“I don’t think so. I’d rather not go, if you don’t mind. I’m afraid it would be too crowded there.”
Karl was quick. “I see,” he said softly. “Someone is with you. If you do not need help, say good-by immediately. I will not want to see you tonight, at any rate.”
“Good-by,” she said and hung up, turning calmly to face Harrigan. He sat and watched her with an amused look in his brown eyes.
For a moment she was afraid that he would ask what place it was that would be too crowded for her tastes. Instead he said, “I was asking you who it was that steered you to this Darron.”
“Oh, that was an old friend of my family’s. A man named Sakna Kahn. He owns several businesses in Ceylon. He travels quite a bit.”
“I see. What about this Wanda Dziemansek? What information can you give us about her?”
“I never saw her or heard of her until she came to my room early this morning. She threatened me if I — became friendly with Mr. Darron. She happened to say that Mr. Darron took her out of a D. P. camp near Munich.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in this country illegally. You know, this guy Darron lived pretty well without a job and without much dough. We can’t find a sign of a bankbook or a job.”
She shrugged as if it was of no interest to her.
But the strain of being calm was beginning to tell. She could feel a small muscle in her upper lip begin to twitch. To her great relief, Harrigan stood up and settled his hat firmly on his head.
He walked leisurely to the door. “Well, we’ll keep checking back, Miss Perez. We’ll be around when we turn up something.”
Chapter Three
Secret in Blood
When the door closed behind him she began to tremble so badly that she could hardly stand. It was pure horror to think that what she had said to Karl about Darron had resulted in— That couldn’t be true! It must have been some other enemy. Bad luck. Pure bad luck. With the police in on it, Karl Ehrlich would become cautious and refuse to deal with her. Darron was the only one who knew the method for quick communication with Sakna Kahn. If Sakna Kahn should hear that Darron was dead and that Karl Ehrlich had refused to deal with her—
She stood, still trembling, and tightened her hands until the finger nails bit into her palms. She suddenly realized that Karl would not call again, that Karl would probably never call again. She remembered his air of caution. The unreality of the situation was a constant nightmare. Because one power-mad man in Ceylon saw the British leave India, he wanted to hurry them out of Ceylon. The British garrison was small. It would succeed. For a time. There would be many deaths.
When you dealt in death, you had to deal with men like Ehrlich, Darron and Sakna Kahn. You had to wear a variety of names and when success was in your grasp, you ended up standing in your hotel room, shaking from head to foot. There was a bitter taste in your mouth. You stood and thought of the men who would be sent by Sakna Kahn to the plantation after your two sisters if Sakna Kahn ever suspected the least trace of disloyalty to his blood-stained cause.
She suddenly realized that her only way out would be to see Karl Ehrlich alone. In a place where he would be forced to talk to her. His room! She would have to find a way to get into the room. Finding out which room was easy. She merely phoned the desk and asked and they told her.
She paced back and forth, trying to think of some way to get into his room. Suddenly she grinned crookedly at her own stupidity. It would be easy to find out if he was in there. Room nine twenty-six. One floor above. She found the fire well and went quickly up the stairs. She knocked at his door. No answer. Again. He was not in.
A maid came down the hall, clean sheets over her arm, and went into the room across the hall from nine twenty-six. She used a pass key on the door.
Latmini dipped hurriedly into her purse, found a ten dollar bill, pushed the half-open door wide open and walked in.
“Yeah?” the maid said expectantly, eyeing the ten.
“I wonder if you’d let me in the room across the hall.”
“Against the rules. Can’t do it.”
“But I’m a guest in the hotel. You see, a friend of mine has that room. I want to play a joke on him. Really, I’m not a thief.”
“Ask the desk.”
“You know they’ll say no. Look, I’ll make it fifteen dollars.”
The maid scratched her thin blonde hair. “Well—”
The room wasn’t built for walking. Square and plain, with drab plaster walls, draperies fresh from the showroom of your cheap local dealer in furniture which makes your home look like “the home of the movie stars.”
And yet she walked. Ceaselessly. From the bed to the bathroom door. Back. The wide windows looked down on the heart of the city. She felt the deep pulse of the city and it was something that was part of the beat of her heart, something that took possession of nerve, vein, pulse...
There would be no point in calling the desk.
As soon as Karl came back from the meeting, or wherever he was, he would come to the room. There was nothing else he could do. It was his room. Karl seemed to be a creature of habit.
She paused, near the windows, held her hands outstretched, fingers spread, felt the excited surge of pulse that made her hands tremble, made a vein throb in her throat, made her feel once again the deep fear that had been with her ever since she had walked up the gangplank at Colombo.
On impulse, she hurried to the bureau, pulled open the drawers, riffling impatiently through the neatly folded underthings, the starched shirts. It was in the second drawer. A plain silver flask bearing the odd seal that she had learned to recognize. Just a plain silver flask, dull finish, inscribed with a warning that she could interpret.
She unscrewed the top, tilted it high and the sharp sting of the liquor tore at her throat. Of course it was good and expensive liquor. Karl would insist on nothing less. The deep rich glow warmed the chill of fear, made her strong again... and bold.
It was at the instant that she heard his key in the door. The knob turned. She stood waiting for him, his silver flask in her hand.
He was startled at the glow of light in the room. She saw him blink against the glare, pause, iron out the expression of dismay.
His tone was most casual. “Hello, Stella.” As though finding a woman in his room was a customary thing.
She heard, in her own voice, the thin fragile note of hysteria. “Karl!” she said. “How nice! Welcome home.”
Without taking his eyes from her, he closed the door behind him. The click of the brass latch was thin, metallic, final, somehow ominous. Karl had become a stranger. Without warning. Without plan.
He walked toward her, stopped three feet away and said, “It is nice, isn’t it?” His eyes were cold. “I saw Roger this evening. He told me — just enough.”
She backed away suddenly as he reached for her. She couldn’t evade the square tanned hand that reached for her throat, but tore the fabric of her dress.
Holding the dark green dress together, she backed against the bed, looking at him with wide eyes.
“I think we will talk this over,” he said. He walked slowly toward her.
The flask dropped to the floor. She shrank back.
He paused and smiled. “Or perhaps you would prefer to finish your drink?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, hysteria close to the surface. “Why are you like this?”
He stooped and picked up the flask. Some of the contents had seeped out onto the pale rug. He glanced down at the dark wet spot. She looked also, saw the threads in the rug twist and blacken, saw the tiny wisps of gray smoke that arose, smelled the pungent odor of acid. She put both hands to her throat.