The Merry Misogynist

unending joy. While Kummai went into detail about his burst appendix, Siri noted that the walls were lined with samples of every type of official document there was. As they were leaving the room, he asked the director what they were doing there.
    “Checks, Siri. Checks. We often have to verify that documents are authentic. Our lasses in there just compare an original with the sample. If it looks suspicious they call in the heavy brigade. That’s me.”
    He was still laughing when he reached the bottom of the stairs. In one of the main rooms, two men sat at one desk poring over a large map draped over the desktop like an oversized tablecloth. One of the men was tall and slim with eyes dark and deep enough to dip a fountain pen into. The other was stocky with a broken nose and a scar on his cheek. He could have been nothing other than a boxer.
    “Comrades,” said Kummai. The two men looked up. “This is Siri, my old doctor from the war. I still have his handiwork on my gut.”
    Siri and the men shook hands and wished each other good health. Both men had impressive grips.
    “These brave men are leaving for the wilds of the Thon River.”
    “To interview?” Siri asked.
    “To collect the data,” said the boxer. “We gather a team of locals and train them. They go off into the remote areas with our forms and fill them out. Two weeks later we collect the paperwork and pay off the workers.”
    Siri noticed that the slim man was staring at him. It was a look of distrust. A fear of strangers perhaps? Siri felt a tingle the length of his spine.
    “Two weeks exactly?” he asked.
    “That’s how long it usually takes,” said the deep-eyed man.
    “And it’s just the two of you?”
    “These two plus the head of the unit, Comrade Buaphan,” said Kummai. The tingle became a shudder.
    Deep Eyes seemed to notice the doctor’s change of mood. He raised his brow. “Are you all right, Doctor?” he asked.
    “Of course he’s all right,” Kummai cut in. “In fact he’s remarkable for a man his age. I doubt I’ll be able to stand up when I’m ninety.”
    “Well,” said Siri, “I’ve seen everyone else on the project. I suppose I should meet Comrade Buaphan too.”
    “Quite right,” said the director. “I want all my boys and girls to meet the great Dr Siri.” The two men returned Siri’s nod and he followed Kummai out of the room. There was a closed door on the far side of the entrance hall and Kummai entered without knocking. Sitting on an armchair reading a Thai magazine was a tall, elegant man with high cheekbones and thick ebony hair that curled at his collar. He was at the opposite end of the best-dressed spectrum from Kummai: light brown stay-press slacks, white shirt buttoned to the collar, and, despite the heat, navy blue socks. This was exactly the identikit picture of the strangler that Siri had drawn in his mind’s eye. The man looked up slowly from his article.
    “Ah, Buaphan, nothing to do?” asked the director with uncomfortable levity.
    “No,” the man replied. His voice was deep and authoritative.
    “I thought you might be in a last-minute panic.”
    “I’m not.”
    Kummai laughed as if it were a joke.
    “Right, then,” he said. “This is Dr Siri, our old bush surgeon.”
    Buaphan didn’t let go of his magazine or proffer his large hand. He gave a slight nod. “Doctor.”
    “Comrade Buaphan,” said Siri, returning the nod. “I hear you’re taking your team to the Thon River district today.”
    “That’s right.”
    “I didn’t see a truck in the yard.”
    “Probably because it’s not there,” Buaphan said drily then returned to his story. Siri and Kummai looked at one another.
    “It’s off getting all its bits checked,” said the director. “And oil and water and all that. Make it fit for the road, you know?”
    “Do you drive, Comrade?” Siri asked the top of the tall man’s head.
    “Yes,” he replied. “If I had my way.”
    “Comrade Buaphan has a problem with our drivers,” the director told Siri.
    Buaphan slapped his magazine shut.
    “Actually, Doctor, I don’t have a problem with the drivers,” he said. “I have a problem with inefficiency and waste. The three of us on the team are perfectly capable of driving the truck. Hiring a halfwit to take the wheel seems to me a perfect example of the departure from thrift that our Central Committee is so adamantly against.”
    “Comrade Buaphan is a little upset that the ministry insists there be a