“Not scared by what I’d do to him; scared by what he himself had done. There’s a very simple explanation. He’s not one of the hoods at all. He’s a businessman who happens to deal in the product that Ming prepares. For a brief moment, he stepped out of that role and became a terrorist beating up a helpless woman and, no doubt, enjoying it. He just didn’t stop to think that in his world this sort of thing is left to others, to the people who, I agree, would die horribly rather than talk to the wrong people. He stepped out of his little world into one he could never really enter; and the terrible thing he did in those few moments scared him much more than any ideas he might have had about retribution. He either had to commit himself, once he’d taken the first step, or seize on any chance to wash his hands of what he himself had done. I agree with you, he’s got no courage; but that isn’t why he talked so freely.”
“You’re judging a man with insufficient knowledge of him.”
He was absolutely right, of course. But my whole philosophy depends upon the probability of likelihoods; if you wait for truths, then you miss the train.
I said: “But perhaps you’ll agree with me about what Ming has to do now?”
He gave me a long, cold look, not liking the upset I was bringing into the smooth functioning of his chosen milieu. He said softly: “There can be only one thing, can’t there?”
“Aha! We’re beginning to think alike now.”
“That careless bomb downstairs.” He shrugged. “A childish endeavor that would have come off but for the fortuitous fact that your shoulders are stronger than my door.” He sighed and said: “That was a good teak door with solid brass hinges, did you know that?”
“I know that I’ve got an abominable ache in my back as a result of it. But it’s comforting to know, isn’t it? That Wentworth is really worth killing off?”
He corrected me gently: “Was worth killing off. Now our shadowy friend, who seems to know everything, probably knows that you’ve had a chance to examine him, so the situation has changed somewhat. Now it won’t be a matter of killing him off; it will be rather a question of kidnaping him back again, so that one little question can be asked and answered: How much did he tell? Am I not right?”
I said again: “We’re beginning to think absolutely alike.”
“He is a terrible danger to Ming now. And something has got to be done about that.”
“Even if, as you suggest, Wentworth was carefully telling me exactly what he wanted me to know?”
“Yes, even so. A man as close to Ming as Wentworth seems to be—and even that is moot, isn’t it?—is in the hands of the enemy, and has been cross-examined by a man Ming knows is an enemy of some merit. Ming has to know what happened. He has to arrange for him to be rescued, if that’s the word.”
“Let’s play games. Tell me just how he’d do it?”
Bonelli said promptly: “By the oldest method of all. He’d burst in here with a dozen armed men, and he’d find Wentworth, and he’d grab him, and he’d be gone before we knew what had hit us. You said yourself that speed is the only thing that counts in a case like this. The way you got Wentworth—that’s the way Ming would get him, fast in, fast out again. Only he’d have a dozen men with guns to back him up.”
“Then I suppose you’ve already taken some sort of precautions against that possibility?”
Bonelli was not the kind of man to sit back and let the tides wash over him. On the surface, perhaps, he was; but a man doesn’t reach the degree of success that Bonelli enjoyed without a certain toughness, latent or not; not in these rackets and in this place.
He smiled slightly, as though I’d found out his little secret, and said smoothly, not bothering to apologize about it: “Of course, Mr. Cain. I have instructed Ericeira that, at the first sign of any trouble, he is to tell just where Wentworth is. If necessary, he’ll lead them right to him.”
I said mildly: “Markle Hyde spoke very highly of your friendship with him.”
He shrugged. “Yes, indeed, there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do for him. But I’m not going to have my gaming tables raked with machine-gun fire, Mr. Cain. I have a duty to my customers as well. Of course, if I agreed entirely with what you are doing...”
“I half-assumed that you did.”
“Not completely. You are dangling a piece of bait for a mouse, but you are hoping to catch a rat, and that doesn’t really make sense, wouldn’t you agree?”
I sighed. Perhaps I’d counted too much on Bonelli. I said: “Well, at least I’m glad you told me.”
He inclined his head a trifle, over graciously, and said politely: “I could hardly do less, could I? So, whatever plans you have for Wentworth, you’d better put them into execution soon.”
I said: “I just want to hold him for a few hours, long enough for Ming to decide that he’d better play it my way.”
He frowned.
I said gently: “I told Ming where I was holding Wentworth, that I’d trade a body for a talk. I sent him a message.”
For a moment, he stared at me, horrified. “You told him?”
“Yes indeed. He’d have found out in time, but I prefer not to wait unnecessarily. I’m sorry about your nice teak door.”
“My God.” He thought for a while and burst out: “Cain, you’re impossible! I wondered how he located his man so quickly! After all, I have always regarded this building as quite...secure.”
I really was sorry he was so upset. I said: “Until I know just where Sally Hyde is, I can only regard every hour as another hour of acute danger for her. So...”
He threw up his hands with a gesture of resignation. The phone rang and he turned to look at it, worried. He waved his delicate wrist and looked at his watch and murmured: “At this hour? That’s a special line.”
“A special line?”
He nodded, reaching for it. “Nobody knows the number except...Markle Hyde...”
He hesitated, looking at me, and I said gently: “It’s Ming.”
It was, too.
Bonelli took the phone, listened for a moment, and then said: “Yes, he’s here. But first I want to speak to Markle Hyde.” I looked a question, but Bonelli paid me no attention. He listened again and said sharply: “Yes, I know you are. We were expecting to hear from you, and he’s here. But first...I want to speak with Mr. Hyde.” He waited a long time, looked at me with an expression of exasperation, and handed me the phone.
I took it and said: “I’m glad my message reached you, Ming Sin-san.”
The voice at the other end was surprisingly cultured. Somehow I’d been expecting something quite different. It said very slowly, very low, very carefully: “Am I talking to Mr. Cabot Cain?”
“You are indeed.”
