“Nothing specific?”
“Not very, no.…”
“Protection?”
“I’ve dabbled.”
“Clubs?”
“No.”
“Women?”
“Not in the way you mean.”
“Huh!” She wriggled away a little and pushed again at her hair. “Look, what are you aiming to get into, in the States?”
“I told you, Flame. Or if not in so many words, I hinted at it. Anything that turns up and looks good enough… same as back home.”
“Uh-huh…” She snuggled down again, her cheek alongside his. He felt the young hardness of her breasts. Then she said crisply, “Just you get some sleep now and when you’ve had that there’ll be breakfast if you feel like it. Me, I’m going home, but I’ll be back after the show tonight.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime Josephson’ll be coming in to have a talk with you. He’s promised to hold off till you’re feeling up to it, but I wouldn’t think about getting away if I were you. You’ve come here and you’re staying. Don’t give trouble.”
He half sat up and the effort made his head swim. “Suppose I don’t want to stay?”
“You’ll do just as you’re told from now on out… or till Josephson’s satisfied, anyway. You wouldn’t let me down, would you?”
“I’ll try not to,” he said.
“You make sure you succeed. I’ve staked my life on you. I don’t want to be found in a weighted sack at the bottom of the Hudson.” She got off the bed, but bent down to him again and stroked his cheek. The touch was as light as before and the scent of her skin was very stimulating… he reached out a hand to her and she kissed him again; this time it wasn’t for cover… that kiss lasted a long time and he felt a lot better after it. He wondered why he had ever thought the girl had a hard centre.
Pulling away from him she went across and tapped lightly on the door. After a short delay it opened and she went through. Shaw heard a man’s voice briefly, and then the door was shut and a key was turned in the lock. Shaw was frankly bewildered; it wasn’t entirely clear whether Flame was his ally or his jailer, but time, as ever, would tell. At least, from what the girl had told him, it seemed that for the time being he was partially trusted even though he was both White and British; that was something. But a little later he wasn’t at all sure about the trust being even partial. A locked door was one thing; what he saw through the french window when curiosity got him off the divan was another, and it struck him rather more forcibly. Between him and the view of the Hudson River something had obtruded itself and that something was covered with tawny fur. It was a fully-grown panther around six feet long. That panther could, of course, be tame; but even if it was, it no doubt knew exactly what was expected of it in an emergency.
Shaw went back to bed. At the moment there was nothing he could do; meanwhile, if Siggings’s fragment of overheard talk about a kitten in New York did have any connexion with the Sex Kitten here in Harlem, then he felt he was pretty close to the Dead Line organization.
Within a few minutes he was asleep.
That sleep was deep and refreshing and he was woken by the arrival of breakfast, which was wheeled in on a trolley by a Negro girl who looked sullen and said nothing. Behind her, another Negro, a man with the build of a boxer, guarded the door with an automatic. Shaw’s watch showed 11 a.m. He had had a good long sleep and he felt fine but for the bruises. And he felt hungry. When the girl went out of the room and the jailer locked the door again, he made the most of hot, strong coffee and crisp rolls and honey. Half an hour after his third cup of coffee the door opened again and a big Negro, not the jailer this time, entered. He looked as dangerous as the panther and if anything tougher. Thick shoulders bulged with solid muscle under a highly-coloured silk dressing-gown, big feet were hidden in golden-coloured soft suède slippers. Several of the teeth were gold too, and on each hand there was a diamond-studded, very heavy gold ring. Quite useful in a fight, if ever he was caught without a more conventional weapon handy.
“Good morning,” Shaw said politely, pulling himself to a sitting position. This man was clearly his host, so he added, “Thanks for the bed and breakfast… and I’m genuinely grateful for being pulled out of that fight last night.”
The Negro, standing beside the bed with his hands in his dressing-gown pockets now, split his face briefly into a smile, a smile with ice in it. “Thank de girl for de fact you’re still breathin’,” he said softly. “Me — Ah’m prejudiced ’gainst guys wid White skins.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So maybe you are, and maybe you’ll be sorrier if you turns out a twister. Meantime, Ah’ll say dis much: last night you did somethin’ not many Whites woulda done.”
“You mean the Negro girl?” Shaw smiled brightly.
“Sure dat’s what Ah means. She ain’t nothin’ personal to me, ’cep’ she’s one of us. But dat counts. Now — de White girl. Flame Delaney. Seems she’s an old frien’ of yours.”
Shaw said, “Yes, she is.”
“Says you’re okay.”
“I’m glad.…”
The Negro stared down at him expressionlessly. “Pete Omofouloo an’ me, we’re good frien’s. Pete trusts de girl, likes her. She makes him plenty money. Ah say she’s quite a good kid.” He banged his chest with a bunched fist. “For a White, dat is. But if you’re not okay, mister, she suffers. Boy, she suffers good! Omofouloo don’ like bein’ let down. It won’ be me who’ll carve her up. It’ll be Big Pete. Now, de girl, she’ll have told you why you was brought here.” He sat down in the brocaded armchair. “Mister, Ah wants a résumé of what you did back in Britain. Ah wants to know all about you… just so Ah can figure if you’re on the level.”
“I’m on the level, Mr Josephson.”
Josephson studied his finger-nails. “Dat’s strictly for me to figure. Ah’m waiting, mister.”
Shaw took a deep breath and started. He gave a fictitious account of his supposed activities, drawing upon his personal knowledge of how London’s criminal population lived. He made it as convincing as he knew how, but all the while he knew time was running against him, that he was reeling off the basis of his own death warrant if he couldn’t get clear and away from this lush apartment before Josephson got the results of the check he was bound to put on him.
At the end of the recital Josephson climbed to his feet and said, “Mister, dere’s somethin’ Ah ain’t told you yet. A White cop was killed last night. Some of de boys get him in a busted store and poke him through de glass. After dat, dey tear him in little pieces. Now, every cop on the precinct’ll be after Black blood, and one thing Ah know is, no White cop’s havin’ a smell of mine. Now — if I lets you go, what does you do?”
“You tell me. I can see you’re dying to.”
“You goes right to de cops and says Ah had you kidnapped. Dat sends ’em aroun’ here, mister, wid an excuse… an excuse bein’ somethin’ dey ain’t never had before, however hard dey tried to find one. Get me?”
“I get you,” Shaw answered, “but you evidently haven’t got me, if I may say so. I certainly wouldn’t go anywhere near the cops, I promise you! I’m grateful for what you did, and anyway cops aren’t the kind of people I care to mix with… not in my line of business. I’d have thought I’d made that clear enough.”
“Maybe dat’s genuine,” Josephson agreed, “but Ah still don’ take chances. Dat way Ah stays alive better. So you stays till Ah finds out a t’ing or two more about you, an’ after dat, we’ll see.” He turned and stalked from the room and once again the lock slid into place.