Noble House

by James Clavell

  “The best pillow partner I’ve ever had,” Richard Kwang continued expansively, stretching the truth. “I was thinking about buying her a large diamond ring. Poor Little Mealy Mouth wept this morning when I left the apartment I’ve given her. She was swearing suicide because she’s so in love with me.” He used the English word.

  “Eeeee, you’re a lucky man!” Smiler Ching spoke no English except the words of love. He felt eyes on his back and he glanced around. In the next section of the stands, fifty yards away, slightly above him, was the foreign devil policeman Big Mountain of Dung, the hated chief of the CID Kowloon. The cold fish-eyes were staring at him, binoculars hanging from the man’s neck. Ayeeyah, Ching muttered to himself, his mind darting over the various checks and traps and balances that guarded his main source of revenue.

  “Eh? What? What’s the matter with you, Smiler Ching?”

  “Nothing. I want to piss, that’s all. Send the papers over at two o’clock if you want my money.” Sourly he turned away to go to the toilet, wondering if the police were aware of the imminent arrival of the foreign devil from the Golden Mountain, a High Tiger of the White Powders with the outlandish name of Vincenzo Banastasio.

  He hawked and spat loudly. Joss if they do, joss if they don’t. They can’t touch me, I’m only a banker.

  Robert Armstrong had noted that Smiler Ching was talking to Banker Kwang and knew surely that the pair of them were up to no good. The police were well aware of the whispers about Ching and his Prosperity Bank and the narcotics trade but so far had no real evidence implicating him or his bank, not even enough circumstantial evidence to merit SB detention, interrogation and summary deportation.

  Well, he’ll slip sometime, Robert Armstrong thought calmly, and turned his binoculars back onto Pilot Fish, then to Noble Star, then to Butterscotch Lass, and then to Golden Lady, John Chen’s mare. Which one’s got the form?

  He yawned and stretched wearily. It had been another long night and he had not yet been to bed. Just as he was leaving Kowloon Police HQ last night there had been a flurry of excitement as another anonymous caller phoned to say that John Chen had been seen out in the New Territories, in the tiny fishing village of Sha Tau Kwok which bisected the eastern tip of the border.

  He had rushed out there with a team and searched the village, hovel by hovel. His search had had to be done very cautiously for the whole border area was extremely sensitive, particularly at the village where there was one of the three border checkpoints. The villagers were a hardy, tough, uncompromising bellicose lot that wanted to be left alone. Particularly by foreign devil police. The search had proved to be just another false alarm though they had uncovered two illegal stills, a small heroin factory that converted raw opium into morphine and thence into heroin, and had broken up six illegal gambling dens.

  When Armstrong had got back to Kowloon HQ, there was another call about John Chen, this time Hong Kong side in Wanchai, down near Glessing’s Point in the dock area. Apparently John Chen had been seen being bundled into a tenement house, a dirty bandage over his right ear. This time the caller had given his name and driver’s license number so that he could claim the reward of 50,000 HK, offered by Struan’s and Noble House Chen. Again Armstrong had brought units to surround the area and had led the meticulous search. It was already five o’clock in the morning by the time he called off the operation and dismissed his men.

  “Brian, it’s me for bed,” he said. “Waste of another fang-pi night.”

  Brian Kwok yawned too. “Yes. But while we’re this side, how about breakfast at the Para and then, then let’s go and look at the morning workouts?”

  At once most of Robert Armstrong’s tiredness fell away. “Great idea!”

  The Para Restaurant in Wanchai Road near Happy Valley Racecourse was always open. The food was excellent, cheap and it was a well-known meeting place for triads and their girls. When the two policemen strode into the large, noisy, bustling, plate-clattering room a sudden silence fell. The proprietor, One Foot Ko, limped over to them and beamed them to the best table in the place.

  “Dew neh loh moh on you too, Old Friend,” Armstrong said grimly and added some choice obscenities in gutter Cantonese, staring back pointedly at the nearest group of gaping young thugs who nervously turned away.

  One Foot Ko laughed and showed his bad teeth. “Ah, Lords, you honor my poor establishment. Dim sum?”

  “Why not?” Dim sum—small chow or small foods—were bite-sized dough envelopes packed with minced shrimps or vegetables or various meats then steamed or deep-fried and eaten with a touch of soya, or saucers of chicken and other meats in various sauces or pastries of all kinds.

  “Your Worships are going to the track?”

  Brian Kwok nodded, sipping his jasmine tea, his eyes roving the diners, making many of them very nervous. “Who’s going to win the fifth?” he asked.

  The restaurateur hesitated, knowing he’d better tell the truth. He said carefully in Cantonese, “They say that neither Golden Lady, Noble Star, Pilot Fish or Butterscotch Lass has … has yet been touted as having an edge.” He saw the cold black-brown eyes come to rest on him and he tried not to shudder. “By all the gods, that’s what they say.”

  “Good. I’ll come here Saturday morning. Or I’ll send my sergeant. Then you can whisper in his ear if some foul play’s contemplated. Yes. And if it turns out one of those are doped or cut and I don’t know about it on Saturday morning … perhaps your soups will addle for fifty years.”

  One Foot smiled nervously. “Yes, Lord. Let me see to your food no—”

  “Before you go, what’s the latest gossip on John Chen?”

  “None. Oh very none, Honored Lord,” the man said, a little perspiration on his upper lip. “Fragrant Harbor’s as clean of information on him as a virgin’s treasure. Nothing, Lord. Not a dog’s fart of a real rumor though everyone’s looking. I hear there’s an extra great reward.”

  “What? How much?”

  “100,000 extra dollars if within three days.”

  Both policemen whistled. “Offered by whom?” Armstrong asked.

  One Foot shrugged, his eyes hard. “No one knows, Sire. They say by one of the Dragons—or all the Dragons. 100,000 and promotion if within three days—if he’s recovered alive. Please, now let me see about your food.”

  They watched him go. “Why did you lean on One Foot?” Armstrong asked.

  “I’m tired of his mealy-mouthed hypocrisy—and all these rotten little thugs. The cat-o’-nine-tails’d solve our triad problems.”

  Armstrong called for a beer. “When I leaned on Sergeant Tang-po I didn’t think I’d get such action so fast. 100,000’s a lot of money! This can’t be just a simple kidnapping. Jesus Christ that’s a lot of reward! There’s got to be something special about John.”

  “Yes. If it’s true.”

  But they had arrived at no conclusions and when they came to the track, Brian Kwok had gone to check in with HQ and now Armstrong had his binoculars trained on the mare. Butterscotch Lass was leaving the track to walk back up the hill to the stables. She looks in great fettle, he thought. They all do. Shit, which one?

  “Robert?”

  “Oh hello, Peter.”

  Peter Marlowe smiled at him. “Are you up early or going to bed late?”

  “Late.”

  “Did you notice the way Noble Star charged without her jockey doing a thing?”

  “You’ve sharp eyes.”

  Peter Marlowe smiled and shook his head. He pointed at a group of men around one of the horses. “Donald McBride told me.”

  “Ah!” McBride was an immensely popular racing steward, a Eurasian property developer who had come to Hong Kong from Shanghai in ’49. “Has he given you the winner? He’ll know if anyone does.”

  “No, but he invited me to his box on Saturday. Are you racing?”

  “Do you mind! I’ll see you in the members’ box—I don’t cavort with the nobs!”

  They both watched the horses for a
while. “Golden Lady looks good.”

  “They all do.”

  “Nothing on John Chen yet?”

  “Nothing.” Armstrong caught sight of Dunross in his binoculars, talking to some stewards. Not far away was the SI guard that Crosse had assigned to him. Roll on Friday, the policeman thought. The sooner we see those AMG files the better. He felt slightly sick and he could not decide if it was apprehension about the papers, or Sevrin, or if it was just fatigue. He began to reach for a cigarette—stopped. You don’t need a smoke, he ordered himself. “You should give up smoking, Peter. It’s very bad for you.”

  “Yes. Yes I should. How’s it going with you?”

  “No trouble. Which reminds me, Peter, the Old Man approved your trip around the border road. Day after tomorrow, Friday, 6:00 A.M. on the dot at Kowloon HQ. That all right?”

  Peter Marlowe’s heart leaped. At long last he could look into Mainland China, into the unknown. In all the borderland of the New Territories there was only one accessible lookout that tourists could use to see into China, but the hill was so far away you could not see much at all. Even with binoculars. “How terrific!” he said, elated. At Armstrong’s suggestion he had written to the commissioner and applied for this permission. The border road meandered from shore to shore. It was forbidden to all traffic and all persons—except locals in certain areas. It ran in a wide stretch of no-man’s-land between the Colony and China. Once a day it was patrolled under very controlled circumstances. The Hong Kong Government had no wish to rock any PRC boats.

  “One condition, Peter: You don’t mention it or talk about it for a year or so.”

  “My word on it.”

  Armstrong suppressed another yawn. “You’ll be the only Yank who’s ever gone along it, perhaps ever will.”

  “Terrific! Thanks.”

  “Why did you become a citizen?”

  After a pause Peter Marlowe said, “I’m a writer. All my income comes from there, almost all of it. Now people are beginning to read what I write. Perhaps I’d like the right to criticize.”

  “Have you ever been to any Iron Curtain countries?”

  “Oh yes. I went to Moscow in July for the film festival. One of the films I wrote was the American entry. Why?”

  “Nothing,” Armstrong said, remembering Bartlett’s and Casey’s Moscow franks. He smiled. “No reason.”

  “One good turn deserves another. I heard a buzz about Bartlett’s guns.”

  “Oh?” Armstrong was instantly attentive. Peter Marlowe was very rare in Hong Kong inasmuch as he crossed social strata and was accepted as a friend by many normally hostile groups.

  “It’s just talk probably but some friends have a theory—”

  “Chinese friends?”

  “Yes. They think the guns were a sample shipment, bound for one of our piratical Chinese citizens—at least, one with a history of smuggling—for shipment to one of the guerrilla bands operating in South Vietnam, called Viet Cong.”

  Armstrong grunted. “That’s farfetched, Peter, Hong Kong’s not the place to transit guns.”

  “Yes. But this shipment was special, the first, and it was asked for in a hurry and was to be delivered in a hurry. You’ve heard of Delta Force?”

  “No,” Armstrong said, staggered that Peter Marlowe had already heard of what Rosemont, CIA, had assured them in great secrecy was a very classified operation.

  “I understand it’s a group of specially trained U.S. combat soldiers, Robert, a special force who’re operating in Vietnam in small units under the control of the American Technical Group, which’s a cover name for the CIA. It seems they’re succeeding so well that the Viet Cong need modern weapons fast and in great quantity and are prepared to pay handsomely. So these were rushed here on Bartlett’s plane.”

  “Is he involved?”

  “My friends doubt it,” he said after a pause. “Anyway, the guns’re U.S. Army issue, Robert, right? Well, once this shipment was approved, delivery in quantity was going to be easy.”

  “Oh, how?”

  “The U.S. is going to supply the arms.”

  “What?”

  “Sure.” Peter Marlowe’s face settled. “It’s really very simple: Say these Viet Cong guerrillas were provided in advance with all exact U.S. shipment dates, exact destinations, quantities and types of arms—small arms to rockets—when they arrived in Vietnam?”

  “Christ!”

  “Yes. You know Asia. A little h’eung yau here and there and constant hi-jacking’d be simple.”

  “It’d be like them having their own stockpile!” Armstrong said, appalled. “How’re the guns going to be paid for? A bank here?”

  Peter Marlowe looked at him. “Bulk opium. Delivered here. One of our banks here supplies the financing.”

  The police officer sighed. The beauty of it fell into place. “Flawless,” he said.

  “Yes. Some rotten bastard traitor in the States just passes over schedules. That gives the enemy all the guns and ammunition they need to kill off our own soldiers. The enemy pays for the guns with a poison that costs them nothing—I imagine it’s about the only salable commodity they’ve got in bulk and can easily acquire. The opium’s delivered here by the Chinese smuggler and converted to heroin because this’s where the expertise is. The traitors in the States make a deal with the Mafia who sell the heroin at enormous profit to more kids and so subvert and destroy the most important bloody asset we have: youth.”

  “As I said, flawless. What some buggers’ll do for money!” Armstrong sighed again and eased his shoulders. He thought a moment. The theory tied in everything very neatly. “Does the name Banastasio mean anything?”

  “Sounds Italian.” Peter Marlowe kept his face guileless. His informants were two Portuguese Eurasian journalists who detested the police. When he had asked them if he could pass on the theory, da Vega had said, “Of course, but the police’ll never believe it. Don’t quote us and don’t mention any names, not Four Finger Wu, Smuggler Pa, the Ching Prosperity, or Banastasio or anyone.”

  After a pause, Armstrong said, “What else have you heard?”

  “Lots, but that’s enough for today—it’s my turn to get the kids up, cook breakfast and get them toddling off to school.” Peter Marlowe lit a cigarette and again Armstrong achingly felt the smoke need in his own lungs. “Except one thing, Robert. I was asked by a friendly member of the press to tell you he’d heard there’s to be a big narcotics meeting soon in Macao.”

  The blue eyes narrowed. “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What sort of meeting?”

  “Principals. ‘Suppliers, importers, exporters, distributors’ was the way he put it.”

  “Where in Macao?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Names?”

  “None. He did add that the meeting’ll include a visiting VIP from the States.”

  “Bartlett?”

  “Christ, Robert, I don’t know and he didn’t say that. Linc Bartlett seems a jolly nice fellow, and straight as an arrow. I think it’s all gossip and jealousy, trying to implicate him.”

  Armstrong smiled his jaundiced smile. “I’m just a suspicious copper. Villains exist in very high places, as well as in the boghole. Peter, old fellow, give your friendly journalist a message: If he wants to give me information, phone me direct.”

  “He’s frightened of you. So am I!”

  “In my hat you are.” Armstrong smiled back at him, liking him, very glad for the information and that Peter Marlowe was a safe go-between who could keep his mouth shut. “Peter, ask him where in Macao and when and who and—” At a sudden thought, Armstrong said, stabbing into the unknown, “Peter, if you were to choose the best place in the Colony to smuggle in and out, where’d you pick?”

  “Aberdeen or Mirs Bay. Any fool knows that—they’re just the places that’ve always been used first, ever since there was a Hong Kong.”

  Armstrong sighed. “I agree.” Aberdeen, he thought. What Aberdeen smugg
ler? Any one of two hundred. Four Finger Wu’d be first choice. Four Fingers with his big black Rolls and lucky 8 number plate, that bloody thug Two Hatchet Tok and that young nephew of his, the one with the Yankee passport, the one from Yale, was it Yale? Four Fingers would be first choice. Then Goodweather Poon, Smuggler Pa, Ta Sap-fok, Fisherman Pok … Christ, the list’s endless, just of the ones we know about. In Mirs Bay, northeast beside the New Territories? The Pa Brothers, Big Mouth Fang and a thousand others …

  “Well,” he said, very very glad now for the information—something tweaking him about Four Finger Wu though there had never been any rumor that he was in the heroin trade. “One good turn deserves another: Tell your journalist friend our visiting members of Parliament, the trade delegation, come in today from Peking … What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” Peter Marlowe said, trying to keep his face clear. “You were saying?”

  Armstrong watched him keenly, then added, “The delegation arrives on the afternoon train from Canton. They’ll be at the border, transferring trains at 4:32—we just heard of the change of plan last night so perhaps your friend could get an exclusive interview. Seems they’ve made very good progress.”

  “Thanks. On my friend’s behalf. Yes thanks. I’ll pass it on at once. Well, I must be off….”

  Brian Kwok came hurrying toward them. “Hello, Peter.” He was breathing quite hard. “Robert, sorry but Crosse wants to see us right now.”

  “Bloody hell!” Armstrong said wearily. “I told you it’d be better to wait before checking in. That bugger never sleeps.” He rubbed his face to clear his tiredness away, his eyes red-rimmed. “You get the car, Brian, and I’ll meet you at the front entrance.”

  “Good.” Brian Kwok hurried away. Perturbed, Armstrong watched him go.

  Peter Marlowe said as a joke, “The Town Hall’s on fire?”

  “In our business the Town Hall’s always on fire, lad, somewhere.” The policeman studied Peter Marlowe. “Before I leave, Peter, I’d like to know what’s so important about the trade delegation to you.”

  After a pause the man with the curious eyes said, “I used to know one of them during the war. Lieutenant Robin Grey. He was provost marshal of Changi for the last two years.” His voice was flat now, more flat and more icy than Armstrong had imagined possible. “I hated him and he hated me. I hope I don’t meet him, that’s all.”