stood there deliberating, a familiar shadow fell between us. We turned to see Simon at the gate of the office, fumbling for his keys. He noticed us at the same time.
“What, you fellows still here? Left my papers in the office,” he volunteered by way of explanation.
I crossed over to him. “Mr Da Silva, there’s been a development. This lady here,” I said, jerking my thumb at the woman, “claims to know where Evelyn Jayasiri is.”
Simon’s face brightened up immediately. “I knew it,” he said triumphantly, “I knew we would find her.”
“The evidence is a little equivocal,” I said, trying to bring him back to earth. “She has a bangle with the inscription ‘Evelyn’ on it. She claims to be the mother. George and I are a little doubtful...”
“No, no I’m sure that it’s her,” he cut in. “I have a feeling, you know, a nose for this kind of thing. I can tell by looking at someone whether they’re telling the truth. She has a truthful face.”
He crossed over to the woman. “My dear lady,” he gushed, clasping her hand, “how delighted I am to meet you. I understand that you can take us to Evelyn.”
The woman started back a little at Simon’s effusive greeting. However, he was patting her hand reassuringly, and she concluded that he meant no harm.
“You come with me?” she queried. “I take you to Evelyn.”
“But of course, madam, of course. Come, let’s take my car. Is it far from here?”
“Serangoon. We go to Serangoon.”
“Yes, of course. Lead the way madam. My car is at your disposal.” He took her arm and guided her towards his parked car. George and I dutifully followed.
A short drive took us to our destination. Crossing the Rochor Canal, we passed into a different world. In contrast to Raffles Place, which was abandoned to the stray dogs and the jagas after hours, Serangoon was still pulsating. It was a different life from Chinatown. The varied hues of the Indian Empire milled about here, from the rugged leather brown of the Northwest Frontier to the rich ebony of the Tamil south. The night was perfumed with spices and the scent of frangipani. I found it a trifle overwhelming, this olfactory assault by a thousand different smells. However, as I got used to it I found the mixture to be strangely pleasant and addictive.
We turned off on one of the side streets. The scents of Little India were masked here by the stench of the nearby canal. Our guide indicated that we should stop in front of a ramshackle hut. We got out. The hut itself was made simply out of rough-hewn planks. It had a zinc roof and unglazed windows. A gap-toothed fence separated it from the street. The woman motioned us to the door.
Stepping into the hut, our noses were assailed by the stench. The woman fumbled in a corner and lit a kerosene lamp. By the orange glow of the lamp we discerned a scene of total chaos. My first thought was that someone had discovered the heiress within and had kidnapped her. On closer examination, however, it was evident that the jumble was natural. Cardboard boxes of all descriptions were piled along the walls. Old kettles, flatirons and tin cans littered the floor. In one corner was a cascade of old newspapers. The place was unfurnished except for two plain wooden chairs and a table, covered with linoleum of a nondescript pattern, so faded now as to be barely visible. There were blankets and cloths heaped in piles. An iron bedstead stood in the corner. The smell of rancid food and unwashed humanity pervaded the atmosphere.
“Where’s Evelyn?” asked George in muffled tones, his nose buried in his handkerchief.
Simon, to his credit, did not show in the least that he was disturbed. He repeated the question in less antagonistic tones. “Now, madam, if you would be so kind as to introduce us to Evelyn Jayasiri.”
The woman indicated what I had taken to be a bundle thrown haphazardly on the bedstead. I squinted my eyes. It was a person, covered with a dirty blanket.
Simon lost a little of his composure. “Ah, you mean that is she?”
Our guide nodded. She prodded the bundle, from which a low moan emerged. A dirty, unkempt head raised itself. The girl had jet-black hair, uncombed and unoiled. Her eyes were dull as she tried to focus on us. When she realised that she was in the presence of strangers, she recoiled and drew the grubby blanket up to her chin, staring at us with frightened eyes. A series of guttural sounds emanated from her throat.
“She is Evelyn. She cannot speak. She is dumb and deaf,” explained the woman.
Simon was obviously crestfallen. This unwashed apparition evidently did not fit his conception of the long-lost heiress. “Well, ah, madam...you understand I must have proof.” He darted a sceptical glance at the girl. “The fortune is a considerable one, and I must be absolutely sure that this girl is Evelyn Jayasiri.”
Without a word, the woman retreated into the gloomy depths of the hut, rummaging under the newspapers and cloths. She emerged with a case, evidently a small cabin trunk of leather, much worn. Wordlessly she handed it to Simon. George and I pressed close to get a glimpse.
Simon fingered the cover of the case. It was embossed with a faint name. Simon screwed up his eyes to make out the writing in the dim glow of the kerosene lamp.
“Here, try this,” said George, pushing a pencil and paper over to Simon.
“Ah...what should I do with these?” asked Simon bewildered.
“Let me have that,” said George impatiently.
He took the case from Simon, set it on the table after having swept the jumble off onto the floor. Placing the paper over the incised words, he started shading with his pencil. A name took shape. Jayasiri.
George tried to open the case. “It’s locked,” he said.
The woman produced a small brass key. George put it in the keyhole and turned it. It clicked and he lifted the lid gingerly.
Inside was an assortment of items, packed tightly together. George extracted a brass photo frame first. There was a photograph of a handsome young man in uniform, attended by what was evidently his valet. Written on it was the inscription, “To my only love and mother of my child, Herbert.” Next came another photograph, this time of a group of soldiers. On the back was written: “Hong Kong & Singapore Mountain Battery, Palestine, 1918.” A packet of letters followed, tied with a silk ribbon. George handed these to Simon, who extracted them one by one and read them. He passed them on to me. They proved to be love letters, written in a small neat hand, from Herbert Jayasiri to his wife, whom he consistently addressed in the most affectionate terms. I felt uneasy at reading such personal correspondence, embarrassed to be intruding into a private world. Folded baby clothes were unpacked, and right at the bottom of the case was a creased, faded piece of official paper. Simon unfolded it. The ink had faded badly, but we could just about make out the writing. It was a birth certificate, issued at Colombo on 9 April 1918, for Evelyn Jayasiri. Simon placed it carefully back and turned to the woman.
“Well, madam...ah, Mrs Jayasiri...I think that you have made your case. I am satisfied that this girl is Evelyn. I shall cable Colombo tomorrow and arrangements will be made to put you in contact with your father-in-law.”
The woman nodded.
“I bid you goodnight.” Simon bowed and shook her hand gravely.
As we were leaving, he suddenly turned and asked, “As a matter of curiosity, how did you locate us?”
“I collect newspapers and I read,” said Evelyn’s mother, indicating the mess piled against the wall. “I read in the Free Press that you look for Evelyn. So I come.”
Simon beamed. “Excellent, just as I intended.” He strode jauntily to the parked car, humming merrily. “A foolproof plan,” he repeated, “foolproof.”
Simon gave us a lift back home. George was strangely withdrawn during the journey.
THE NEXT MORNING, I got in to the office a little later than usual as the d’Almeidas were still out of town. Simon was already in, dictating telegrams to announce his success. He was utterly pleased that his grand plan had so clearly succeed. He had been totally vindicated in his confidence. Deep down, I think that Simon may have had some inkling of his inadequacies, and a success like this did no end of good in boosting his self-image. He went humming around the office, and even forbore to bore us with the usual bulletin on Aloysius’s latest antics.
George rumbled in a few minutes after. He flung his briefcase down on the desk and said, “I don’t like it.”
“What?” I asked innocently.
“This whole business with Evelyn. I don’t like it. It doesn’t add up.”
“Oh come now,” I replied, “don’t be peeved just because Simon is right for once in his life. Think of it as beginner’s luck.”
“No, this hasn’t anything to do with Simon,” he responded moodily. “The whole business has been bothering me all night.” He started to pace. Evidently d’Almeida’s mannerisms were contagious. George sucked the end of his pencil.
“Let’s review the facts. One, Herbert Jayasiri was obviously an educated man — his letters show that. Two, he’s obviously rich, and besotted with his wife. Three, his father is clearly not the sort to let his son marry any old body. Now consider exhibit A, the woman who claims to be Evelyn’s mother. She’s not educated. She’s not charming or witty or cultured. What would a man like Herbert see in a creature like that? Would old man Jayasiri let his only son and heir marry her?”
“Well, love is blind, as they say,” I remarked.
“Blind?! Hah! Love would have had to be dumb and deaf too, as well as possess a defective sense of smell.”
“You’re not being kind at all. She may not have been like that twenty years ago. Poverty can do terrible things you know. As for the old man, he evidently didn’t get on with his daughter-in-law. Don’t forget, Herbert was barely cold in his grave when he drove her and the child from his door.”
George stopped pacing. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” He turned abruptly, grabbed his jacket off the rack and started for the door. “You coming?”
“Coming? Where to? During office hours?”
“I’m going to trace a ship. C’mon, Simon won’t miss us. We’ll just leave word that we’ve gone to sit in on a trial.”
He scribbled a quick note on a piece of paper for Ralph to pass on to Simon, and galloped down the stairs. Hastily grabbing my own coat, I trotted after him.
“Trace a ship?” I huffed when I caught up with him, “What ship? Where?”
George was striding purposefully along, his long legs propelling him a yard at a time. He stopped abruptly and I almost collided into him.
“Did you notice the label on the trunk yesterday?”
I had some vague recollection of the thing, so I nodded, saving my breath for the next sprint.
“I read it carefully while Simon was fooling around with the baby clothes. SS Dongala.”
“Okay, so we know that they were on the Dongala. So what does that prove?”
“Nothing yet. But I’ll eat my hat and yours too if they were on the Dongala. I don’t believe that that woman is Evelyn’s mother and I don’t believe that that pathetic creature is Evelyn.”
“So how did she get hold of the birth certificate? And the letters? And the baby clothes and the picture of Herbert?”
George sucked his lip. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. And you can help me. We need your car.”
“All right,” I answered doubtfully, not at all sure that we weren’t off on a wild goose chase. “Where to?”
“Harbour Board,” replied George laconically.
KEPPEL HARBOUR was a good half-hour’s drive from town. The lifeblood of Singapore flowed through the harbour. For a place of such importance, security was surprisingly lax. The dark clouds of war had yet to form over the Straits, and we breezed past the security guard at the gate with a friendly wave of the hand and a merry toot of the horn. George directed me through the maze of docks and godowns. His father had worked for the Harbour Board, and it was evident that George was thoroughly familiar with the place.
I stopped the car where he indicated, and he disappeared into a nondescript brick building. Lolling in the driver’s seat, I idly watched the busy scene, savouring the luxury of indolence amidst the toiling masses. Work did not stop here, not for Christmas or New Year. The gangs of sun-roasted stevedores threaded their way up and down the gangplanks of the moored freighters, like streams of ants carrying scraps of food from a picnic. Lorries trundled along, piled high with boxes, bundles and bags. Crates of merchandise were stacked along the quayside like giant wooden building bricks. The sun speckled the water of the harbour with a million points of light. In the background loomed Pulau Blakang Mati, the Isle Behind Which Lies Death. It was a pirate’s cove when Raffles landed, and it is said that the beach was covered with skulls. The military was now in charge, and we were reassured that the heavy guns of Fort Siloso and Labrador made us the Gibraltar of the East.
