by Jack Higgins
They seemed to have been swimming for an eternity when finally a mass of junks and sampans loomed out of the darkness and indicated that they had reached the North side of the harbour. They swam between the boats and landed at a flight of stone steps that led up to the wharf. They sat on the steps for a little while and Hagen asked her if she was all right. 'I'm fine,' she told him. 'Never felt better.' There was a distinct note of pride in her voice.
After a few minutes they climbed the steps and walked along the waterfront. There was an all-night bar nearby that Hagen knew of. When they entered it was empty except for a few drunks sleeping it off, sprawled across the tables. He put Rose in a booth and told the tired, disillusioned-looking bartender to take a couple of brandies to the table.
He went to the telephone and dialled Clara's number. The receiver was lifted sharply as if she had been waiting beside it. Hagen didn't explain anything. He simply gave her the address and asked her to send Lee down with the car to pick them up. He paid the bartender with a wet banknote and bought a packet of cigarettes. The man didn't quibble. His expression seemed to say that he'd got past being surprised at anything.
They sat smoking in the booth and Rose slumped wearily across the table and Hagen suddenly had a splitting headache and wanted nothing so much as a clean, cool bed for about fifteen hours. There was the sound of a car driving up outside and he gently shook Rose and they got up and went outside.
There was a blanket in the back of the car and as they drove away he wrapped it round her and slipped an arm about her shoulders. She snuggled close to him and just before she went to sleep, said softly, 'You're always there when I need you.'
Suddenly every muscle in his body seemed to give way. He sagged back in the seat, his mind in a turmoil, and wondered how on earth he was going to get out of this one.
5
Back at Clara Boydell's place two Chinese maids took charge of Rose and hustled her away upstairs to a hot bath. Hagen found Clara sitting at her desk with a large ledger open in front of her. She was wearing plain, horn-rimmed spectacles that gave her an oddly scholarly air. She ignored him for the moment and he helped himself to a brandy from the small bar that stood in the corner and drank it standing beside her, water dripping steadily on the thick carpet. She closed the ledger and removed the glasses. 'Queer time to be doing your accounts,' he told her.
She leaned back in her chair. 'I couldn't sleep until I knew what had happened. Anyway, I wanted to see if I could catch that Indian accountant cheating me.'
'And have you?'
She shook her head. 'Not a chance. He's too smart, like some other people I know, but one day he's going to take just that one chance too many.'
Hagen smiled in acknowledgement of the hint and fished the .38 pistol from his pocket. 'Sorry it got wet,' he said.
She broke open the cylinder and six cartridge cases were ejected on to the desk. 'How many corpses did you leave lying around?'
He grinned. 'I wouldn't worry about that. The last thing these people want is the police butting in. The dead and dying will be in China proper by now, or I miss my guess.'
She lit a cheroot and gazed at him thoughtfully through the smoke. 'They didn't harm the kid, did they?' He shook his head and she went on. 'Do you still intend to go ahead with this crazy scheme?'
'Why not? I'm beginning to feel lucky about the whole thing.'
'And you still intend to cheat the kid out of the gold?'
He put the brandy glass down carefully, anger stirring in him. 'Can you put me up for the night?' he said.
She nodded sadly. 'Sure - see one of the maids.' Suddenly she swore horribly and slammed a hand against the desk. 'Go on, get out of here, you bastard.' He closed the door softly behind him and went upstairs.
He had omitted to pull down the blind on going to bed so that warm sunlight falling across his face awakened him at nine-thirty. Surprisingly, he felt quite refreshed although he had slept for barely four hours. He stood under a hot shower for fifteen minutes and soaked the stiffness out of his muscles and then dressed in an immaculate satin gabardine suit that some previous patron had carelessly left in the wardrobe after a visit. The suit was quite a good fit but the collar of the only reasonable shirt he could find was rather small. He omitted to fasten the top button and managed to hide the fact with an extra-large knot in the silk, hand-knitted tie that seemed to go with the suit.
He looked at himself in the mirror with a certain satisfaction and reflected that if he could lay his hands on that gold he could wear suits like this for the rest of his life. As he went downstairs he wondered if Rose would be impressed. He shook his head and decided that she was in his thoughts more often than she should be, crowding out important matters.
The house was quiet and still. He wasn't surprised, for, as a rule, even the staff seldom stirred before noon. He found some Chinese cleaning-women in the kitchen, who were extremely alarmed when he appeared, probably because they imagined he might report them to Clara for slacking. He soon established cordial relations after a few bawdy and bad jokes in Cantonese. Within a few minutes he was sitting down to a hastily improvised breakfast of grapefruit and an omelette.
There were several cars in the large garage at the rear of the building. He selected an old and rather battered station wagon, mainly because it looked inconspicuous, and drove down to the waterfront at a steady pace, trying to think of a plan of campaign for dealing with Charlie. He parked the station wagon in an alley at the side of the cafe and slipped in through a rear door.
The place was empty as far as customers were concerned and a large, lugubrious-looking negro was singing to himself as he swabbed the floor. When he saw Hagen he smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. 'Why, Mr Hagen, how's every little thing?'
Hagen grinned amiably. There was a bond between them of sorts, for the negro was an American. 'Hello there, Harry,' he said. 'Is Charlie about?'
Harry grinned. 'Now, Mr Hagen, you know he never shows his face before noon.'
Hagen nodded. 'I know, but I want to see him about something pretty important. I'll go on up.'
The negro shrugged and went back to his work and Hagen passed through a door at the rear of the cafe and mounted a flight of stairs. As he turned into a corridor that led into the private part of the building he saw a boy in a white drill jacket, carrying a covered tray. He stood at the door of Charlie's bedroom and the boy came towards him, a look of surprise on his face. Hagen looked at the tray. 'For Mr Beale?'
'Yes, sir. Mr Beale, he asked for breakfast in bed early this morning.'
Hagen took the tray from him. 'I'll take it in. Mr Beale and I have business to discuss.' The boy turned and walked daintily away down the corridor and Hagen knocked on the door and went in.
'Okay, son, put it by the bed.' Charlie had his head turned, as he arranged pillows into a back rest. When he saw Hagen he looked surprised and then grinned. 'Things must be in a bad way in the kitchen. When did the cook start you?'
Hagen poured coffee into a cup and handed it to him. 'Things aren't that bad yet.' He grinned and lit a cigarette. 'You know why I'm here, Charlie. What have you decided?'
Charlie handed him the coffee cup and started to cut into a hard-boiled egg. He took his time in replying. 'I've thought about it and the way I see it you don't stand a chance.' Hagen's heart sank but Charlie went on. 'On the other hand I'm a gambler. The money it would cost is no more than my tables take in an hour. I always liked long odds.'
'You mean you'll do it?'
Charlie nodded. 'That's what I said.'
Hagen sat on the bed, and a feeling of elation surged through him. 'Thanks, Charlie,' he said. 'You don't know what this means to me.'
Charlie shook his head and lit a Turkish cigarette. 'Thanks, nothing. It's your neck. You've got a reputation for always having an ace up your sleeve. That's the thing that really influenced my decision.'
Hagen felt calmer. 'Okay, let's get down to business. This whole thing has to be played ve
ry cleverly and this is the way I want you to do it. You go to Herrara, the Customs chief, and tell him that I owe you a large sum of money. Tell him that I dropped it at your tables and can't pay. I'll give you a note showing that I've made the boat over to you. All you have to do then is discharge my debts and the boat is legally yours. If we do it that way Herrara will be happy because he'll think he's beached me and the story will get around the waterfront. If we're lucky it might put the Commies off the scent for a while.'
'Sounds good to me,' Charlie said. 'What do I do with the boat?'
'Have her taken to that beach-house of yours and we'll leave tomorrow night under cover of darkness.'
Charlie frowned and considered the plan. 'Don't you think you're rushing things a little?'
Hagen shook his head. 'On the contrary. I want to catch the opposition on the hop. With real luck I could be into the Kwai and out again before they've realized it.'
'Okay, boy,' Charlie said. 'Have it your own way. I'll have the boat and the necessary supplies taken out to my beach-house.'
'Don't forget the arms I asked for,' Hagen reminded him.
'They'll be there,' Charlie said. 'There's just one other thing. About the crew.'
Hagen was surprised. 'What about the crew? I told you O'Hara and the girl would be ample.'
Charlie shook his head and said softly: 'I like to lay off my bets as much as possible. Now what if you did manage to get the gold? You might get ideas.' He grinned amiably. 'Nothing personal, you understand, but we're all human.'
Hagen smiled slowly. 'All right. Point taken. What do you suggest?'
'I'm sending someone with you - just to protect my investment.'
Hagen laughed in amazement. 'Who have you got that's tired of life?'
Charlie lit another cigarette. 'The man I have in mind isn't tired of life exactly. Shall we say he's in no position to refuse. He's nowhere else to go - he depends on me.' He flung aside the blankets and got out of bed. 'This one's an American. A Navy man. Shot an M.P. in Tokio and had to leave in a hurry.'
Hagen shrugged. 'Okay, Charlie. If you want him to go, he goes. We need you to dispose of the gold, anyhow.'
He walked to the door and Charlie said, 'Give me a ring tonight and I'll let you know if everything is going according to plan.' Hagen nodded and left.
As he went downstairs he felt completely sure of himself for the first time in years. He was convinced that he had entered into one of those lucky streaks when he could do nothing wrong. He grinned at Harry and said: 'Set 'em up, boy. I'm celebrating a very satisfactory piece of business.'
Harry went behind the bar and poured whisky into two clean glasses. 'Here's luck, Mr Hagen,' he said.
Hagen slid a note across the counter. 'Better give me a bottle of rum, Harry. I'm going to see O'Hara.'
Harry looked wise and passed a bottle of cheap rum over the bar. 'I hear tell that man's been on a three-day jag in every joint in town. He's gonna wake up dead one mornin'.'
'Not that one, Harry. His stomach is lined with teak.' He swung the bottle by the neck as he walked out into the bright, hot street that was already beginning to swelter under the morning sun.
It was only when he reached the door of O'Hara's room that he remembered that he had taken the key away yesterday. He tried to remember where he had put it and then realized it had been in the pocket of the jacket he had discarded on the warehouse roof. He shrugged philosophically and, standing back, lifted a foot and crashed it against the lock. The door was worm-eaten and ancient with the years. It splintered and rocketed backwards.
He entered the dark room. The stench was appalling and the air in the room was stifling. He stumbled across to the window and groped for the shutters. For several moments he stood enjoying the cool breeze that was sweeping in from the harbour and then he turned to the bed and looked down at O'Hara.
The old man lay on his back, mouth open and twisted to one side. The soiled, filthy sheets had draped on to the floor and he was wearing only the singlet Hagen had left on him when putting him to bed. Hagen threw a sheet over the old man's nakedness and sat down in the only chair the room could boast and lit a cigarette. He gently fanned himself with his panama and looked at O'Hara with a mixture of disgust and pity. He had known him for a long time. The old man was a slave to rum. Some men had a woman, Hagen reflected. A beautiful, evil woman who could not be resisted. O'Hara just had the rum but the result was the same.
He wondered if he could ever sink to such a level and then his thoughts were interrupted by a long, shuddering sigh and O'Hara rolled over on to his back. Hagen leaned forward and saw that his eyes were open and regarding him with a peculiar fixed stare. The old man rubbed his knuckles into his bloodshot eyes and then heaved himself up until his back rested against the end of the bed. There was the same look of vague puzzlement and Hagen realized that O'Hara didn't recognize him.
A quiet space in time while a fly droned against the ceiling and the street sounds came faintly as from a great distance and then something clicked and a smile flickered around his mouth. 'Mark!' he croaked. Hagen unscrewed the cap of the rum bottle and filled a dirty glass that stood on the floor. The hand that reached for the glass trembled and the blue veins bulged through transparent, parchment skin. The glass tilted and a quarter of a pint gurgled down his throat. He reached for the bottle and Hagen passed it to him and watched him refill the glass and empty it again. He gave a long sigh of relief and lay back against the bed-head and, miraculously, ten years seemed to have dropped from his face. Hagen lit a cigarette and pushed it into the old man's mouth. For a moment they looked at each other and then an impudent grin appeared on O'Hara's face.
'You old bastard,' Hagen said in mock anger. 'You're incorrigible.'
'Well now, and why the harsh words, me darlin', and after you saving me from the "Gin-Trap" again?' He was referring to the special block in the city jail where they made alcoholics take the cure the hard way.
'You worthless old devil,' Hagen told him. 'If I didn't need you for a job I'd have left you to rot.'
The rheumy old eyes sparked. 'Is there much in it for me?' he said shrewdly.
Hagen walked over to the window. 'This could be a very tough one,' he said. 'Just about the toughest ever.'
'And how tough would that be?'
'I'd say about six to four against us getting out of Red China alive.'
The rum gurgled. 'Is that all? Sure now, at my age I'm past caring very much one way or the other. I wouldn't be missed and that's a fact.'
Hagen swung round. 'Listen to me, you old reprobate. If you can stay sober for a couple of days we won't die. You'll have enough money to go back to Kilkenny or Downpatrick or wherever the hell you started out from. You'll be able to die in bed like a gentleman.'
O'Hara's eyes blazed with excitement. 'You wouldn't kid me, would you, lad?' He gazed at Hagen in awe and the empty glass slipped from his nerveless hand. 'You wouldn't kid an old man?'
Hagen threw a couple of banknotes on the bed. 'Get yourself cleaned up. Have a steam-bath or something. Taper off on the liquor and get to bed early tonight. Tomorrow morning I want you to go to Charlie Beale's beach-house. You'll find the boat moored there. Check the engines.'
'You can rely on me, lad.' His voice trembled with excitement.
As Hagen opened the door a thought struck him. 'Whatever you do keep your mouth shut. Understand?' The old man winked and placed a finger against his nose and Hagen grinned as he closed the shattered door.
His next call was at his hotel. There was no one behind the desk and he went up to his room and started to pack his things. His worldly goods fitted into one suitcase and an old naval duffel-bag and there was room to spare. When he came downstairs again the proprietor was behind the desk. His fat and oily face beamed with pleasure and changed abruptly when Hagen asked for the bill. Hagen ignored him and pushed the money across the counter. The man pursued him to the door wringing his hands. 'But what is wrong, Captain? Are you not satisfied? Is th
e service not to your liking?'
Hagen grimaced. 'Service? What service?'
The man pawed at his sleeve. 'Perhaps my niece has not been accommodating? I could have a word with her.'
Hagen dropped his luggage and swung the man round. He booted him in the rear with all his force and had the satisfaction of seeing him stagger across the hall and fall over a chair. He picked up his bags again and left the place for the last time.
As he drove back to Clara's he was still thinking about the incident and he suddenly saw it in a symbolic light. He hadn't just left that particular hotel for good. He had left behind all the waterfront dives and flea-pits. In a way the hotel had represented the life he had been living for so long. By leaving the hotel he was also discarding a way of life. Once he could get his hands on that gold ... and then he suddenly knew that even if he failed he wouldn't have to return to the old life because he would be dead.
The idea seeped into his mind and a wave of coldness ran through him so that he shivered. As he turned the station wagon into the garage he vowed that nothing was going to stand in his way - not any person or any thing.
The house was still quiet. He went up to his room and dumped the luggage and then he tip-toed into the girl's room to see if she was awake. She was sleeping quietly, her head pillowed on one arm. He closed the door softly and went back to his own room. Suddenly he felt inexpressibly weary. He peeled off his jacket and flung himself down on the bed and in a moment was asleep.
When he awakened it was evening and shadows darkened the corners of the room. She was sitting on the edge of the bed looking at him and as his eyes opened a smile came to her face, warm and wonderful, as though a lamp had been turned on inside her. 'Hello!' he said. 'How do you feel?'
She pushed a tendril of dark hair back. 'Fine! Just fine. It all seems like a bad dream.'
He yawned and ran his fingers through his hair. 'Hell, I feel foul. My mouth tastes of mud.'