Noble House

"This morning. He called to tell me about John Chen. Anything new on those bastards?"
"No. Sorry. Brian had to go out of town—a quick trip, you know how it is."
"Oh of course. If you talk to him tell him I'll see him Sunday at the hill climb, if not before."
"Do you still intend to go to Taiwan?"
"Yes. With Bartlett. Sunday, back Tuesday. I hear we can use his plane."
"Yes. Please make sure he comes back on Tuesday."
"If not before."
"Nothing I can do for you?"
"No thank you, Robert."
"Tai-pan, we've, we've had another rather disturbing encounter, here in Hong Kong. Not to worry you but take it easy until tomorrow with Sinders, eh?"
"Of course. Brian said the same. And Roger. Thanks, Robert. Night." Dunross hung up. He had forgotten that he had an SI bodyguard following him. The fellow must be better than the others.
I didn't notice him at all. Now what to do about him? He's certainly unwelcome with Four Fingers.
"I'll be back in a moment," he said.
"Yes, tai-pan," the barman said.
Dunross went out and strolled to the men's room, watching without watching. No one followed him. When he had finished he went into the noisy crowded mezzanine, across and down the main staircase to the newsstand in the foyer to buy an evening paper. There were crowds everywhere. Coming back, he zeroed in on a slight, bespectacled Chinese who was watching him over a magazine from a chair in the foyer. Dunross hesitated, went back to the foyer and saw the eyes following him. Satisfied, he went back up the crowded stairs. "Oh hello, Marlowe," he said, almost bumping into him.
"Oh hello, tai-pan."
At once Dunross saw the great weariness in the other man's face. "What's up?" he asked, instantly sensing trouble, stepping out of the way of the crowds.
"Oh nothing . . . nothing at all."
"Something's up." Dunross smiled gently.
Peter Marlowe hesitated. "It's, it's Fleur." He told him about her.
Dunross was greatly concerned. "Old Tooley's a good doctor so that's one thing." He related to Marlowe how Tooley had filled him, Bartlett and Casey full of antibiotics. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. Just a touch of the runs. Nothing to worry about for a month or so." Peter Marlowe told him what Tooley had said about hepatitis. "That doesn't worry me, it's Fleur and the baby, that's the worry."
"Do you have an amah?"
"Oh yes. And the hotel's marvelous, the room boys are all pitching in."
"Have you time for a drink?"
"No, no thanks, I'd better be getting back. The amah's not … there's no room for her so she's just baby-sitting. I've got to drop by the nursing home on the way back, just to check."
"Oh, then another time. Please give your wife my regards. How's the research going?"
"Fine, thank you."
"How many more of our skeletons have you wheedled out of our Hong Kong yan?"
"Lots. But they're all good." Peter Marlowe smiled faintly. "Dirk Struan was one helluva man. Everyone says you are too and they all hope you'll best Gornt, that you'll win again."
Dunross looked at him, liking him. "Do you mind questions about Changi?" He saw the shadow pass across the rugged used face that was young-old. "That depends."
"Robin Grey said you were a black marketeer in the camp. With an American. A corporal."
There was a long pause and Peter Marlowe's face did not change. "I was a trader, Mr. Dunross, or actually, an interpreter for my friend who was a trader. He was an American corporal. He saved my life and the life of my friends. There were four of us, a major, a group captain, a rubber planter and me. He saved dozens of others too. His name was King and he was a king, King of Changi in a way." Again the faint smile. "Trading was against Japanese law— and camp law."
"You said Japanese, not Jap. That's interesting," Dunross said at once. "After all those horrors at Changi, you don't detest them?"
After a pause Peter Marlowe shook his head. "I don't detest anyone. Even Grey. It takes all of my mind and energy to appreciate that I'm alive. Night!" He turned to go.
"Oh, Marlowe, one last thing," Dunross said quickly, making a decision. "Would you like to go to the races Saturday? My box? There'll be a few interesting people … if you're researching Hong Kong you might as well do it in style, eh?"
"Thank you. Thank you very much but Donald McBride's invited me. I'd like to stop by for a drink though, if I may. Any luck on the book?" "Sorry?"
"The book on the history of Struan's, the one you're going to let me read."
"Oh yes, of course. I'm having it retyped," Dunross said. "It seems there's only one copy. If you'll bear with me?"
"Of course. Thanks."
"Give my best to Fleur." Dunross watched him go, glad that Marlowe understood the difference between trading and black mar-keteering. His eyes fell on the Chinese SI man who still watched him over the magazine. He walked slowly back to the bar as though lost in thought. When he was safe inside he said quickly, "Feng, there's a bloody newsman downstairs I don't want to see."
At once the barman opened the countertop. "It's a pleasure, tai-pan," he said, smiling, not believing the excuse at all. His customers frequently used the servants' exit behind the bar. As women were not allowed inside the bat, it was usual that it was a woman who was to be avoided outside. Now what whore would the tai-pan want to avoid? he asked himself, bemused, watching him leave a generous tip and hurry away through the exit.
Once on the street in the side alley Dunross walked quickly around the corner and got a taxi, hunching down into the back.
"Aberdeen," he ordered and gave directions in Cantonese.
"Ayeeyah, like an arrow, tai-pan," the driver said at once, brightening as he recognized him. "May I ask what are the chances for Saturday? Rain or no rain?"
"No rain, by all the gods."
"Eeeee, and the winner of the fifth?"
"The gods haven't whispered it to me, nor the foul High Tigers who bribe jockeys or drug horses to cheat honest people out of an honest gamble. But Noble Star will be trying."
"All the fornicators'll be trying," the driver said sourly, "but who's the one chosen by the gods and by the High Tiger of Happy Valley Racetrack? What about Pilot Fish?"
"The stallion's good."
"Butterscotch Lass? Banker Kwang needs a change of luck."
"Yes. The Lass's good too."
"Will the market go down more, tai-pan?"
"Yes, but buy Noble House at a quarter to three on Friday."
"At what price?"
"Use your head, Venerable Brother. Am I Old Blind Tung?"
Orlanda and Line Bartlett were dancing very close in the semi-darkness of the nightclub, feeling the length of each other. The music was soft and sensual, the beat good, the band Filipino, and the great mirrored luxurious room was deftly pool lit, with private alcoves and low deep chaises around low tables and tuxedoed waiters with pencil flashlights like so many fireflies. Many girls in colorful evening dresses sat together chatting or watching the few dancers. From time to time singly or in pairs they would join a man or men at the tables to ply them with laughter and conversation and drinks and, after a quarter of an hour or so, move on, their movements delicately orchestrated by the ever-watchful mama-san and her helpers. The mama-san here was a lithe attractive Shanghainese woman in her fifties, well dressed and discreet. She spoke six languages and was responsible to the owner for the girls. On her depended the success or failure of the business. The girls obeyed her totally. So did the bouncers and waiters. She was the nucleus, the queen of her domain, and as such, fawned upon.
It was rare for a man to bring a date though it was not resented —providing the tip was generous and the drinks continuous. Dozens of these pleasure places of the night were spread about the Colony, a few private, most open, catering to men—tourists, visitors or Hong Kong yan. All were well stocked with dancing partners of all races. You paid them to sit with you, to chat or to laugh or to listen. Prices varied, quality varied with your choice of place, the purpose always the same. Pleasure for the guest. Money for the house.
Line Bartlett and Orlanda were closer now, swaying more than dancing, her head soft against his chest. One of her hands was gently on his shoulder, the other held by his, cool to his touch. He had one arm almost around her, his hand resting on her waist. She felt his warmth deep in her loins and almost absently, her fingers caressed the nape of his neck and she eased a little closer, drawn by the music. Her feet followed his perfectly, so did her body. In a moment she felt his stirring and then his length.