The Loo Sanction

the gold table.

'Beautiful woman,' Jonathan said.

P'tit Noel nodded. 'I am happy to know you are interested in women, sir. I was beginning to doubt. But if you are holding out for her, you waste your time. She does not go with patrons.' He looked again at the photograph. 'But yes. She is a beautiful woman. Actually, she is the most beautiful woman in the world.' He said this last with the hint of a shrug, as though it were obvious to anyone.

'I'd like to meet her,' Jonathan said as casually as possible.

'Oh, sir?' There was an almost imperceptible tensing of the pectoral muscles.

'Yes, I would. Does she ever come in?'

'Two or three times each evening. Her apartments are above.'

'And when she comes, is she dressed like that?' he indicated the transparency.

'Exactly like that, sir. She is proud of her body.'

'As she should be.'

P'tit Noel's smile returned. 'It is very good for business, of course. She comes. She takes a drink at the bar. She wanders among the tables and greets the patrons. And you would be surprised how business picks up for the girls the moment she leaves.'

'I wouldn't be surprised at all, P'tit Noel.'

'Ah. You pronounce my name correctly. It is obvious you are not English.'

'I'm an American. I'm surprised you couldn't tell from my accent.'

P'tit Noel shrugged. 'All pinks sound alike.'

They both laughed. But Jonathan only shallowly. 'I want to meet her,' he said while P'tit Noel's laugh was still playing itself out.

It stopped instantly.

'You have the eyes of a sage man, sir. Why seek pain?' He smiled, and with a sense of comradeship Jonathan noticed that the smile did not come from within. It was a coiled, defensive crinkle in the corners of the eyes. Precisely the gentle combat smile that Jonathan assumed to put the victim off pace.

'Why are you so tight?' Jonathan asked. 'Surely many men come in here and express interest in the lady there.'

'True, sir. But such men have only love on their minds.'

'How do you know I'm not sperm-blind?'

P'tit Noel shook his head. 'I feel it. We Haitians have a sense for these things. We are a superstitious people, sir. The moment you came in, I sensed that you were trouble for Mam'selle Grace.'

'And you intend to protect her.'

'Oh yes, sir. With my life, if need be. Or with yours, should it sadly come to that.'

'No doubt about how it would go, is there?' Jonathan said, skipping unnecessary steps in the conversation.

'Actually, none at all, sir.'

'There's an expression in the hill country of the United States.'

'How does it go, sir?'

'While you're gettin' dinner, I'll get a sandwich.'

'Ah! The idiom is clear. And I believe you, sir. But the fact remains that you would lose any battle between us.'

'Probably. But you would not escape pain.'

'Probably.'

'I'll make you a deal.'

'Ah! Now I recognize you to be an American.'

'Just tell the lady that I want to talk to her.'

'She knows you then?'

'No. Tell her I want to talk about The Cloisters and Maximilian Strange.' Jonathan looked for the effect of the words upon P'tit Noel. There was none.

'And if she will not see you?'

'Then I'll leave.'

'Oh, I know that, sir. I am asking if you will leave without disturbance.'

Jonathan had to smile. 'Without disturbance.'

P'tit Noel nodded and left the table.

Five minutes later he returned. 'Mam'selle Grace will see you. But not now. In one hour. You may sit and drink if you wish. I shall tell the girls that you are not a fish.' His formal and clipped tone revealed that he was not pleased that Amazing Grace had deigned to receive the visitor.

Jonathan decided not to wait in the club. He told P'tit Noel that he would take a walk and return in an hour.

'As you wish, sir. But be careful on the streets. It is late, and there are apache about.' There was as much threat in this as warning.

Jonathan walked through the tangle of back streets slowly, his hands plunged deep into his pockets. Fog churned lazily around the streetlamps of the deserted lanes. He had made a pawn gambit, and it had been passed. He had lost nothing, but his position had become passive. They now made the moves and he reacted. An hour was a long time. Time enough for Amazing Grace to contact The Cloisters. Time enough for Strange to decide. Time enough to send men. Perhaps he had made an error in not bringing a gun.

On the other hand, the Vicar had said The Cloisters people were seeking him out for some reason, and they had been doing so even before Loo had involved him in this thing. If Strange needed him, why would he seek to harm him? Unless they knew he was working for Loo. And how would they know that?

It was a goddamn merry-go-round.

Near a corner, he found a telephone kiosk. His primary reason for leaving the Cellar d'Or had been to phone Vanessa and make sure she was off in Devon and out of the line of fire. As the unanswered phone double-buzzed, his eyes wandered over hastily penned and scratched messages: doodles, telephone numbers, an announcement that one Betty Kerney was devoted to an exotic protein diet. There was a sad graffito penned in a precise, cramped hand: 'Mature person seeks company of young man. Strolls in the country and fishing. Mostly friendship.' No meeting time; no telephone number. Just a need shared with a wall. After the phone had rung many times, Jonathan hung up. He was relieved to know that Vanessa was out of it.

It was nearly time to return to the Cellar d'Or, and he had seen nothing of the man in the blue raincoat since he had left him trying to disentangle himself from the coyly persistent Jamaican whore, pay for his drink, and collect his raincoat. All this without arousing undue attention. They were an incompetent bunch. Just like the CII.

During his quiet stroll through the fog, he had decided how he would play this thing with Amazing Grace. There were two possibilities. On the one hand, Strange might only have her try to sound him out—discover his reason for seeking him. In that case Jonathan would let Grace know that he was aware of the activities at The Cloisters and of the fact that Maximilian Strange wanted to contact him for some reason. He would tell her he was interested in anything that might prove profitable, if it was safe enough. On the other hand, Strange might have decided to send men to pick Jonathan up and bring him to The Cloisters. In this case it would be important not to seem eager to get inside. He would have to put up some resistance, enough to make it look good. He would have to hurt some of them, while he tried to avoid hurt to himself. Once inside The Cloisters, he would have to play it by ear. It would be a narrow thing.

Damn. If only he knew why Strange was trying to contact him.

He paused for a second beneath a streetlight to get his bearings back to the Cellar d'Or. The blind alley leading to the side entrance was only a block or two from here. There was a shuffling sound down the street, and he turned in time to see a figure jump from the pool of light two streetlamps away.

The blue raincoat. The last thing he needed was this MI-5 ass tagging along. It would make him appear to be bait, and he'd never talk his way out of that.

There was a second of elastic silence, then Jonathan heard another sound, borne on the fog from across the street. There were two more of them.