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Smith felt numb and strangely detached from his surroundings. He found that he was thinking remarkably clearly, but his limbs no longer seemed to belong to him. He felt as though he were guiding a puppet or a robot.
He lifted up the girl's body, amazed at how little it weighed, and placed it on the bed. It was almost a tender gesture, like lifting a sleeping child out of the car without wakening her. But there was no danger that this young lady would ever waken again. Her head hung limp, at an impossible angle, and a patch of blue-black bruising was spreading rapidly around the area of her neck and chin. A strange, grotesque little shudder passed through her body. Smith found himself wondering idly if her heart might still be fluttering within her chest. But it was a point of only academic interest. Time to think clearly again. Absolutely imperative to think clearly. The body couldn't stay in his room. That was obvious. Sling it out the window, perhaps? Make it look like suicide? No, he doubted if the injuries to her neck would be consistent with a fall. What were his other options? He thought hard.
He opened the door of his room and glanced furtively out into the corridor. There was, as usual, nobody about. Near the elevator he remembered noticing a low oblong door low down on the wall and wondered if it might have been an old-fashioned laundry-chute. He hurried over and tried to pull it open. There was a slight resistance but with a pull he was able to lift the little door upwards on its hinges. That was good, it meant that the device probably wasn't still in use and might well be sealed-off at the bottom. But the upper end was perfectly clear. It was a dark little metal-lined chute dropping away from the door at a steep angle. It was perfect.
After checking one more time for people in the corridor, he hitched-up the girl's body and conveyed it swiftly to the chute. Using his knee to hold the door in the raised position, he fed the body through, head first, until the slope took over and caused it to accelerate away, out of sight in a fraction of a second, making a gentle slithering noise at did so. He listened hard for a collision with a fixed hatch or some other object at the bottom but heard nothing. The girl's body had seemingly passed out of existence as though it had never been. He pushed the hatch shut, carefully wiped the handle clean of finger-prints using the bottom of his shirt, and returned to his room.
He sat bolt upright on the edge of his bed. The enormity of what he had done had still not registered. It was almost like being in a dream. He was doing things because he knew, intellectually, that they ought to be done. He didn't feel any emotion about them. He didn't care about what was going on. It didn't really seem to have very much to do with him.
What would the police be looking for, he asked himself? Finger-prints. She hadn't touched anything in his room except the sweet-box, and that wouldn't be here for very much longer. Threads from her clothing? Pieces of fluff from her blue business suit? Perhaps he should complain or make some excuse so that the chamber-maid would come up and clean his room. Destroy any evidence. Or would that merely draw attention to him? Better to leave it alone perhaps. He noticed some slight scratching on his right wrist. She had done that in those few seconds before losing consciousness. There could be tiny slivers of his skin underneath her finger-nails. That was bad. He should have thought of it before he pushed her down the chute. Too late now.
With a start he noticed one of her shoes by the bed. Thank heavens he had! That would have been a certain conviction! He picked it up, glanced nervously around the door again, and, using the bottom of his shirt as an improvised glove, opened the chute door once again and threw it down after her. He went back to the room and, for no reason that he could have explained, washed his hands thoroughly and splashed some water on his face.
The numbness was slowly beginning to subside. It was being replaced by an ugly hollow feeling of nausea. He needed to get out of that room. Quickly, he replaced the sweet-box in the camera case and slung the strap over his shoulder. He had an impulse to check-out of this hotel and go somewhere else, but he knew that it would be a mistake. An innocent man would have no reason to check-out without even spending one night in his room. He could leave quietly the following morning, and with luck nobody would even remember that he had been. He had not been asked to sign any register at the front desk, only to pay for one night in advance, which he had done.
O
With no real idea of where he was going Smith emerged from the front entrance of the hotel into the warm tropical night. People were milling around as usual and he could smell barbecue chicken from a little barrow where it was being sold just beyond the gates of the hotel. A steady stream of cars passed by on the road at the end of the short driveway, and a large Mercedes taxi was waiting just by the hotel door. Smith didn't feel like walking. Automatically, he pulled open the door of the taxi and climbed in.
"I'm sorry, Sir," said the driver politely, "but I already have a fare. I'm waiting for someone."
"Oh. Sorry...." Smith was about to get out again when he noticed the two pieces of baggage on the seat beside him. He had seen them at the airport. He knew who they belonged to.
"Oh, you mean the young lady in the blue suit?" he said as casually as he could.
"Yes, Sir."
"Oh, I'm sorry. She won't be coming back. She's staying."
"Really, Sir?"
"Yes. She asked me to take her luggage back for her."
"Back, Sir?"
"Yes. Back to where you picked her up. And I am to pay you for waiting. She says she's sorry. She didn't know she would be staying."
"Oh, that's all right, Sir. It happens all the time. You want to go back to the airport then, Sir?"
"Yes. Just so. Back to the airport."
The driver pulled away and made his way out on to the main road. He asked Smith if it would be all right to play the radio as they drove along, to which he readily agreed.
O
When they got to the airport it was dark, and there seemed to be a lot less activity than there had been earlier in the evening. Most of the food-stalls had packed-up and gone home and there were only two or three of the little three-wheeled taxis still on the rank.
He hauled the girl's bags out of the big Mercedes, paid the driver, and put them in a left-luggage locker in the main concourse. The key he discreetly dropped as he left the building, pushing it into a storm-drain with his toe.
Happening on that taxi had really been a terrific stroke of luck. It might be a long time before any evidence of the girl's disappearance came to light. Days, or even weeks. Perhaps not until the body started to decompose..... He stopped himself. It wasn't something that he wanted to think about.
Wandering slowly across the service road toward the rickshaws, he wondered what his next move should be. He needed to get the merchandise sold, and the night time might be the time to do it. He had no contacts, so he would have to take a chance. It was the kind of thing that rickshaw drivers might well know about. But he would be careful how he phrased his question.
There were only three rickshaws to choose from this time. Earlier in the day there had been dozens. Only one of the drivers paid any heed to his approach. The other two were hunched-up on the benches of their machines where the passengers usually sat, either asleep of dozing. For all Smith knew maybe that was how they spent every night. He didn't disturb them. The one who was awake was a young man, probably in his early twenties, and his hair was unfashionably long. In so far as one could draw any conclusions from such things, he seemed a reasonable bet.
Smith climbed in and touched him on the shoulder. "Somewhere quiet," he requested, "where we can talk."
The driver started-up the noisy little two-stroke and pulled out on to the main road before he replied. Under a powerful street-light he stopped and switched off the engine before turning around to his passenger. Smith played his part very carefully. He produced from his back pocket two one-hundred-dollar bills and started to toy with them absently. "What's your name," he asked by way of introduction.
"My name Talu."
"Okay, Talu. I have this question I need to ask you, and it's a little bit delicate, right?"
Talu nodded.
"Let's just say that somebody - a friend of mine, maybe - wanted to buy some heroin in this city."
Talu nodded once again.
"Would you be able to suggest somewhere for that friend to go to make his purchase?"
"No problem, Sir," Talu replied very quietly.
"And just suppose - for sake of argument - that this friend of mine had some of the same stuff that he wanted to sell. Would you take him to the same place, or somewhere different?"
"Somewhere different, Sir."
"Okay, Talu." He handed the man the first of the two bills. "I've got another of these as you can see. If you want the other one, all you have to do is drive me to that - different - place, and wait for me. If everything is all right, when I come out, you get the other hundred dollar bill. How does that sound to you?"
O
Talu drove his little machine through the legendary red-light barland, where scantily-clad teenage girls gathered on every street corner seeking to lure men to one or another of the multitude of late-night pick-up bars, handing out cards that contained promises of everything from free drinks to topless go-go dancers, live sex-shows, and the surreal "Show with Girl and Snake, Both Very Dangerous". It was a dazzling and alluring district, especially if you didn't look too closely at the seams, and normally Smith would have wanted to take a longer and closer look at the wares, but tonight he was in no mood for such trivia. His eyes were directed grimly forward as Talu turned off the brightly-lit sex-market down an unlit side-alley, which smelled faintly of bad drains and was littered with the beer-crates, cardboard boxes and overflowing trash-cans of the tourist strip they had just left. Sleek and plump rats darted out of Talu's headlight beam as he slowed to a walking pace and searched the line of tatty and neglected rear entrance doors for the one he wanted. With a slight lurch, the machine finally came to a halt.
"This is it, Sir," Talu told him quietly. "When they answer, tell them that you have come to see Mr. Waterhouse."
Smith climbed down and looked at the dilapidated wooden door with its peeling, colorless paint and missing chunks at the bottom where decay had eaten away most of the final board, allowing the rats unhindered access. There was no bell so he rapped smartly on the cleanest bit of woodwork he could see.
There was a pause, then a shrill voice from inside demanded "Wha' you want?". It was not only heavily-accented, the speech seemed slurred as well, as though the speaker were drunk. "I've come to see Mr. Waterhouse!" Smith replied and waited. He heard the sound of locks being undone and bolts slipped back. Then he was facing a small wizened Oriental man of unpleasant demeanor and strong body-odor.
"Why you wan' see Missa' Wathou?" the man demanded with unconcealed annoyance.
"I have something that he may wish to buy," Smith replied calmly, refusing to be intimidated by the disagreeable little apparition.
"Show the gentleman in, Mr. Woo," said a very cultured English voice from inside the darkened room.
His heart beating almost audibly, Smith pushed past Mr. Woo and found himself in a foul-smelling back room behind one of the girlie-bars, from which the loud, oddly dated rock-music drifted in in great muffled waves. Besides Woo there were two younger men of local appearance sitting on easy-chairs at either side of the door, each one nursing on his lap a large semi-automatic weapon with a silencer. They barely glanced at Smith as he passed between them. Further in there was a small TV set mounted high up in a corner, showing a Kung Fu film with the sound turned down, and providing at present the room's only light source. At the far end of the room, seated at a cheap metal-framed desk and facing Smith was an impeccably-dressed and distinguished-looking middle-aged man with silver-streaked brown hair and a neat gray moustache. He had a book of some kind open on the desk in front of him, but there was not enough light for Smith to see what it was, and beside it he had a telephone and what looked like a glass of beer, as yet untouched.
"Waterhouse?" Smith demanded gruffly, hoping to keep the transaction as brief and business-like as possible.
"Yes indeed," the man replied in an English accent that would have done credit to an Oxford professor, "and whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
It was probably intended to intimidate, and in Smith's case it did.
"Smith," he said, less confidently, "Leonard Smith."
His host nodded. "Delighted, I'm sure. Mr. Woo, would you be good enough to get a seat for Mr. Smith?" Woo produced a chair from somewhere and Smith sat down facing Waterhouse across the desk. He glanced nervously at the two men with the guns, trying to gather enough composure to begin.
"Please disregard my bodyguards, Mr. Smith. A symptom of the times we live in, I'm afraid. One has to be so careful. Now. How can I help you?"
"I... I have something for sale.." Smith whispered uncomfortably.
"I see. And what would that be, Mr. Smith?"
Smith's voice dropped even lower. "It's pure uncut heroin, Mr. Waterhouse. The best you can get."
"I'm listening, Mr. Smith," said Waterhouse quietly.
"I need payment tonight, I need it in cash. US dollar bills, small denominations."
"That goes without saying, Mr. Smith. And how much of this product would you be able to supply?"
"Tonight, I've got one full kilo. There'll be more to come." Smith felt he had better say that in case Waterhouse should come to the same conclusion about him that he had come to regarding the girl. If Smith was going to be able to provide a steady source he was more use to Waterhouse alive than dead.
Waterhouse nodded sagely once again. "And how much would you like for this consignment, Mr. Smith?"
Smith really had no idea. He was sure the batch was worth at least a million dollars. He decided to double it. "Two million dollars," he said confidently. Waterhouse did not flinch or show any reaction.
"May we examine your merchandise, Mr. Smith?" he asked politely. Hesitantly, Smith took the camera-case from around his neck.
"Mr. Woo," said Waterhouse, "if you would be so kind..."
Woo took the case and disappeared through an inner door. Waterhouse smiled a charming smile at Smith. "You know, I don't meet many English people in these parts," he said pleasantly, "my own home is in Surrey, but I haven't been able to get back for quite some years. My business activities here make travel very difficult, as you can imagine. Am I right in thinking that you are a Londoner, Mr. Smith?" It was the kind of conversation that you might have sitting on the deck of a cruise liner, Smith thought, time-filling inconsequential pleasantries.
"Yes," he confirmed nervously, "my family live on the London/Essex border."
"Yes. It must be beautiful over there at this time of the year."
Smith's eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim flickering light of the TV screen, and he suddenly realized what the book was that was open on Waterhouse's desk. It was an illustrated film-catalogue of some kind, and the page at which it was open showed a semi-naked young woman being restrained by two powerful-looking men dressed in Hollywood versions of Roman soldier's uniform, while a third seemed to be engaged in hacking off her right arm with a short cleaver-like sword. Her face was twisted into a stomach-churning scream of agony and blood seemed to be spurting everywhere from the partially-severed limb. If those were special effects, Smith thought, they were the most life-like that he had ever come across. His shocked reaction must have been clear because Waterhouse picked up the magazine and passed it over. "Interested in our latest productions, Mr. Smith?" he inquired cheerfully.
Smith turned over the pages. Scenes of rape, torture, child-murder, abominations beyond anything that he had imagined possible...... He shut the magazine abruptly and put it back on Waterhouse's desk.
"Not for you, Mr. Smith? Well, it is something of a niche market I suppose. Very profitable from the business point of view, though. You would be surprised at the strength of the demand."
Woo reentered the room somewhere outside of Smith's line of sight and Waterhouse nodded to him. "Well, Mr. Smith," he said expansively, "your merchandise is indeed of the very highest quality. And if I may say so your pricing policy is more than generous..."
Smith knew at once that he had made a mistake - he had asked too little. He tried to cover it up: "Well, of course, it is just an introductory offer, like I said. To establish good faith. Later on I may have to put my prices up a little.."
"Ah, yes, Mr. Smith! Inflation. The ruin of us all. But to be quite frank with you, you have presented me with something of a problem?"
"A problem?"
"Yes, Mr. Smith." He hesitated, seemed to search for the right words. "Do you believe in coincidence, Mr. Smith?" he asked at last.
"Do I.... believe in coincidence?"
"Yes. You see, earlier on this evening, a business colleague of mine had some of this very same product go unaccountably missing. It was being imported for him by one of his... girlfriends. She failed to show up for their appointment. His name is Mr. Harry Miller. He's an American gentleman. Perhaps you know him?"
Smith shook his head. A glazed look was beginning to enter his face.
"Yes. He's a very sentimental man at heart. Very attached to his... girlfriends. He seems to have got it into his head that some harm may have come to this young lady. Anyway, you see the coincidence is, this young lady was importing one kilo of pure uncut heroin. And it was concealed in a plastic bag, inside a Chinese toffee-box. I see you look surprised. Yes. I was surprised too. It is rather a large coincidence, isn't it, Mr. Smith?"
Smith had lost the power of speech. The terror that had gripped him numbed his brain, deadened his powers of rational thought. He felt himself rise zombie-like from his seat.
"Oh, please, do remain seated, Mr. Smith. You're making my bodyguards very uncomfortable."
He slumped back drunkenly into the chair.
"Yes," Waterhouse continued, " you shall have the opportunity to meet Mr. Miller, because he's coming around personally to seek some reassurance about the young lady. I hope you shall be able to put his mind at rest, Mr. Smith."
Smith's reason had virtually snapped. He sat staring uncomprehendingly ahead while Waterhouse went on talking in the same polite conversational tone. "Mr. Miller is the gentleman who makes these films," he explained patiently. "I wonder if you have any acting ambitions, Mr. Smith? Because the way things are looking you may well find yourself starring in one of Mr. Miller's productions. A rather long one, I should think."
AN END
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