Noble House

by James Clavell

  Phillip Chen was hurrying down the garden path, a flashlight in one hand, a shovel in the other. The path curled downward through well-tended gardens that meandered into a grove of trees and shrubs. He stopped a moment, getting his bearings, then found the place he sought. He hesitated and glanced back, even though he knew he was well hidden from the house now. Reassured that he could not be watched he switched on the flashlight. The circle of light wandered over the undergrowth and stopped at the foot of a tree. The spot appeared to be untouched. Carefully he pushed aside the natural mulch. When he saw the earth below had been disturbed he cursed obscenely. “Oh the swine … my own son!” Collecting himself with difficulty he began to dig. The earth was soft.

  Ever since he had left the party he had been trying to remember exactly when he had last dug up the box. Now he was sure it had been in the spring when he needed the deeds to a row of slum dwellings in Wanchai that he had sold for fifty times cost to Donald McBride for one of his great new developments.

  “Where was John then?” he muttered. “Was he in the house?”

  As he dug he tried to recall but he could not. He knew that he would never have dug up the box when it was dangerous or when there were strangers in the house and that he would always have been circumspect. But John? Never would I have thought … John must have followed me somehow.

  The shovel struck the metal. Carefully he cleaned off the earth and pulled the protective cloth away from the box and heavy lock and opened it. The hinges of the lid were well greased. His fingers shaking, he held the flashlight over the open box. All his papers and deeds and private balance sheets seemed to be in order and undisturbed, but he knew they must all have been taken out and read—and copied or memorized. Some of the information in his son’s safety deposit box could only have come from here.

  All the jewel boxes, big and small, were there. Nervously he reached out for the one he sought and opened it. The half-coin had vanished and the document explaining about the coin had vanished.

  Tears of rage seeped down his cheeks. He felt his heart pounding and smelled the damp earth and knew if his son was there he would happily have strangled him with his own hands.

  “Oh my son my son … all gods curse you to hell!”

  His knees were weak. Shakily he sat on a rock and tried to collect his wits. He could hear his father on his deathbed cautioning him “Never lose the coin my son—it’s our key to ultimate survival and power over the Noble House.”

  That was in 1937 and the first time he had learned the innermost secrets of the House of Chen: that he who became compradore became the ranking leader in Hong Kong of the Hung Mun—the great secret triad society of China that, under Sun Yat-sen, had become the 14K, originally formed to spearhead China’s revolt against their hated Manchu overlords; that the compradore was the main, legitimate link between the Chinese hierarchy on the Island and the inheritors of the 14K on the Mainland; that because of Chen-tse Jin Arn, known as Jin-qua, the legendary chief merchant of the co-hong that had possessed the Emperor’s monopoly on all foreign trade, the House of Chen was perpetually interlinked with the Noble House by ownership and by blood.

  “Listen carefully, my son,” the dying man had whispered. “The tai-pan, Great-Grandfather Dirk Struan, was Jin-qua’s creation, as was the Noble House. Jin-qua nurtured it, formed it and Dirk Struan. The tai-pan had two concubines. The first was Kai-sung, one of Jin-qua’s daughters by a fifth wife. Their son was Gordon Chen, my father, your grandfather. The tai-pan’s second concubine was T’Chung Jin May-may, his mistress for six years whom he married in secret just before the great typhoon that killed them both. She was twenty-one then, a brilliant, favored granddaughter of Jin-qua, sold to the tai-pan when she was seventeen to teach him civilized ways without his knowing he was being taught. From them came Duncan and Kate who took the surname T’Chung and were brought up in my father’s house. Father married off Kate to a Shanghai China Trader called Peter Gavallan—Andrew Gavallan is also a cousin though he doesn’t know it … So many stories to tell and now so little time to tell them. Never mind, all the family trees are in the safe. There are so many. We’re all related, the Wu, Kwang, Sung, Kau, Kwok, Ng—all the old families. Use the knowledge carefully. Here’s the key to the safe.

  “Another secret, Phillip, my son. Our line comes from my father’s second wife. Father married her when he was fifty-three and she sixteen. She was the daughter of John Yuan, the illegitimate son of the great American Trader Jeff Cooper, and a Eurasian lady, Isobel Yau. Isobel Yau was the oh-so-secret Eurasian daughter of Robb Struan, the tai-pan’s half-brother and cofounder of the Noble House, so we have blood from both sides of the Struans. Alastair Struan is a cousin and Colin Dunross is a cousin—the MacStruans are not; their history’s in Grandfather’s diaries. My son, the English and Scots barbarians came to China and they never married those whom they adored and most times abandoned when they returned to the gray island of mist and rain and overcast. My God how I hate the English weather and loathe the past!

  “Yes, Phillip, we’re Eurasian, not of one side or the other. I’ve never been able to come to terms with it. It is our curse and our cross but it is up to all of us to make it a blessing. I pass our House on to you rich and strong like Jin-qua wished—do so to your son and make sure he does it to his. Jin-qua birthed us, in a way, gave us wealth, secret knowledge, continuity and power—and he gave us one of the coins. Here, Phillip, read about the coin.”

  The calligraphy of the ancient scroll was exquisite: “On this nineteenth day of the second month of the year 1841 by barbarian count, I, Chen-tse Jin Arn of Canton, Chief Merchant of the co-hong, have this day loaned to Green-Eyed Devil the tai-pan of the Noble House, chief pirate of all foreign devils who have made war on the Heavenly Kingdom and have stolen our island Hong Kong, forty lacs of silver … one million sterling in their specie … and have, with this bullion, saved him from being swallowed by One-Eye, his arch-enemy and rival. In return, the tai-pan grants us special trade advantages for the next twenty years, promises that one of the House of Chen will forever be compradore to the Noble House, and swears that he or his descendents will honor all debts and the debt of the coins. There are four of them. The coins are broken into halves. I have given the tai-pan four halves. Whenever one of the other halves is presented to him, or to a following tai-pan, he has sworn whatever favor is asked will be granted … whether within their law, or ours, or outside it.

  “One coin I keep; one I give to the warlord Wu Fang Choi, my cousin; one will be given to my grandson Gordon Chen; and the last recipient I keep secret. Remember, he who reads this in the future, do not use the coin lightly, for the tai-pan of the Noble House must grant anything—but only once. And remember that though the Green-Eyed Devil himself will honor his promise and so will his descendents, he is still a mad-dog barbarian, cunning as a filthy Manchu because of our training, and as dangerous always as a nest of vipers.”

  Phillip Chen shuddered involuntarily, remembering the violence that was always ready to explode in Ian Dunross. He’s a descendent of Green-Eyed Devil all right, he thought. Yes, him and his father.

  Goddamn John! What possessed him? What devilment has he planned with Linc Bartlett? Has Bartlett got the coin now? Or does John still have it with him and now perhaps the kidnappers have it.

  While his tired brain swept over the possibilities, his fingers checked the jewel boxes, one by one. Nothing was missing. The big one he left till last. There was a tightness in his throat as he opened it but the necklace was still there. A great sigh of relief went through him. The beauty of the emeralds in the flashlight gave him enormous pleasure and took away some of his anxiety. How stupid of Hag Struan to order them to be burned with her body. What an arrogant, awful, unholy waste that would have been! How wise of Father to intercept the coffin before the fire and remove them.

  Reluctantly he put the necklace away and began to close up the safe. What to do about the coin? I almost used it the time the tai-pan took aw
ay our bank stock—and most of our power. Yes. But I decided to give him time to prove himself and this is the third year and nothing is yet proved, and though the American deal seems grand it is not yet signed. And now the coin is gone.

  He groaned aloud, distraught, his back aching like his head. Below was all the city, ships tied up at Glessing’s Point and others in the roads. Kowloon was equally brilliant and he could see a jetliner taking off from Kai Tak, another turning to make a landing, another whining high overhead, its lights blinking.

  What to do? he asked himself exhaustedly. Does Bartlett have the coin? Or John? Or the Werewolves?

  In the wrong hands it could destroy us all.

  Tuesday

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  12:36 A.M.:

  Gornt said, “Of course Dunross could have buggered my brakes, Jason!”

  “Oh come on, for God’s sake! Climbing under your car during a party with two hundred guests around? Ian’s not that stupid.”

  They were in Jason Plumm’s penthouse above Happy Valley, the midnight air good though the humidity had increased again. Plumm got up and threw his cigar butt away, took a fresh one and lit it. The tai-pan of Asian Properties, the third largest hong, was taller than Gornt, in his late fifties, thin-faced and elegant, his smoking jacket red velvet. “Even Ian bloody Dunross’s not that much of a bloody berk.”

  “You’re wrong. For all his Scots cunning, he’s an animal of sudden action, unpremeditated action, that’s his failing. I think he did it.”

  Plumm steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “What did the police say?”

  “All I told them was that my brakes had failed. There was no need to involve those nosy buggers, at least not yet. But Rolls brakes just don’t go wrong by themselves for God’s sake. Well, never mind. Tomorrow I’ll make sure Tom Nikklin gets me an answer, an absolute answer, if there is one. Time enough for the police then.”

  “I agree.” Plumm smiled thinly. “We don’t need police to wash our various linens however droll—do we?”

  “No.” Both men laughed.

  “You were very lucky. The Peak’s no road to lose your brakes on. Must have been very unpleasant.”

  “For a moment it was, Jason, but then it was no problem, once I was over the initial shock.” Gornt stretched the truth and sipped his whiskey and soda. They had eaten an elegant dinner on the terrace overlooking Happy Valley, the racecourse and city and sea beyond, just the two of them—Plumm’s wife was in England on vacation and their children grown up and no longer in Hong Kong. Now they were sitting over cigars in great easy chairs in Plumm’s book-lined study, the room luxurious though subdued, in perfect taste like the rest of the ten-room penthouse. “Tom Nikklin’ll find out if my car was tampered with if anyone can,” he said with finality.

  “Yes.” Plumm sipped a glass of iced Perrier water. “Are you going to wind up young Nikklin again about Macao?”

  “Me? You must be joking!”

  “No. I’m not, actually,” Plumm said with his mocking well-bred chuckle. “Didn’t Dunross’s engine blow up during the race three years ago and he bloody nearly killed himself?”

  “Racing cars are always going wrong.”

  “Yes, yes they do frequently, though they’re not always helped by the opposition.” Plumm smiled.

  Gornt kept his smile but inside he was not smiling. “Meaning?”

  “Nothing, dear boy. Just rumors.” The older man leaned over and poured more whiskey for Gornt, then used the soda syphon. “Rumor has it that a certain Chinese mechanic, for a small fee, put … put, as we say, a small spanner in the works.”

  “I doubt if that’d be true.”

  “I doubt if it could be proved. One way or another. It’s disgusting, but some people will do anything for quite a small amount of money.”

  “Yes. Fortunately we’re in the big-money market.”

  “My whole point, dear boy. Now.” Plumm tapped the ash off his cigar. “What’s the scheme?”

  “It’s very simple: providing Bartlett does not actually sign a deal with Struan’s in the next ten days we can pluck the Noble House like a dead duck.”

  “Lots of people have thought that before and Struan’s is still the Noble House.”

  “Yes. But at the moment, they’re vulnerable.”

  “How?”

  “The Toda Shipping notes, and the Orlin installment.”

  “Not true. Struan’s credit is excellent—oh, they’re stretched, but no more than anyone else. They’ll just increase their line of credit—or Ian will go to Richard Kwang—or Blacs.”

  “Say Blacs won’t help—they won’t—and say Richard Kwang’s neutralized. That leaves only the Victoria.”

  “Then Dunross’ll ask the bank for more credit and we’ll have to give it to him. Paul Havergill will put it to a vote of the board. We all know we can’t outvote the Struan’s block so we’ll go along with it and save face, pretending we’re very happy to oblige, as usual.”

  “Yes. But this time I’m happy to say Richard Kwang will vote against Struan’s. That will tie up the board, the credit request will be delayed—he won’t be able to make his payments, so Dunross goes under.”

  “For God’s sake, Richard Kwang’s not even on the board! Have you gone bonkers?”

  Gornt puffed his cigar. “No, you’ve forgotten my game plan. The one called Competition. It was started a couple of days ago.”

  “Against Richard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Poor old Richard!”

  “Yes. He’ll be our deciding vote. And Dunross’ll never expect an attack from there.”

  Plumm stared at him. “Richard and Dunross are great friends.”

  “But Richard’s in trouble. The run’s started on the Ho-Pak. He’ll do anything to save himself.”

  “I see. How much Ho-Pak stock did you sell short?”

  “Lots.”

  “Are you sure Richard hasn’t got the resources to stave off the run—that he can’t pull in extra funds?”

  “If he does, we can always abort, you and I.”

  “Yes, yes we can.” Jason Plumm watched his cigar smoke spiral. “But just because Dunross won’t meet those payments doesn’t mean he’s finished.”

  “I agree. But after the Ho-Pak ‘disaster,’ the news that Struan’s have defaulted will send his stock plummeting. The market’ll be very nervous, there’ll be all the signs of a crash looming which we fuel by selling short. There’s no board meeting scheduled for a couple of weeks unless Paul Havergill calls a special meeting. And he won’t. Why should he? He wants their chunk of stock back more than anything else in the world. So everything will be fixed beforehand. He’ll set the ground rules for rescuing Richard Kwang, and voting as Paul decides will be one of them. So the board lets Ian stew for a few days, then offers to extend credit and restore confidence—in return for Struan’s piece of the bank stock—it’s pledged against the credit anyway.”

  “Dunross’ll never agree—neither he nor Phillip Chen, nor Tsuyan.”

  “It’s that or Struan’s goes under—providing you hold tight and you’ve voting control. Once the bank gets his block of stock away from him … if you control the board, and therefore the Victoria Bank, then he’s finished.”

  “Yes. But say he gets a new line of credit?”

  “Then he’s only badly mauled, maybe permanently weakened, Jason, but we make a killing either way. It’s all a matter of timing, you know that.”

  “And Bartlett?”

  “Bartlett and Par-Con are mine. He’ll never go with Struan’s sinking ship. I’ll see to that.”

  After a pause Plumm said, “It’s possible. Yes, it’s possible.”

  “Are you in then?”

  “After Struan’s, how are you going to gobble up Par-Con?”

  “I’m not. But we could—possibly.” Gornt stubbed out his cigar. “Par-Con’s a long-term effort and a whole different set of problems. First Struan’s. Well?”

  “If I get Struan�
�s Hong Kong property division—35 percent of their landholdings in Thailand and Singapore and we’re fifty-fifty on their Kai Tak operation?”

  “Yes, everything except Kai Tak—I need that to round off All Asia Airways. I’m sure you’ll understand, old boy. But you’ve a seat on the board of the new company, ten percent of the stock at par, seats on Struan’s of course, and all their subsidiaries.”

  “15 percent. And chairmanship of Struan’s, alternate years with you?”

  “Agreed, but I’m first.” Gornt lit a cigarette. Why not? he thought expansively. By this time next year Struan’s will be dismembered so your chairmanship is really academic, Jason old boy. “So everything’s agreed? We’ll put it in a joint memo if you like, one copy for each of us.”

  Plumm shook his head and smiled. “Don’t need a memo, perish the thought! Here.” He held out his hand. “I agree!”

  The two men shook hands firmly. “Down with the Noble House!” They both laughed, very content with the deal they had made. Acquisition of Struan’s landholdings would make Asian Properties the largest land company in Hong Kong. Gornt would acquire almost a total monopoly of all Hong Kong’s air cargo, sea freighting and factoring—and preeminence in Asia.

  Good, Gornt thought. Now for Four Finger Wu. “If you’ll call me a taxi I’ll be off.”

  “Take my car, my chauffeur will—”

  “Thanks but no, I’d rather take a taxi. Really, Jason, thanks anyway.”

  So Plumm phoned down to the concierge of the twenty-story apartment building which was owned and operated by his Asian Properties. While they waited, they toasted each other and the destruction of Struan’s and the profits they were going to make. A phone rang in the adjoining room.

  “Excuse me a moment, old chap.” Plumm went through the door and half-closed it behind him. This was his private bedroom which he used sometimes when he was working late. It was a small, very neat room, soundproofed, fitted up like a ship’s cabin with a built-in bunk, hi-fi speakers that piped in the music, a small self-contained hot plate and refrigerator. And, on one side, was a huge bank of elaborate, shortwave, ham radio transceiver equipment which had been Jason Plumm’s abiding hobby since his childhood.