1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal (22 page)

Girland returned to his room and waited. He thought longingly of an air conditioner as the heat flowed through the open window, turning the small room into an oven.

An hour and five minutes later, there came a tap on the door.

Girland got off the bed and opened the door. A slim Chinese girl, wearing a scarlet cheongsam, a diamond sparkling in her left ear lobe, smiled at him.

“You expect me?”

Girland liked Chinese girls. During his previous stays in Hong Kong he had slept with a number of them. They had technique and they took lovemaking seriously. This girl was not only pretty: she was sensationally sensuous.

“Who are you?” he asked, moving back so she could come in.

“My name is Tan-Toy. I work along the waterfront. I make professional love.”

“You do?” Girland laughed. “That is something we might discuss later. Right now, let’s go.”

They climbed the staircase to the roof and moving cautiously, they crossed two other roofs and descended by the iron fire escape into the alley below.

They were watched by one of Malik’s agents who knew all about Wan See’s escape route. He had been posted on a nearby roof for the past two hours. Using a walkie-talkie, he alerted Malik that Girland with a Chinese woman was leaving his hotel.

The fat Chinese had seen Tan-Toy arrive at the hotel. He knew about the villa on the Peak and had been watching it now for three or four days. He also alerted his men by short wave radio that Girland might be heading towards the villa.

There was a considerable amount of traffic going up to the Peak and as Tan-Toy drove Girland in an Austin Cooper up the winding road, he kept looking back to see if they were being followed.

She said, “It is all right. The lady is not there any longer. It is Hung Yan you are going to see.”

“Is he the guy I spoke to on the telephone?”

“Yes.”

“If she’s not there, where is she?”

“I don’t know.” Tan-Toy gave him a flashing smile.

“Who are you? How do you get muddled up in this?”

“Hung Yan is my friend. He helped me once when I was ill. I like to help people when they help me.”

Eventually the car pulled up outside a small, dark villa, perched on the edge of the mountain with a fine view of Hong Kong and distant Kowloon.

“Go right in,” the girl said as Girland got out of the car. “When you have finished your business, we might meet.”

“Where do I find you?” Girland asked, bending down to look at her through the car window.

“Wan See knows . . . ask him.” She waved her hand, looked again into his eyes, then reversing the car, she drove away.

Girland looked down the long dark winding road, watching the red tail lights of her car disappear. No other car moved on the road.

He walked quickly down a path that led to the villa and rang the bell. The front door immediately opened.

“Please come in.”

A shadowy figure let him into a small, stiflingly hot room lit by a small table lamp.

The two men looked at each other. Hung Yan was a slightly built, young Chinese wearing a black, baggy, Chinese coat and trousers. His glittering eyes were feverish and when he shook hands, his skin felt dry and hot.

Girland introduced himself.

“The situation is very bad,” Hung Yan said. “They know I am here. I don’t think they can make up their minds whether she is dead or alive. Otherwise they would have got rid of me before now. Have you a passport for her? That is what she wants.”

“I have it. Where is she?”

“I will take you to her. She is on a junk, anchored off Pak Kok.”

“How do you come to be here?” Girland asked curiously.

“This villa belongs to my father who is in America. I brought Erica here a week ago, but she didn’t feel safe. She is very frightened. The junk belongs to my cousin’s fishing fleet. It is old and he is not using it. Erica thought she would be safer there than here.”

“Is she alone?”

“Yes, she is alone and frightened. I am sorry for her.” Hung Yan made a helpless movement with his hands. “We are in love. She is in a very dangerous situation and it worries me very much.”

“I’m not absolutely sure I haven’t been followed,” Girland said. “When do we go?”

Hung Yan shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter. They know I am here. They hope I will lead them to her.” He went to a cupboard. Opening it, he took from it two long knives in leather scabbards. “Can you use a knife? It is better than a gun.”

“Oh, sure,” Girland said. He took the knife from Hung Yan, pulled it from its scabbard, regarded it and nodded his approval. He clipped the scabbard to his belt. “When do we go?”

“Now . . . there is a footpath from here down the mountain to the main road,” Hung Yan told him. “There I have a car in a friend’s garage. There is a motorboat waiting at Aberdeen harbour.”

The two men left the villa by the rear door, and a few minutes later, Girland found himself on a narrow, dangerously steep path that was shrouded in a damp mist that had come up from the mainland and now blotted out the view.

He moved cautiously, following closely behind Hung Yan.

There were moments when he could see nothing, then the mist cleared a little and he caught a glimpse of the Hong Kong lights far below.

Suddenly a stone rattled down behind him, hitting his ankle and he reached out and caught hold of Hung Yan’s arm.

“Someone’s behind us,” he whispered. “You go on . . . I’ll wait here.”

Hung Yan nodded. He continued on down the path. Girland moved off the path down the slope and crouched behind a shrub, his ears pricked, his eyes peering into the half-darkness.

There was a long pause, then he heard the sound of scuffling feet. Peering up, he could make out a small black figure coming cautiously down the path. He waited, tense. The man came on and moved past where Girland was concealed: a small Chinese, his head bent, his movements quick and silent.

Girland pulled himself back onto the path. The man was now ten yards ahead of him. He turned as swiftly as a striking snake when he heard Girland behind him. A knife flashed. Girland went into a low, flying tackle, his arms gripping the man’s legs below the knees.

They both crashed down on the path and slid down in a shower of stones. Hung Yan appeared out of the darkness. He caught the man’s wrist as the knife flashed. Girland released his hold and swung a punch at the man’s jaw. The blow connected and the man went limp. Before Girland could stop him, Hung Yan had driven his knife into the man’s body.

“There may be others,” Hung Yan said, his breath hissing between his teeth. “Come on!” He kicked the body off the path and turning, continued down the path.

Girland went after him.

They finally reached the main road without further alarm.

Hung Yan led the way across the road to a concrete garage built near a typical Chinese house.

It was as they drove out of the garage in a battered Volkswagen that one of Malik’s agents who had lost Girland, spotted the car.

He alerted Malik on his walkie-talkie.

“Subject heading for Aberdeen harbour,” he reported.

Malik looked at Branska and got quickly to his feet.

“Let’s go,” he said. “The chances are he’ll take us right to her.”

At the same moment, Wong Loo, the fat Chinese, also received a report. Girland with Hung Yan, he was told, were heading for the harbour. Wong Loo was quite happy about this. He had at least twenty good men in that district. As he sent out directives, he paused to light an American cigarette. Letting the smoke roll out of his thick nostrils, he thought that this was now only a matter of time.

As the wheezy motorboat chugged across the East Lamma Channel, Girland looked back at the hundreds of bobbing lights of the closely packed junks in Aberdeen harbour. He had an instinctive feeling that he was being watched. There was no sign of a following boat, but the feeling persisted.

Hung Yan steered the boat past a junk that was coming into the harbour, its huge brown sail outlined against the moon. The night was stiflingly hot and the sea oily and calm. The stench of humanity packed in the harbour hung in the air.

As Girland looked across the black expanse of the sea, he saw something moving in the water, close to the boat. He leaned forward, but the movement was gone. A minute later, it appeared again: the fin of a shark that made a swift ripple in the still water and was once again gone. He remembered, when patrolling in the police boat some years ago, the sinister triangle-shaped fins of the sharks that infested this Channel, and he grimaced.

The boat chugged on.

Girland was now aware of the problem facing him. How was he to get this woman out of Hong Kong and back to Paris? he asked himself. It had seemed an easy enough problem when he had accepted the assignment, but now, in this bobbing little boat, he was acutely aware that the Chinese were alert to any move he might make to get the woman out. He thought of Harry Curtis.

Harry would help, but then, if he did, Dorey would get to hear about the set-up, and that could only lead to more trouble.

Girland thought of the Black Grape . . . a half a million dollars for himself! He relaxed and grinned into the darkness. For that money, he should be able to solve the problem. It was wasting time to make plans until he had heard the woman’s ideas for escape.

Hung Yan said, “We are getting close,” and he reduced the speed of the motorboat. Girland looked around. There were a lot of junks anchored off Pak Kok. Apart from their riding lights, they were in darkness.

Five minutes later, Hung Yan brought the motorboat alongside a big, sail-less junk, moored about a half a mile from Pak Kok peninsula, isolated and in darkness.

He whistled softly, and then tied up by the side of the junk.

A shadowy figure appeared on the upper deck and peered down at them as they climbed over the side.

“It is all right,” Hung Yan called softly. “He is a friend of Carlota’s.”

The figure climbed down the narrow stairway. In the uncertain light Girland could just make out a tall woman, wearing black Chinese peasant clothes of a baggy coat and trousers and a mushroom-shaped hat.

“Erica Olsen?” he said, peering at her.

“Yes. Come below. Hung . . . you stay up here.”

The girl went down the five steps leading into the cabin and Girland followed her. It was stiflingly hot down there and dark.

She closed the door and then striking a match, she lit a small oil lamp.

Sitting at a small table, she took off her hat and shook out her blonde hair.

Girland sat opposite. They stared at each other. He could see the likeness between the sisters, but he saw that Erica was much more beautiful, although she was pale, thin and obviously nervous.

“Give me a cigarette,” she said. “I have run out.”

Girland pushed his pack across the table. With shaking fingers, she took a cigarette, lit it and then asked, “Did you get me a passport?”

“I got it.” Girland handed her the passport. She examined it, then looked up.

“Will it do, do you think?”

“With luck.” Girland also lit a cigarette. “Have you any ideas how you will get out?”

“If we can get to the airport, they daren’t stop me with you,” Erica said. “With any luck they won’t even spot me. Have you my ticket?”

“I have an open ticket for the two of us.”

She studied him.

“How did you meet Carlota?”

Briefly, Girland told her what had been happening in Paris.

She stiffened when he told her he was with the C.I.A.

“Don’t worry your head about that,” he said, smiling. “I’m only unofficially attached. They don’t know I am out here. I did a deal with your father. For a share in the pearl, I agreed to get you out of here.”

“The pearl?”

Girland nodded.

“The Black Grape.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” she exclaimed impatiently. “You don’t believe that nonsense, do you?”

Girland stiffened, then leaning forward to stare intently at her, he said, “Nonsense? What do you mean?”

“Why do you imagine I am hiding here? Because I stole the Black Grape?”

“Now wait a minute,” Girland said, trying to speak calmly. He had a sudden presentiment of disaster. “Carlota told me you had the pearl. She said that was why they were hunting for you.” He stabbed his finger at her. “Have you the pearl?”

“Of course not.” She flicked ash from her cigarette onto the floor. “My dear man, that was a story I told my sister to get her to cooperate.” Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “You don’t seem to know much about my father and sister. They are two of the most worthless people alive. All they can think about is money. I mean to them as much as a fly on the wall. When I got into this mess, I was desperate as I am desperate now. You can’t imagine what it means to be surrounded by Chinese, not knowing if one of them will come out of the crowd and kill you. I was lucky to get this far. Without Hung Yan’s help I could never have managed it. Then I found I was trapped. Hung Yan has no influence. I had to get a faked passport. The only two people who could get it for me were my father and sister, but I knew if I didn’t offer them a tempting bait they wouldn’t do a thing for me. So I told them the story of the Black Grape.” She gave a hard little laugh. “The Black Grape is in Kung’s museum. An armed guard stands beside the glass case where it is exhibited day and night. There is no possible chance of stealing it. But I didn’t tell Carlota this. She swallowed the bait. I had hoped that if she impersonated me in Paris, these thugs hunting for me would give up, but it didn’t work out. Do you imagine a woman like Carlota would agree to be tattooed, agree to risk her life unless she was offered an enormous fortune? It was the only possible way I could persuade her to try to save me.”

Girland sat back. He crushed out his cigarette as he studied Erica.

“You could be lying, of course,” he said without much hope.

“You could have the pearl and you’re trying to gyp me out of my share.”

She met his searching eyes and she shook her head.

“I haven’t the pearl . . . no one could possibly steal it. It was a story I had to tell Carlota to get me out of here. I am sorry you are disappointed, but I still hope you will help me. You will, won’t you?”