“Just a moment,” the policeman barked. “Who’s this talking?”
“The woman’s name is Erica Olsen,” Girland went on. “The Central Intelligence Agency must be informed. They know about her. She was murdered by Chinese agents acting on orders from Pekin.”
“Is that so?” the policeman sneered. “If you think I haven’t better things to do than to listen to a crackpot . . .”
“Shut your fat mouth and listen!” Girland snapped. “Get someone out to that junk if you value your small job,” and he hung up.
Leaving the booth, he called a taxi and told the driver to take him to the Lotus Hotel, Wanchai.
Two chattering, giggling Chinese girls were coming out of the hotel as Girland paid off the taxi. They looked invitingly at him, but he didn’t notice them. He went up to his room, took a shower and then stretched out on the bed. He thought for some time.
The frown on his face showed that his thoughts weren’t happy ones. He was blaming himself for Erica’s death. Although he had taken precautions, they hadn’t been good enough. He had led the Chinese and Malik to the junk. While Malik had been acting out his little scene, the Chinese must have drifted up to the junk, caught Malik’s man off guard, spotted Erica on the deck and had let fly at her with a machine gun. At least, they had done their job whereas both Malik and he had failed.
Finally, unable to stand the heat in the little room any longer, his conscience still nagging him, he put on his shabby tropical suit and went downstairs. He took a taxi to the Star Ferry and the steamer to the Kowloon City station and then another taxi to the Hilton Hotel. There he told the receptionist he wanted to put a call through to Monte Carlo. She said there would be a three-hour delay. Girland nodded and went to the bar. After three very dry martinis, he felt less depressed and discovered he was hungry. He went down to the grillroom where he ordered a melon with black figs, a blue point steak and a salad with Roquefort dressing. He loitered over the meal, still thinking. The idea of returning to Paris and fooling around with his Polaroid camera was unthinkable. He had Dorey’s twenty thousand dollars and the two single air tickets to Paris which he could convert into cash. Not much, but enough and he felt inclined to remain in Hong Kong for a while. Who knows? he thought, cheering up slightly, this is a city of opportunity. I might even find a job out here.
Leaving the restaurant, he returned to the bar. An hour later he was paged and he shut himself into one of the telephone booths.
Olsen came on the line.
“Did you find her?” the voice came faintly over the miles that separated them.
“I found her. I have bad news, Olsen.” Girland spoke slowly and distinctly. He wasn’t in the mood to have to repeat himself. “She’s dead. The Chinese got her first.”
“Have you got the Black Grape?” Olsen demanded.
Girland smiled wryly. So Erica had been speaking the truth. This fat man was only interested in money. The fact that his daughter was dead meant nothing to him.
“I haven’t got it. She never took it. It was a come-on to get Carlota out here. All Erica wanted was to get your cooperation to get her out and she used the Grape as bait.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Olsen said, his voice rising, “You’re lying! You have the pearl and you’re trying to gyp me!”
“Oh, relax! She never got near it. It’s guarded night and day. She found out some top secret stuff about Kung and they silenced her.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” Olsen screamed. “You’re lying! Now listen, you cheap crook, you either hand me the pearl in exactly three days’ time or that tape goes to Dorey and he’ll then learn what a goddamn crook you are. Do you hear me?”
“Get your mind off money,” Girland said, his own voice rising. “Do you realise your daughter’s dead?”
“Do you think I care about that little bitch!” Olsen yelled. “You give me the pearl in three days’ time or the tape goes to Dorey,” and he slammed down the receiver.
Girland stared at himself in the tiny mirror above the telephone. He grimaced, shaking his head at himself. This time, he felt, Olsen wasn’t bluffing. He shrugged and walked back to the bar. He sat down, ordered a large whisky on the rocks and stared bleakly out of the big window, overlooking the busy waterfront.
Well, that settles it for me, he thought. If Dorey gets that tape, he’ll blow his stack. I’ll have to stay here until Paris cools off . . . if it ever cools off.
He paid for his drink, sipped it and relaxed back in his chair.
Maybe he had better keep one of the air tickets, he said to himself. Sooner or later, he would want to return to Paris. The Lotus Hotel was very cheap. He could remain in Hong Kong if he were careful for a couple of months. He felt himself relaxing. He had the facility of shedding unpleasant experiences very quickly. He suddenly found himself looking forward to those two months.
He suddenly didn’t want to sit in this luxury bar for the rest of the evening with his thoughts. Carrying his glass he went back to the telephone booths. He gave the telephonist the Lotus Hotel number. When Wan See came on the line, Girland said, “There’s a girl I’m interested in. Her name’s Tan-Toy. Where can I contact her?”
“Is that Mr. Girland?”
“Who else did you think it was?”
“Yes, I know her. She has a room on Jaffe Road.”
“Is that near you?”
“A hundred yards.”
“Would you send someone round there? Tell her I’m at the Hilton, and I want to see her. Will you do that?”
“Yes, with pleasure.”
“The pleasure will be mine I hope, but thanks.”
Girland carried his glass back to the bar and sat down. He believed that life should never be wasted. It was short enough as it is, he reasoned. The trick of living a full life was to make good use of every hour.
Crossing his long legs, he settled down to wait for Tan-Toy to come to him.
1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal Page 19