by Robert Ryan
As he walked into the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel, past the flunkies in their black uniforms and pillbox hats, Harry felt the familiar flutter in his stomach. This was the big league, where the taipans, the bosses of the Hutchisons and Mathiesons and Jardines and Coxes and Butterfields and Swires and the other great trading houses held court, eating and drinking from the finest china and crystal under the lofty panelled ceilings of the vast lobby.
He nodded at the staff and checked his watch, an Omego, an almost perfect Chinese copy of the famous Swiss make, before heading for the bar. He would give himself an hour, no more.
Harry adjusted his tie as he stepped into the over-worked splendour of the Moorish-themed bar, and rapidly assessed the status and suitability of the drinkers. He settled on the solitary chap at the bar, the one with the slightly daft grin on his face.
He slid onto the adjacent stool and ordered a vodka and tonic. It would cost about two weeks’ army pay, but with a modicum of luck it wouldn’t be on his tab. He examined himself in the mirror, making sure he looked the part. Harry’s face was handsome enough, although he was never sure whether the slightly bent nose and the chipped tooth from his brawling days in the East End of London detracted from his looks or gave him a slightly raffish, lived-in air. After all, they could easily be a proud memento of the rugger field. Satisfied, he turned and addressed his new companion.
‘Don’t think we’ve met.’
‘No, don’t think we have,’ the man replied.
‘Unless you know Henderson. Could have met you at his place.’
‘Henderson? Is he the one in NT transport development?’
‘That’s the chap. Been to his house at … now where was it …’
‘Fanling. Next to the golf course.’
‘Of course.’ Harry had spoken to a Henderson the previous week in the hotel, but he had no idea if they were talking about the same man. It didn’t matter. He took a large gulp of his drink and pointed at the man’s nearly-full glass of scotch and ginger. ‘Ready for another?’
‘Uh, no thanks. Thing is, had two already. I’m going home at the weekend. Nine months away from this place.’
That accounted for the grin. He was Boat Happy. Civil servants worked four years on, seven months off, with a month to sail in style in both directions tacked on. The thought of getting away from the heat, the flies and the foreignness always turned them giddy.
‘You lucky man. Wayne’s the name. Rupert Wayne. I’m in dyes.’ Harry held out his hand and Simon Armitage, Deputy Land Officer for Cha Tao district, took it, not realising he was about to stand Harry two drinks before telling him the address of his house in Mid Levels that would be empty while he was away, apart from a Number One Chinese houseboy and a wash-amah. From the way Armitage described Number 8 May Road, it was the kind of house that would suit Harry Cole down to the ground.
Two
HARRY COLE GAVE ONE last satisfying thrust into Mrs Parkhill and withdrew noisily. He gave her rump a slap, watched the flesh, with its silvery stretch marks, ripple for a moment then slumped over onto his back, gasping, letting the down-draught of the squeaky ceiling fan chill his naked skin.
She squatted there on all fours, dark hair plastered to her forehead, breathing heavily, rivulets of sweat streaming down her breasts. ‘You, Mr Wayne,’ she finally said, ‘are a selfish bastard.’ He smiled, because they both knew it wasn’t true, at least as far as the sex was concerned.
Harry was pleased with the way things had turned out with the Colonel’s wife, especially as his Rupert character had nearly blown up in his face, following the hugely successful Ladies’ Night he had orchestrated. His masterstroke, apart from hiring a piano trio from the Peninsula, had been teaching Jimmy, the young Chinese barman, how to mix a proper pink lady.
‘No yolk,’ he had told him. ‘Very important. Whites only. Like up on The Peak? Got it?’ He poured the separated albumen into a cocktail shaker. ‘And no bits of shell. OK?’ He took the gin from the refrigerator, tossing it by the neck and catching it with a satisfied smile. ‘Nice chilled gin. Not warm. Don’t rely on ice cubes. Harry’s gin is always in the refrigerator. Remember that. Now, not too much grenadine. Some say a tablespoon, I say that’s too much. Give it a good shake. Pour, slowly and … there you are. How’s that?’ Jimmy sipped and beamed a comical grin and Harry said to him: ‘Now you do it.’
Egg yolk, bits of shell, too much grenadine. This was what they’d been drinking at the club these past few months? Harry made him do it again and again before going on to tackle the over-limed Gimlets and medicinal Manhattans. Jimmy did get it, quickly. He was a bright boy. He’d come to the colony from Kong Moon in the Kwangtung province—where they knew him as Yiu Sun—and a clansman found him work as a tea-carrying coolie for Douglas boats. There, he was spotted by one of the senior recruiters for the British Army who, as was the custom, charged him two months’ wages—repayable with interest—for recommending him to the service. However, he used to earn just two dollars a week shifting tea; now he got four times that with none of the great welts the wooden chests left on his shoulders.
‘What are you thinking?’
Mrs Parkhill’s voice brought him out of the slumber he had been drifting into. She ran a finger across his chest and played with his nipple, which made him wince. She was in her mid thirties, two kids in school back in Blighty, with a face that still had the outline of her youthful beauty, slightly blurred by an accumulation of soft fat under the skin. She was still a fine-looking woman, though.
‘Sorry. Miles away. Business.’
‘It’s meant to be pleasure, Rupert.’
‘It is, Lilith. It is.’ He stroked her hair.
He liked to pay attention to women. Listen to what they say, give it equal weight to any man’s opinion, involve them in the conversation, rather than treat them as mere adornment. It went a long way to explaining why Harry had what they euphemistically called ‘a way with the ladies’.
It was Harry playing the trumpet that had brought them together. Without the trumpet, she might have dismissed him as just another busy bar steward. At close of play on that first Ladies’ Night, however, he hadn’t been able to resist joining the Peninsula band on a couple of choruses of ‘Ain’t She Sweet’ with the battered Chinese horn he had picked up in the Night Market.
Three days later, Mr Rupert Wayne, flushed with victory after having persuaded the Armitage houseboy that his master was letting him rent 8 May Road during his absence, had strolled into the Peninsula. There, he bumped into a puzzled Mrs Lilith Parkhill. Despite the suit, the panama and the glasses, she recognised him immediately as Harry, the trumpet-playing bar steward. He had wheeled her off to a quiet corner, where he spun and spun his story, explaining that he was an undercover policeman, trying to root out widespread corruption in the Civil Service and army. It was imperative the Colonel didn’t know and he finished by requesting her discretion.
He got more than her discretion. Soon Lilith was asking her husband if she could borrow his car, and Harry the driver, to do some househunting. She didn’t want to live on the barracks, was tired of her rooms at the Repulse Bay Hotel. She wanted to look around, see what was on offer.
What was on offer were regular sessions making love with Harry/Rupert at Armitage’s house in Mid Levels above the harbour.
‘Do you realise how dull it is to be a married woman in Hong Kong?’ she said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Nothing but petty rules and conventions. You can’t work because white women don’t work, not white married ones. You can’t even do housework, because there is always some dirt-cheap servant to do that for you. Bridge, mah jong, tennis, dinner, those bloody awful dinner parties, and more bloody bridge and mah jong. My God, it’s no wonder we end up fucking the staff.’ She paused and glanced at Harry, who feigned a pained expression. ‘Well, you are staff. Sort of. How long before you’ve cracked this racket you’re investigating?’
‘How long till I leave, you mean?’
She n
odded.
‘I don’t know. A week, a month …’
‘A year?’
Christ I hope not, he thought. He’d be bored with her well before that. ‘Possibly, darling, possibly.’
He slid off the bed, grabbed a towel and walked to the window. Simon Armitage’s place was a well-appointed dwelling: teak floors, high ceilings, plenty of fans, and a grand view of the neat row of steamships moored along the Praya.
‘When you go, can I have this house?’ asked Mrs Parkhill, reading his thoughts. ‘It’s quite the nicest one I’ve seen of late.’ She reached over and nibbled on one of the biscuits she had bought at the Lane, Crawford grocery department, letting crumbs drop onto the bed. ‘No Chinks too near, either.’
The well-off Chinese tended to concentrate on Conduit and Caine Roads below them; here, on May Road, they were a bold minority. Above was The Peak, site of the colony’s most desirable homes and overwhelmingly European, almost exclusively British.
‘Can’t do it. Crown Property. Would have to go through … the proper channels.’
‘Oh, rot. You mean bribe the right person. Fill his washbowl or whatever the term is.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll find out who the land agent is and tip him the wink. Fill his ricebowl. How’s that?’
‘Oh, Rupert, that would be wonderful.’
‘Does that mean you want me to hurry up and leave Hong Kong?’
‘Not at all, you rascal. Come here. I’ll show you how much I want to get rid of you.’
He stole a glance at his watch on the bedside table. He should be opening up the bar soon. ‘I’ve got time for a quick one.’
She produced a ripe chuckle. ‘We’ll see about that.’
Harry, dressed once more as Rupert, approached Mister Eric’s place twenty minutes after he had dropped off the Colonel at the Peninsula, giving the man plenty of time to get inside the house and out of his way. Parkhill wouldn’t be out for at least an hour. Eric was leaning against the red lacquered door of the brothel, a cigarette clamped between his stained teeth.
‘Hello, Harry.’
‘Mister Eric. Is he in there?’
‘Ten minutes now.’ Eric spat noisily into the dust.
‘Did you …?’ began Harry.
Eric nodded. He pushed himself off the door and walked across the road, weaving through the coolies and waving at Harry to follow him. ‘Come. Talk over tea.’
‘Suki won’t sleep with you.’
Harry tapped his forefinger on the table as Mister Eric refilled his cup. They were at the little chai stand a few streets away from the house where the Colonel was being entertained by Suki. He felt his throat go dry. He had asked Eric if she would take him as a client. He said he doubted it, but Harry insisted he put the request in.
‘Why not?’ Harry asked as he sipped the scalding tea. ‘Why won’t she sleep with me, when she’ll dui Parkhill?’
‘What your wife called?’
Harry studied Mister Eric’s face, but it was an unreadable mask. Eric must have known that he was, in the army’s eyes at least, too young to have a wife.
‘I don’t have a wife,’ he said at last. Mister Eric looked over his shoulder and Harry followed the glance down the street, past the row of comprados, the grocery and dry good shops, each barely three feet wide, to the pair of white police officers walking towards them. Harry looked away and carried on as if nothing was more natural than Anglo-Chinese fraternisation. He felt the coppers’ stares bore into his back as they slowly paced by.
‘The girl that interests you will only’—Mister Eric made an obscene gesture—‘officers and married men.’
‘What?’
‘Officers, because she is expensive,’ and he said in pidgin, ‘forty dollah.’
Forty was right at the top end, almost off the scale. For forty Hong Kong dollars he could go down to Kennedy Town and get himself twenty girls, all clean, all willing to do whatever he wanted. For six dollars a week, he could have what soldiers called a dahnomer—a down-homer—a girl in one of the laydown cubicles for his exclusive use, with sewing and washing thrown in. But, even at her extortionate price, he still wanted Suki, had done for every waking moment since the day he had spied on her. Having to be hitched, though, as well as finding that kind of cash? It was an insult.
‘Stone me, Eric, surely marrieds, they’re the last people that need her services.’
‘Maybe so. But she think married men safer.’
‘Safer?’
‘Take a lot more care. They not want to give the Japanese disease to their wives. They careful.’
The Japanese disease was obviously the same as the Cuban thing. The clap was always some other country’s fault. ‘Well,’ said Harry glumly, ‘I’m fucking the Colonel’s wife. Doesn’t that count?’
Mister Eric flashed his gold teeth as he laughed loud and dirty enough to make the two policemen stop and swivel their heads, sure something fishy was going on. Eric raised a placatory hand. The pair glared and moved on.
Eric giggled and said, ‘I’ll ask her again.’
Three
‘WHERE ARE YOUR FAMILY from, Cole?’
Harry flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror and tried to interpret Colonel Parkhill’s expression, wondering what had caused this sudden interest in his antecedents. ‘Hoxton, sir.’
‘Hoxton. Don’t know it. East End of London, is it?’
‘Sir.’
They drove on in silence for a few minutes, north towards the barracks, past a cluster of locals outside a shop, arms waving, teeth bared as they chanted incomprehensible slogans. Two policemen and a knot of soldiers pushed them back.
‘Must be a Jap shop,’ said the Colonel. ‘Officers’ nappy-wallah’s a Jap.’ It took a moment for Harry to realise he was using the old Indian Army phrase for a barber. ‘Says the Japs are all getting a lot of stick around town. A lot. Be worse if they take Canton.’
The Japanese had shelled the outskirts of Canton, killing close to a hundred people. Many people in the city had relatives up there, hence the unrest and attacks on their businesses.
‘How’d you get your stripe, Cole?’
‘I busted a racket, sir. Back in Blighty. Boots and blankets. Selling them to civilians they was. Right under everyone’s noses.’
‘Really.’
‘Criminal, sir.’
They swept through the barrack gates, the sentries on duty snapping to attention as they went. ‘You’d know all about that, I suppose, Cole.’
Ah. It dawned on him that the Colonel must have seen the ERAS on his file. Early Release for Army Service. He’d knocked three years off his sentence in the Scrubs for burglary by volunteering for King and Country.
‘All behind me now, sir.’
‘Excellent. Pleased to hear it.’
As Harry pulled to a halt outside the CO’s office, two regimental policemen stepped smartly forward from the shadows, one either side of the car. They were big men, with no necks to speak of, and clearly very hard.
‘There are certain irregularities in the bar accounts, Cole. And some complaints about, shall we say, the quality of the drinks.’ Parkhill beamed a smile of pleasure that threw deep creases across his face. ‘Now, you can try telling me you are an undercover agent for HM Government if you wish, but those things work rather better with my wife.’
‘Never give a bloke a second chance, eh? Once a crook, always a crook?’
The Colonel stepped out and leaned back into the car. ‘In my experience, that’s about the size of it, Cole. I’m sure the do-gooders and social engineers and communists at Wormwood Scrubs saw it differently. My office, now.’
The policemen pulled Harry out of the Austin, barked for him to stand to attention and quick-marched him into the CO’s office. Harry’s brain whirred, trying to put everything together. Lilith had let something slip about Rupert, possibly trying to goad or belittle her husband, and now he was blown wide open.
Parkhill took the seat behind his desk, an air of
victory settling around him. He left Harry at rigid attention while he examined a list of figures.
‘Well, Cole. We seem to have a shortfall of several hundred Hong Kong dollars.’ He looked again. ‘No, my mistake. Eight hundred and twenty-five.’
‘Sir.’
‘Is that all you have to say? I need hardly remind you this is a court martial offence, Cole. I think you’ll find military detention rather different from your time at Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘Sir. Permission to speak, sir.’
‘Of course.’
‘Wasn’t me, sir.’
The Colonel chuckled. ‘I suggest you come up with a better defence than that.’
Harry took a deep breath. It was time to pull something out of the bag. ‘Thing is, sir, I knew something odd was going on. I did a little digging. I can prove it wasn’t me.’
Parkhill looked bemused. ‘Really? And how can you do that?’
‘Permission to show the evidence, sir.’
‘Go on, then.’ There was a hint of doubt in his voice.
From the top pocket of his tunic Harry took the creased brown envelope, stepped forward and handed it over. Parkhill flipped it open and eased out the contents. He sucked air through his teeth and hissed, ‘I see.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Cole. So who does this implicate? Your assistant, I suppose? The Chinese boy?’
Harry nodded. No way out of that one. Sorry, Jimmy. It’s the way the chim sticks fall. ‘Looks like it, sir.’
Parkhill glanced at the regimental policemen. ‘Sergeant. Jimmy the barman at the Officers’ Club. Detain him. Now.’
‘Sir,’ snapped the sergeant and the pair wheeled around and left.
‘Permission to stand at ease, sir.’
‘You bastard,’ said Parkhill slowly.
Harry slouched and, the charade over, sat on the edge of Parkhill’s desk. ‘Mister Eric takes every client’s picture, Colonel. It’s an insurance policy.’
Parkhill let the grainy photographs drop onto the desk, and Harry could make out the blurred shape of him and Suki intertwined in a variety of positions. ‘I suppose these aren’t the only copies?’
