It must be a plot!
Is my enemy and arch-rival Smiler Ching behind it? Is it those fornicators, those jealous fornicators at Blacs or the Victoria?
Is Thin Tube of Dung Havergill masterminding the attack? Or is it Compton Southerby of Blacs—he’s always hated me. These filthy quai loh! But why should they attack me? Of course I’m a much better banker than them and they’re jealous but my business is with civilized people and hardly touches them. Why? Or has it leaked somehow that against my better judgment, over my objections, my partners who control the bank have been insisting that I borrow short and cheap and lend long and high on property deals, and now, through their stupidity, we are temporarily overextended and cannot sustain a run?
Richard Kwang wanted to shout and scream and tear his hair out. His secret partners were Lando Mata and Tightfist Tung, major shareholders of Macao’s gambling and gold syndicate, along with Smuggler Mo, who had helped him form and finance the Ho-Pak ten years ago. “Did you see Old Blind Tung’s predictions this morning?” he asked, the smile still on his face.
“No. What’d he say?”
Richard Kwang found the paper and passed it over. “All the portents show we’re ready for boom. The lucky eight is everywhere in the heavens and we’re in the eighth month, my birthday is the eighth of the eighth month….”
Barre read the column. In spite of his disbelief in soothsayers, he had been too long in Asia to dismiss them totally. His heart quickened. Old Blind Tung had a vast reputation in Hong Kong. “If you believe him we’re in for the biggest boom in the history of the world,” he said.
“He’s usually much more cautious. Ayeeyah, that would be good, heya?”
“Better than good. Meanwhile Richard old boy, let’s finish our business, shall we?”
“Certainly. It’s all a typhoon in an oyster shell, Dunstan. We’re stronger than ever—our stock’s hardly a point off.” When the market had opened, there had been a mass of small offerings to sell, which, if not reacted to at once, would have sent their stock plummeting. Richard Kwang had instantly ordered his brokers to buy and to keep buying. This had stabilized the stock. During the day, to maintain the position, he had had to buy almost five million shares, an unheard of number to be traded in one day. None of his experts could pinpoint who was selling big. There was no reason for a lack of confidence, other than Four Finger Wu’s withdrawals. All gods curse that old devil and his fornicating, too smart Harvard-trained nephew! “Why not le—”
The phone rang. “’Scuse me,” then curtly into the phone, “I said no interruptions!”
“It’s Mr. Haply from the Guardian, he says it’s important,” his secretary, his niece, Mary Yok said. “And the tai-pan’s secretary called. The Nelson Trading board meeting’s brought forward to this afternoon at five o’clock. Mr. Mata called to say he would be there too.”
Richard Kwang’s heart skipped three beats. Why? he asked himself, aghast. Dew neh loh moh it was supposed to be postponed to next week. Oh ko why? Then quickly he put aside that question to consider Haply. He decided that to answer now in front of Barre was too dangerous. “I’ll call him back in a few minutes.” He smiled at the red-faced man in front of him. “Leave everything for a day or two, Dunstan, we’ve no problems.”
“Can’t, old boy. Sorry. There was a special meeting, have to settle it today. The board insisted.”
“We’ve been generous in the past—you’ve forty million of our money unsecured now—we’re joint venturing another seventy million with you on your new building program.”
“Yes, indeed you are, Richard, and your profit will be substantial. But they’re another matter and those loans were negotiated in good faith months ago and will be settled in good faith when they’re due. We’ve never defaulted on a payment to the Ho-Pak or anyone else.” Barre passed the newspaper back and with it, signed documents imprinted with his corporate seal. “The accounts are consolidated so one check will suffice.”
The amount was a little over nine and a half million.
Richard Kwang signed the cashier’s check and smiled Sir Dunstan Barre out, then, when it was safe, cursed everyone in sight and went back into his office, slamming the door behind him. He kicked his desk then picked up the phone and shouted at his niece to get Haply and almost broke the phone as he slammed it back onto its cradle.
“Dew neh loh moh on all filthy quai loh,” he shrieked to the ceiling and felt much better. That lump of dogmeat! I wonder … oh, I wonder if I could prevail on the Snake to forbid any lines at all tomorrow? Perhaps he and his men could break a few arms.
Gloomily Richard Kwang let his mind drift. It had been a rotten day. It had begun badly at the track. He was sure his trainer—or jockey—was feeding Butterscotch Lass pep pills to make her run faster to shorten her odds—she’d be favorite now—then Saturday they’d stop the pills and back an outsider and clean up without him being in on the profit-making. Dirty dog bones, all of them! Liars! Do they think I own a racehorse to lose money?
The banker hawked and spat into the spittoon.
Maggot-mouthed Barre and dog bone Uncle Wu! Those withdrawals will take most of my cash. Never mind, with Lando Mata, Smuggler Mo, Tightfist Tung and the tai-pan I’m quite safe. Oh I’ll have to shout and scream and curse and weep but nothing can really touch me or the Ho-Pak. I’m too important to them.
Yes, it had been a rotten day. The only bright spot had been his meeting this morning with Casey. He had enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed her clean-smelling, smart, crisp Americanness of the great outdoors. They had fenced pleasantly about financing and he felt sure he could get all or certainly part of their business. Clearly the pickings would be huge. She’s so naive, he thought. Her knowledge of banking and finance’s impressive but of the Asian world, nil! She’s so naive to be so open with their plans. Thank all gods for Americans.
“I love America, Miss Casey. Yes. Twice a year I go there, to eat good steaks and go to Vegas—and to do business of course.”
Eeeee, he thought happily, the whores of the Golden Country are the best and most available quai loh in the world, and quai lohs’re so cheap compared to Hong Kong girls! Oh oh oh! I get such a good feeling pillowing them, with their great deodorized armpits, their great tits and thighs and rears. But in Vegas it’s the best. Remember the golden-haired beauty that towered over me but lying down she …
His private phone rang. He picked it up, irritated as always that he had had to install it. But he had had no option. When his previous secretary of many years had left to get married, his wife had planted her favorite niece firmly in her place, of course to spy on me, he thought sourly. Eeeee, what can a man do?
“Yes?” he asked, wondering what his wife wanted now.
“You didn’t call me all day.… I’ve been waiting for hours!”
His heart leapt at the unexpected sound of the girl’s voice. He dismissed the petulance, her Cantonese sweet like her Jade Gate. “Listen, Little Treasure,” he said, his voice placating. “Your poor Father’s been very busy today. I’ve—”
“You just don’t want your poor Daughter anymore. I’ll have to throw myself in the harbor or find another person to cherish me oh oh oh….”
His blood pressure soared at the sound of her tears. “Listen, Little Oily Mouth, I’ll see you this evening at ten. We’ll have an eight-course feast at Wanchai at my fav—”
“Ten’s too late and I don’t want a feast I want a steak and I want to go to the penthouse at the V and A and drink champagne!”
His spirit groaned at the danger of being seen and reported secretly to his tai-tai. Oh oh oh! But, in front of his friends and his enemies and all Hong Kong he would gain enormous face to escort his new mistress there, the young exotic rising star in TV’s firmament, Venus Poon.
“At ten I’ll call f—”
“Ten’s too late. Nine.”
Rapidly he tried to sort out all his meetings tonight to see how he could accommodate her. “Listen, Little Treasure, I’l
l se—”
“Ten’s too late. Nine. I think I will die now that you don’t care anymore.”
“Listen. Your Father has three meetings and I th—”
“Oh my head hurts to think you don’t want me anymore oh oh oh. This abject person will have to slit her wrists, or….” He heard the change in her voice and his stomach twisted at the threat, “Or answer the phone calls of others, lesser than her revered Father of course, but just as rich nonetheless and m—”
“All right, Little Treasure. At nine!”
“Oh you do love me don’t you!” Though she was speaking Cantonese Venus Poon used the English word and his heart flipped. English was the language of love for modern Chinese, there were no romantic words in their own language. “Tell me!” she said imperiously. “Tell me you love me!”
He told her, abjectly, then hung up. The mealy-mouthed little whore, he thought irritably. But then, at nineteen she’s a right to be demanding and petulant and difficult if you’re almost sixty and she makes you feel twenty and the Imperial Yang blissful. Eeeee, but Venus Poon’s the best I’ve ever had. Expensive but, eeee, she’s got muscles in her Golden Gulley that only the legendary Emperor Kung wrote about!
He felt his yang stir and scratched pleasantly. I’ll give that little baggage what for tonight. I’ll buy an extra specially large device, ah yes, a ring with bells on it. Oh oh oh! That’ll make her wriggle!
Yes, but meanwhile think about tomorrow. How to prepare for tomorrow?
Call your High Dragon friend, Divisional Sergeant Tang-po at Tsim Sha Tsui and enlist his help to see that his branch and all branches in Kowloon are well policed. Phone Blacs and Cousin Tung of the huge Tung Po Bank and Cousin Smiler Ching and Havergill to arrange extra cash against the Ho-Pak’s securities and holdings. Ah yes, phone your very good friend Joe Jacobson, VP of the Chicago Federal and International Merchant Bank—his bank’s got assets of four billion and he owes you lots of favors. Lots. There’re lots of quai loh who’re deeply in your debt, and civilized people. Call them all!
Abruptly Richard Kwang came out of his reverie as he remembered the tai-pan’s summons. His soul twisted. Nelson Trading’s deposits in bullion and cash were huge. Oh ko if Nels—
The phone jangled irritably. “Uncle, Mr. Haply’s on the line.”
“Hello, Mr. Haply, how nice to talk to you. Sorry I was engaged before.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Kwang. I just wanted to check a couple of facts if I may. First, the riot at Aberdeen. The police w—”
“Hardly a riot, Mr. Haply. A few noisy, impatient people, that’s all,” he said, despising Haply’s Canadian-American accent, and the need to be polite.
“I’m looking at some photos right now, Mr. Kwang, the ones that’re in this afternoon’s Times—it looks like a riot all right.”
The banker squirmed in his chair and fought to keep his voice calm. “Oh—oh well I wasn’t there so … I’ll have to talk to Mr. Sung.”
“I did, Mr. Kwang. At 3:30. Spent half an hour with him. He said if it hadn’t been for the police they’d’ve torn the place apart.” There was a hesitation. “You’re right to play it down, but, say, I’m trying to help, and I can’t without the facts, so if you’ll level with me … How many folks wanted their money out at Lan Tao?”
Richard Kwang said, “18,” halving the real figure.
“Our guy said 36. 82 at Sha Tin. How about Mong Kok?”
“A cupful.”
“My guy said 48, and there was a good 100 left at closing. How about Tsim Sha Tsui?”
“I haven’t got the figures yet, Mr. Haply,” Richard Kwang said smoothly, consumed with anxiety, hating the staccato questioning.
“All the evening editions’re heavy with the Ho-Pak run. Some’re even using the word.”
“Oh ko….”
“Yeah. I’d say you’d better get ready for a real hot day tomorrow, Mr. Kwang. I’d say your opposition’s very well organized. Everything’s too pat to be a coincidence.”
“I certainly appreciate your interest.” Then Richard Kwang added delicately, “If there’s anything I can do …”
Again the irritating laugh. “Have any of your big depositors pulled out today?”
Richard Kwang hesitated a fraction of a moment and he heard Haply jump into the breach. “Of course I know about Four Finger Wu. I meant the big British hongs.”
“No, Mr. Haply, not yet.”
“There’s a strong rumor that Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms’s going to change banks.”
Richard Kwang felt that barb in his Secret Sack. “Let’s hope it’s not true, Mr. Haply. Who’re the tai-pans and what big bank or banks? Is it the Victoria or Blacs?”
“Perhaps it’s Chinese. Sorry, I can’t divulge a news source. But you’d better get organized—it sure as hell looks as though the big guys are after you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
4:25 P.M.:
“They don’t sleep together, tai-pan,” Claudia Chen said.
“Eh?” Dunross looked up absently from the stack of papers he was going through.
“No. At least they didn’t last night.”
“Who?”
“Bartlett and your Cirrannousshee.”
Dunross stopped working. “Oh?”
“Yes. Separate rooms, separate beds, breakfast together in the main room—both neat and tidy and dressed in modest robes which is interesting because neither wears anything in bed.”
“They don’t?”
“No, at least they didn’t last night.”
Dunross grinned and she was glad that her news pleased him. It was his first real smile of the day. Since she had arrived at 8:00 A.M. he had been working like a man possessed, rushing out for meetings, hurrying back again: the police, Phillip Chen, the governor, twice to the bank, once to the penthouse to meet whom she did not know. No time for lunch and, so the doorman had told her, the tai-pan had arrived with the dawn.
She had seen the weight on his spirit today, the weight that sooner or later bowed all tai-pans—and sometimes broke them. She had seen Ian’s father withered away by the enormous shipping losses of the war years, the catastrophic loss of Hong Kong, of his sons and nephews—bad joss piling on bad joss. It was the loss of Mainland China that had finally crushed him. She had seen how Suez had broken Alastair Struan, how that tai-pan had never recovered from that debacle and how bad joss had piled on bad joss for him until the Gornt-mounted run on their stock had shattered him.
It must be a terrible strain, she thought. All our people to worry about and our House, all our enemies, all the unexpected catastrophes of nature and of man that seem to be ever present—and all the sins and piracies and devil’s work of the past that are waiting to burst forth from our own Pandora’s box as they do from time to time. It’s a pity the tai-pans aren’t Chinese, she thought. Then the sins of the past would be so much gossamer.
“What makes you sure, Claudia?”
“No sleep things for either—pajamas or filmy things.” She beamed.
“How do you know?”
“Please, tai-pan, I can’t divulge my sources!”
“What else do you know?”
“Ah!” she said, then blandly changed the conversation. “The Nelson Trading board meeting’s in half an hour. You wanted to be reminded. Can I have a few minutes beforehand?”
“Yes. In a quarter of an hour. Now,” he said with a finality she knew too well. “What else do you know?”
She sighed, then importantly consulted her notepad. “She’s never been married. Oh, lots of suitors but none have lasted, tai-pan. In fact, according to rumors, none have …”
Dunross’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean she’s a virgin?”
“Of that we’re not sure—only that she has no reputation for staying out late, or overnight, with a gentleman. No. The only gentleman she goes out socially with is Mr. Bartlett and that’s infrequently. Except on business trips. He, by the way, tai-pan, he’s quite a gadabout—swinger was the t
erm used. No one lady bu—”
“Used by whom?”
“Ah! Mr. Handsome Bartlett doesn’t have one special girl friend, tai-pan. Nothing steady as they say. He was divorced in 1956, the same year that your Cirrrannnousshee joined his firm.”
“She’s not my Ciranoush,” he said.
Claudia beamed more broadly. “She’s twenty-six. She’s Sagittarius.”
“You got someone to snitch her passport—or got someone to take a peek?”
“Very good gracious no, tai-pan.” Claudia pretended to be shocked. “I don’t spy on people. I just ask questions. But 100 says she and Mr. Bartlett have been lovers at some time or another.”
“That’s no bet, I’d be astounded if they weren’t. He’s certainly in love with her—and she with him. You saw how they danced together. That’s no bet at all.”
The lines around her eyes crinkled. “Then what odds will you give me they’ve never been lovers?”
“Eh? What d’you know?” he asked suspiciously.
“Odds, tai-pan?”
He watched her. Then he said, “A thousand to … I’ll give you ten to one.”
“Done! A hundred. Thank you tai-pan. Now, about the Nels—”
“Where’d you get all this information? Eh?”
She extracted a telex from the papers she was carrying. The rest she put into his in tray. “You telexed our people in New York the night before last for information on her and to recheck Bartlett’s dossier. This’s just arrived.”
He took it and scanned it. His reading was very fast and his memory almost photographic. The telex gave the information Claudia had related in bald terms without her embroidered interpretation and added that K. C. Tcholok had no known police record, $46,000 in a savings account at the San Fernando Savings and Loan, and $8,700 in her checking account at the Los Angeles and California Bank.
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