Jack Higgins - On dangerous ground

"I hear he could dance a little too," she said.

The black pianist returned at that moment. "Heh, man, that's nice."

"But not as good as you. Take over." Dillon got out of the way as the pianist sat beside him.

They sat in the booth and Dillon lit a cigarette for her and gave her a glass of champagne.

"I'd judge you to be a man of accomplishment and high standards and yet you drink non-vintage," she said as she sampled the Krug.

"The greatest champagne of all, the non-vintage," he said. "It's quite unique. It's the grape mix, and not many people know that. They go by what's printed on the label, the surface of things."

"A philosopher too. What do you do, Mr. Dillon?"

"As little as possible."

"Don't we all? You spoke of a cause, not a job or a profession, a cause. Now that I do find interesting."

"Jesus, Asta Morgan, here we are in the best bar in London drinking Krug champagne and you're turning serious on me."

"How do you know my name?"

"Well the Tatler knows it and Hello and all those other society magazines you keep appearing in. Hardly a secret, you and your father keeping such high-class company. Why, they even had you in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot last month with the Queen Mother, God save her, and me just a poor Irish peasant boy with his nose to the window."

"I was in the Enclosure because my father had a horse running, and I doubt whether you've ever put your nose to a window in your life, Mr. Dillon. I've a strong suspicion you'd be much more likely to kick it in." She stood up. "My turn to leave now. It's been nice and I'm grateful for you intervening back there. Hamish Hunt is a pig when he's been drinking."

"A girl like you, my love, would tempt a cardinal from Rome and no drink taken," Dillon told her.

For a moment she changed, the hard edge gone, flushed, looking slightly uncertain. "Why, Mr. Dillon, compliments and at this time of night? Whatever next?"

Dillon watched her go, then got up and followed. He paid his check quickly, retrieved his Burberry and pulled it on, walking out into the magnificent foyer of the Dorchester. There was no sign of her at the entrance and the doorman approached.

"Cab, sir?"

"I was looking for Miss Asta Morgan," Dillon told him. "But I seem to have missed her."

"I know Miss Morgan well, sir. She's been at the ball tonight. I'd say her driver will be picking her up at the side entrance."

"Thanks."

Dillon walked round and followed the pavement, the Park Lane traffic flashing by. There were a number of limousines parked, waiting for their passengers, and as he approached, Asta Morgan emerged wearing a rather dramatic black cloak, the hood pulled up. She paused, looking up and down the line of limousines, obviously not finding what she was looking for and started along the pavement. At the same moment the MP, Hamish Hunt, emerged from the hotel and went after her.

Dillon moved in fast, but Hunt had her by the arm and up against the wall, his hands under her cloak. His voice was loud, slurred with the drink. "Come on, Asta, just a kiss."

She turned her face away and Dillon tapped him on the shoulder. Hunt turned in surprise and Dillon ran a foot down his shin, stamping hard on Hunt's instep, then head-butted him sharply and savagely and with total economy. Hunt staggered back and slid down the wall.

"Drunk again," Dillon said. "I wonder what the voters will say," and he took Asta's hand and pulled her away.

A Mercedes limousine slid up to the curb and a uniformed chauffeur jumped out. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting, Miss Asta, the police were moving us on earlier, I had to go round."

"That's all right, Henry."

A uniformed police officer moved along the pavement toward Hunt, who was sitting against the wall, and Asta opened the rear door of the Mercedes and pulled Dillon by the hand.

"Come on, we'd better get out of here."

He followed her in, the chauffeur got behind the wheel and eased into the traffic. "Jesus, ma'am, the grand car you've got here and me just a poor Irish boy up from the country and hoping to make a pound or two."

She laughed out loud. "Poor Irish boy, Mr. Dillon, I've never heard such rot. If you are, it's the first one I've heard of who wears clothes by Armani."

"Ah, you noticed?"

"If there's one thing I'm an expert on it's fashion. That's my fruits of a misspent youth."

"Sure and it's the terrible old woman you are already, Asta Morgan."

"All right," she said. "Where can we take you?"

"Anywhere?"

"The least I can do."

He pressed the button that lowered the glass window separating them from the chauffeur. "Take us to the Embankment, driver," he said and raised the window again.

"The Embankment?" she said. "What for?"

He offered her a cigarette. "Didn't you ever see those old movies where the fella and his girl walked along the pavement by the Embankment overlooking the Thames?"

"Before my time, Mr. Dillon," she said and leaned forward for a light, "but I'm willing to try anything once."

When they reached the Embankment, it was raining. "Would you look at that now," Dillon said.

She put the partition window down. "We're going to walk, Henry. Pick us up at Lambeth Bridge. Have you an umbrella?"

"Certainly, Miss Asta."

He got out to open the doors and put up a large black umbrella, which Dillon took. Asta slipped a hand in his arm and they started to walk. "Is this romantic enough for you?" he demanded.

"I wouldn't have thought you the romantic type," she said. "But if you mean do I like it, yes. I love the rain, the city by night, the feeling that anything could be waiting just up around the next corner."

"Probably a mugger these days."

"Now I know you're not a romantic."

He paused to get out his cigarettes and gave her one. "No, I take your point. When I was young and foolish a thousand years ago life seemed to have an infinite possibility to things."

"And what happened?"

"Life." He laughed.

"You don't mess about, do you? I mean, back there with that creep Hamish Hunt, you went in hard."

"And what does that tell you?"

"That you can take care of yourself, and that's unusual in a man who wears an evening suit that cost at least fifteen hundred pounds. What do you do?"

"Well now, let's see. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, but that was a long time ago. I played Lyngstrand in Ibsen's Lady from the Sea at the National Theatre. He was the one who coughed a lot."

"And afterwards? I mean you obviously gave up acting or I'd have heard of you."

"Not entirely. You might say I took a considerable interest in what might be termed the theater of the street back home in the old country."

"Strange," she said. "If I had to guess I'd say you'd been a soldier."

"And who's the clever girl then?"

"Damn you, Dillon," she said. "Mystery piles on mystery with you."

"You'll just have to unpeel me layer by layer like an onion, but that would take time."

"And that's exactly what I don't have," she said. "I'm going up to Scotland tomorrow."

"I know," Dillon said. "There was a mention in Nigel Dempster's gossip column in the Mail this morning. 'Carl Morgan takes the lease on a Highland Estate for the shooting,' that was the byline. It also said you were standing in for him tonight at the Brazilian Embassy Ball."

"You are well informed."

They had reached Lambeth Bridge by now and found the Mercedes waiting. Dillon handed her in. "I enjoyed that."

"I'll drop you off," she said.

"No need."

"Don't be silly, I'm curious to see where you live."

"Anything to oblige." He got in beside her. "Stable Mews, Henry, that's close to Cavendish Square. I'll show you where when we get there."

When they turned into the cobbled street, it was still raining. He got out and closed the door. Asta put the window down and looked out at the cottage.