On Dangerous Ground (13 page)

His name was called and he went forward. “Mr. Dillon?” the Ambassador said, a slight query in his voice.

“Ministry of Defence,” Dillon said. “So good of you to invite me.” He turned to the Ambassador’s wife and kissed her hand gallantly. “My compliments on the dress, most becoming.”

She flushed with pleasure and as he walked away he heard her say in Portuguese to her husband, “What a charming man.”

The ballroom was already busy, a dance band playing, exquisitely gowned women, most men in black tie, although there was a sprinkling of military dress uniforms and here and there a church dignitary. With the crystal chandeliers, the mirrors, it was really quite a splendid scene and he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and worked his way through the crowd looking for Asta Morgan and seeing no sign of her. Finally he went back to the entrance, lit a cigarette, and waited.

It was almost an hour later that he heard her name called. She wore her hair up revealing the entire face, the high Scandinavian cheek bones, and the kind of arrogance that seemed to say that she didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything, for that matter. She wore an absurdly simple dress of black silk, banded at the waist, the hem well above the knee, black stockings, and carried an evening purse in a sort of black chain mail. Heads turned to watch as she stood talking to the Ambassador and his wife for quite some time.

“Probably making Morgan’s excuses,” Dillon said softly.

Finally she came down the stairs, pausing to open her purse. She took out a gold cigarette case, selected one, then searched for a lighter. “Damn!” she said.

Dillon stepped forward, the Zippo flaring in his right hand. “Sure and nothing’s ever there when you want it, isn’t that the truth?”

She looked him over calmly, then held his wrist and took the light. “Thank you.”

As she turned to go, Dillon said cheerfully, “Six inches at least those heels, mind how you go, dear girl, a plaster cast wouldn’t go well with that slip of a dress.”

Her eyes widened in astonishment, then she laughed and walked away.

She seemed to know a vast number of people, working her way from group to group, occasionally posing for society photographers, and she was certainly popular. Dillon stayed close enough to observe her and simply waited to see what the night would bring.

She danced on a number of occasions, with a variety of men including the Ambassador himself and two Government ministers and an actor or two. Dillon’s opportunity came about an hour later when he saw her dancing with a Member of Parliament notorious for his womanizing. As the dance finished he kept his arm round her waist as they left the floor. They were standing by the buffet and she was trying to get away, but he had her by the wrist now.

Dillon moved in fast. “Jesus, Asta, I’m sorry I’m so late. Business.” The other man released her, frowning, and Dillon kissed her on the mouth. “Sean Dillon,” he murmured.

She pushed him away and said petulantly, “You really are a swine, Sean, nothing but excuses. Business. Is that the best you can do?”

Dillon took her hand, totally ignoring the MP. “Well, I’ll think of something. Let’s take a turn round the floor.”

The band played a foxtrot and she was light in his arms. “By God, girl, but you do this well,” he said.

“I learned at boarding school. Twice a week we had ballroom dancing in the hall. Girls dancing together, of course. Always a row over who was to lead.”

“I can imagine. You know when I was a boy back home in Belfast we used to club together so one of the crowd could pay to get in at the dancehall, then he’d open a fire door so the rest got in for free.”

“You dogs,” she said.

“Well at sixteen you didn’t have the cash, but once in, it was fantasy time. All those girls in cotton frocks smelling of talcum powder.” She grinned. “We lived in a very working class area. Perfume was far too expensive.”

“And that’s where you perfected your performance?”

“And what performance would that be?”

“Oh, come off it,” she said. “The smooth act you pulled back there. Now I’m supposed to be grateful, isn’t that how it goes?”

“You mean we vanish into the night so that I can have my wicked way with you?” He smiled. “I’m sorry, my love, but I’ve other things planned and I’m sure you do.” He stopped on the edge of the floor and kissed her hand. “It’s been fun, but try and keep better company.”

He turned and walked away and Asta Morgan watched him go, a look of astonishment on her face.

The pianist in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester was Dillon’s personal favorite in the whole of London. When the Irishman appeared, he waved and Dillon joined him, leaning on the piano.

“Heh, you look great, man, something special tonight?”

“Ball for the Brazilian Embassy, the great and the good sometimes making fools of themselves.”

“Takes all sorts. You want to fill in? I could do with a visit to the men’s room.”

“My pleasure.”

Dillon slipped behind the piano and sat down as the pianist stood. A waitress approached, smiling. “The usual, Mr. Dillon?”

“Krug, my love, non-vintage.” Dillon took a cigarette from his old silver case, lit it, and moved into “A Foggy Day in London Town,” a personal favorite.

He sat there, the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth, smoke drifting up, immersed in the music and yet still perfectly aware of Asta Morgan’s approach.

“A man of talent, I see.”

“As an old enemy of mine once said, a passable barroom piano, that’s all, fruits of a misspent youth.”

“Enemy you say?”

“We supported the same cause, but had different attitudes on how to go about it, let’s put it that way.”

“A cause, Mr. Dillon? That sounds serious.”

“A heavy burden.” The waitress arrived with the Krug in a bucket and he nodded. “A glass for the lady, we’ll sit in the booth over there.”

“I was a stranger in the city,” she said, giving him some of the verse.

“Out of town were the people I knew,” he replied. “Thank the Gershwins for it, George and Ira. They must have loved this old town. Wrote it for a movie called
A Damsel in Distress
. Fred Astaire sang it.”

“I hear he could dance a little too,” she said.

The black pianist returned at that moment. “Heh, man, that’s nice.”

“But not as good as you. Take over.” Dillon got out of the way as the pianist sat beside him.

They sat in the booth and Dillon lit a cigarette for her and gave her a glass of champagne.

“I’d judge you to be a man of accomplishment and high standards and yet you drink non-vintage,” she said as she sampled the Krug.

“The greatest champagne of all, the non-vintage,” he said. “It’s quite unique. It’s the grape mix, and not many people know that. They go by what’s printed on the label, the surface of things.”

“A philosopher too. What do you do, Mr. Dillon?”

“As little as possible.”

“Don’t we all? You spoke of a cause, not a job or a profession, a cause. Now that I do find interesting.”

“Jesus, Asta Morgan, here we are in the best bar in London drinking Krug champagne and you’re turning serious on me.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Well the
Tatler
knows it and
Hello
and all those other society magazines you keep appearing in. Hardly a secret, you and your father keeping such high-class company. Why, they even had you in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot last month with the Queen Mother, God save her, and me just a poor Irish peasant boy with his nose to the window.”

“I was in the Enclosure because my father had a horse running, and I doubt whether you’ve ever put your nose to a window in your life, Mr. Dillon. I’ve a strong suspicion you’d be much more likely to kick it in.” She stood up. “My turn to leave now. It’s been nice and I’m grateful for you intervening back there. Hamish Hunt is a pig when he’s been drinking.”

“A girl like you, my love, would tempt a cardinal from Rome and no drink taken,” Dillon told her.

For a moment she changed, the hard edge gone, flushed, looking slightly uncertain. “Why, Mr. Dillon, compliments and at this time of night? Whatever next?”

Dillon watched her go, then got up and followed. He paid his check quickly, retrieved his Burberry and pulled it on, walking out into the magnificent foyer of the Dorchester. There was no sign of her at the entrance and the doorman approached.

“Cab, sir?”

“I was looking for Miss Asta Morgan,” Dillon told him. “But I seem to have missed her.”

“I know Miss Morgan well, sir. She’s been at the ball tonight. I’d say her driver will be picking her up at the side entrance.”

“Thanks.”

Dillon walked round and followed the pavement, the Park Lane traffic flashing by. There were a number of limousines parked, waiting for their passengers, and as he approached, Asta Morgan emerged wearing a rather dramatic black cloak, the hood pulled up. She paused, looking up and down the line of limousines, obviously not finding what she was looking for and started along the pavement. At the same moment the MP, Hamish Hunt, emerged from the hotel and went after her.

Dillon moved in fast, but Hunt had her by the arm and up against the wall, his hands under her cloak. His voice was loud, slurred with the drink. “Come on, Asta, just a kiss.”

She turned her face away and Dillon tapped him on the shoulder. Hunt turned in surprise and Dillon ran a foot down his shin, stamping hard on Hunt’s instep, then head-butted him sharply and savagely and with total economy. Hunt staggered back and slid down the wall.

“Drunk again,” Dillon said. “I wonder what the voters will say,” and he took Asta’s hand and pulled her away.

A Mercedes limousine slid up to the curb and a uniformed chauffeur jumped out. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Miss Asta, the police were moving us on earlier, I had to go round.”

“That’s all right, Henry.”

A uniformed police officer moved along the pavement toward Hunt, who was sitting against the wall, and Asta opened the rear door of the Mercedes and pulled Dillon by the hand.

“Come on, we’d better get out of here.”

He followed her in, the chauffeur got behind the wheel and eased into the traffic. “Jesus, ma’am, the grand car you’ve got here and me just a poor Irish boy up from the country and hoping to make a pound or two.”

She laughed out loud. “Poor Irish boy, Mr. Dillon, I’ve never heard such rot. If you are, it’s the first one I’ve heard of who wears clothes by Armani.”

“Ah, you noticed?”

“If there’s one thing I’m an expert on it’s fashion. That’s
my
fruits of a misspent youth.”

“Sure and it’s the terrible old woman you are already, Asta Morgan.”

“All right,” she said. “Where can we take you?”

“Anywhere?”

“The least I can do.”

He pressed the button that lowered the glass window separating them from the chauffeur. “Take us to the Embankment, driver,” he said and raised the window again.

“The Embankment?” she said. “What for?”

He offered her a cigarette. “Didn’t you ever see those old movies where the fella and his girl walked along the pavement by the Embankment overlooking the Thames?”

“Before my time, Mr. Dillon,” she said and leaned forward for a light, “but I’m willing to try anything once.”

When they reached the Embankment, it was raining. “Would you look at that now,” Dillon said.

She put the partition window down. “We’re going to walk, Henry. Pick us up at Lambeth Bridge. Have you an umbrella?”

“Certainly, Miss Asta.”

He got out to open the doors and put up a large black umbrella, which Dillon took. Asta slipped a hand in his arm and they started to walk. “Is this romantic enough for you?” he demanded.

“I wouldn’t have thought you the romantic type,” she said. “But if you mean do I like it, yes. I love the rain, the city by night, the feeling that anything could be waiting just up around the next corner.”

“Probably a mugger these days.”

“Now I know you’re not a romantic.”

He paused to get out his cigarettes and gave her one. “No, I take your point. When I was young and foolish a thousand years ago life seemed to have an infinite possibility to things.”

“And what happened?”

“Life.” He laughed.

“You don’t mess about, do you? I mean, back there with that creep Hamish Hunt, you went in hard.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“That you can take care of yourself, and that’s unusual in a man who wears an evening suit that cost at least fifteen hundred pounds. What do you do?”

“Well now, let’s see. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, but that was a long time ago. I played Lyngstrand in Ibsen’s
Lady from the Sea
at the National Theatre. He was the one who coughed a lot.”

“And afterwards? I mean you obviously gave up acting or I’d have heard of you.”

“Not entirely. You might say I took a considerable interest in what might be termed the theater of the street back home in the old country.”

“Strange,” she said. “If I had to guess I’d say you’d been a soldier.”

“And who’s the clever girl then?”

“Damn you, Dillon,” she said. “Mystery piles on mystery with you.”

“You’ll just have to unpeel me layer by layer like an onion, but that would take time.”

“And that’s exactly what I don’t have,” she said. “I’m going up to Scotland tomorrow.”

“I know,” Dillon said. “There was a mention in Nigel Dempster’s gossip column in the
Mail
this morning. ‘Carl Morgan takes the lease on a Highland Estate for the shooting,’ that was the byline. It also said you were standing in for him tonight at the Brazilian Embassy Ball.”

“You
are
well informed.”

They had reached Lambeth Bridge by now and found the Mercedes waiting. Dillon handed her in. “I enjoyed that.”

“I’ll drop you off,” she said.

“No need.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m curious to see where you live.”

“Anything to oblige.” He got in beside her. “Stable Mews, Henry, that’s close to Cavendish Square. I’ll show you where when we get there.”