"Yes.20 cents on the dollar. He agreed to and signed the provisional papers. Formal papers by the end of the week. Of course the rotter tried to wheedle but it's all signed."
"Marvellous. You did a terrific deal."
Havergill nodded. "Yes. Yes, I know."
Richard Kwang turned around. "Ah, tai-pan." He dropped his voice and whispered, "Has Paul told you about the merger?"
"Of course. May I offer congratulations."
"Congratulations?" Southerby echoed, coming up to them. "Damned bad luck if you ask me! I had my bundle on Butterscotch Lass!"
The tempo of the room picked up as the governor came in. Havergill went to meet him, Dunross following. "Ah, Paul, Ian. Damned bad luck but an excellent decision! Both of them." His face hardened nicely. "Next Saturday will certainly be a needle match."
"Yes sir."
"Paul, you wanted to make a formal announcement?"
"Yes sir." Havergill raised his voice. "May I have your attention please..." No one took any notice until Dunross took a spoon and banged it against a teapot. Gradually there was silence. "Your Excellency, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to announce, on behalf of the directors of the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong and China, that an immediate merger has been arranged with the great Ho-Pak Bank of Hong Kong..." Martin Haply dropped his glass. "... and that the Victoria totally guarantees 100 percent of all Ho-Pak depositors and..."
The rest was drowned out with a great cheer. Guests in the nearby boxes craned over the balconies to see what was happening. The news was shouted across as others came in from the corridors and soon there were more cheers.
Havergill was besieged with questions and he held up his hand, delighted with the effect of his announcement. In the silence Sir Geoffrey said quickly, "I must say, on behalf of Her Majesty's Government, that this is marvellous news, Paul, good for Hong Kong, good for the bank, good for you, Richard, and the Ho-Pak!"
"Oh yes, Sir Geoffrey," Richard Kwang said, jovial and loud, sure that now he was a giant step nearer his knighthood. "I decided—of course with our directors—I decided it would be good for the Victoria to have a major foothold in the Chinese community an—"
Hastily Havergill interrupted and overrode him. "Richard, perhaps I'd better finish the formal announcement and leave the details to our press conference." He glanced at Martin Haply. "We have scheduled a formal press conference for Monday at noon but all details of the, er, merger have been agreed. Isn't that so, Richard?"
Richard Kwang began to make another variation but quickly changed his mind, seeing both Dunross's and Havergill's look. "Er, yes, yes," he said but could not resist adding, "I'm delighted to be partners with the Victoria."
Haply called out quickly, "Excuse me, Mr. Havergill, may I ask a question?"
"Of course," Havergill said affably, well aware of what he would be asked. This bastard Haply has to go, he thought, one way or another.
"May I ask, Mr. Havergill, how you propose to pay out all the Ho-Pak customers and yours, Blacs and all the other banks when there's a run on all of them and not enough cash in the till?"
"Rumours, rumours, Mr. Haply," Havergill replied airily and added to laughter, "Remember: A swarm of mosquitoes can create a noise like thunder! Hong Kong's economy has never been stronger. As to the so-called run on the Ho-Pak, that's over. The Victoria guarantees the Ho-Pak's depositors, guarantees the Struan-General Stores takeover and guarantees to be in business for the next hundred and twenty years."
"But Mr. Havergill, would you ans—"
"Not to worry, Mr. Haply. Let's leave the details of our... our benevolent umbrella for the Ho-Pak till our press conference on Monday." At once he turned to the governor. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll make it public." There were more cheers as he started through the crush toward the door.
Someone began singing, "For he's a jolly good fellow..." Everyone joined in. The noise became deafening. Dunross said to Richard Kwang in Cantonese, quoting an old expression, " 'When it is enough, stop.' Heya?"
"Ah, ah yes. Yes, tai-pan. Yes indeed." The banker smiled a sickly smile, understanding the threat, reminding himself of his good fortune, that Venus Poon would certainly kowtow now that he was an important director on the board of the Victoria. His smile broadened. "You're right, tai-pan. 'Inside the red doors there is much waste of meat and wine!' My expertise will greatly benefit our bank, heya?" He went off importantly.
"My God, what a day!" Johnjohn muttered.
"Yes, yes, marvellous! Johnjohn, old fellow," McBride said, "you must be very proud of Paul."
"Yes, of course." Johnjohn was watching Havergill leave.
"Are you feeling all right?"
"Oh yes, I was just working late." Johnjohn had been up most of the night estimating how they could safely effect the takeover, safely for the bank and for the Ho-Pak depositors. He had been the architect and this morning he had spent more wearisome hours trying to convince Havergill that now was the time to be innovative. "We can do it, Paul, and create such a resurgence of confid—"
"And a very dangerous precedent! I don't think your idea's as important as you imagine!"
It was only when Havergill had seen the enormous and immediate gain in confidence after Dunross's dramatic announcement that he had reconsidered. Never mind, Johnjohn thought wearily, we're all gainers. The bank, Hong Kong, the Ho-Pak. Certainly we'll do very well for their investors, stockholders and backers, far better than Richard! When I'm tai-pan I'll use the Ho-Pak as a pattern for future bail-outs. With our new management the Ho-Pak will be a marvellous asset. Like any one of a dozen enterprises. Even like Struan's!
Johnjohn's tiredness vanished. His smile broadened. Oh hurry up, Monday—when the market opens!
In the Struan box Peter Marlowe was gloomily leaning on the rail, watching the crowds below. Rain cascaded off the jutting overhang protecting the boxes. The three cantilever balconies of the members and nonvoting members were not so protected. Bedraggled horses were being led down the ramps, bedraggled grooms joining the bedraggled thousands streaming away.
"What's up, Peter?" Casey asked.
"Oh nothing."
"Not Fleur, no problem there I hope?"
"No."
"Was it Grey? I saw you both having at it."
"No, no it wasn't Grey, though he's a pain, ill-mannered and stridently anti-everything of value." Marlowe smiled curiously. "We were just discussing the weather."
"Sure. You were looking depressed as hell just then. You lost the fifth?"
"Yes, but it wasn't that. I'm ahead, well ahead on the day." The tall man hesitated then motioned at the boxes and all around. "It's just that I was thinking that there're fifty thousand-odd Chinese here and another three or four million out there, and each one's got a vast heritage, marvellous secrets, and fantastic stories to tell, to say nothing of the twenty-odd thousand Europeans, high and low, the tai-pans, the pirates, freebooters, accountants, shopkeepers, government people here—why did they choose Hong Kong too? And I know that however much I try, however much I read or listen or ask, I'll never really know very much about Hong Kong Chinese or about Hong Kong. Never. I'll only ever scratch the surface."
She laughed. "It's the same everywhere."
"Oh no, no it isn't. This's the potpourri of Asia. Take that guy—the one in the third box over—the rotund Chinese. He's a millionaire many times over. His wife's a kleptomaniac so whenever she goes out he has his people follow her secretly and every time she steals something, his fellows pay for it. All the stores know her and him and it's all very civilised—where else in the world would you do that? His father was a coolie and his father a highwayman and his a Mandarin and his a peasant. One of the men near him's another multimillionaire, opium and illegal stuff into China, and his wife's... ah well, that's another story."
"What story?"
He laughed. "Some wives have stories just as fascinating as their husbands, sometimes more so. One of the wives you met today, she's a nympho an—"
"Oh come on, Peter! It's like Fleur says, you're making it all up."
"Perhaps. Oh yes, but some Chinese ladies are just as... just as predatory as any ladies on earth, on the quiet."
"Chauvinist! You're sure?"
"Rumour has it..." They laughed together. "Actually they're so much smarter than we are, the Chinese. I'm told the few Chinese married ladies here who have a wandering eye usually prefer a European for a lover, for safety—Chinese adore gossip, love scandal, and it'd be rare to find a Chinese swinger who'd be able to keep such a secret or protect a lady's honour. Rightly, the lady would be afraid. To be caught would be very bad, very bad indeed. Chinese law's quite strict." He took out a cigarette. "Maybe that makes it all the more exciting."
"To have a lover?"
He watched her, pondering what she would say if he told her her nickname—whispered gleefully to him by four separate Chinese friends. "Oh yes, ladies here get around, some of them. Look over there, in that box—the fellow holding forth wearing a blazer. He wears a green hat—that's a Chinese expression meaning he's a cuckold, that his wife's got a lover, actually in her case it was a Chinese friend of his."
"Green hat?"
"Yes. Chinese are marvellous! They have such a terrific sense of humour. That fellow took out an ad in one of the Chinese papers some months ago that said, 'I know I wear a green hat but the wife of the man who gave it to me had two of his sons by other men!' "
Casey stared at him. "You mean he signed his name to it?"
"Oh yes. It was a pun on one of his names, but everyone of importance knew who it was."
"Was it true?"
Peter Marlowe shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The other fellow's nose was neatly out of joint and his wife got hell."
"That's not fair, not fair at all."
"In her case it was."
"What did she do?"
"Had two sons by anoth—"
"Oh come on, Mr. Storyteller!"
"Hey look, there's Doc Tooley!"
She searched the course below, then saw him. "He doesn't look happy at all."
"I hope Travkin's all right. I heard Tooley went to examine him."
"That was some spill."
"Yes. Terrible."
Both had been subjected to Tooley's searching questions about their health, knowing the spectre of typhus, perhaps cholera, and certainly hepatitis still hung over them.
"Joss!" Peter Marlowe had said firmly.
"Joss!" she had echoed, trying not to be worried about Linc. It's worse for a man, she thought, remembering what Tooley had said: Hepatitis can mess up your liver—and your life, forever, if you're a man.
After a moment she said, "People here do seem to be more exciting, Peter. Is that because of Asia?"
"Probably. The mores are so different. And here in Hong Kong we collect the cream. I think Asia's the centre of the world and Hong Kong the nucleus." Peter Marlowe waved to someone in another box who waved at Casey. "There's another admirer of yours."
"Lando? He is a fascinating man."
Casey had spent time with him between races.
"You must come to Macao, Miss Tcholok. Perhaps we could have dinner tomorrow. Would 7:30 be convenient?" Mata had said with his marvellous old world charm and Casey had got the message very quickly.
During lunch Dunross had warned her a little about him. "He's a good fellow, Casey," the tai-pan had said delicately. "But here, for a quai loh stranger, particularly someone as beautiful as you, on a first trip to Asia, well it's sometimes better to remember that being over eighteen isn't always enough."
"Got you, tai-pan," she had told him with a laugh. But this afternoon she had allowed herself to be mesmerised by Mata, in the safety of the tai-pan's box. Alone, her defences would be up as she knew they would be tomorrow evening: "It depends, Lando," she had said, "dinner would be fine. It depends what time I get back from the boat trip—I don't know if it's weather permitting or not."
"With whom are you going? The tai-pan?"
"Just friends."
"Ah. Well, if not Sunday, my dear, perhaps we could make it Monday. There are a number of business opportunities for you, here or in Macao, for you and Mr. Bartlett if you wish, and Par-Con. May I call you at seven tomorrow to see if you are free?"
I can deal with him, one way or another, she reassured herself, the thought warming her, though I'll watch the wine and maybe even the water in case of the old Mickey Finn.
"Peter, the men here, the ones on the make—are they into Mickey Finns?"
His eyes narrowed. "You mean Mata?"
"No, just generally."
"I doubt if a Chinese or Eurasian would give one to a guai loh if that's what you're asking." A frown creased him. "I'd say you'd have to be fairly circumspect though, with them and with Europeans. Of course, to be blunt, you'd be high on their list. You have what it takes to send most of them into an orgiastic faint."
"Thanks much!" She leaned on the balcony, enjoying the compliment. I wish Linc were here. Be patient. "Who's that?" she asked. "The old man leering at the young girl? Down on the first balcony. Look, he's got his hand on her butt!"
"Ah, that's one of our local pirates—Four Finger Wu. The girl's Venus Poon, a local TV star. The youth talking to them is his nephew. Actually the rumour is that he's a son. The fellow's got a Harvard business degree and a U. S. passport and he's as smart as a whip. Old Four Fingers is another multimillionaire, rumoured to be a smuggler, gold and anything, with one official wife, three cones of various ages and now he's after Venus Poon. She was Richard Kwang's current. Was. But perhaps now with the Victoria takeover she'll dump Four Fingers and go back to him. Four Fingers lives on a rotten old Aberdeen junk and hoards his enormous wealth. Ah, look there! The wrinkled old man and woman the tai-pan's talking to."
She followed his glance to the next box but one. "That's Shitee T'Chung's box," he said. "Shitee's a direct descendent of May-may and Dirk through their son Duncan. Did the tai-pan ever show you Dirk's portraits?"
"Yes." A small shiver touched her as she remembered the Hag's knife jammed through the portrait of her father, Tyler Brock. She considered telling him about it but decided not to. "There's a great likeness," she said.
"There certainly is! Wish I could see the Long Gallery. Anyway, that old couple he's talking to live in a tenement, a two-room, sixth-floor walk-up over in Glessing's Point. They own a huge block of Struan stock. Every year before each annual board meeting, the tai-pan, whoever he is, has to go cap in hand to ask for the right to vote the stock. It's always granted, that was part of the original agreement, but he still has to go personally."
"Why's that?"
"Face. And because of the Hag." A flicker of a smile. "She was a great lady, Casey. Oh how I would like to have met her! During the Boxer revolt in 1899-1900, when China was in another of her conflagrations, the Noble House had all its possessions in Peking, Tiensin, Foochow and Canton wiped out by the Boxer terrorists who were more or less sponsored and certainly encouraged by Tz'u Hsi, the old dowager empress. They called themselves the Righteous Harmonious Fists and their battle cry was 'Protect the Ch'ing and kill all foreign devils!' Let's face it, the European powers and Japan had pretty much partitioned China. Anyway, the Boxers fell on all foreign business houses, settlements, the unprotected areas, and obliterated them. The Noble House was in terrible straits. At that time the nominal tai-pan was again old Sir Lochlin Struan—he was Robb Struan's last son, born with a withered arm. He was tai-pan after Culum. The Hag had appointed him when he was eighteen, just after Culum died—then again after Dirk Dunross—and she'd kept him tied to her apron strings till he died in 1915 at the age of seventy-two."
"Where do you get all this information, Peter?"
"I make it up," he said grandly. "In any event, the Hag needed a lot of money fast. Gornt's grandfather had bought up a lot of Struan's paper and he had lowered the boom. There was no normal source of finance, nowhere she could borrow, for all Asia—all the hongs—were equally in turmoil. But that fellow's father, the father of the one the tai-pan's talking to, was the King of the Beggars in Hong Kong. Begging used to be a huge business here. Anyway, this man came to see her, so the story goes. 'I come to buy a fifth part of the Noble House,' this man said with great dignity, 'is it for sale? I offer 200,000 taels of silver,' which was exactly the amount she needed to redeem her paper. For face they haggled and he settled for a tenth, 10 percent—an incredibly fair deal—both knowing that he could have had 30 or 40 percent for the same amount because by that time the Hag was desperate. He required no contract other than her chop and her promise that once a year she, or the tai-pan, would come to him or his descendents wherever he or they lived, to ask for the vote of the stock. 'So long as the tai-pan asks—the voting power is given.'
" 'But why, Honourable King of the Beggars? Why save me from my enemies?' she asked.
" 'Because your grandfather, old Green-Eyed Devil, once saved my grandfather's face and helped him become the first King of the Beggars of Hong Kong.' " Casey sighed. "Do you believe that, Peter?"
"Oh yes." He looked out at Happy Valley. "Once this was all a malarial swamp. Dirk cleaned that up too." He puffed his cigarette. "One day I'll write about Hong Kong."
"If you continue to smoke you'll never write anything."
"Point well taken. Okay, I'll stop. Now. For today. Because you're pretty." He stubbed the cigarette out. Another smile, different. "Eeeee, but I could tell some stories about lots of the people you met today. I won't, that's not fair, not right. I can never tell the real stories, though I know lots!" She laughed with him, letting her eyes wander from the strange old couple down to the other stands. Involuntarily she gasped. Sitting in the lee of the members' balcony she saw Orlanda. Linc was with her. He was very close. Both were very happy together, that was easy to see, even from this distance. "What's th—" Peter Marlowe began, then he saw them too. "Oh! Not to worry."
After a pause she took her eyes away. "Peter, that favour. May I ask for that favour, now?"
"What do you want as a favour?"
"I want to know about Orlanda."
"To destroy her?"
"For protection. Protection for Linc against her."
"Perhaps he doesn't want to be protected, Casey."
"I swear I'll never use it unless I honest to God feel it's necessary."
The tall man sighed. "Sorry," he said with great compassion, "but nothing I could tell you about her would give you or Linc protection. Nothing to destroy her or make her lose face. Even if I could I wouldn't, Casey. That really wouldn't be cricket. Would it?"
"No, but I'm still asking." She stared back at him, forcing the issue. "You said a favour. I came when you needed a hand. I need a hand now. Please."
He watched her a long time. "What do you know about her?" She told him what she had learned—about Gornt supporting Orlanda, Macao, about the child.
"Then you know everything I know, except perhaps that you should be sorry for her."
"Why?"
"Because she's Eurasian, alone, Gornt her only support and that's as precarious as anything in the world. She's living on a knife edge. She's young, beautiful and deserves a future. Here there's none for her."
"Except Linc?"
"Except Linc or someone like him." Peter Marlowe's eyes were slate colour. "Perhaps that wouldn't be so bad from his point of view."
"Because she's Asian and I'm not?"
Again the curious smile. "Because she's a woman and so are you but you hold all the cards, and the only real thing you have to decide is if you really want that war."
"Level with me, Peter, please. I'm asking. What's your advice? I'm running scared—there, I'll admit it to you. Please?"
"All right, but this isn't the favour I owe you," he said. "Rumour has it you and Linc are not lovers though you obviously love him. Rumour has it you've been together for six or seven years in close proximity but with no... no formal contact. He's a terrific fellow, you're a terrific lady and you'd make a great couple. The key word is couple, Casey. Maybe you want money and power and Par-Con more than you do him. That's your problem. I don't think you can have both."
"Why not?"
"It seems to me you choose Par-Con and power and riches and no Bartlett, other than as a friend—or you become Mrs. Linc Bartlett and behave and love and be the kind of woman there's no doubt in hell Orlanda would be. Either way you have to be a hundred percent—you and Linc are both too strong and probably have tested each other too many times to be fooled. He's been divorced once, so he's on guard. You're over the age of a Juliet blindness so you're equally on guard."
"Are you a psychiatrist too?"
He laughed. "No, nor a father-confessor, though I like to know about people and like to listen but not to lecture and never to give advice—that's the most thankless task in the world."
"So there's no compromise?"
"I don't think so, but then I'm not you. You have your own karma. Irrespective of Orlanda—if it's not her it'll be another woman, better or worse, prettier though maybe not, because win, lose or draw, Orlanda's quality and has what it takes to make a man content, happy, alive as a man. Sorry, I don't mean to be chauvinistic, but since you asked, I'd advise you to make up your mind quickly."
Gavallan hurried into Shitee T’Chung's box and joined the tai-pan. "Afternoon," he said politely to the old couple. "Sorry, tai-pan, Crosse and the other fellow you wanted had already left."
"Blast!" Dunross thought a second, then excused himself and walked out with Gavallan. "You're coming to the cocktail party?"
"Yes, if you want me there—afraid I'm not very good company."
"Let's go in here a second." Dunross led the way into his private room. Tea was laid out and a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket.
"Celebration?" Gavallan asked.
"Yes. Three things: the General Stores takeover, the Ho-Pak rescue and the dawn of the new era."
"Oh?"
"Yes." Dunross began to open the bottle. "For instance you: I want you to leave for London Monday evening with the children." Gavallan's eyes widened but he said nothing. "I want you to check on Kathy, see her specialist, then take her and the kids to Castle Avisyard. I want you to take over Avisyard for six months, perhaps a year or two. Six months certain—take over the whole of the east wing." Gavallan gasped. "You're going to head up a new division, very secret, secret from Alastair, my father, every member of the family including David. Secret from everyone except me."
"What division?" Gavallan's excitement and happiness showed.
"There's a fellow I want you to get close to tonight, Andrew. Jamie Kirk. His wife's a bit of a bore but invite them to Avisyard. I want you to slide into Scotland, particularly Aberdeen. I want you to buy property, but very quietly: factory areas, wharfage, potential airfields, heliports near the docks. Are there docks there?"
"Christ, tai-pan, I don't know. I've never been there."
"Nor have I."
"Eh?"
Dunross laughed at the look on Gavallan's face. "Not to worry. Your initial budget is a million pounds sterling."
"Christ, where the hell's a million coming fr—"
"Never mind!" Dunross twisted the cork and held it, deadening the explosion neatly. He poured the pale, oh so dry wine. "You've a million sterling to commit in the next six months. A further 5 million sterling over the next two years."
Gavallan was gaping at him openly.
"In that time I want the Noble House, oh so quietly, to become the power in Aberdeen, with the best land, best influence on the town councils. I want you laird of Aberdeen—and as far west as Inverness and south to Dundee. In two years. All right?"
"Yes but..." Gavallan stopped helplessly. All his life he had wanted to quit Asia. Kathy and the children too, but it had never been possible or even considered. Now Dunross had given him Utopia and he could not take it all in. "But why?"
"Talk to Kirk, beguile his wife, and remember, laddie, a closed mouth." Dunross gave him a glass and took one for himself. "Here's to Scotland, the new era and our new fief." Then he added in his most secret heart, And here's to the North Sea! All gods bear witness: The Noble House is implementing Contingency Plan One.
5:50 PM
The stands were empty now but for the cleaners, most of the boxes dark. Rain cascaded from the sky, a solid sheet of water. It was near twilight. Traffic was snarled all around the racecourse. The thousands plodded homeward, sodden but light of heart. Next Saturday was another race day and another fifth race and oh oh oh, another challenge and this time the tai-pan will surely ride Noble Star and perhaps Black Beard will ride Pilot Fish and those two devil guai loh will kill themselves for our amusement.
A Rolls going out of the members' entrance splashed some of the pedestrians and they shouted a barrage of obscenities but none of the Chinese really minded. One day I'll have one of those, everyone thought. All I need's just a little fornicating joss. Just a little joss next Saturday and I'll have enough to buy some land or an apartment to rent out, to barter against a piece of a high rise, to mortgage against an acre of Central. Eeee, how I'll enjoy riding in my Rolls with a lucky number plate like that one! Did you see who it was? Taximan Tok who seven years ago drove a bo-pi, an illegal taxi, and found 10,000 HK on his backseat one day and hid it for five years till the statute of limitations had passed, then invested it in the stock market in the boom of three years ago to immense profit then took the profit and bought apartments. Eeee, the boom! Remember what Old Blind Tung wrote in his column about the coming boom! But what about the stock market crash and all the bank runs?
Ayeeyah, that's all over! Didn't you hear the astounding news? Great Bank is taking over the Ho-Pak and standing good for all Banker Kwang's debts. Did you hear about the Noble House buying General Stores? Both such good pieces of news announced on race day. That's never happened before! It's odd! Very odd! You don't think... Fornicate all Gods! Is it all a foul ploy of those dirty foreign devils to manipulate the market to steal our rightful profits? Oh oh oh, I agree! Yes, it must be a foul plot! It's too much fornicating coincidence! Oh those cunning awful barbarians! Thank all gods I realised it so I can prepare! Now what should I do...
As they all headed for home their minds were consumed with growing excitement. Most were poorer than when they came to the track, but a few were much richer. Spectacles Wu, the police constable from the East Aberdeen Police station, was one of those. Crosse had allowed him to go to the races though he had to be back by 6:15 P.M. when the client was due to be interviewed again, Spectacles Wu there as interpreter for the Ning-tok dialect. The young man shivered and his Secret Sack chilled at the thought of how quickly the great Brian Kwok had babbled his innermost secrets.
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