The Asian Mantrap

Eight

Hawk had a point. The group backing Martin could become over-energetic in their efforts to curtail interference. Like Gloria Grimes, they might assume that my intervention was more sinister than sincere. Flashing Wilhelmina as a means of frightening Gloria into opening up might have been a mistake. Martin’s protectors could overreact at any time without the courtesy of preliminary conversation before taking positive steps.

I was tired enough not to be at peak alert. Despite my weariness, I took the precaution of following a roundabout way back to the Fairmount Hotel. I drove along Bay Street to Columbus Avenue, then cut back on Market Street to follow the cable car route to Nob Hill. My speed was slow enough that any obviously trailing vehicle would be noticeable. I saw none. Once parked in the hotel basement garage, I sat in the car for a full minute looking out the rear window for any sign of a tail.

I took the self-service elevator to the lobby. When the automatic doors parted, my forward view was blocked temporarily by an animated group of young people moving toward a nearby stairway. They were bound for the Zebra Room, a popular lounge. Instead of stepping out, I kept my finger on the circuit cut-off button that prevented the doors from closing. My eyes scanned the lobby seeking out a black-haired Chinese. They rested an instant on a pair of Korean businessmen, but I was searching for an individual, not a pair.

I leaned out and turned my head to the right. Three feet from my nose were the jutting mounds of a spectacular bosom. It was attached to a tall, tawny-skinned r girl wearing dark, harlequin glasses. Beneath them, full, red lips were bent into an impish smile. She removed the glasses. Her eyes, large and only slightly almond-shaped, were laughing too. She was Eurasian, mostly Chinese, but only the infusion of European blood could produce such beauty of face and full-blown curves. A pageboy bob framed her attractive countenance; straight, ebony-highlighted hair fell to her shoulders. There is nothing in this world as black as a Chinese girl’s hair. “You’re Nick Carter?” she asked. Her husky, deep-throated syllables were pure American. No accent whatsoever.

I stepped out of the elevator. Its doors closed behind me. The girl’s eyes sparkled at my hesitation. Mine did too as I took in her superb figure shown to full advantage by the fashionable, lime green jump suit she wore. A long-strapped, brown shoulder bag hung down and rested on her right hip. She spoke again. “I arranged with the garage attendant to send word up to the desk when he saw you bring your car into the hotel,” she explained as if anticipating a question. I had others.

One was why Hawk didn’t have the guts to tell me that Wee Low Kiang was a girl. Maybe Kiang wasn’t. I could be jumping to conclusions. Melissa Stephens popped into my mind again. She had said that some of the better class hookers were allowed to prowl the Fairmount lobby. The bold girl in front of me certainly had the stunning looks and physical accoutrements to qualify as a top-grade whore. There was an easy way to establish her bona tides if she was a Hawk protégé. “What kind of piece are you carrying?”

Her right hand patted the shoulderbag. “Colt mini-Panther snub-nosed .32 caliber with six-shot magazine.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Wee Low Kiang,” I said with more formality than enthusiasm.

The girl had a low-pitched laugh. “That pronunciation is close enough for a first try. Don’t worry, I don’t use it. It’s the name given to me at birth; it’s since been Anglicized to Willow Kane. Call me Willow.” She replaced the slant-framed dark glasses, hiding her unusual eyes. She grew serious. “Is there some place we can go to talk?” She sounded like a take-charge type of girl.

“I’ve got a room,” I answered. The way it came out caused her to tilt her head and draw herself more erect. Making a pass was the farthest thing from my mind. I had no intention of trying to get her into my bed. My frayed temper asserted itself. “Look, I’ve been stripping my gears since early morning. I’m just about wiped out. Any more talk can wait until morning. I’m going upstairs. If you’ve been told to stand guard in the corridor while I sack out, I’m on the tenth floor, Room 1022.”

She surprised me by lapsing into rapid French. She was fluent and precise. French is one of my better languages. I speak it with an Alsatian accent. Hers had a singsong quality which was typically Malaysian. “While waiting for you to show up I got a very peculiar telephone call. It came from a special Washington switchboard. The man I spoke with had been in contact with you less than twenty minutes before he called me. Some important decisions have been reached which I am to relay to you. This is too open a place to talk, even though we use a foreign tongue. We could be watched.”

“Votre Français est très bon.” I replied, easily following her lead.

She hurried on. “I feel uncomfortable here. I sense these things. We have to go to your room anyway.” She reached out and pressed the elevator call button. She had long slim fingers, but muscular-looking hands. I had to admit that when Hawk picked someone for a job, he chose only the best. Willow Kane had both obvious and hidden qualities. She seemed to be too aggressive for a mere bodyguard. On second thought, I excused her. Hawk must be moving things rapidly to have had to convert Willow into a trusted messenger from her simple role as an armed handmaiden.

She retreated and stood well back while waiting for the elevator to arrive. She was pointedly alert and patently overcautious when its doors parted in front of us. If this were a test, I’d have to give her a good grade for going strictly by the book. When she turned about and backed into the cab so she could keep the lobby in view, I thought she was overdoing it a bit.

We were the only passengers. I switched back to English. “You didn’t learn to speak French in France.”

“No. As a child I lived in Vientiane where my mother worked in the homes of French officers. She was a lovely, frail woman — part Portugese, with an unbridled sex drive and a correspondingly small regard for the consequences. I have nine illegitimate sisters and brothers. Fortunately, I don’t have the naivety of my mother, although the other ingrained trait gives me problems at times.”

“You went to UCLA.”

“Still do. Graduate work, but it’s taking time. I support myself with part-time jobs.”

“Like this? It can’t come along that often.”

Willow tilted her head proudly. “I’ve helped out twice before. One reason is that I’m a polyglot fluent in French, Lao, Vietnamese, and three Chinese dialects. I make out best, though, when I’m working in Hollywood,” she added matter-of-factly. I thought fleetingly of Gloria Grimes. Willow noticed my change of expression. “Oh, no. Nothing like that,” she said lightly. “I’m more athlete than actress. Tumbling, skydiving, bronco riding, things like that. I’m a freelance stunt girl.”

The elevator stopped at the tenth floor before I could comment. Willow stepped out into the hallway. She looked first to the left, then to the right. The carpeted corridor was serenely quiet.

“That way,” I gestured with one hand while taking the room key from my pocket with the other. We matched strides moving toward my room. Willow had the smooth, positive gait of a young, well-coordinated gymnast. Otherwise she was all woman. Her tight-muscled body was veneered with a thin layer of fat. The result was smooth, flattering curves. I lagged behind to watch her, my mind wandering. Willow stopped in front of Room 1022.

I unlocked the door and gave it a push. At the same time I stepped back to allow Willow to enter. The door swung easily, up to a point. Then it came to a halt as if it had bumped against something inside the room. Willow stepped forward.

The faltering swing of the door could have been caused by a burr on a hinge. Whatever it was, a warning flashed in my head.

I snatched Willow’s elbow, yanking her back. The jerk pulled her off balance. She fell against me. Both of us staggered backwards. Willow had sense enough to remain calm. She disengaged herself and allowed me to shove her further away from the partially opened door.

I drew back three steps more, breathing through my mouth. Nothing happened. I waited a little longer. Then I eased forward, peering through the narrow gap between the door’s edge and the frame. A light was on inside the room. It could be from a bed lamp, or coming from the bathroom. I hadn’t left it that way. A maid might have turned on a light. No sounds came from inside the room. My fast-pumping blood was slowing down once more.

“Is anything wrong?” Willow had moved noiselessly to my side.

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re going to have to go in there,” she said. I turned my head to stare at her. She answered my questioning gaze. “Unless you want to leave your clothes behind. The Pan-Am night flight to Honolulu leaves in just over three hours. We’re supposed to be on it. That’s one of the things I was instructed to tell you. I don’t think we should discuss the reasons why out here in the hall, even if we speak French.”

I swore under my breath. I felt manipulated, even though I knew I should be accustomed to having Hawk pile one thing on top of the other. Hawk would never withdraw an order, but I was irked because he hadn’t issued it himself. I suspected Hawk had some idea he was going to extend my wild goose chase when he had me on the satellite link from Washington. He could have told me that the helper I was to be saddled with was female.

Nothing was turning out right.

And now a stubborn hotel door was testing my patience further by not swinging open as readily as I thought it should.

“Well?” cooed Willow.

I knew that Ginger Bateman had packed my usual contingency wardrobe. Extra ammunition for Wilhelmina and a carton of my private-blend cigarettes — neither easily acquired except from special sources — ballasted my fine-grain leather bag. It was an irreplaceable item as well; it was a personal gift to me from Hawk. My custom-tailored jackets, slacks and shirts represented a considerable investment.

“Stand back,” I cautioned Willow. The door resisted when I pressed against it gently with my fingertips. I reached a hand around the edge of the door and moved it lightly up-and-down. My fingers touched nothing. Still, I wasn’t satisfied.

“We could call the manager,” Willow suggested.

My reply was curt. “When the manager shows up he’ll ask a lot of questions, quite a few of which I wouldn’t want to answer. Even if this turns out to be a false alarm, the police will get into the act. In that case—”

“The hand grenade will explode in the honey bucket,” she aptly modified the old cliché.

There were ample reasons for not drawing attention to what I considered a predicament. I knew we faced one when I peered through the slit on the hinge side of the door.

The damn door was booby trapped!

I backed off and went over to Willow. I took off my shoes and handed them to her. “Go back to the elevators. Push the call buttons to bring both of them up here. Block the automatic doors with a shoe to keep them from closing. That will hold them here. We may need one in a hurry, and we don’t want anyone showing up on this floor for the next minute.”

I placed myself in front of the partially opened door again. The device inside could be a simple light beam interruption device to signal someone that the room had been entered. On the other hand, it could be an explosive pack lethal enough to unhinge the whole of Nob Hill, but that hardly seemed likely. Whoever rigged it were experts. The thought of defusing it never crossed my mind. What concerned me was whether the surprise package was time or pressure activated. Probably the latter, but I couldn’t be positive.

I flattened myself against the wall next to the door frame. Feeling behind me, my hand found the doorknob. I saw Willow stoop down the second time to wedge a shoe between the closing doors of the last-arriving elevator. When she stood up empty-handed and waved, I shoved on the doorknob like I was heaving a shotput.

For a moment nothing happened.

The sigh of relief I gave was drowned by a dull, reverberating Whumph! A quick puff of smoke blew out of the door. Then an enormous fireball, pushing the wrenched-off door before it, rolled across the corridor and splashed into the opposite wall. I heard wallpaper sizzling as the fireball dissolved limply and oozed along the baseboard and rolled across the carpeting. Thick, choking smoke spread rapidly. The acrid odor of singed wool stung my nostrils. The door, broken when it rammed against the wall, crackled as flames licked at it.

I pulled out a handkerchief and covered my nose and mouth. I ducked through the doorway, holding my breath and avoiding the fingers of flame fringing the wooden door frame. Inside, I saw the two-seater sofa turned over, frame twisted and fabric burning. The TV set was across the room from the stand that once held it. The picture tube was miraculously intact.

The smoke wasn’t as bad as in the hall, but the walls on both sides of the door were charred. Scorched tatters was all that was left of the bedspread. My valpack had been blown into the bathroom where it rested up against the tub. One side was blackened and felt tacky to the touch.

I grabbed it by the handle and made for the door. The smoke was getting to me despite my handkerchief filter. I exited at a fast walk, heading for the elevators.

A door opened behind me. From far down the corridor a man’s voice called out: “What’s happening?” I stepped into the waiting elevator whose door was being held open by Willow with one hand, my retrieved shoes in the other. The inquisitive hotel guest, aghast and now silenced by what he saw, ducked back into his room as the automatic sprinkler system went into action.

I had my shoes on by the time we reached the lobby. We got to the cashier’s window to settle up my bill in time to hear an alarm bell go off in the hotel manager’s office. The switchboard operator in her secluded niche was trying to make sense out of a frantic call coming from inside the hotel.

I led Willow out through the front door. A doorman whom I hadn’t seen before was on duty. He whistled for a cab when I held up a finger. Willow crowded next to me. She had finally found her voice. “If I’d gone on info that room—” she said under her breath.

I reached for her hand. It was cold, but not trembling. Her grip tightened around my fingers. “But you didn’t,” I said.

A Checker cab came up the drive. “Have you got money?” Willow nodded. “Go to the airport and wait for me.”

“I want to go with you.”

I hardened my voice and lowered it. “If that joker upstairs got a look at us, the police will be looking for a couple, a suitcase-carrying man with a tall, Oriental beauty who is just too fantastic-looking to be forgotten. We have to separate.”

For a moment, it looked like she was going to argue. “I have some things to pick up at a motel,” she said.

“I understand. There’s plenty of time. I have to turn in my rental car before I do anything else.”

“Be careful, Nick.”

I shoved my bag into the rear seat next to her feet after she got inside the cab. “Keep that as a hostage,” I said.

I slammed the door on her retort and watched the cab pull away before I walked down the drive and entered the garage from the street. I had to jump aside to avoid being struck by a fire truck that careened down the ramp behind me. The five-man crew jumped off next to the service elevator.

A uniformed chauffeur was standing in wait beside a plum-colored Bentley. I had to walk past him to get to the Dime-A-Mile rental car. He called out to me: “Hey, Mac! What’s bringing in the fire brigade?”

He could remember me if I ignored him. “Beats me,” I replied. “Maybe some drunk doing an impromptu night club act in the Zebra Room pulled a smoke bomb instead of a rabbit out of his hat.”