Noble House

  “Sure?”

  She looked back at him, knowing he saw inside of her. “Of course. I’m fine.” A hesitation. “Sometime, sometime I might need a favor.”

  “Oh?” He frowned. “I’m in McBride’s box, two down the hall. It’s quite okay to visit if you want.” He glanced off at Riko. His pleasure faded. Now she was talking to Robin Grey and Julian Broadhurst, the Labour MPs. “Guess it’s not my day,” he muttered. “I’ll be back later, got to bet. See you, Casey.”

  “What’s your hot tip?”

  “Number seven, Winner’s Delight.”

  Winner’s Delight, an outsider, won handily by half a length over the favorite, Excellent Day. Hugely pleased with herself, Casey joined the line in front of the winner’s pay window clutching her winning tickets, well aware of the envious stares of others who walked along the corridor outside the boxes. Agonized betters were already putting down their money at other windows for the second race that was the first leg of the double quinella. To win a quinella they had to forecast the first and second runners in any order. The double quinella put the second race together with the fifth that was today’s big race. The double quinella payout would be huge, the odds against forecasting four horses immense. The minimum bet was 5 HK. There was no maximum. “Why’s that, Linc?” she had asked just before the race, craning over the balcony watching the horses in the gate, all Hong Kong yan with their binoculars focused.

  “Look at the tote.” The electronic numbers were flashing and changing as money went onto different horses, narrowing the odds, to freeze just before the off. “Look at the total money invested on this race, Casey! It’s better than three and a half million Hong Kong. That’s almost a dollar for every man woman and child in Hong Kong and it’s only the first race. This’s gotta be the richest track in the world! These guys are gambling crazy.”

  A vast roar went up as the starters’ gate opened. She had looked at him and smiled. “You okay?”

  “Sure. You?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Yes I am, she thought again, waiting her turn to collect her money. I’m a winner! She laughed out loud.

  “Oh hello, Casey! Ah, you won too?”

  “Oh! Oh hello, Quillan, yes I did.” She moved out of her place back to Gornt, the others in the line all strangers to her. “I only had 10 on her but yes I won.”

  “The amount doesn’t matter, it’s the winning.” Gornt smiled. “I like your hat.”

  “Thank you.” Curious, she thought, both Quillan and Ian had mentioned it immediately. Damn Linc!

  “It’s very lucky to pick the first winner, first time at the track.”

  “Oh I didn’t. It was a tip. Peter gave it to me. Peter Marlowe.”

  “Ah yes. Marlowe.” She saw his eyes change slightly. “You’re still on for tomorrow?”

  “Oh. Oh yes. Is it weather permitting?”

  “Even if it’s raining. Lunch anyway.”

  “Great. The dock at ten sharp. Which’s your box?” She noticed an instant change which he tried to hide.

  “I don’t have one. I’m not a steward. Yet. I’m a fairly permanent guest at the Blacs box and from time to time I borrow the whole place for a party. It’s down the corridor. Would you care to come by? Blacs is an excellent bank an—”

  “Ah but not as good as the Vic,” Johnjohn called out good-naturedly as he passed. “Don’t believe a word he says, Casey. Congratulations! Good joss to get the first. See you both later.”

  Casey watched him thoughtfully. Then she said, “What about all the bank runs, Quillan? No one seems to care—it’s as though they’re not happening, the stock market’s not crashing, and there’s no pending doom.”

  Gornt laughed, conscious of the ears that were tuned to their conversation. “Today is race day, a rarity, and tomorrow will take care of tomorrow. Joss! The stock market opens 10:00 A.M. Monday and next week will decide a lot of fates. Meanwhile every Chinese who could get his money out, has it in his fist, here today. Casey, it’s your turn.”

  She collected her money. 15 to one. 150 HK. “Hallelujah!” Gornt collected a vast bundle of red notes, 15,000. “Hey, fantastic!”

  “Worst race I’ve ever seen,” a sour American voice said. “Hell, it was fantastic they didn’t bust the jockey and disallow the win.”

  “Oh hello, Mr. Biltzmann, Mr. Pugmire.” Casey remembered them from the night of the fire. “Bust who?”

  Biltzmann stood in the place line. “Stateside there’d be an objection a mile wide. Coming into the straight out of the last bend you could see Excellent Day’s jockey pull the bejesus out of her. It was a fix—he wasn’t trying.”

  Those in the know, the very few, smiled to themselves. The whisper in the jockeys’ rooms and trainers’ rooms had been that Excellent Day wasn’t to win but Winner’s Delight would.

  “Come now, Mr. Biltzmann,” Dunross said. Unnoticed, he’d heard the exchange as he was passing and had stopped. “If the jockey wasn’t trying, or if there was any tampering, the stewards would be on to it at once.”

  “Maybe it’s okay for amateurs, Ian, and this little track but on any professional track at home, Excellent Day’s jockey’d be banned for the rest of his life. I had my glasses on him all the time.” Biltzmann sourly collected his place winnings and stomped off.

  Dunross said quietly, “Pug, did you see the jockey do anything untoward? I didn’t watch the race myself.”

  “No, no I didn’t.”

  “Anyone?” Those nearby shook their heads.

  “Seemed all right to me,” someone said. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “None of the stewards queried anything.” Then Dunross noticed the large roll of notes in Gornt’s hand. He looked up at him. “Quillan?”

  “No. But I must tell you frankly I find that berk’s manner appalling. I hardly think he’d be a proper addition to the Turf Club.” Just then he saw Robin Grey go past to place a bet and smiled at a sudden thought. “Excuse me, will you?” He nodded politely and walked off. Casey saw Dunross watching the roll of notes that Gornt put into a pocket and was inwardly aghast at the momentary look on his face.

  “Could Biltzmann … could he’ve been correct?” she asked nervously.

  “Of course.” Dunross put his full attention on her. “Fixing happens everywhere. That’s really not the point. There’s been no objection from any of the stewards or jockeys or trainers.” His eyes were slate gray. The small vein in his forehead was pulsating. “That’s not the real point at issue.” No, he was thinking. It’s a matter of bloody manners. Even so, calm yourself. You have to be very cool and very calm and very collected this weekend.

  All day he had had nothing but trouble. The only bright moment had been Riko Anjin Gresserhoff. But then AMG’s last letter had once more filled him with gloom. It was still in his pocket and it had told him that if by chance he had not destroyed the original files, to heat a dozen specified pages that were spread throughout, the secret information written in invisible ink on these pages to be passed privately to the prime minister or the current head of MI-6, Edward Sinders, personally—and a copy given to Riko Anjin in a sealed envelope.

  If I do that then I have to admit the files I gave him were false, he thought, weary of AMG, espionage and his instructions. Goddamnit, Murtagh doesn’t arrive till later, Sir Geoffrey can’t call London till 4:00 P.M. about Tiptop and Brian Kwok and, Christ Jesus, now some rude bastard calls us all amateurs … which we are. I’ll bet a hundred to a bent hatpin Quillan knew before the race.

  At a sudden thought he said casually, “How did you pick the winner, Casey? With the proverbial pin?”

  “Peter gave it to me. Peter Marlowe.” Her face changed. “Oh! Do you think he heard it was fixed?”

  “If I thought that for a moment, the race would have been set aside. There’s nothing I can do now. Biltzmann …” Suddenly he gasped as the idea hit him in all its glory.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Dunross took her arm and led he
r aside. “To get your drop dead money are you prepared to gamble?” he asked softly.

  “Sure, sure, Ian, if it’s legal. But gamble what?” she asked, her innate caution uppermost.

  “Everything you’ve got in the bank, your house in Laurel Canyon, your stock in Par-Con against 2 to 4 million within thirty days. How about it?”

  Her heart was thumping, his obvious excitement sweeping her. “Okay,” she said and then wished she hadn’t said it, her stomach fluttering. “Jesus!”

  “Good. Stay here a second. I’ll go and find Bartlett.”

  “Wait! Is he part of this? What is this, Ian?”

  He beamed. “A modest business opportunity. Yes, Bartlett’s essential. Does that make you change your mind?”

  “No,” she told him uneasily, “but I said I wanted to get my … my stake outside of Par-Con.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. Wait here.” Dunross hurried back into his box, found Bartlett and brought him back, led the way down the bustling corridor to the Struan kitchen, greeting people here and there. The kitchen was small, busy and sparkling. The staff paid no attention to them. A door opened into a tiny private room, carefully soundproofed. Four chairs, a table and phone. “My father had this constructed during his tenure—lots of business is done at the races. Sit down please. Now”—he looked at Bartlett—“I’ve a business proposal for you, for you and Casey as individuals, outside of our Par-Con deal, nothing to do with the Par-Con–Struan proposal. Are you interested?”

  “Sure. This a Hong Kong scam?”

  “Do you mind?” Dunross beamed. “It’s an honest-to-God Hong Kong business proposal.”

  “Okay, let’s have it.”

  “Before I lay it out there are ground rules: It’s my game, you two’re bystanders but you’re in for 49 percent of the profits, to be shared equally between you two. Okay?”

  “What’s the full game plan, Ian?” Bartlett asked cautiously.

  “Next: You put up $2 million U.S. by Monday 9:00 A.M. into a Swiss bank of my choosing.”

  Bartlett’s eyes narrowed. “Against what?”

  “Against 49 percent of the profit.”

  “What profit?”

  “You put up $2 million for Gornt, no paper, no chop, no nothing except against potential profit.”

  Bartlett grinned. “How long have you known about that?”

  Dunross smiled back. “I told you, there’re no secrets here. Are you in?” Dunross saw Bartlett glance at Casey and he held his breath.

  “Casey, you know what this’s all about?”

  “No, Linc.” Casey turned to Dunross. “What is the scam, Ian?”

  “First I want to know if I get the 2 million advance free and clear—if you go for this scheme.”

  “What’s the profit potential?” Casey asked.

  “$4 to $12 million. Tax free.”

  Casey blanched. “Tax free?”

  “Free of any Hong Kong taxes and we can help you avoid States taxes if you want.”

  “What’s … what’s the payout period?” Bartlett asked.

  “The profit’ll be set in thirty days. The payout will take five to six months.”

  “The $4 to $12 million’s the total, or our share only?”

  “Your share.”

  “That’s a lot of profit for something completely, twenty-four-carat legal.”

  There was a great silence. Dunross waited, willing them onward.

  “$2 million cash?” Bartlett said. “No security, no nothing?”

  “No. But after I’ve laid it out you can put up or pass.”

  “What’s Gornt to do with this?”

  “Absolutely nothing. This venture has nothing to do with Gornt, Rothwell-Gornt, Par-Con, your interest in them or us or the Par-Con deal. This is totally outside, whatever happens—my word on that. And my word before God, that I’ll never tell him you’ve put up this $2 million, that you two are my partners and in for a piece—or, by the way, that I know about the three of you selling me short.” He smiled. “That was a very good idea by the way.”

  “The deal’s swung by my $2 million?”

  “No. Greased. I haven’t $2 million U.S. cash as you know, otherwise you wouldn’t be invited in.”

  “Why us, Ian? You could raise 2 mill from one of your friends here, easy, if it’s so good.”

  “Yes. But I choose to sweeten the lure to you two. By the way, you are held to Tuesday at midnight.” Dunross said it flat. Then his voice changed and the others felt the glee. “But with this—this business venture—I can dramatize how much superior we are to Rothwell-Gornt, how much more exciting it’ll be being associated with us than him. You’re a gambler, so am I. Raider Bartlett they call you and I’m tai-pan of the Noble House. You gambled a paltry $2 million with Gornt, with no chop, why not with me?”

  Bartlett glanced at Casey. She gave him neither a yes or a no though he knew the lure had her in spades.

  “Since you’re setting the rules, Ian, answer me this: I put up the $2 million. Why should we share equally, Casey and I?”

  “I remember what you said over dinner about drop dead money. You’ve got yours, she hasn’t. This could be a device to get her hers.”

  “Why’re you so concerned over Casey? You trying to divide and rule?”

  “If that’s possible then you shouldn’t be in a very special partnership and business relationship. She’s your right arm, you told me. She’s clearly very important to you and to Par-Con so she’s entitled to share.”

  “What does she risk?”

  “She’ll put up her house, her savings, her Par-Con stock—that’s everything she has—alongside yours. She’ll sign it all over for a half share. Right?”

  Casey nodded, numb. “Sure.”

  Sharply Bartlett glanced at Casey. “I thought you said you knew nothing about this?”

  She looked at him. “Couple of minutes ago, Ian asked if I’d gamble my all to get some drop dead money, big money.” She gulped and added, “I said okay and already wish I hadn’t.”

  Bartlett thought a moment. “Casey, blunt: You want in or you want out?”

  “In.”

  “Okay.” Then Bartlett beamed. “Okay, tai-pan, now who do we have to kill?”

  Nine Carat Chu, who was a sometime gold coolie for the Victoria Bank and also the father of two sons and two daughters—Lily Su who was Havergill’s occasional friend and Wisteria who was John Chen’s mistress, whose joss was to be trampled to death outside the Ho-Pak at Aberdeen—waited his turn at the betting window.

  “Yes, old man?” the impatient teller said.

  He pulled out a roll of money. It was all the money he had and all the money he could borrow, leaving only enough for three inhalations of the White Powder that he would need to see him through his night shift tonight. “The double quinella, by all the gods! Eight and five in the second race, seven and one in the fifth.”

  The teller methodically counted out the crumpled bills. 728 HK. He pressed the buttons of those numbers and checked the first ticket. It was correct: five and eight—second race; seven and one—fifth race. Carefully he counted 145 tickets, each of 5 HK, the minimum bet, and gave them to him with 3 HK change. “Hurry up, by all the gods,” the next in line called out. “Are your fingers in your Black Hole?”

  “Be patient!” the old man muttered, feeling faint, “this is serious business!” Carefully he checked his tickets. The first, three random ones and the last were correct, and the number of tickets correct, so he gave up his place and pushed his way out of the press into the air. Once in the air he felt a little better, still nauseated but better. He had walked all the way from his night shift of work at the construction site of the new high-rise up above Kotewall Road in Mid Levels to save the fare.

  Again he checked his tickets. Eight and five in this race and seven and one in the fifth, the big race. Good, he thought, putting them carefully into his pocket. I’ve done the best I can. Now it is up to the gods.

  His chest was hurting
him very much so he fought through the crowd to the toilet and there he lit a match and inhaled the smoke from the bubbling White Powder. In time he felt better and went outside again. The second race was already on. Beside himself with anxiety he pushed and shoved his way to the rails, careless of the curses that followed him. The horses were rounding the far bend, galloping toward him into the last straight for the winning post, now past in a thundering blur as he strained his rheumy old eyes to find his numbers.

  “Who’s leading?” he gasped but no one paid any attention to him, just shouted their own choice on to victory in a growing seething roar that was all possessing, then vanished as the winner won.

  “Who won?” Nine Carat Chu gasped, his head exploding.

  “Who cares!” someone said with a stream of curses. “It wasn’t mine! All gods piss on that jockey forever!”

  “I can’t read the tote, who won?”

  “It was a photo finish, old fool, can’t you see! There were three horses bunched together. Fornicate all photo finishes! We must wait.”

  “But the numbers.… What are the numbers?”

  “Five and eight and four, Lucky Court, my horse! Come on you son of a whore’s left tit! Four and eight for the quinella by all the gods!”

  They waited. And waited. The old man thought he would faint so he put his mind on to better things, like his conversation with Noble House Chen this morning. Three times he had called and each time a servant had answered and hung up. It was only when he had said “Werewolf” that Noble House Chen himself had come to the phone.

  “Please excuse me for mentioning the terrible slayers of your son,” he had said. “It wasn’t me, Honored Sir, oh no. I am just the father of your late honorable son’s mistress, Wisteria Su, to whom he has written his undying love in the letter that was printed in all the newspapers.”

  “Eh? Liar! All lies. Do you think I’m a fool to be squeezed by any dogmeat caller? Who are you?”

  “My name is Hsi-men Su,” he had said, the lie coming easily. “There are two more letters, Honorable Chen. I thought you might wish to have them back even though they’re all we have from my poor dead daughter and your poor dead son who I considered like my own son over all the months that he an—”