The Vulcan Disaster

“If I’m to help, perhaps I should know. You and Meyer were—”

“Lovers? Ah, Mr. Carter. If dear Hermann had wanted that — if he had been capable of that — I would have given him what he wanted gladly. But he had lost a daughter my age, in the war, and sometimes what a man needs most dearly is not sex, but...”

“I understand. I was being indelicate, I’m afraid.”

“No, no. I understand the need. And I appreciate your trying to help me. You are so kind. I can’t say how much I appreciate this. Really.”

“I had to know. It would tell me, among other things, how much I could expect you to know of his affairs.”

“That may have been rather a lot or it may have been table-scraps of negligible importance. I have no way of knowing. I think Hermann may have been caught, as the Spaniards say, between the hammer and the anvil. He may have, how do you say it...”

“Got in over his head?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s what I think, too. I think he had the idea of competing with some people it doesn’t pay to compete with, and in the course of playing both ends against the middle...”

“Yes,” she said. The tone was hollow, full of memories.

“Look,” I said, “I’ll take you home. Where do you live?”

“Oh, would you? Please? Because I think — no, I know — they’re still out there. And I’ve been so frightened...”

“Out there?” I stood up. There was a window beside her dressing table; I went over to it and pulled the curtains open a crack. The street below was full of cars. “Which car are they in?”

But I didn’t have to ask. Before she told me I knew. It was a black Mercedes, anonymous-looking and powerful — and packed full of tough Oriental faces. Resting. Waiting.

Chapter Ten

“Maybe,” I said, closing the drapes, “I’d better find out where it is I’m taking you.”

She stepped behind a screen; I could see only her face as she changed. She didn’t answer at first; her eyes were on my face.

“Oh, by the way,” I said. “If you have flat shoes here — and some slacks — those might be best.”

“Yes,” she said. I waited. I don’t know what I expected her to say — some cushy address three quarters of the way up Victoria Peak, perhaps, with a grand panoramic view of the Bay — but whatever it was, it wasn’t anything like what she said next. “Yaumati,” she said. “I live in the Typhoon Shelter. On a boat. But I have to stop somewhere first. In the Temple Street Market.”

“But it’ll surely be closed now.”

“Yes. But my friend will still be open. For me.” She must have read the disappointment on my face. Friend? “For you, too. Oh, yes. I’m sure of it.”

“You know,” I said, checking Wilhelmina in her holster, and the spare clips for her in my pocket “I was expecting something quite different. From a Tanka dwelling, I mean.”

“Yes. Well, Mr. Carter, many men boast of enjoying my... my favors, as they say, who have never spent so much as an hour alone with me. I remain my own person. No one, mind you, no one has ever been to my home before. No one who left this place with me, I mean. I...” She sighed. “I live a very private life. I have my own interests. This pays the bills. And they are considerable. You will see.”

“But Hermann Meyer—”

“Dear Hermann took me places. He would meet me at very public locations — the bar of the Peninsula Hotel, or one of the parks — and he would take me places. If I would have consented to have any man see me home, it might have been Hermann. But now...” She did not go on. Her hands went to her throat now, buttoning up something chaste and high-necked. She stepped forth in a simple cheongsam, as svelte and sexy as the Dragon Lady — and as unapproachable to the uninvited as Mme. Onassis. Her smile was warm and welcoming, though. “Now, Mr. Carter, I am convinced at last that I may be in great danger. I am glad to accept your offer of help. I trust you. It is as simple as that.”

And, as simple as that, she stepped up and kissed me.

Very straightforwardly. Without any frills. Without any faked passion. It was more like the kind of kiss — quick, matter-of-fact, and pointed — that a wife gives her man when she tells him to bring home some candles and incense and she’ll have some steaks on the fire and a bottle of something sexy chilling in the fridge. It was brief and incredibly stimulating. It told me that she was taking for granted the fact that we’d be lovers before morning.

“Okay,” I said. “Do you have your own wheels?”

“No, I...”

“Okay.” I picked up the phone and called a cab. The dispatcher was peeved at getting a fare to the area north of Jordan Road; obviously he wanted some nice little short fares Inside Tsim Sha Tsui — the kind that gobble up the sightseer’s dough on the strength of that first-mile bite. We were waiting at the front door when the cab pulled up. I loaded her in in a hurry and we pulled off down the street. As we did, the black Mercedes pulled away from the curb behind us and kept the pace with us; unhurriedly, too. Why force any issues until we were ready to get out?