The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘I wish to see Mr Kuo,’ said Charlie. When the clerk did not react, Charlie added, ‘Mr Kuo Yuan-ching.’

  ‘He knows you?’

  ‘I telephoned. He said I was to call.’

  The man hesitated, then turned through a small door at the rear. Charlie moved to one side, to make room for the continual thrust of people. A hell of a lot of the five thousand seemed to regard it as a wasted swim.

  He was kept waiting for nearly fifteen minutes before the clerk returned and nodded his head towards the rear office. With difficulty Charlie squeezed past the counter and went into the room.

  It was as spartan and functional as that through which he had just come. A desk, three filing cabinets, one upright chair for any visitors, the walls bare and unbroken by any official photographs, even of Mao Tse-tung.

  ‘May I?’ asked Charlie, hand on the chair-back.

  The head of the Chinese Legation stared at him without any expression of greeting, then nodded. Like confronting a headmaster for the first time, thought Charlie. Christ, his feet hurt.

  ‘You will take tea?’ said the official.

  It was a statement rather than a hospitable question.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charlie, accepting the ritual.

  Kuo rang a handbell and from a side door almost immediately appeared another tunicked man carrying a tray dominated by a large Thermos. Around it were grouped teapot and cups.

  ‘Proper Chinese tea,’ announced Kuo, pouring.

  Charlie took the cup, sipping it.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said politely. He had rushed almost everything else and made a balls of it, he thought. And this was his last chance, hopeless though the attempt might be, under the newly recognised rules. So the meeting could proceed at whatever pace the other man dictated.

  Kuo topped up the pot from the Thermos, then sat back, regarding Charlie again with a headmasterly look.

  Charlie gazed back, vaguely disconcerted. Kuo was a square-bodied, heavily built man, dressed in the regulation tunic but with no obvious signs of his rank. Under its cap of thick black hair, the man’s face was smooth and unlined.

  Kuo nodded towards the telephone.

  ‘You spoke of wanting help?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

  ‘What kind of help?’

  ‘I represent one of the syndicate members who insured the Pride of America …’

  ‘Who now stand to lose a large sum of money.’

  ‘Who now stand to lose a large sum of money,’ agreed Charlie.

  ‘And you don’t want to pay?’

  Can’t pay, thought Charlie, sighing. There was something almost artificial in the communist criticism of capitalism, he decided. As ritualistic as the tea-drinking.

  ‘We’re trying to avoid paying out wrongly,’ he explained. ‘And at the moment, we might be forced to.’

  ‘How is that?’ demanded Kuo.

  ‘The liner was not set alight by agents of the People’s Republic of China,’ declared Charlie.

  For the first time there was reaction from the man; no facial expression, but a hesitation before he spoke again.

  ‘If it is an assurance of that which you want, then of course you have it,’ said Kuo. ‘The accusation has been ridiculous from the start.’

  For someone of Kuo’s control, it had been a clumsy response, thought Charlie.

  ‘I want more than assurance,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Proof.’

  Kuo leaned forward over the desk, pouring more tea.

  ‘How long have you been in Hong Kong?’ he asked, settling back into his chair.

  ‘Little over a week,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Then you must have seen the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mr Lu?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we must be almost at the bottom of the list,’ decided Kuo.

  Charlie considered his reply. Was Kuo seeking an apology, imagining some insult in the order of priority? There seemed no point in evading the accusation.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘At the bottom.’

  Briefly, unexpectedly, Kuo smiled.

  ‘You’re very honest,’ he said.

  ‘If I thought I’d achieve more by lying, then I would,’ said Charlie.

  Again the smile flickered into place.

  ‘Very honest indeed.’

  Charlie sipped his tea. Again he’d made the proper response, he realised, relieved.

  ‘Even if you are prepared to help me,’ Charlie went on in explanation, ‘it might not be possible for you to do so.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I believe Lu destroyed his own ship,’ said Charlie. ‘I believe that he used gambling debts to force the shipyard workers into doing it and then had them murdered by someone else who had also got into debt …’

  Charlie hesitated, Kuo remained impassive on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Believe,’ repeated Charlie. ‘But cannot prove to the satisfaction of the English court in which Lu is suing for payment. But there might be a way to obtain that proof …’

  ‘By seeing if a prison cook named Fan Yung-ching has returned to his family in Hunan?’

  Charlie nodded, letting the curiosity reach his face.

  ‘We are not entirely ignorant of the affair,’ said Kuo.

  ‘Then help me prove the truth of it,’ Charlie urged him. ‘The real truth.’

  ‘You expect my country to help a capitalist institution save a fortune!’

  ‘I expect China to have a proper awareness of the harm that could be caused to its relations with Washington if this remains unchallenged,’ said Charlie.

  ‘An insurance official with a politician’s argument,’ mused Kuo.

  ‘A logical, sensible argument,’ Charlie corrected him. He sounded as pompous as Johnson, he thought.

  ‘Come now,’ said Kuo. ‘Lu has the irritation of a droning insect on a summer’s day. Are you seriously suggesting an impediment between my country and America from someone as insignificant?’

  ‘The Pride of America was built with an enormous grant from the American government. And then sustained by an equally enormous grant, until it became blatantly uneconomical. Millions of dollars of American taxpayers’ money supported that ship. And there was a pride in it. The destruction, within weeks of leaving America, is far from insignificant. And I’m sure there are people within your Foreign Ministry who feel the same way …’

  Charlie paused, tellingly.

  ‘And if you didn’t think so, too,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t be as familiar with the details as you obviously are.’

  Again there was the brief, firefly smile.

  ‘Not only honest,’ said the Chinese, ‘but remarkably perceptive as well.’

  ‘Am I wrong?’

  Kuo fingered his teacup, finally looking up.

  ‘No,’ he admitted, matching Charlie’s earlier honesty. ‘You’re not wrong.’

  ‘Then help me,’ said Charlie again.

  ‘How?’

  ‘If the cook has returned to Hunan …’ began Charlie.

  ‘He has,’ Kuo cut him off.

  Charlie felt the sweep of familiar excitement at the awareness that he could win. Lu’s boastful words, he remembered. But that’s all it was, a boast. In himself, Charlie knew, the need was far deeper. Sir Archibald had recognised it; one of the few who had. And used it, quite calculatingly. But openly, of course. ‘Go out and win, Charlie.’ Always the same encouragement. And so he’d gone out and won. Because he’d had to. Just as he’d had to win, and win demonstrably, when he’d realised Sir Archibald’s successors were trying to beat him. And then again, when they’d begun the chase. ‘Go out and win, Charlie.’ No matter who gets hurt. Or dies. Poor Edith.

  Charlie began concentrating, considering another thought: he’d expected the Chinese to be properly concerned, but to have established already the return to China of the Hunan cook showed a determined investigation.

&nbs
p; ‘Superintendent Johnson told me he had sought assistance from you,’ said Charlie.

  ‘He wants the man returned to the colony.’

  ‘And that’s not possible?’ probed Charlie gently.

  ‘It might not be thought wise.’

  ‘I wouldn’t need his return, to fight Lu in the English High Court,’ Charlie assured him.

  ‘How, then?’

  ‘Give me an entry visa to China,’ said Charlie. ‘Let me interview the man, in the presence of your officials and someone from the British embassy in Peking who can notarise the statement as being properly made and therefore legally admissible in an English court.’

  He’d been involved in British espionage for two decades, reflected Charlie. And in that time used a dozen overseas embassies. There could easily be an earlier-encountered diplomat now assigned to Peking who might recognise him. He would, thought Charlie, spend the rest of his life fleeing through a hall of distorted mirrors and shying away from half-seen images of fear.

  Kuo indicated the teapot, but Charlie shook his head. The man added to his own cup, apparently considering the request.

  ‘You must tell me one thing,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If we make this facility available to you … if he makes a full confession about what happened, can you absolutely guarantee that Lu’s claim will be publicly discussed in an open court, so that the man will be exposed for the fraud he is?’

  Now Charlie remained unspeaking, balancing the demand. It was impossible to anticipate what the cook would say. Or his statement’s admissibility in court, despite the attempted legality of having a British embassy official present. It would be sufficient to beat Lu. But more probably in private negotiations with lawyers, rather than in an open court challenge.

  ‘It would mean Lu’s claim against my company would fail,’ predicted Charlie.

  ‘But not that the man would be taken to court, for everyone to witness?’

  ‘I cannot guarantee that.’

  ‘I respect you again for your frankness,’ said the legation head.

  ‘You knew that, without my telling you,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kuo. ‘I knew it.’

  Charlie controlled the almost imperceptible sigh: another test passed.

  ‘I would try to ensure that my company made a public announcement of any withdrawal by Lu,’ promised Charlie. ‘And that would by implication show the claim to be false.’

  ‘But isn’t it sometimes a condition of out-of-court settlements that there should be no publicity?’

  ‘There appears little you haven’t considered,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No,’ agreed Kuo. ‘Very little.’

  ‘Does that mean you can give me an immediate decision about a visa?’

  Kuo shook his head at the eagerness.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I have to refer to Peking.’

  ‘So there could be a delay.’

  ‘There normally is.’

  ‘But this isn’t a normal case,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So when would you expect to get a decision?’

  ‘What would you say if I asked you to return this time tomorrow?’

  ‘I would say that you seem to have been expecting me.’

  Kuo laughed, his face fully relaxed for the first time.

  ‘We were,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m surprised it’s taken you so long.’

  The wind began to freshen in sudden, breathy gusts as it always does before the summer downpours in Hong Kong and the priest started to hurry, frowning above his prayer book at the clouds bubbling over the Peak. Why shouldn’t he? thought Charlie. Despite a congregation of only one, the man had persisted with a full service, even the fifteen-minute promise of the glory awaiting Robert Nelson compared to the unhappiness of the life he had known. So why should he get wet? From the left the gravediggers hovered, shovels in hand, as anxious as the priest that the grave should not become waterlogged.

  Charlie shook his head, refusing the invitation to cast the first sod down upon the coffin.

  The priest smiled slightly, happy at the saved minute.

  ‘And so,’ he intoned, ‘I commit the body of Robert Nelson to the earth and his soul to Heaven …’

  He turned expectantly to Charlie, who was unsure what to do. Finally he backed away, realising it was over. The priest fell into step beside him.

  ‘Surprised at the turn-out,’ he said genially.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie. He’d worked methodically through the bars of the Wan Chai and then Kowloon, trying to locate Jenny Lin Lee. And got shrugs and blank faces and assurances that she was unknown.

  ‘Particularly for someone so respected in the community.’

  Charlie looked sideways. The priest smiled back ingenuously. The man didn’t know, decided Charlie. But then, how could he?

  ‘Perhaps they were busy,’ said Charlie.

  The priest frowned.

  ‘That’s not usually an obstruction among the European community here,’ he replied automatically.

  ‘At least he’ll never know how little they cared,’ said Charlie, jerking his head back in the direction of the grave.

  The priest stopped on the narrow pathway, face creased in distaste.

  ‘That’s hardly respectful of the dead,’ he complained.

  ‘Neither is a business community ignoring the funeral of a man who’s worked here all his life,’ snapped Charlie. Wasn’t there ever a circumstance in which he did not have to weigh and consider his words? he thought wearily.

  ‘Quite,’ said the priest, immediately retreating. ‘Very sad.’

  The path split, one way going back to the church, the other to the lychgate exit. The first rain splattered the stones as they paused, to part.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said the priest, grateful to have escaped getting wet.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.

  He was almost at the covered gateway before he saw Harvey Jones. He stopped, careless of the downpour.

  ‘I startled you,’ apologised the American.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Charlie said nothing. He should have seen the man, he thought. Been aware of his presence at least. Perhaps his instinct was failing.

  ‘Hadn’t you better get under cover?’ said Jones. ‘You’re getting soaked.’

  Charlie pressed under the tiny roof, turning back to look over the churchyard to avoid the American’s direct attention. The gravediggers were scrabbling the earth into the grave, careless of how they filled it. The poor bugger even got buried messily.

  ‘Arrived too late to join the service,’ said Jones, still apologising.

  ‘You’d have been lost in the crowd,’ said Charlie sarcastically. ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘Wanted to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Because the man’s curiosity was increasing rather than diminishing, thought Charlie, answering his own question.

  ‘See how you’re getting on,’ said Jones.

  Liar, thought Charlie.

  ‘You’d have kept drier waiting at the hotel.’

  ‘Nothing else to do,’ said the American easily. ‘Perhaps it was the rain that kept everyone away.’

  ‘He wasn’t very popular,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Certainly not with someone.’

  Charlie ignored the invitation.

  ‘How’s the investigation going?’ asked Jones, forced into the direct demand.

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t suggest a separate autopsy?’

  ‘What?’ said Charlie, forgetting.

  ‘Separate autopsy,’ repeated Jones. ‘Try to find something upon which Johnson could have worked.’

  ‘Decided it would be a waste of time.’

  ‘So what have you done?’

  Spent all my time trying to avoid you, thought Charlie.

  ‘Pok
ed about,’ he said.

  ‘And found what?’

  ‘Nothing. What about you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  It was as if his anxiety were forcing the breath from him, making it impossible for him to create proper sentences. It would not be difficult for Jones to notice the attitude. And for his curiosity to increase. The rain began lessening. Soon he would be able to escape.

  ‘Still might be better if we worked together,’ suggested the American.

  ‘I prefer to stay on my own,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Wonder what the Chinese think about it?’ said Jones suddenly.

  Charlie made an unknowing gesture:

  ‘Why not ask them?’

  ‘Might well do that. Do they have representation here?’

  ‘I believe so,’ said Charlie, playing the game. So Jones had been out there somewhere in the crowd and seen him enter the legation. And wanted him to know. Why? An offer to identify himself, like wearing a school tie?

  ‘Yes indeed, I might well do that,’ repeated the American.

  ‘Let me know how you get on,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Of course,’ promised Jones. ‘I’ll keep my side of the bargain.’

  Another invitation, Charlie recognised.

  ‘It’s stopped raining,’ he said, nodding beyond the lychgate.

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘I’ve got a taxi waiting,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I’ll let you know what Kuo Yuan-ching says,’ promised Jones, as he walked from the churchyard.

  ‘Who?’ said Charlie, avoiding the trap.

  ‘Kuo Yuan-ching,’ said the American again. ‘I gather he’s the man to see.’

  Alone at last, Charlie stretched back against the seat as his car started its switchback descent towards the Central district. The tension made him physically ache. He blinked his eyes open, reflecting upon his encounter with Harvey Jones. Because he was tired, he was making mistakes. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have told the American of his visit to the Chinese official. All he had done was risk being found out in a lie and possibly arousing the man’s suspicions further. And he guessed Jones had plenty of doubts already.

  ‘You’re not thinking fast enough, Charlie,’ he told himself.

  ‘So he’s behaved exactly as you predicted?’ said the inner council chairman.

  ‘Yes,’ said Chiu. Modestly, he kept the satisfaction from his voice.