Chapter 22 : 1905
In March 1905, Stephen Waters received a note from Miguel la Torres, founder, owner and chairman of the Macao-based La Torres Shipping, instructing him to present himself at la Torres’ office in two days’ time to commence work on his portrait. He showed the note to Fiona when she called in that afternoon with Lei-li.
“The impudence of the man!” she cried. “Miguel la Torres is a snake, Stephen. An evil man not to be trusted. Keung hates him. That shipping firm of his is a front for all his criminal activities. He’s nothing more than a jumped-up pickpocket, a gangster from the back streets of Macao.”
“I assume he only wants his portrait painted,” replied Stephen. “I can’t see much harm in that. In my line of work, I can stay removed from all the intrigues that businessmen and criminals tie themselves up in knots with.”
“Don’t be so sure of it, Stephen. My advice would be to turn him down if you can. I’ll talk to Keung and see what he thinks.”
However, when she consulted her lover, he reluctantly advised it would be prudent for Stephen to comply.
“To turn him down, Stephen, would only provoke him, and that is best avoided, believe me.”
When Stephen arrived at la Torres’ company headquarters at the appointed hour, he was shown into a large office decorated in heavy lacquered blackwood furniture. Thick red rugs with patterns of intertwined golden dragons covered the floor and ornate gas lamps hung from the ceiling.
La Torres was sitting cross-legged at a low table in front of a window, sipping tea. He was wearing the black gown of a mandarin, buttoned to one side of the neck. Glancing swiftly around the dark room, Stephen became aware of two huge men dressed entirely in black standing motionless and almost invisible in the shadows.
“Mr Waters,” said la Torres in an impeccable upper-class English accent, “how good of you to come. Sit. Take some tea.”
He clapped his hands and a servant shuffled hurriedly into the room from a side door to pour some tea into a tiny cup, bowing continuously as he did so.
La Torres was Eurasian, his main features Portuguese, but his almond-shaped eyes pure Chinese. He would once have been handsome, but years of underworld activity had left his face hard and humourless. There were deep lines etched into the corners of his mouth and his narrow unsmiling eyes while his skin was lightly powdered in an attempt to hide large areas of pockmarks on his cheeks and forehead. His dyed black hair was combed straight back and pomaded.
“I have chosen a setting, Mr Waters. I shall sit on the chair by the window so that the light accentuates my features. I require a semi-profile portrait, head and shoulders, that shows my regal bearing. I realise that time has been good to me, that I appear ... youthful. I am often complimented for it, Mr Waters.”
Stephen fought to maintain a neutral expression: la Torres looked considerably more than his fifty years.
“I trust you can portray this on your canvas, that you can achieve a balance between the handsome ruggedness of a mature man and the youthful, virile masculinity of a male still in his prime.”
Smiling thinly in self-satisfaction, la Torres stood and walked over to his chosen spot. Stephen was surprised to find he stood no more than five feet five inches tall. He was even more surprised when the man told him he did not wish anyone, himself included, to see the painting until it was officially unveiled three weeks hence.
The work started immediately and a week later, back in his studio, Stephen discussed progress with Lei-li and Fiona.
“It’s one of the hardest portraits I’ve ever painted. He has an evil, harsh face that exudes malevolence. It’s very hard to exclude that from the work because that’s what I am seeing. I’m doing my best to ignore it, to soften what I see and make him appear the way he thinks he looks.”
“I told you it wouldn’t be easy, Stephen. It’s not just any portrait,” said Fiona, concerned.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met such a terrifying man. How does he get away with all the criminal activity he is clearly connected with? The shipping company is a façade, a thinly disguised cover for his illegal activities. You should hear him talking to his minions; he has them all shaking in their shoes.”
“He has the police in the palm of his hand, Stephen. They are paid very poorly and he can supplement their income substantially. The only thing he requires for his money is that they turn a blind eye to whatever he is doing.”
Stephen nodded. “It will always be the way of the world, I fear. However, I’m concerned about this portrait; what will happen if he doesn’t like it?”
Lei-li took his hand. “I think that is most unlikely, Papa. Has there ever been anyone who has not liked your work?”
Stephen smiled enigmatically. “No, not really. It’s been fairly well-received so far.”
Neither Fiona nor Lei-li was invited to the reception la Torres had ordered for the unveiling. The guests were very much from the shadier side of Hong Kong’s entrepreneurial traders, both Chinese and Western, together with a number of government officials, police and garrison who owed la Torres favours.
La Torres surprised Stephen by inviting him to join him on the stage where the painting stood on an easel, covered with a red velvet cloth. Stephen stood behind and to one side of him, trying in vain to look as insignificant as he could. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his back under the European clothing he had become unused to wearing.
“Good evening, dear friends,” smiled la Torres, his arms out in welcome to the sea of faces before him, although the smile looked as if it could slash each of their throats.
“I am delighted to see so many of you here this evening to mark this very special occasion. As you know, I have commissioned Mr Waters to use his considerable skills to produce my portrait to record the completion of the first fifty years of my life.”
A round of applause broke out which la Torres allowed to flow over him for a few seconds, then held up his hands. “I can see from the shocked look on your faces you are surprised by my age.” He smiled in false modesty, holding one hand over the other in front of his chest and nodding smugly.
“What can I say? Nature has blessed me with youthful looks, and my constitution has rebuffed the ravages of age often shown by lesser men.”
The remark caused some uncomfortable shuffling of feet. Stephen was finding it very hard not to laugh out loud at the self-congratulatory nonsense this criminal was spouting. He half expected him to wave a bejewelled hand at the crowd like a bishop beatifically saluting his flock.
After a pause, la Torres continued.
“Mr Waters has told me that never in his career has he had such strong features, such perfect symmetry, such fine lines in so well-balanced proportions to copy onto his canvas.”
He half-turned to Stephen, his eyes piercing coldly in his direction as if daring him to contradict.
“During the production of this work, I have refrained from viewing its progress,” continued la Torres, turning back to the crowd. “I, like everyone else here, have not laid eyes on this work. My reasons are simple. I want to share the same moment of revelation with you so we can all say with one accord that we witnessed together, as a group of dear friends and comrades, the first glimpses of what I have no doubt will be a portrait like no other, a portrait that will be admired and revered for generations to come.”
He half-turned to Stephen. “Mr Waters, if you would be so kind as to remove the cloth and satisfy the anticipation that has been buzzing around the room.”
He turned back to the crowd, wanting to savour the moment of seeing the adoration, the delight and wonder in their eyes at this tribute to him.
He was not disappointed. As Stephen pulled the cloth from the painting, the crowd gasped as one in appreciation, bursting into spontaneous applause as they surged forward to take a closer look. There were cries of “Bravo!” “Brilliant!” “A masterpiece!” followed by even louder applause.
Overcome with the moment, la Torres turned to S
tephen to congratulate him and finally to lay his eyes on what he had convinced himself would become a famous work, perhaps as famous as the Mona Lisa.
Stephen, who had started to relax as the clamorous praise from the room enveloped him, saw the closest thing he had seen to a smile on la Torres’ face as his eyes fell briefly onto him. He then saw that smile contort and twist as the eyes above it widened in reaction to their first sighting of the portrait. La Torres stood in stunned silence as he faced the image of himself, his mouth working slowly, his shoulders hunching as his whole body started to shake. Stephen saw the colour rise through the man’s short neck and up through his face until his entire head was a pulsating deep red. Spittle started to form at the edges of his mouth.
The roar of the crowd faded away in an instant. Then in the ensuing silence, another roar grew. It was from la Torres and it was fearsome. Stephen instinctively took a step backwards as the roar turned into a scream. La Torres’ arms both rose slowly until they were extended high above his head, his hands and fingers the claws of a vulture waiting to pounce.
His head started to turn from side to side as his breathing became laboured. His eyes bulged in their sockets, revolving and searching until they fell onto Stephen. His right arm shot out, his index finger pointing accusingly.
“You traitor!” he screeched. “You incompetent! You European dog! How dare you! How DARE you portray me like this! This … this … caricature of a human being! This egregious mockery! This is obscene! An insult! You have ridiculed me, abused me with this … this worthless trash!”
As he spat the final words, he pulled a short double-bladed knife from under his jacket and held it up threateningly in his right hand. Then without warning, he turned to the painting and slashed it, cutting it from top to bottom. His whole body shaking in rage, he repeated his attack again and again until the painting was a series of fine ribbons hanging from the frame. His arm dropped and the knife fell from his hand. He turned again to Stephen and pointed at the door. “Get out of my sight, you worthless dog, before I inflict the same treatment on you!”
There was a rumbling of protest from the crowd. Even for la Torres this was going too far.
As Stephen watched in shock and horror at the vicious destruction of his work, his reaction turned from incredulity to indignation, and then to anger. La Torres’ final words were the last straw. Stephen turned on him.
“You accuse me of being worthless, you low-life scum. You have less worth than a piece of excrement floating in the sewer you crawled out of. You are nothing but a narcissistic, self-important, jumped-up nobody. If you didn’t surround yourself with these thugs for protection, you’d be trampled to death by a crowd baying for your blood on the first street you ventured out on. You might live by threats and brutality, but I can assure you that you and your threats mean this much to me!”
He spat on the floor. There was a gasp from the crowd, but he hadn’t finished.
“You, sir,” he continued, his eyes half-closed and his voice trembling slightly as he fought to control his emotions, “you have had the privilege of having your portrait painted by a master craftsman. That portrait showed you in as favourable a light as it would be possible to portray a demon who has gone so far down the road of evil that his every foul thought and deed is etched into his face. If I had painted you as I really see you, as everyone in this room sees you, then you would have had the horns and blood-red eyes of the Devil himself. You disgust me, sir!”
With that, Stephen turned on his heel and walked from the stage, expecting la Torres’ bodyguards to grab him and beat him to a pulp. The crowd parted as Stephen strode for the door. From somewhere in its depths he heard a cry of “Hear! Hear!” and another of “Bravo, Waters!”
As Stephen reached the door, he heard another shout from la Torres on the stage. He had recovered from the shock of someone speaking to him in such a manner – an entirely new experience for him. In coarse street Cantonese, he yelled, “Stop him! I want him back here!”
Stephen felt the crowd close around him, but he suddenly realised they were on his side – la Torres’ underworld rivals had sensed an opportunity to rebel against him, while for the Europeans in his sway, his actions had been a step too far. They physically blocked the bodyguards, allowing Stephen time to disappear from the building.
“Stephen,” said Fiona, “I am worried. La Torres will not take this quietly. You have caused him the most incredible loss of face and he will not rest until he has had some form of retribution.”
They were sitting in a drawing room of Stephen’s house with Lei-li, who had poured her father a whisky to calm him down. She was now seated next to him as he sipped it, her hands on his arm.
“I have sent word to Keung to ask for his advice and help,” continued Fiona. “I think you are in considerable danger, and probably Lei-li as well.”
Stephen frowned. “I probably shouldn’t have said what I said, but I couldn’t stop myself. That rat is so used to riding roughshod over everyone, getting his own way through threats and coercion, that I simply couldn’t allow myself to become another one of his spineless lackeys. I had already gone far enough down that route by painting the picture.”
There was a light knock on the door and a servant entered followed by an anxious-looking Keung.
“I came immediately I received your note, Fiona,” he said, bending over to kiss her.
“Stephen,” he said, smiling and shaking his head in admiration, “you have certainly ruffled some feathers tonight. Word is already out on the street that la Torres has been thoroughly trounced by the English artist. There will be some blood spilt before the night is over as the rival factions taunt each other.”
He sat next to Stephen. “I have taken the liberty of posting guards outside your studio. It is the first place la Torres would go to inflict retribution. He would have it torn down. I have also posted some guards here, outside your house. They will remain in place until the matter is resolved.”
Stephen nodded slowly, staring at his own glass of whisky. He had no real understanding of the extent of Keung’s dealings, nor whether they were entirely honest. He did know that besides the work he undertook on behalf of the Kwok empire, Keung had numerous other business interests, many of them carried out quietly and discreetly behind closed doors.
Three days later, Stephen was again in the drawing room with Keung and Fiona. They had just arrived and Fiona was pouring them some tea from a tray a servant had laid on the low table.
Keung’s face now showed serious concern. “Things are grim, Stephen. I said there would be bloodshed and I was right. That in itself is nothing to worry about – it’s just one group of low-life fighting another. It happens all the time and your run-in with la Torres is merely a convenient excuse.”
He paused as the door opened. It was Lei-li, dressed like a servant and in the process of removing a headscarf and woven cane hat from her head.
“Lei-li,” cried Stephen in surprise. “What are you doing dressed like that?”
“Papa, I have been into the city, disguised as a servant going about her business, but listening wherever I could to gossip and talk on the street. I have heard a disturbing story, Papa.” She took his right hand and kissed it.
“You went alone, Lei-li, without the guards?”
“Yes, Papa, I had to. I can hardly slip around the city unseen if I have two fearsome guards trailing along behind me. Don’t worry; I was perfectly safe.
“Papa, the talk is that la Torres is seeking a particular form of retribution. It seems that he doesn’t seek your life as we expected. Instead, he wants to humiliate you, to cripple your abilities for all time.”
Stephen frowned, not anticipating what his daughter was about to say.
“He wants to cut off your hand, Papa, your right hand, so that you will no longer be able to paint. He knows that painting is everything to you and he wants to destroy that. He thinks that if you lose your hand, you will take your own life in despair.�
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Stephen was shocked. He looked at the hand that had produced innumerable brilliant paintings for more than four hundred years. La Torres was correct in his assumption: without his right hand, Stephen’s life would not be worth living.
“Stephen,” said Keung, “this whole situation is escalating. I can deal with la Torres in time but my resources aren’t endless. Frankly, it would be easier if you and Lei-li went into China. There is a house where you will be safe. It is not the one where Mei-ling is buried, but one further up the coast, about a hundred miles from here. It is a remote spot, a walled compound in the country some distance from the nearest village. La Torres cannot possibly know about it.”
Two evenings later, a group of six people dressed as Chinese servants slipped quietly from Stephen’s house and made their way to the western end of the harbour. They were accompanied by Keung’s guards until they had safely boarded two sampans. These were silently paddled out to a waiting sailing junk moored well round the point from the Green Island lighthouse, invisible in the moonless, cloud-covered night.
The six comprised Stephen, Lei-li, two guards and two servants. Stephen and Lei-li were shown to a cabin with two bunks, while the servants laid bedrolls outside the cabin door. The captain and his crew of five immediately set sail on an easterly course into Chinese waters.
As the sun rose over the South China Sea, they put into a small inlet on an uninhabited island some five miles offshore where the captain said they would spend the day out of sight.
Although it was only early April, the day was pleasantly warm and after a lunch of fish caught by one of the crew, Stephen decided to take a nap in the cabin. Lei-li said she wanted to make some sketches of the inlet from the bow.
As he opened the cabin door, Stephen turned to look at his daughter as she concentrated on her drawing. At twenty years old, she had grown into a beautiful young woman. Her long, jet black hair cascaded down her back from where it was caught at the nape of her elegant neck by a single clip, while her loose Chinese clothes hid her slender, lithe body. She glanced up at Stephen and waved, her pale grey eyes reminding him of the special bond that held them close, the bond about which she knew nothing.
Stephen awoke with a start to find a broad blade at his throat and a thin Chinese sailor squatting on the edge of his bunk, the man’s gaunt face about three inches from his. From behind the sailor came a coarse voice.
“Be careful, you fool! If he makes a sudden move, you’ll slit his throat and then I’ll have to slit yours. We were told to bring him alive.”
The thin sailor moved back, revealing a much older, fatter man sitting on the other bunk, smoking a pipe. His eyes were fixed on Stephen.
Stephen sat up with a start as he remembered where he was.
“Where’s my daughter?” he yelled.
The older sailor studied Stephen’s face impassively.
“Where is she?” repeated Stephen, beginning to panic.
“She’s the wild one, is she? The young girl? I could see a bit of gwai lo in her.”
He grinned lecherously. “She’ll be fine.” Then he added, raising his hands to mime a squeezing action, “In my hands.”
Stephen made to jump up, but the thin sailor was on him and the blade back at his throat.
“Easy, gwai lo, at least she’s alive.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. Come on, time to go.”
The older sailor got up and pulled open the door. The thin man prodded Stephen with the knife and pushed him out of the cabin.
Once his eyes adjusted to the light, he was horrified to see ten Chinese sailors lounging on the deck, all cleaning large knives on some rags. Pools of deep red blood lay around them. The sailors ignored him, laughing and talking among themselves.
The thin sailor prodded Stephen in the back with his knife, forcing him to walk towards the port rail. Looking over, he saw a scene of pure horror. Floating in the blood-red water he quickly counted ten bodies – the captain and crew, the servants and the bodyguards.
His eyes wild with terror, his breathing laboured as his throat contracted involuntarily, he turned to the older sailor and tried to speak. “Where’s my daughter?” he croaked.
The sailor grinned a toothless grin at him. “Gone,” he said.
“Gone? Gone where?”
The sailor nodded in the direction of the mainland.
“Over there. Come on, it’s time we went too.”
He climbed over the starboard rail and down into a sampan. The thin sailor prodded Stephen to follow and then climbed down himself. He pushed the knife into his belt, took up the single long rear oar, and, standing on the stern of the small boat, rowed them out of the bay to a larger vessel anchored about a hundred yards from the island.
They sailed in the failing light to the shore of the mainland, anchoring outside a small cove. Stephen was again forced into a sampan and rowed ashore. As they came close to a rocky beach, two large men emerged from the darkening shadows. One of them pointed at Stephen. “Out!” he ordered.
They walked for about a mile inland through rough, uncultivated countryside strewn with rocks and boulders until they reached a small walled compound. Inside was a single storey stone building with smoke rising from a gap in its tiled roof. To one side were several empty animal sheds; Stephen was abruptly pushed towards the largest. One of the men slid out two wooden bars from the door, opened it and pushed Stephen inside. The door was slammed and barred behind him as he fell onto a pile of straw.
It was almost dark but from what he could see, there was no sign of any recent occupation.
“Lei-li,” he whispered. Then he yelled at the top of his voice. “Lei-li! Lei-li!”
The night swallowed up his words.
“Lei-li,” he cried more softly as he slumped to his knees on the straw. “Lei-li.”
At first light, the two men brought him a jug of water and a bowl of rice, but said nothing. They came again at dusk.
The routine continued for a week, the men refusing to respond to any of his questions. On the sixth day, in the late morning, Stephen suddenly became aware of the rumble of a cart arriving. There were muted voices and then the sound of the cart leaving.
Half an hour later, the door bars were pulled away and the door flew open. The two guards walked in and stood to either side of the doorway. Stephen stood up warily and waited.
There was a shuffling from outside and a small man in peasant’s clothing entered. His head was facing downwards, the wide basket hat on his head hiding his face.
The man stopped and looked up. Stephen gasped. It was Miguel la Torres.
“Surprised, Waters?” spat la Torres with a sneer as he tossed the hat to one side. “Did you really think you could trust that fool Kwok Fu-keung to help you escape? Well, your friend has let you down.”
He let out a bark of derision.
“Oh don’t look so distressed, Waters, he didn’t betray you. He just didn’t allow for my genius. I’ve had spies in his camp for years; I knew exactly what he was planning. That idiot of a junk captain wasn’t difficult to follow and easy prey when he took his rest on the island.”
“You bastard, la Torres. Where’s my daughter?”
“Ah, your daughter. Pretty little thing. Quite a temper on her I’m told. I can’t wait to tame her; I’m looking forward to that – she’ll come in for some very special treatment. And once I’ve finished with her, when she’s pleading for mercy, I’ve got friends with some very nasty habits. They specialise in breaking limbs. Snap. Snap.” He laughed at Stephen’s look of hatred, pulling aside his loose jacket to reveal a large knife attached to his belt. “In case you’re thinking of trying anything, gwai lo, the three of us are well-armed.”
“You don’t think you’ll get away with this, do you, la Torres? Kwok Fu-keung–”
“Is dead, gwai lo. By my own hand. You’ll get no more help from him. And as for that harlot of his, I’m leaving that prize until I get ba
ck to Hong Kong, after I’ve dealt with you and had my fill of your daughter.”
Stephen’s mind suddenly filled with images of other times in his long life when he had come under threat. He thought of Johanne and Lars and how they had dealt with the louts on the dock in Genoa.
He looked at the two bodyguards and remembered Johanne’s words. They were big, but they looked unfit, soft around the edges. They certainly weren’t paying him much attention. He took a slight step forward to test their reactions. Nothing.
La Torres was still hurling abuse at him, waving his arms around and swaggering with his assumption of victory.
Stephen thought of Johanne’s lessons and again of Lars on the dock, playing the scene in his mind. The trick was to apply enough momentum to the two men so their heads would crash together with sufficient force to stun them. To do that, he would need to catch them unawares and off balance.
He took a more deliberate step forward. La Torres noticed and yelled at his two bodyguards. “Wake up, you cretins, the gwai lo has ideas of escaping!”
The two men jumped to attention and reached out for Stephen, who took a sudden step backwards. As the men overreached, he ducked under their arms. Grabbing each man by the fastenings of his jacket, he pulled down with all his strength. They lurched sideways towards each other, their heads colliding with a heavy thud. Stephen pushed one of them hard in the direction of la Torres and stepped back to give himself room for the other. He delivered three lightning-fast punches – two to the body and the third a perfectly delivered upper cut to the chin. The man fell heavily, out cold before he hit the ground.
The second man now stumbled towards him, having been pushed away by la Torres who was screaming abuse and reaching for his knife. Stephen feinted in front of the large man then delivered the same two body blows to him. He was about to follow with an upper cut when he saw la Torres out of the corner of his eye. The small man was holding a dagger out in front of him and was starting to run at Stephen. Stephen pushed the doubled-up guard, sending him stumbling sideways straight into the knife. It entered his chest from the side, the sharp blade going deep and piercing the man’s heart. He collapsed, the knife wrenched from la Torres’ grasp.
La Torres turned and ran through the door and by the time Stephen emerged from the shed was about twenty feet away. He was surprisingly nimble.
Stephen set out after him, running at full pelt and slowly gaining on him. La Torres was still hurling abuse at him as he ran from the compound into the rough land beyond. The path was winding and he tried to shortcut it by jumping over the smaller boulders. He glanced behind him to check how close Stephen was and, as he did, he tripped on a hidden projection from one of the rocks, his speed carrying him over it as he fell. He tried to turn his body back, his arms flailing, but he wasn’t in time to prevent his head crashing into a large jagged boulder ahead of him. He went down silently and lay motionless on the ground.
Stephen stopped short of him, wary, suspecting he would suddenly spring to life. But la Torres didn’t move. Gingerly, Stephen approached him and nudged him with his foot. There was no response. He knelt down and put his hand on the man’s neck, noticing the blood that was seeping from his head onto the stony ground. There was no pulse: la Torres was dead.
Stephen turned la Torres onto his back and searched him, hoping there might be some papers about his clothing that would indicate where he had sent Lei-li, but there was only another hidden dagger. Stephen took it and stood up. Then he remembered the first guard; he wouldn’t remain unconscious for long.
He quickly retraced his steps towards the compound. He was close to the compound’s gateway when he heard the whinny of a horse. He stopped, straining his ears to hear – the cart that had brought la Torres was returning. There was a stand of trees close to one wall of the compound and he quickly ran there for cover. Crouching down, he waited.
As the covered cart rounded the far corner of the compound, the guard Stephen had knocked out came staggering through the gateway, rubbing his chin and shaking his head.
“Ah Yu, what’s happened?” shouted the driver . “Where is Tor-sang?”
The guard stopped and squinted at him.
“Tor-sang is not here, Ah Kong,” he mumbled groggily. “The gwai lo jumped me and killed Ah Wong. They’ve both disappeared.”
“Gods protect us! Have you looked in the house?”
The guard turned his head, still confused.
The cart driver drew a knife from his belt, leapt from his seat and ran to the house. He stopped a few feet short to listen, then ran through the open doorway. A moment later he was back out. “There’s nobody,” he shouted. “I’ll search the land. Ah Yu, stay here and look after the honourable master.”
He ran off in the direction of the coast, but not, Stephen could see, on a path that would take him close to la Torres’ body. With luck the search would take some time.
He looked back at the guard. He had sat down on a large stone next to the cart with his back to Stephen, his head in his hands.
Stephen looked in the direction of the driver. He was now over three hundred yards away and disappearing from view as the land sloped downhill. He had not seen la Torres’ body.
Silently, Stephen crept from the stand of trees, the small knife he’d taken from la Torres in his hand. He got within four feet of the guard when something snapped under his foot. The guard’s head lifted, but he didn’t turn. Stephen acted instinctively. He leapt forward and in one action threw his left arm around the man’s neck, pulling him backwards, while with his right hand, he plunged the knife into the base of the man’s ribcage in an upwards direction. The man slumped to the ground without a sound.
Stephen withdrew the knife and wiped it on the man’s clothes, then he ran to the rear of the cart. As he yanked open the cloth covering, he saw a very old man sitting cross-legged on a cushion and facing him. He was holding a large revolver which was pointed straight at Stephen’s head.
The old man was small and wizened, his eyes dark and malevolent, his hair worn in the traditional queue. There was something about his face that reminded Stephen of someone. Then he realised; it was the snarl. He had thought that it was la Torres’ father who had been Portuguese and his mother Chinese, but it was the other way round; this man had to be his father.
“So you are Waters, the painter.” The old man’s growling voice interrupted Stephen’s thoughts. “I came to watch my bastard son kill you, but perhaps I shall do it myself. I don’t know why my son didn’t snuff you out when he had the chance. He is a stupid fool.”
He paused, his face contorted in anger.
“I should have killed him years ago, the worthless, arrogant dog,” he continued. “I thought he had promise. I even offered him my name in spite of him being merely the son of my Portuguese concubine. I offered him the chance to be a Tong but he wanted to be a European. Pah! He has caused me so much trouble over the years. And so much trouble over you. You don’t look like much to me. How could one insignificant gwai lo be such a problem?”
Ignoring the man, Stephen stared into his eyes. “Where have you taken my daughter? What have you done with her?”
The old man cackled a dry, derisive laugh. “The Eurasian slut? You will never find her, not that you will have the chance.”
He raised the gun, the fingers of his other hand closing round the first to help him pull the trigger.
Suddenly there was a shout from where la Torre’s body was lying. The driver had found him. The old man’s head twitched sideways, his attention caught by the shout. In that moment, Stephen thought of Michel and the night Arlette died. Michel had killed one of the sailors threatening Henri by throwing a knife from the far side of the bar. He had practised it for hours. “It’s easy, Papa, once you get the hang of it. You have to get the balance right by holding the tip of the blade just here.”
Stephen acted instinctively. He turned the knife he was holding, clasped the tip of the blade between his thumb and index fin
ger and flung it hard. It buried itself up to the hilt in the man’s chest. With a look of complete surprise, the old man started to speak and then slumped onto the cushions. The gun fell from his hand.
Knowing he had only seconds before the driver returned, Stephen jumped into the cart, snatched up the gun and pulled the knife from the old man’s chest. He jumped down and, keeping the cart between himself and the rocky land, ran to the corner of the compound wall and round the side.
He heard the driver reach the cart and the shout of surprise when he found the guard’s body. This was quickly followed by another shout as he found the old man.
Stephen crept along the wall as far as a dense clump of bushes where he crouched down and waited. He saw the driver run round the wall and suddenly stop, his eyes darting around warily. Then he moved on slowly towards where Stephen was crouched. The man’s eyes were still darting around when suddenly a thought seemed to cross his mind and a look of panic appeared on his face.
“The gun,” he whispered, “the master’s gun.”
Stephen stood. “Yes,” he said, “the master’s gun.”
“Don’t move,” shouted Stephen, emerging from the bushes and walking towards him, the gun pointing straight at him, “or you will be as dead as your master. Now sit down and place your hands on your head.”
“NOW!” he barked as the man hesitated.
The man complied.
Stephen stood about six feet away from the man and kept the gun pointing at him.
“I need to know one thing from you, one thing only: where is my daughter?”
The man frowned, wondering what Stephen was talking about.
“My daughter. The Eurasian girl.”
The light dawned in the man’s eyes.
He hung his head. “A long way from here, master,” he said. “Please don’t kill me; I am no more than a worthless dog serving these men. I know nothing.”
“The length of your life will depend on the information you give me.”
The man’s whole body sagged. If he told Stephen, he would be hunted down and slaughtered. If he didn’t tell, he would be shot.
Stephen took a step forward and adjusted his aim. The man shrank back.
“There is a house, master, twenty miles from here. The other sons of the honourable master are keeping her there. It is a fearsome place, master, full of ghosts. Many people have died there. When the honourable master’s sons hear of the death of their father and brother, their rage will know no bounds. They will inflict a terrible revenge on her. I hope she dies quickly, master, for her own sake. But even then they will continue to mutilate her body before they slice it up and feed it to the dogs.”
Stephen clenched his teeth, trying to maintain control. “Where is this house?”
“Master, you would stand no chance if you went there. There are many guards. There will also be many guards scouring the countryside once the honourable master’s body is found. You cannot hide from them, master. You are a gwai lo, even if you do speak our language.”
“I’ll take my chances,” replied Stephen grimly.
The guard sighed. “You follow this path, master, through two villages and then you come to a third. There is a crossroads. You take the left road, which means you will be travelling west, for about ten miles. You will come to the house of the Tongs. But you will get no further, even if you get that far. They will discover you, take their pleasure by making you watch the abuse of your daughter, and then kill you in ways you can’t imagine.”
“Get up,” snapped Stephen, “and walk to the cart. Keep your hands on your head.”
The guard staggered to his feet and tripped his way to the cart. Stephen made him bind his own feet with a length of rope and then made him lie face down while he bound his hands. He checked the bindings on the feet and tied the two sets of bindings together, trussing him up like an animal for the market. Finally, he tied a gag round his mouth.
“If you are lucky, Ah Kong, your masters will spare you when they find you,” he said and left the guard whimpering on the ground.
Two hours later, darkness was falling fast. Already disoriented from trying to follow the track from a distance, Stephen knew he had to find shelter for the night. He walked into some woods and found a spot under a fallen tree. He gathered some leaves, threw them over himself to cover his body as best he could and lay down. He hadn’t realised how tired he was. He was instantly asleep.
He awoke with a start, his body stiff from the damp ground. It was daylight, but still early. He instinctively felt for the gun and the knife he’d put under the leaves he’d bunched for a pillow seconds before sleep had overtaken him. They were gone.
He sat up quickly. Seated about ten feet away on a log was a man dressed in a thick ground-length coat that was open, revealing normal baggy Chinese pantaloons and a shorter jacket. The man was smoking a long grey pipe and studying him. His face was relaxed, unthreatening.
“You have slept a long time, Waters Sin Saang; I trust you are refreshed.”
Stephen stared at the man. “You know my name? How … who are you?”
The man smiled. “My name is Lau Wong-shing. I trailed you in the night from the compound. You did well, Waters Sin Saang, dealing with all those people. I am impressed. But I am afraid to tell you that your luck will not hold out much longer if you keep roaming this countryside. There are eyes and ears everywhere; you will soon be spotted and reported.”
“You … you trailed me? In the night?”
“It was not difficult. You left many signs. It is as well that no others were looking. However, they will be looking today. Once the old master Tong’s body is discovered, there will be many, many people looking for you.”
“Who are you, Lau Wong-shing?”
“I work for Kwok Fu-keung, or at least I did until that dog la Torres had him killed.”
“He told me he killed him himself.”
Lau laughed derisively. “He wouldn’t have had the courage or opportunity. No, Ah Keung was killed by a traitor in his own camp, a traitor who has now been dealt with.”
Lau sucked reflectively on his pipe and then continued. “Ah Keung was concerned that you might be intercepted, that he might have been betrayed. He has been suspicious for some time of la Torres’ people in his own camp. So he sent me to keep watch. Unfortunately, I was travelling by land and I arrived too late to stop anything. I found the compound last night. The guard you spared took little persuasion to tell me what had happened and I followed your trail. It was well you spared him, but I am afraid I couldn’t follow your example. He talked far too readily.”
Stephen nodded absently. “Have you any word of my daughter? They took her from the boat while I was sleeping. They must have slaughtered the others in front of her. La Torres told me she was still alive.”
“She will be at the house the guard told you about. But you cannot go there; it is far too dangerous. You must come with me now to the house you visited before, the house by the sea where your wife lies with her ancestors. You can remain there safely while I try to prevent the Tongs from hurting your daughter.”
“I have to go with you, Lau Wong-shing.”
“That is out of the question, Waters Sin Saang. It would take away any chance we have of success.”
Taking a very circuitous route, it was three days before they reached the house. Lau was an expert tracker and equally expert at covering his own tracks. He laid many diversions as they went, concerned the enraged Tongs would be hunting them using dogs sniffing for Stephen’s scent. They crossed many streams and changed clothes several times with clothing stolen from farms on the way. They threw the old clothes down steep ravines, hoping the dogs would waste time taking their masters on difficult and dangerous false trails. His efforts were successful: the pursuers lost all trace of them.
They arrived to find the household in mourning for Keung. Stephen remembered several of the older servants from his previous visit and together they shared their grief.
Stephen paced the house and gardens for ten long days, unable to concentrate on anything, hardly taking his food. He spent many hours at the gravesite talking to Mei-ling’s headstone, trying to gain some solace. Every time he heard a cart or a horse arriving, he would rush to the courtyard, only to be disappointed as the head servant looked over at him and shook his head. Eventually, on the eleventh day, a maid rushed to him, bowing as she hurriedly delivered her message.
“Master, there are horses coming. Riding fast. Ah Mong thinks it is Ah Shing.”
Stephen ran to the courtyard just as the riders were let in through the gates. The maid was right. A dusty Lau Wong-shing jumped from his horse and hurried over to Stephen. From the look on his face, Stephen knew instinctively that the news wasn’t good.
Lau put his hand on his shoulder, guided him to a bench by a small fountain in one corner of the courtyard and sat him down.
“Waters Sin Saang, the news is not the best, but at least I can report to you with great confidence that Lei-li is alive and unharmed.”
Stephen sat back, the tears welling up in his eyes.
“She is alive, and they have done nothing to her?”
“That much I know,” nodded Lau.
“Then where is she? What has happened?”
“She managed to escape the clutches of the Tongs just in time. There was a servant girl from the north in the household who herself had been abused one too many times by one Tong or another. She took pity on Lei-li and together they conspired to escape. The servant girl was very courageous and took huge risks, but it seems they got away. The details are sketchy and, as you can imagine, the Tongs are furious.”
“Did you find out where they have gone?”
“All I know for certain is that they have gone to the north, a thousand miles away. I cannot imagine how she ended up in this region, but she did. I tracked them, as did my companions, for over a week, but for all of us the trails went cold. The servant girl is either very skilled herself or very lucky. However, the good news is that they have also evaded the Tongs, who have now all returned to curse their bad fortune. They have other problems on their hands – their criminal empire is in tatters, especially now you have killed their father and brother, and they will be plotting to re-establish themselves. Lei-li will no longer be of so much importance to them.”
“Can we travel north, try to find Lei-li?”
Lau laid a hand on Stephen’s arm. “Waters Sin Saang, this is China. It is a country in turmoil. Many things are happening all over the land. There is talk of revolution, of the Heavenly Throne being toppled. It is very hard to travel around, even for me. For you, a gwai lo whose name and features are well-known to his enemies, it would be impossible. You might speak Cantonese, but that would not help you in the north. And you could never pass for a Chinese.”
He raised a hand as Stephen started to object.
“There is another thing. The Tongs may have given up their quest for Lei-li, but they will never give up their quest for you. As long as you remain in China, you will not be safe. It will only be a matter of time before someone betrays you. You have to leave. The same is true for Hong Kong; you would be no safer there. No, Waters Sin Saang, you have to leave China completely; go somewhere else. Back to your own country, perhaps.”
“But I can’t leave Lei-li, I can’t!”
“You have no choice, Waters Sin Saang, no choice at all.”
Lau Wong-shing arranged things quickly. He trusted no one and he knew that it would be impossible to keep Stephen’s presence in the house a secret for long. The sooner he could spirit him out of China, the better. He understood Stephen’s reluctance to leave and he promised he would continue the search for Lei-li. He explained with regret that he had very few contacts in the north, but he would use them all he could.
Not suspecting Stephen would be considering changing his identity, Lau suggested he do so and asked for a name he could use to pass on to a contact who would arrange a passage on a ship leaving Yokohama.
“Most of the ships my contact deals with are bound for America. I know you would prefer to head for England, but to arrange that would take longer, and the sooner you are on the high seas heading away from this continent, the better.”
Stephen thought about a name and explained to Lau that he considered it would be better not to be English at all.
“I speak Italian, so I could become an Italian. That way it is unlikely that anyone would connect me with events in Hong Kong. I’ll use the name Baldini. Stefano Baldini.”
“That’s an excellent idea, Waters Sin Saang. How come you speak Italian?”
“It’s a long story, Lau Wong-shing.”
As he walked with Lau Wong-shing to the cove where the sampan was waiting to take him to the ship, he took a letter for Fiona from his bag and handed it to him.
“I will deliver it personally, Waters Sin Saang. Don’t worry, it will be in her hands within three days.”
“Thank you, Lau Wong-shing. We have known each other for only a short time, but you have become a good friend. I don’t know how I can repay you for your kindness.”
“I am still Ah Keung’s servant, Waters Sin Saang, and I act according to what I know his instructions would have been. But I thank you for your words. I also feel that we have formed a bond. I shall continue to search for your daughter.”
He took a folded sheet of paper from his bag.
“This is the address of a trusted friend in Hong Kong. Send letters to me through her. Once you arrive in America, you should send me an address where I can send you any news I have.”
Stephen stared back at the shore as the sampan took him out to the waiting ship. He waved to Lau, but in the darkness, he soon lost sight of him. He looked up at the sky. It was a clear, moonless night, full of stars. His eyes fell to the dark outlines of the cliffs and he thought of this vast land now receding from him that had swallowed up his daughter. He closed his eyes, trying to project his thoughts and his love to her, and saw her face turned towards him from where she had sat on the bow of the junk, smiling and waving to him.
Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I) Page 23