“And I’ve changed my mind. But I’ve got a better job for him. Can he come with me over to the Penha Palacio? I’d like him to exercise his talents on behalf of the Sally Hyde we have there.”

He looked at me and said nothing. His eyes were sharp and alert, and I told him about Bettina. And when I’d finished, he lit one of his Turkish cigarettes and stared up at the red-shining ceiling of the cabin for a long, long while; and then he said slowly:

“I agree with all your reasoning except for one thing. A man in Alexander Ming’s position must, surely, be constantly in danger of betrayal from his own men? Wouldn’t you agree with that?”

“Probably. And so, he’d be constantly on the alert for any indication of betrayal. In the case under scrutiny, somebody led the real Sally Hyde to Macao. Ming’s got to find out who that might have been.”

“I’m suggesting that he just may not bother. You’re forgetting that his original intent was to get at Markle Hyde through her. And now she’s made it easy for him by offering herself as a target for him. The fact that this isn’t the real Sally Hyde merely suggests that the target will be hit mistakenly. But it will still be hit. And your Bettina will be dead.” He shrugged. “Perhaps that doesn’t matter very much. I don’t know. But what does matter is that you will have had her killed uselessly.”

I said stubbornly: “He’s got to find out where she got her information.”

“But it’s a risk, none the less.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. That’s why I want your man on her tail day and night, as close as he can get. A lot closer than I could get without giving the game away.”

I was beginning to like Bonelli very much. His concern for Bettina Harkan was somehow unexpected, and I didn’t believe his casual disinterest in her death one bit.

He said: “And you’re taking the efficiency of my man on trust too, are you not?”

I said: “How can you say a thing like that? Before, perhaps, I was. But now I’ve got good cause to know just how bright he is. The way he handled those cyclists was enough in itself, without the other. Against two men, he used his hands; when there were three or four, he started shooting; that points to a nice comprehension of the odds. I know he can be relied upon. I wouldn’t be here if he couldn’t.”

“A junk load of Northerners arrived in port this morning, does that interest you?”

“It might mean the enemy’s getting worried already. Is every Northerner in Macao working for Ming?”

“No, but the more there are of them, the more we can be sure Ming is gathering enough forces for a quick and easy settlement of whatever problem he decides you might present. They all stick together here, these men, a clique that is never really quite at home among the more gentle Southerners. They band together for jobs, for mutual protection, and to help each other. And for them, Ming is a Northerner himself, in spite of his American upbringing.”

The Courvoisier was good and my head was improving. What sort of a world would this be without good cognac to sooth its horrible little ills?

I said: “I’ve got to keep out of sight wherever Bettina is, because I’m too noticeable, and I don’t really like that very much. But if Theo Ericeira can keep an eye on her, I’ll feel a lot happier.”

He sighed and said: “The chances you take...And yet, my whole life has been predicated on the philosophy of the calculated risk, so I cannot disapprove of what you are doing, even though I don’t believe it can succeed. All right, as soon as you’re fit we’ll take him over and introduce him to his new charge.”

“I’m fit now.”

“And when should he start? Tonight?”

“Of course. The moment she sets foot out of that hotel she’s in danger. Tonight and every night, he must stay within a few yards of her, ready to grab for me anyone who tries to grab her. I don’t care how low on the ladder he is, he’s the man who’s got to lead me to Ming.”

“If you’re sure you can walk?”

“On my ear. Let’s go.”

We went back on deck and found Ericeira and took him over to the hotel, and the two of them waited in a sidewalk cafe while I went on up the broad, white-painted stairs to Bettina’s suite.

I knocked, and there was no answer. I put a foot against the door and smashed it open, and went inside and found Mai stretched out on the floor, unconscious, with a broken glass beside her. There was a lot of blood about her arm, and I thought at first she’d been stabbed, and I wondered about her legendary prowess; and then I saw that she’d fallen on the glass, broken it, and cut herself.

I fixed a quick tourniquet with my handkerchief and slapped her face a trifle, uselessly, and carried her to the bed in the other room and set her gently down on it. She was as light as a feather and seemed impossibly fragile and helpless, her body bending as I hefted it as though there were no strength in it at all. Of Bettina, there was no sign; not that I expected any. And when I examined the whisky bottle, the one I’d left there with them, there was the faint but distinctive smell of CC13CH(OH)2 coming from it. I went back to the bed and put a hand on Mai’s forehead; she was quite cold; she’d taken a large dose and would sleep for a long time yet. I took off the tourniquet and improvised a bandage, and closed the window to raise the temperature in the room, and covered her over with blankets to keep her warm, and went down and told Bonelli they’d got Bettina.

He looked shocked. He said: “My God, Cain, already?”

“Yes, already. They didn’t waste any time at all, did they?” There was a terrible feeling of guilt deep inside me. I should have known; I should have guessed; I should have even suspected...and not left her alone for a second. I said, as angry with myself as I’ve ever been, as fearful too: “I chose the time and the place and didn’t have enough sense to know they wouldn’t necessarily accept my terms.”

He said: “But how, for God’s sake? In the middle of the Palacio?”

I told him: “Chloral hydrate in a bottle of whisky, the bottle we’d already been drinking from. Someone got in there after I left, and then, it was just a question of time. Do you know any venal policemen?”

He stared.

I said impatiently: “Every police force has its rogues. I want the best of them, fast. Now, within the next ten minutes.”

There was just that shrewd look in the sharp eyes while he asked himself, rather than me, what I was up to. He said thoughtfully: “Yes, the best thing, of course. A man named Melindo, a lieutenant. But whether it will work or not...”

I said: “It’s got to work. It’s the only likelihood we have to go on, isn’t it?”

I thought of Bettina, of the momentary terror in her eyes when I had explained the dangers so carefully, so callously, to her. I’d told her of all the risks, and I’d known that the danger would not really be very acute because I was there to protect her. Only I wasn’t.

I could feel that I was trembling. Bonelli looked at me and said quickly: “Corraggio, Cain, we will do this thing together, both of us.”

I said: “It might be too late already.”

CHAPTER 6

Lieutenant Melindo, when we found him, was busy supervising the exchange of pigs: eight pigs with tails for twelve pigs with no tails.

It was all very complicated. Bonelli explained. He told me that on the Red side of the border, the peasants were permitted to export their pigs to Macao, and were given a token which permitted them to reimport, in exchange, any article of more or less equal value—a length of cloth, or cooking utensils, or spare parts for broken-down vehicles, or whatever. But the Red peasant, though politically confused, is no idiot; and soon after the token system started, he found out that the token was worth more to the Macanese trader than any amount of pork, since imports into China proper were heavily restricted. And so, he would drive his pigs over the border through the normal checkpoints, sell the tokens, and drive his pigs back over the hill when no one was looking, then repeat the process the next day.

The next step was equally simple: the Red guards simply cut the tail off any pig being exported to Macao so that it could not be used again. Check; but not for long. Now, in Macao, tailless pigs were exchanged on a prorated basis that fluctuated daily like any other market. The peasants received pigs that still had their tails and could be smuggled back into China and have their tails removed at the checkpoints.

And one of Melindo’s little rackets was the procuring of tailed pigs for exchange on the Macao side of the frontier.

I had chosen the word “venal” well; and Bonelli had equally well chosen the man. Venal was right. Venality was heavily scored in every line on his weather-beaten, used-up face. He was a tall, stooped man with a shock of black hair, and sallow complexion, and a sense of withdrawal about him, as though he felt the need for curling up inside himself and springing out when the occasion arose. His gray-blue uniform was soiled and frayed, and his small house on the slope of the hill was overrun with children, ten, twelve, thirteen of them. He looked them over and said to me broodingly: “How can a man stay honest with so many mouths to feed?”

I got the impression that he had long ago given up the battle and was letting things come his way as best they might. Later, Bonelli told me that he was paying Melindo a reasonable salary to keep him informed of any police activity that might, conceivably, interest him one way or another.

We sat in the small living room, in which the dominant piece of furniture was a huge, old-fashioned bed, while his wife made tea for us in the outside kitchen. She was Chinese, the wife: a squat, prematurely aged woman with a shiny, leathery face and a permanent smile that seemed to tolerate all the indignities that poverty could pile upon her. The whitewashed walls were scribbled over with ill-spelt words in childish Portuguese and neatly formed Chinese characters, and told of everything from nursery thymes to telephone numbers to simple mathematical sums. A tiny stream was running past the open doorway, and there were bright red poppies and wisps of pale blue lobelia growing on its bank.

I said: “Well, now’s your chance, Melindo. You can work for one of the richest men in the world. No need to know just who he is, but somebody kidnaped a woman in broad daylight out of the Penha Palacio. And I want to know where she’s being held. I want to know fast. It was some time this afternoon. Suite a hundred and two on the third floor. It overlooks the old wharfs, and the only way she could have been removed is out the window and down the fire-escape. That means that somebody must have seen what was going on. You don’t lug an unconscious woman down three flights of fire-escape without somebody or other seeing it. The word will get around, and for my money the whole underworld will know all about it and know that it has to keep its mouth shut. But for your money, they can damn well open up.” I said: “You can name your own price, Melindo. And I’ll pay more for speed.”

Bonelli said smoothly: “An easy twenty dollars, Melindo. Twenty dollars American.”

I threw him a look and said: “Let’s think in terms of hundreds, Melindo. With a big bonus for speed. And another big bonus because I know who took her.”

Melindo’s black eyes were quite without expression. He said: “You better tell me, Senhor, just who it was, if he deserves such consideration.”

I saw Bonelli silently hoping I’d hold my tongue. I didn’t. I said: “Alexander Ming, one of his men.”

Melindo’s hands were twitching slightly. His wife came in and put down the tea things and poured from a chipped and dirty pot; she dropped a few violet petals onto the hot tea, then sat in a corner with two young children on her lap. She began to feed one of them, pulling out a huge breast and suckling it, smiling and cooing gently.