“Penn, when you get to Avisyard, would you go out to the Shrieking Tree for me?”
“What’s the matter?”
He heard the concern in her voice. “Nothing, darling,” he told her, thinking about Jacques and Phillip Chen—how can I explain about them? “Nothing particular, just more of the same. I just wanted you to say hello to our real Shrieking Tree.”
“Our Jacaranda there’s no good?”
“Oh yes, she’s fine, but not the same. Perhaps you should bring a cutting back to Hong Kong.”
“No. Better we leave it where it is. Then you have to come home, don’t you, Ian?”
“Can I make a bet for you this afternoon?”
Again a pause. “Ten dollars on the horse you choose. I’ll back your choice. I’ll always back your choice. Call me tomorrow. Love you …’bye.”
He remembered the first time she had said, I love you, and then, later, when he had asked her to marry him, all the refusals and then eventually, through shattering tears, the real reason: “Oh Christ, Ian, I’m not good enough for you. You’re upper class, I’m not. The way I talk now, I acquired. It was because I was evacuated at the beginning of the war to the country—my God I’d only been outside London twice in my whole life till then, just to the seaside. I was evacuated to a wonderful old manor house in Hampshire where all the other girls were from one of your fine upper-class schools, Byculla was its name. There was a mix-up, Ian, my whole school went somewhere else, just me to Byculla, and it was only then that I found I talked different, differently—there, you see I still forget sometimes! Oh God, you’ve no idea how awful it was to find out so young that … that I was common and talked common and that there are such limitless differences in England, the way we talk—the way we talk so important!
“Oh how I worked to imitate the others. They helped me and there was one teacher who was so wonderful to me. I hurled myself into the new life, theirs, and I swore to better myself and never go back, never, never, never, and I won’t. But I can’t marry you, my darling—let’s just stay lovers—I’ll never be good enough.”
But in time, her time, they had married. Granny Dunross had persuaded her. Penelope had agreed but only after going out to the Shrieking Tree, alone. She had never told him what she had said.
I’m lucky, Dunross thought. She’s the best wife a man could have.
Since coming back from the track at dawn he had worked steadily. Half a hundred cables. Dozens of international phone calls. Countless locals. At 9:30 he had called the governor about Tiptop’s proposal. “I’ll have to consult the minister,” Sir Geoffrey had said. “The earliest I could call him would be four this afternoon. This must be kept entirely secret, Ian. Dear oh dear, Brian Kwok must be very important to them!”
“Or perhaps just another convenient concession for the money.”
“Ian, I don’t think the minister will agree to a trade.”
“Why?”
“Her Majesty’s Government might consider it a precedent, a bad one. I would.”
“The money’s vital.”
“The money’s a temporary problem. Precedents unfortunately last forever. You were at the track?”
“Yes sir.”
“How’s the form?”
“They all looked in fine fettle. Alexi Travkin says Pilot Fish’s our main opposition and the going will be soft. Noble Star’s grand though she’s never raced in the wet.”
“Will it rain?”
“Yes. But perhaps we’ll be lucky, sir.”
“Let’s hope so. Terrible times, Ian. Still, these things are sent to try us, eh? Are you going to John’s funeral?”
“Yes sir.”
“So am I. Poor fellow …”
At the funeral this morning Dunross had said kind words about John Chen for the face of the House of Chen and for all the Chen forebears who had served the Noble House so long and hard.
“Thank you, tai-pan,” Phillip Chen had said simply. “Again, I’m sorry.”
Later he had said to Phillip Chen privately, “Sorry is sorry but that still doesn’t help us extricate ourselves from the trap your son, and you, put us into. Or solve bloody Four Fingers and the third coin.”
“I know, I know!” Phillip Chen had said, wringing his hands. “I know, and unless we can get the stock back up we’re ruined, we’re all ruined! Oh ko, after you’d announced the boom I bought and bought and now we’re ruined.”
Dunross had said sharply, “We’ve got the weekend, Phillip. Now listen to me, damnit! You will claim every favor you’re owed. I want Lando Mata and Tightfist Tung’s backing by Sunday midnight. At least 20 million.”
“But, tai-pan, don—”
“If I don’t get that by Sunday midnight, have your resignation on my desk by 9:00 A.M., you’re no longer compradore, your son Kevin’s out and all your branch is out forever and I’ll choose a new compradore from another branch.”
Now he exhaled heavily, hating that Phillip Chen and John Chen—and probably Jacques deVille—had betrayed their trust. He went to the coffee tray and poured himself some coffee. Today it did not taste good to him. The phones had been incessant, most of the calls about the looming collapse of the market, the banking system. Havergill, Johnjohn, Richard Kwang. Nothing from Tightfist or Lando Mata or Murtagh. The only bright spot had been his call to David MacStruan in Toronto: “David, I want you here for a conference on Monday. Can you g—” He had been swamped by the bellow of joy.
“Tai-pan, I’m on my way to the airport. Goo—”
“Hang on, David!” He had explained his plan about transferring Jacques to Canada.
“Och, laddie, if you do that I’m your slave forever!”
“I’m going to need more than slaves, David,” he had said carefully.
There was a long pause and the voice on the other end hardened. “Anything you want, tai-pan, you’ve got. Anything.”
Dunross smiled, warmed by the thought of his distant cousin. He let his eyes drift out of the windows. The harbor was misted, the sky low and dark but no rain yet. Good, he thought, so long as it doesn’t rain till after the fifth race. After four o’clock it can rain. I want to smash Gornt and Pilot Fish and oh God let First Central come up with my money, or Lando Mata or Tightfist or Par-Con! Your bet’s covered, he told himself stoically, every way you can. And Casey? Is she setting me up like Bartlett? And like Gornt? What about…
The intercom clicked on. “Tai-pan, your eleven o’clock appointment’s here.”
“Claudia, come in a second.” He took an envelope out of his drawer with the $1,000 in it and gave it to her. “Betting money, as promised.”
“Oh thank you, tai-pan.” There were care lines in her jolly face and shadows under the smile.
“You’re in Phillip’s box?”
“Oh yes. Yes, Uncle Phillip invited me. He … he seems very upset,” she said.
“It’s John.” Dunross wasn’t sure if she knew. She probably does, he thought, or soon will. There’re no secrets in Hong Kong. “What do you fancy?”
“Winner’s Delight in the first, Buccaneer in the second.”
“Two outsiders?” He stared at her. “You’ve inside info?”
“Oh no, tai-pan.” A little of her normal good humor came back. “It’s just the form.”
“And in the fifth?”
“I’m not betting the fifth, but all my hopes’re on Noble Star.” Claudia added worriedly, “Is there anything I can do to help, tai-pan? Anything? The stock market and … we have to slaughter Gornt somehow.”
“I’m rather fond of Gornt—he’s such a fang-pi.” The Canton obscenity was picturesque and she laughed. “Now show in Mrs. Gresserhoff.”
“Yes, yes tai-pan,” Claudia said. “And thanks for the h’eung yau!”
In a moment, Dunross got up to greet his guest. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “Ikaga desu ka?” he asked in shock, his Japanese fluent—How are you?—astounded that she could have been married to Alan Medford Grant
whose name, God help us, was also supposed to be Hans Gresserhoff.
“Genki, tai-pan. Domo. Genki desu! Anatawa?” Fine, tai-pan, thank you. And you?
“Genki.” He bowed slightly in return and did not shake hands though he noticed her hands and feet were tiny and her legs long. They chatted for a moment then she switched to English with a smile. “Your Japanese is oh very good, tai-pan. My husband, he did not tell me you were so tall.”
“Would you care for coffee?”
“Thank you … but oh please let me get it for you too.” Before he could stop her she had gone to the coffee tray. He watched her pour delicately. She offered him the first cup with a little bow. “Please.” Riko Gresserhoff—Riko Anjin—was barely five feet, perfectly proportioned with short hair and lovely smile and she weighed about ninety pounds. Her blouse and skirt were auburn silk, well cut and French. “Thank you for the expense money Miss Claudia gave me.”
“It’s nothing. We owe your, your husband’s estate about 8,000 pounds. I’ll have a cashier’s check for you tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“You have me at a disadvantage, Mrs. Gresserhoff. You kn—”
“Please call me Riko, tai-pan.”
“Very well, Riko-san. You know me but I know nothing about you.”
“Yes. My husband said I was to tell you whatever you wanted to know. He told me that, that once I had made sure you were the tai-pan, then I was to give you an envelope I have brought from him to you. May I bring it later?” Again the little interrogative smile. “Please?”
“I’ll come back with you now and collect it.”
“Oh no, that would be too much trouble. Perhaps I can bring it to you after luncheon. Please.”
“How big is it? The envelope?”
Her tiny hands measured the air. “It is an ordinary envelope but not so thick. You could put it easily into your pocket.” Again the smile.
“Perhaps you’d like to … I tell you what,” he said, charmed by her presence. “In a minute or two I’ll send you back by car. You can fetch the envelope and come right back.” Then he added, knowing it would ruin the seating arrangements but not caring, “Would you join us for lunch at the races?”
“Oh but … but I would have to change and … oh thank you but no, it would be too much trouble for you. Perhaps I could deliver the letter later, or tomorrow? My husband said I was only to put it into your hands.”
“No need to change, Riko-san. You look lovely. Oh! Do you have a hat?”
Perplexed she stared at him. “Please?”
“Yes, it’s, er, yes, it’s our custom that ladies wear hats and gloves to the races. Silly custom but do you? Have a hat?”
“Oh yes. Every lady has a hat. Of course.”
A wave of relief went through him. “Good, then that’s settled.”
“Oh! Then if you say so.” She got up. “Shall I go now?”
“No, if you’ve time, please sit down. How long were you married?”
“Four years. Hans …” She hesitated. Then she said firmly, “Hans told me to tell you, but you alone, if ever he was to die and I was to come as I have come, to tell you that our marriage was of convenience.”
“What?”
She reddened a little as she continued. “Please excuse me but I was to tell you. It was a convenience to both of us. I obtained a Swiss citizenship and passport and he obtained someone to care for him when he came to Switzerland. I … I did not wish to marry but he asked me many times and he … and he stressed that it would protect me when he died.”
Dunross was startled. “He knew he was going to die?”
“I think so. He said the marriage contract was for five years only but that we should have no children. He took me to an advocate in Zurich who drew up a contract for five years.” She opened her purse, her fingers trembling but not her voice, and pulled out an envelope. “Hans told me to give you these. They’re copies of the contract, my, my birth and marriage certificate, his will and birth certificate.” She took out a tissue and pressed it against her nose. “Please excuse me.” Carefully she untied the string around the envelope and took out a letter.
Dunross accepted it. He recognized AMG’s handwriting. “Tai-pan: This will confirm my wife, Riko Gresserhoff—Riko Anjin—is who she says she is. I love her with all my heart. She merits and merited far better than me. If she needs help … please please please.” It was signed Hans Gresserhoff.
“I do not merit better, tai-pan,” she said with a sad, small confident voice. “My husband was good to me, very good. And I’m sorry he is dead.”
Dunross watched her. “Was he ill? Did he know he was going to die from an illness?”
“I don’t know. He never told me. One of his asks before I … before I married him was that I would not question him or question where he went, why, or when he was to return. I was just to accept him as he was.” A small shiver went through her. “It was very hard living thus.”
“Why did you agree to live like that? Why? Surely it wasn’t necessary?”
Again Riko hesitated. “I was born in Japan in 1939 and went as an infant with my parents to Berne—my father was a minor official in the Japanese Embassy there. In 1943 he went back to Japan but left us in Geneva. Our family is—our family comes from Nagasaki. In 1945 my father was lost and all our family was lost. There was nothing to go back to and my mother wanted to stay in Switzerland, so we went to live in Zurich with a good man who died four years ago. He … they paid for my education and kept me and we had a happy family. For many years I knew they were not married though they pretended and I pretended. When he died there was no money, or just a little money. Hans Gresserhoff was an acquaintance of this man, my, my stepfather. His name was Simeon Tzerak. He was a displaced person, tai-pan, a stateless person from Hungary who had taken up residence in Switzerland. Before the war he was an accountant, he said, in Budapest. My mother arranged my marriage to Hans Gresserhoff.” Now she looked up from the carpet at him. “It was … it was a good marriage, tai-pan, at least I tried very hard to be whatever my husband wanted and my mother wanted. My giri, my duty was to obey my mother, neh?”
“Yes,” he said kindly, understanding duty and giri, that most Japanese of words, most important of words that sums up a heritage and a way of life. “You have performed your giri perfectly, I’m sure. What does your mother say is your giri now?”
“My mother is dead, tai-pan. When my stepfather died she did not wish to live. The moment I was married she went up the mountain and skied into a crevasse.”
“Terrible.”
“Oh no, tai-pan, very good. She died as she wished to die, at a time and place of her choosing. Her man was dead, I was safe, what more was there for her to do?”
“Nothing,” he told her, hearing the softness of her voice, the sincerity, and the calm. The Japanese word wa came to his mind: harmony. That’s what this girl has, he thought. Harmony. Perhaps that’s what’s so beautiful about her. Ayeeyah that I could acquire such wa! One of his phones sounded. “Yes, Claudia?”
“It’s Alexi Travkin, tai-pan. Sorry, he said it was important.”
“Thank you.” To the girl he said, “Excuse me a moment. Yes, Alexi?”
“Sorry to interrupt, tai-pan, but Johnny Moore’s sick and he won’t be able to ride.” Johnny Moore was their chief jockey.
Dunross’s voice sharpened. “He seemed all right this morning.”
“He’s running 103-degree temperature, the doctor said it might be food poisoning.”
“You mean he’s been tampered with, Alexi?”
“I don’t know, tai-pan. I only know he’s no good for us today.”
Dunross hesitated. He knew he was better than the rest of his jockeys though the extra weight Noble Star would have to carry would load the deck against the horse. Should I or shouldn’t I? “Alexi, schedule Tom Wong. We’ll decide before the race.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Dunross replaced the phone. “Anjin’s a curi
ous name,” he said. “It means pilot, just pilot, or navigator, doesn’t it?”
“The legend in my family is that one of our forebears was an Englishman who became a samurai and advisor to the Shōgun Yoshi Toranaga, oh very many years ago, long long ago. We have many stories but they say first he had a fief in Hemi, near Yokohama, then went with his family to Nagasaki as inspector general of all foreigners.” Again the smile and the shrug and the tip of her tongue moistened her lips. “It is just legend, tai-pan. He is supposed to have married a highborn lady called Riko.” Her chuckle filled the room. “You know Japanese! A gai-jin, a foreigner, marrying a highborn lady—how could that be possible? But anyway, it is a pleasing story and an explanation of a name, neh?” She got up and he got up. “I should go now. Yes?”
No, he wanted to say.
The black Daimler pulled up outside the V and A, the Struan arms discreetly on the doors. Casey and Bartlett waited at the top of the stairs, Casey wearing a green dress, self-conscious in a pert green pillbox hat and white gloves, Bartlett broad-shouldered, wearing a blue tie to match his well-cut suit. Both were set-faced.
The chauffeur approached them. “Mr. Bartlett?”
“Yes.” They came down the steps to meet him. “You our limo?”
“Yes sir. Excuse me sir, but do you both have your badge tickets, and the invitation card?”
“Yes, here they are,” Casey said.
“Ah, good. Sorry but without them … My name’s Lim. The, er, the custom is for the gentlemen to tie both badges through the hole in their lapels and the ladies usually have a pin.”
“Whatever you say,” Bartlett said. Casey got in the back and he followed. They sat far apart. Silently they began to fix the small, individually numbered badges.
Blandly Lim closed the door, noticing the frigidity, and chortled inwardly. He closed the electric glass partition window and switched on his intercom mike. “If you want to talk to me, sir, just use the microphone above you.” Through his rear mirror he saw Bartlett use the switch momentarily.
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