WHEN SHE OPENED THE bathroom door and stepped out into the short hallway that led back to the bedroom, two men were waiting in the hallway. The newcomer, about forty, was also Chinese. He was dressed in designer jeans, beautifully burnished loafers, and a hundred-dollar Madras shirt. His black hair was expensively styled. He was smiling politely. He was unarmed.
“You’re Paula.”
Gathering the raincoat closer, she silently nodded. She was barefooted, and the uncarpeted hallway floor was uncomfortably cold. Slowly, she advanced on the two men, who stood opposite the door to the bedroom.
“I’d like to put my shoes on. And I’d like a comb.”
As if he were puzzled, the newcomer frowned. “Did you look in the medicine cabinet?”
“Yes. There’s no comb.”
Chin hesitated. Then, tentatively: “You’re welcome to use my comb.” As if to confirm the offer, he touched the back pocket of his perfectly fitting jeans.
“No, thanks.” With body language, she tried to express disdain.
“Well, then.” With the air of someone reluctantly turning to business before the preliminaries had been properly concluded, Chin gestured for her to enter the small, sparsely furnished living room that opened off the hallway to the right. “Well, then, if you’ll just go into the living room …” He gestured politely, then said something in Chinese to the other man, who went into the bedroom. Carrying the tennis shoes, he quickly reappeared. He gave the shoes to Chin, who was following Paula into the living room. Chin gestured her to a couch and gave her the shoes.
“This house is unoccupied,” Chin said, “and the gas is turned off. That’s why it’s cold.” Then, slightly raising his voice, he spoke again in Chinese. Moments later, followed by another Chinese man carrying a pistol, Angela appeared. Like Paula, she wore a raincoat and tennis shoes. Beneath the raincoat, Paula saw the hem of a nightgown. Did Angela feel more secure, wearing a nightgown beneath the coat?
As Angela sat beside her on the couch, Paula quickly surveyed the room, which was furnished with the nondescript couch, one mismatched armchair, and a glass-topped coffee table placed in front of the couch. Except for a wooden chopping board, a meat cleaver, and several neatly folded bath towels, the coffee table was bare. There was only one large picture window, completely covered by closely drawn Venetian blinds. The oak floor was uncarpeted. There was a musty odor of emptiness: stale air and dust and disuse.
When Chin spoke again in Chinese the two guards took up positions standing against the wall. Each man stood impassively, arms crossed. Each man held an automatic pistol.
For a moment Chin stared thoughtfully at the two women. Then, as if he had ordered his thoughts and was about to make a boardroom presentation, he began to speak:
“About six hours ago—call it two-thirty—I talked to Mr. Bernhardt. You’ll be glad to know that, yes, they found the jewels. Or, at least, I assume they found the jewels, since they didn’t deny it. So—” Chin permitted himself a small, self-satisfied smile. “So that’s the first problem solved. As things worked out, it was necessary to kill Jimmy Fabrese. There were many reasons, which I won’t get into. However—” He turned his attention to Paula. “However, as matters now stand, taking it from the police point of view, it appears that Mr. Bernhardt killed a member of the Mafia in cold blood, so that he could get to the jewels—which, of course, belong to the Mafia. Mr. Tate and Mrs. Rabb, of course, would also have very serious problems. But the authorities would probably go after Bernhardt first, as the mastermind. They—”
“Alan wouldn’t do that,” Paula flared. “He’s no killer.”
Chin nodded. “I agree. And, in fact, it’s true—he didn’t kill Fabrese. But he’ll have a difficult time proving it, I’m afraid. Fabrese was killed by a two-twenty-three bullet, two of them. The two-twenty-three-caliber cartridge is incredibly powerful. Bullets from that cartridge, at close range, go right through the body. So there would be no ballistics evidence to exonerate Mr. Bernhardt, because the chances of recovering the bullet are almost nonexistent. However—” He paused to refocus his thoughts. Then: “However, back to the treasure, which is now at Bernhardt’s flat. As you know, the plan was to put the jewels in a safe-deposit box. The banks open in about a half hour. Of course, I have people watching Bernhardt’s flat. They have orders to prevent either Bernhardt or Tate from reaching their cars, even if it means killing them in broad daylight on Vermont Street. Do you understand?” Chin directed the question at Paula.
“Have they been hurt?” Paula demanded. “Are they all right?”
“As long as they agree to turn over the jewels, they won’t be harmed. But if they don’t give me the treasure—well …” Pantomiming deep regret, Chin sighed, shrugged, spread his hands. “Well, you may as well know that if they refuse, then—” He gestured to the cleaver and the cutting board. “Then I’ve told them we’ll use that to chop off some of your fingers. Three fingers on each hand, I think. And probably part of your nose, too. For the nose, we’ll use a straight razor.”
Slowly, desperately, Paula began to shake her head, the ultimate denial. “You’re bluffing. You’re trying to scare us.” As, beside her, Angela began to softly sob.
“You would be making a serious mistake,” Chin said, “if you believe that I’m bluffing. On the contrary, this is business. Strictly business. In exchange for the slight risk of being arrested, I stand to gain a million dollars or more. Those are once-in-a-lifetime odds. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t take the gamble.”
“You’ve kidnapped us. That’s the death penalty.”
Chin chose not to reply.