Malik sprang up the stairs and reached the deck. His long knife in his hand, Girland followed him. Both men paused, then Malik raised his clenched fists about his head and cursed.
Erica Olsen was lying flat on her back on the deck, her chest torn open by machine gun bullets. Already disappearing into the night was a low, fast-moving motorboat heading back to Hong Kong.
Malik spun around and started towards Girland, then seeing the knife in Girland’s hand, he paused.
“Come on, Comrade,” Girland said quietly. “It will give me a lot of pleasure to slit your throat.”
Malik cursed him, then he turned and bent over Erica’s body.
“She’s dead,” he said, straightening. He bent over the side of the junk and looked down at his boat. The crumpled figure of Branska, half-in and half-out of the water told him the machine gun had also caught him.
“We’ll have to do something about the Chinese, Malik,” Girland said. “While we are fighting each other, they’re winning all the tricks.” He looked down at Erica’s body and grimaced. “I wonder if she did know anything worthwhile about Kung. Maybe she was bluffing. I know the family... they are great bluffers.”
Malik glared at him, his eyes glittering with fury.
“From now on, keep out of my way. If we ever meet again...”
“Oh, go frighten the Chinese,” Girland said impatiently. “Your dialogue’s pure ham.”
Malik climbed over the side of the junk and lowered himself into the motorboat. He caught hold of Branska and tipped him into the sea, then he started the motorboat engine and not looking back, he headed the boat towards the lights of Hong Kong.
Girland watched him go, then he went to the other side of the junk and made sure his boat was still there. He looked around for Hung Yan, but could see no sign of him. He peered into the moonlit water and saw something move. The long black body of a shark slid by and Girland grimaced. Malik, he thought, had probably knocked the Chinese boy over the head and dumped him in the sea.
Girland stood hesitating, then he went down into the stifling cabin. After a quick search, he found Erica’s suitcase. He dumped the clothes and the various articles on the cabin floor and went through them carefully. He found nothing of interest. Still hoping he might just be lucky and find the Black Grape, he slit the lining of the suitcase and eventually took the case to pieces, but he didn’t find the pearl.
He wondered if Erica had hidden it in the cabin, but decided she wouldn’t have left without it. The only other possible hiding place would be in the clothes she was wearing.
He went up on deck and stood looking down at her body. She was lying in a wide pool of blood. In, the moonlight, her chest looked like a big, black hole.
He grimaced. He couldn’t bring himself to touch her.
No, the hell with it! he thought. She had been telling the truth. He wasn’t going to look further. The whole operation had been a flop from start to finish.
He climbed over the side of the junk into his motorboat, started the engine and headed back to Aberdeen harbour. It was a long and depressing trip and his only companions were the sharks.
An hour later, he shut himself in a telephone booth and put a call through to the Aberdeen Police Station.
A voice with a Scottish accent answered.
“I’m reporting a murder,” Girland said. “Junk anchored off Pak Kok. You can’t miss it. It isn’t carrying a sail. The woman...”
“Just a moment,” the policeman barked. “Who’s this talking?”
“The woman’s name is Erica Olsen,” Girland went on. “The Central Intelligence Agency must be informed. They know about her. She was murdered by Chinese agents acting on orders from Pekin.”
“Is that so?” the policeman sneered. “If you think I haven’t better things to do than to listen to a crackpot...”
“Shut your fat mouth and listen!” Girland snapped. “Get someone out to that junk if you value your small job,” and he hung up.
Leaving the booth, he called a taxi and told the driver to take him to the Lotus Hotel, Wanchai.
Two chattering, giggling Chinese girls were coming out of the hotel as Girland paid off the taxi. They looked invitingly at him, but he didn’t notice them. He went up to his room, took a shower and then stretched out on the bed. He thought for some time. The frown on his face showed that his thoughts weren’t happy ones. He was blaming himself for Erica’s death. Although he had taken precautions, they hadn’t been good enough. He had led the Chinese and Malik to the junk. While Malik had been acting out his little scene, the Chinese must have drifted up to the junk, caught Malik’s man off guard, spotted Erica on the deck and had let fly at her with a machine gun. At least, they had done their job whereas both Malik and he had failed.
Finally, unable to stand the heat in the little room any longer, his conscience still nagging him, he put on his shabby tropical suit and went downstairs. He took a taxi to the Star Ferry and the steamer to the Kowloon City station and then another taxi to the Hilton Hotel. There he told the receptionist he wanted to put a call through to Monte Carlo. She said there would be a three-hour delay. Girland nodded and went to the bar. After three very dry martinis, he felt less depressed and discovered he was hungry. He went down to the grillroom where he ordered a melon with black figs, a blue point steak and a salad with Roquefort dressing. He loitered over the meal, still thinking. The idea of returning to Paris and fooling around with his Polaroid camera was unthinkable. He had Dorey’s twenty thousand dollars and the two single air tickets to Paris which he could convert into cash. Not much, but enough and he felt inclined to remain in Hong Kong for a while. Who knows? he thought, cheering up slightly, this is a city of opportunity. I might even find a job out here.
Leaving the restaurant, he returned to the bar. An hour later he was paged and he shut himself into one of the telephone booths.
Olsen came on the line.
“Did you find her?” the voice came faintly over the miles that separated them.
“I found her. I have bad news, Olsen.” Girland spoke slowly and distinctly. He wasn’t in the mood to have to repeat himself. “She’s dead. The Chinese got her first.”
“Have you got the Black Grape?” Olsen demanded.
Girland smiled wryly. So Erica had been speaking the truth. This fat man was only interested in money. The fact that his daughter was dead meant nothing to him.
“I haven’t got it. She never took it. It was a come-on to get Carlota out here. All Erica wanted was to get your cooperation to get her out and she used the Grape as bait.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Olsen said, his voice rising, “You’re lying! You have the pearl and you’re trying to gyp me!”
“Oh, relax! She never got near it. It’s guarded night and day. She found out some top secret stuff about Kung and they silenced her.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” Olsen screamed. “You’re lying! Now listen, you cheap crook, you either hand me the pearl in exactly three days’ time or that tape goes to Dorey and he’ll then learn what a goddamn crook you are. Do you hear me?”
“Get your mind off money,” Girland said, his own voice rising. “Do you realise your daughter’s dead?”
“Do you think I care about that little bitch!” Olsen yelled. “You give me the pearl in three days’ time or the tape goes to Dorey,” and he slammed down the receiver.
Girland stared at himself in the tiny mirror above the telephone. He grimaced, shaking his head at himself. This time, he felt, Olsen wasn’t bluffing. He shrugged and walked back to the bar. He sat down, ordered a large whisky on the rocks and stared bleakly out of the big window, overlooking the busy waterfront.
Well, that settles it for me, he thought. If Dorey gets that tape, he’ll blow his stack. I’ll have to stay here until Paris cools off... if it ever cools off.