Noble House

  They all stood there in silence, embarrassed for Peter Marlowe and shocked with the implied accusations—Gornt and Plumm privately amused and fascinated. Then one of the girls turned for the gangway and left quietly, the others following. Casey would have liked to have gone too but she did not.

  “Now is not the time, Mr. Grey,” she heard Gornt say gently and she was glad he was there to break it up. “Would you kindly leave this matter alone. Please?”

  Grey looked at them all, his eyes ending up on his adversary. “You see, Casey, not one’s got the guts to ask—they’re all his class, so-called upper class and they look after their own.”

  Barre flushed. “I say, old chap, don’t you th—”

  Peter Marlowe said, his voice flat, “It’s easy to stop this nonsense. You can’t equate Changi—or Dachau or Buchenwald with normality. You just can’t. There were different rules, different patterns. We were soldiers, war prisoners, teenagers most of us. Changi was genesis, everything new, upside down, ev—”

  “Were you a black marketeer?”

  “No. I was an interpreter in Malay for a friend who was a trader and there’s a lot of difference between trading and black marketing an—”

  “But it was against camp rules, camp law, and that makes it black marketing, right?”

  “Trading with the guards was against enemy rules, Japanese rules.”

  “And tell them how the King’d buy some poor bugger’s watch or ring or fountain pen for a pittance, the last bloody thing he had in the world, and sell it high and never tell and cheat on the price, cheat, always cheat. Eh?”

  Peter Marlowe stared back. “Read my book. In it th—”

  “Book?” Again Grey laughed, goading him. “Tell ’em on your honor as a gent, your father’s honor and your family’s honor you’re so bloody proud of—did the King cheat or didn’t he? On your honor! Eh?”

  Almost paralyzed, Casey saw Peter Marlowe make a fist. “If we weren’t guests here,” he hissed, “I’d tell them what a shower you really were!”

  “You can rot in hell….”

  “Now that’s enough,” Gornt said as a command and Casey began to breathe again. “For the last time, kindly leave this all alone!”

  Grey tore his eyes off Marlowe. “I will. Now, can I get a taxi in the village? I think I’d rather get home meself by meself if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” Gornt said, his face suitably grave, delighted that Grey had asked so that he did not have to finesse the suggestion into the open. “But surely,” he added, delivering the coup de grâce, “surely you and Marlowe could shake hands like gentlemen and forget about th—”

  “Gentlemen? Ta, but no. No, I’ve had gentlemen like Marlowe forever. Gentlemen? Thank God England’s changing and soon’ll be in proper hands again—and the very British Oxford accent won’t be a permanent passport to gentry and power, not ever again. We’ll reform the Lords and if I have my way …”

  “Let’s hope you don’t!” Pugmire said.

  Gornt said firmly, “Pug! It’s coffee and port time!” Affably he took Grey’s arm. “If you’ll excuse Mr. Grey and myself a moment…”

  They went on deck. The chatter of the Chinese girls stopped a moment. Secretly very pleased with himself, Gornt led the way to the gangway and went ashore onto the wharf. Everything was turning out far better than he had thought.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Grey,” he said. “I had no idea that Marlowe … Disgusting! Well, you never know, do you?”

  “He’s a bastard, always was, always will be—him and his filthy Yank friend. Hate Yanks too! About time we broke up with that shower!”

  Gornt found a taxi easily.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Grey, you won’t change your mind?”

  “Ta, but no thanks.”

  “Sorry about Marlowe. Clearly you were provoked. When are you and your trade commission off?”

  “In the morning, early.”

  “If there’s anything I can do for you here, just let me know.”

  “Ta. When you come home give me a tinkle.”

  “Thank you. I will, and thanks for coming.” He paid the fare in advance and waved politely as the taxi drove off. Grey did not look around.

  Gornt smiled. That revolting bastard’s going to be a useful ally in the years to come, he chortled as he walked back.

  Most of the others were on deck, drinking coffee and liqueurs, Casey and Peter Marlowe to one side.

  “What a bloody berk!” Gornt called out to general agreement. “Frightfully sorry about that, Marlowe, the bugger pr—”

  “No, it was my fault,” Peter Marlowe said, clearly very upset. “Sorry. I feel terrible that he left.”

  “No need to apologize. I should never have invited him—thanks for being such a gentleman about it, he clearly provoked you.”

  “Quite right,” Pugmire said to more agreement. “If I’d been you I’d’ve given him one. Whatever happened is in the past.”

  “Oh yes,” Casey said quickly, “what an awful man! If you hadn’t stopped it, Quillan, Grey wou—”

  “Enough of that berk,” Gornt said warmly, wanting the specter laid to rest. “Let’s forget him, let’s not allow him to spoil a wonderful afternoon.” He put his arm around Casey and gave her a hug. “Eh?” He saw the admiration in her eyes and he knew, gleefully, he was getting there fast. “It’s too cold for a swim. Shall we just cruise leisurely home?”

  “Good idea!” Dunstan Barre said. “I think I’m going to have a siesta.”

  “Smashing idea!” someone said to laughter. The girls joined in but the laughter was forced. Everyone was still unsettled and Gornt felt it strongly. “First some brandy! Marlowe?”

  “No thank you, Mr. Gornt.”

  Gornt studied him. “Listen to me, Marlowe,” he said with real compassion and everyone fell silent. “We’ve all seen too much of life, too much of Asia, not to know that whatever you did, you did for good and not evil. What you said was right. Changi was special with special problems. Pug was locked up in Stanley Prison—that’s on Hong Kong Island, Casey—for three and a half years. I got out of Shanghai barely with my skin, and blood on my hands. Jason was grabbed by the Nazis after Dunkirk and had a couple of dicey years with them, Dunstan operated in China—Dunstan’s been in Asia forever and he knows too. Eh?”

  “Oh yes,” Dunstan Barre said sadly. “Casey, in war to survive you have to stretch things a bit sometimes. As to trading, Marlowe, I agree, most times you have to equate the problem to the time and place. I thank God I was never caught. Don’t think I’d’ve survived, know I wouldn’t.” He refilled his port from the decanter, embarrassed to be speaking real truths.

  “What was Changi really like, Peter?” Casey asked for all of them.

  “It’s hard to talk about,” he said. “It was the nearest to no-life that you could get. We were issued a quarter of a pound of dry rice a day, some vegetables, one egg a week. Sometimes meat was … was waved over the soup. It was different, that’s all I can say about it. Most of us had never seen a jungle before, let alone Chinese and Japanese and to lose a war … I was just eighteen when Changi began.”

  “Christ, I can’t stand Japs, just can’t!” Pugmire said and the others nodded.

  “But that’s not fair, really. They were just playing the game according to their rules,” Peter Marlowe said. “That was fair from the Japanese point of view. Look what wonderful soldiers they were, look how they fought and almost never allowed themselves to be captured. We were dishonored according to their standards by surrendering.” Peter Marlowe shivered. “I felt dishonored, still feel dishonored.”

  “That’s not right, Marlowe,” Gornt said. “There’s no dishonor in that. None.”

  Casey, standing beside Gornt, put her hand on his arm lightly. “Oh yes. He’s right, Peter. He really is.”

  “Yes,” Dunstan Barre said. “But Grey, what the devil got Grey all teed off? Eh?”

  “Nothing and everything. He became fanatical about e
nforcing camp rules—which were Japanese rules—stupidly, a lot of us thought. As I said, Changi was different, officers and men were locked up together, no letters from home, no food, two thousand miles of enemy-occupied territory in every direction, malaria, dysentery, and the death rate terrible. He hated this American friend of mine, the King. It was true the King was a cunning businessman and he ate well when others didn’t and drank coffee and smoked tailor-made cigarettes. But he kept a lot of us alive with his skill. Even Grey. He even kept Grey alive. Grey’s hatred kept him alive, I’m sure. The King fed almost the whole American contingent—there were about thirty of them, officers and men. Oh they worked for it, American style, but even so, without him they would have died. I would have. I know.” Peter Marlowe shuddered. “Joss. Karma. Life. I think I’ll have that brandy now, Mr. Gornt.”

  Gornt poured. “Whatever happened to this man, this fellow you call the King? After the war?”

  Pugmire interrupted with a laugh, “One of the buggers in our camp who was a trader became a bloody millionaire afterwards. Is it the same with this King?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter Marlowe said.

  “You never saw him again, Peter?” Casey asked, surprised. “You didn’t see him back in the States?”

  “No, no I never did. I tried to find him but never could.”

  “That’s often the rule, Casey,” Gornt said casually. “When you leave a regiment all debts and friendships are canceled.” He was very content. Everything’s perfect, he told himself, thinking of the double bed in his cabin, and smiled at her across the deck. She smiled back.

  Riko Anjin Gresserhoff went into the foyer of the V and A. It was crowded with those having early-afternoon tea or late lunches. As she walked to the elevator a tremor went through her, the eyes bothering her—not the usual lusting eyes of European men or the dislike in the eyes of their women—but Chinese and Eurasian eyes. She had never experienced so much general hatred. It was a strange feeling. This was her first time outside of Switzerland, other than school trips to Germany and two journeys to Rome with her mother. Her husband had taken her abroad only once, to Vienna for a week.

  I don’t like Asia, she thought, suppressing another shudder. But then it’s not Asia, it’s Hong Kong, surely it’s just here, the people here. And surely, there is right on their side to be antagonistic. I wonder if I’ll like Japan? Will I be alien, even there?

  The elevator came and she went to her suite on the sixth floor, the room boy not opening her door for her. Alone and with the door bolted, she felt better. The red message light on the phone was blinking but she paid it no attention, quickly taking off her shoes, hat, gloves and coat, putting them at once in a vast closet, the clothes already there neat and organized, like her three pairs of shoes. The suite was small but delicate, a living room, bedroom and bath. Flowers from Struan’s were on the table and a bowl of fruit from the hotel.

  Her fingers slid the gift wrapping away neatly. Inside was a rectangular black plush box and she opened it. Warmth went through her. The pendant was on a thin gold chain, the jade green with flecks of lighter green, carved like a cornucopia. Light shimmered off the polished surface. At once she put it on, studying it in the mirror, admiring the stone as it lay against her breast. She had never been given jade before.

  Underneath the black, plush-covered cardboard was the envelope. It was a plain envelope, not Struan’s, the seal equally plain, made of ordinary red sealing wax. With great care she slid a paper knife under the seal and studied the pages, one by one, a small frown on her forehead. Just a jumble of numbers and letters and an occasional symbol. A tiny, satisfied smile touched her lips. She found the hotel letter-writing folder and, settling herself comfortably at the desk, began to copy the pages, one by one.

  When she had finished she checked them. She put the copies into a hotel envelope and sealed it, the originals in another envelope, a plain one she took out of her bag. Next she found the new stick of red sealing wax, lit a match and daubed the melting wax on both envelopes, sealing them, making sure the seal on the envelope of the originals was a pattern of the one Dunross had made. The phone rang, startling her. She watched it, her heart thumping, until it stopped. Once more at ease, she went back to her labor, ensuring there were no telltale indentations left on the pad that she had used, examining it under the light. As soon as she was satisfied, she stamped the envelope containing the copies, addressed it to: R. Anjin, Box 154, General Post Office, Sydney, Australia. This and the other envelope with the originals she put into her handbag.

  Carefully she rechecked that nothing had been missed, then went to a small refrigerator near the stocked bar and took out a bottle of sparkling mineral water and drank some.

  Again the phone rang. She watched it, sipping the soda water, her mind checking and rechecking, thinking about her lunch with Dunross, wondering if she had been wise to accept his invitation to cocktails tonight and, later, to dinner with him and his friends. I wonder if there will be friends or if we will be alone. Would I like to be alone with that man?

  Her thoughts went back to the small, untidy, slightly balding Hans Gresserhoff, and the four years of life that she had led with him, weeks alone, sleeping alone, waking alone, walking alone, no real friends, rarely going out, her husband strangely secretive, cautioning her about making friends, wanting her to be alone and always safe and calm and patient. That was the hardest part to bear, she thought. Patience. Patience alone, patience together, asleep or awake. Patience and outwardly calm. When all the time she was like a volcano, desperate to erupt.

  That he loved her was beyond doubt. All she felt for him was giri, duty. He gave her money and her life was smooth, neither rich nor poor—even, like the country of their choice. His arrivals and departures had no pattern. When he was with her he always wanted her, wanted to be near her. Their pillowing satisfied him but not her, though she pretended, for his pleasure. But then, she told herself, you have had no other man to judge by.

  He was a good man and it was as I told the tai-pan. I tried to be a good wife to him, to obey him in everything, to honor my mother’s wish, to fulfill my giri to her, and to him. And now?

  She looked down at her wedding ring and twisted it on her finger. For the first time since she had married she took it off and looked at it closely in the palm of her hand. Small, empty and uninteresting. So many lonely nights, tears in the nights, waiting waiting waiting. Waiting for what? Children forbidden, friends forbidden, travel forbidden. Not forbidden as a Japanese would: Kin jiru! But, “Don’t you think, my dear,” he would say, “don’t you think it would be better if you didn’t go to Paris while I’m away? We can go the next time I’m here …” both of them knowing they would never go.

  The time in Vienna had been terrible. It was the first year. They went for a week. “I have to go out tonight,” he had told her the first night. “Please stay in the room, eat in the room till I get back.” Two days passed and when he came back he was sallow-faced and drawn, frightened, and then at once, in the darkest part of the night, they had got into their hired car and fled back to Switzerland, going the long way, the wrong way, up through the Tyrolian mountains, his eyes constantly on the rear mirrors in case they were being followed, not talking to her until they were safe across the border once more.

  “But why, why, Hans?”

  “Because nothing! Please. You’re not to ask questions, Riko. That was your agreement … our agreement. I’m sorry about the holiday. We’ll go to Wengen or Biarritz, it will be grand, it will be grand there. Please remember your giri and that I love you with all my heart.”

  Love!

  I do not understand that word, she thought, standing there at the window, looking at the harbor, sullen clouds, the light bad. Strange that in Japanese we do not have such a word. Only duty and shades of duty, affection and shades of affection. Not lieben. Ai? Ai really means respect though some use it for lieben.

  Riko caught herself thinking in German and she smiled. Most times s
he thought in German though today, with the tai-pan, she had thought in Japanese. It’s such a long time since I spoke my own language. What is my own language? Japanese? That’s the language my parents and I spoke. German? That’s the language of our part of Switzerland. English? That’s the language of my husband even though he claimed that German was his first tongue.

  Was he English?

  She had asked herself that question many times. It was not that his German was not fluent, it was just attitudes. His attitudes were not German, like mine are not Japanese. Or are they?

  I don’t know. But now, now I can find out.

  He had never told her what his work was and she had never asked. After Vienna it had been very easy to predict that it was clandestine and connected somehow to international crime or espionage. Hans was not the type to be in crime.

  So from then on she had been even more cautious. Once or twice she had thought that they were under surveillance in Zurich and when they went skiing, but he had dismissed it and told her not to worry about him. “But be prepared in case of accidents. Keep all your valuables and private papers, passport and birth certificate in your traveling bag, Ri-chan,” he had said, using her nickname. “Just in case, just in case.”

  With the death of her husband and his instructions almost all carried out, the money and the tai-pan’s phone call and summons, everything had become new. Now she could start again. She was twenty-four. The past was past and karma was karma. The tai-pan’s money would be more than enough for her needs for years.

  On their wedding night, her husband had told her, “If anything happens to me, you will get a call from a man called Kiernan. Cut the phone wires as I will show you and leave Zurich instantly. Leave everything except the clothes you wear and your travel bag. Drive to Geneva. Here is a key. This key will open a safety deposit box in the Swiss Bank of Geneva on Rue Charles. In it there’s money and some letters. Follow the instructions exactly, my darling, oh how I love you. Leave everything. Do exactly as I’ve said….”