The Thai Amulet by Lyn Hamilton Page B

single malt scotch on the rocks,” he said. The woman brought her hands, palms together, up to her nose and bowed her head in a
wet
before backing away to get our order.
    “This is nice,” I said. Upstairs on the mezzanine overlooking the lobby, a quartet was playing lovely afternoon tea—type music. The noise and heat of Bangkok could be neither heard nor felt, and Natalie Beauchamp’s problems seemed very far away. I could have stayed there forever.
    “Thought you’d like it. Now, what have you got?”
    “You know that portrait you talked about in Will’s apartment, the one with eyes that followed you?”
    “Sure,” he said.
    “I don’t suppose the woman in the portrait would bear any resemblance to this one,” I said, pulling a newspaper clipping out of my bag and pointing to a photo.
    “No question in my mind. They are one and the same. I’m as certain as I can be without having the portrait in front of me,” he said. “Who is she, and how would you come to have this?”
    “It’s a portrait of someone by the name of Helen Ford. She was an American, convicted here in the early fifties for hacking her husband to pieces and possibly killing her child.”
    “You’re kidding! Will Beauchamp had a painting of an axe murderer in his bedroom?” he exclaimed.
    “I’m not, and he did, if this is the same person.”
    “Whew,” he whistled. “I thought it was bad enough the way she stared at you. Funny, isn’t it? I found that portrait disturbing, but I didn’t know why. Now that I know who she is, I’m wondering if you can sense these things, just looking at a picture. I’d like to think Will didn’t know about her grim past.”
    “Actually, he did. He sent the clippings from the
Bangkok Herald
of that time to his wife as part of the package of junk I told you about. That’s why I have them. I spoke to the young woman who was my competition for the sword, and—”
    “You didn’t happen to get her name, did you?” he said.
    “Tatiana Tucker, film producer,” I said. “She was at the Fourth of July party at Will’s place.”
    “Right. That’s why she looked familiar,” he said. “If I remember correctly, Will was all over her. Did you get her phone number?”
    “I did, and I’ll ask her if she’s interested in meeting you. She would confirm that Will was interested in her, yes. She managed to extract from him the information that he was writing a book about Helen Ford and that he had a portrait of her. I really just needed your unbiased confirmation.”
    “I can confirm it, but I wish I couldn’t. An axe murderer! Over his bed! He looked like a perfectly normal guy,” Ferguson said. “I think I need another scotch,” he added, signaling for the waiter.
    “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds,” I said. “Will may simply have picked the portrait up at a sale somewhere, because he was captivated by it as a work of art, and then started researching to find out who she was. That kind of research would hardly be unusual, or even particularly difficult, for someone in his business.”
    “If you say so,” he said. “You couldn’t just give me that phone number? I’m a nice guy.”
    “I know you are. I’ll talk to her. I have to warn you, though, that she thought Will Beauchamp was an old geezer.”
    “Oh. Scratch that one, then. Forget I mentioned it. What has this Helen Ford business got to do with Beauchamp’s disappearance, do you think?”
    “No idea. It’s all I’ve got, though.”
    “Be careful,” he said.
    Chapter 5
    Peace in Ayutthaya came to an end the year that I reached the age of the ceremonial cutting of the topknot, that is, thirteen years of age, and was forced to move from the inner palace. The king generously saw to it that I had a position as a page in the outer court. Nonetheless, it was a wrenching time for me and for my mother who stayed on to care for Si Sin, only three at the time. I craved the prestige of being a part of the life of the inner