Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

The clerk reluctantly complied. Mr. Hardcastle emerged from the back room. It was him, the bearded one. In a silk suit today, though, not the soldier of fortune outfit.

How may I serve you, sir?

Hardcastle spoke evenly, in the neutral accent of a man with no nationality. He was playing it as cool as the interior of the building, but there was a glint of recognition in his eyes.

I also played it cool, casually perusing his wares, hoping he did not hear my knees knock. No krises for sale, I commented matter-of-factly.

I deal in fine jewelry, he said, not antiques and curios.

A shame, I replied. Too bad. I’m in the market for a rare and unique example. Something in a wavy blade and gold inlay.

Hardcastle glared at his clerk, who was at the end of the counter, dusting, fussing with the goods, all ears. He retired to the rear in a hurry.

You told my boy you wanted to discuss a jade ring. What’s this about a kris? Take a second gander. See any old daggers in my shop?

I do want to discuss a jade ring, I said vaguely. I described it.

Okay. Let’s have a look.

Uh-uh. I don’t have it on me.

You buying or selling or wasting my time? he said in a tone and with a gaze that removed any doubt that he could kill for a pay-check.

None of the above. I’m trading. Can you locate a kris of comparable worth?

Could be.

Are you interested in the jade ring?

Could be. I’ll give you my address. Come to my home this evening with the ring and I should have a kris—

No, thanks, I interrupted, equal parts peeved and curious about why he persisted with the charade. He recognized me, I knew he did.

Where? he said. You name it.

I made an impulse decision. Five P.M., I blurted. The National Monument. Monas.

Hardcastle grinned and said, Monas at five it is. Don’t be late.

I walked out, more frightened than before. If that were possible.

It had been too easy, Hardcastle had been too agreeable. I met Malik and related the encounter.

You did well, he said; you picked the busiest place in town at one of the busiest times.

I know, I said. Maybe Hardcastle won’t kill me in front of a thousand witnesses. I hope.

You did right, Malik said. You did fine.

Thanks, I guess. Do I really meet Hardcastle?

Yes. You must give him the ring. You could not have taken it to his shop. You might not have departed alive. You will give him the ring, and you will accept a kris in exchange. He will be suspicious if he acquires something for nothing.

Then?

Then we will be free of the evil.

And what about you while this is happening? I asked Malik.

He smiled. Me? he said. I will be exceedingly grateful.

The National Monument, Monumen Nasional, a white marble obelisk called Monas for short, was patterned after our Washington Monument. Another Sukarno inspiration, completed in 1961, Monas betters our needle on two counts. It has a pedestal base, and on top is a bronze flame coated with seventy-seven pounds of gold leaf.

Sukarno intended Monas as a testament to the strength of the Republic. Some Indonesians call it paku jagat, “axis of the world.” Others, less reverent, refer to it as Sukarno’s last erection.

It is located in the center of Medan Merdeka Independence Field, a square kilometer of neatly landscaped park. At five o’clock Jakarta was awakening from its afternoon siesta. People on foot and on vehicles clustered to the park.

A thousand witnesses, hell. I’d have two thousand, three thousand. Bring on Hardcastle!

I was a few minutes early. He was waiting on the south lawn midway between Monas and the adjacent street, waving to me. In gray slacks and white shirt, he looked like a tropical Western diplomat, a mid-level embassy staffer. Congeniality was written all over his face.

I was scared spitless.

But I went to him.

I stopped just out of arm’s reach. A gaggle of laughing children ran between us.

Move in closer, Hardcastle said. I won’t bite. I don’t want to shout.

Do you have a kris? I asked, firm and businesslike.

He stepped backward. Do you have a ring?

I looked around. No Neck wasn’t in sight. I stepped forward and said — words I didn’t know were there tumbled out of my mouth— You killed the Chinese man in a becak.

He cheated me, Hardcastle said pleasantly.

How?

Please allow me to examine your ring.

I tossed it to him. He held it to the sky and squinted. Same one, same garbage, he said with a twisted snarl I hadn’t seen on a diplomat’s face lately.

I have it on good authority that the gold and diamonds are genuine and the jade is the finest Burmese jadeite, I said.

He laughed. Genuine for a no-class loser, he said. Like you. Look at yourself, you look like a transient. The setting is ten-karat gold and the diamonds are chips. The garbage is the piece of glass you’re pawning off on me as jade.

I don’t understand. You did business with Mr. Lee on a regular basis.

He was moving on. The authorities were putting the heat on him. I have an associate in government with wide eyes and big ears. He tipped me. Lee figured he’d rip me off as a parting shot.

Mr. Lee was smuggling?