Page 113 - Brokenclaw - John Gardner

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wide staircase faced them and oil paintings of rough and barren landscapes

hung, one above the other, almost to the top of the high walls, which were
covered with thick, heavily patterned paper of gold with a repetitive red
design like a Greek urn. The staircase looked to be made of old mahogany, the
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bannister ra
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led off the hallway. From the ceiling a great heavy brass chandelier was
suspended from a thick chain which must have hung down almost seventeen
feet. The chandelier was circular and, at a rough guess, contained fifty electric
candle bulbs. The instant impression was of being in a very old house,

certainly older than anything Bond had ever seen in California, but the
atmosphere was undeniably early seventeenth century, if not earlier. It also had
the feel of a well-run house, for everything, from wood to the gilt picture
frames down to the brass fittings, gleamed in the light.
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All this was taken in as soon as the door shut, for hardly had the sound of its
closing died away when one of the tall doors to the left opened.
‘Peter Abelard, welcome. Was the surgery successful?’ Bond recognised the
identification code.

‘Completely. I am a fully restored man.’ It had gone through Bond’s mind
that the people in CELD had an odd Chinese sense of humour, considering the
fact that the real Peter Abelard had been castrated in the twelfth century
because of his love affair with Héloise.

‘And to you, Mrs Abelard, or do I call you Héloise? Or simply Ms Mo?’
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‘Jenny will do . . .’ Chi-Chi faltered, and no wonder. Brokenclaw Lee
seemed even taller and more imposing than when Bond had last seen him in
Victoria. Now that he was close to the man, his features appeared to be more

pronounced – the strange yet fascinating meld of Chinese and American-Indian
bone structure and colouring. The voice was unchanged, soft, pleasant with a
genuine welcoming quality. He wore dark trousers and a red, heavy velvet
smoking jacket, while his face seemed to shine with no trace of stubble around

the chin. Here was a man who knew he looked like a powerhouse, and so
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presented an image not only of authority but also of richness, from his clothes
to his hair and the well-barbered chin.
‘But come in, Peter, my dear fellow, and Jenny, come in, come in.’ Without

changing his pleasant tone, his eyes lifted behind Bond’s shoulder as he spoke
to Ding. ‘We have something which needs your special talents, Ding.
Unfortunate, but these things happen.’ He continued to talk as they entered the

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