Sad Wind From the Sea - Jack Higgins [1]
She mentioned the best hotel in Macao and he cursed silently, thinking of the walk that lay ahead of him. 'Can I get a taxi?' she asked in her clear, bell-like voice.
He laughed shortly. 'In this part of Macao, at this hour? You don't know this town, angel.'
She frowned and then her eyes widened and she reached forward and grabbed his arm. 'But you're hurt. There's blood on your sleeve!'
He smothered an oath as the sudden wrench caused a stab of pain to run through him. 'Take it easy,' he said and moved away to examine the wound under the light of the street lamp. His jacket had an ugly, bloodstained slit in it and when he wiped away the blood with a handkerchief he saw that he had sustained a superficial slash, more painful than anything else.
'How bad is it?' she asked him anxiously.
He shrugged. 'Not too bad. Hurts like hell, though.'
She took the handkerchief from his hand and twisted it neatly around his arm. 'Is that any better?' she said.
As he nodded he saw that her dress was badly torn. She'd made a pathetic attempt to pin it together, but it hardly measured up to the usual standards of decency. He made a sudden decision. 'There's only one way to get you back to your hotel,' he told her. 'We'll have to walk.' She nodded gravely and he added: 'We'd better call in at my hotel. You can fix this arm properly for me and I can get you a coat or something to cover yourself with.'
He nodded towards the bodice of her dress and she seemed to blush and instinctively put a hand there. 'That seems the best thing to do,' she said calmly. 'I think we'd better hurry, though. That handkerchief is proving an inadequate bandage.'
He was surprised at her calm acceptance of his suggestion. Surprised and also intrigued, because for a young girl who had just been through a pretty bad experience she seemed remarkably unaffected. His hotel was only a quarter of a mile away and as they approached it he suddenly felt uncomfortable. As he held the door open for her he reflected bitterly that the place looked what it was - a flea-bag. A blast of hot, stale air met them from the small hall and an ancient fan creaked, slowly and uselessly, above their heads, hardly causing a movement in the air.
The Chinese night-clerk was asleep at his desk, his head between his hands, and Hagen motioned the girl to silence. It didn't work. Half-way across the hall a polite cough sounded behind them and Hagen turned wearily. The night-clerk, now fully awake, smiled in an apologetic manner. Hagen felt in his pocket and then remembered that he was broke. 'Have you got a petaka?' he asked the girl. She frowned and looked puzzled. 'I'm broke, flat, and I need a petaka.' He gestured helpfully at the fly-blown sign on the wall: NO FEMALES ALLOWED UPSTAIRS. He grinned tiredly as she turned from reading the notice. 'They much prefer to supply their own, you see!' This time he had her in a better light and she did blush. She fumbled in her handbag and gave him a Straits dollar. He flipped it to the clerk and they mounted the rickety stairs.
He felt even more ashamed of his room than he had done about the hotel. It looked like a pigsty and smelled like one. Empty gin bottles in one corner and soiled clothing in another, combined with an unmade bed, did not make a very savoury picture. The girl didn't seem to notice. 'Have you got any bandages?' she demanded.
He rummaged about under the bed and finally produced the first-aid kit he had salvaged from the boat, and she led the way into the bathroom and told him to strip to the waist.
She carefully washed the congealed blood away and frowned. 'This should be stitched.'
He shook his head. 'I heal quickly.'
She smiled and pointed to the numerous scars on his chest and stomach. 'You must do.'
He grinned.