The Night Tiger(95)

“Let’s start again,” he said. Forced smile. The glimpse of a sharp canine tooth. “You lied to me about that finger. Were you one of Chan Yew Cheung’s girls from the dance hall?”

“No—I picked it up by accident.”

He gave me a disbelieving look. Another step, closing in. “Then what about Pei Ling? I heard you asking about her. Did she give you anything?”

What had Pei Ling said? That the salesman had a friend she didn’t like at the hospital; who she was afraid would get his hands on her package. The lists, I thought. Those lists of doctors and patients and sums of money written in another hand. I was still standing on that ridiculous step stool and it occurred to me that if he shoved me backward, I’d crack my head open. Like Pei Ling falling off the stairs.

Half turning, I reached behind. My hand scrabbled over the glass jars. I hurled the jar with the two-headed rat at Y. K. Wong. It smashed open against his arm in a spray of foul liquid. A cry of disgust as he doubled over. Then I was leaping, the biggest jump of my life, trying to get past him, but he caught me by the wrist. No breath to scream, I could only grit my teeth and yank hard. Slipping on the wet floor, he slammed past me into the door. For an instant he stood there, face tight as though he was making up his mind. Then with a twist of the handle, he was out and had locked the door on me.

“Let me out!” I shouted, banging on it.

He put his mouth against the door. “Think about what I asked you,” he said. “I’ll be back for an answer.”



* * *



I yelled until I was hoarse, though by that time, Y. K. Wong was long gone. It was Friday evening; there’d be only a skeleton staff for warded patients over the weekend. Panicked, I tried the windows. They were very tall and most of them had been painted shut. The only open window was a transom that flipped open horizontally across the top. The type that needed a long hook to unfasten. But it was so high up.

Dragging the table over to the window, I climbed up. Not quite high enough. I set the step stool on top. The fumes from the spilled formaldehyde made my eyes water, even as I averted them from the two-headed rat splayed on the floor. I was going to have nightmares about that. Up I went, feeling the double wobble of the step stool and the table, afraid to look down. I stuck my head out through the transom. Eventually someone would find me, though I feared Y. K. Wong might return first if I screamed. Taking a deep breath, I dropped my basket through the opening and heaved myself up. It was tight, even as I wedged myself sideways. Too tight. I was stuck, eight feet off the ground. Please, I thought, I’ll never eat another steamed bun again. A ripping sound as my skirt caught in the hinge. The top of the window scraped my back, then I was through, scrabbling madly at the sill, legs dangling.

I lost my grip in a slithering crash. Sharp pain in my ankle as I landed, palms stinging from scraping against the wall. Running footsteps round the corner. I froze, terrified that it was Y. K. Wong returning, but it was only Koh Beng. I was glad to see his friendly, porky face.

“I heard a scream,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“I twisted my ankle.”

Fortunately Koh Beng seemed more interested in looking up my skirt, which I yanked down with a glare, than asking questions about how I’d managed to fall over behind a building.

“Did you see Y. K. Wong on your way over?”

“No.” Koh Beng gave me a shrewd glance. “Did he want something?”

All I wanted was to sit down quietly somewhere until my hands stopped trembling. Should I report Y. K. Wong? He might claim it was a prank, or that I’d lured him into the storeroom to seduce him. In fact, broadcasting that I worked at a dance hall was enough to discount my testimony. If Shin found out, there’d be trouble; for all his cool quietness, he had an explosive temper. Distracted, I said, “He was looking for a package.”

“Was it Pei Ling’s? I saw the two of you talking right before her accident.”

“She wanted some help.” Not that it had done much good. “What sort of person is Y. K. Wong?”

“He’s an awkward fellow. Tight with Dr. Rawlings, the pathologist. He’s done a lot of work for him.”

Rawlings was another name on that list—was that why Y. K. Wong had the storeroom key? I frowned, thinking hard.

“So what was in that package?”

How much could I trust Koh Beng? He seemed to know a lot about the goings-on in this hospital. I said slowly, “Lists of names and numbers. But please don’t tell Shin about today. It’s a private matter.”

Koh Beng said sympathetically, “Don’t worry, you can count on me.”

He seemed pleased that we shared a secret, and recalling his talk of skulls and weretigers, I asked, “Do you know any superstitions about fingers?”

“Well, the Malays say that each finger has a personality: the thumb is the mother finger, or ibu jari. Then you have the index finger, jari telunjuk, which points the way. The third finger, jari hantu, is the ghost finger, because it’s longer than the others. The fourth one is the ring finger; in some dialects they call it the nameless one. The little finger is the clever one.”

The idea of fingers having personalities troubled me, as though they were five little people. Koh Beng gave me a sideways glance; I was sure he knew that I was hiding something. But he only said, in his friendly porcine way, “Pei Ling was a good friend of mine. I’d like to help. Those lists of names—can you bring them in to show me?”