many shared adventures of yore.”
Pelham looked at him for a moment, his face unreadable as always. He dissolved away.
“Goodnight, m’lord,” Pelham said, over his shoulder, drifting upward.
“Yes. It’s the sleep of innocents for you, Plummie, my lad.”
Hawke smiled at his retreating back. “Plummie” was his boyhood name for his old friend. Hadn’t thought of it in years. He turned round, headed across the black-and-white marble floors of the dining room and toward the library. Pulling open the door, he saw her in ivory profile, staring into the fire. It was Jet, all right. She was perched on the edge of the large sofa, an overstuffed monstrosity covered in pale blue satin.
She looked quite as beautiful as he remembered. Pelham had taken her rainwear. Her damp hair, now dyed platinum blond, was slicked back and she was wearing a turquoise cowl top over tight-fitting yellow pants. A black raw silk shawl was draped round her bare white shoulders. Not at all dressed for the weather, but that, he remembered, was her style.
“Hello,” Hawke said. “I see you’ve got a drink.”
“Yes.” It was hardly the warm expression of gratitude one might expect on a night like this.
“You don’t seem happy to see me. Pity, when you’ve come all this way. I’m sorry about Cannes.”
He was trying to be light, but to tell the truth he was uneasy. Suddenly suspicious. He wasn’t at all sure of her motive for being here. Had he really offended her so horribly? Perhaps he could have forewarned her he wouldn’t be able to spend the night at the Carlton. Quick had seen her watching him from the balcony. Perhaps—oh, hell! If he smoked, he could have lit a cigarette now. Tamped down his pipe. Done something with his bloody hands.
“You are sorry? That’s surprising.” Her voice was flat. “What on earth do you have to be sorry about? You’re alive.”
“I mean—leaving so quickly.”
“Leaving? Cannes?” she said, looking at him with a most curious expression. “You were on a mission, after all.”
“Right. I’m glad you understand that. I assumed when I saw you up on my balcony that—well, then, I think I’ll fix myself a drink. A martini should do it.”
He went to the drinks table and unstoppered the decanter of vodka. Poured two fingers into a tumbler and added ice cubes. Normally, he drank rum. But he felt a martini coming on.
“You’re not surprised to see me?” she said, reaching into her bag. Her hair was gleaming in the firelight.
“I am, actually.”
“I didn’t think anyone would let me in. My idea was to lure you outside. I assumed you’d call the police. You’re not as clever as I’ve been led to believe.”
“Not let you inside? I’m not that cold-hearted. A woman out in the rain on a night like this.” He turned to face her. He’d been more than accommodating. He wouldn’t suffer this kind of rudeness from anyone, no matter how beautiful.
“Tell me something. Why have you come here?”
“I thought it was the simplest option. I believe in the direct approach. Save you all the trouble of looking for me.”
“You flatter yourself. I haven’t been looking for you.”
She laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got half of Scotland Yard on my trail.”
“What? Good God, woman, what kind of a man do you think—”
“My father sent me, Lord Hawke. He wanted me to give you this.”
Hawke was so stunned at the sudden appearance of the gun that she almost got him. In that brief paralysis of incomprehension, she fired once, twice, the silencer deadening the sound to a spitting noise, and the paneling just above his head splintered, wood and plaster spraying all around him. He hurled himself sideways and hit the floor. Then he was up and lunging for the blue sofa. It was the only cover available.
The woman turned to raise the gun again, tugging furiously at it. The silencer had caught in her shawl.
Hawke was on his feet, circling round the sofa.
“What exactly is this about?” he said.
“This is about Harry Brock. You remember him.”
“You’re crazy, woman. Put the bloody gun down. Now.”
“You think you can thwart my father’s will, Hawke. You fucking Brits and Americans.” She was scuttling behind the desk, trying to keep it between them and buy herself a few precious seconds.
“Your father? What the hell has he got to do with this?”
“You have crossed the Yangtze one too many times.”
“Ah, that’s it.”
Hawke used this time to snatch up a small gilded chair. He raised it above his head and moved forward.
“Drop it,” he said, but at that instant she got the damn gun free and pointed it at his head. He crashed the chair down, caught the side of her head, saw a flash of light and felt a blinding pain in his temple. He grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to spin her round. She twisted away. God, she was strong! He managed to catch one wrist and clamp it firmly, aiming the gun away from either of them. She stood there, spitting at him, hissing something in Chinese, and he took aim and high-kicked at the gun hand. The pistol sailed away.
Her lips peeled back from her clenched teeth and a slow scream of frustration seemed to drain what was left in the woman. She relaxed her muscles, let it all go.
“I’m going to release your arm, now. Do you promise to be a good girl and behave?”
His head was throbbing and warm sticky fluid of a certain familiar shade was running into his eye. He felt unsteady but he wasn’t going to die anytime soon.
“Get out,” he said, holding his hand fast to the wound to stanch the bleeding. “You’re mad! Get out of my bloody house.”
Hawke bent to pick up her gun and put it in his pocket.
They were both breathing hard. Neither spoke. Hawke felt dizzy, unsteady.
“I said, leave,” Hawke said. Suddenly, it was very important that he get off his feet. Lie down somewhere. He couldn’t do that until Jet left his house. She was truly deranged. She might kill him if he passed out.
“Look. I’ve no intention of calling the police. I’m sorry about Cannes. I was in a bit of a rush that night. I may have been a little abrupt. I apologize. Now, just please go.”
She looked at him, trying to control her breathing.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, walking to the doorway. “You are the one who is insane.”
“Me?”
“You have me confused with someone, Lord Hawke. My sister, Jet.”
“But—”
“You haven’t seen the last of me. My sister’s heart got in the way. So my father sent the heartless one.”
He barely heard this last. A red veil was coming down over his eyes. Not blood, that was outside. This was inside. His brain wasn’t processing new information. A few seconds later, he heard the muffled sound of the front door slamming shut. No car started. Either she’d walked from town or someone was waiting at the end of the drive.
“You forgot your raincoat,” he said to the empty room. Then he fell down lengthwise on the blue sofa and passed out.
He came to with the phone in his hand, the voice at the other end saying weakly, “Yes? Who’s there? This is Sergeant Smithers—the police station—who’s calling, please?”
He woke, or regained consciousness, sometime before dawn. The tall windows opposite were still black. The lights in the library sconces were still burning brightly. He managed to get to his feet and stagger over to the desk. He collapsed into the chair he hadn’t broken. His memory of the moments before he passed out were still fuzzy. He picked up the phone and speed-dialed Quick.
Listening to the line ring at the other end, he noticed the front of his sweater was matted with thick blood. It had soaked his jeans and was in his moccasins, too. How much blood was in the human body? Oh, right. Ten pints. He didn’t think he’d lost quite that much.
