The Vulcan Disaster

“And so do we all. Even myself, in my modest way.” Straight-faced stuff. Hah. Fred wasn’t the most successful plover in the British foreign service, perhaps — just the best below Cabinet rank or so. “That’s not so easily arranged. To put it bluntly, old man, His Excellency himself has been attempting to get into the lady’s boudoir for the better part of a year, with deplorable results, I might add. And the object of this... conversation?”

“Work, not play. She may have information that I need.”

“Oh, Nick! You can get information from the bloody museum, chum. Have you no sense of the proprieties? Have you no sense of masculine honor? Have you no...”

“Where do I find her?”

“Oh, let’s see. It’s after nine. Give a call down to the Baghdad, in Kowloon. Nice little walk from where you are. You’d be just in time to catch the last show, I think, if you can get reservations. Pity I can’t make it: His Excellency has entree, and we could sort of sneak in on the old boy’s coattails. Better cash in a few war bonds, Nick. It’s steep there.”

“She’s in a floor show? In a night club?”

“Just call the number, Nicholas.” Fred’s voice sounded I tired and disgusted.

Chapter Nine

It must have been an off night. There was one table left unreserved when I called in. The haughty maitre d’ accepted a bill that a large Hong Kong family could live on for a month. In short, the seat I ended up with was not the one he’d had in mind for me, and some other poor devil wound up sitting behind a column.

That must have been the only bad seat in the house, though. The Baghdad was one of those rather large night clubs that managed, in spite of its size, to maintain an intimate sort of atmosphere. Don’t ask me how they do it; if I knew I’d chuck my present racket and go to work putting architects out of business. The old Show Boat, back in Washington, used to be that kind of joint back in the early sixties. It didn’t matter how many people they packed in there, Charlie Byrd was still sitting right there in your lap playing funky-butt guitar, and the fact made the club world-famous. There’s got to be a secret to it somehow.

I’d started off on scotch that evening saw no reason to change my poison. The maitre d’ and I were good friends by now, though, and he was gracious enough to do me a little favor after my drink had been delivered. He slipped an envelope to the star of the show before she went on. A large bill wrapped around the envelope helped. Then I settled back into the most comfortable position my ribs would allow me and looked around at the crowd.

It was a money sort of place. So much so that I found myself wondering why it was operating in Hong Kong, where the night life runs on the stuffy side as Far Eastern places go. It’d have fit nicely in a weirdo town like Macao, where high-priced mistresses of executives can drop six-figure sums — and that’s in American dollars — at the gaming tables without causing even a minor stir. You can name your own example of extreme conduct and Vegas is the minor leagues beside it But Hong Kong?

Anyhow, the place was, as Fredericks used to put it, Port Out, Starboard Home: Posh. Lush. Expertly art-directed in every detail, with even the lighting — the one place where your average club begins to look cheesy between shows — totally controlled. Soft spots of color here and there. A feeling of space between the tables even when you knew that the place was packed. A feeling of hush when you knew the place was loud. And, from the look of the crowd — old British power, new Chinese money, and lots and lots of both — it was paying off nicely.

I was just thinking of another scotch when I saw her.

She was standing in front of my table, dressed in a floor-length cape that hid absolutely everything but that face. I’d have known her in a moment. The face was not something you’d forget easily, even if it’d changed expressions from the somewhat theatrical smile on the face in the picture to the chill immobility of the delicate mask before me. No, I’ve got that wrong. The face was cold. The eyes were brown, long-lashed, and almond-shaped, and they weren’t cold at all. They were puzzled, vulnerable, hurt...

“Mr. Carter?” The voice was low and musical.

“Yes,” I said. I got up. She stopped me along the way with one lovely tanned hand, sat me back down again gently. There was electricity in that touch. “I...”

“No,” she said. “Please. I have to go on in a moment. The picture. Where did you get it?” Looking down, I could see her two hands now, peeping out of the robe. They held the envelope in which I’d stuffed the photo of her and Meyer and my message: Please. I have to see you about this. Nick Carter.

“Can we talk afterwards?” I said.

“Now.” There was an agitation in those slim fingers that her face failed to betray. “I... I have to know.”