Midnight Never Comes - PC 04 (v5) (2 page)

She nodded and tightened her grip as he started to pull away. 'I thought you might like to come back to my place afterwards. You look as if you could use a decent meal. We could talk things over. It might help.'

For a moment, his face was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm so that he might almost have been a completely different person. He touched her cheek gently and there was real affection in his voice when he spoke.

'Don't waste your time trying to put the pieces together again, Jean. They just won't fit any longer.'

Something seemed to go out of her and her shoulders sagged. Chavasse turned away, tapped once on Mallory's door, opened it and went in.

Mallory sat at his desk, the medical reports before him, cigarette smoke drifting up through the light of the shaded lamp. He glanced up, his face sombre and nodded briefly.

'You don't look too good, Paul. Better sit down.' He got to his feet. 'How about a drink? Whisky suit you?'

'Not according to my doctor,' Chavasse said. 'Or haven't you read those reports yet.'

Mallory hesitated, leaning on the desk with both hands. 'Yes, I've read them.'

'Then could we kindly get this over with. It's been a hard day.'

Mallory took a deep breath and nodded slowly. 'All right, Paul, if that's the way you want it.'

He sat down and opened the file in front of him. When he spoke again, his voice was brisk and formal. 'I'm afraid your fitness tests have proved negative.'

'All of them?' Chavasse said. 'I certainly don't do things by halves, do I?'

'You never did,' Mallory observed dryly. 'Frankly, you would seem to be in a pretty low state of health generally. Understandable, I suppose, in view of what you went through in Albania and then the knife wound didn't help. Dr. Lovatt tells me it's had to be opened up and drained on three separate occasions.

'Something like that. He seems to think a nice long rest in the sun is indicated. What can you offer?'

Mallory removed his spectacles and leaned back in his chair. 'The fact is that I've nothing to offer you at all, not any more. You see, the psychiatrist's report didn't make any better reading than this little lot. It seems your nerves are shot to pieces. He even thinks you need treatment.'

'At ten guineas a time he would,' Chavasse said. 'You must be joking. He couldn't psychoanalyse his way out of a wet paper bag.'

Mallory straightened in his chair and slammed a hand hard down on the desk. 'For God's sake, Paul, face facts. What about your practical earlier this evening? You went in after Jorgensen like an amateur. In the field, you'd have been dead, don't you understand that?'

'I understand only one thing,' Chavasse said bitterly. 'That I'm being slung out on my ear. That about sums it up, doesn't it?'

'No one asked you to get mixed up in that Albanian affair,' Mallory said angrily. 'You went in of your own accord.'

'Believing in the word of a member of this organisation,' Chavasse said. 'Someone you appointed yourself, so I understand.'

There was a moment of heavy dangerous silence as they challenged each other across the desk and then Mallory sat down heavily. When he spoke, he was completely in control again.

'You'll get the usual pension, Paul, we owe you that at least.' He opened a red file and took out a letter. 'I've been in touch with an old friend of mine, Hans Muller. He has the chair in Modern Languages at one of the new universities in the Midlands. He'll be glad to have you on his staff.'

Chavasse laughed once and it had an ugly sound. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. 'It's been fun, Mr. Mallory. As our American friends say, a real ball.'

He started for the door and Mallory jumped to his feet. 'For God's sake, Paul, don't be a fool.'

Chavasse paused, one hand on the door knob and grinned crookedly. 'I remember reading somewhere once about a French abbe who'd come through the revolution. Someone asked him what he'd done during the Terror. "I survived," he said. "I survived." I suppose I could say the same. Something to be grateful for at least.'

He opened the door quickly before Mallory could reply and went out.

2

The man who had ch'i

Somewhere in the distance Big Ben struck midnight, the sound curiously muffled by the fog and then there was silence. It was raining heavily and Chavasse paused on a corner to button the collar of his trenchcoat up around his neck.

Since leaving Jean Frazer's flat, he had walked aimlessly, turning from one street into another until he had come to the river again. He wasn't too sure where he was, probably Wapping from the look of it. Not that it mattered very much. He walked across the road past towering warehouses and paused beneath a street lamp, leaning on the stone parapet above the river.

He unbuttoned his coat, sliding his hand inside searching for his cigarette case and his fingers touched the butt of the Walther. He pulled it out and examined it quickly, a slight frown on his face. Technically speaking he would be committing an offence from now on simply by continuing to keep it without a permit.

He held it out over the dark water for a moment and then changed his mind and slipped it back into its pocket. When he found his cigarette case, it was empty and he continued along the wet pavement, turning the corner into an old square surrounded by decaying Georgian houses.

There was a Chinese restaurant on the other side, a ten-foot dragon in red neon glittering through the rain and he crossed towards it, opened the door and went in.

It was a long, rather narrow room obviously constructed from the ground floor of the house with the internal walls taken out. It was scrupulously clean and decorated in a vaguely Eastern manner, probably to please the clientele.

There was only one customer, a Chinese of at least sixty with a bald head and round, enigmatic face. He couldn't have been more than five feet in height, but was incredibly fat and, in spite of his immaculate tan gaberdine suit, bore a distinct resemblance to a small bronze statue of Buddha which stood in a niche at the back of the room, an incense candle burning before it. He was consuming a large plate of chopped raw fish and vegetables with the aid of a very Western fork and ignored Chavasse completely.

The Chinese girl behind the bar had a flower in her dark hair and wore a
cheongsam
in heavy black silk brocade embroidered with a red dragon that was twin to the one outside.

'I'm sorry, sir, we close at midnight.'

'Any chance of a quick drink?'

'I'm afraid we only have a table licence.'

She was very beautiful. Her skin had that creamy look peculiar to Asian women and her lips an extra fullness that gave her a distinctly sensual air. For some strange reason Chavasse felt like reaching out to touch her. He took a grip on himself, started to turn away and then the red dragon seemed to come alive, writhing across the dark dress like some living thing and the walls moved in on him. He lurched against the bar and was aware of her voice faintly in his ear.

Once in the Aegean, diving from a sponge boat off Kyros he had run out of air at sixty feet and, surfacing, had experienced that same sensation of drifting up from the dark places into light, struggling to draw air into tortured lungs.

The fat man was at his side, supporting him effortlessly with a grip of surprising strength. Chavasse sank into a chair. Again, there was that strange sensation of not being able to draw enough air into his lungs. He took several deep breaths and managed a smile.

'Sorry about this. I've been ill for rather a long time. I haven't been up for long. Probably walked too far.'

The expression on the fat man's face didn't alter and the woman said quickly in Chinese. 'All right, uncle, I'll handle this. Finish your meal.'

'Do you think they will come now?' the fat man said.

She shrugged. 'I don't know. I'll leave the door open for a little while longer. We will see.' The fat man moved away and she smiled down at Chavasse. 'You must excuse my uncle. He speaks little English.'

'That's all right. If I could just sit here for a minute.'

'Coffee?' the girl said. 'Black coffee and perhaps a double brandy?'

'Just try me.'

She went behind the bar and took down a bottle of brandy and a glass. At that moment a car drew up outside. She paused, frowning slightly, and peered through the window. Steps sounded on the pavement. She turned and nodded quickly to the fat man.

'They are here,' she said simply in Chinese.

As she came round the end of the bar the door opened and four men entered. The leader was at least six feet tall with a hard raw-boned face and restless blue eyes. He wore a three-quarter length car coat in cavalry twill, the fur collar pulled up around his neck.

He grinned pleasantly. 'Here we are again then,' he said in a soft Irish voice. 'Got it ready for me, dear?'

'You are wasting your time, Mr. McGuire,' the girl said. 'There is nothing for you here.'

His three companions were typical young layabouts dressed in the height of current fashion, hair carefully curled over their collars. One of them was an albino with transparent eyelashes that gave him an unpleasant, tainted look.

'Now don't give us any trouble, darlin',' he said. 'We've been good to you. Twenty quid a week for a place like this? I think you're getting off lightly.'

She shook her head. 'Not one penny.'

McGuire sighed heavily and plucked the bottle of brandy from her hand in a sudden quick gesture, tossing it over his shoulder to splinter the mirror at the back of the bar.

'That's just for an opener,' he said. 'Now you, Terry.'

The albino struck like a snake, his hand clawing at the high collar of the silken dress, ripping it savagely to the waist, baring one perfect honey-coloured breast. He pulled her close, cupping the breast in one hand and giggled.

'It's lucky for you I'm not that kind of boy, darlin'.'

The fat man was already on his feet and Chavasse kicked a chair across to block his way. 'Stay out of this, uncle,' he said quickly in Chinese.

In the moment of astonished silence which followed, the four men turned quickly to face him. McGuire was still smiling. 'What have we got here, then, a hero?'

'Let her go,' Chavasse said and the voice seemed to come from somewhere outside him so that he had difficulty in recognising it as his own.

The albino giggled and when he bared his teeth, they seemed very white against the full red lips and something snapped inside Chavasse, rising up into his throat like bile, threatening to choke him. It was as if all the frustrations of the day, all the pain and anger of six months of ill-health, of hospitals and endless operations had been waiting for this moment to explode in one white hot spasm of anger.

He pulled out the Walther and fired blindly, shattering another section of the mirror behind the bar. 'I said let her go!'

The albino sent the girl staggering across the room with a quick shove, his face turning the colour of his hair. 'Look at his hand,' he said in a whisper. 'It's shaking all over the place. Let's get out of here for Christ's sake.'

McGuire had stopped smiling, but there was no fear on his face. He stood there, hands thrust deep into his pockets, his eyes never leaving Chavasse who was trembling so violently that he had difficulty in holding the gun steady.

'Just stay where you are, all of you,' he said. 'I wouldn't like to guarantee what might happen if this thing goes off again.' He nodded to McGuire. 'You--throw your wallet across here.'

McGuire didn't even hesitate. He pulled out his wallet and tossed it on to the table. Chavasse picked it up with his left hand and opened it. It was stuffed with notes.

'How much is there here?'

'A couple of centuries,' McGuire said calmly. 'Maybe a little more.'

'That should take care of the damage. Anything over can go to the widows and orphans.' Chavasse glanced across at the woman and said in Chinese, 'Do you want the police in on this?'

She shook her head. 'No--no police.'

The kitchen door had opened behind her and two waiters and a cook stood there, all Chinese. The waiters were armed with carving knives and the cook carried a meat cleaver.

'You better get out while you still can,' Chavasse told McGuire. 'You made a bad mistake. These people have their own ways of dealing with scum like you.'

McGuire smiled pleasantly. 'I'll remember you, friend.' He nodded to the others and went out quickly. The door banged behind them and a moment later, the car drove rapidly away across the square. Chavasse put the Walther back in his pocket and leaned on the table, all strength going out of him in a long sigh. He looked up at the girl and grinned tiredly.

'I think I could do with that brandy now if it's all right with you.'

And she was angry, that was the strange thing about it. She turned on her heel and pushed past the waiters into the kitchen. Chavasse glanced at the fat man, eyebrows raised.

'What did I do wrong?'

'It is nothing,' the fat man said. 'She is upset. But please--your brandy.'

He went behind the bar, found a fresh bottle and two glasses and came back to the table. 'You spoke to me in Cantonese. You have visited my country often?'

'You could say that,' Chavasse said. 'Mainly Hong Kong.'

'But this is fascinating. I am myself from Hong Kong and so is my niece.' He held out his hand. 'My name is Yuan Tao.'

'Paul Chavasse.' He took the glass of brandy that Yuan Tao held out to him. 'Presumably that bunch have been here before?'

'I understand so although I only flew in yesterday myself. I believe they have been pressing their demands here and elsewhere for some weeks now.'

The two waiters and the cook had disappeared and now the girl returned, wearing ski pants and a Norwegian sweater. She still looked angry and her cheeks were touched with colour.

She ignored her uncle and glared at Chavasse. 'Who are you? What do you want here?'

Yuan Tao cut in, his voice sharp with authority. 'This is no way to speak, girl. We owe Mr. Chavasse a great deal.'

'We owe him nothing. He has ruined everything.' She was really very angry indeed. 'Is it just a coincidence that he walks in here at such a moment?'

'Strangely enough it was just that,' Chavasse said mildly. 'Life's full of them.'

'And what kind of man carries a gun in London?' she demanded. 'Only another criminal.'

'Would a criminal have asked you if you wished for the police?' Yuan Tao said.

Chavasse was tired and there was a slight ache somewhere behind his right eye. He swallowed the rest of his brandy and put the glass down firmly. 'It's been fun, but I think I'd better be going.'

The girl had opened her mouth to speak again and paused, her eyes widening in astonishment. He ignored her and grinned at Yuan Tao. 'Give my love to Hong Kong.'

He crossed to the door, opened it and was outside before either of them could reply. He buttoned his coat and a gust of wind kicked rain into his face in an oddly menacing manner as he moved into the night across the square. The girl's attitude didn't matter--nothing mattered any more. Already, what had happened at the restaurant seemed like some strange dream, elusive, unreal.

He was tired--God, how he was tired and the pavement seemed to move beneath his feet as he turned the corner and found himself in a street that ran parallel to the Thames, iron railings on one side, gaunt shuttered warehouses on the other.

He moved across and stood at the railings, staring into the fog and somewhere a foghorn sounded as a ship moved down into the Pool. He heard nothing and yet some instinct made him turn. He was too late. An arm slid across his neck, tightening like a band of steel, momentarily cutting off his supply of air. The albino appeared in front of him, his face a dirty yellow mask in the light of the street lamp. Chavasse was aware of the man's hands moving over his body, and he stepped back holding the Walther.

'Here we are again then, darlin',' he said and something glowed deep in his eyes.

A black saloon pulled in at the kerb. Chavasse acted. His left foot swung up sharply catching the albino on the right hand. He gave a cry of pain and the Walther soared through the railings and disappeared into the darkness of the river. In the same moment, Chavasse jerked his head back giving the man who held him a sharp blow across the bridge of the nose. The man gave a cry of pain, releasing his hold and Chavasse stumbled around the rear of the saloon and ran for his life.

He plunged into the fog, his feet splashing in the rain-filled gutter and there was a cry of rage behind him. A moment later he heard the engine of the saloon start up.

He could taste blood in his mouth and his heart was pounding and then he turned a corner and found himself faced with high iron gates leading on to a deserted wharf and secured by a chain and padlock.

As he turned, the car braked to a halt a yard or two away and they all seemed to come out together. The one in the lead carried a short iron bar and as he swung Chavasse ducked and the bar clanged against the gate. A foot caught him in the side and he lost his balance.

He rolled desperately over to avoid the swinging kicks and then he was jerked to his feet, two of them pinning his arms securely, ramming his back against the gate.