"I was there," the youth choked out, "I was going to tell you, Lord, I was, there. I won't lie to you I swear it!"
"The next time you lie it will be your left eye. You were there, heya?"
"Yes... yes, Lord!"
"Was he there?" he said pointing at Smallpox Kin.
"No, Lord."
"Him?"
"Yes. Dog-eared was there!"
"Did you search the body?"
"Yes, Lord, yes I helped our father."
"All his pockets, everything?"
"Yes yes everything."
"Any papers? Notebook, diary? Jewellery?"
The youth hesitated, frantic, trying to think, the knife never moving away from his face. "Nothing, Lord, that I remember. We sent all his things to Noble House Chen, except, except the money. We kept the money. And his watch—I'd forgotten his watch! It's, it's that one!" He pointed at the watch on his father's outstretched wrist.
Goodweather Poon swore again. Four Finger Wu had told him to recapture John Chen, to get any of his possessions the kidnappers still had, particularly any coins or parts of coins, and then, equally anonymously, to dispose of the kidnappers. I'd better phone him in a moment, he thought. I'd better get further instructions. I don't want to make a mistake.
"What did you do with the money?"
"We spent it, Lord. There were only a few hundred dollars and some change. It's gone."
One of the men said, "I think he's lying!"
"I'm not, Lord, I swear it!" Kin Pak almost burst into tears. "I'm not. PI—"
"Shut up! Shall I cut this one's throat?" the man said genially, motioning at Smallpox Kin who was still unconscious, sprawled across the table, the pool of blood thickening.
"No, no, not yet. Hold him there." Goodweather Poon scratched his piles while he thought a moment. "We'll go and dig up Number One Son Chen. Yes that's what we'll do. Now, Little Turd, who killed him?"
At once Kin Pak pointed at his father's body. "He did. It was terrible. He's our father and he hit him with a shovel... he hit him with a shovel when he tried to escape the night... the night we got him." The youth shuddered, his face chalky, his fear of the knife under his eye consuming him. "It, it wasn't my fault, Lord."
"What's your name?"
"Soo Tak-gai, Lord," he said instantly, using their prearranged emergency names.
"Him?" The finger pointed at his brother.
"Soo Tak-tong."
"Him?"
"Wu-tip Sup."
"And him?"
The youth looked at his father's body. "He was Goldtooth Soo, Lord. He was very bad but we... we, we had to obey. We had to obey him, he was our, our father."
"Where did you take Number One Son Chen before you killed him?"
"To Sha Tin, Lord, but I didn't kill him. We snatched him Hong Kong side then put him in the back of a car we stole and went to Sha Tin. There's an old shack our father rented, just outside the village... he planned everything. We had to obey him."
Poon grunted and nodded at his men. "We'll search here first." At once they released Smallpox Kin, the unconscious youth who slumped to the floor, leaving a trail of blood. "You, bind up his finger!" Hastily Kin Pak grabbed an old dishcloth and, near vomiting, began to tie a rough tourniquet around the stump.
Poon sighed, not knowing what to do first. After a moment he opened the suitcase. All their eyes went to the mountain of notes. They all felt the greed. Poon shifted the knife into his other hand and closed the suitcase. He left it in the centre of the table and started to search the dingy apartment. There was just a table, a few chairs and an old iron bedstead with a soiled mattress. Paper was peeling off the walls, the windows mostly boarded up and glassless. He turned the mattress over, then searched it but it concealed nothing. He went into the filthy, almost empty kitchen and switched on the light. Then into the foul-smelling toilet. Smallpox Kin whimpered, coming around.
In a drawer Ooodweather Poon found some papers, ink and writing brushes. "What's this for?" he asked, holding up one of the papers. On it was written in bold characters: "This Number One Son Chen had the stupidity to try to escape us. No one can escape the Werewolves! Let all Hong Kong beware. Our eyes are everywhere!"
"What's this for, heya?"
Kin Pak looked up from the floor, desperate to please. "We couldn't return him alive to Noble House Chen so our father ordered that... that tonight we were to dig Number One Son up and put that on his chest and put him beside the Sha Tin Road."
Goodweather Poon looked at him. "When you start to dig you'd better find him quickly, the first time," he said malevolently. "Yes. Or your eyes, Little Turd, won't be anywhere."
9:30 PM
Orlanda Ramos came up the wide staircase of the vast Floating Dragon restaurant at Aberdeen and moved through the noisy, chattering guests at Sir Shi-teh T'Chung's banquet looking for Linc Bartlett—and Casey.
The two hours that she had spent with Linc this morning for the newspaper interview had been revealing, particularly about Casey. Her instincts had told her the sooner she brought the enemy to battle the better. It had been easy to have them both invited tonight—Shi-teh was an old associate of Gornt and an old friend. Gornt had been pleased with her idea.
They were on the top deck. There was a nice smell of the sea coming through the large windows, the night good though humid, overcast, and all around were the lights of the high rises and the township of Aberdeen. Out in the harbour, nearby, were the brooding islands of junks, partially lit, where 150,000 boat people lived their lives.
The room they were in, scarlet and gold and green, stretched half the length and the whole breadth of the boat, off the central staircase. Ornate wood and plaster gargoyles and unicorns and dragons were everywhere throughout the three soaring decks of the restaurant ablaze with lights and packed with diners. Below decks, the cramped kitchens held twenty-eight cooks, an army of helpers, a dozen huge cauldrons—steam, sweat and smoke. Eighty-two waiters serviced the Floating Dragon. There were seats for four hundred on each of the first two decks and two hundred on the third. Sir Shi-teh had taken over the whole top deck and now it was well filled with his guests, standing in impatient groups amid the round tables that seated twelve.
Orlanda felt fine tonight and very confident. She had again dressed meticulously for Bartlett. This morning when she had had the interview with him she had worn casual American clothes and little makeup, and the loose, silk blouse that she had selected so carefully did not flaunt her bralessness, merely suggested it. This daring new fashion pleased her greatly, making her even more aware of her femininity. Tonight she wore delicate white silk. She knew her figure was perfect, that she was envied for her open, unconscious sensuality.
That's what Quillan did for me, she thought, her lovely head high and the curious half-smile lighting her face—one of the many things. He made me understand sensuality.
Havergill and his wife were in front of her and she saw their eyes on her breasts. She laughed to herself, well aware that, even discreetly, she would be the only woman in the room who had dared to be so modern, to emulate the fashion that had begun the year before in Swinging London.
"Evening, Mr. Havergill, Mrs. Havergill," she said politely, moving around them in the crush. She knew him well. Many times he had been invited onto Gornt's yacht. Sometimes Gornt's yacht would steam out from the Yacht Club, Hong Kong side, with just her and Quillan and his men friends aboard and go over to Kowloon, to the sea-washed steps beside the Golden Ferry where the girls would be waiting, dressed in sun clothes or boating clothes.
In her early days with Quillan she too had had to wait Kowloon side, honouring the golden rule in the Colony that discretion was all important and when you live Hong Kong side you play Kowloon side, live Kowloon side, play Hong Kong side.
In the days when Quillan's wife was bedridden and Orlanda was openly, though still most discreetly, Quillan's mistress, Quillan would take her with him to Japan and Singapore and Taiwan but never Bangkok. In those days Paul Havergill was Paul or more likely, Horny—Horny Hav-a-girl, as he was known to most of his intimates. But even then, whenever she would meet him in public, like tonight, it would always be Mr. Havergill. He's not a bad man, she told herself, remembering that though most of his girls never liked him, they fawned on him for he was reasonably generous and could always arrange a sudden loan at low interest for a friend through one of his banking associates, but never at the Vic.
Wise, she thought, amused, and a matter of face. Ah, but I could write such a book about them all if I wanted to. I never will—I don't think I ever will. Why should I, there's no reason. Even after Macao I've always kept the secrets. That's another thing Quillan taught me—discretion.
Macao. What a waste! I can hardly remember what that young man looked like now, only that he was awful at the pillow and, because of him, my life was destroyed. The fool was only a sudden, passing fancy, the very first. It was only loneliness because Quillan was away a month and everyone away, and it was lust for youth—just the youth-filled body that had attracted me and proved to be so useless. Fool! What a fool I was!
Her heart began fluttering at the thought of all those nightmares: being caught, being sent to England, having to fight the youth off, desperate to please Quillan, then coming back and Quillan so cool and never pillowing with him again. And then the greater nightmare of adjusting to a life without him.
Terrifying days. That awful unquenchable desire. Being alone. Being excluded. All the tears and the misery then trying to begin again but cautiously, always hoping he would relent if I was patient. Never anyone in Hong Kong, always alone in Hong Kong, but when the urge was too much, going away and trying but never satisfied. Oh Quillan, what a lover you were!
Not long ago his wife had died and then, when the time was right, Orlanda had gone to see him. To seduce him back to her. That night she had thought that she had succeeded but he had only been toying with her. "Put your clothes on, Orlanda. I was just curious about your body, I wanted to see if it was still as exquisite as it was in my day. I'm delighted to tell you it is—you're still perfection. But, so sorry, I don't desire you." And all her frantic weepings and pleadings made no difference. He just listened and smoked a cigarette then stubbed it out. "Orlanda, please don't ever come here again uninvited," he had said so quietly. "You chose Macao."
And he was right, I did, I took his face away. Why does he still support me? she asked herself, her eyes wandering the guests, seeking Bartlett. Do you have to lose something before you find its true value? Is that what life is?
"Orlanda!"
She stopped, startled, as someone stepped in her way. Her eyes focused. It was Richard Hamilton Pugmire. He was slightly shorter than she was. "May I introduce Charles Biltzmann from America," he was saying with a leer, his nearness making her skin crawl. "Charles's going to be, the, er, the new tai-pan of General Stores. Chuck, this's Orlanda Ramos!"
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am!"
"How are you?" she said politely, instantly disliking him. "I'm sorry—"
"Call me Chuck. It's Orlanda? Say, that's a mighty pretty name, mighty pretty dress!" Biltzmann produced his visiting card with a flourish. "Old Chinese custom!"
She accepted it but did not reciprocate. "Thank you. Sorry, Mr. Biltzmann, would you excuse me? I have to join my friends an—" Before she could prevent it, Pugmire took her arm, led her aside a pace and whispered throatily, "How about dinner? You look fantas—”
She jerked her arm away trying not to be obvious. "Go away, Pug."
"Listen, Orlan—"
"I've told you politely fifty times to leave me alone! Now dew neh loh moh on you and all your line!" she said and Pugmire flushed. She had always detested him, even in the old days. He was always looking at her behind Quillan's back, leching, and when she had been discarded, Pugmire had pestered her and tried every way to get her into bed—still did. "If you ever call or talk to me again I'll tell all Hong Kong about you and your peculiar habits." She nodded politely to Biltzmann, let his card drop unnoticed and walked off. After a moment, Pugmire went back to the American.
"What a body!" Biltzmann said, his eyes still following her.
"She's—she's one of our well-known whores," Pugmire said with a sneer.
"I wish to Christ they'd hurry up with the food. I'm starving."
"She's a tramp?" Biltzmann gaped at him.
"You can never tell here." Pugmire added, keeping his voice down, "I'm surprised Shitee T'Chung invited her. Still, I don't suppose he gives a shit now that his knighthood's dubbed and paid for. Years ago, Orlanda used to be a girlfriend of a friend but she was up to her old tricks of selling it on the side. He caught her at it and gave her the Big E."
"The Big E?"
"The Elbow—the shove."
Biltzmann could not take his eyes off her. "Jesus," he muttered, "I don't know about the Big E but I'd sure as hell like to give her the Big One."
"That's just a matter of money but I can assure you, old chap, she's not worth it. Orlanda's dreadful in the sack, I know, and nowadays you can never tell who's been there before, eh?" Pugmire laughed at the American's expression. "Never fancied her myself after the first time, but if you dip your wick there you'd better use precautions."
Dunross had just arrived and he was listening with half an ear to Richard Kwang who was talking grandly about the deals he had made to stave off the run, and how foul certain people were to spread such rumours.
"I quite agree, Richard," Dunross said, wanting to join the visiting MPs, who were at the far end of the room. "There really are a lot of bastards around. If you'll excuse me..."
"Of course, tai-pan." Richard Kwang dropped his voice but could not prevent some of his anxiety showing. "I might need a hand."
"Anything, of course, except money."
"You could talk to Johnjohn at the Vic for me. He'd—"
"He won't, you know that, Richard. Your only chance is one of your Chinese friends. What about Smiler Ching?"
"Huh, that old crook—wouldn't ask him for any of his dirty money!" Richard Kwang said with a sneer. Smiler Ching had reneged on their deal and had refused to lend him money—or credit. "That old crook deserves prison! There's a run on him too, but that's what he deserves! I think it's all started by the Communists, they're trying to ruin us all. The Bank of China! Did you hear about the queues at the Vic in Central? There're more at Blacs. Old Big Belly Tok's Bank of East Asia and Japan's gone under. They won't open their doors tomorrow."
"Christ, are you sure?"
"He called me tonight asking for 20 million. Dew neh loh moh, tai-pan, unless we all get help Hong Kong's going under. We've..." Then he saw Venus Poon in the doorway on the arm of Four Finger Wu and his heart skipped eight beats. This evening she had been furious when he did not arrive with the mink coat that he had promised her. She had wept and shouted and her amah had wailed and they would not accept his excuse that his furrier had let him down and they both had gone on and on until he promised without fail that before the races he would bring her the gift that he had promised.
"Are you taking me to Shi-ten's?"
"My wife changed her mind and now she's going, so I can't, but afterwards we'll go—"
"Afterwards I'll be tired! First no present and now I can't go to the party! Where's the aquamarine pendant you promised me last month? Where did my mink go? On your wife's back I'll bet! Ayeeyah, my hairdresser and her hairdresser are friends so I'll find out if it did. Oh woe woe woe you don't really love your Daughter anymore. I'll have to kill myself or accept Four Finger Wu's invitation."
"Wat?"
Richard Kwang remembered how he had almost had a haemorrhage then and there, and he had ranted and raved and screamed that her apartment cost him a fortune and her clothes cost thousands a week and she had ranted and raved and screamed back. "And what about the run on the bank? Are you solvent? What about my savings? Are they safe heya?"
"Ayeeyah you miserable whore, what savings? The savings I am going to put there for you? Huh! Of course they're safe, safe as the Bank of England!"
"Woe woe woe I'm penniless now. Your poor destitute Daughter! I'll have to sell myself or commit suicide. Yes, that's it! Poison... that's it! I think I'll take an overdose of... of aspirins. Ah Poo! Bring me an overdose of aspirins!"
So he had begged and pleaded and eventually she had relented and allowed him to take away the aspirins and he had promised to rush back to the apartment the very moment the banquet was over and now his eyes were almost staring out of his head because there, at the doorway, was Venus Poon on the arm of Four Finger Wu, both resplendent, he puffed with pride, and she demure and innocent, wearing the dress he'd just paid for.
"What's up, Richard?" Dunross asked, concerned.
Richard Kwang tried to speak, couldn't, just tottered away toward his wife who tore her baleful eyes off Venus Poon and put them back on him.
"Hello, dear," he said, his backbone jelly.
"Hello, dear," Mai-ling Kwang replied sweetly. "Who's that whore?"
"Which one?"
"That one."
"Isn't that the... what's her name... the TV starlet?"
"Isn't her name Itch-in-her-drawers Poon, the VD starlet?"
He pretended to laugh with her but he wanted to tear all his hair out. The fact that his latest mistress had come with someone else would not be lost on all Hong Kong. Everyone would interpret it as an infallible sign that he was in absolute financial trouble and that she had, wisely, left the sinking junk for a safer haven. And coming with his uncle, Four Finger Wu, was even worse. That would confirm that all Wu's wealth had been removed from the Ho-Pak, and therefore most probably Lando Mata and the gold syndicate had done the same. All the civilised population that counted were sure that Wu was the syndicate's prime smuggler now that Smuggler Mo was dead. Woe woe woe! Troubles never come singly.
"Eh?" he asked wearily. "What did you say?"
"I said, is the tai-pan going to approach the Victoria for us?"
He switched into Cantonese as Europeans were nearby. "Regretfully that son of a whore's in trouble himself. No, he won't help us. We're in great trouble which is not our fault. The day has been terrible, except for one thing: we made a fine profit today. I sold all our Noble House stock."
"Excellent. At what price?"
"We made 2.70 a share. It's all in gold now in Zurich. I'm putting it all in our joint account," he added carefully, twisting the truth, all the while trying to figure out a ploy to get his wife out of the room so he could go over to Four Finger Wu and Venus Poon to pretend to everyone that everything was fine.
"Good. Very good. That's better." Mai-ling was toying with her huge aquamarine pendant. Suddenly Richard Kwang's testicles chilled. This was the pendant he had promised Venus Poon. Oh woe woe woe...
"Are you feeling all right?" Mai-ling asked.
"I, er, I must have eaten some bad fish. I think I need to go to the bathroom."
"You'd better go now. I suppose we'll eat soon. Shitee's always so late!" She noticed him take a nervous sidelong look at Venus Poon and Uncle Wu and her eyes turned baleful again. "That whore's really quite fascinating. I'm going to watch her until you get back."
"Why don't we go together?" He took her arm and guided her down the stairs to the door that led to the bathrooms, greeting friends here and there, trying to exude confidence. The moment she was launched into the ladies' room he rushed back up, walked over to Zeppelin Tung who was near them. He chatted a moment, then pretended to see Four Fingers. "Oh hello, Honoured Uncle," he said expansively. "Thank you for bringing her here. Hello, little oily mouth."
"What?" the old man said suspiciously. "I brought her for me not for you."
"Yes, and don't you oily mouth me," Venus Poon hissed and deliberately took the old man's arm and Richard Kwang almost spat blood. "I talked to my hairdresser tonight! My mink on her back! And isn't that my aquamarine pendant too, the one she's wearing right now! To think I almost committed suicide tonight because I thought I'd displeased my Honoured Father... and all the time it was lies lies lies. Oh I almost want to commit suicide again."
"Eh, don't do that yet, Little Mealy Mouth," Four Finger Wu whispered anxiously, having already negotiated a deal in excess of Smiler Ching's offer. "Go away, Nephew, you're giving her indigestion. She won't be able to perform!"
Richard Kwang forced a glazed smile, muttered a few pleasantries and went off shakily. He headed for the staircase to wait for his wife, and someone said, "I see a certain filly's left the paddock for more manured grass!"
"What nonsense!" he replied at once. "Of course I asked the old fool to bring her since my wife is here. Why else would she be with him? Is that old fool hung like a bullock? Or even a bantam cock? No. Ayeeyah, not even Venus Poon with all the technique I taught her can get up what has no thread! It's good for his face to pretend otherwise, heya? Of course, and she wanted to see her Old Father and to be seen too!"
"Eeeee, that's clever, Banker Kwang!" the man said, and turned away and whispered it to another, who said caustically, "Huh, you'd swallow a bucket of shit if someone said it was stewed beef with black bean sauce! Don't you know old Four Fingers's Stalk's nurtured by the most expensive salves and ointments and ginseng that money can buy? Why only last month his Number Six Concubine gave birth to a son! Eeeee, don't worry about him. Before he's through tonight, Venus Poon's in for a drubbing that'll make her Golden Gulley cry out for mercy in eight dialects...."
"Are you staying for dinner, tai-pan?" Brian Kwok asked, intercepting him. "When and if it arrives."
"Yes. Why?"
"Sorry I've got to go back to work. But there'll be someone else to chaperone you home."
"For God's sake, Brian, aren't you overreacting?" Dunross said as quietly.
Brian Kwok kept his voice down. "I don't think so. I've just phoned Crosse to see what happened about those two loiterers outside your house. The moment our fellows arrived they took to their heels."
"Perhaps they were just thugs who don't like police."
Brian Kwok shook his head. "Crosse asked again that you give us the AMG papers right now."
"Friday."
"He told me to tell you there's a Soviet spy ship in port. There's already been one killing—one of their agents, knifed."
Dunross was shocked. "What's that got to do with me?"
"You know that better than we do. You know what's in those reports. Must be quite serious or you wouldn't be so difficult—or careful—yourself. Crosse said... Never mind him! Ian, look, we're old friends. I'm really very worried." Brian Kwok switched to Cantonese. "Even the wise can fall into thorns—poisoned thorns."
"In two days the police Mandarin arrives. Two days is not long."
"True. But in two days the spy may hurt us very much. Why tempt the gods? It is my ask."
"No. Sorry."
Brian Kwok hardened. In English he said, "Our American friends have asked us to take you into protective custody."
"What nonsense!"
"Not such nonsense, Ian. It's very well known you've a photographic memory. The sooner you turn the papers over the better. Even afterwards you should be careful. Why not tell me where they are and we'll take care of everything?"
Dunross was equally set-faced. "Everything's taken care of now, Brian. Everything stays as planned."
The tall Chinese sighed. Then he shrugged. "Very well. Sorry, but don't say you weren't warned. Are Gavallan and Jacques staying for dinner too?"
"No, I don't think so. I asked them just to put in an appearance. Why?"
"They could've gone home with you. Please don't go anywhere alone for a while, don't try to lose your guard. For the time being, if you have any, er, private dates call me."
"Me, a private date? Here in Hong Kong? Really, what a suggestion!"
"Does the name Jen mean anything?"
Dunross's eyes became stony. "You buggers can be too nosy."
"And you don't seem to realise you're in a very dirty game without Queensberry rules."
"I've got that message, by God."
"'Night, tai-pan."
'"Night, Brian." Dunross went over to the MPs who were in a group in one corner talking with Jacques deVille. There were only four of them now, the rest were resting after their long journey. Jacques deVille introduced him. Sir Charles Pennyworth, Conservative; Hugh Guthrie, Liberal; Julian Broadhurst and Robin Grey, both Labour. "Hello, Robin," he said.
"Hello, Ian. It's been a long time."
"Yes."
"If you'll excuse me, I'll be off," deVille said, his face careworn. "My wife's away and we've a young grandchild staying with us."
"Did you talk to Susanne in France?" Dunross asked.
"Yes, tai-pan. She's... she'll be all right. Thank you for calling Deland. See you tomorrow. Good night, gentlemen." He walked off.
Dunross glanced back at Robin Grey. "You haven't changed at all."
"Nor have you," Grey said, then turned to Pennyworth. "Ian and I met in London some years ago, Sir Charles. It was just after the war. I'd just become a shop steward." He was a lean man with thin lips, thin greying hair and sharp features.
"Yes, it was some years ago," Dunross said politely, continuing the pattern that Penelope and her brother had agreed to so many years ago—that neither side was blood kin to the other. "So, Robin, are you staying long?"
"Just a few days," Grey said. His smile was as thin as his lips. "I've never been in this workers' paradise before so I want to visit a few unions, see how the other ninety-nine percent live."
Sir Charles Pennyworth, leader of the delegation, laughed. He was a florid, well-covered man, an ex-colonel of the London Scottish Regiment, D. S. O. and Bar. "Don't think they go much on unions here, Robin. Do they, tai-pan?"
"Our labour force does very well without them," Dunross said.
"Sweated labour, tai-pan," Grey said at once. "According to some of your own statistics, government statistics."
"Not our statistics, Robin, merely your statisticians," Dunross said. "Our people are the highest paid in Asia after the Japanese and this is a free society."
"Free? Come off it!" Grey jeered. "You mean free to exploit the workers. Well, never mind, when Labour gets in at the next election we'll change all that."
"Come now, Robin," Sir Charles said. "Labour hasn't a prayer at the next election."
Grey smiled. "Don't bet on it, Sir Charles. The people of England want change. We didn't all go to war to keep up the rotten old ways. Labour's for social change—and getting the workers a fair share of the profits they create."
Dunross said, "I've always thought it rather unfair that Socialists talk about the 'workers' as though they do all the work and we do none. We're workers too. We work as hard if not harder with longer hours an—"
Дата добавления: 2015-11-04; просмотров: 28 | Нарушение авторских прав
| <== предыдущая лекция | | | следующая лекция ==> |