“Lady Mars,” the younger man said while reaching inside his navy jacket to withdraw a manila envelope. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time. We’ve come here to Brixden, as I mentioned to you on the telephone this morning, to discuss a possible suspect in an attempted murder that occurred recently.”
“Yes, Detective Sutherland. How may I assist you?”
“I’d like you to take a look at this photograph,” Sutherland said, handing her a glossy eight-by-ten he’d had printed up.
“Yes?” she said, scanning the snapshot.
“Do you recognize anyone?”
“Of course. This photograph was taken right here at Brixden House. Last New Year’s Eve, as a matter of fact. Right out there in the Great Hall. See? There’s my great-grandmother’s portrait on the wall.”
“Why, she’s quite right, Sutherland! The Sargent on the wall. Her great-grandmother.”
“So,” Sutherland said to her, with a glance at Congreve, who was still plainly trying to compose himself, “these persons are all, shall we say, friends of yours?”
“God, no. I just fling open the doors every year and see what fetches up. I’ve held this party annually since my dear husband died. He passed away on New Year’s Eve, you see. One minute into the new millennium. Chunk of ham lodged in his throat. Choked to death. Dear Nigel.”
“My condolences, Lady Mars,” Sutherland said.
“So,” Congreve said, rallying to the cause at last, “you are a widow, I take it.”
“Excellent deduction, Chief Inspector,” Diana Mars said with a warm smile in his direction. “Yes, I am.”
“There are rumors afoot that you plan to sell Brixden House,” Congreve said, mopping his brow with his soggy linen handkerchief. “Turn it into some sort of hotel.”
“My dear man, it’s always been a hotel.”
“Getting back to the photo, Lady Mars,” Sutherland said. “I’d like to ask you about this gentleman here. With the orange hair.”
“Yes?”
“He’s naked.”
“So it would appear. You see, I retire precisely at the stroke of midnight. To be alone with my memories, as they say. The party, naturally, continues full bore into the wee hours. I usually import a band from the States. Last year it was Jimmy Buffett. He was simply marvelous. Breakfast is served at five next morning. What goes on in the house after witching hour doesn’t interest me. Only that everyone wakes up next morning with a terrible head remembering what a splendid time they had in dear Nigel’s honor.”
“Marvelous,” Ambrose stated for the record.
“Yes,” she said. “As for me, I don’t tipple. One reason I don’t drink, you see, is that I do want to know when I’m having a good time.” She looked from one man to the other, her eyes alight.
“If you drink, don’t drive,” Congreve said. “Don’t even putt!”
“Now, that’s a good one, Chief Inspector. Wonderful! You play golf, I take it? So do I.”
“About the photograph,” Sutherland said, with a hard glance at his superior.
“Yes, yes. Is there anyone that you do recognize, Lady Mars?” Ambrose asked, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Sutherland breathed a sigh of relief. The man was back, or at least making a brief appearance.
“This woman here,” she said.
“Which one?” Congreve said.
“This one. Bianca Moon is her name. Quite notorious. She’s been here a few times, I think. She and her twin sister, Jet. At this party or that. Never for luncheon or supper, naturally.”
“And may I ask why not?” Sutherland said.
“No one is comfortable talking about things in her presence, that’s why. We all think she’s a spy.”
“Of course she’s a spy,” Congreve said, all his prior consternation seemingly vanished. “The question is, why is this particular spy so—interested—in an English employee of the French embassy?”
“Why, the Chinese and the French have gotten very cozy lately, it seems,” Diana Mars said. “A big oil deal. Of course, you knew that. Everyone does.”
“Of course,” Congreve said, his innocent baby’s eyes doing their utmost to convey genuine sincerity. “We knew that.”
And, before he could stop himself, Sutherland blurted out, “We did?”
Chapter Fourteen
Hong Kong
MADAME LI ARRIVED AT THE GOLDEN DRAGON PROMPTLY AT nine o’clock that evening. He had traveled to the floating palace by water taxi, very fastidious in his white gloves and very careful not to smudge his beautiful pink suit or the pink pillbox hat he’d whimsically perched atop his coiffure. Perfect, he’d thought, spinning in front of his full-length mirror, for strolling the gay boulevards of the City of Light.
Dear departed Marge had taken a bit longer to dispense with than anticipated (that oven just wasn’t working properly!), but still he’d managed to arrive at the appointed hour. After all, he didn’t want to keep his “date” waiting.
I love Paris in the springtime…
The bustling harbor and the sky above it were absolutely filled with color and radiant light. So much so, that, en route, he was able to read his copy of the South China Morning Post (a good prop for his evening flight to Paris) as the water taxi made its way across the harbor through the maze of sampans and crisscrossing ferries.
I love Paris in the fall…
The Golden Dragon wasn’t the largest floating restaurant in Hong Kong Harbor. Oh, no. That honor fell to the Jumbo Kingdom, a vastly popular tourist haunt. But, because it was not at all what it seemed, the Dragon was by far the most interesting. Four stories high above the waterline, and two below, the Dragon was over three hundred feet in length. It was lovingly decorated in the style of an exquisite Chinese imperial palace and festooned with every manner of gilded dragon and deity. One might dine there for years never suspecting the Golden Dragon was the official headquarters of the Te-Wu, the world’s oldest and most brutal secret police society.
“Good evening,” said one of the many handsome young maitre d’s fluttering around the ebony black reception podium, “I am Wu. Welcome to the Golden Dragon.”
Hu Xu was delighted at the deferential treatment his new persona seemed to encourage among the staff. All the young men wore perfectly tailored evening clothes with soft black silk shirts. This one bowed with natural elegance, smiled at him, and said, in lilting English, “How may we serve you this evening, madame?”
The general, Hu Xu well knew, was obsessed with beauty in everything that surrounded him, and that obsession obviously extended to the human form. Everyone under his command, from his general staff to the busboys here at the Dragon, was a study in human perfection. There were exceptions for those with exceptional skills. A tattooed genius with a sketchy haircut, someone like himself, was tolerated. And even rewarded.
“Good evening,” Madame Li said. “I’m meeting someone. I’m sure he’s expecting me. Major Tang?”
“Ah,” the beautiful boy said, and the flicker in his eyes was imperceptible to anyone but him. But there was a new sincerity and deference there. He picked up one of the pearlescent vintage telephones arrayed before him and spoke softly into it, waiting for and getting an answer.
“Certainly, madame,” Wu said, his voice now barely above a whisper. “The major is expecting you. You will be dining this evening up in the Typhoon Shelter Bar. Will you be so kind as to sign our guest register and follow me, please?”
He signed and then followed the boy down a short roped-off corridor of gleaming and fragrant teakwood. At the far end was a small private elevator, the doors solid bronze and beautifully carved. Scenes, no doubt, of the
