The Property of a Lady by Elizabeth Adler Read Free Book Online Page B

collector was remiss; he allowed Abyss to stall him for the money—something that is against my rules. Of course, the collector has now been dealt with. But Mr. Abyss … well, he owes me a total of one thousand dollars. Not a great deal of money, of course … but no one,
no one
ever owes my organization money and gets away with it. So, Mr…. Warrender, since Abyss is a friend of yours, what do you say you pay his debts? Let’s call it a fine, shall we? And in return, I shall tell you what I know.”
    The crocodile smile disappeared as Cal stared at him, surprised. What could the Laotian tell him? That for a thousand dollars they had killed Abyss? He wouldn’t put anything past these bastards … death was probably one of their sweeter options. “A thousand dollars?” he said, reaching in his jacket for his wallet.
    The thug next to him grabbed him and he felt the smooth, cold steel of a knife against his neck.
    “Shall we say—with interest—fifteen hundred?” the Laotian suggested with another smile.
    Cal nodded, and with a quick gesture of his tiny hand the Laotian indicated the thug should set him free.
    Breathing a sigh of relief that he wasn’t going to end up as another anonymous statistic fished from the deep Chao Phraya River, Cal said nervously, “You guys take traveler’s checks? Just joking, just joking,” he added hastily asthe Laotian’s eyes disappeared into angry slits and his thin mouth tightened. “Fifteen hundred dollars, right?” He took the fifteen bills from his wallet and placed them on the table. “And now you will tell me where Abyss is?”
    Waving to one of his henchmen to remove the money, the Laotian said, “Mr. Abyss had been traced from Kuala Lumpur to Singapore, and then to Jakarta, where, I understand from my contacts, he was seeking passage on a freighter heading for Istanbul. My research has gone no further than this. And since the debt has now been repaid, it will no longer be necessary. Good-bye, Mr. Warrender.”
    As the guards grabbed his arms and marched him back along the corridor, Cal wondered how he had known his name. He must have heard he was making inquiries and made it his business to find out about him. The Laotian was not the kind of man to let anything pass him by.
    The massage girls lurking behind their curtains eyed him silently as they hurried past, and then he was back in the red-and-blue neon glare and heavy disco beat of the bar. A thrust on his back propelled him suddenly into the street and he was breathing Patpong Road’s moist, fetid air as if it was the breath of life itself.
    He took the next flight out to Istanbul, the ancient city that was formerly Constantinople and before that Byzantium. It was raining and the beautiful domes and minarets were hidden under a bank of low gray cloud. Even the famous Bosphorus was a depressing gray.
    The harbor was surrounded by an area of peeling industrial squalor, filled with Russian freighters and rusting Turkish ships looking ready for the junkyard. Land and sea merged together in the ghostly gray mist and a fine rain soaked him as he walked along the docks, searching for the minor immigration official Interpol had told him might help—for a certain sum, of course. When he finally reached him it took him two more grim, grayrainy days of searching through papers until he found what he wanted.
    He compared the picture of the man on the immigration documents with the one in the photograph given him by Interpol. There was no mistaking the round face stretched tight over layers of fat, shining with a film of sweat under the hot photographic lamps, nor the small eyes and fleshy lips. Abyss’s sparse hair was now dyed a strange reddish color and the mustache was a new addition, but it was the name that confirmed the identity. Gerome Abyss was obviously not very inventive. He had renamed himself simply “Mr. Gerome” … Georges Gerome, clothing manufacturer from Nimes in France. He had stated his business in