“You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. "Never heard of a sing-song girl; never heard of a geisha! Flower of the Lotus: the sing-song girl called her that. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. She took his hand in hers. An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent.
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