Flashmans' Lady fp-6

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Now why, I wondered, was Solomon offering to pimp for me - for that's what it struck me he was doing. To keep me sinfully amused while he paid court to Elspeth, perhaps - or just in the way of kindness, to steer me to the best brothels in town? I was pondering this when he went on:

  "Speaking of rich Chinese - you and Elspeth haven't met any yet, I suppose? Now they are the most interesting folk in this settlement, altogether - people like Whampoa and Tan Tock Seng. I must arrange that - I'm afraid I've been neglecting you all shockingly, but when one's been away for three years - well, there's a great deal to do, as you can guess." He grinned whimsically. "Confess it - you've found our Singapore gaiety just a trifle tedious. Old Butterworth prosing - and Logan and Dyce ain't quite Hyde Park style, are they? Ne'er mind - I'll see to it that you visit one of old Whampoa's parties - that won't bore, I promise you!"

  And it didn't. Solomon was as good as his word, and two nights later Elspeth and I and old Morrison were driven out to Whampoa's estate in a four-wheel palki; it was a superb place, more like a palace than a house, with the garden brilliant with lanterns, and the man himself bowing us in ceremonially at the door. He was a huge, fat Chinese, with a shaven head and a pigtail down to his heels, clad in a black silk robe embroidered with shimmering green and scarlet flowers - straight from Aladdin, except that he had a schooner of sherry in one paw; it never left him, and it was never empty either.

  "Welcome to my miserable and lowly dwelling," says he, doubling over as far as his belly would let him. "That is what the Chinese always say, is it not? In fact, I think my home is perfectly splendid, and quite the best in Singapore - but I can truthfully say it has never entertained a more beautiful visitor." This was to Elspeth, who was gaping round at the magnificence of lacquered panelling, gold-leafed slender columns, jade ornaments, and silk hangings, with which Whampoa's establishment appeared to be stuffed. "You shall sit beside me at dinner, lovely golden-haired lady, and while you exclaim at the luxury of my house, I shall flatter your exquisite beauty. So we shall both be assured of a blissful evening, listening to what delights us most."

  Which he did, keeping her entranced beside him, sipping continually at his sherry, while we ate a Chinese banquet in a dining-room that made Versailles look like a garret. The food was atrocious, as Chinese grub always is - some of the soups, and the creamed walnuts, weren't bad, though - but the servants were the most delightful little Chinese girls, in tight silk dresses each of a different colour; even ancient eggs with sea-weed dressing and carrion sauce don't seem so bad when they're offered by a slant-eyed little goer who breathes perfume on you and wriggles in a most entrancing way as she takes your hand in velvet fingers to show you how to manage your chop-sticks. Damned if I could get the hang of it at first; it took two of 'em to show me, one either side, and Elspeth told Whampoa she was sure I'd be much happier with a knife and fork.

  There were quite a few in the party, apart from us three and Solomon - Balestier, the American consul, I remember, a jolly Yankee planter with a fund of good stories, and Catchick Moses,15 a big noise in the Armenian community, who was the decentest Jew I ever met, and struck up an immediate rapport with old Morrison - they got to arguing about interest rates, and when Whampoa joined in, Bales-tier said he wouldn't rest until he'd made up a story which began "There was a Chinaman, a Scotchman, and a Jew", which caused great merriment. It was the cheeriest party I'd struck yet, and no lack of excellent drink, but after a while Whampoa called a halt, and there was a little cabaret, of Chinese songs, and plays, which were the worst kind of pantomime drivel, but very pretty costumes and masks, and then two Chinese dancing girls - exquisite little trollops, but clad from head to foot, alas.

  Afterwards Whampoa took Elspeth and me on a tour of his amazing house - all the walls were carved screens, in ivory and ebony, which must have been hellish draughty, but splendid to look at, and the doors were all oval in shape, with jade handles and gold frames - I reckon half a million might have bought the place. When we were finished, he presented me with a knife, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, in the shape of a miniature scimitar - to prove its edge, he dropped a filmy scrap of muslin on the blade, and it fell in half, sheared through by its own insignificant weight. (I've never sharpened it since, and it's as keen as ever, after sixty years.) To Elspeth he gave a model jade horse, whose bridle and stirrups were tiny jade chains, all cut out of one solid block - God knows what it was worth.

  She scampered off to show it to the others, calling on Solomon to admire it, and Whampoa says quietly to me:

  "You have known Mr Solomon Haslam for a long time?"

  I said a year or so, in London, and he nodded his great bald head and turned his Buddha-like face to me.

  "He is taking you on a cruise round his plantations, I believe. That will be interesting - I must ask him where they are. I should much like to visit them myself some day."

  I said I thought they were on the peninsula, and he nodded gravely and sipped his sherry.

  "No doubt they are. He is a man of sufficient shrewdness and enterprise, I think - he does business well." The sound of Elspeth's laughter sounded from the dining-room, and Whampoa's fat yellow face creased in a sudden smile. "How fortunate you are, Mr Flashman. I have, in my humble way - which is not at all humble, you understand - a taste for beautiful things, and especially in women. You have seen"— he fluttered his hand, with its beastly long nails —"that I surround myself with them. But when I see your lady, Elspet', I understand why the old story-tellers always made their gods and goddesses fair-skinned and golden-haired. If I were forty years younger, I should try to take her from you"— he sluiced down some more Amontillado —"with-out success, of course. But so much beauty - it is dangerous."

  He looked at me, and I can't think why, but I felt a chill of sudden fear - not of him, but of what he was saying. Before I could speak, though, Elspeth was back, to exclaim again over her present, and prattle her thanks, and he stood smiling down at her, like some benign, sherry-soaked heathen god.

  "Thank me, beautiful child, by coming again to my humble palace, for hereafter it will truly be humble without your presence," says he. Then we joined the others, and the thanks and compliments flew as we took our leave in that glittering place, and everything was cheery and happy - but I found myself shivering as we went out, which was odd, for it was a warm and balmy night.

  I couldn't account for it, after such a jolly affair, but I went to bed thoroughly out of sorts. At first I put it down to foul Chinese grub, and certainly something gave me the most vivid nightmares, in which I was playing a single-wicket match up and downstairs in Whampoa's house, and his silky little Chinese tarts were showing me how to hold my bat - that part of it was all right, as they snuggled up, whispering fragrantly and guiding my hands, but all the time I was conscious of dark shapes moving behind the screens, and when Daedalus Tighe bowled to me it was a Chinese lantern that I had to hit, and it went ballooning up into the dark, bursting into a thousand rockets, and Old Morrison and the Duke came jumping out at me in sarongs, crying that I must run all through the house to score a single, at compound interest, and I set off, blundering past the screens, where nameless horrors lurked, and I was trying to catch Solomon, who was flitting like a shadow before me, calling out of the dark that there was no danger, because he carried ten guns, and I could feel someone or something drawing closer behind me, and Elspeth's voice was calling, fainter and fainter, and I knew if I looked back I should see something terrible - and there I was, gasping into the pillow, my face wet with sweat, and Elspeth snoring peacefully beside me.

  It rattled me, I can tell you, because the last time I'd had a nightmare was in Gul Shah's dungeon, two years before, and that was no happy recollection. (It's a strange thing, by the way, that I usually have my worst nightmares in jail; I can remember some beauties, in Fort Raim prison, up on the Aral Sea, where I imagined old Morrison and Rudi Starnberg were painting my backside with boot polish, and in Gwalior Fort, where I waltzed in chai
ns with Captain Charity Spring conducting the band, and the beastliest of all was in a Mexican clink during the Juarez business, when I dreamed I was charging the Balaclava guns at the head of a squadron of skeletons in mortar-boards, all chanting "Ab and absque, coram de", while just ahead of me Lord Cardigan was sailing in his yacht, leering at me and tearing Elspeth's clothes off. Mind you, I'd been living on chili and beans for a week.)

  In any event, I didn't sleep well after Whampoa's party, and was in a fine fit of the dismals next day, as a result of which Elspeth and I quarrelled, and she wept and sulked until Solomon came to propose a picnic on the other side of the island. We would sail round in the Sulu Queen, he said, and make a capital day of it. Elspeth cheered up at once, and old Morrison was game, too, but I cried off, pleading indisposition. I knew what I needed to lift my gloom, and it wasn't an al fresco lunch in the mangrove swamps with those three; let them remove themselves, and it would leave me free to explore China Town at closer quarters, and perhaps sample the menu at one of those exclusive establishments that Solomon had mentioned; the Temple of Heaven was the name that stuck in my mind. Why, they might even have dainty little waitresses like Whampoa's, to teach you how to use your chopsticks.

  So when the three of them had left, Elspeth with her nose in the air because I wasn't disposed to make up, I loafed about until evening and then whistled up a palki. My bearers jogged away through the crowded streets, and presently, just as dusk was falling, we reached our destination in what seemed to be a pleasant residential district inland from China Town, with big houses half-hidden in groves of trees from which paper lanterns hung; all very quiet and discreet.

  The Temple of Heaven was a large frame house on a little hill, entirely surrounded by trees and shrubs, with a winding drive up to the front verandah, which was all dim lights and gentle music and Chinese servants scurrying to make the guests at home. There was a large cool dining-room, where I had an excellent European meal with a bottle and a half of champagne, and I was in capital fettle and ready for mischief when the Hindoo head waiter sidled up to ask if all was in order, and was there anything else that the gentleman required? Would I care to see a cabaret, or an exhibition of Chinese works of art, or a concert, if my tastes were musical, or …

  "The whole d---d lot," says I, "for I ain't going home till morning, if you know what I mean. I've been six months at sea, so drum 'em up, Sambo, and sharp about it."

  He smiled and bowed in his discreet Indian way, clapped his hands, and into the alcove where I was sitting there stepped the most gorgeous creature imaginable. She was Chinese, with blue-black hair coiled above a face that was pearl-like in its perfection and colour, with great slanting eyes, and her gown of crimson silk clung to a shape which English travellers are wont to describe as "a thought too generous for the European taste" but which, if I'd been a classical sculptor, would have had me dropping my hammer and chisel and reaching for the meat. Her arms were bare, and she spread them in the prettiest curtsey, smiling with perfect teeth between lips the colour of good port.

  "This is Madame Sabba," says the waiter. "She will conduct you, if your excellency will permit … ?"

  "I may, just about," says I. "Which way's upstairs?"

  I imagined it was the usual style, you see, but Madame Sabba, indicating that I should follow, led the way through an arch and down a long corridor, glancing behind to see that I was following. Which I was, breathing heavy, with my eyes on that trim waist and wobbling bottom; I caught her up at the end door, and was just clutching a handful when I realized that we were on a porch, and she was slipping out of my fond embrace and indicating a palki which was waiting at the foot of the steps.

  "What's this?" says I.

  "The entertainment," says she, "is a little way off. They will take us there."

  "The entertainment," says I, "is on this very spot." And I took hold of her, growling, and hauled her against me. By George, she was a randy armful, wriggling against me and pretending she wanted to break loose, while I nuzzled into her, inhaling her perfume and munching away at her lips and face.

  "But I am only your guide," she giggled, turning her face aside. "I shall take you—"

  "Just to the nearest bed, ducky. I'll do the guiding after that."

  "You like - me?" says she, playing coy, while I overhauled her lustfully. "Why, then - this is not suitable, here. We must go a little way - but I believe that when you see what else is offered, you will not care for Sabba." And she stuck her tongue into my mouth and then pulled me towards the palki. "Come - they will take us quickly."

  "If it's more than ten yards, it'll be a wasted trip," says I, pawing away as we clambered aboard and pulled the curtains. I was properly on the boil, and intent on giving her the business then and there, but to my frustration the palki was one of those double sedans, where you sit opposite each other, and all I could do was paw at her frontage in the dark, swearing as I tried to unbutton her dress, and squeezing at the delights beneath it, while she kissed and fondled, laughing, telling me not to be impatient, and the palki men jogged along, bouncing us in a way that made it impossible to get down to serious work. Where they were taking us I didn't care; what with champagne and passion I was lost to everything but the scented beauty teasing me in the dark; at last I managed to get one tit clear and was nibbling away when the palki stopped, and Madame Sabba gently disengaged herself.

  "A moment," says she, and I could imagine her adjusting her gown in the darkness. "Wait here," her fingers gently stroked my lips, there was a glimpse of dusk as she slipped through the palki curtain - and then silence.

  I waited, fretting and anticipating, for perhaps half a minute, and then stuck my head out. For a moment I couldn't make out anything in the gloom, and then I saw that the palki was stopped in a mean-looking street, between dark and shuttered buildings - but of the palki men and Madame Sabba there wasn't a sign. Just deserted shadow, not a light anywhere, and not a sound except the faint murmur of the town a long way off.

  My blank astonishment lasted perhaps two seconds, to be replaced by rage as I tore back the palki curtain and stumbled out, cursing. I hadn't had time to feel the first chill of fear before I saw the black shapes moving out of the shadows at the end of the street, gliding silently towards me.

  I'm not proud of what happened in the next moment. Of course, I was very young and thoughtless, and my great days of instant flight and evasion were still ahead of me, but even so, with my Afghan experience and my native cowardice to boot, my reaction was inexcusable. In my riper years I'd have lost no precious seconds in bemused swearing; long before those stealthy figures even appeared, I'd have realized that Madame Sabba's disappearance portended deadly danger, and been over the nearest wall and heading for the high country. But now, in my youthful folly and ignorance, I absolutely stood there gaping, and calling out:

  "Who the devil are you, and what d'ye want? Where's my whore, confound it?"

  And then they were running towards me, on silent feet, and I saw in a flash that I'd been lured to my death. Then, at last, was seen Flashy at his best, when it was all but too late. One scream, three strides, and I was leaping for the rickety fence between two houses; for an instant I was astride of it, and had a glimpse of four lean black shapes converging on me at frightening speed; something sang past my head and then I was down and pelting along the alley beyond, hearing the soft thuds behind as they vaulted over after me. I tore ahead full tilt, bawling "Help!" at the top of my lungs, shot round the corner, and ran for dear life down the street beyond.

  It was my yellow belly that saved me, nothing else. A hero wouldn't have stood and fought - not against those odds, in such a place - but he'd at least have glanced back, to see how close the pursuit was, or maybe even have drawn rein to consider which way to run next. Which would have been fatal, for the speed at which they moved was fearful. One glimpse I caught of the leader as I turned the corner - a fell black shape moving like a panther, with something glittering in his hand - and in pure p
anic I went hurtling on, from one street to another, leaping every obstruction, screaming steadily for aid, but going at my uttermost every stride. That's what you young chaps have got to remember - when you run, run, full speed, with never a thought for anything else; don't look or listen or dither even for an instant; let terror have his way, for he's the best friend you've got.

  He kept me ahead of the field for a good quarter of a mile, I reckon, through deserted streets and lanes, over fences and yards and ditches, and never a glimpse of a human soul, until I turned a corner and found myself looking down a narrow alley which obviously led to a frequented street, for at the far end there were lanterns and figures moving, and beyond that, against the night sky, the spars and masts of ships under riding lights.

  "Help!" I bawled. "Murder! Assassins! Hell and damnation! Help!"

  I was pelting down the alley as I shouted, and now, like a fool, I stole a glance back - there he was, like a black avenging angel gliding round the corner a bare twenty yards behind. I raced on, but in turning my head I'd lost my direction; suddenly there was an empty handcart in my path - left by some infernally careless coolie in the middle of the lane - and in trying to clear it I caught my foot and went sprawling. I was afoot in an instant, ahead of me someone was shouting, but my pursuer had halved the distance behind me, and as I shot another panic-stricken glance over my shoulder I saw his hand go back behind his head, something glittered and whirled at me, a fearful pain drove through my left shoulder, and I went sprawling into a pile of boxes, the flung hatchet clattering to the ground beside me.