The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
But no, idiot and flirt that she was, she knew better than that. Either way, though, I looked d----d ridiculous, and there wasn’t a thing to be done. Oh, there would have to be racing and chasing after her and Solomon, to no avail – in those first hours, you see, I was certain that she was gone for good: Catchick was right, we hadn’t a hope of getting her back. What then? There would still have to be months, perhaps years, of fruitless searching, for form’s sake, expensive, confounded risky, and there I’d be, at the end of it, going home, and when people asked after her, saying: “Oh, she was kidnapped, don’t you know, out East. No, never did discover what happened to her.” J---s, I’d be the laughing-stock of the country – Flashy, the man whose wife was pinched by a half-breed millionaire … “Close friend of the family, too … well, they say she was pinched, but who knows? … probably tired of old Flash, what? – felt like some Oriental mutton for a change, ha-ha.”
I ground my teeth and cursed the day I’d ever set eyes on her, but above all, I felt such hatred of Solomon as I’ve never felt for any other human being. That he’d done this to me – there was no fate too horrible for the greasy rat, but precious little chance of inflicting it, so far as I could see at the moment. I was helpless, while that b----y wop steamed off with my wife – I could just picture him galloping away at her while she pretended maiden modesty, and the world roared with laughter at me, and in my rage and misery I must have let out a muffled yowl, for Brooke turned away from his map, strode across, dropped on one knee beside my chair, gripped my arm, and cries:
“You poor chap! What must you be feeling! It must be unbearable – the thought of your loved one in the hands of that dastard. I can share your anguish,” he went on, “for I know how I should feel if it were my mother. We must trust in God and our own endeavours – and don’t you fret, we shall win her back.”
He absolutely had tears in his eyes, and had to turn his head aside to hide his emotions; I heard him mutter about “a captive damosel” and “blue eyes and golden hair of hyacinthine flow” or some fustian of that sort.17 Then, having clasped my hand, he went back to his map and said that if the b----r had taken her to Borneo he’d turn the place inside out.
“An unexplored island the size of Europe,” says Catchick mournfully. “And even then you are only guessing. If he has gone east, it may as well be to the Celebes or the Philippines.”
“He burns wood, doesn’t he?” says Brooke. “Then he’ll touch Borneo – and that’s my bailiwick. Let him show his nose there, and I’ll hear of it.”
“But you are not in Borneo, my friend—”
“I will be, though, within a week of Keppel’s getting here in Dido. You know her – eighteen guns, two hundred blue-jackets, and Keppel would sail her to the Pole and back on a venture like this!” He was fairly glittering with eagerness. “He and I have run more chases than you can count, Catchick. Once we get this fox’s scent, he can double and turn till he’s dizzy, but we’ll get him! Aye, he can sail to China—”
“Needle in a haystack,” says Balestier, and Catchick and the others joined in, some supporting Brooke and others shaking their heads; while they were at it, one of Whampoa’s Chinese slipped in and whispered in his master’s ear for a full minute, and our host put down his sherry glass and opened his slit eyes a fraction wider, which for him was the equivalent of leaping to his feet and shouting “Great Scott!” Then he tapped the table, and they shut up.
“If you will forgive my interruption,” says Whampoa, “I have information which I believe may be vital to us, and to the safety of the beautiful Mrs Flashman.” He ducked his head at me. “A little time ago I ventured the humble opinion that her abductor would not sail beyond the Indies waters; I had developed a theory, from the scant information in my possession; my agents have been testing it in the few hours that have elapsed since this deplorable crime took place. It concerned the identity of this mysterious Don Solomon Haslam, whom Singapore has known as a merchant and trader – for how long?”
“Ten years or thereabouts,” says Catchick. “He came here as a young man, in about ’35.”
Whampoa bowed acknowledgement. “Precisely; that accords with my own recollection. Since then, when he established a warehouse here, he has visited our port only occasionally, spending most of his time – where? No one knows. It was assumed that he was on trading ventures, or on these estates about which he talked vaguely. Then, three years ago, he returned to England, where he had been at school. He returns how, with Mr and Mrs Flashman, and Mr Morrison.”
“Well, well,” cries Catchick. “We know all this. What of it?”
“We know nothing of his parentage, his birth, or his early life,” says Whampoa. “We know he is fabulously rich, that he never touches strong drink, and I gather – from conversation I have had with Mr Morrison – that on his brig he commonly wore the sarong and went barefoot.” He shrugged. “These are small things; what do they indicate? That he is half-caste, we know; I suggest the evidence points to his being a Muslim, although there is no proof that he ever observes the rituals of that faith. Now then, a rich Muslim, who speaks fluent Malay—”
“The Islands are full of ’em,” cries Brooke. “What are you driving at?”
“—who has been known in these waters for ten years, except for the last three, when he was in England. And his name is Solomon Haslam, to which he attaches the Spanish honorific ‘Don’.”
They were still as mice, listening. Whampoa turned his expressionless yellow face, surveying them, and tapped his glass, which the wench refilled.
“This suggests nothing to you? Not to you, Catchick? Mr Balestier? Your majesty?” This to Brooke, who shook his head. “It did not to me, either,” Whampoa continued, “until I considered his name, and something stirred in my poor memory. Another name. Your majesty knows, I am sure, the names of the principal pirates of the Borneo coast for several years back – could you recall some of them to us now?”
“Pirates?” cries Brooke. “You’re not suggesting—”
“If you please,” says Whampoa.
“Why – well then, let’s see,” Brooke frowned. “There’s Jaffir, at Fort Linga; Sharif Muller of the Skrang – nearly cornered him on the Rajang last year – then there’s Pangeran Suva, out of Brunei; Suleiman Usman of Maludu, but no one’s heard of him for long enough; Sharif Sahib of Patusan; Ranu—”
He broke off, for Catchick Moses had let fly one of his amazing Hebrew exclamations, and was staring at Whampoa, who nodded placidly.
“You noticed, Catchick. As I did – I ask myself why I did not notice five years ago. That name,” and he looked at Brooke, and sipped his sherry. “‘Suleiman Usman of Maludu, but no one has heard of him for long enough’,” he repeated. “I think – indeed, I know, that no one has heard of him for precisely three years. Suleiman Usman – Solomon Haslam.” He put down his sherry glass.
For a moment there was stupefied silence, and then Balestier burst out:
“But that can’t be! What – a coast pirate, and you suggest he set up shop here, amongst us, as a trader, and carried on business, and went a-pirating on the side? That’s not just too rich – it’s downright crazy—”
“What better cover for piracy?” wonders Whampoa. “What better means of collecting information?”
“But d--n it, this fellow Haslam’s a public school man!” cries Brooke. “Isn’t he?”
“He attended Eton College,” says Whampoa gravely, “but that is not, in itself, necessarily inconsistent with a later life of crime.”
“But consider!” cries Catchick. “If it were as you say, would any sane man adopt an alias so close to his own name? Wouldn’t he call himself Smith, or Brown; or – or anything?”
“Not necessarily,” says Whampoa. “I do not doubt that when his parent – or whoever