expensive florist in the main wing.
Ambrose Congreve was lucky on two counts. Despite multiple gunshot wounds, he was still alive when the EMS personnel rolled him into the ER. And, having survived that ordeal, he was soon removed from Intensive Care to a private room on a private floor. The room became available after its occupant, a society matron with a liver condition, expired. And after Jock Barker, a member of the hospital’s board, had let it be known that he was to be notified immediately should such a room become available.
The English detective was ensconced, still in critical condition, on the top floor of the old original building. His view, though he could not see it, was a good one. His two windows had eastern exposure, overlooking potato fields blooming with snow-white mansions and aqua swimming pools. Beyond lay the blue Atlantic, sparkling in the midday sun.
Ambrose lay propped up in his bed, his face pale, asleep under the blissful wand of sedation. A woman sat in a comfortable chair by his bed, reading. She had suffered a gunshot wound as well. However, hers was not severe. The flesh wound to her shoulder had been dressed and she had been discharged just two hours after she and Ambrose had arrived some time after eight the previous evening.
Lady Diana Mars was reading poetry to Ambrose, even though she was well aware that he was drifting in and out of consciousness. His breathing sounded more regular when she read aloud to him, and the nurses all agreed that the poetry was beneficial. At the moment, she was reading a favorite poem in a loud, clear voice:
“I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty—”
“That’s lovely,” the man entering the sunny room said. He took off his grey fedora. “Please, don’t let me stop you.”
She put the slim volume down across her knees and slowly looked up. The man was not tall, but ruggedly handsome, dark hair, silver at the temples and built like a footballer. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“I’m Detective Captain John Mariucci,” he said, offering his hand. “New York Police Department.”
“Diana Mars,” she said, shaking it. “Won’t you sit down? Now I know who you are. I’m sure Ambrose would appreciate your coming.”
“Yeah, well, we’re buddies, you know. Pretty tight. He’s asleep, huh?”
“Hmm.”
“Hey, you know what I’d really like?”
“Please tell me.”
“If you’d finish that poem.”
“I’d be happy to, Captain. Ambrose keeps asking for it when he’s awake. Sit.”
He pulled up the second chair and sat. “That would be nice, hear how it turns out.”
She continued,
“Nor law nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.”
Diana Mars closed the book and smiled at the policeman.
“I’ll tell you something,” Mariucci said, wiping some speck from the corner of his eye, “I don’t know anything about poetry, but that’s a hell of a poem. Who wrote that?”
“William Butler Yeats. An Irishman.”
“Figures he’d be Irish, right? Fucking micks can write like angels—I’m sorry—excuse the language. I’m just a little emotional right now, you know what I’m saying?”
“Don’t worry about it, Captain. I’ve heard worse.”
“What’s it called, that poem?”
“‘An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.’”
“He knows he’s going to die but he’s okay with it. Man oh man.”
“Yes.”
“Doctor says it looks pretty good. The prognosis.”
“Pretty good.”
“He’ll probably pull through, I mean. If they can keep him stable long enough to operate. They’re moving him to New York Hospital. He’ll undergo surgery there. Remove the bullet from his spine.”
“That’s what they said this morning.”
“Awful. Just goddamn awful.”
“He’s alive. He saved my life.”
“Yes, he did. I read your statement, Lady Mars. You got a good look at the assailant. She was actually known to you, is that correct?”
“Yes. Bianca Moon is her name. She’s apparently been in league with my former butler, a murderer named Simon Oakshott, for some time now. According to Ambrose, probably on her payroll. He killed a man named Henry Bulling, Ambrose’s cousin. I think he was there last night, too, at the Barkers’ party. He’d cut off all his hair. Changed the color. He was wearing heavy black glasses. Disguised himself as a waiter. Unfortunately, I’d had more than a bit of champagne. Wasn’t really paying too much attention to anything and I—didn’t recognize him in time to—to prevent—to stop…”
“No need to go through all that now, ma’am. The Southampton detective got it all in your statement last night. I, uh, I just came here to see Ambrose. I brought him this. Maybe you could give it to him when he wakes up?”
“What is it?”
“It’s a get-well card. My granddaughter made it for him.”
“Very kind, Captain. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
“Hey! What are you going to do, right?” He laughed, but he had something in his eye again. He got up and went to the window.
“Do you think you’ll catch her?”
“Absolutely. I got two men sitting not twenty feet away from her right now. Interpol.”
“Seriously?”
“She’s on a British Airways flight to Hong Kong. Took off two hours ago from JFK. We found Oakshott washed up on the beach with a bullet in his brain. Disposable. We’re going to watch her for a few days. See where she goes, who she meets.”
“This woman, Moon. She’s somehow connected to the case you and Ambrose were investigating. That awful business out at Coney Island.”
“Very definitely connected, Lady Mars.”
“Call me Diana. Please.”
Mariucci sat back down. He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, and said, “She’s Chinese secret
