Tears of the Dragon

by Jean Moran

  Rowena sensed Connor was beginning to waver. He didn’t believe that the man in the booth knew her, but neither did she. She’d remember a voice like that. She let go of Alice’s dress. ‘Come on,’ she whispered.

  The height of the canopy was such that their host in the white suit could only half rise as they sat down, bending from the waist in a slowly executed bow.

  When he sat down again he patted the seating to either side of him. ‘Please. Sit, ladies. Sit.’

  Rowena sank gratefully beside their benefactor, trying to recall exactly when he’d beaten her at tennis – a game she seldom played though she’d been told she had the reach and long legs that marked a good player.

  ‘You spring on the balls of your feet,’ somebody had told her. She hadn’t been sure what that meant and it hadn’t made her any keener to get more involved in the game.

  As the drinks were set on the table, their host exchanged a few words in Chinese with the barman, then it was chin-chins and smiles all round as they clinked glasses.

  Over the top of hers, Rowena noted his refined features, the high cheekbones, the long fingers and a complexion like burnished bronze. Like a Greek warrior. Long black glossy hair. A proud bearing. Like a prince, the kind she’d once dreamed of when she was younger.

  It was hard to tell how tall he was, but she guessed he was less than six feet. He smelt of sandalwood and his teeth flashed white in stark contrast to his glossy skin. Deep-set dark eyes regarded her from either side of a straight nose. His eyebrows were arched, like a woman’s, as though they were plucked to shape, but thicker and blacker than any pencil could make them.

  In short he was breathtakingly beautiful but with a dangerous veneer. Like a snake, thought Rowena, a beautiful creature that is both alluring and deadly.

  ‘In case you’re wondering, no, we did not meet playing tennis. I said that purely for Connor’s benefit. My grandmother was in St Luke’s private clinic. I saw you there. A female doctor. Most memorable. I would have preferred a female doctor for my grandmother and voiced my preference. Alas, I was told you were unavailable.’

  ‘I specialise in obstetrics. I would guess your grand-mother is of a venerable age?’

  ‘A doctor-midwife?’

  ‘You could say that. Alice here is on her way to being a senior nurse.’

  ‘That’s my dream,’ said Alice, raising her glass and emptying it of the remains of her drink in one quick gulp. ‘Cheers. I needed that. I’ve never been refused a drink before – if you don’t count when I was underage or tried to get into a men-only bar back home.’

  Kim smiled politely but seemed to close his ears and eyes to her presence, Rowena feeling the full force of his admiring appraisal. Her face warmed. She wasn’t given to blushing and refused to do so now. To control her embarrassment, she sought a diversion.

  The lively strains of the fiddle resumed, accompanied by the banging of masculine hands on the bar top as though it were a drum while Connor played another tune, this time ‘Star of the County Down’.

  Kim waved his hand at the barman for more drinks, which came quickly. As the glasses were set down, Kim’s slender fingers clamped on Yang’s hand. Rowena saw the panic in his eyes, the draining of colour from his face as Kim uttered words she did not understand.

  Yang tried to protest, but Kim had the last word – whatever that last word happened to be. She guessed it to have been threatening.

  Unnerved, Rowena allowed her gaze to stray to Connor and the other man, her feet tapping in time to the music. She was humming the tune, then joining him in the chorus.

  ‘From Bantry Bay unto Derry Quay,

  From Galway to Dublin Town.

  No maid I’ve seen like the brown colleen,

  That I met in the County Down.’

  ‘You like singing, Doctor?’ asked the man they were with. The grim expression was gone, replaced by one of gentlemanly benevolence.

  ‘I do, and I like music that makes me tap my feet.’

  He nodded tersely as though he didn’t really approve.

  One song had finished and another had begun. The strains of a more subdued melody came from the other end of the bar.

  ‘So what do you do, Mr Pheloung?’

  ‘Please. Call me Kim. I am a silk merchant – among many other things.’

  ‘Are you rich?’

  Rowena frowned at Alice, who had a tendency to speak without thinking.

  ‘What?’ Alice whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Pheloung...’

  ‘Kim. There is no need for an apology. I am a wealthy man.’

  Alice glowed at the answer. Rowena was more sceptical – after all, they were not far from KWC. Mr Pheloung had admitted he had other interests besides silk and he wouldn’t be the first businessman with a foot in both legal and illegal trades. That was how things were in Hong Kong.

  ‘Do you live in Kowloon?’

  ‘When necessary. My real home is close to Shanghai. There are more banks there than there are in Kowloon or Hong Kong.’

  ‘Is it a big house?’ asked Alice, her eyes wide with interest.

  ‘Yes.’

  Rowena peered at him through a pall of smoke from the cheroot he was smoking and the ones he had handed to them. It was unnerving to see him looking back at her in exactly the same manner, enough for her to parry the look with a question that almost bordered on rudeness.

  ‘Pheloung is not a Chinese name.’

  Smooth eyelids fell halfway over his eyes, making her feel like a bird trapped between the paws of a cat. It occurred to her that he had not liked her questioning his name and thus his origins.

  ‘One day you’ll push it too far,’ her brother Clifford had said to her.

  One day she might, but she was not convinced that today was the day.

  ‘I am of mixed parentage, a true citizen of the world.’

  Rowena smiled, but did not admit that her grandmother had been from India – not with Alice present. Mixed blood tended to set one apart from those of pure European extraction. Her complexion was fairly brown, a bit like the colleen in the song Connor had just sung, though her hair was jet black, not chestnut.

  At the other end of the bar, Connor was singing another Irish song, about whiskey this time.

  Kim’s dulcet tones broke through the tune, grabbing her attention. ‘The Jockey Club employs a most wonderful chef,’ he said.

  She heard Alice gasp, a sure sign that she was impressed. Only millionaires were members of the Jockey Club and in the last century only Europeans were allowed to join. This man obviously had the thousands of dollars needed to pay the exorbitant joining fee. Not only that, he must also be acceptable to the very cream of Hong Kong society. Kim Pheloung had to be seriously rich.

  ‘I heard that the food is good,’ Rowena said, sliding a second cheroot between her lips.

  His eyes smiled through the lighter flame as though he believed she’d dined in the company of millionaires and autocrats. Perish the thought! But she had seen it from the outside and heard about the food.

  ‘Then it will be an experience shared between us.’

  She drew deeply on the cheroot, letting the smoke go no further than the back of her throat before blowing it out. She kept her eyes on him, smiling secretively, almost bashfully, as she considered his invitation.

  ‘Saturday night at eight. Ask for me by name.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Try?’ His arched eyebrows were coupled with a wry smile.

  ‘Perhaps you should give me your business card – just so they know I’m really meeting you there.’

  ‘And just so you know I’m telling the truth that I am a member.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be distrustful...’

  ‘I quite understand. Here. Take this. They will recognise the inscription – should you be asked to prove anything, which you will not.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘Yes, you can. Catch.’

  She caught it with her l
eft hand.

  ‘You are left-handed, Doctor?’

  ‘Some of the time. Ambidextrous, actually.’

  ‘A woman of many talents. I look forward to seeing you on Saturday.’

  Reaching for his hat, he got to his feet and slid past her, the backs of his legs brushing against her bent knees.

  ‘Ladies,’ he said, lifting his hat and bowing from the waist. ‘I apologise for leaving, but I have business to attend to.’ He looked directly at Rowena. ‘Am I right in thinking you look ravishing in red?’

  ‘I prefer blue. I don’t own a red dress.’

  Something flickered in his eyes. ‘No matter. Perhaps red another time.’

  ‘Well,’ said Alice, after he’d gone, ‘shooting above his station a bit. I know he’s got money, but really… Are you going to keep the date with him?’

  Her friend was intimating that he was not European: going out with him could lead to gossip.

  ‘He behaved like a gentleman, which is more than I can say for Mr O’Connor and his friend.’

  The smoke of the cheroot curled and twisted before her eyes.

  ‘Don’t tell me you fancy him,’ Alice said. ‘He’s not one of us. Different worlds, if you know what I mean.’

  Rowena thoughtfully stubbed out the half-smoked cheroot in the ashtray. ‘Don’t you think it strange that he didn’t offer to drive us anywhere – the hotel where we might be staying overnight or back to the ferry, or even the whole way home? He must have known we’d driven here in our own car.’

  ‘Reggie’s car,’ Alice reminded her.

  ‘Whatever.’ Rowena got to her feet. ‘Mr Kim Pheloung knew we came by car. How did he know? He didn’t see us arrive – at least, I wasn’t aware of anyone spying on us.’ She tossed the silver cigarette lighter in her hand and smiled at the weight. Solid silver and given to make her feel obliged to accept his invitation.

  The music finished.

  Rowena stood up and clapped.

  Fiddle and bow dangling from his left hand, Connor nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘“Star of the County Down” is a great favourite of mine. My grandfather was Irish. He served with the Indian Army.’

  ‘You have a fine voice.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. I’d like to hear your voice again Mr O’Connor. If you allow me back here.’

  Something seemed to shift in his eyes. ‘It might be possible.’

  She smiled. ‘Goodnight, Mr O’Connor.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  The light from the bar diminished as the door closed behind them.

  She was about to walk away but stopped as ‘Star of the County Down’ started again, this time in slow tempo.

  ‘Listen.’

  Alice stopped too.

  The smell of China was all around them and the alley was a little forbidding, but the music was magical. They didn’t move from the spot until the lilting strains of the Irish ballad finally faded away.

  *

  ‘Are you going after her?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because the taipan likes her.’

  Connor balked at the word Harry had used. ‘A taipan refers to the head of a legitimate business. I would suggest Pheloung’s business is far from being that.’

  ‘Somebody should warn her that he’s a gangster and to be careful.’

  Connor sat himself on his favourite stool at the end of the bar, plucked the strings of his fiddle and gestured to the barman for a drink. ‘It’s not my problem.’ All the while he was hearing her voice in his head and thinking of her forthright manner, the colour of her eyes, her hair, and the fact that she was almost as tall as he was.

  ‘Yes, it is. You liked her. I could see you did.’

  ‘You’re reading too much into my appreciation of her having a fair voice.’ Connor defiantly knocked back his drink.

  ‘You didn’t need to serve them. You could have stuck to your guns but you didn’t.’

  ‘Damn!’ The stool crashed to the floor and Connor kicked it behind him in frustration.

  The men playing cards looked up, but swiftly returned to their game, glancing up again at a cold draught as Connor slammed the door behind him.

  He saw her as she was about to open the driver’s side door on a cream-coloured Austin. Her friend was already sitting in the passenger seat. ‘Doctor!’

  Her hair shone like glass and he wondered whether it smelt of flowers like that of the Chinese women he’d known.

  The moment she saw him her expression hardened, though the trace of a smile played around her mouth. ‘Have you come to apologise or to ask me back to sing with you?’

  His face altered to match hers, but his smile was more guarded. ‘No. I came to warn you about Kim Pheloung.’

  She gave a half-choked laugh. ‘It’s none of your business and, anyway, he behaved like a gentleman, the only one I’ve met this evening.’

  A retort bristled on his tongue, but he swallowed it. ‘I don’t care if you don’t think me a gentleman. I can understand why. But it takes more than fine clothes and money to make a gentleman and Kim Pheloung isn’t one.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Have it your own way.’ He turned his back on her and headed for his bar. Harry and he didn’t need women around them. They certainly didn’t need her.

  When he came back in, Harry grinned. ‘Did you tell her?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘You saw the man who came in earlier.’

  ‘A triad gangster.’

  ‘Who works for Pheloung. Yang said he’s having her followed.’

  Connor paused in putting his violin back into the battered black case. It had once belonged to his mother’s father and the old man had passed on his skills to his grandson. ‘Why would he be doing that?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘I could hazard a guess that he’s fallen in love.’

  ‘Kim isn’t capable of love.’

  ‘Probably not. He sent Yang out to check where his man had got to. He was supposed to come back.’

  ‘Probably lying in an alley with a knife in his gut – victim of a rival gang. Either way it was a bloody cheek to send Yang on an errand. He works for us now, not him.’

  ‘Don’t upset him, Connor,’ warned Harry, his brows meeting over the bridge of his nose. ‘We have to keep on the right side of him if we’re to stay here, old boy. Otherwise our little foray into private enterprise is over.’

  ‘If the Japanese come we’ll be back to full-time soldiering anyway.’

  ‘But they won’t. Trust me, old boy. Their legs are too short and their eyesight is bad.’

  ‘Just as well. Hong Kong is incapable of defending itself. Just a rock in the sea.’

  ‘Did somebody important say that?’

  ‘Hmm. Churchill, I think. It usually is nowadays.’ Connor fastened the clasps of his violin case and headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going at this time of night?’

  ‘To warn the woman. Then it won’t be my fault if he gets his claws into her.’

  ‘Why are you taking the violin?’

  ‘I’m thinking that if music can calm a savage beast, or whatever it is, it might have the same effect on a woman like her. She can’t be difficult to find. There aren’t that many female doctors around. Anyway, I’ll follow the car.’

  *

  Her room was on the first floor, looking out over a garden that was trying to be English but failing. On opening the balcony doors, the sound of tinkling water from a fountain came into the room through the billowing muslin curtains.

  Kicking off her shoes, she rubbed at the nape of her neck and began unbuttoning the bodice of her dress but stopped when she fancied she heard a fiddle and singing coming from the garden. Was ‘Star of the County Down’ really being played outside or was it just in her head? She looked down into the garden.

  The glow from her room fell on his features, his laughing eyes,
and the smile on his face when he saw the surprise on hers.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed, the balcony rail damp with dew beneath her hands as she leaned over it. ‘Male visitors aren’t allowed. It’s a nurses’ home.’

  He took the bow off the strings. ‘But you’re not a nurse. You told me so yourself. You’re a doctor. Is that not correct?’

  ‘I still have to abide by the rules.’

  ‘Ah! I hate rules. It’s true, I think, that they’re meant to be broken.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I can’t. I won’t. I have to speak to you. Warn you about our friend in the white suit – though calling him “friend” is stretching it...’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say. I won’t listen.’ She reached behind her for the brass handles of the balcony doors, meaning to shut him out and force him to go. What he said next caused her to pause.

  ‘The man collects women. I thought you should know that.’

  ‘I’ve known a lot of men who collect women – some without their wives knowing,’ she said, smiling ruefully.

  ‘What I mean to say is, he’s bad, a real bad lot.’

  ‘And you’re Irish.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘That the Irish have a reputation for being a little wild. My grandfather was wild too.’

  ‘How about your grandmother?’

  Rowena winced. ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Kim’s more than a little wild. He’s dangerous. He’ll eat you alive.’

  ‘I’m not on the menu at the Jockey Club.’

  Connor’s steely blue eyes suddenly fixed on her bare shoulder where her unbuttoned bodice had slid down her arm. ‘You might be.’

  She swiftly pulled the bodice back into place. ‘Look,’ she said, lowering her voice and turning to see if any lights had suddenly flashed on, ‘you have to go.’

  ‘Can I see you tomorrow and explain further?’

  ‘I don’t need you to explain.’

  ‘Very well. How about I go away now and tomorrow night I take you to a little Irish pub I know where they allow me to play and sing to my heart’s content? You can sing too. How would that be?’

  ‘My grandmother loved Irish songs.’

  ‘Obviously a woman of taste.’