Chapter 2
Night was falling as John Steed guided the Bentley into one of the seedier alleyways of London, an area on the Thames waterfront known as "Dark China." A place filled with laundries, opium dens, and rookeries; but also home to several "gentlemen's clubs", where the elite could go to indulge their voyeuristic urges by watching exotic dancers flaunt their wares on stage.
He could hardly believe that his search had led him here. When Mrs. Peel had been unexpectedly out of communication for a few days, he had started inquiries to make sure she hadn't run afoul of some miscreant. While her disappearance was no concern of Whitehall's, since she wasn't a Ministry employee, Steed had pulled a few strings with his man inside, Thornton. Luckily, Mrs. Peel's Elan convertible was not a common sight in London, and it took only a few hours for his contacts to trace it down to this ill-begotten section.
An empty parking spot was available immediately behind the Elan, only a few feet from the rear entrance of one of the clubs. As he pulled the large green car slowly in, several street urchins scampered into hiding, invariably to lie in wait for an attempted mugging when he walked towards the front entrance. What could possibly bring Mrs. Peel to a place like this? he thought.
Steed disappointed the potential thieves by sneaking directly into the back door of the building. He strolled quietly down a darkened hallway until he encountered a patch of light coming through a beaded curtain. As he moved closer, he could see that it screened off a cluttered dressing area. Steed swept the strands aside, and his eyes widened at the sight that greeted him.
Mrs. Peel stood facing away from him. It appeared that she was completely naked. Steed couldn't help but admire the way her hourglass shape flowed from her shoulder blades down to her narrow waist before curving to the perfectly rounded cheeks of her backside. Her skin was peach-colored and flawless.
Steed cleared his throat uncertainly and she spun to face him. Her hands immediately flew up to hide her chest, leaving the dark area between her thighs uncovered. For a second, they were both speechless.
Then he realized that she was dressed after all. She wore nothing but the briefest of outfits, little more than a strip of shiny black fabric stretched over her lower abdomen and held up by a G-string that was virtually invisible from a distance.
Emma glared back. He had no way of knowing that under her palms was proof of her excitement at being so completely exposed before him.
"Get out of here at once, Steed!"
His response sounded timid by comparison. "I was worried about you."
"Have you been following me? How dare you!" Her anger seemed genuine, though blunted somewhat by his obvious concern.
Steed had caught brief glances of various parts of her anatomy in the past, but this was the first time he could take in every square inch of her at once. It had a breathtaking effect, and he spoke with difficulty.
"You have a fine, athletic form, Mrs. Peel." He watched as her face reddened, though it was difficult to tell whether from embarrassment or fury. "But you may be in grave danger," he added seriously. "This is a bad part of town, a stronghold for organized crime. What exactly are you doing here?"
"I'm undercover," she retorted.
Steed gave her a wry smile. "Not very much. What's the reason?"
"Mei-Ling has disappeared. I'm trying to find her."
He looked at the black fabric between Emma's thighs. "Disguised as an Oriental pearl diver?"
"She was moonlighting as an exotic dancer."
"I see," Steed replied, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So you'll be performing here, tonight," he pointed to the brass pole in the middle of the dressing room, "on one of these?"
Her determination faltered for a second. "That's my plan."
Steed's eyes twinkled. "Perhaps I should join the audience, keep a lookout for any suspicious characters."
Emma set her mouth into a firm line. "You are not permitted to watch."
"What am I permitted to do?"
"Stay away," she warned. "This is none of your business."
Steed took a few steps towards her, moving close enough to press his cheek next to hers. "This is a gentlemen's club," he said smoothly. "And I'm certainly a gentleman."
Emma must have been weakened by his nearness, since her anger seemed to dissipate. She turned her head, allowing her lips to touch his cheek as she spoke.
"Steed, I want you to promise me that you'll leave now, and won't try to follow me any more." Emma could feel him start to object, and she shifted her arm so that she could delicately press her finger to his lips. "This is something that I must do on my own," she added.
Steed sighed. "Very well, Mrs. Peel."
"Say it," she demanded.
"I promise I won't follow you."
"I'm going to hold you to that promise, John Steed. Now leave, and forget everything you saw," she ordered firmly.
"I can leave," Steed said with a touch of humor starting to cross his face. "But if you think I can forget, you underestimate yourself."
Emma stood there with her arms crossed over her bosom and her feet planted defiantly apart. Steed couldn't prevent his eyes from wandering down past her navel to her long and shapely legs. Her body was the perfect canvas on which to paint a masterpiece of erotic pleasures.
As if she sensed his wicked thoughts and disapproved, Emma shifted her arm again so she could point forcefully to the door. Steed politely tipped his hat before leaving.
Emma quickly rummaged through the drawers of Mei-Ling's vanity, trying to put Steed out of her mind. Damn the man! How had he found her so quickly? She didn't know whether to be angry, embarrassed, or aroused.
Ever since Peter's death, she had become concerned that she was leaning on Steed too much, and that he had happily taken on the mantle as her "protector." She was her own woman, and the sooner that Steed learned that, the better.
She coolly sat on the stool and crossed and uncrossed her legs twice before deciding that she couldn't wear the G-string. Not enough coverage in front or back. She checked the vanity again and found some more conservative bikini-style panties. These would be best, just in case Steed didn't honor his promise. The matching top was virtually all strings, with two small swatches of nylon. It took her some moments to strategically position them to be presentable in general public.
The manager would probably complain that her attire wasn't revealing enough, but it wasn't as if she was seeking permanent employment. All she needed was to check out the customers and find a few leads. It had taken her two days to trace which club had been Mei-Ling's. Her efforts to talk her way into a waitress position had stalled once the manager caught sight of her body, and he insisted that she must become a dancer. It didn't matter. Her plan was to get a good look at the audience, then after a minute or two, feign stage fright or shyness and rush off. Later, she could loiter around the bar seeking consolation, and check some of the clientele more closely.
And just to make sure no one in the crowd could identify her afterward, she had an extra ace. Emma reached into the vanity and pulled out a small black mask, adjusting it in the mirror as she put it on. It covered her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, and would give her some measure of anonymity.
Steed straightened his bowler as he left the rear entrance of the nightclub. He had promised not to follow Mrs. Peel, but he hadn't promised not to find Mei-Ling. There was a public call box near the Bentley, and within seconds he had made an inquiry and received Mei-Ling's address. No surprise; her place was only a few blocks away, deeper into the part of the city known as "Dark China". Steed decided to walk rather than move the car from its well-placed spot.
The address turned out to be a small shop with several apartments upstairs. Steed assumed that Mei-Ling must have rented one of these from the storeowner. The sign out front said HERBS, and below that, in smaller letters, MOO-PO WONG, PROPR. He entered through the front door, which set off some dissonant chimes hanging from the ceiling.
The shelves lining the walls were filled with strange jars and boxes bearing labels stenciled with Chinese characters. No one came forth to greet him. The herb business must have withered, Steed thought. Then he heard noise and laughter coming from the back room.
Steed stealthily moved past the sales counter, only to find the back room empty as well. The sound was coming from a brightly-lit stairway into the basement. He silently crept down the steps into a noisy hallway.
The corridor was lined with brick, and several Chinese laborers were coming and going through a passageway. "Buy fan-tan and make money!" a doorkeeper was shouting, first in Mandarin, then in heavily accented English. He saw Steed approaching and crossed his arms as a signal he intended to refuse entrance to the stranger. Then Steed flashed a roll of bank notes, and the door was quickly opened to allow him to pass. Once inside, the cashier barred his way, offering him a collection of narrow bamboo-wood tallies.
"You bet these, mister. No money on the fan-tan table."
Steed produced a twenty-pound note and was handed forty of the markers. His appearance in full dress with bowler and umbrella was completely incongruous with the shabby attire of the other bettors, and they cast a suspicious eye at him as he took his place.
The t'an kun, the 'master of the spread', was a scraggly older man wearing a plain black robe with navy-colored lapels. His gray hair was shot through with streaks of black, but it was still difficult to tell his age—somewhere between fifty and sixty, Steed guessed. The man plunged both his hands into a nearby container of ordinary clothes buttons and piled them on the table in front of him. He then quickly covered them with a brass bowl.
Bets were placed by stacking tallies along the four sides of a square, corresponding to numbers one through four, or at the corners between the sides to bet two numbers at once. Using a long wooden stick with a curved end, the t'an kun counted out the buttons from the pile four at a time. The number left over after the groups of four were counted was the winner. Steed watched carefully for several minutes without making any move to place a bet.
The t'an kun frowned at him. "You plan to play fan-tan, mister?"
"Of course," Steed said smoothly. "Now, how does one wager..."
The man grabbed the buttons, then slammed the bowl over the pile with extra force, as if in protest of the newcomer. The entire room watched in surprise as Steed took every single tally in his possession and put them on the number "3."
The t'an kun removed the bowl and started pulling off four buttons at a time. At the end, three buttons were left.
Steed smiled. "Beginner's luck," he offered.
The t'an kun said nothing, simply grabbed another double handful of buttons and dropped them on the table before covering them with the bowl.
Once again, Steed wagered all of his bamboo tallies, including the winnings, this time putting them next to the number "4." After the counting, no buttons were left over. Four was the winner.
"Beginner's luck again?" the t'an kun asked.
"Not at all," Steed grinned. "That time, I was drawing on my experience."
A cloud passed across the face of the t'an kun. He turned to the cashier. "You take over, Li-Hsien." He motioned for Steed to follow him outside. They traced their way back up the steps into the herb shop before the gray-haired man spoke to him.
"How did you come to be here, mister?"
Steed smiled. "The name is Steed, John Steed. The door was open, so I came on down. You shouldn't leave it unlocked."
"Nobody buys herbs at night," the t'an kun said levelly. "You were spying. Who sent you? One of the Tong bosses?"
"Luckily for you, no. They might be interested in someone who runs a crooked fan-tan game."
The t'an kun remained expressionless. Steed continued on.
"That's a singular talent you have there," he said casually. "You always seem to know the exact number of buttons you grab."
The gray-haired man hesitated for a moment.
"You are incorrect, Mr. Steed. I don't know how many buttons I grab. I only know the amount left over when it is divided by four."
"Quite an advantage in a game like fan-tan," Steed replied. "Your system was easy to spot. When you place the bowl, you hold it loosely, at an angle; and whichever edge of the bowl hits the table first, that's the winner. Left is one, farthest from you is two, right is three, and closest to you is four." Steed fanned himself with the bamboo tallies of his winnings. "Clockwise."
"And how does this advantage me?"
"One of the players is your confederate. He wagers small amounts, but always wins more than he loses, so by the end of the night you two can split a handsome bankroll without having to forward a percentage of the profits to the Tong."
The man nodded. "I see. You are most clever, Mr. Steed. It appears that I now owe you something for your silence."
Steed inclined his head in acknowledgement. The t'an kun offered him a chair.
"My name is Moo-Po Wong," he said.
"I'm looking for the woman who lives upstairs," Steed began. "A martial arts instructor by the name of Mei-Ling."
"You're very gracious," Moo-Po smiled. "Many men would have referred to Mei-Ling as a stripper."
A look of alarm passed over Steed's face. "Surely you mean 'dancer, wearing skimpy clothes'?"
"She is only wearing clothes when the music starts, Mr. Steed."
The lights in the club dimmed as a single spotlight illuminated the brass pole on center stage. The manager stood nearby, holding a microphone.
"Gentlemen, I present to you—The Erotic Emmanuelle!"
He made a sweeping gesture as the hi-fi system started thumping the opening chords of The Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction." Emma strutted out onto the stage wearing black leather high-heel boots and the two-piece black nylon bikini lingerie. With a sprightly leap, she straddled the pole in the vee between her thighs.
I can't get no satisfaction...
She panned her vision across the faces in the crowd, checking for any sign of Steed. It appeared he had kept his promise. Emma gripped the pole with both hands and slid her foot upward along its length into a perfect vertical leg split. The audience gasped. She wagered that none of the regular dancers approached her level of gymnastic skill.
I can't get no... I can't get no...
The music blared on as Emma lowered her leg and held the pole with one hand as she danced. She gyrated her hips seductively in time to the music and Mick Jagger's vocals. This gave her the perfect opportunity to examine the clientele while relatively stationary. The lighting was better than Emma expected; she was having no trouble seeing individual features.
When I'm drivin' in my car...
Emma reached high on the pole and hoisted herself into an aerial horizontal split, spinning slowly around as she descended back to the floor. She used the motion to check the far corners of the room for anyone who might have escaped her peripheral vision earlier. Only a minute had passed, and she felt that she had a good mental catalog of all the customers.
Supposed to fire my imagination...
More time was going to be needed if she wanted to observe the spending habits of the patrons. Emma suddenly realized no one was going to throw any money unless she removed an article of clothing. Emboldened by the anonymity that her mask offered, she decided to abandon her plan of an early exit.
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try...
Emma cast another quick glance into the audience for any sign of Steed. She had underestimated the boisterousness of the crowd. The song wasn't even two minutes old, and already the encouraging shouts were turning into impatient grumblings. If she wanted to remain on stage, she would have to take something off. As Mei-Ling had said, these were the sixties.
I can't get no girl reaction...
The place would descend into a riot if she waited any longer. Emma reminded herself that no one here knew her identity. Reaching behind her back with both hands, she thrust her chest outward as she tugged on the knotted strings. Suddenly, even to her own surprise, her bikini top came free, sliding down her abdomen, between her thighs, and then onto the floor. Pandemonium broke out.
Animals, she thought. How can Mei-Ling do this for a living? Still, there was no denying that it paid well. A flurry of pound notes was now raining onto the stage. With a leisurely movement, she wrapped her calf around the pole and executed a slow rotation.
When I'm ridin' round the world...
Turning her back to the crowd, she bent over deeply, tossing her auburn mane as she looked over her right shoulder. Some young Italian bravos were seated at a table in the second row. What was it that Steed had said about organized crime? Money continued to pelt the stage apron; the view she was presenting seemed very popular with the crowd.
Baby, better come back—maybe next week...
What the spectators took for a sexy pout was actually a look of concentration. She focused her attention on the clothes and grooming habits of each of the patrons. As Mei-Ling had told her at the dojo, most of the customers indeed seemed to be quite wealthy. Hardly the type to engage in a snatch-and-grab of an Oriental stripper.
Emma looked at the stage floor and did some quick mental addition. She wasn't even fully nude, and in three minutes she had probably raked in more than a karate instructor would make in a week. For a moment she was swept up in the fantasy of the role she was playing: the audience loved her. She wickedly imagined herself handing Steed her new business card: Emmanuelle Peels, Pole Dancer.
I can't get no, oh no no no!
They could yell all they wanted; she had no intention of removing her only remaining article of clothing. She secretly thanked Steed for his earlier visit that had caused her to change into the more conservative bikini outfit. Emma doubted that she had enough nerve to appear in the scanty strip of fabric and G-string, even with the mask. It was bad enough that she had to go topless.
Hey hey hey, that's what I say...
A Chinese gentleman was sitting off to one side, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit. He was surrounded by manservants who were very generous with their contributions to the stage on his behalf. Emma pondered for a moment. Mei-Ling was part Chinese. It was a tenuous connection, but if it turned out to be a domestic issue, this man would be the most likely candidate among the customers.
Emma almost lost her footing as the Oriental smiled evilly back at her. He had noticed her attentions. That was bad; if he really was some sort of criminal, he might perceive her as a threat. He discreetly made a signal with his hand, although she couldn't detect who the recipient was. She would need to be on her guard.
No satisfaction... no satisfaction... no satisfaction!
As the final strains of the song faded out, the audience broke into frenzied applause, drowning out the boos of those asking for more. They could shout away; she wasn't giving any encores. Emma rushed off stage, enjoying the cool air that greeted her when she got out from under the hot lights. She didn't realize she had worked up such a sweat. The manager was waiting in the wings with a look of exasperation on his face.
"You're supposed to take everything off!"
"Get me a shirt," she ordered sternly.
"I guess I can't complain." He offered her a container of water, which she gulped gratefully. "Even half-dressed, you're a crowd-pleaser." The manager left, ostensibly to return with some clothing for her.
Emma doubted she would need to be around for tomorrow night's show. That Chinese gentleman in the audience—something about him had set off her instincts. She would make inquiries, find out who he was. If it led to a dead end, she could always show up to dance again. Where was the manager with that shirt?
Suddenly Emma recognized the sickly sweet smell of opium. She turned to run, but her vision was already getting blurry. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the manager laughing near the doorway, as if in slow-motion. The water had been drugged. Several hooded men charged her from every side, and she rapidly found herself too weak to resist. In the middle of it all was the fiendish-looking Oriental she had seen in the audience earlier. He had changed clothes, out of his suit and into traditional Mandarin garb.
But it wasn't his dark purple robes and sinister Fu Manchu moustache that caused a shiver of fear to run through her body. It was the sight of the creature that lurked behind him, hidden in darkness. As it emerged from the shadows, she saw it through her drug-induced haze.
It was a green-scaled dragon.