Noble House

by James Clavell

  Yes.

  And I know you Hong Kong Chinese ladies like poor Phillip doesn’t, because I’m not even a little part Chinese. I know you Hong Kong Chinese ladies are the roughest women on earth when it comes to money—or perhaps the most practical. And you, Dianne, I also know you are ecstatic now, however much you’ll pretend otherwise. Because John Chen’s not your son. With him eliminated, your own two sons will be direct in line and your eldest, Kevin, heir apparent. So you’ll pray like you’ve never prayed before that John’s gone forever. You’re delighted. John’s kidnapped and probably murdered but what about the Bartlett deal?

  “Ladies are so practical,” he said.

  “How so, tai-pan?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “They keep things in perspective.”

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you at all, tai-pan,” she replied, an edge to her voice. “What more can we do now about John Chen? Nothing. We’ve done everything we can. When the ransom note arrives we negotiate and we pay and everything’s as it was. But the Bartlett deal is important, very important, very very important whatever happens, heya? Moh ching, moh meng.” No money, no life.

  “Quite. It is very important, tai-pan.” Phillip caught sight of the box and shuddered. “I think under the circumstances, tai-pan, if you’ll excuse us this evening … I don’t th—”

  “No, Phillip,” his wife said firmly. “No. We must go. It’s a matter of face for the whole House. We’ll go as planned. As difficult as it will be for us—we will go as planned.”

  “Well, if you say so.”

  “Yes.” Oh very yes she was thinking, replanning her whole ensemble to enhance the dramatic effect of their entrance. We’ll go tonight and we’ll be the talk of Hong Kong. We’ll take Kevin of course. Perhaps he’s heir now. Ayeeyah! Who should my son marry? I’ve got to think of the future now. Twenty-two’s a perfect age and I have to think of his new future. Yes, a wife. Who? I’d better choose the right girl at once and quickly if he’s heir, before some young filly with a fire between her legs and a rapacious mother does it for me. Ayeeyah, she thought, her temperature rising, gods forbid such a thing! “Yes,” she said, and touched her eyes with her handkerchief as though a tear were there, “there’s nothing more to be done for poor John but wait—and continue to work and plan and maneuver for the good of the Noble House.” She looked up at Dunross, her eyes glittering. “The Bartlett deal would solve everything, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.” And you’re both right, Dunross thought. There’s nothing more to be done at the moment. Chinese are very wise and very practical.

  So put your mind on important things—he told himself. Important things—like do you gamble? Think. What better place or time than here and now could you find to begin the plan you’ve been toying with ever since you met Bartlett?

  None.

  “Listen,” he said, deciding irrevocably, then looked around at the door that led to the servants’ quarters, making sure that they were alone. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and Phillip and his wife leaned forward to hear better. “I had a private meeting with Bartlett before lunch. We’ve made the deal. I’ll need some minor changes, but we close the contract formally on Tuesday of next week. The 20 million’s guaranteed and a further 20 million next year.”

  Phillip Chen’s beam was huge. “Congratulations.”

  “Not so loud, Phillip,” his wife hissed, equally pleased. “Those turtle mouth slaves in the kitchen have ears that can reach to Java. Oh but that’s tremendous news, tai-pan.”

  “We’ll keep this in the family,” Dunross said softly. “This afternoon I’m instructing our brokers to start buying Struan’s stock secretly—every spare penny we’ve got. You do the same, in small lots and spread the orders over different brokers and nominees—the usual.”

  “Yes. Oh yes.”

  “I bought 40 thousand this morning personally.”

  “How much will the stock go up?” Dianne Chen asked.

  “Double!”

  “How soon?”

  “Thirty days.”

  “Eeeee,” she chortled. “Think of that.”

  “Yes,” Dunross said agreeably. “Think of that! Yes. And you two will only tell your very close relations, of which there are many, and they will only tell their very close relations, of which there are a multitude, and you’ll all buy and buy because this is an inside-inside, gilt-edged tip and hardly any gamble at all which will further fuel the stock rise. The fact that it’s only family will surely leak and more will jump in, then more, and then the formal announcement of the Par-Con deal will add fire and then, next week, I’ll announce the takeover bid for Asian Properties and then all Hong Kong will buy. Our stock will skyrocket. Then, at the right moment, I dump Asian Properties and go after the real target.”

  “How many shares, tai-pan?” Phillip Chen asked—his mind swamped by his own calculations of the possible profits.

  “Maximum. But it has to be family only. Our stocks’ll lead the boom.”

  Dianne gasped. “There’s going to be a boom?”

  “Yes. We’ll lead it. The time’s ripe, everyone in Hong Kong’s ready. We’ll supply the means, we’ll be the leader, and with a judicious shove here and there, there’ll be a stampede.”

  There was a great silence. Dunross watched the avarice on her face.

  Her fingers clicked the jade beads. He saw Phillip staring into the distance and he knew that part of his compradore’s mind was on the various notes that he, Phillip, had countersigned for Struan’s that were due in thirteen to thirty days: $12 million U.S. to Toda Shipping Industries of Yokohama for the two super bulk cargo freighters, $6,800,000 to the Orlin International Merchant Bank, and $750,000 to Tsu-yan, who had covered another problem for him. But most of Phillip’s mind would be on Bartlett’s 20 million and the stock rise—the doubling that he had arbitrarily forecast.

  Double?

  No way—no not at all, not a chance in hell…

  Unless there’s a boom. Unless there’s a boom!

  Dunross felt his heart quicken. “If there’s a boom … Christ, Phillip, we can do it!”

  “Yes—yes, I agree, Hong Kong’s ripe. Ah yes.” Phillip Chen’s eyes sparkled and his fingers drummed. “How many shares, tai-pan?”

  “Every bl—”

  Excitedly Dianne overrode Dunross, “Phillip, last week my astrologer said this was going to be an important month for us! A boom! That’s what he must have meant.”

  “That’s right, I remember you telling me, Dianne. Oh oh oh! How many shares, tai-pan?” he asked again.

  “Every bloody penny! We’ll make this the big one. But family only until Friday. Absolutely until Friday. Then, after the market closes I’ll leak the Bartlett deal….”

  “Eeeeee,” Dianne hissed.

  “Yes. Over the weekend I’ll say ‘no comment’—you make sure you’re not available, Phillip—and come Monday morning, everyone’ll be chomping at the bit. I’ll still say ‘no comment,’ but Monday we buy openly. Then, just after close of business Monday, I’ll announce the whole deal’s confirmed. Then, come Tuesday …”

  “The boom’s on!”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh happy day,” Dianne croaked delightedly. “And every amah, houseboy, coolie, businessman, will decide their joss is perfect and out will come their savings and everything gets fed, all stocks will rocket. What a pity there won’t be an editorial tomorrow … even better, an astrologer in one of the papers … say Hundred Year Fong … or …” Her eyes almost crossed with excitement. “What about the astrologer, Phillip?”

  He stared at her, shocked. “Old Blind Tung?”

  “Why not? Some h’eung yau in his palm … or the promise of a few shares of whatever stock you name. Heya?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Leave that one to me. Old Blind Tung owes me a favor or two, I’ve sent him enough clients! Yes. And he won’t be far wrong announcing heavenly portents that herald the greatest boom in Hong Ko
ng’s history, will he?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  5:25 P.M.:

  The police pathologist, Dr. Meng, adjusted the focus of the microscope and studied the sliver of flesh that he had cut from the ear. Brian Kwok watched him impatiently. The doctor was a small pedantic little Cantonese with thick-lensed glasses perched on his forehead. At length he looked up and his glasses fell conveniently onto his nose. “Well, Brian, it could have been sliced from a living person and not a corpse … possibly. Possibly within the last eight or ten hours. The bruising … here, look at the back”—Dr. Meng motioned delicately at the discoloration at the back and at the top—“… that certainly indicates to me that the person was alive at the time.”

  “Why bruising, Dr. Meng? What caused it? The slash?”

  “It could have been caused by someone holding the specimen tightly,” Dr. Meng said cautiously, “while it was being removed.”

  “By what—knife, razor, zip knife, or Chinese chopper—cooking chopper?”

  “By a sharp instrument.”

  Brian Kwok sighed. “Would that kill someone? The shock? Someone like John Chen?”

  Dr. Meng steepled his fingers. “It could, possibly. Possibly not. Does he have a history of a weak heart?”

  “His father said he hadn’t—I haven’t checked with his own doctor yet—the bugger’s on holiday but John’s never given any indication of being anything but healthy.”

  “This mutilation probably shouldn’t kill a healthy man but he’d be very uncomfortable for a week or two.” The doctor beamed. “Very uncomfortable indeed.”

  “Jesus!” Brian said. “Isn’t there anything you can give me that’ll help?”

  “I’m a forensic pathologist, Brian, not a seer.”

  “Can you tell if the ear’s Eurasian—or pure Chinese?”

  “No. No, with this specimen that’d be almost impossible. But it’s certainly not Anglo-Saxon, or Indian or Negroid.” Dr. Meng took off his glasses and stared myopically up at the tall superintendent. “This could possibly cause quite a ripple in the House of Chen, heya?”

  “Yes. And the Noble House.” Brian Kwok thought a moment. “In your opinion, this Werewolf, this maniac, would you say he’s Chinese?”

  “The writing could have been a civilized person’s, yes—equally it could have been done by a quai loh pretending to be a civilized person. But if he or she was a civilized person that doesn’t necessarily mean that the same person who did the act wrote the letter.”

  “I know that. What are the odds that John Chen’s dead?”

  “From the mutilation?”

  “From the fact that the Werewolf, or more probably Werewolves, sent the ear even before starting negotiations.”

  The little man smiled and said dryly, “You mean old Sun Tzu’s ‘kill one to terrorize ten thousand’? I don’t know. I don’t speculate on such imponderables. I only estimate odds on horses, Brian, or the stock market. What about John Chen’s Golden Lady on Saturday?”

  “She’s got a great chance. Definitely. And Struan’s Noble Star—Gornt’s Pilot Fish and even more, Richard Kwang’s Butterscotch Lass. She’ll be the favorite I’ll bet. But Golden Lady’s a real goer. She’ll start about three to one. She’s a flier and the going’ll be good for her. Dry. She’s useless in the wet.”

  “Ah, any sign of rain?”

  “Possible. They say there’s a storm coming. Even a sprinkle could make all the difference.”

  “Then it better not rain till Sunday, heya?”

  “It won’t rain this month—not unless we’re enormously lucky.”

  “Well if it rains it rains and if it doesn’t it doesn’t never mind! Winter’s coming—then this cursed humidity will go away.” Dr. Meng glanced at the wall clock. It was 5:35 P.M. “How about a quick one before we go home?”

  “No thanks. I’ve still got a few things to do. Bloody nuisance this.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll see what clues I can come up with from the cloth, or the wrapping paper or the other things. Perhaps fingerprinting will help you,” the doctor added.

  “I wouldn’t bet on that. This whole operation is very smelly. Very smelly indeed.”

  Dr. Meng nodded and his voice lost its gentleness. “Anything to do with the Noble House and their puppet House of Chen’s smelly. Isn’t it?”

  Brian Kwok switched to sei yap, one of the main dialects of the Kwantung Province, spoken by many Hong Kong Cantonese. “Eh, Brother, don’t you mean any and all capitalist running dogs are smelly, of which the Noble House and the House of Chen are chief and dung heavy?” he said banteringly.

  “Ah, Brother, don’t you know yet, deep in your head, that the winds of change are whirling throughout the world? And China under the immortal guidance of Chairman Mao, and Mao Thought, is the lead—”

  “Keep your proselytizing to yourself,” Brian Kwok said coldly, switching back to English. “Most of the thoughts of Mao are out of the writings of Sun Tzu, Confucius, Marx, Lao Tsu and others. I know he’s a poet—a great one—but he’s usurped China and there’s no freedom there now. None.”

  “Freedom?” the little man said defiantly. “What’s freedom for a few years when, under the guidance of Chairman Mao, China’s once more China and has taken back her rightful place in the world. Now China is feared by all filthy capitalists! Even by revisionist Russia.”

  “Yes. I agree. For that I thank him. Meanwhile if you don’t like it here go home to Canton and sweat your balls off in your Communist paradise and dew neh loh moh on all Communists—and their fellow travelers!”

  “You should go there, see for yourself. It’s propaganda that communism’s bad for China. Don’t you read the newspapers? No one’s starving now.”

  “What about the twenty-odd million who were murdered after the takeover? What about all the brainwashing?”

  “More propaganda! Just because you’ve been to English and Canadian public schools and talk like a capitalist swine doesn’t mean you’re one of them. Remember your heritage.”

  “I do. I remember it very well.”

  “Your father was mistaken to send you away!” It was common knowledge that Brian Kwok had been born in Canton and, at the age of six, sent to school in Hong Kong. He was such a good student that in ’37, when he was twelve, he had won a scholarship to a fine public school in England and had gone there, and then in ’39, with the beginning of World War II, the whole school was evacuated to Canada. In ’42, at eighteen, he had graduated top of his class, senior prefect, and had joined the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in their plainclothes branch in Vancouver’s huge Chinatown. He spoke Cantonese, Mandarin, sei yap, and had served with distinction. In ’45 he had requested a transfer to the Royal Hong Kong Police. With the reluctant approval of the RCMP, who had wanted him to stay on, he had returned. “You’re wasted working for them, Brian,” Dr. Meng continued. “You should serve the masses and work for the Party!”

  “The Party murdered my father and my mother and most of my family in ’43!”

  “There was never proof of that! Never. It was hearsay. Perhaps the Kuomintang devils did it—there was chaos then in Canton. I was there, I know! Perhaps the Japanese swine were responsible—or triads—who knows? How can you be certain?”

  “I’m certain, by God.”

  “Was there a witness? No! You told me that yourself!” Meng’s voice rasped and he peered up at him myopically. “Ayeeyah, you’re Chinese, use your education for China, for the masses, not for the capitalist overlord.”

  “Up yours!”

  Dr. Meng laughed and his glasses fell onto the top of his nose. “You wait, Superintendent Kar-shun Kwok. One day your eyes will open. One day you will see the beauty of it all.”

  “Meanwhile get me some bloody answers!” Brian Kwok strode out of the laboratory and went up the corridor to the elevator, his shirt sticking to his back. I wish it would rain, he thought.

  He got into the elevator. Other policemen greeted him and he them. At the third floor he got
out and walked along the corridor to his office. Armstrong was waiting for him, idly reading a Chinese newspaper. “Hi, Robert,” he said, pleased to see him. “What’s new?”

  “Nothing. How about you?”

  Brian Kwok told him what Dr. Meng had said.

  “That little bugger and his ‘could possiblys’! The only thing he’s ever emphatic about’s a corpse—and even then he’ll have to check a couple of times.”

  “Yes—or about Chairman Mao.”

  “Oh, he was on that broken record again?”

  “Yes.” Brian Kwok grinned. “I told him to go back to China.”

  “He’ll never leave.”

  “I know.” Brian stared at the pile of papers in his in tray and sighed. Then he said, “It’s not like a local to cut off an ear so soon.”

  “No, not if it’s a proper kidnapping.”

  “What?”

  “It could be a grudge and the kidnapping a cover,” Armstrong said, his well-used face hardening. “I agree with you and Dunross. I think they did him in.”

  “But why?”

  “Perhaps John was trying to escape, started a fight, and they or he panicked and before they or he knew what was happening, they or he’d knifed him, or bonked him with a blunt instrument.” Armstrong sighed and stretched to ease the knot in his shoulders. “In any event, old chap, our Great White Father wants this solved quickly. He honored me with a call to say the governor had phoned personally to express his concern.”

  Brian Kwok cursed softly. “Foul news travels quickly! Nothing in the press yet?”

  “No, but it’s all over Hong Kong and we’ll have a red hot wind fanning our tails by morning. Mr. Bloody Werewolf Esquire—assisted by the pox-ridden, black-hearted, uncooperative Hong Kong press—will, I fear, cause us nothing but grief until we catch the bastard, or bastards.”

  “But catch him we will, oh yes, catch him we will!”