Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

The kites maneuvered in the wind for another ten minutes before the end came quite quickly. Crawford saw his opportunity and took it, swooping down to loop his string around that of the smaller kite. Then he pulled it in and the barbs sliced easily through the Pakistani’s string. The small kite, freed of its mooring, rose with the wind and drifted over the trees as the crowd cheered. Crawford allowed himself a slight smile as he began pulling in his own kite. Then he went around collecting on his bets as Madame Wu trailed behind.

Later, over drinks at a nearby outdoor nightclub, one of the other gamblers conceded, “Crawford, you’re the best there is. You’re better than any of these local lads, and better than the Pakistanis, too.” His name was Bates and he was a British merchant who often made big wagers on the kite fights.

Crawford smiled his sleepy smile and said, “It was Madame Wu’s eels that did it for me. I’m a great believer in local customs.”

“I can see that.” Bates drained his glass and ordered another drink. “There’s a young American in town,” he said casually. “Have you met him yet?”

“Who would that be?” Crawford asked.

“His name’s Michael Fleet. He says he was in Vietnam, like you were.”

Crawford merely grunted. A great many young Americans had passed through Bangkok in the years he’d been there. But Madame Wu sensed there was some other purpose to the Englishman’s inquiry. “What is so special about this American?” she asked.

Bates toyed with his empty glass while awaiting a refill. “He says he wants to learn kite fighting. I thought he might look you up.”

“Maybe he will,” Crawford conceded. He put down his glass and stood up. “Come on, Anna. It’s time we were getting home.”

“When will you be fighting again?” Bates wanted to know.

“When the south wind is right and the bets are big.” Crawford picked up the star kite, which was leaning against the wall, and went out with Madame Wu behind him.

She carefully filled the long pipe and handed it to him as he lay on the bed. “What are you thinking of?” she asked.

“Lots of things. How it was back home — and in Vietnam.”

Madame Wu took a deep breath. “You said once, a long time ago, that someday a man would come to kill you. Do you remember that?”

“I remember,” he said.

“You are different tonight — since the Englishman mentioned this young American. Do you fear him?”

He turned away from her on the bed. “I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“Why would anyone come after all these years?”

“Some people have long memories,” he said simply.

“Is that why you never went home to America?”

“That, and other reasons.”

She sighed and changed the subject. “How much money did you win tonight?”

“About six thousand bahts,” he said and turned back to her with a smile. “That’s around three hundred American dollars. Very good for an hour’s work.”

She smiled too. It was very good. But it reminded her that she had not checked the day’s receipts in the curio shop. “I will be back,” she told him. He nodded and drew on his pipe.

Downstairs she went quickly about the task of counting the cash in the register and adding up the credit card purchases. While she was working she happened to glance out the big front window and saw a man standing in the shadows across the street. Though she could not see his face, she thought he was watching the building.

When she went back to the apartment she did not mention the man to Crawford.

The following morning over breakfast she asked, “Why do we stay in Bangkok, Crawford? We could go to Australia and I could open a new shop there.”

“Australia? What gave you that idea?”

“Perhaps it is time for a new beginning.”

He grunted and sipped his coffee.

“I’d better go down and open the shop,” she decided.

The sign over the front read MADAME WU’S CURIO EMPORIUM. Crawford had christened it that when she opened the place with money he’d supplied. She’d never asked him about the money, which somehow had come with him out of the jungles of Vietnam. She had learned long ago to accept without question whatever life had to offer her.

But now there was a man waiting for her to open the shop. Instinctively she knew it was the man she’d seen in the shadows across the street last night. She tried to smile as she unlocked the door and said, “Come right in. We’re open for business.”

“Does Sidney Crawford live here?” he asked.

She studied his tanned face and saw a young, innocent expression that might have belonged to an angel in an old painting. Surely that face could hold no danger for Crawford. “Yes,” she said. “He lives here. Who are you?”

“Name’s Michael Fleet. Mike Fleet. I want to learn kite fighting.”

She recognized the name as the one Bates had mentioned the previous evening. “Were you there last night?” she asked.

“I sure was! But afterward you all went off in a crowd to the nightclub and I didn’t want to intrude. An Englishman named Bates said I should see Crawford. He said he’s the best kite fighter in the city.”