By the time we stopped behind a cart parked on the side of the street that ran along the eastern side of number 97, my lungs felt fit to burst. I leaned against the cart, and for the next few minutes concentrated fully on getting my breathing under control again. I really had to find some way of building up my stamina if this sort of thing would come up regularly in this job.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mr Ambrose glancing around the cart. My lungs feeling normal enough by now to allow some movement, I followed his example and saw the bright red figures of Presidency Army soldiers, parading on the walls. Decoys only, as I now knew. The real guards were hiding in the shadows.
‘We can thank God this cart is standing here,’ I whispered. ‘Or else we would be clearly visible - perfect target practise for Lord Dalgliesh’s personal team of pheasant hunters.’
‘Thank me instead of God,’ Mr Ambrose told me without taking his eyes off the roof of number 97. ‘I had one of my men park the cart here this morning.’
‘Hm.’ It had been a clever idea. But if he expected a compliment from me, he would have to wait for a long time. Besides, I was much too interested in something else. ‘What is this mysterious distraction you keep not talking about? How will it direct the attention of Lord Dalgliesh’s guards away from us?’
Retreating behind the cart again, he let his watch snap open a second time.
‘You shall find out in exactly two minutes and fourteen seconds, Mr Linton.’
‘Why not tell me now? Are you absolutely sure it will get the attention of all the guards?’ I persisted. ‘I’m not anxious to get my head perforated, you know. What if your distraction isn’t distracting enough?’
‘I am certain that they will not have eyes - or ears for that matter - for anything else. We will have about a minute before they focus their attention back on the street again.’
Once more, I opened my mouth to ask what was going to happen. But before I could speak, he pointed around the cart towards the corner of number 97’s outer wall.
‘When the distraction occurs, we will head for the corner, understand? I suspect that the gunmen aren’t actually sitting on the roof. More likely, they are looking out through dormers or even lifted roofing tiles. This will mean they will have a blind spot at the corner, where the sides of the roof meet. Once we are across the street and at the wall, they should not be able to see us, and won’t shoot.’
Oh, good. I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘But we should be quick anyway, just in case I am mistaken.’
Not so good.
Mr Ambrose nodded to Karim. ‘You know what to do once we’re there?’
The mountainous Mohammedan nodded, patting the bag slung over his shoulder. Not for the first time, I wondered what was inside.
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘Adequate.’ Mr Ambrose raised his watch again. ‘Brace yourselves. It will begin in ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one… now!’
Nothing happened.
With an angry snap, Mr Ambrose shut his watch.
‘They’re late,’ he complained. ‘You can’t rely on anybody to be punctual anym-’
Suddenly, there was an almighty clash from the other side of the building. Screams pierced the night over the city. For a moment, I thought that some sort of street brawl had broken out.
Bloody hell! Has he hired people to attack Lord Dalgliesh’s guards? They’ll all be shot down!
But then the clash came again, and it didn’t sound like swords or guns - rather, like a cymbal.
An orchestra attack?
‘What the bloody hell…’ I started to whisper, but was cut off by more screaming. It didn’t exactly sound painful. If I had to choose an adjective, I would have said 'enthusiastic'. But that couldn’t be, could it?
Curiously, I peered around the cart. Coloured lights were visible around the corner of a house. It sounded like people were approaching. But… the sound of the footsteps wasn’t right. It didn’t sound like normal traffic, or even soldiers marching - more like people at a ball, dancing to a rhythm. But who would be crazy enough to stage a ball on a street in the middle of Chinatown, in front of a house with professional gunmen on the roof?
Who do you think?
The sound came nearer - and then, without warning, the head of a giant, red-golden beast appeared in the street. It was at least two yards high, with thick spikes on its forehead and snout. A livid red tongue protruded from its horrifying maul that could surely swallow a girl whole, and as it reared up into the air, a roar and renewed clashing cut through the dark night again.
The monsters eyes fixed directly on me.
I opened my mouth to scream - and a hand clamped down on my lips. ‘I said,’ I heard a very cool, controlled voice at my ear, ‘brace yourselves. That means no horrified screaming.’
‘Bmm! Hmpff!’
My attempts to warn him of the approach of the giant monster went unheard. He pressed down harder.
‘Look,’ he told me. ‘Look closely.’
No! I don’t want to look! I can’t even stand to look at that grey beast of a horse you own, and this - this is a thousand times worse! Run! Run for your life, you granite-headed idiot!
What apocalyptical demon had he set loose in the streets of London, while the unsuspecting public slept in their beds, and the police were nowhere to be seen?
‘Look, Mr Linton. That is an order.’
Unwillingly, I moved my eyes to rest on the red-and-golden monster. For a moment, I just stared in fear as the wild eyes moved from left to right and the head jerked in wild contortions. Then…
Then I saw the pair of legs protruding from the lower part of the head.
Dear, merciful God! Has the monster already devoured somebody?
But no. Those legs weren’t sticking out of the beast’s mouth. They were just protruding from the bottom of the head, as if a man were standing inside it, holding it up. For the first time, I noticed that the face of the beast was hard and immovable as wood, and that its tongue did not move, and neither did its jaws. I saw the glint of paint on its features, and it dawned on me that I might have slightly overreacted.
My body relaxed.
Mr Ambrose’s arms, still around me, did not.
And, for the second time in half an hour, I realized that I could feel his fingers on my lips, and his stone-hard, sinuous body pressed against my back. Suddenly, the fake monster was only a dim memory. Suddenly, I was wondering whether he remembered the last time, too, and what it felt like to him. My derrière was pressed very tightly against him, soft flesh against hard muscle. More soft flesh than was probably advisable. I found myself wishing that I had tied my corset a bit more tightly in that area.
Don’t be ridiculous, I chided myself. Why should you care what Mr Ambrose thinks about how you feel, or that he probably thinks your bottom is too fat?
Not that it was, mind you. A little on the generous side, maybe, but not fat. No, definitely not.
Mr Ambrose cut short my posterior musings by releasing me and stepping back.
‘Be quiet, Mr Linton,’ he warned me, his voice as cool as ever. No. He definitely hadn’t been thinking of anything… down there.
Quickly, I tried to push all thoughts of the feel of his body out of my mind. It wasn’t too difficult, considering the circumstances. My eyes were drawn once more to the giant beast, of which now, not only the head, but a long, snake-like body was in view, each part of it supported by another pair of legs. The snake-like thing had by now started advancing towards the western side of number 97.
‘What in St George’s name is that?’ I panted, pointing at the wagging head of the fake monster.
‘Chinese New Year celebrations,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face as straight as a ruler. ‘The performance is called “The Dance of the Dragon”, I believe.’
‘Is it the Chinese New Year?’
‘No. But I doubt Lord Dalgliesh’s guards know that. They are not Chinese.’