James clavell

He leaned back against the desk, his heart pounding, sickness in his throat, enraged at the temptation and sight of all that money. How easy it would be to take it and pay his debts and have more than enough over to gamble on the market and at the races, and then to leave Hong Kong before it was too late.

So easy. So much more easy to take than to resist—this time or all the other thousand times. There must be 30, 40,000 in that drawer alone. And if there's one drawer full there must be others and if I lean on this bastard he'll cough up ten times this amount.

Roughly he reached out and grabbed the man's hand. Again the man cried out. One fingertip was mashed and Armstrong thought Lo would lose a couple of fingernails and have plenty of pain but that was all. He was angry with himself that he had lost his temper but he was tired and knew it was not just tiredness. "What do you know about Tsu-yan?"

"Wat? Me? Nothing. Tsu-yan who?"

Armstrong grabbed him and shook him. "Tsu-yan! The gunrunner Tsu-yan!"

"Nothing, Lord!"

"Liar! The Tsu-yan who visits Mr. Ng next door!"

"Tsu-yan? Oh him? Gun-runner? I didn't know he's a gun-runner! I always thought he was a businessman. He's another Northerner like Photographer Ng—"

"Who?"

"Where's Tsu-yan now?"

"I don't know, Lord... oh my fornicating hand, oh oh oh.... I swear by all the gods I don't know him.... oh oh oh____"

Irritably Armstrong shoved him in a chair and jerked open the door. The three policemen and two secretaries stared at him silently. "Sergeant, take this bugger to HQ and charge him with trying to bribe a policeman. Look at this...." He beckoned him in and pointed at the drawer.

Sergeant Yat's eyes widened. "Dew neh loh moh!"

"Count it and get both men to sign the amount as correct and take it to HQ with them and turn it in."

"Yes sir."

"Corporal, you start going through the files. I'm going next door. I'll be back shortly."

"Yes sir."

Armstrong strode out. He knew that this money would be counted quickly, and any other money in the offices—if this drawer was full others would be—then the amount to be turned in would be quickly negotiated by the principals, Sergeant Yat and Lo and Tak, and the rest split among them. Lo and Tak would believe him to be in for a major share and his own men would consider him mad not to be. Never mind. He didn't care. The money was stolen, and Sergeant Yat and his men were all good policemen and their pay totally inadequate for their responsibilities. A little h'eung yau wouldn't do them any harm, it would be a godsend.

Won't it?

In China you have to be pragmatic, he told himself grimly as he knocked on the door of 721 and went in. A good-looking secretary looked up from her lunch—a bowl of pure white rice and slivers of roast pork and jet green broccoli steaming nicely.

"Afternoon." Armstrong flashed his ID card. "I'd like to see Mr. Vee Cee Ng, please."

"Sorry, sir," the girl said, her English good and her eyes blank. "He's out. Out for lunch."

"Where?"

"At his club, I think. He—he won't be back today until five."

"Which club?"

She told him. He had never heard of it but that meant nothing as there were hundreds of private Chinese lunching or dining or at mah-jong clubs.

"What's your name?"

"Virginia Tong. Sir," she added as an afterthought.

"Do you mind if I look around?" He saw her eyes flash nervously. "Here's my search warrant."

She took it and read it and he thought, full marks, young lady. "Do you think you could wait, wait till five o'clock?" she asked.

"I'll take a short look now."

She shrugged and got up and opened the inner office. It was small and empty but for untidy desks, phones, filing cabinets, shipping posters and sailing schedules. Two inner doors let off it and a back door. He opened one door on the 720 side but it was a dank, evil-smelling toilet and dirty washbasin. The back door was bolted. He slid the bolts back and went onto the dingy back-stairs landing that served as a makeshift fire escape and alternate means of exit. He rebolted it, watched all the time by Virginia Tong. The last door, on the far side, was locked.

"Would you open it please?"

"Mr. Vee Cee has the only key, sir."

She stared back at him so he shrugged and stood away from the door and readied to kick it in. Truly.

"Just... just a moment, sir," she stammered. "I... I'll see if there... if he left his key before he went out."

"Good. Thank you." Armstrong watched her open a desk drawer and pretend to search, then another drawer and another and then, sensing his impatience, she found a key under a money box. "Ah, here it is!" she said as though a miracle had happened. He noticed she was perspiring now. Good, he thought. She unlocked the door and stood back. This door opened directly onto another. Armstrong opened it and whistled involuntarily. The room beyond was large, luxurious, thick-carpeted with elegant suede leather sofas and rosewood furniture and fine paintings. He wandered in. Virginia Tong watched from the doorway. The fine antique rosewood, tooled leather desk was bare and clean and polished, a bowl of flowers on it, and some framed photographs, all of a beaming Chinese leading in a garlanded racehorse, and one of the same Chinese in dinner jacket shaking hands with the governor, Dunross nearby.

"That's Mr. Ng?"

"Yes sir."

Top-quality hi-fi and record player were to one side, and a tall cocktail cabinet. Another doorway let off this room. He pushed the half-opened door aside. An elegant, very feminine bedroom with a huge, unmade king-sized bed, mirror-lined ceiling and a decorator's bathroom off it, with perfumes, aftershave lotions, gleaming modern fittings and many buckets of water.

"Interesting," he said and looked at her.

She said nothing, just waited.

Armstrong saw that she had nylon-clad legs and was very trim with well-groomed nails and hair. I'll bet she's a dragon, and expensive. He turned away from her and looked around thoughtfully. Clearly this self-contained apartment had been made out of the adjoining suite. Well, he told himself with a touch of envy, if you're rich and you want a private, secret flat for an afternoon's nooky behind your office there's no law against that. None. And none against having an attractive secretary. Lucky bastard. I wouldn't mind having one of these places myself.

Absently he opened a desk drawer. It was empty. All the drawers were empty. Then he went through the bedroom drawers but found nothing of interest. One cupboard contained a fine camera and some portable lighting equipment and cleaning equipment but nothing suspicious.

He came back into the main room satisfied that he had missed nothing. She was still watching him, and though she tried to hide it, he could sense a nervousness.

That's understandable, he told himself. If I were her and my boss was out and some rotten quai loh came prying I'd be nervous too. No harm in having a private place like this. Lots of rich people have them in Hong Kong. His eye was caught by the rosewood cocktail cabinet. The key in the lock beckoned him. He opened it. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then his sharp, well-trained eyes noticed the untoward width of the doors. A moment's inspection and he opened the false doors. His mouth dropped open.

The side walls of the cabinet were covered with dozens of photographs of Jade Gates in all their glory. Each photograph was neatly framed and tagged with a typed name and a date. Involuntarily he let out a bellow of embarrassed laughter, then glanced around. Virginia Tong had vanished. Quickly he scanned the names. Hers was third from the last.

Another paroxysm of laughter was barely contained. The policeman shook his head helplessly. What some buggers'll do for fun—and I suppose some ladies for money! I thought I'd seen it all but this... Photographer Ng, eh? So that's where the nickname came from.

Now over his initial shock, he studied the photographs. Each of them had been taken with the same lens from the same distance.

Good God, he thought after a minute, astounded, there's really quite a lot of difference between... I mean if you can forget what you're looking at and just look, well, there's a fantastic amount of difference in the shape and size of the whole, the position and protuberance of the Pearl on the Step, the quality and quantity of pubicity and... ayeeyah there's one piece bat jam gai. He looked at the name. Mona Leung—now where have I heard that name before? That's curious—Chinese usually consider lack of pubicity unlucky. Now why... oh my God! He peered at the next name tag to make sure. There was no mistake. Venus Poon. Ayeeyah, he thought elatedly, so that's hers, that's what she really looks like, the darling of the telly who daily projects such sweet, virginal innocence so beautifully!

He concentrated on her, his senses bemused. I suppose if you compare hers with, say, say Virginia Tong's, well she does have a certain delicacy. Yes, but if you want my considered opinion I'd still rather have had the mystery and not seen these at all. None of them.

Idly his eyes went from name to name. "Bloody hell," he said, recognising one: Elizabeth Mithy. She was once a secretary at Struan's, one of the band of wanderers from the small towns in Australia and New Zealand, girls who aimlessly found their way to Hong Kong for a few weeks, to stay for months, perhaps years, to fill minor jobs until they married or vanished forever. I'll be damned. Liz Mithy!

Armstrong was trying to be dispassionate but he could not help comparing Caucasian with Chinese and he found no difference. Thank God for that, he told himself, and chuckled. Even so he was glad the photographs were black and white and not in colour.

"Well," he said out loud, still very embarrassed, "there's no law against taking photos that I know of, and sticking them in your own cabinet. The young ladies must've cooperated...." He grunted, amused and at the same time disgusted. Damned if I'll ever understand the Chinese! "Liz Mithy, eh?" he muttered. He had known her slightly when she was in the Colony, knew that she was quite wild, but what could have possessed her to pose for Ng? If her old man knew, he'd haemorrhage. Thank God we don't have children, Mary and I.

Be honest, you bleed for sons and daughters but you can't have them, at least Mary can't, so the doctors say—so you can't.

With an effort Armstrong buried that everlasting curse again and relocked the cabinet and walked out, closing the doors after him.

In the outer office Virginia Tong was polishing her nails, clearly furious.

"Can you get Mr. Ng on the phone, please?"

"No, not until four," she said sullenly without looking at him.

"Then please call Mr. Tsu-yan instead," Armstrong told her, stabbing in the dark.

Without looking up the number, she dialled, waited impatiently, chatted gutturally for a moment in Cantonese and slammed the phone down. "He's away. He's out of town and his office doesn't know where he is."

"When did you last see him?"

"Three or four days ago." Irritably she opened her appointments calendar and checked it. "It was Friday."

"Can I look at that please?"

She hesitated, shrugged and passed it over, then went back to polishing her nails.

Quickly he scanned the weeks and the months. Lots of names he knew: Richard Kwang, Jason Plumm, Dunross—Dunross several times—Thomas K. K. Lim—the mysterious American Chinese from next door—Johnjohn from the Victoria Bank, Donald McBride, Mata several times. Now who's Mata? he asked himself, never having heard the name before. He was about to give the calendar back to her then he flipped forward. "Saturday 10:00 A.M.—V. Banastasio." His heart twisted. This coming Saturday.

He said nothing, just put the appointment calendar back on her desk, and leaned back against one of the files, lost in thought. She paid no attention to him. The door opened.

"Excuse me, sir, phone for you!" Sergeant Yat said. He was looking much happier so Armstrong knew the negotiation must have been fruitful. He would have liked to know how much, exactly, but then, face would be involved and he would have to take action, one way or another.

"All right, Sergeant, stay here till I get back," he said, wanting to make sure no secret phone calls were made. Virginia Tong did not look up as he left.

In the other office Bucktooth Lo was still moaning, nursing his hand, and the other man, Big Hands Tak, was pretending to be nonchalant, going through some papers, loudly berating his secretary for her inefficiency. As he came in both men started loudly protesting their continued innocence and Lo groaned with increasing vigour.

"Quiet! Why did you jam your fingers in the drawer?" Armstrong asked and added without waiting for a reply, "People who try to bribe honest policemen deserve to be deported at once." In the aghast silence he picked up the phone. "Armstrong."

"Hello, Robert, this is Don, Don Smyth at East Aberdeen..."

"Oh, hello!" Armstrong was startled, not expecting to hear from the Snake, but he kept his voice polite though he loathed him and loathed what he was suspected of doing within his jurisdiction. It was one thing for constables and the lower ranks of Chinese police to supplement their income from illicit gambling. It was another for a British officer to sell influence, and to squeeze like an old-fashioned Mandarin. But though almost everyone believed Smyth was on the make, there was no proof, he had never been caught, and had never been investigated. Rumour had it that he was protected by certain VIP individuals who were deeply involved with him as well as in their own graft. "What's up?" he asked.

"Had a bit of luck. I think. You're heading up the John Chen kidnapping, aren't you?"

"That's right." Armstrong's interest soared. Smyth's graft had nothing to do with the quality of his police work—East Aberdeen had the lowest crime rate in the Colony. "Yes. What've you got?"

Smyth told him about the old amah and what had happened with Sergeant Mok and Spectacles Wu, then added, "He's a bright young chap, that, Robert. I'd recommend him for SI if you want to pass it on. Wu followed the old bird back to her fairly filthy lair, then called us. He obeys orders too, which is rare these days. On a hunch I told him to wait around and if she came out, to follow her. What do you think?"

"A twenty-four-carat lead!"

"What's your pleasure? Wait, or pull her in for real questioning?"

"Wait. I'll bet the Werewolf never comes back but it's worth waiting until tomorrow. Keep the place under surveillance and keep me posted."

"Good. Oh very good!"

Armstrong heard Smyth chortle down the phone and he could not think why he was so happy. Then he remembered the huge reward that the High Dragons had offered. "How's your arm?"

"It's my shoulder. Bloody thing's dislocated and I lost my favourite sodding hat. Apart from that everything's fine. Sergeant Mok's going through all our mug shots now and I've got one of my lads doing an Identi-Kit on him—I think I even saw the sod myself. His face is quite pockmarked. If we've got him on file we'll have him nailed by sundown."

"Excellent. How's it going down there?"

"Everything under control but it's bad. The Ho-Pak's still paying out but too slowly—everyone knows they're stalling. I hear it's the same all over the Colony. They're finished, Robert. The queue'll go on till every last cent's out. There's another run on the Vic here and no letup in the crowds...."

Armstrong gasped. "The Vic?"

"Yes, they're handing out cash by the bagful and taking nothing in. Triads are swarming... the pickings must be huge. We arrested eight pickpockets and busted up twenty-odd fights. I'd say it's very bad."

"Surely the Vic's okay?"

"Not in Aberdeen it isn't, old lad. Me, I'm liquid. I've closed all my accounts. I took every cent out. I'm all right. If I were you I'd do the same."

Armstrong felt queasy. His life's savings were in the Victoria. "The Vic's got to be all right. All the government funds're in it."

"Right you are. But nothing in their constitution says your money's protected too. Well, I've got to get back to work."

"Yes. Thanks for the info. Sorry about your shoulder."

"I thought I was going to have my bloody head bashed in. The sods'd just started the old 'kill the quai loh' bit. I thought I was a goner."

Armstrong shivered in spite of himself. Ever since the '56 riots it was a recurring nightmare of his that he was back in that insane, screaming mob again. It was in Kowloon. The mob had just overturned the car with the Swiss consul and his wife in it and set it afire. He and other policemen had charged through the mob to rescue them. When they got to the car the man was already dead and the young wife afire. By the time they'd dragged her out, all her clothes had burned off her and her skin came away like a pelt. And all around, men, women and young people were raving, "Kill the quai loh...” He shivered again, his nostrils still smelling burned flesh. "Christ, what a bastard!"

"Yes but all in the day's work. I'll keep you posted. If that bloody Werewolf comes back to Aberdeen he'll be in a net tighter than a gnat's arsehole."
30
2:20 PM
Phillip Chen stopped flipping through his mail, his face suddenly ashen. The envelope was marked, "Mr. Phillip Chen to open personally."

"What is it?" his wife asked.

"It's from them." Shakily he showed it to her. "The Werewolves."

"Oh!" They were at their lunch table that was set haphazardly in a corner of the living room of the house far up on the crest of Struan's Lookout. Nervously she put down her coffee cup. "Open it, Phillip. But, but better use your handkerchief in... in case of fingerprints," she added uneasily.

"Yes, yes of course, Dianne, how stupid of me!" Phillip Chen was looking very old. His coat was over his chair and his shirt damp. There was a slight breeze from the open window behind him but it was hot and humid and a brooding afternoon haze had settled over the Island. Carefully he used an ivory paper knife and unfolded the paper. "Yes, it's... it's from the Werewolves. It's... it's about the ransom."

"Read it out."

"All right: 'To Phillip Chen, compradore of the Noble House, greetings. I beg to inform you now how the ransom money is to be paid .500,000 to you is as meaningless as a pig's scream in a slaughterhouse but to us poor farmers would be a heritage for our star—'"

"Liars!" Dianne hissed, her lovely gold and jade necklace glittering in a shaft of muted sunlight. "As if farmers would kidnap John or mutilate him like that. Dirty stinky foreign triads! Go on, Phil-lip."

" '... would be a heritage for our starving grandchildren. That you have already consulted the police is to us like pissing in the ocean. But now you will not consult. No. Now you will keep secret or the safety of your son will be endangered and he will not return and everything bad will be your own fault. Beware, our eyes are everywhere. If you try to betray us, the worst will happen and everything will be your own fault. Tonight at six o'clock I will phone you. Tell no one, not even your wife. Meanw—' "

"Dirty triads! Dirty whores' sons to try to spread trouble between husband and wife," Dianne said angrily.

" '... meanwhile prepare the ransom money in used 100-dollar notes....'" Irritably Phillip Chen glanced at his watch. "I don't have much time to get to the bank. I'll have—"

"Finish the letter!"

"All right, be patient, my dear," he said placatingly, his overtaxed heart skipping a beat as he recognised the edge to her voice. "Where was I? Ah yes,'... notes. If you obey my instructions faithfully, you may have your son back tonight...." Oh God I hope so," he said, breaking off momentarily, then continued, " 'Do not consult the police or try to trap us. Our eyes are watching you even now. Written by the Werewolf.' " He took off his glasses. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired. Sweat was on his brow. " 'Watching you even now'? Could one of the servants... or the chauffeur be in their pay?"

"No, no of course not. They've all been with us for years."

He wiped the sweat off, feeling dreadful, wanting John back, wanting him safe, wanting to strangle him. "That means nothing. I'd... I'd better call the police."

"Forget them! Forget them until we know what you have to do. Go to the bank. Get 200,000 only—you should be able to settle for that. If you get more you might be tempted to give it all to them if tonight... if they really mean what they say."

"Yes... very wise. If we could settle for that..." He hesitated. "What about the tai-pan? Do you think I should tell the tai-pan, Dianne? He, he might be able to help."

"Huh!" she said scornfully. "What help can he give us? We're dealing with dog-bone triads not foreign devil crooks. If we need help we have to stay with our own." Her eyes began boring into him. "And now you'd better tell me what's really the matter, why you were so angry the night before last and why you've been like a spiteful cat with a thorn in its rump ever since and not attending to business!"

"I've been attending to business," he said defensively. "How many shares have you bought? Eh? Struan shares? Have you taken advantage of what the tai-pan told us about the coming boom? Do you remember what Old Blind Tung forecast?"

"Of course, of course I remember!" he stuttered. "I've, I've secretly doubled our holdings and have equally secret orders out with various brokers for half as much again."

Dianne Chen's abacus mind glowed at the thought of that vast profit, and all the private profit she would be making on all the shares she had bought on her own behalf, pledging her entire portfolio. But she kept her face cold and her voice icy. "And how much did you pay?"

"They averaged out at 28.90."

"Huh! According to today's paper Noble House opened at 28.-80," she said with a disapproving sniff, furious that he had paid five cents less a share than she had. "You should have been at the market this morning instead of moping around here, sleeping your life away."

"I wasn't feeling very well, dear."

"It all goes back to the night before last. What sent you into that unbelievable rage? Heya?"

"It was nothing." He got up, hoping to flee. "Noth—"

"Sit down! Nothing that you shouted at me, me your faithful wife in front of the servants? Nothing that I was ordered into my own dining room like a common whore? Heya?" Her voice began rising and she let herself go, knowing instinctively that this was the perfect time, now that they were alone in the house, knowing that he was defenceless and she could press her advantage. "You think it's nothing that you abuse me, me who has given you the best years of her life, working and slaving and guarding you for twenty-three years? Me, Dianne Mai-wei T'Chung who has the blood of the great Dirk Struan in her veins, who came to you virgin, with property in Wanchai, North Point and even on Lan Tao, with stocks and shares and the best schooling in England? Me who never complains about your snoring and whoring or about the brat you sired out of that dance-hall girl you've sent to school in America!"

"Eh?"

Phillip Chen was trying to close his ears but he could not. His heart was pounding. He hated rows and hated the shriek to her voice that, somehow, was perfectly tuned to set his teeth on edge, his brain oscillating and his bowels in turmoil. He tried to interrupt her but she overrode him, battering him, accusing him of all sorts of dalliances and mistakes and private matters that he was shocked she knew about.