Oriental Hotel

by Janet Tanner

  A muscle had moved in Gordon’s cheek. He knew he had played his part in things not being ‘ right’ as Elise phrased it.

  ‘All right, Elise, go to Cairo. We’ll manage here. Only don’t be away too long.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she had promised.

  But things had not worked out that way, for in July, just a few weeks after she had left Hong Kong, invasion by Japan became too real a possibility to be discounted and the British Government had begun evacuating women and children to Australia.

  At first, involved with her dying mother and exhausted by emotion, Elise did not realise the significance of what was happening east of Cairo. Her days were a procession of hours when she sat beside her mother’s bed, chained as much by guilt as by the iron grip of the painfully thin fingers around her wrist, listening to the harsh rasp of breath in diseased lungs and wishing there were something – anything – she could do to relieve the suffering. Leave her she could not. But at last, when merciful release came and after her mother had been buried beneath Egyptian soil, Elise found her return to Hong Kong blocked.

  In panic she explored every available channel. ‘I must get back – I must!’ But always the answer was the same: no expatriates were to be allowed back into Hong Kong by order of the British Government.

  In November her hopes were raised when the lonely husbands of the Colony formed a Protest Group to demand the return of their wives; under the pressure the forced evacuations were stopped, but still the Government refused to allow the women back.

  The Japanese were on the Hong Kong/Chinese border, Elise was told, and she must realise for her own safety …

  She returned to the present with a jolt as a gharry stopped in answer to her summons, the driver eyeing her with curiosity when she instructed him to drive her to Shepheard’s. He did not care for European women who walked the streets alone with their faces and legs exposed for all the world to see, but anyone who gave their destination as Shepheard’s automatically earned his grudging respect.

  Shepheard’s was the most exclusive hotel in Cairo. Since the days when it had been the headquarters of Napoleon’s commander-in-chief, it had acquired a reputation for splendid service which was second to none and more than one crowned head had passed through the palatial doors. Cairo might be a sprawling hotch-potch of wealth and poverty, of river-bank villas, soaring minarets and priceless antiquities, of mud-brick houses and dirty tenements. But Shepheard’s was Shepheard’s and its standards had remained unchanged since the days when the founder, whose name it now bore, had first opened his New British Hotel a hundred years earlier.

  Not even the war and the fighting on the North African coast had affected its reputation. Bell-boys still ran to attend to every whim; dancers dressed by the haute couturiers of the world and decked with expensive jewels twirled beneath the chandeliers to the accompaniment of a six-piece orchestra, and the champagne was permanently on ice.

  All this the Egyptian driver knew and in anticipation of a fat tip he nudged the horse to a trot.

  Though it was mid-afternoon the streets were busy with soldiers everywhere and Elise remembered that Cairo was the Middle East GHQ of the British Army. This was why her mother had been here, of course. The Brigadier, a cold, ambitious career soldier who had taken the place of Elise’s much-loved father, had been posted to Egypt. Until her mother’s death Elise had stayed with him in his villa at Zamelek, a pleasant residential area, but when the ordeal was finally over there had been no reason to continue the armed truce and Elise had moved to her suite at Shepheard’s.

  If he had wished, she felt sure the Brigadier could have used his influence to help her to return to Hong Kong, but typically he had not done so. For that alone she thought she would probably never forgive him.

  An army lorry overflowing with soldiers rattled past the gharry, raising a cloud of white dust and causing the horse to break into a short, unrestrained canter. With the familiar depression returning to settle in on her, Elise scarcely noticed. For all she had said to Vice-Consul Langley, she knew there was a limit to the number of times she could clamour at his door and a limit to what she could expect from him. If the British Government refused her entry and there were no ships to take her in any case, how could she ever get back? But if Hong Kong was in danger …

  The gharry came to a stop and she climbed down and paid the driver, automatically adding the large tip he had anticipated. The steps of Shepheard’s rose before her and on the verandah she could see the elderly gentlemen taking tea as they did every afternoon. Two uniformed bell-boys jumped to attention and she checked her step as they opened the doors for her, then went past them into the cool interior.

  Heady perfume from the flowers banked around the central columns and overflowing from ornamental vases at the foot of the sweeping staircase wafted to her on the rush of air from the discreetly placed fans. A number of people were milling about the reception desk and Elise remembered with relief that she had forgotten to hand in her room key before leaving that morning. At least she could avoid standing in a queue and could go straight up to her room.

  She crossed to the lifts and waited while the Egyptian porter opened the gates for her to go inside. Then, as the mirrored casket glided upwards she ignored the intricately painted murals and stared unseeingly as ceiling became thickly carpeted floor and chandeliers disappeared beneath her feet.

  The moment the lift came to a halt, the doors were whisked open for her and with a brief nod at the porter she started along the corridor, her feet sinking into soft red pile. In front of her door she stopped, fumbling in the crocodile bag and extracting her room key.

  A slight, unidentifiable sound made her hesitate suddenly and she stood with the key in her hand, listening. Someone in her room? No, the room boys would have long since finished the daily chores of cleaning, tidying and laying out fresh towels and soap, and it was much too early for them to be turning down the beds.

  Dismissing the foolish thought, she inserted the key in the lock and turned it. Then, as she pushed the door open, a startled gasp escaped her.

  There was someone inside and it was not a room boy.

  Sprawled in the rattan chair in front of the window, with a cigarette between his fingers and a glass of amber liquid at his elbow, was a man – someone she had never seen in her life before.

  As she stood in the doorway, frozen by surprise, he looked up and the light from the window showed the planes and angles of a strong-boned face beneath a quiff of thick, dark hair. It was a dangerous face, she thought in that first startled moment, a face to be reckoned with; hazel eyes glinted coolly and the mouth could be cruel … or sensual. He got to his feet and she noticed with a further stab of surprise that his lean, muscular body was clothed in the uniform of a British RAF officer.

  Speechless, her hands tightened on the cool crocodile skin of her bag and as he surveyed her, the man’s eyebrows lifted fractionally.

  ‘Well, well, I wasn’t expecting visitors,’ he said conversationally. ‘But now that you’re here, do come in.’

  With a tremendous effort Elise recovered herself. ‘ What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

  The man lifted his cigarette to draw in smoke, looking at her through half-closed eyes. He had neither expected nor wanted any interruptions this afternoon, but this young woman was beautiful enough to warrant a second glance, however unexpected her arrival. The dull gold glint of her hair was like sunshine on a dark day and the way she lifted her chin, looking at him with angry defiance, made his own mouth twist upwards for no reason he could identify. As for the way she was dressed, it was a long time since he had seen a woman wearing designer fashion such as her dress of blue silk, and her crocodile shoes and bag had plainly not been purchased in shortage-racked England.

  But why should they have been? he asked himself. This was not England, it was Cairo. After months of seeing women either in uniform or doing the best they could on clothing coupons, he was once more among the wealthy, untouched by the
war that was tearing down civilisations. From blackouts and ration books and bombs that killed indiscriminately he was back in relative peace; from mess rooms and aerodrome hangers he was once more surrounded by the untouched luxury which the great Oriental hotels could provide.

  His mouth twisted again; this time it was not a smile but a grimace and the young woman in the doorway made a small, impatient movement of her head.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked again.

  He took the cigarette from his mouth, holding it with a slight awkwardness that she failed to notice.

  ‘I could very well ask you the same question.’

  ‘But you’re in my room!’ she said sharply.

  He half turned away, flicking ash into the heavy cut-glass ashtray.

  ‘On the contrary. You are in my room.’

  ‘It can’t be your room. I just opened the door with my own key!’

  Her voice was sharp, all the tensions of the afternoon exploding inside her at the sight of this intruder who dared sit calmly in her room when all she wanted to do was take off her shoes, throw herself full length on the bed and sob out her despair.

  ‘And what’s more,’ she added angrily, ‘I should be very grateful if you would put out that cigarette. I don’t want all my clothes to smell of smoke.’

  His lips tightened a fraction but they still conveyed a trace of amusement. ‘There is no danger of that. Your clothes aren’t here, I assure you.’

  Her eyes widened. Without another word she marched confidently through the sitting room to the bedroom beyond, flinging open the door of the heavy oak wardrobe.

  ‘There …’

  But the exclamation was cut short as her amazed glance fell, not on the row of delicate shantung silks and cool linens, the Molyneux and Paquin models, but on an officer’s dress jacket, a trench-coat and a single lightweight lounge suit. Apart from these, the wardrobe was quite empty.

  ‘Where are my things?’ she cried, spinning round on him accusingly.

  He turned away, feigning disinterest. ‘How should I know? This is my room. When I stay at Shepheard’s it is always my room, and when I took it over this afternoon I assure you there was nothing here that could possibly belong to you. Now, if you’re in some difficulty, I suggest we call Reception so that the problem can be sorted out.’

  Her chin was jutting dangerously now, her eyes blazing.

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea!’

  As he crossed to the telephone she noticed, but disregarded, his slight limp. The power that seemed to emanate from his lithe, muscular body she could not ignore, however. He was deceptively relaxed and yet alert, frighteningly watchful and unarguably in control. Since this was her room, it was intensely irritating that he should assume responsibility for calling the management, yet she knew instinctively that to argue would be useless.

  He called the reception desk and she was startled by the speed with which they answered and the rapidity with which an anxious Assistant Manager arrived at the door in response to his summons.

  ‘Mr Brittain, sir, the Manager is away this afternoon. Can I be of assistance?’ His glance suddenly fell on Elise as she stood beside the velvet chaise and a faint flush tinged his sallow skin. ‘Mrs Sanderson! Oh, dear me, I had no idea you had returned! Did you not call at Reception on your way in?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I had my key with me.’ Elise opened her palm to display the key but, plainly flustered, he disregarded it.

  ‘This is most unfortunate, madam, most unfortunate! If you had called at Reception you would have been told that it became necessary to change your suite …’

  ‘Change my suite?’ Angry colour rose in Elise’s cheeks. ‘Why should you do that? I have been occupying it for three months.’

  ‘Exactly.’ The Assistant Manager’s hands fluttered in extreme agitation. ‘A great deal longer than you stated when you first arrived. You thought then, if I remember correctly, that you would be requiring the suite for a week or two at most.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Elise pushed away the sinking feeling that threatened to overwhelm her as she remembered how confident she had been of arranging an early passage back to Hong Kong. ‘But this is wartime – things haven’t worked out as I expected. And I still don’t see …’

  Embarrassed, the man tucked his thumbs nervously into the watch-chain which straddled his waistcoated chest.

  ‘I am afraid this suite is never let on a long-term basis, madam,’ he explained. ‘There is an arrangement whereby it has to be available at any time, should Mr Brittain or his family require it. This morning, after you had left, I received word that he was in Cairo, so I had no option but to transfer you. I do apologise, madam, most sincerely, but …’

  ‘It’s outrageous!’ Elise was furious now. ‘ You mean that because this gentleman arrived unexpectedly I have been moved, without any prior warning, to some other room? Why couldn’t he have been put elsewhere?’

  The Assistant Manager’s colour deepened again, turning his sallow skin an unhealthy shade of orange. Things always ran with smooth precision at Shepheard’s and this afternoon’s fiasco had occurred because of unprecedented circumstances.

  ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to answer my question.’ Looking at him, Elise realised that this was not an argument she was likely to win, and suddenly weary she decided to retire with what dignity she could. ‘I don’t know who this gentleman is, but it’s quite plain that in your opinion his claim to the room is far better than mine, despite the fact that I was already occupying it. Now, if you will be so kind as to show me where I am supposed to be …’

  ‘Of course, madam, of course!’ The Assistant Manager fluttered in ill-concealed relief. ‘If you will follow me …’

  Elise marched across the room. In the doorway she glanced back to see the new occupant watching her and her amber eyes flashed him a message of clear dislike.

  Why he was considered so important she could not imagine – although he wore the uniform of an RAF officer, she hadn’t noticed any particularly impressive insignia and he looked too young to hold any rank high enough to generate such subservience.

  Ushering her into the lift, the Assistant Manager continued to offer his profuse apologies.

  ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Sanderson. Should you wish to move back, I believe the rooms will be free again in a few days’ time. Mr Brittain is only passing through on his way home.’

  This time the name struck a faint chord within her. Until now she had been too angry to wonder about it. Now she said coldly, ‘Who is this Mr Brittain?’

  The man glanced at her and then away again, his eyes rolling evasively in his dark face. ‘Madam has perhaps heard of Cormorant? In the East they are very well known.’

  She drew in her breath sharply and the anger returned. Cormorant! Oh yes, she’d heard of Cormorant – and the Brittains too. No wonder the name had sounded familiar to her; in Hong Kong one could hardly avoid hearing of the Brittains of Cormorant.

  They were business people – not small business people as she and Gordon were, with only two factories, however thriving – but a family with an empire. They owned half Hong Kong, Gordon had once said; the money-making concerns, of course – not the land, which still belonged to China. They had been there since the very first days of the Colony, she had heard, and had grown with it, making money by fair means and foul, buying their first handsome profits with illegal opium, investing and reinvesting until there was hardly a business they did not control. They were strictly legal these days, of course, running their string of businesses from the most impressive three-storeyed building in Victoria and their mansion at Shek-o on the south side of the island. She had never met any of them, though she had seen their power-boat speeding across the bay and the Rolls with the Cormorant insignia gliding through central Hong Kong.

  Nevertheless she knew them, right enough. They were wealthy and powerful and in their determination to stay that way they steam-rollered anything or anyone which s
tood in their path. On more than one occasion she had seen friends of Gordon’s in difficulties because of Cormorant tactics. Philip Lester, who had once been a frequent visitor to their house in Kowloon, had been bankrupted when Cormorant had foreclosed on a deal, and George Graham, a quiet, clever Scot, had sold out too cheaply and gone home to his native Edinburgh.

  But it was Gordon’s feud with Cormorant that she thought of now.

  Just what had happened between them in the beginning Elise was not sure. She only knew that there had been a time, soon after they came to Hong Kong three years ago, when things had been very difficult and the Brittains of Cormorant were behind it.

  Snatches of conversation and odd comments Gordon made to her had stayed in her mind. ‘ My God, those Brittains know how to turn the screw! They don’t care who they trample on.’ And: ‘The most arrogant bastards alive! They won’t be satisfied until Cormorant have every deal in Hong Kong sewn up.’

  Several times she had asked him what was wrong, but always he had fobbed her off. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Elise. I’m absolutely fed up with the subject. Let me forget the business for five minutes, for heaven’s sake!’

  She had been hurt because she wanted to share with him. Twenty-two years his junior she might be, but she was also his wife and it rankled that he continued to treat her like a child. But the little she knew was disturbing enough. More than once the word ‘bankruptcy’ had cropped up and this had the power to make her shake inwardly. She knew all about bankruptcy – it had come to her father when she was just twelve years old and, unable to face it, he had hanged himself. The shock and horror of the experience had never left her completely, lying beneath the surface of her mind like a recurrent nightmare; when she looked at Gordon’s face – pinched and anxious beneath his neat thatch of sandy hair – and overheard the late-night telephone calls in lowered voices, the nightmare had almost become reality.

  It was only after weeks of anxiety that she had seen Gordon begin to relax and had known the crisis was over. But his hatred for Cormorant and the powerful Brittains had not diminished. They were still at daggers drawn, she knew, and her own dislike had been sharpened by almost everything she heard about them.