Devil to Play

Walter Woon

Description

The second book following The Advocate's Devil featuring Dennis Chiang, an up-and-coming lawyer, who finds himself thrown into the heady 1930s mix of Singapore society under the wings of one of the Straights Settlement's top lawyers, Mr D'Almeida. Follow Dennis Chiang during a period of great uncertainty, as news of an impending Japanese invasion looms. Little does Chiang know that his life is about to become a lot more exciting-and dangerous. Roped in by the British Special Branch as an undercover operative to weed out Japanese agents subverting and undermining the morale of an Indian Army garrison sent to defend Malaya, Chiang finds himself going from criminal lawyer in a courtroom to an adept and rugged spy in the jungles of Malaya.

Informations

• Publié par: MarshallCavendishM
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789814435802
• Langue: English

Extrait

Text 2005 Walter Woon 2005 Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Private Limited
This edition published 2010 by Marshall Cavendish Editions An imprint of Marshall Cavendish International 1 New Industrial Road, Singapore 536196
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National Library Board Singapore Cataloguing in Publication Data Woon, Walter, C.M. The devil to pay / C.M. Woon. - Singapore: Marshall Cavendish Editions, c2005. p. cm.
eISBN: 978 981 4435 80 2 1. World War, 1939-1945 - Secret Service - Malaysia - Malaya - Fiction. I. Title.
PR9570.S53
S823 - dc21 SLS2005045681
Printed in Singapore by Times Printers Pte Ltd
I dedicate this book to my dear wife Janis
1
I TOOK to crime at a relatively early stage in my career. It wasn t my idea. My employer forced me into it.
If I had had my way, I would have done conveyancing or solicitor s work. A spot of chancery work or commercial litigation now and again wouldn t have been bad either. But Clarence d Almeida, my boss and senior partner of the firm of d Almeida d Almeida, had taken me on as his personal devil, assistant and general do-it-all. For some reason, he had formed the impression that I was cut out for criminal litigation. He himself thrived on it. Not that it paid well - crime almost never pays. The only rich clients one gets are the successful criminals; and d Almeida didn t represent those as a matter of principle. He had an uncanny nose for smelling out innocence and guilt. Being a gentleman of independent means, he could indulge his altruism by helping the indigent innocent.
Anyway, for good or ill, crime became my metier. The work was interesting. On that score, I had no complaint. It must also have been tiresome, routine and often sordid. But my memories of that time are sepia-tinted by nostalgia, and the bad parts have somehow faded beyond recollection. We didn t know it then of course, but we were living in the last halcyon days of an era. I remember 1939 as a year of kingfisher-blue skies, with not a cloud on the horizon. It was the year of Gone with the Wind and Snow White. Neville Chamberlain had proclaimed peace in our time, and in Singapore, we were little concerned with the quarrels far away amongst people of whom we knew nothing. The sun shone, people made money and pursued their lives and loves in blissful ignorance of what went on in the wider world. The distant rattle of sabres being drawn did not disturb our idyll.
For me, the end began with the return of a ghost from the past.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON tea with d Almeida was a little tradition that he had instituted for the junior members of his chambers. There were three of us at that time - George Singham, Ralph Smallwood and myself - so we took it in turns, appearing dutifully at four o clock precisely on our allotted Sundays. D Almeida used the occasion to grill us on various aspects of the law to ensure that we were keeping up with latest developments. It was not unlike a viva voce examination. Personally, I didn t mind too much, as d Almeida was an excellent teacher despite his rather intimidating manner and reputation. The other two had a different view. As far as Ralph and George were concerned, Sunday tea with d Almeida was a f te worse than death.
This particular Sunday was different, though. I was shown to d Almeida s study in the usual way by his manservant, a large and laconic Sikh by the name of Palvit Singh. To my surprise, there was someone with him. The visitor turned round when d Almeida rose to greet me. With an unpleasant shock, I recognised him.
Ah, Chiang, good of you to join us, said d Almeida. May I introduce Flight Lieutenant James Thornton? My assistant, Mr Dennis Chiang. Thornton rose and held out his hand uncertainly, which I shook rather limply.
It was obvious that he didn t remember me. I, on the other hand, had a very vivid recollection of James Thornton. My uncle, who had taken me in when my parents died, determined that I should be raised as a proper English gentleman. To that end, he had packed me off at an early age to Fenton Abbey, a Gothic pile stranded in the middle of the Fens not far from Ely. My time at Fenton Abbey was not a happy one. The weather was cold, the masters and students colder. When I finally escaped the clutches of that dismal institution, I swore that I would never again have anything to do with anyone whom I had had the misfortune to meet there. And so it had been - until now. James Thornton had been a Sixth Former and prefect when I arrived. He and his friends made life purgatory for me during that first year. There was nothing personal in it, of course. To them, First Formers were a lower form of life, to be tortured at whim.
I took my seat next to d Almeida, eyeing Thornton warily. He still showed no sign of recognition.
Mr Thornton wanted to consult me discreetly on a sensitive matter, continued d Almeida, passing around the tea and biscuits. I invited him to tea. I hope you have no objection to his presence at our usual t te- -t te?
Not in the least, I responded, suppressing the urge to walk out there and then. Snap out of it, I told myself. It s been more than a decade. He doesn t even remember.
Now that Mr Chiang is here, perhaps you would be so kind as to begin at the beginning, invited d Almeida.
Well, umm, yes, began Thornton, fidgeting a little in his chair. He began stroking his moustache. It s a delicate matter. A woman, you see. A bit of trouble at the Club. His voice trailed off.
Come, Mr Thornton, if I am to help you, it will not do if you cannot bring yourself to tell me the problem.
Thornton took a deep breath as if to steel himself and took the plunge. Mr d Almeida, I must tell you right out that it wasn t my idea to consult you. D Almeida raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. That was Mr Newman s idea. He said that you were the man to talk to.
Mr Newman? responded d Almeida almost absently, I am not sure I know a Mr Newman.
Thornton was taken aback. Mr Fredrick Newman, our President. He seems to know you.
D Almeida nodded non-committally. Thornton continued. As I was saying, I m the Honorary Secretary of the Icarus Club. It s not a big club, just a few dozen of us out at RAF Seletar. We ve got our own clubhouse on the base for the chaps to drop by and have a stengah and a chat.
Only military men? asked d Almeida.
Mostly, responded Thornton. A couple of civvies retired from the Forces. Like your friend Mr Newman; or Major Newman as I should properly call him, though he s not bothered about the rank. We ve got army types, a couple of naval chappies but mostly RAF. No ORs of course.
ORs?
Sorry, Other Ranks - non-commissioned officers and below. Only officers as members. That s the normal rule. The ORs have their own club somewhere.
And no natives either, I thought to myself. That s the normal rule too. Officers and gentlemen, Other Ranks, natives; the colonial caste system. It was just like that in Fenton Abbey. The prefects and the Sixth Formers lorded it over the lesser mortals. It was part of the system. But my antipathy to Thornton stemmed from more than mere distaste for the public school ethos.
Seeing him in the flesh brought the whole horrid episode back from the deepest dungeon of my mind, to which I had consigned it long ago. Wilberforce was a boy in my Form. I scarcely knew him. I never had the chance. My last memory of Wilberforce was of his body sprawled on the cobbles of the Outer Court. The snow was red around him. It was my first experience of death. I had never seen a dead body before. He looked like a broken toy. Violent death was still a horror to me then, not the banal thing that it became in later years. I ran away shuddering and cried myself to sleep that night. The nightmares continued for years. The coroner s conclusion was that Wilberforce had slipped while climbing through one of the third floor windows, presumably on his way to another dormitory after lights-out. A childish prank gone tragically awry. Our Form knew differently. Wilberforce had been dangled out of the window by some Sixth Formers for some petty infraction of the rules. Someone s slippery hands hadn t been strong enough to hold him Of course, none of that group ever owned up. They all left Fenton Abbey with their testimonials and honours intact. Thornton was one of them. He may have forgotten, but I hadn t.
Thornton continued, oblivious to my glare.
We have a Ladies Night once a month. You know the sort of thing, a couple of drinks, dancing, dinner. We had one on Friday night. There was an un