I took the self-service elevator to the lobby. When the automatic doors parted, my forward view was blocked temporarily by an animated group of young people moving toward a nearby stairway. They were bound for the Zebra Room, a popular lounge. Instead of stepping out, I kept my finger on the circuit cut-off button that prevented the doors from closing. My eyes scanned the lobby seeking out a black-haired Chinese. They rested an instant on a pair of Korean businessmen, but I was searching for an individual, not a pair.
I leaned out and turned my head to the right. Three feet from my nose were the jutting mounds of a spectacular bosom. It was attached to a tall, tawny-skinned r girl wearing dark, harlequin glasses. Beneath them, full, red lips were bent into an impish smile. She removed the glasses. Her eyes, large and only slightly almond-shaped, were laughing too. She was Eurasian, mostly Chinese, but only the infusion of European blood could produce such beauty of face and full-blown curves. A pageboy bob framed her attractive countenance; straight, ebony-highlighted hair fell to her shoulders. There is nothing in this world as black as a Chinese girl’s hair. “You’re Nick Carter?” she asked. Her husky, deep-throated syllables were pure American. No accent whatsoever.
I stepped out of the elevator. Its doors closed behind me. The girl’s eyes sparkled at my hesitation. Mine did too as I took in her superb figure shown to full advantage by the fashionable, lime green jump suit she wore. A long-strapped, brown shoulder bag hung down and rested on her right hip. She spoke again. “I arranged with the garage attendant to send word up to the desk when he saw you bring your car into the hotel,” she explained as if anticipating a question. I had others.
One was why Hawk didn’t have the guts to tell me that Wee Low Kiang was a girl. Maybe Kiang wasn’t. I could be jumping to conclusions. Melissa Stephens popped into my mind again. She had said that some of the better class hookers were allowed to prowl the Fairmount lobby. The bold girl in front of me certainly had the stunning looks and physical accoutrements to qualify as a top-grade whore. There was an easy way to establish her bona tides if she was a Hawk protégé. “What kind of piece are you carrying?”
Her right hand patted the shoulderbag. “Colt mini-Panther snub-nosed .32 caliber with six-shot magazine.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Wee Low Kiang,” I said with more formality than enthusiasm.
The girl had a low-pitched laugh. “That pronunciation is close enough for a first try. Don’t worry, I don’t use it. It’s the name given to me at birth; it’s since been Anglicized to Willow Kane. Call me Willow.” She replaced the slant-framed dark glasses, hiding her unusual eyes. She grew serious. “Is there some place we can go to talk?” She sounded like a take-charge type of girl.
“I’ve got a room,” I answered. The way it came out caused her to tilt her head and draw herself more erect. Making a pass was the farthest thing from my mind. I had no intention of trying to get her into my bed. My frayed temper asserted itself. “Look, I’ve been stripping my gears since early morning. I’m just about wiped out. Any more talk can wait until morning. I’m going upstairs. If you’ve been told to stand guard in the corridor while I sack out, I’m on the tenth floor, Room 1022.”
She surprised me by lapsing into rapid French. She was fluent and precise. French is one of my better languages. I speak it with an Alsatian accent. Hers had a singsong quality which was typically Malaysian. “While waiting for you to show up I got a very peculiar telephone call. It came from a special Washington switchboard. The man I spoke with had been in contact with you less than twenty minutes before he called me. Some important decisions have been reached which I am to relay to you. This is too open a place to talk, even though we use a foreign tongue. We could be watched.”
“Votre Français est très bon.” I replied, easily following her lead.
She hurried on. “I feel uncomfortable here. I sense these things. We have to go to your room anyway.” She reached out and pressed the elevator call button. She had long slim fingers, but muscular-looking hands. I had to admit that when Hawk picked someone for a job, he chose only the best. Willow Kane had both obvious and hidden qualities. She seemed to be too aggressive for a mere bodyguard. On second thought, I excused her. Hawk must be moving things rapidly to have had to convert Willow into a trusted messenger from her simple role as an armed handmaiden.
She retreated and stood well back while waiting for the elevator to arrive. She was pointedly alert and patently overcautious when its doors parted in front of us. If this were a test, I’d have to give her a good grade for going strictly by the book. When she turned about and backed into the cab so she could keep the lobby in view, I thought she was overdoing it a bit.
We were the only passengers. I switched back to English. “You didn’t learn to speak French in France.”
“No. As a child I lived in Vientiane where my mother worked in the homes of French officers. She was a lovely, frail woman — part Portugese, with an unbridled sex drive and a correspondingly small regard for the consequences. I have nine illegitimate sisters and brothers. Fortunately, I don’t have the naivety of my mother, although the other ingrained trait gives me problems at times.”
“You went to UCLA.”
“Still do. Graduate work, but it’s taking time. I support myself with part-time jobs.”
“Like this? It can’t come along that often.”
Willow tilted her head proudly. “I’ve helped out twice before. One reason is that I’m a polyglot fluent in French, Lao, Vietnamese, and three Chinese dialects. I make out best, though, when I’m working in Hollywood,” she added matter-of-factly. I thought fleetingly of Gloria Grimes. Willow noticed my change of expression. “Oh, no. Nothing like that,” she said lightly. “I’m more athlete than actress. Tumbling, skydiving, bronco riding, things like that. I’m a freelance stunt girl.”
The elevator stopped at the tenth floor before I could comment. Willow stepped out into the hallway. She looked first to the left, then to the right. The carpeted corridor was serenely quiet.
“That way,” I gestured with one hand while taking the room key from my pocket with the other. We matched strides moving toward my room. Willow had the smooth, positive gait of a young, well-coordinated gymnast. Otherwise she was all woman. Her tight-muscled body was veneered with a thin layer of fat. The result was smooth, flattering curves. I lagged behind to watch her, my mind wandering. Willow stopped in front of Room 1022.
I unlocked the door and gave it a push. At the same time I stepped back to allow Willow to enter. The door swung easily, up to a point. Then it came to a halt as if it had bumped against something inside the room. Willow stepped forward.
The faltering swing of the door could have been caused by a burr on a hinge. Whatever it was, a warning flashed in my head.
I snatched Willow’s elbow, yanking her back. The jerk pulled her off balance. She fell against me. Both of us staggered backwards. Willow had sense enough to remain calm. She disengaged herself and allowed me to shove her further away from the partially opened door.
I drew back three steps more, breathing through my mouth. Nothing happened. I waited a little longer. Then I eased forward, peering through the narrow gap between the door’s edge and the frame. A light was on inside the room. It could be from a bed lamp, or coming from the bathroom. I hadn’t left it that way. A maid might have turned on a light. No sounds came from inside the room. My fast-pumping blood was slowing down once more.
“Is anything wrong?” Willow had moved noiselessly to my side.
“I’m not sure.”