It was a balmy evening that followed a balmy day at the end of a balmy month. The hot season lurked beyond the mountains of Vietnam, awaiting its cue to bake the Lao capital, but until it made its entrance the calm evenings brought out a procession of girls and boys doubling up on bicycles like amusement park duck targets hoping to be hit with a smile or a nod. They pedaled so slowly it was inconceivable the momentum was enough to hold them upright. Siri had invented the word “ertia,” which was a microscopic step up from “inertia” and perfectly described flirtatious cycling. He shamelessly teased the girls he passed and they pretended not to hear him. But there was no disguising the small curl of lip, the flutter of eyelashes. No woman is deaf to a compliment.

The morgue door was ajar. Siri left the bicycle and Ugly in the shade of a nipplewort tree and kicked off his old leather sandals in the foyer. He passed the office where he’d sat many hours trying to make sense of ancient French forensic pathology texts and entered what was called the cutting room. There, leaning over the freezer tray, were Chief Inspector Phosy and his wife, Nurse Dtui. They looked up mid-chuckle.

“Ah, Siri,” said Phosy. “I didn’t think you’d be able to stay away.”

“I’ve spent too many happy hours staring into offal to give it all up completely,” said Siri.

“Have you seen this, Doc?” asked Dtui. She was pretty and slightly more rounded than usual. He refrained from asking her if she was pregnant just in case she wasn’t.

“I hope you aren’t making fun of the dead,” said Siri.

He joined them and couldn’t hold back a guffaw of his own when he saw the corpse. Mr. Geung had fashioned a splendid mustache; it was true it had outgrown a Poirot and was approaching the realm of a Fu Manchu. Siri tugged on it to be sure it wasn’t a practical joke. It held firm.

“Well, I’ve seen some things,” said Siri, “but this takes the prawn cracker.”

“Do you think there’s any connection between the nose hair and the death?” Phosy asked playfully.

“Not for me to say anymore,” said Siri. “Whose case is it?”

“Dr. Mot announced the cause of death,” said Dtui.

“Ah, then we’ll never know for certain,” said Siri, no fan of the current coroner, a recent returnee from the Eastern bloc. As Siri often said, it was a miracle he’d graduated after studying in a language he couldn’t speak. He did have a certificate suggesting he was qualified to perform autopsies. It was framed and hanging on his office wall beside a similar certificate claiming he was proficient in porcelain glazing.

“And what brings you both here, apart from the obvious sideshow?” Siri asked.

“I was asked to investigate the case personally,” said Phosy.