She’d been so good to me: loving on that beach, agreeing with Titch to spare my life, and now giving me a woman’s most beautiful farewell. And I was alive. Something warmed my chest. I padded over to her dressing table. A pendant of genuine Han orange-peel jade leapt into my hand from a drawer. Honest, I didn’t search. It was suddenly there, its clever electrum mount gleaming. I’d promised one of these to Phyllis Surton. I strove to replace it—only a blackguard would steal from Ling Ling after all she’d done for me, right?
The phone rang. “Carmen who?” I said. “No, sorry. Nobody called Lovejoy here. Sorry.”
And got an earful of high-pitched splutter. I cut the line, dressed quicker than I’d intended.
It rang again. Like a fool I answered, thinking it might be Ling Ling.
“Lovejoy? Lorna. Where on earth have you been? Mame saw you in the foyer—”
Good old Mame. “Thank heaven you’ve phoned, love! A friend of mine has been taken seriously ill. Er, thrombophlebitis of the, er, liver bronchi.” I jiggled the receiver and made a scraping noise, cut the line. I froze as somebody knocked on the door.
“Lovejoy?”
Hellfire. Janie? Here? I ran about, frantic for escape. Bedroom, bathrooms, opened cupboards, flung the curtains aside.
“Lovejoy. Open—this—door! I know you’re in there.”
Fire exit? A notice in English and Chinese: “Fire Exit to Next Floor.” I tugged at the window. It opened on a steep iron staircase, miles above planet Earth.
“Lovejoy! I’ve had you followed…” Thump-thump-thump.
God, but fire escapes are scary. I clung to the windowsill.
“I’ve found out about you and those women, Lovejoy—”
Nothing for it. I crawled out of the window and down to the next floor. Lifting the window I found myself in a corridor below the royal suite. I hurried along and fled down the staircase, flight after bloody flight. The foyer loomed. I flung myself through.
“Lovejoy!” somebody called from a crowd. “Dwoorlink!”
A taxi was pulling out by the fountains. I ran after it, gasping, wrenched the door open, bawling, “Quick, quick!”
We shot off, tires squealing. I fell into the seat.
“Where?” the driver said, enjoying my panic.
Yes, where? I had two airline tickets on me. Ong’s one to London, plus one to America.
Titch had only said to leave Hong Kong, not where to. And home meant Big John Sheehan’s unrighteous anger. I fumbled in my pocket. Astonishingly, there was Ling Ling’s lovely jade pendant, the sort I’d promised Phyllis. How on earth had it got there?
Not so penniless after all.
Tough luck, Phyllis.
“America,” I told the driver. “Fast as you like.”
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