Jack Higgins: Midnight Never Comes

He pulled out the Walther and fired blindly, shattering another section of the mirror behind the bar. 'I said let her go!'

The albino sent the girl staggering across the room with a quick shove, his face turning the colour of his hair. 'Look at his hand,' he said in a whisper. 'It's shaking all over the place. Let's get out of here for Christ's sake.'

McGuire had stopped smiling, but there was no fear on his face. He stood there, hands thrust deep into his pockets, his eyes never leaving Chavasse who was trembling so violently that he had difficulty in holding the gun steady.

'Just stay where you are, all of you,' he said. 'I wouldn't like to guarantee what might happen if this thing goes off again.' He nodded to McGuire. 'You-throw your wallet across here.'

McGuire didn't even hesitate. He pulled out his wallet and tossed it on to the table. Chavasse picked it up with his left hand and opened it. It was stuffed with notes.

'How much is there here?'

'A couple of centuries,' McGuire said calmly. 'Maybe a little more.'

'That should take care of the damage. Anything over can go to the widows and orphans.' Chavasse glanced across at the woman and said in Chinese, 'Do you want the police in on this?'

She shook her head. 'No-no police.'

The kitchen door had opened behind her and two waiters and a cook stood there, all Chinese. The waiters were armed with carving knives and the cook carried a meat cleaver.

'You better get out while you still can,' Chavasse told McGuire. 'You made a bad mistake. These people have their own ways of dealing with scum like you.'

McGuire smiled pleasantly. 'I'll remember you, friend.' He nodded to the others and went out quickly. The door banged behind them and a moment later, the car drove rapidly away across the square. Chavasse put the Walther back in his pocket and leaned on the table, all strength going out of him in a long sigh. He looked up at the girl and grinned tiredly.

'I think I could do with that brandy now if it's all right with you.'

And she was angry, that was the strange thing about it. She turned on her heel and pushed past the waiters into the kitchen. Chavasse glanced at the fat man, eyebrows raised.

'What did I do wrong?'

'It is nothing,' the fat man said. 'She is upset. But please-your brandy.'

He went behind the bar, found a fresh bottle and two glasses and came back to the table. 'You spoke to me in Cantonese. You have visited my country often?'

'You could say that,' Chavasse said. 'Mainly Hong Kong.'

'But this is fascinating. I am myself from Hong Kong and so is my niece.' He held out his hand. 'My name is Yuan Tao.'

'Paul Chavasse.' He took the glass of brandy that Yuan Tao held out to him. 'Presumably that bunch have been here before?'

'I understand so although I only flew in yesterday myself. I believe they have been pressing their demands here and elsewhere for some weeks now.'

The two waiters and the cook had disappeared and now the girl returned, wearing ski pants and a Norwegian sweater. She still looked angry and her cheeks were touched with colour.

She ignored her uncle and glared at Chavasse. 'Who are you? What do you want here?'

Yuan Tao cut in, his voice sharp with authority. 'This is no way to speak, girl. We owe Mr. Chavasse a great deal.'

'We owe him nothing. He has ruined everything.' She was really very angry indeed. 'Is it just a coincidence that he walks in here at such a moment?'

'Strangely enough it was just that,' Chavasse said mildly. 'Life's full of them.'

'And what kind of man carries a gun in London?' she demanded. 'Only another criminal.'

'Would a criminal have asked you if you wished for the police?' Yuan Tao said.

Chavasse was tired and there was a slight ache somewhere behind his right eye. He swallowed the rest of his brandy and put the glass down firmly. 'It's been fun, but I think I'd better be going.'

The girl had opened her mouth to speak again and paused, her eyes widening in astonishment. He ignored her and grinned at Yuan Tao. 'Give my love to Hong Kong.'

He crossed to the door, opened it and was outside before either of them could reply. He buttoned his coat and a gust of wind kicked rain into his face in an oddly menacing manner as he moved into the night across the square. The girl's attitude didn't matter-nothing mattered any more. Already, what had happened at the restaurant seemed like some strange dream, elusive, unreal.

He was tired-God, how he was tired and the pavement seemed to move beneath his feet as he turned the corner and found himself in a street that ran parallel to the Thames, iron railings on one side, gaunt shuttered warehouses on the other.

He moved across and stood at the railings, staring into the fog and somewhere a foghorn sounded as a ship moved down into the Pool. He heard nothing and yet some instinct made him turn. He was too late. An arm slid across his neck, tightening like a band of steel, momentarily cutting off his supply of air. The albino appeared in front of him, his face a dirty yellow mask in the light of the street lamp. Chavasse was aware of the man's hands moving over his body, and he stepped back holding the Walther.

'Here we are again then, darlin',' he said and something glowed deep in his eyes.

A black saloon pulled in at the kerb. Chavasse acted. His left foot swung up sharply catching the albino on the right hand. He gave a cry of pain and the Walther soared through the railings and disappeared into the darkness of the river. In the same moment, Chavasse jerked his head back giving the man who held him a sharp blow across the bridge of the nose. The man gave a cry of pain, releasing his hold and Chavasse stumbled around the rear of the saloon and ran for his life.

He plunged into the fog, his feet splashing in the rain-filled gutter and there was a cry of rage behind him. A moment later he heard the engine of the saloon start up.

He could taste blood in his mouth and his heart was pounding and then he turned a corner and found himself faced with high iron gates leading on to a deserted wharf and secured by a chain and padlock.

As he turned, the car braked to a halt a yard or two away and they all seemed to come out together. The one in the lead carried a short iron bar and as he swung Chavasse ducked and the bar clanged against the gate. A foot caught him in the side and he lost his balance.

He rolled desperately over to avoid the swinging kicks and then he was jerked to his feet, two of them pinning his arms securely, ramming his back against the gate.

McGuire stood at the side of the saloon with the albino, lighting a cigarette. He shook his head. 'You asked for this, friend, you really did. Okay, Terry, slice him up good.'

The albino stopped smiling. His hand came out of the pocket of his raincoat holding an old fashioned cut-throat razor. He opened it slowly and as he started forward, saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

The blade of the razor flashed dully in the light of the lamp above the gate and somewhere a cry echoed flatly on the damp air, a strange, frightening sound, shattering the night with the force of a physical blow. The albino swung round and Yuan Tao walked out of the rain into the light.

He wore no coat and the jacket of the expensive gaberdine suit was soaked by the heavy rain and somehow, he seemed different. This was no ordinary man. Chavasse knew that in an instant. And that strange cry-he had heard it before somewhere or something very much like it. The fighting shout common to all Asian martial arts from karate to kendo.

McGuire laughed harshly. 'Put him out of his misery, Charlie, for Christ's sake.'

The man with the iron bar released Chavasse. He darted round the car and ran at Yuan Tao, the bar swinging down viciously. The Chinaman actually took the blow on his left forearm with no apparent ill-effect. In the same moment, his right fist moved in a short forward jab that was unlike any boxing stroke Chavasse had ever seen. It landed high on his assailant's cheek, the bone splintered and the man spun round and fell on his face.