circle of space.
“Do you use candles often, Comrade?” he asked the teacher.
“No, Comrade. Beyond our budget, I’m afraid,” he replied.
“Then it would appear our killer brought them with him and took them home when he was through.”
They found similar deposits of wax on six of the desks. There might have been more, removed along with the candles.
“Not exactly floodlighting,” Siri said, “but enough to light up their duelling arena.”
“You think they were swordfighting in here?” Phosy asked.
“They cleared a space, lit up the room. Our victim was dressed for sport. It’s as good a guess as any, I’d say.”
“And you,” Phosy looked at Sihot. “What’s wrong with you, man? Do you have pebbles there for eyes? I send you here to investigate and you can’t even see great lumps of wax?”
Sihot bunched up the corners of his mouth. Not a sulk exactly, more an attempt not to burst into tears. It saddened Siri to see a strong man embarrassed and he was surprised. He’d never known Phosy to rebuke his men in public. In fact, the inspector wasn’t given to outbursts. He would normally shake his head and privately bemoan the lack of grey matter in the police force. This was particularly out of character. Something was wrong.
“Any chance she died by accident?” Phosy asked Siri, still staring at Sihot.
“I doubt that,” Siri said. “If it’s just a sparring match they’d have some cork thingamabobs on the ends of their weapons. At the very least they’d be fighting with blunt swords. The épée we pulled out of the victim was sharpened to a fine edge. The killer knew exactly what he was doing.”
∗
The jeep went by Police Headquarters with the intention of dropping off Sihot. There was a lot of paperwork that hadn’t been started. The plan from there was for Phosy to drive Siri to the morgue, return the Willy’s jeep to the garage, and go through the data they’d collected on the two victims, looking for connections. But, as Civilai often said, “Intentions can be as flimsy as toilet paper in a cheap bar.”
As they pulled into the compound, a police boy dressed in a shirt so big it made him look as if he’d shrunk overnight leapt from the guard booth and waved his arms.
“Should I drive over him?” Sihot asked.
“Better stop, I suppose,” Phosy told him.
The boy ran around to the inspector in the passenger seat.
“Sir, you have to go to K6,” he said. “There’s been a murder.”
Given the pace of communication in the republic, it wasn’t unthinkable for this to have been the message from two days hence just reached the guard post. But Phosy had a bad feeling that wasn’t the case.
“Who told you?” he asked.
“Vietnamese security guy on a motorcycle, about an hour ago,” said the boy.
6
THE CASE OF THE THREE EPEES
I n the ever-flowing words of ex-politburo member Civilai, before the épée murders time in the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos had been speeding by like a thirty-year-old Peugeot on blocks. The country had been stone-cold frozen to the edge of its seats waiting for news of the two major initiatives of 1978. After three years of planning, the cooperative movement was finally launched as outlined in the order N°97: Regulation of Cooperative Farming. Under this accelerated programme the government was certain it would be self-sufficient in food grains by 1981. The economy would be revived and the purest tenet of communism would be realised at the rice roots level.
But the leaders very quickly realised that, like communism, collectivism worked much better on paper than on dirt. The five cooperative principles as per order N°98d had been sound enough: 1. Volunteerism. 2. Mutual benefit. 3. Democratic management. 4. Planned production. 5. Distribution of produce and profit according to labour performed with the right attitude. Thirty to forty families would be gathered together in one collective and all their resources pooled. Each man
“Do you use candles often, Comrade?” he asked the teacher.
“No, Comrade. Beyond our budget, I’m afraid,” he replied.
“Then it would appear our killer brought them with him and took them home when he was through.”
They found similar deposits of wax on six of the desks. There might have been more, removed along with the candles.
“Not exactly floodlighting,” Siri said, “but enough to light up their duelling arena.”
“You think they were swordfighting in here?” Phosy asked.
“They cleared a space, lit up the room. Our victim was dressed for sport. It’s as good a guess as any, I’d say.”
“And you,” Phosy looked at Sihot. “What’s wrong with you, man? Do you have pebbles there for eyes? I send you here to investigate and you can’t even see great lumps of wax?”
Sihot bunched up the corners of his mouth. Not a sulk exactly, more an attempt not to burst into tears. It saddened Siri to see a strong man embarrassed and he was surprised. He’d never known Phosy to rebuke his men in public. In fact, the inspector wasn’t given to outbursts. He would normally shake his head and privately bemoan the lack of grey matter in the police force. This was particularly out of character. Something was wrong.
“Any chance she died by accident?” Phosy asked Siri, still staring at Sihot.
“I doubt that,” Siri said. “If it’s just a sparring match they’d have some cork thingamabobs on the ends of their weapons. At the very least they’d be fighting with blunt swords. The épée we pulled out of the victim was sharpened to a fine edge. The killer knew exactly what he was doing.”
∗
The jeep went by Police Headquarters with the intention of dropping off Sihot. There was a lot of paperwork that hadn’t been started. The plan from there was for Phosy to drive Siri to the morgue, return the Willy’s jeep to the garage, and go through the data they’d collected on the two victims, looking for connections. But, as Civilai often said, “Intentions can be as flimsy as toilet paper in a cheap bar.”
As they pulled into the compound, a police boy dressed in a shirt so big it made him look as if he’d shrunk overnight leapt from the guard booth and waved his arms.
“Should I drive over him?” Sihot asked.
“Better stop, I suppose,” Phosy told him.
The boy ran around to the inspector in the passenger seat.
“Sir, you have to go to K6,” he said. “There’s been a murder.”
Given the pace of communication in the republic, it wasn’t unthinkable for this to have been the message from two days hence just reached the guard post. But Phosy had a bad feeling that wasn’t the case.
“Who told you?” he asked.
“Vietnamese security guy on a motorcycle, about an hour ago,” said the boy.
6
THE CASE OF THE THREE EPEES
I n the ever-flowing words of ex-politburo member Civilai, before the épée murders time in the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos had been speeding by like a thirty-year-old Peugeot on blocks. The country had been stone-cold frozen to the edge of its seats waiting for news of the two major initiatives of 1978. After three years of planning, the cooperative movement was finally launched as outlined in the order N°97: Regulation of Cooperative Farming. Under this accelerated programme the government was certain it would be self-sufficient in food grains by 1981. The economy would be revived and the purest tenet of communism would be realised at the rice roots level.
But the leaders very quickly realised that, like communism, collectivism worked much better on paper than on dirt. The five cooperative principles as per order N°98d had been sound enough: 1. Volunteerism. 2. Mutual benefit. 3. Democratic management. 4. Planned production. 5. Distribution of produce and profit according to labour performed with the right attitude. Thirty to forty families would be gathered together in one collective and all their resources pooled. Each man
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