Noble House

He concentrated on her, his senses bemused. I suppose if you compare hers with, say, say Virginia Tong's, well she does have a certain delicacy. Yes, but if you want my considered opinion I'd still rather have had the mystery and not seen these at all. None of them.
Idly his eyes went from name to name. "Bloody hell," he said, recognizing one: Elizabeth Mithy. She was once a secretary at Struan's, one of the band of wanderers from the small towns in Australia and New Zealand, girls who aimlessly found their way to Hong Kong for a few weeks, to stay for months, perhaps years, to fill minor jobs until they married or vanished forever. I'll be damned. Liz Mithy!
Armstrong was trying to be dispassionate but he could not help comparing Caucasian with Chinese and he found no difference. Thank God for that, he told himself, and chuckled. Even so he was glad the photographs were black and white and not in color.
"Well," he said out loud, still very embarrassed, "there's no law against taking photos that I know of, and sticking them in your own cabinet. The young ladies must've cooperated. . . ." He grunted, amused and at the same time disgusted. Damned if I'll ever understand the Chinese! "Liz Mithy, eh?" he muttered. He had known her slightly when she was in the Colony, knew that she was quite wild, but what could have possessed her to pose for Ng? If her old man knew, he'd hemorrhage. Thank God we don't have children, Mary and I.
Be honest, you bleed for sons and daughters but you can't have them, at least Mary can't, so the doctors say—so you can't.
With an effort Armstrong buried that everlasting curse again and relocked the cabinet and walked out, closing the doors after him.
In the outer office Virginia Tong was polishing her nails, clearly furious.
"Can you get Mr. Ng on the phone, please?"
"No, not until four," she said sullenly without looking at him.
"Then please call Mr. Tsu-yan instead," Armstrong told her, stabbing in the dark.
Without looking up the number, she dialed, waited impatiently, chatted gutturally for a moment in Cantonese and slammed the phone down. "He's away. He's out of town and his office doesn't know where he is."
"When did you last see him?"
"Three or four days ago." Irritably she opened her appointments calendar and checked it. "It was Friday."
"Can I look at that please?"
She hesitated, shrugged and passed it over, then went back to polishing her nails.
Quickly he scanned the weeks and the months. Lots of names he knew: Richard Kwang, Jason Plumm, Dunross—Dunross several times—Thomas K. K. Lim—the mysterious American Chinese from next door—Johnjohn from the Victoria Bank, Donald McBride, Mata several times. Now who's Mata? he asked himself, never having heard the name before. He was about to give the calendar back to her then he flipped forward. "Saturday 10:00 A.M. —V. Banastasio." His heart twisted. This coming Saturday.
He said nothing, just put the appointment calendar back on her desk, and leaned back against one of the files, lost in thought. She paid no attention to him. The door opened.
"Excuse me, sir, phone for you!" Sergeant Yat said. He was looking much happier so Armstrong knew the negotiation must have been fruitful. He would have liked to know how much, exactly, but then, face would be involved and he would have to take action, one way or another.
"All right, Sergeant, stay here till I get back," he said, wanting to make sure no secret phone calls were made. Virginia Tong did not look up as he left.
In the other office Bucktooth Lo was still moaning, nursing his hand, and the other man, Big Hands Tak, was pretending to be nonchalant, going through some papers, loudly berating his secretary for her inefficiency. As he came in both men started loudly protesting their continued innocence and Lo groaned with increasing vigor.
"Quiet! Why did you jam your fingers in the drawer?" Armstrong asked and added without waiting for a reply, "People who try to bribe honest policemen deserve to be deported at once." In the aghast silence he picked up the phone. "Armstrong." "Hello, Robert, this is Don, Don Smyth at East Aberdeen . . ." "Oh, hello!" Armstrong was startled, not expecting to hear from the Snake, but he kept his voice polite though he loathed him and loathed what he was suspected of doing within his jurisdiction. It was one thing for constables and the lower ranks of Chinese police to supplement their income from illicit gambling. It was another for a British officer to sell influence, and to squeeze like an old-fashioned Mandarin. But though almost everyone believed Smyth was on the make, there was no proof, he had never been caught, and had never been investigated. Rumor had it that he was protected by certain VIP individuals who were deeply involved with him as well as in their own graft. "What's up?" he asked.
"Had a bit of luck. I think. You're heading up the John Chen kidnapping, aren't you?"
"That's right." Armstrong's interest soared. Smyth's graft had nothing to do with the quality of his police work—East Aberdeen had the lowest crime rate in the Colony. "Yes. What've you got?"
Smyth told him about the old amah and what had happened with Sergeant Mok and Spectacles Wu, then added, "He's a bright young chap, that, Robert. I'd recommend him for SI if you want to pass it on. Wu followed the old bird back to her fairly filthy lair, then called us. He obeys orders too, which is rare these days. On a hunch I told him to wait around and if she came out, to follow her. What do you think?"
"A twenty-four-carat lead!"
"What's your pleasure? Wait, or pull her in for real questioning?"
"Wait. I'll bet the Werewolf never comes back but it's worth waiting until tomorrow. Keep the place under surveillance and keep me posted."
"Good. Oh very good!"
Armstrong heard Smyth chortle down the phone and he could not think why he was so happy. Then he remembered the huge reward that the High Dragons had offered. "How's your arm?"
"It's my shoulder. Bloody thing's dislocated and I lost my favorite sodding hat. Apart from that everything's fine. Sergeant Mok's going through all our mug shots now and I've got one of my lads doing an Identi-Kit on him—I think I even saw the sod myself. His face is quite pockmarked. If we've got him on file we'll have him nailed by sundown."
"Excellent. How's it going down there?"
"Everything under control but it's bad. The Ho-Pak's still paying out but too slowly—everyone knows they're stalling. I hear it's the same all over the Colony. They're finished, Robert. The queue'll go on till every last cent's out. There's another run on the Vic here and no letup in the crowds. …"
Armstrong gasped. "The Vic?"
"Yes, they're handing out cash by the bagful and taking nothing in. Triads are swarming … the pickings must be huge. We arrested eight pickpockets and busted up twenty-odd fights. I'd say it's very bad."
"Surely the Vic's okay?"
"Not in Aberdeen it isn't, old lad. Me, I'm liquid. I've closed all my accounts. I took every cent out. I'm all right. If I were you I'd do the same."
Armstrong felt queasy. His life's savings were in the Victoria. "The Vic's got to be all right. All the government funds're in it."
"Right you are. But nothing in their constitution says your money's protected too. Well, I've got to get back to work."
"Yes. Thanks for the info. Sorry about your shoulder."
"I thought I was going to have my bloody head bashed in. The sods'd just started the old 'kill the quai loh' bit. I thought I was a goner."