Noble House

by James Clavell

  One hundred yards to go.

  In the stands and on the balconies and in the boxes, there was but one voice. Even the governor was pounding the balcony rail—“Come on come on Butterscotch Lasssss!”—and down by the winning post Nine Carat Chu was almost crushed against the rails by the press of the crowd craning forward.

  Ninety yards, eighty … mud scattering, all runners flat out, all caught by the excitement and the crescendoing roar.

  “The Lass’s pulling away …”

  “No, look at Pilot F—”

  “Christ it’s Lochinvarrrrr …”

  “Winning Billy …”

  “Come on come on come on …”

  Travkin saw the winning post bearing down on them. There was another flash of lightning. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Lochinvar ahead by a neck, then the Lass, now Winning Billy, now Pilot Fish easing forward taking the lead, now Winning Billy, Lochinvar crowding him.

  Then Bluey White saw the opening he’d been promised and he gave the stallion the final whip. Like an arrow he darted for the opening and swung up alongside Butterscotch Lass, then passed her. He was ahead by a neck. He saw the Lass’s jockey, not in the know, give the mare the whip, shouting her onward. Travkin screamed exultantly and Noble Star put out her final effort. The five horses came down the final yards neck and neck, now Pilot Fish ahead, now Winning Billy, Noble Star closing, just a neck behind, just a nose, just a nostril, the crowd a single, mindless raving lunatic, all the runners bunched, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching away, the Lass closing, Pilot Fish closing, now ahead by a nose.

  Forty … thirty … twenty … fifteen …

  Noble Star was ahead by a nostril, then Pilot Fish, then the Lass then Noble Star … Winning Billy … and now they were past the winning post not one of them sure who had won—only Travkin sure he had lost. Abruptly he sawed the bit a vicious two inches and held it left in an iron hand, the movement imperceptible but enough to throw her off her stride and she shied. With a shriek she barreled down into the mud and threw her rider at the rails, the Lass almost falling but holding, the other three safe. Travkin felt himself sailing, then there was an impossible chest tearing, head-splitting blackness.

  The crowd gasped, the race momentarily forgotten. Another blinding flash of lightning, pandemonium swooped over them, the downpour increased, mixing nicely with the thunder above.

  “Pilot Fish by a nose …”

  “Balls, it was Noble Star by a hair …”

  “You’re wrong, old boy, it was Pilot Fish …”

  “Dew neh loh moh …”

  “Christ what a race …”

  “Oh Christ! Look! There’s the stewards’ objection flag …”

  “Where? Oh my God! Who fouled …”

  “I didn’t see anything, did you …”

  “No. Difficult in this rain, even with glasses …”

  “Christ, now what? Those bloody stewards, if they take victory from my winner by Christ…”

  Dunross had rushed for the elevator the moment he saw Noble Star fall and throw Travkin. He had not seen the cause. Travkin was too clever.

  Others were excitedly crowding the corridors waiting for the elevator, everyone talking, no one listening. “We won by a nostril…”

  “What’s the objection for chrissake? Noble St—”

  “What’s the objection, tai-pan?”

  “That’s up to the stewards to announce.” In the uproar Dunross stabbed the button again.

  Gornt hurried up as the doors opened, everyone packing in, Dunross wanting to bellow with rage at the slowness. “It was Pilot Fish by a nose, Ian,” Gornt shouted above the uproar, his face flushed.

  “What a race!” someone shouted. “Anyone know what the objection is?”

  “Do you, Ian?” Gornt asked.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “It’s against my Pilot Fish?”

  “You know the procedure. First the stewards investigate, then they make an announcement.” He saw Gornt’s flat brown eyes and he knew his enemy was suddenly blind with rage that he wasn’t a steward. And you won’t become one, you bastard, Dunross thought, enraged. I’ll blackball you till I’m dead.

  “Is it against Pilot Fish, tai-pan?” someone shouted.

  “Good God,” he called back. “You know the procedure.”

  The elevator stopped at every level. More owners and friends crammed in. More shouts about what a great race but what the hell’s the objection? At last they reached ground level. Dunross rushed out onto the track where a group of ma-foo and officials surrounded Travkin who lay there crumpled and inert. Noble Star had fought to her feet, unhurt, and was now on the far side galloping riderless around the course, stable hands scattered and waiting to intercept her. Up the track on the last bend, the vet was kneeling beside the agonized roan gelding, Kingplay, his back leg broken, the bone jutting through. The sound of the shot did not penetrate the roars and counter roars of the impatient onlookers, their eyes fixed on the tote, waiting for the stewards’ judgment.

  Dunross knelt beside Travkin, one of the ma-foo holding an umbrella over the unconscious man. “How is he, Doctor?”

  “He didn’t slam into the rails, missed them by a miracle. He’s not dead, at least not yet, tai-pan,” Dr. Meng, the police pathologist, said nervously, used to dead bodies, not live patients. “I can’t tell, not until he comes around. There’s no apparent hemorrhaging externally. His neck … and his back seem all right … I can’t tell yet…”

  Two St. John’s ambulance men hurried up with a stretcher. “Where should we take him, sir?”

  Dunross looked around. “Sammy,” he said to one of his stableboys, “go and fetch Doc Tooley. He should be in our box.” To the ambulance men he said, “Keep Mr. Travkin in the ambulance till Doc Tooley gets here. What about the other three jockeys?”

  “Two are just shook up, sir. One, Captain Pettikin, has a broken leg but he’s already in a splint.”

  Very carefully the men put Travkin on the stretcher. McBride joined them, then Gornt and others. “How is he, Ian?”

  “We don’t know. Yet. He seems all right.” Gently Dunross lifted one of Travkin’s hands, examining it. He had thought he had seen a blow in the far turn and Travkin falter. A heavy red weal disfigured the back of his right hand. And the other one. “What could have caused this, Dr. Meng?”

  “Oh!” More confidently the little man said, “The reins perhaps. Perhaps a whip, could be a blow … perhaps in falling.”

  Gornt said nothing, just watched, inwardly seething that Bluey White could have been so inept when everything had been so neatly set up beforehand with a word here, a promise there. Half the bloody stadium must have seen him, he thought.

  Dunross examined Travkin’s ashen face. No marks other than inevitable bruising. A little blood seeped out of the nose.

  “It’s already coagulating. That’s a good sign,” Dr. Meng volunteered.

  The governor hurried up. “How is he?”

  Dunross repeated what the doctor had said.

  “Damned bad luck, Noble Star shying like that.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the stewards’ objection, Ian?”

  “We’re just going to discuss that, sir. Would you care to join us?”

  “Oh, no, no thank you. I’ll just wait and be patient. I wanted to make sure Travkin was all right.” The governor felt the rain running down his back. He looked up at the sky. “Blasted weather—looks like it’s here to stay. Are you going to continue the meet?”

  “I’m going to recommend we cancel, or postpone.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Yes,” McBride said. “I agree. We can’t afford another accident.”

  “When you have a moment, Ian,” Sir Geoffrey said, “I’ll be in my box.”

  Dunross’s attention focused. “Did you talk to the minister, sir?” he asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  “Yes.” Sir Geoffrey was equally casual. “Yes, he c
alled on the private line.”

  Abruptly the tai-pan was conscious of Gornt and the others. “I’ll walk you back, sir.” To McBride he said, “I’ll follow you at once,” then turned away and the two of them walked for the elevator.

  Once alone Sir Geoffrey muttered, “Hardly the place for a private conversation, what?”

  “We could examine the course, sir.” Dunross led the way to the rail, praying. “The turfs terrible, isn’t it?” he said, pointing.

  “Very.” Sir Geoffrey also kept his back to the eyes. “The minister was very perturbed. He left the decision about Brian to me, providing Mr. Sinders and Mr. Crosse first agree to the release, pro—”

  “Surely they’ll agree with you, sir?” Uneasily Dunross recalled his conversation with them last night.

  “I can only advise. I will advise them it is necessary providing you assure me it is. You personally.”

  “Of course,” Dunross said slowly. “But surely Havergill, Southerby or the other bankers would carry more weight.”

  “In banking matters, Ian, yes. But I think I require your personal assurance and cooperation also.”

  “Sir?”

  “This matter will have to be handled very delicately, by you, not by them. Then there’s the problem of those files. The AMG files.”

  “What about them, sir?”

  “That’s for you to answer. Mr. Sinders told me of his conversation with you last night.” Sir Geoffrey lit his pipe, his hands cupping the flame, protecting it from the rain. After the tai-pan’s call to him this morning he had at once sent for Crosse and Sinders to discuss the matter of the exchange prior to asking the minister. Sinders had reiterated his concern that the files might have been doctored. He said he might agree to release Kwok if he was sure of those files. Crosse had suggested trading Kwok for Fong-fong and the others.

  Now Sir Geoffrey looked at Dunross searchingly. “Well, Ian?”

  “Tiptop’s due, or was due this afternoon. May I assume that I can say yes to his proposal?”

  “Yes, providing you first get Mr. Sinders’s agreement. And Mr. Crosse’s.”

  “Can’t you give that to me, sir?”

  “No. The minister was quite clear. If you want to ask them now, they are in the members’ stands.”

  “They know the result of your call?”

  “Yes. Sorry but the minister made it very clear.” Sir Geoffrey was gentle. “It seems the reputation for fairness and honesty of the present tai-pan of the Noble House is known even in those hallowed places. Both the minister and I bank on it.” A burst of cheering distracted them. Noble Star had broken through the cordon of ma-foo trying to recapture her, and galloped past them, officials and stableboys scattering. “Perhaps you’d better deal with the race objection first. I’ll be in my box. Join me for tea or a cocktail if you wish.”

  Dunross thanked him then hurried for the stewards’ room, his mind in turmoil.

  “Ah, Ian,” Shitee T’Chung, the nominal chairman called out anxiously as he came in, all the stewards now present. “We really have to decide quickly.”

  “That’s hard without Travkin’s evidence,” Dunross said. “How many of you saw Bluey White slash at him?”

  Only McBride put up his hand.

  “That’s only two of us out of twelve.” Dunross saw Crosse watching him. “I’m certain. And there was a weal across both his hands. Dr. Meng said it could have been made by a whip or the reins in falling. Pug, what’s your opinion?”

  Pugmire broke an uncomfortable silence. “I saw nothing malicious, personally. I was watching like hell because I was on Noble Star, 1,000 on the nose. Whether there was a blow or not it didn’t seem to make much difference. I didn’t see her falter, or any of the pack, other than Kingplay. Noble Star was well in the running till the post and everyone had their whips out.” He tossed over one of the copies of the photo finish.

  Dunross picked it up. The photo was as he had seen it: Pilot Fish by a nose from Noble Star, by a nostril from Butterscotch Lass, by a nose from Winning Billy.

  “They’ve all got their whips out,” Pugmire continued, “and they had in the turn, quite rightly. It could easily have been accidental—if there was a blow.”

  “Shitee?”

  “I must confess, old boy, I was watching my Street Vendor and cursing Kingplay. I thought your filly’d pipped Pilot Fish. We, er, we’ve polled the other trainers and there’s, er, no formal complaint. I agree with Pug.”

  “Roger?”

  “I saw nothing untoward.”

  “Jason?”

  To his surprise Plumm shook his head and disagreed and Dunross wondered again about AMG and his astonishing accusation of Plumm and Sevrin. “We all know Bluey White’s cunning,” Plumm was saying. “We’ve had to warn him before. If the tai-pan and Donald say they saw it I vote we debar him and disqualify Pilot Fish when it comes to a vote.”

  Dunross polled the other stewards, the rest wavering.

  “Let’s call in the jockeys, White last.”

  They did. All the jockeys muttered permutations of the same thing: they were too busy with their own mounts to notice anything.

  Now the stewards looked at Dunross, waiting. He stared back, well aware that if he said, I vote we unanimously debar Bluey White for interference and disqualify Pilot Fish, all in favor say aye! that they would concede and vote as he wished.

  I saw him do it, he told himself, so did Donald, and others, and it shook Alexi for that necessary split second. Even so, in all honesty I don’t think that cost Noble Star the race. I blew the race myself. Alexi was the wrong choice for this race. He should have shoved Pilot Fish into the rails on the second corner when he had the chance, or put his whip across Bluey White’s face, not his hands as I’d have done, oh yes, without hesitation. And there are other considerations.

  “There’s no doubt in my mind there was interference,” he said. “But whether by accident or design I doubt if even Alexi will know. I agree it didn’t cost Noble Star the race so I suggest we just caution Bluey and let the result stand.”

  “Excellent.” Shitee T’Chung exhaled and beamed and they all relaxed, none of them, least of all Pugmire, wanting a confrontation with the tai-pan. “Anyone against? Good! Let’s release the photo finish to the papers and make the announcement over the loudspeakers. Will you do that, tai-pan?”

  “Certainly. But what about the rest of the program? Look at the rain.” It was pelting down now. “Listen, I’ve an idea.” He told it to them.

  A whoop of excitement and they all laughed. “Very good, oh very good!”

  “Grand!” Dunstan Barre exploded.

  “That’ll give the buggers something to think about!” Pugmire said.

  “Great idea, tai-pan!” McBride beamed. “Oh very good.”

  “I’ll go to the control center—perhaps you’d get Bluey back and give him what for, scare him, eh?”

  Pugmire said, “A word, Ian?”

  “Can we make it later?”

  “Of course. Roger, can I have a word?”

  “Of course. I’ll be down in the members’ stand with Sinders.”

  “Oh, not in your box?”

  “No, I let the commissioner have it for a private party.”

  “Ian?”

  “Yes, Jason?”

  “Do you think they’ll hold the hill climb tomorrow?”

  “If this keeps up, no. That whole area’ll be a quagmire. Why?”

  “Nothing. I was planning a cocktail party early Sunday evening to celebrate your Superfoods coup!”

  Shitee T’Chung chortled. “Jolly good idea! Congratulations, Ian! Did you see Biltzmann’s face?”

  “Ian, would you be free? I won’t invite Biltzmann,” Plumm added to much laughter. “It’ll be at our company flat in Sinclair Towers.”

  “Sorry, I’m going to Taipei early afternoon, sorry, at least that’s my present plan. Th—”

  Pugmire interrupted with sudden concern, “You won’t be here Monday? What about
our papers, and everything?”

  “No problem, Pug. 9:30 we close.” To Plumm Dunross said, “Jason if I cancel or postpone Taipei, I’ll accept.”

  “Good. 7:30 to 9:30 casual.”

  Dunross walked off, his frown deepening, surprised that Plumm was so friendly. Ordinarily he was the opposition on all the boards they shared, siding with Gornt and Havergill against him, particularly on the Victoria’s board.

  Outside the stewards’ room there were milling clusters of anxious reporters, owners, trainers and bystanders. Dunross brushed aside the barrage of questions all the way to the control room. It was on the top floor.

  “Hello, sir,” the announcer said, everyone tense in the small glass booth that had the best view of the course. “Marvelous race, pity about … Do you have the decision? It’s Bluey, isn’t it, we all saw the whip….”

  “May I use the mike?”

  “Oh of course.” The man hastily moved and Dunross sat in his place. He clicked on the switch. “This is Ian Dunross, the stewards have asked me to make two announcements….”

  The silence was vast as his words echoed and re-echoed over the stadium. The fifty thousand held their breaths, careless of the rain, in the stands and on every soaring level. “First, the result of the fifth race.” Dead silence but for the sound of the rain. Dunross took a deep breath. “Pilot Fish by a nose from Noble Star by a whisker from Butterscotch Lass …” but the last was drowned by the cheers and counter cheers, happiness and disgust, and everyone throughout the stadium was shouting, arguing, cheering, cursing and, down in the paddock, Gornt was astonished, having been convinced that his jockey had been seen as he had seen him, had been caught and carpeted and the result would be set aside. In the pandemonium the winning numbers flashed on to the tote: one, seven, eight.

  Dunross waited a moment and breezily repeated the result in Cantonese, the crowd more docile, their pent-up anxieties allayed, for the stewards’ decision was final. “Second, the stewards have decided, due to the weather and bad conditions, to cancel the rest of the meet…” A vast groan went over the crowd. “… actually to postpone until next Saturday for another special meet.” A sudden great roar and excitement picked up. “We will have a meet of eight races and the fifth will be the same as today, with the same runners, Pilot Fish, Butterscotch Lass, Winning Billy, Street Vendor, Golden Lady, Lochinvar and Noble Star. A special return challenge with double stakes, 30,000 added….”