James clavell

But no amount of persuasion would sway the old seaman. "No. Now. My money, and the money of my people now. And also from those other accounts, the, er, those special ones wherever they are."

"But there isn't that amount of cash in that branch, Honoured Uncle," Richard Kwang said soothingly. "I'd be glad to give you a cashier's check."

Wu exploded. "I don't want checks I want money! Don't you understand? Money!" He did not understand what a cashier's check was so the frightened Mr. Sung began to explain. Paul Choy brightened. "That'll be all right, Honoured Uncle," he said. "A cashier's check's..."

The old man roared, "How can a piece of paper be like cash money? I want money, my money now!"

"Please let me talk to the Honourable Kwang, Great Uncle," Paul Choy said placatingly, understanding the dilemma. "Perhaps I can help."

Wu nodded sourly. "All right, talk, but get my cash money."

Paul Choy introduced himself on the telephone and said, "Perhaps it'd be easier in English, sir." He talked a few moments then nodded, satisfied. "Just a moment, sir." Then in Haklo, "Great Uncle," he said, explaining, "the Honourable Kwang will give you payment in full in government securities, gold or silver at his Head Office, and a piece of paper which you can take to Blacs, or the Victoria for the remainder. But, if I may suggest, because you've no safe to put all that bullion in, perhaps you'll accept Honourable Kwang's cashier's check—with which I can open accounts at either bank for you. Immediately."

"Banks! Banks are foreign devil lobster-pot traps for civilised lobsters!"

It had taken Paul Choy half an hour to convince him. Then they had gone to the Ho-Pak's Head Office but Wu had left Two Hatchet Tok with the quaking Mr. Sung. "You stay here, Tok. If I don't get my money you will take it out of this branch!"

"Yes, Lord."

So they had gone to Central and by noon Four Finger Wu had new accounts, half at Blacs, half at the Victoria. Paul Choy had been staggered by the number of separate accounts that had had to be closed and opened afresh. And the amount of cash.

Twenty-odd million HK.

In spite of all his pleading and explaining the old seaman had refused to invest some of his money in selling Ho-Pak short, saying that that was a game for quai loh thieves. So Paul had slipped away and gone to every stockbroker he could find, trying to sell short on his own account. "But, my dear fellow, you've no credit. Of course, if you'll give me your uncle's chop, or assurance in writing, of course...."

He discovered that stockbrokering firms were European, almost exclusively, the vast majority British. Not one was Chinese. All the seats on the stock exchange were European held, again the vast majority British. "That just doesn't seem right, Mr. Smith," Paul Choy said.

"Oh, I'm afraid our locals, Mr., Mr.... Mr. Chee was it?"

"Choy, Paul Choy."

"Ah yes. I'm afraid all our locals aren't really interested in complicated, modern practises like broking and stock markets—of course you know our locals are all immigrants? When we came here Hong Kong was just a barren rock."

"Yes. But I'm interested, Mr. Smith. In the States a stockbr—"

"Ah yes, America! I'm sure they do things differently in America, Mr. Chee. Now if you'll excuse me... good afternoon."

Seething, Paul Choy had gone from broker to broker but it was always the same. No one would back him without his father's chop.

Now he sat on a bench in Memorial Square near the Law Courts and the Struan's highrise and Rothwell-Gornt's, and looked out at the harbour, and thought. Then he went to the Law Court library and talked his way past the pedantic librarian. "I'm from Sims, Dawson and Dick," he said airily. "I'm their new attorney from the States. They want some quick information on stock markets and stock-broking."

"Government regulations, sir?" the elderly Eurasian asked helpfully.

"Yes."

"There aren't any, sir."

"Well, practically none." The librarian went to the shelves. The requisite section was just a few paragraphs in a giant tome.

Paul Choy gaped at him. "This's all of it?"

"Yes sir."

Paul Choy's head reeled. "But then it's wide open, the market's wide open!"

The librarian was gently amused. "Yes, compared to London, or New York, As to stockbroking, well, anyone can set up as a broker, sir, providing someone wants them to sell shares and there's someone who wants them to buy and both are prepared to pay commission. The problem is that the, er, the existing firms control the market completely."

"How do you bust this monopoly?"

"Oh I wouldn't want to, sir. We're really for the status quo in Hong Kong."

"How do you break in then? Get a piece of the action?"

"I doubt if you could, sir. The, the British control everything very carefully," he said delicately.

"That doesn't seem right."

The elderly man shook his head and smiled gently. He steepled his fingers, liking the young Chinese he saw in front of him, envying him his purity—and his American education. "I presume you want to play the market on your own account?" he asked softly.

"Yeah..." Paul Choy tried to cover his mistake and stuttered, "At least... Dawson said for me—"

"Come now, Mr. Choy, you're not from Sims, Dawson and Dick," he said, chiding him politely. "If they'd hired an American—an unheard-of innovation—oh I would have heard of it along with a hundred others, long before you even arrived here. You must be Mr. Paul Choy, the great Wu Sang Fang's nephew, who has just come back from Harvard in America."

Paul Choy gaped at him. "How'd you know?"

"This is Hong Kong, Mr. Choy. It's a very tiny place. We have to know what's going on. That's how we survive. You do want to play the market?"

"Yes. Mr____?"

"Manuel Perriera. I'm Portuguese from Macao." The librarian took out a fountain pen and wrote in beautiful copybook writing an introduction on the back of one of his visiting cards. "Here. Ishwar Soorjani's an old friend. His place of business is just off the Nathan Road in Kowloon. He's a Parsee from India and deals in money and foreign exchange and buys and sells stocks from time to time. He might help you—but remember if he loans money, or credit, it will be expensive so you should not make any mistakes."

"Gee thanks, Mr. Perriera." Paul Choy stuck out his hand. Surprised, Perriera took it. Paul Choy shook warmly then began to rush off but stopped. "Say, Mr. Perriera... the stock market. Is there a long shot? Anything? Any way to get a piece of the action?"

Manuel Perriera had silver-grey hair and long, beautiful hands, and pronounced Chinese features. He considered the youth in front of him. Then he said softly, "There's nothing to prevent you from forming a company to set up your own stock market, a Chinese stock market. That's quite within Hong Kong law—or lack of it." The old eyes glittered. "All you need is money, contacts, knowledge and telephones...."

"My money please," the old amah whispered hoarsely. "Here's my savings book." Her face was flushed from the heat within the Ho-Pak branch at Aberdeen. It was ten minutes to three now and she had been waiting since dawn. Sweat streaked her old white blouse and black pants. A long greying ratty queue hung down her back. "Ayeeyah, don't shove," she called out to those behind her. "You'll get your turn soon!"

Wearily the young teller took the book and glanced again at the clock. Ayeeyah! Thank all gods we close at three, she thought, and wondered anxiously through her grinding headache how they were going to close the doors with so many irritable people crammed in front of the grilles, pressed forward by those outside.

The amount in the savings book was 323.42 HK. Following Mr. Sung's instructions to take time and be accurate she went to the files trying to shut her ears to the stream of impatient, muttered obscenities that had gone on for hours. She made sure the amount was correct, then checked the clock again as she came back to her high stool and unlocked her cash drawer and opened it '"'^ere was not enough money in her till so she locked the drawer in and went to the manager's office. An undercurrent of rage went through the waiting people. She was a short clumsy woman. Eyes followed her, then went anxiously to the clock and back to her again.

She knocked on his door and closed it after her. "I can't pay Old Ah Tarn," she said helplessly. "I've only 100 HK, I've delayed as much..."

Manager Sung wiped the sweat off his upper lip. "It's almost three so make her your last customer, Miss Cho." He took her through a side door to the vault. The safe door was ponderous. She gasped as she saw the empty shelves. At this time of the day usually the shelves were filled with neat stacks of notes and paper tubes of silver, the notes clipped together in their hundreds and thousands and tens of thousands. Sorting the money after closing was the job she liked best, that and touching the sensuous bundles of new, crisp, fresh bills.

"Oh this is terrible, Honourable Sung," she said near to tears. Her thick glasses were misted and her hair askew.

"It's just temporary, just temporary, Miss Cho. Remember what the Honourable Haply wrote in today's Guardian!" He cleared the last shelf, committing his final reserves, cursing the consignment that had not yet arrived. "Here." He gave her 15,000 for show, made her sign for it, and took 15 for each of the other two tellers. Now the vault was empty.

When he came into the main room there was a sudden electric, exciting hush at the apparently large amount of money, cash money.

He gave the money to the other two tellers, then vanished into his office again.

Miss Cho was stacking the money neatly in her drawer, all eyes watching her and the other tellers. One packet of 1,000 she left on the desk. She broke the seal and methodically counted out 320, and three ones and the change, recounted it and slid it across the counter. The old woman stuffed it into a paper bag, and the next in line irritably shoved forward, and thrust his savings book into Miss Cho's face. "Here, by all the gods. I want seven thous—"

At that moment, the three o'clock bell went and Mr. Sung appeared instantly and said in a loud voice, "Sorry, we have to close now. All tellers close your—" The rest of his words were drowned by the angry roar.

"By all gods I've waited since dawn..."

"Dew neh loh moh but I've been here eight hours...."

"Ayeeyah, just pay me, you've enough..."

Normally the bank would just have shut its doors and served those within, but this time, obediently, the three frightened tellers locked their tills in the uproar, put up their CLOSED signs and backed away from the outstretched hands.

Suddenly the crowd within the bank became a mob.

Those in front were shoved against the counter as others fought to get into the bank. A girl shrieked as she was slammed against the counter. Hands reached out for the grilles that were more for decoration than protection. Everyone was enraged now. One old seaman who had been next in line reached over to try to jerk the till drawer open. The old amah was jammed in the seething mass of a hundred or more people and she fought to get to one side, her money clasped tightly in her scrawny hands. A young woman lost her footing and was trampled on. She tried to get up but the milling legs defied her so, in desperation, she bit into one leg and got enough respite to scramble up, stockings ripped, chong-sam torn and now in panic. Her panic whipped the mob further then someone shouted, "Kill the motherless whore's son..." and the shout was taken up, "Killllllll!"

There was a split second of hesitation, then, as one, they surged forward.

"Stop!"

The silence was sudden and vast.

The uniformed chief inspector stood before them, unarmed and calm, an electric megaphone in his hand. He had come through the back door into an inner office and now he was looking at them.

"It's three o'clock," he said softly in Haklo. "The law says banks close at three o'clock. This bank is now closed. Please turn around and go home! Quietly!"

Another silence, angrier this time, then the beginning of a violent swell and one man muttered sullenly, "What about my fornicating money..." and others almost took up the shout but the police officer moved fast, very fast, directly at the man, fearlessly lifted the countertop and went straight at him into the mob. The mob backed off.

"Tomorrow," the police officer said gently, towering over him.

"You'll get all your money tomorrow." The man dropped his eyes, hating the cold blue fish-eyes and the nearness of a foreign devil. Sullenly he moved back a pace.

The policeman looked at the rest of them, into their eyes. "You at the back," he ordered, instantly selecting the man with unerring care, his voice commanding yet with the same quiet confidence, "Turn around and make way for the others."

Obediently the man did as he was ordered. The mob became a crowd again. A moment's hesitation then another turned and began to push for the door. "Dew neh loh moh I haven't got all day, hurry up," he said sourly.

They all began to leave, muttering, furious—but individually, not as a mob. Sung and the tellers wiped the sweat off their brows, then sat trembling behind the safety of the counter.

The chief inspector helped the old amah up. A fleck of blood was at the corner of her mouth. "Are you all right, Old Lady?" he asked in Haklo.

She stared at him without understanding. He repeated it in Cantonese.

"Ah, yes... yes," she said hoarsely, still clasping her paper bag tight against her chest. "Thank you, Honoured Lord." She scuttled away into the crowd and vanished. The room emptied. The Englishman went out to the sidewalk after the last person and stood in the doorway, whistling tonelessly as he watched them stream away.

"Sergeant!"

"Yes sir."

"You can dismiss the men now. Have a detail here at nine tomorrow. Put up barriers and let the buggers into the bank just three at a time. Yourself and four men'll be more than enough."

"Yes sir." The sergeant saluted. The chief inspector turned back into the bank. He locked the front door and smiled at Manager Sung. "Rather humid this afternoon, isn't it?" he said in English to give Sung face—all educated Chinese in Hong Kong prided themselves in speaking the international language.

"Yes sir," Sung replied nervously. Normally he liked him and admired this chief inspector greatly. Yes, he thought. But this was the first time he had actually seen a quai loh with the Evil Eye, daring a mob, standing alone like a malevolent god in front of the mob, daring it to move, to give him the opportunity to spit fire and brimstone.

Sung shuddered again. "Thank you, Chief Inspector."

"Let's go into your office and I can take a statement."

"Yes, please." Sung puffed himself up in front of his staff, taking command again. "The rest of you make up your books and tidy up."

He led the way into his office and sat down and beamed. "Tea, Chief Inspector?"

"No thank you." Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth was about five foot ten and well built, fair hair and blue eyes and a taut sunburned face. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and put them on the desk. "These are the accounts of my men. At nine tomorrow, you will close their accounts and pay them. They'll come to the back door."

"Yes of course. I would be honoured. But I will lose face if so many valuable accounts leave me. The bank is as sound as it was yesterday, Chief Inspector."

"Of course. Meanwhile tomorrow at nine. In cash please." He handed him some more papers. And four savings books. "I'll take a cashier's check for all of these. Now."

"But Chief Inspector, today was extraordinary. There's no problem with the Ho-Pak. Surely you could..."

"Now." Smyth smiled sweetly. "Withdrawal slips are all signed and ready."

Sung glanced at them. All were Chinese names that he knew were nominees of nominees of this man whose nickname was the Snake. The accounts totaled nearly 850,000 HK. And that's just in this branch alone, he thought, very impressed with the Snake's acumen. What about the Victoria and Blacs and all the other branches in Aberdeen?

"Very well," he said wearily. "But I'll be very sorry to see so many accounts leave the bank."

Smyth smiled again. "The whole of the Ho-Pak's not broke yet, is it?"

"Oh no, Chief Inspector," Sung said, shocked. "We have published assets worth a billion HK and cash reserves of many tens of millions. It's just these simple people, a temporary problem of confidence. Did you see Mr. Haply's column in the Guardian?"

"Yes."

"Of course! Meanwhile I am a little busy this afternoon."

"Yes. Of course. I'll do it at once. I, er, I see in the paper you've caught one of those evil Werewolves."

"We've a triad suspect, Mr. Sung, just a suspect."

Sung shuddered. "Devils! But you'll catch them all... devils, sending an ear! They must be foreigners. I'll wager they're foreigners never mind. Here, sir, I've made the checks..."

There was a knock on the door. A corporal came in and saluted. "Excuse me, sir, a bank truck's outside. They say they're from Ho-Pak's Head Office."

"Ayeeyah," Sung said, greatly relieved, "and about time. They promised the delivery at two. It's more money."

"How much?" Smyth asked.

"Half a million," the corporal volunteered at once, handing over the manifest. He was a short, bright man with dancing eyes.

"Good," Smyth said. "Well, Mr. Sung, that'll take the pressure off you, won't it."

"Yes. Yes it will." Sung saw the two men looking at him and he said at once, expansively, "If it wasn't for you, and your men... With your permission I'd like to call Mr. Richard Kwang now. I feel sure he would be honoured, as I would be, to make a modest contribution to your police benevolent fund as a token of our thanks."

"That's very thoughtful, but it's not necessary, Mr. Sung."

"But I will lose terrible face if you won't accept, Chief Inspector."

"You're very kind," Smyth said, knowing truly that without his presence in the bank and that of his men outside, Sung and the tellers and many others would be dead. "Thank you but that's not necessary." He accepted the cashier's checks and left.

Mr. Sung pleaded with the corporal who, at length, sent for his superior. Divisional Sergeant Mok declined also. "Twenty thousand times," he said.

But Mr. Sung insisted. Wisely. And Richard Kwang was equally delighted and equally honoured to approve the unsolicited gift .20,-000 HK. In immediate cash. "With the bank's great appreciation, Divisional Sergeant Mok."

"Thank you, Honourable Manager Sung," Mok said politely, pocketing it, pleased to be in the Snake's division and totally impressed that 20,000 was the exact fair market figure the Snake had considered their afternoon's work was worth. "I hope your great bank stays solvent and you weather this storm with your usual cleverness. Tomorrow will be orderly, of course. We will be here at nine A.M. promptly for our cash...."

The old amah still sat on the bench on the harbour wall, catching her breath. Her ribs hurt but then they always hurt, she thought wearily. Joss. Her name was Ah Tarn and she began to get up but a youth sauntered up to her and said, "Sit down, Old Woman, I want to talk to you." He was short and squat and twenty-one, his face pitted with smallpox scars. "What's in that bag?"

"What? What bag?"

"The paper bag you clutch to your stinking old rags."

"This? Nothing, Honoured Lord. It's just my poor shopping that—"

He sat on the bench beside her and leaned closer and hissed, "Shut up, Old Hag! I saw you come out of the fornicating bank. How much have you got there?"

The old woman held on to the bag desperately, her eyes closed in terror and she gasped, "It's all my savings, Hon—"

He pulled the bag out of her grasp and opened it. "Ayeeyah!" The notes were old and he counted them. "$323!" he said scornfully. "Who are you amah to—a beggar? You haven't been very clever in this life."

"Oh yes, you're right, Lord!" she said, her little black eyes watching him now.

"My h'eungyau's 20 percent," he said and began to count the notes.

"But Honoured Sir," she said, her voice whining now, "20 is too high, but I'd be honoured if you'd accept 5 with a poor old woman's thanks."

"15."

"10 and that's my final offer. I haven't got all day!"

"But sir, you are young and strong, clearly a 489. The strong must protect the old and weak."

"True, true." He thought a moment, wanting to be fair. "Very well, 7 percent."

"Oh how generous you are, sir. Thank you, thank you." Happily she watched him count 22 dollars, then reach into his jeans pocket and count out 61 cents. "Here." He gave her the change and the remainder of her money back.

She thanked him profusely, delighted with the bargain she had made. By all the gods, she thought ecstatically, 7 percent instead of, well, at least 15 would be fair. "Have you also money in the Ho-Pak, Honoured Lord?" she asked politely.

"Of course," the youth said importantly as though it were true. "My Brotherhood's account has been there for years. We have..." He doubled the amount he first thought of. "... we have over 25,000 in this branch alone."

"Eeeee," the old woman crooned. "To be so rich! The moment I saw you I knew you were 14K... and surely an Honourable 489."

"I'm better than that," the youth said proudly at once, filled with bravado. "I'm..." But he stopped, remembering their leader's admonition to be cautious, and so did not say, I'm Kin Sop-ming, Smallpox Kin, and I'm one of the famous Werewolves and there are four of us. "Run along, old woman," he said, tiring of her. "I've more important things to do than talk with you."

She got up and bowed and then her old eyes spotted the man who had been in the line in front of her. The man was Cantonese, like her. He was a rotund shopkeeper she knew who had a poultry street stall in one of Aberdeen's teeming marketplaces. "Yes," she said hoarsely, "but if you want another customer I see an easy one. He was in the queue before me. Over $8,000 he withdrew."

"Oh, where? Where is he?" the youth asked at once.

"For a 15 percent share?"

"7—and that's final .7!"

"All right .7. Look, over there!" she whispered. "The fat man, plump as a Mandarin, in the white shirt—the one who's sweating like he's just enjoyed the Clouds and the Rain!"

"Here, Old Woman," he said. "The fornicator had $8,162 .16 percent is..."

"$1305.92 and my 7 percent of that is $91.41," she said at once.

He paid her exactly and she agreed to come tomorrow to spot for him.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Ah Su, Lord," she said, giving a false name. "And yours?"

"Mo Wu-fang," he said, using a friend's name.

"Until tomorrow," she said happily. Thanking him again she waddled off, delighted with her day's profit.

His profit had been good too. Now he had over 3,000 in his pockets where this morning he had had only enough for the bus. And it was all windfall for he had come to Aberdeen from Glessing's Point to post another ransom note to Noble House Chen.