"And the sjambak?"
A quiet voice spoke from behind. "A visitor, Tuan Murphy."
Murphy turned his head. "Bring him in." He looked back to Soek Panjoebang. She was on her feet.
"It is necessary that I go."
"When will I see you?"
"Tonight—at the Barangipan."
The quiet voice said, "Mr. Rube Trimmer, Tuan."
Trimmer was small and middle-aged, with thin shoulders and a paunch. He carried himself with a hell-raising swagger, left over from a time twenty years gone. His skin had the waxy look of lost floridity, his tuft of white hair was coarse and thin, his eyelids hung in the off-side droop that amateur physiognomists like to associate with guile.
"I'm Resident Director of the Import-Export Bank," said Trimmer. "Heard you were here and thought I'd pay my respects."