The Merry Misogynist

had a small budget for food and any cooperation would be ‘remembered by the Central Committee’. The letter was authenticated with a circular red stamp and co-signed by the head of the Highways Department, who had his own, even more splendid red stamp.
    In this age of mimeograph machines and typewriters with carbon paper, official documents like those in circulation in Laos were not terribly difficult to forge if a man had access to such equipment. Nobody was surprised to learn that there was no Thongphan Ratsakoun at the Highways Department or anywhere else on public file. It would take several months to go through the disparate police record data banks, but there was no point in looking up an obviously fake name.
    The villagers who’d mixed socially with Phan at dinners and on the takraw court agreed that he was a top fellow: a very friendly and likable person. Nobody had any idea where he went during the day. They had the impression he’d have liked to have told them about his work but wasn’t allowed to. He had a truck but no driver, which was interesting. It suggested that he was independent, perhaps a section head. He was clearly someone with the ability to do everything for himself. He had class, some women said. Perhaps he’d come from a well-to-do family. He’d obviously travelled widely. He knew the country very well.
    Where did he come from? Nobody knew. He’d moved around a lot when he was young. Army family perhaps? Somewhere in the north, although he had a central accent. He’d given everyone a life history so vague they could barely remember what he’d said. He’d answered most questions with a joke, and they were too awed by his position to embarrass him with an interrogation. Sergeant Sihot had come to the conclusion that this was a very cautious and cunning villain. He’d left no real trace.
 
    Siri, Civilai, and Phosy were seated on the log overlooking the dwindling Mekhong. Civilai had catered all three lunches. It was a new recipe for homemade baguettes with genuine corned beef.
    “How do you get hold of all this exotic fair?” Siri asked. He was actually enjoying his lunch. Civilai had hit on the formula. They were washing down the bread rolls with home-squeezed guava juice, courtesy of Mrs Noy. Civilai’s wife was slowly coming to terms with the fact that her previously absentee husband had become attached to the house. The kitchen was a place she was allowed to visit but which was no longer hers. Although Civilai still had the general bone structure of a grasshopper, he now had a more substantial body for her to cuddle on a cold night, so she didn’t complain.
    “I still have friends in high places,” he told his fellow diners. “You’d be surprised what our American colonists left behind. If you slip me a few bucks I can probably lay my hands on some Spam, canned soup, sardines in tomato sauce, franks and beans, you name it. There’s a larder full of the stuff.”
    “All that old tin should be rusty by now,” Phosy decided.
    “Ah, Inspector” – Civilai wagged his finger – “they say you can never have too much iron in your diet. And if iron is so beneficial, tin can only be one step below it.”
    Siri laughed. “Just think, Phosy. Before he retired, only the politburo had access to his brilliance. Now we all get to share.”
    “Good, I could use some brilliance,” Phosy admitted and became immediately glum.
    “The strangler?” Civilai asked.
    “We’re not getting anywhere. We’re just not cut out to do a nationwide investigation. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your embroidery circle, Doctor?”
    “Don’t mock the Lao Patriotic Women’s Association, Inspector. They’ll come up with something. You mark my words.”
    “Meanwhile, we’ve come to a dead end with Phan. Not even anything on the truck. It was a Chinese Jiefang. The road builders in the north are bringing them in and selling them secondhand, cheap. Most government projects have one. Nobody thought to write down the licence number. One Chinese truck is pretty much the same as the next.”
    “It looks like the Chinese are invading us one street at a time,” Civilai bemoaned. “They’re doing whatever they want up north in the border provinces. I warned the old fogies on the committee, but nobody listened. It’s only because we don’t have any money that they’re not flooding us with cheap, shoddy goods.”
    “To replace the cheap, shoddy goods from Vietnam?”