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

“Why would they send a trained assassin when any one of a hundred persons in the crowd could kill you at a kite fight?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“And if you fear him so much, why have you agreed to teach him to kite fight?”

“Maybe I’ve got some crazy idea of winning him over. Maybe I figure if he gets to know me well enough he won’t be able to kill me.”

“And maybe you’re wrong about him.”

“We’ll see,” he said quietly.

They held a mock kite fight the following evening and though Crawford cut up the younger man’s kite quite badly, Fleet managed to stay in the contest for nearly an hour. Then they switched kites and Crawford demonstrated the techniques of soaring and gliding by which the smaller kite’s long tail could be used to entangle the star points of the larger kite. The young man learned fast, with an intensity Madame Wu could only admire.

But at the end of the evening she had a question for Fleet while Crawford gathered up the fallen kites. “The other morning when you came to my shop — I saw you watching it the night before.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I was trying to work up my courage. Finally I decided to wait till morning.”

“I see.”

“He’s a great man, Crawford is.”

“I think so,” Madame Wu said. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him.”

“You speak English quite well,” Fleet observed, studying her closely for the first time. “Did Crawford teach you?”

“The Americans taught me. Crawford was the last of many, but the most important one. After Crawford, I want no more teachers.”

“What about this man Bates?”

“He was a doctor once, but when he came here a few years back he was a merchant, employed by a British company. He doesn’t talk much about his past. No one does in Bangkok.”

“Does Crawford?”

Her eyes searched his face. “He talks to me. Why do you wonder?”

Mike Fleet shrugged. “I don’t know. I asked him about Vietnam and he changed the subject. Hell, we were both there! I thought he’d want to talk about it.”

“Some things are better left in the past.”

Bates had appeared from somewhere to speak with Crawford and when they parted Crawford came over with the kites to where Fleet and Madame Wu stood waiting. “Bates says the Pakistani wants a rematch.”

“Will you give him one?” Fleet wanted to know.

“It’s customary. One rematch — like in championship boxing.”

“When?” Madame Wu asked.

“Tomorrow evening.”

“I will need to free more eels.”

Crawford’s eyes twinkled. “What’s the matter? The last batch run out of steam already?”

“For the major kite fights a new ritual is needed.”

He smiled at Fleet. “I taught her everything I know about business but she still can’t face a decision or a kite fight without releasing her eels.”

“She’s a fine woman,” the younger man said. “I wish I could find one half as good in this city.”

“There are new ones arriving every day from the rural areas. Some say there might be as many as two hundred thousand prostitutes in Bangkok.”

Fleet blushed at his words. “I don’t mean a prostitute.” Crawford turned to Madame Wu. “Tell him what you were when I found you, Anna.”

She sucked in her breath and said, very quietly, not looking at either of them, “I was a bar hostess at the Café of Floating Lights. Crawford took me away from that and set me up in business.”

“You’re a lucky man, Crawford. With a woman like this I wouldn’t have gone back home either.”

“Let’s hope you find one,” Crawford said.

They parted then, and Madame Wu fell into step beside Crawford. “What do you think of him?” she asked.

Crawford pondered a moment. Then he said simply, “I think he’s been sent to kill me.”

Over breakfast the next morning Crawford made plans for the day. “I need to fix up the kite a bit for tonight. Fleet will be there and I have to put on a good show for him.”

“Even if he plans to kill you?”

“I could be wrong. Maybe he’s as innocent as you think. Anyway, I can’t go through the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”

She went downstairs to the shop with him. He needed to buy more heavy kite string so she unlocked the door to let him out. It was not yet nine o’clock, and the little street of shops was still nearly deserted. As he stood in the doorway she heard something like a muffled cough. He stepped back into the shop and slammed the door. He was holding his side and when he took his hand away Madame Wu saw the blood.

“Crawford — what is it?” She tried to keep her voice calm, though her heart was racing.

“Someone just took a shot at me from across the street. Either he used a silencer or it was a small-caliber target pistol.”

“Did you see anyone?” she asked, pulling away his shirt to expose the wound.

“No. Don’t bother with that. It just grazed me.”

“You’re bleeding. You need stitches.”

“He’s a damned lousy shot.”

“Lucky for you! I must get you to a doctor.”

“No. A little tape will close the wound.”

“You will bleed to death!” She was insistent now. Though there was not much blood, his face was very pale.

She helped him upstairs and brought some tape, but after an examination of the wound in a mirror he was forced to agree with her.