Jack Higgins - On dangerous ground

"All right, point taken, but I know you, you old bugger, and there's more to it."

"Hasn't he an elegant turn of phrase, Chief Inspector?" Ferguson smiled. "Yes, of course there is. As I've indicated, I want him to know we're there, I want him to know we're breathing down his bloody neck. Of course I'll also see that the story, Morgan taking Loch Dhu and Asta standing in for him at the Brazilian Embassy affair, is leaked to the Daily Mail's gossip column. You could always say later that you read that, were intrigued because you were going to the same spot, so you went out of your way to meet her. It won't make the slightest difference. Morgan will still smell stinking fish."

"Won't that be dangerous, Brigadier?" Hannah Bernstein commented.

"Yes it will, Chief Inspector, that's why we have Dillon." He smiled and stood up. "It's getting late and dinner is indicated. You must be famished, both of you. I'll take you to the River Room at the Savoy. Excellent dance band, Chief Inspector, you can have a turn round the floor with the desperado here. He may surprise you."

When Monday night came Dillon arrived early at the Dorchester. He wore a dark blue Burberry trenchcoat, which he left at the cloakroom. His dinner jacket was a totally conventional piece of immaculate tailoring by Armani, single breasted with lapels of raw silk, black studs vivid against the white shirt. He was really rather pleased with his general appearance and hoped that Asta Morgan would feel the same. He fortified himself with a glass of champagne in the Piano Bar and went down to the grand ballroom where he presented his card and was admitted to discover the Brazilian Ambassador and his wife greeting their guests.

His name was called and he went forward. "Mr. Dillon?" the Ambassador said, a slight query in his voice.

"Ministry of Defence," Dillon said. "So good of you to invite me." He turned to the Ambassador's wife and kissed her hand gallantly. "My compliments on the dress, most becoming."

She flushed with pleasure and as he walked away he heard her say in Portuguese to her husband, "What a charming man."

The ballroom was already busy, a dance band playing, exquisitely gowned women, most men in black tie, although there was a sprinkling of military dress uniforms and here and there a church dignitary. With the crystal chandeliers, the mirrors, it was really quite a splendid scene and he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and worked his way through the crowd looking for Asta Morgan and seeing no sign of her. Finally he went back to the entrance, lit a cigarette, and waited.

It was almost an hour later that he heard her name called. She wore her hair up revealing the entire face, the high Scandinavian cheek bones, and the kind of arrogance that seemed to say that she didn't give a damn about anyone or anything, for that matter. She wore an absurdly simple dress of black silk, banded at the waist, the hem well above the knee, black stockings, and carried an evening purse in a sort of black chain mail. Heads turned to watch as she stood talking to the Ambassador and his wife for quite some time.

"Probably making Morgan's excuses," Dillon said softly.

Finally she came down the stairs, pausing to open her purse. She took out a gold cigarette case, selected one, then searched for a lighter. "Damn!" she said.

Dillon stepped forward, the Zippo flaring in his right hand. "Sure and nothing's ever there when you want it, isn't that the truth?"

She looked him over calmly, then held his wrist and took the light. "Thank you."

As she turned to go, Dillon said cheerfully, "Six inches at least those heels, mind how you go, dear girl, a plaster cast wouldn't go well with that slip of a dress."

Her eyes widened in astonishment, then she laughed and walked away.

She seemed to know a vast number of people, working her way from group to group, occasionally posing for society photographers, and she was certainly popular. Dillon stayed close enough to observe her and simply waited to see what the night would bring.

She danced on a number of occasions, with a variety of men including the Ambassador himself and two Government ministers and an actor or two. Dillon's opportunity came about an hour later when he saw her dancing with a Member of Parliament notorious for his womanizing. As the dance finished he kept his arm round her waist as they left the floor. They were standing by the buffet and she was trying to get away, but he had her by the wrist now.

Dillon moved in fast. "Jesus, Asta, I'm sorry I'm so late. Business." The other man released her, frowning, and Dillon kissed her on the mouth. "Sean Dillon," he murmured.

She pushed him away and said petulantly, "You really are a swine, Sean, nothing but excuses. Business. Is that the best you can do?"

Dillon took her hand, totally ignoring the MP. "Well, I'll think of something. Let's take a turn round the floor."

The band played a foxtrot and she was light in his arms. "By God, girl, but you do this well," he said.

"I learned at boarding school. Twice a week we had ballroom dancing in the hall. Girls dancing together, of course. Always a row over who was to lead."

"I can imagine. You know when I was a boy back home in Belfast we used to club together so one of the crowd could pay to get in at the dancehall, then he'd open a fire door so the rest got in for free."

"You dogs," she said.

"Well at sixteen you didn't have the cash, but once in, it was fantasy time. All those girls in cotton frocks smelling of talcum powder." She grinned. "We lived in a very working class area. Perfume was far too expensive."

"And that's where you perfected your performance?"

"And what performance would that be?"

"Oh, come off it," she said. "The smooth act you pulled back there. Now I'm supposed to be grateful, isn't that how it goes?"

"You mean we vanish into the night so that I can have my wicked way with you?" He smiled. "I'm sorry, my love, but I've other things planned and I'm sure you do." He stopped on the edge of the floor and kissed her hand. "It's been fun, but try and keep better company."

He turned and walked away and Asta Morgan watched him go, a look of astonishment on her face. • • • The pianist in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester was Dillon's personal favorite in the whole of London. When the Irishman appeared, he waved and Dillon joined him, leaning on the piano.

"Heh, you look great, man, something special tonight?"

"Ball for the Brazilian Embassy, the great and the good sometimes making fools of themselves."

"Takes all sorts. You want to fill in? I could do with a visit to the men's room."

"My pleasure."

Dillon slipped behind the piano and sat down as the pianist stood. A waitress approached, smiling. "The usual, Mr. Dillon?"

"Krug, my love, non-vintage." Dillon took a cigarette from his old silver case, lit it, and moved into "A Foggy Day in London Town," a personal favorite.

He sat there, the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth, smoke drifting up, immersed in the music and yet still perfectly aware of Asta Morgan's approach.

"A man of talent, I see."

"As an old enemy of mine once said, a passable barroom piano, that's all, fruits of a misspent youth."

"Enemy you say?"

"We supported the same cause, but had different attitudes on how to go about it, let's put it that way."

"A cause, Mr. Dillon? That sounds serious."

"A heavy burden." The waitress arrived with the Krug in a bucket and he nodded. "A glass for the lady, we'll sit in the booth over there."

"I was a stranger in the city," she said, giving him some of the verse.

"Out of town were the people I knew," he replied. "Thank the Gershwins for it, George and Ira. They must have loved this old town. Wrote it for a movie called A Damsel in Distress. Fred Astaire sang it."