Across the baize

I found the entrance by mistake. That could well have been the intention because, although the arrangement seemed secure, the address was decidedly vague - hidden, as it was, amid a dark labyrinth of back sois that gurgled with mischief and neon glitz.

Nevertheless, I was greeted by a smiling dwarf with a metal leg, who pushed aside a heavy red drape, and led me along a pee-stained corridor.

Venue? Bangkok snooker club. Time? About 9.30 p.m. Temperature? Rising. Corruption? About 80 per cent.

Welcome to the real world of snooker. A world full of dedicated players who seek gratification through the game, and frequently find it by using their skills to separate you from your money, if you don't keep your eye on the ball. Literally.

It's also illegal. Which doubles the fun, and, quite often, the stakes.

This is a world of hustle, challenge, and addiction. Although the atmosphere appears to be laid-back and fairly congenial, it's just a front for strangers with awkward questions. On each of the 15 full-size tables there is a game in progress, and, therefore, money on the outcome. There is little chat because someone has to win, and someone has to lose between the fangs and claws of instants of happiness.

Thailand is a nation of game players who fool with the rules to suit the occasion. Golf is perfect for deal making and power broking-which is why caddies know more about what's going on here than anyone else. When a bigwig takes 20 minutes over a putt on the 18th hole, it's not that he's hoping to emulate Tiger Woods, it's because there's Bt100,000 and an apartment block in Nong Khai riding on the outcome.

So it is with snooker. Inter-club tournaments involving high caliber players can attract enough money to buy, well, a golf course. Like most imports, snooker has been dramatically tweaked and honed to suit the culture. The table, equipment, and basic professional rules may be standard, but the Thais have developed their own variations of the game with names like "Electricity," "Striped Ghost," and "Russian Snooker." The difference being, they make the game much faster, more exciting, and completely unpredictable. They also ensure a result that lines the pocket of the player, the opponent, and the punter. In essence, the match is gambled on as it goes along. Indeed, there are games within games. Most variations use only six red balls, but for some, even that takes too long. Hey, why not bet on one ball? And why not bet on one ball going into that pocket? Here's Bt1,000 if you sink the top left. You're on.

Pro snooker began to make its presence felt in Thailand when Barry Hearn brought Steve Davis and a couple of his stablemates to play an exhibition match here in the mid eighties-which coincided with the rise of Thai cuesman, James Wattana.

Prior to this, there were probably fewer than thirty snooker parlours in Bangkok, all of which could only be described as lacking in style-not to mention air-conditioning, a decent table, and a reasonable chance of getting out alive. Fees were Bt4 a game, and you left your wife or girlfriend at home. Definitely a boy's night out.

Today, snooker halls can be found on very major thoroughfare, and there are plenty more tucked away like this one, whose name I cannot reveal because I am quite attracted to life. Many clubs are still dingy dives full of hoods and hitmen-but downtown and upmarket the newer clubs boast bars, carpets, cable TV, and private rooms along with attractive female staff who set the tables, keep the score, and the balls. (No. Don't even think about it.) Fees are charged by the hour, and range from Bt90 to Bt550. Upcountry, a snooker table can be found in almost every village headman's front yard.

However, if you're thinking of starting your own club, I suggest you pour a large Scotch and sit down. For starters, you will have to obtain a license-which comes in at around half a million baht-to be paid to certain gentleman who officially don't earn much, but seem to own an incredible amount. Secondly, you'll need a "stable" of at least ten top players who will have to be taken care of. The average parlour has 12 full-size tables, each costing around Bt400,000. You'll require staff that are courteous, hard-working, discrete, and, preferably, armed.

You'll also need balls. They are a necessity in this game.

Shall I pour you another, or have you decided on a flower shop instead?

But if you are still determined to "play" in this snooker business, then you had better start watching the players who will make it pay for you. They fall into several categories, and, like any sport, there are very few of the very best-the cream of which are currently led by James Wattana.

This elite is followed by the " A" class, who are well-known on the circuit and regularly make a century break. Bets placed on these guys measure in the hundreds of thousands per game, with each player receiving a percentage. Many of these top players belong to a stable and live above the parlour rent-free.

They are "owned," nurtured, and contracted by the club, and - just like prize stallions - are extremely valuable.

The " B" class are occasional century breakers, are still in touch with the top talent, and the punters are very much in touch with them.

"C" class players frequently make half-century breaks and are rising through the ranks, whereas the "D" class potter sometimes makes a good break, and the "E" class loser is going to take a century just to make one.

And then there are the hustles. The classic snooker shark has a vague manner that conceals a very shrewd judgement.

He's a loner who consciously plays down his talent. He'll enter a club in another part of town, saunter up to the dais - a raised area with two tables that are strictly for those with talent or money to burn - and suggest a game. Losing a few "small change" encounters to lay the trap, he'll then begin to obliterate the opposition, pocket the "serious money" and move on.

He takes great care not to build a reputation, and harbours no desire to turn pro. Hugging the shadows and covering a wide area, he does very nicely indeed.

The "odds" players are the hustlers who frequent the clubs but don't play - preferring to study the form of those who do. They bet on the odds as to whether a player will pot a certain ball in a designated pocket or not. Wandering pot from table to table all day, they are practically part of the furniture, such as it is. They only drink water and don't always have their own teeth - but to these guys, it's not the game, it's not the game, it's the outcome. They figure on about Bt500 a day.

That's Bt15,000 a month.

But to the true snooker addict, both the game and the outcome are of equal importance. A double rush. It could almost be called a "respectable" addiction, but it isn't. The typical snooker junkie is over 25 years old, unemployed, or a sales representative. He plays every day, usually from around 5 pm until the witching hour, while the true extremist thinks nothing of playing 40 hours straight. They neither eat nor drink on the short haul sessions because it dulls the focus. These addicts are open about their addiction. Many are married, and the wives don't seem too upset either - at least they know where their husband are. Nonetheless, a mobile phone is de rigeur.

Finally, there are those payers who love the game but play it badly. Let's call them "oddballs." They lose enormous amounts of money but they don't care - as they are masters at playing other games that they don't enjoy as much, but which earn them a fortune. Stocks, bonds, logs, girls, gems, opium. Whatever.

My snooker "contact" here is an oddball. He's a wealthy, elegant man with a brain the size of a small planet, who's hopelessly devoted to the game, and who loses far more than he wins. He wears black gloves to protect his hands from calluses, and he owns the most beautiful custom-made cue I've ever seen. It's a precision instrument, a work of art that's balanced and weighted to perfection, and comes with a double extension that makes "the rest" redundant. He has a special briefcase in which he carries his balls, cue tips, chopsticks, and chalk. Very 007.

He can't remember when he last saw daylight, and asked me to describe it to him. I tried really hard, but I couldn't remember either.

He grinned at me and said, "I'll" give you Bt300 if you sink the black in the centre pocket."

Click…missed by a mile. Another game perhaps? Absolutely.

By Roger Beaumont
  Available at Bookazine

True Crimes

by David Cocksedge

ONE OF THE strangest romances in British legal history began on the afternoon of Friday 13 October 1944. An American serviceman who liked to call himself Second Lieutenant Richard Allen (22) of the 501st Parachute Regiment, US army, walked into a small cafe in Queen Caroline Street on London 's Hammersmith Broadway. His real name was Karl Gustav Hulten, and he recalled later, "I saw my pal Len Bexley sitting there with a young lady. I took another seat, but he asked me to come over and join them, which I did."

Bexley introduced 'Ricky' to Elizabeth ('Betty') Jones, an 18-year-old stripper who worked under the name Georgina Grayson. She rented a room under this name at 311 King Street , close to where she now sat. Born and brought up in South Wales , Betty was married when she was only 16 to a soldier. This man, ten years her senior, had a quick temper and a brutish manner. When he punched her in the face at their wedding reception, she promptly walked out on him and made her way to London . There she had a succession of seedy, unfulfilling jobs - a waitress, cinema usherette and striptease dancer at the Blue Lagoon Club. When Hulten met her that fateful Friday, she was unemployed, and 'resting between jobs'.

In his statement, Hulten recalled, "We sat drinking tea and coffee as we talked for a while in the cafeteria, and afterwards we all got up and left together. Mrs Jones and I walked towards the Broadway. I asked her is she would care to come out later on that evening."

At 11.30pm that same evening, Betty Jones was just about to give up her wait outside the Broadway Cinema, when Hulten drove up in a two-and-a-half-ton ten-wheeled US Army truck. Highly impressed, Betty was soon sitting beside him. It was an appropriately bizarre start to an affair that was to destroy them both. Between them, they would commit one of the most cold-blooded, senseless killings in civilian life whilst Britain was at war. The newspapers of the day were to dub them the wartime 'Bonnie & Clyde' after the famous American gangsters of the 1930's. After a spate of bank robberies and murders, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were finally gunned down in a police ambush in Louisiana on 23 May 1934. Their destructive careers were glamorised by Hollywood in a 1967 cult movie starring Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty.

In a sense, Hulten and Jones were still children, locked in the world of celluloid fantasy that comprised wartime entertainment. 'Ricky' told his new girlfriend that the truck was stolen, and that he was a lieutenant in a US paratroop regiment. In fact, Private Hulten from Idaho was an army deserter, who had left his post and gone AWOL (away without leave). His lies appealed to Betty's sense of the romantic, and she responded that she had always wanted to do something exciting, like "become a gun moll like they do in the States." Hulten boasted, again untruthfully, that he had "carried a gun for the Mob in Chicago ." He then produced an automatic pistol, which further impressed Betty Jones.

The point of no return had now been reached: they were both committed to act out the roles they had chosen for themselves, and admired in each other. A sequence of events had been put into motion that would not stop short of murder.

As they drove towards Reading , ( Berkshire ), they overtook a lone girl on a bicycle just after 1.00am. Hulten stopped the large truck, and waited for the girl to cycle past them. As she did, he pushed her off her machine and grabbed her handbag, which had been slung over the handlebars. Before the poor girl could get back on her feet, the modern highway robbers were back in the truck and speeding towards London . The proceeds of Hulten's cowardly attack were a couple of shillings and some wartime clothing coupons. At 5.00am, they returned to Betty's room in King Street after Hulten had parked the truck nearby.

The next day, they planned to hold up a pub landlord and relieve him of his proceedings, but abandoned the idea when they saw that he was not alone. Betty then suggested that they rob a taxi-driver, and Hulten forced one to stop at gunpoint. But before they could get inside the cab and take his money, the astute cabbie drove off and left them by the roadside. This wartime version of 'Bonnie & Clyde' would be a comedy act if it were not for the tragic events that were to follow.

Whilst the Hammersmith outlaws were driving back into London 's black-out along the Edgware Road , Jones suggested that they stop and pick up a young woman who was making her way to Bristol via Paddington station. Hulten offered to drive her as far as Reading and the young girl, Sandra Gregory (18) climbed gratefully into the truck between them. Hulten's later statement read, "When we were almost through Runnymede Park going towards Windsor I pulled off the road and stopped the truck. I told the girl we had a flat tyre. We all got out. And then I hit the girl over the head with an iron bar." Whilst Hulten held Ms Gregory face-down on the ground, Jones rifled her pockets. Hulten's statement continued, "By this time the girl had ceased struggling. I picked her up by the shoulders and Betty picked up her feet. We carried her over and dumped her about three feet from the edge of a stream." Their proceeds from this nasty little crime were less than five shillings. Their victim, Ms Gregory, thankfully survived her physical ordeal, though the mental scars took longer to heal.

The next day they decided to try another taxi heist. Soon after 2.00am they flagged down a cab driven by George Heath (45). This was a grey Ford V8 saloon, registration number RD 8955. As they were approaching the Chiswick roundabout, Hulten ordered the driver to stop, telling him they would get out and pay him. Heath pulled into the kerb. According to Elizabeth Jones' later statement: "As the driver was leaning over to open the door for me, I saw a flash and heard a bang. Heath moaned slightly and turned a little towards the front. Ricky said, 'Move over or I'll give you another dose of the same.' I heard Heath breathing very heavily and his head slumped on his chest." Without any warning, Hulten had shot him through the upholstery of the driver's seat, presumably as an act to impress his new girlfriend. Hulten had now crossed the line. He was no longer just a small-time punk, a dim-witted petty criminal. He was a murderer and his girlfriend an accomplice in this dastardly crime.

Hulten then replaced Heath behind the wheel of the saloon, and while he drove towards Staines his companion systematically emptied the dying man's pockets. Heath struggled to hold onto life for just fifteen more minutes before succumbing to a massive internal hemorrhage. His stiffening corpse was unceremoniously cast into a ditch by Knowle Green, just outside Staines . The couple drove home at 4 am, and after wiping the cab of fingerprints, they left it in the cinema car park behind Hammersmith Broadway. After eating at the Black and White cafe nearby, they went back to Ms Jones' room to look over the loot. In celebration of their deadly deed, Jones and Hulten then had wild sex before they fell asleep together. This is relevant, because Hulten's defence team presented this during the trial as evidence to illustrate just how excited Ms. Jones had been by witnessing a killing. "She was really turned on by watching me kill the cab driver", he stated later. "She virtually demanded sex."

George Heath's body was discovered six hours later by Robert Balding, an auxiliary fireman. Heath's less immediately useful possessions, such as his cheque book and driver's licence, lay where they had been thrown out onto the Great West Road . These were found by John Jones, an apprentice electrician. This gave a possible identity to the corpse, and a description of George Heath and his car were circulated to all London police units.

Meantime, Hulten and his moll had been disposing of their victim's marketable possessions - they sold his fountain pen and wristwatch and then passed the afternoon spending the proceeds at the famous White City greyhound track. That evening, they watched Deanna Durbin in the movie 'Christmas Holiday'.

Now full of bravado, they drove around openly in Heath's V8 saloon, seemingly unaware that the Metropolitan Police had circulated details of the vehicle throughout the force. Hulten later drove alone to Newbury, to his old army camp, and then returned to London and the arms of another girlfriend, Ms Joyce Cook.

But his luck finally ran out when PC William Walters was out on his regular 'beat'. The policeman spotted a Ford saloon parked in Lurgan Avenue , off the Fulham Road . Walters took careful note of the registration number - RD 8955.

In response to his call, Walters was soon joined by Inspector John Read and a sergeant. The three men took it in turns to keep watch on the car. Just after 9.00pm, Hulten left Joyce Cook's house and walked towards the stolen V8. PC Walters stepped up. "Is this your car, sir?" he enquired in the polite manner typical of Britain 's police force.

At Hammersmith police station, Hulten stated that he was Second Lieutenant Richard Allen of the 501st Parachute Regiment, US Army. In his hip pocket was found a Remington automatic pistol and three clips of ammunition. "Allen" claimed that he had found the car abandoned near Newbury, and was using it to get about. The next day, he was transferred to the American Military Police at its' HQ in Piccadilly.

This was in perfect accord with wartime protocol, which recognised the sovereignty of American servicemen stationed in Britain , and did not permit them to be tried in British courts. When the Americans discovered that Hulten was a deserter and a murder suspect, however, they waived this right and returned him to the ministrations of British law and justice. US military brass had had enough of Karl Hulten and his constant insubordination. Like Pontius Pilate, the American Army washed its' hands of him.

Hulten had by now given police Ms Jones' name and address at King Street , and she had been interviewed at Hammersmith police station, where she made a statement. Later on, Elizabeth Jones made a full confession of her part in the murder of George Heath. She blamed Hulten (whom she now knew was not 'Ricky Allen') for everything, stating that he had threatened her with violence and that she was very afraid of him. Karl Hulten in turn blamed Ms Jones for egging him on to the deadly deed. "If it had not been for her urging me to use the gun, I would never have shot Heath", he claimed.

In January 1945 Hulten and Ms Jones appeared at the Old Bailey before Mr Justice Charles and a jury of twelve London citizens. Six days later, on 21 January, they were found guilty of murder and sentence of death was pronounced on them both. Their appeals for clemency were dismissed in February 1945.

For Karl Gustav Hulten, the last reel of the third-rate gangster movie he had made of his pathetic life came to an end on 8 March 1945. He died kicking at the end of a rope in Wormwood Scrubs prison just a week after his 23rd birthday.

Betty Jones was reprieved just two days before her execution date and spent the next decade in gaol. She was finally released on licence in November 1954. Ten years in Holloway Prison had cured her of any further fanciful ideas of becoming a gangster's moll.

(Research, 'The American soldier and his English moll'; crimelibrary.com)

IF YOU need a check on my True Crime series of stories, published in the Hua Hin Observer, here is a complete list to date:
April 2002 -The Green Bicycle case, 1921. May 2002 - The Craig/Bentley Case, 1952. June 2002 - The A6 Murder Case, 1961. July 2002 - Murder of the Earl of Errol, 1941. August 2002 - The O J Simpson murder trial, 1995. September 2002 - The Aileen Wuornos case, 1989. October 2002 - The Ronald Opus case, 1993. November 2002 - Madame X, 1929. December 2002 - The Spree Killer, 1984. January 2003 - Shootout at Smiths' Club, 1966. February 2003 - The Christine Dryland case, 1991. March 2003 - Poisoned Pie in Essex, 1982. April 2003 - The Heydrich assassination, 1943. May 2003 - The Diana Davidson Murder case, 1969. June 2003 - The death of Alkibiades, 404 BC. July 2003 - The headsman of Colmar, 1780. August 2003 - The Ruth Ellis case, 1955. September 2003 - The Mel Jones Murder case, 1975. October 2003 - The Bluebeard of the bath, 1915. November 2003 - Murder in a combat zone, 1966. December 2003 - The Barn Restaurant murder case, 1972. January 2004 - The assassination of JFK, 1963. February 2004 - Judge Falcone and the Mafia, 1992. March 2004 - Gilles de Rais/Bluebeard, 1404-1440. April 2004 - The hand in the sand case, 1885. May 2004 - The body in the bag, 1979.

UNDERGROUND WITH THE HILL TRIBES

The cave opened like a crater, leading deep into the center of the earth.

Peering over the edge, the darkness quickly gathered, preventing us from seeing the bottom. And, yet, we felt compelled to explore. Dangerous? Maybe, but for real adventurers, there is no such word as "afraid." Unfortunately, my friend Darren and I weren't real adventurers.

"I'm afraid." I said, holding the vine with one hand, but clinging to a tree for dear life, with the other.

"Just let go of the tree, and slide down the vine, to the bottom of the cave." Advised Darren. "What could possibly happen?"

"I could fall and die, for example." I said.

"People do it in the movies, all the time." Pointed out Darren.

"If it's so easy, why don't you do it?"

"You're younger." He argued, reasonably.

"Yes, but you've already lived your life. If you died it wouldn't be such a tragedy."

"I have a wife and child."

"You see, I don't. And if I die today, I never will."

"Well, if you won't do it, who will?" asked Darren.

"One, two, three, four." Blurted out the third member of our team, Ningo, a son of the Luoa tribe. This was the only English he knew, and he used it to convey a surprising array of meanings. In this instance, he meant "There is no darn way I am sliding down that vine."

"Maybe we should try a different cave." Suggested Darren.

When I asked the owner of Rose Guest House, Darren Wright, where the best

adventures could be found, he invited me to his country home, in a tiny village, called Nong Kiao , north west of Chiang Dao.

As soon as we arrived, I realized that this small, out of the way location had a lot to offer, in both adventure and culture.

Most of the population were from the Lua tribe, but almost all of the other tribes were represented as well. There were Lihsu, Lahoo, Karin, Katchin, Musa, Akha, and Isan. The nearest town was Nong Ouch, where, in addition to Thai hill tribe people, there were Chinese hill tribe people, Chinese Thais, and Chinese immigrants. As each tribe has their own language, the two lingua-franca were Thai and Chinese. The region was also full of temples and churches, with nearly every denomination of Christianity, Animism, Thai Buddhism, and Chinese Buddhism.

Darren and I stowed our gear, grabbed some flashlights, and headed off to the caves, to do some exploring.

"It would be better of we could get one of the Lua to come with us." Said Darren, slowing down in front of the bamboo hut of his friend, Ningo Lua.

"He looks pretty busy in his garden." I said.

"I'll twist his arm." Said Darren. Then in Thai, he called to his friend. "Do you want to go in the caves?" Without a second's hesitation, Ningo threw away his shovel, and hoped into the truck.

"Where was this guy when you were selling insurance?" I joked to Darren.

The area around Nong Kiao is absolutely breath taking. The rolling, green hills lead right off to the border, where, on a clear day, you can just about make out an outpost of the Lua State Army. The jungle is full of edible plants, which the hill tribe children would show us, the following day on our hunting trip. The sad thing about the area, however, is that, as roads are built, making the land accessible to outsiders, the forest is often destroyed to make farms. Slash and burn farming is illegal, but there seems to be some loophole, which allows people to farm land which was burned by natural causes. Natural causes seem to occur more often after roads are built.

Although there was no shortage of beautiful scenery, and unexplored trekking, all too often, Darren would point out his window at the horribly, barren fields and say "This was all jungle two years ago."

The area is definitely worth visiting. And is still one of the wildest I have seen in Thailand . But the question is, how much longer can this last?

At the bottom of a small hill, the temperature suddenly dropped by several degrees centigrade. Feeling around, we discovered a vent shaft, which acted as a natural air conditioner, blowing cold air out of the caves. A few meters further was the massive entrance, seven meters in diameter, which led to a shaft, at least ten meters deep. Since we didn't have proper equipment with us, we opted, instead, to enter one of the other caves, which opened onto a, more or less, horizontal plate, where we could walk and scramble, with little difficulty.

At times, caving is a lot like rock climbing. All of the elements of clinging to rock faces, looking for hand holds, and maintaining balance are there. But you have several added dangers, which you have to be aware of.

First of all, it's dark in a cave. So you always have to be careful of your flashlight. If you loose it, that could be the end of your expedition.

Another danger is rain. Outside a storm had been blowing in. Under the earth, we had no idea what was happening topside. Cavers will sometimes have to crawl through a very narrow tunnel, or even through subterranean

waterways to reach their destinations. If it begins to rain outside, these small passageways could become blocked, as the water table rises. The real danger is that there is no warning at all, as you cannot hear the rain, when you are fifty feet below the surface.

The final issue you have to deal with in caving is slime. If you remember the films "Ghost Busters" or "Men in Black," just picture all of that green alien slime attached to a rock, which you are trying to climb. It also attaches itself to your clothing, hair, and body.

Ningo, at age twenty-two, was the youngest of us. He was as agile as a ring-tailed lemur, and could probably have scaled any of the walls easily. But, in order to keep Darren and me from loosing face, we fell down a lot, he held back, always trailing behind us. Darren, who is in his mid forties has lead an incredible life, having worked in Africa and Asia since

graduating university, back in the UK . So, we were constantly talking, swapping sea-stories. When we reached the punch line, and began laughing together, Ningo would suddenly blurt out "One, two, three, four," and then laugh right along with us.

We explored each cave to a point that we would require climbing equipment to continue any further. Buddhist monks, from a forest monastery, had built a huge shrine in one of the caves, converting it to a temple. It was a holly,

quiet place of reflection, and could bring about healing to tortured souls, willing to make the pilgrimage from the city.

That two crazy Farangs would want to go crawl around in a slimy cave is something Hill Tribe people and Thais don't quite understand. But, for people like Ningo, who have been around Darren before, they are used to it.

While all of the hill tribe people seem to be gifted climbers, and even enjoy going on an adventure like this one, with their Farang friends, caving or climbing doesn't seem to be something they would ever do on their own. A friend, who lived with hill tribes for many years, told me that historically hill tribes had been so poor, that they couldn't afford to waste calories in foolish pursuits, such as sports. They had to conserve all of their energy, and focus it on feeding their family.

The people of Nong Kiao, on the other hand, were one of the lucky hill tribe groups who seem to be developing economically. The villagers all looked well fed. The children attended school. And everyone spoke Thai. They had reached a point in their development where leisure activities might start to take off. Darren told me. "Usually, if I drive through the village, telling people I am going caving, the whole truck is full in no time. Everyone wants to go."

The outdoor adventure sports are all exciting. But the truly special experience of doing these activities in Thailand is getting to know the Thai and hill tribe people. I try to make every experience a cultural exchange, with the adventure activity simply functioning as a backdrop. Darren and his wife seemed to take a similar approach, and are hoping that Farangs, visiting Chiangmai, will want to come stay at their country home, experience village life, go caving, learn traditional, hill tribe archery, explore the mountains, and swim in the hot springs and waterfalls. "On the one hand, I hope too many people don't come here, because that could destroy the village." Said Darren. "But if a few people came, with the right attitude, it could be good for the villagers and for the Farangs."

For a cultural experience and an exciting adventure, I can highly recommend Nong Kiao.

You can contact the author at: antonio_graceffo@hotmail.com

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