I went back to the bed, picked up the book, started to punch the number she had listed for Rector's into the control panel. Four buttons into the sequence I heard a sliding noise. I looked in its direction. A panel was opening in the seamless pink marble of the bathroom tile over the tub.
I went over, took a close look, not touching anything. I've been trained by the best— if you don't figure out how to close the wound, the autopsy will be too easy. I pushed the buttons again, in the same order. I heard the faint sound of an electrical motor, but the panel stayed open.
Okay. I tried it in reverse, last digit first. The panel slid back, closing with a barely audible click. From where I stood, I couldn't see where it had opened. You don't get craftsmanship like that from a local handyman— it had to be the work of the original architect.
Even up close, I couldn't find the seam. The white veins in the pink marble pulled my eyes into a swirling pattern, the recessed lighting bouncing off the slick surface blurred my eyes. Like the random stripes of a herd of zebra, making the lions dizzy, distracting the hunters from the target.
A four–digit code. Ten thousand chances to hit it by luck— no chance at all. I punched the Open Sesame again, one slow button at a time. The panel was about six inches wide. Inside was painted a flat black, a matte finish that would eat light, no reflection.
I pulled a thick white towel from a standing brass rack, laid it down in the tub in case something spilled. I started to reach my gloved hand inside the compartment when I remembered this was too elaborate a setup for a rich woman to hide her pearls. And remembered where Cherry came from, what she'd know.
I walked downstairs, looking around. What I really wanted was a pair of needlenose pliers, but the kitchen didn't have anything like a tool kit. Finally, I settled on a pair of long barbecue tongs, heavy steel with a rosewood handle.
Back upstairs, I used my pencil flash to check out the inside of the compartment. I could see some plastic cassettes, a padded jewelry box, and what looked like a black drawstring pouch. I wasn't worried about a burglar alarm— if I was right, the cops were the last thing Cherry would want if somebody got this far. I probed the air space inside the compartment with the tongs, testing.
Nothing happened.
I extended the tongs toward the pouch again, as delicate as plucking a butterfly off a flower. I closed the tongs slowly, standing well back. I felt the tips touch something and there was a sharp
The tips of the wand looked surgical. I could guess what she had painted on them— curare lasts a hell of a long time, but it only takes a few seconds to do its job. I shoved the lever back to disable the wand. Then I worked the stuff out of the compartment like I was defusing a bomb, working front to back. My hands were calm, but my knees were locked against the trembling. I dropped each piece lightly on the heavy towel in the same position it was inside the compartment.
Three VHS videocassettes. Blackmail maybe?
Seven audiotapes, premium–grade metal, ninety minutes each. The blackmail scenario looked better than ever.
A round disk I didn't recognize.
A pair of three–and–a–half–inch computer diskettes, Teflon coated, one red, one blue.
A mini–cassette backup computer tape.
Business records, maybe? Of somebody
No matter what all the stuff was, there was no way I could tell just by looking.
But then I found the black velvet pouch.
I gently pulled the drawstring, tipped the pouch upside down. Fire inside: red, white, green. Gems. Big ones, all faceted. And some smooth black stones.
I glanced over at the clock. 6:39. Enough.
I took one of each of the gems, one of each of the cassettes, both diskettes. Put everything else back in reverse order. If you took a quick look inside, it would look pretty close to normal. I pushed the lever home, watched the poison wand disappear, heard it snap into place. Then I went back to the control panel, pushed the buttons, and made the compartment disappear.
I carefully wrapped the gems in a piece of dark blue felt I carry with me for emergencies. The loot disappeared into the pockets of my jacket. The towel went back on the rack. I pulled off the surgeon's gloves and headed downstairs.
It only took me a few minutes to lock the stuff in the false bottom of the Plymouth's truck, right next to the fuel cell. I never went back to the upstairs apartment.
I was getting a traffic report from the all–news station by 7:08, heading for home base.
As soon as I crossed the bridge into Manhattan, I found a pay phone and started to work. Left messages for Michelle and the Prof. Called Mama, told her I'd be on my way before nightfall.
By eight, I was in my office, sacked out on the couch.
It was almost three in the afternoon as I worked the Plymouth through the maze of Chinatown's back streets. Clarence's immaculate BRG Rover was parked in the alley behind Mama's.
They were in my booth. The Prof had three playing cards in front of him, folded lengthwise, face down, showing Clarence the finer points of three–card monte. Mama was at her cash register. The joint had the usual number of customers— none.
I sat down in my booth, ignoring the questions in the Prof's eyes. Mama strolled over just as I was pulling the blue felt from my pocket. She nodded, snapped something in Cantonese to one of the hovering waiters, and sat
