“Ah, yes … yes,” she said hoarsely, still clasping her paper bag tight against her chest. “Thank you, Honored Lord.” She scuttled away into the crowd and vanished. The room emptied. The Englishman went out to the sidewalk after the last person and stood in the doorway, whistling tonelessly as he watched them stream away.
“Sergeant!”
“Yes sir.”
“You can dismiss the men now. Have a detail here at nine tomorrow. Put up barriers and let the buggers into the bank just three at a time. Yourself and four men’ll be more than enough.”
“Yes sir.” The sergeant saluted. The chief inspector turned back into the bank. He locked the front door and smiled at Manager Sung. “Rather humid this afternoon, isn’t it?” he said in English to give Sung face—all educated Chinese in Hong Kong prided themselves in speaking the international language.
“Yes sir,” Sung replied nervously. Normally he liked him and admired this chief inspector greatly. Yes, he thought. But this was the first time he had actually seen a quai loh with the Evil Eye, daring a mob, standing alone like a malevolent god in front of the mob, daring it to move, to give him the opportunity to spit fire and brimstone.
Sung shuddered again. “Thank you, Chief Inspector.”
“Let’s go into your office and I can take a statement.”
“Yes, please.” Sung puffed himself up in front of his staff, taking command again. “The rest of you make up your books and tidy up.”
He led the way into his office and sat down and beamed. “Tea, Chief Inspector?”
“No thank you.” Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth was about five foot ten and well built, fair hair and blue eyes and a taut sunburned face. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and put them on the desk. “These are the accounts of my men. At nine tomorrow, you will close their accounts and pay them. They’ll come to the back door.”
“Yes of course. I would be honored. But I will lose face if so many valuable accounts leave me. The bank is as sound as it was yesterday, Chief Inspector.”
“Of course. Meanwhile tomorrow at nine. In cash please.” He handed him some more papers. And four savings books. “I’ll take a cashier’s check for all of these. Now.”
“But Chief Inspector, today was extraordinary. There’s no problem with the Ho-Pak. Surely you could …”
“Now.” Smyth smiled sweetly. “Withdrawal slips are all signed and ready.”
Sung glanced at them. All were Chinese names that he knew were nominees of nominees of this man whose nickname was the Snake. The accounts totaled nearly 850,000 HK. And that’s just in this branch alone, he thought, very impressed with the Snake’s acumen. What about the Victoria and Blacs and all the other branches in Aberdeen?
“Very well,” he said wearily. “But I’ll be very sorry to see so many accounts leave the bank.”
Smyth smiled again. “The whole of the Ho-Pak’s not broke yet, is it?”
“Oh no, Chief Inspector,” Sung said, shocked. “We have published assets worth a billion HK and cash reserves of many tens of millions. It’s just these simple people, a temporary problem of confidence. Did you see Mr. Haply’s column in the Guardian?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Sung’s face darkened. “Malicious rumors spread by jealous tai-pans and other banks! If Haply claims that, of course it’s true.”
“Of course! Meanwhile I am a little busy this afternoon.”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll do it at once. I, er, I see in the paper you’ve caught one of those evil Werewolves.”
“We’ve a triad suspect, Mr. Sung, just a suspect.”
Sung shuddered. “Devils! But you’ll catch them all … devils, sending an ear! They must be foreigners. I’ll wager they’re foreigners never mind. Here, sir, I’ve made the checks …”
There was a knock on the door. A corporal came in and saluted. “Excuse me, sir, a bank truck’s outside. They say they’re from Ho-Pak’s Head Office.”
“Ayeeyah,” Sung said, greatly relieved, “and about time. They promised the delivery at two. It’s more money.”
“How much?” Smyth asked.
“Half a million,” the corporal volunteered at once, handing over the manifest. He was a short, bright man with dancing eyes.
“Good,” Smyth said. “Well, Mr. Sung, that’ll take the pressure off you, won’t it.”
“Yes. Yes it will.” Sung saw the two men looking at him and he said at once, expansively, “If it wasn’t for you, and your men … With your permission I’d like to call Mr. Richard Kwang now. I feel sure he would be honored, as I would be, to make a modest contribution to your police benevolent fund as a token of our thanks.”
“That’s very thoughtful, but it’s not necessary, Mr. Sung.”
“But I will lose terrible face if you won’t accept, Chief Inspector.”
“You’re very kind,” Smyth said, knowing truly that without his presence in the bank and that of his men outside, Sung and the tellers and many others would be dead. “Thank you but that’s not necessary.” He accepted the cashier’s checks and left.
Mr. Sung pleaded with the corporal who, at length, sent for his superior. Divisional Sergeant Mok declined also. “Twenty thousand times,” he said.
But Mr. Sung insisted. Wisely. And Richard Kwang was equally delighted and equally honored to approve the unsolicited gift. 20,000 HK. In immediate cash. “With the bank’s great appreciation, Divisional Sergeant Mok.”
“Thank you, Honorable Manager Sung,” Mok said politely, pocketing it, pleased to be in the Snake’s division and totally impressed that 20,000 was the exact fair market figure the Snake had considered their afternoon’s work was worth. “I hope your great bank stays solvent and you weather this storm with your usual cleverness. Tomorrow will be orderly, of course. We will be here at nine A.M. promptly for our cash….”
The old amah still sat on the bench on the harbor wall, catching her breath. Her ribs hurt but then they always hurt, she thought wearily. Joss. Her name was Ah Tam and she began to get up but a youth sauntered up to her and said, “Sit down, Old Woman, I want to talk to you.” He was short and squat and twenty-one, his face pitted with smallpox scars. “What’s in that bag?”
“What? What bag?”
“The paper bag you clutch to your stinking old rags.”
“This? Nothing, Honored Lord. It’s just my poor shopping that—”
He sat on the bench beside her and leaned closer and hissed, “Shut up, Old Hag! I saw you come out of the fornicating bank. How much have you got there?”
The old woman held on to the bag desperately, her eyes closed in terror and she gasped, “It’s all my savings, Hon—”
He pulled the bag out of her grasp and opened it. “Ayeeyah!” The notes were old and he counted them. “$323!” he said scornfully. “Who are you amah to—a beggar? You haven’t been very clever in this life.”
“Oh yes, you’re right, Lord!” she said, her little black eyes watching him now.
“My h’eung yau’s 20 percent,” he said and began to count the notes.
“But Honored Sir,” she said, her voice whining now, “20 is too high, but I’d be honored if you’d accept 5 with a poor old woman’s thanks.”
“15.”
“6!”
“10 and that’s my final offer. I haven’t got all day!”
“But sir, you are young and strong, clearly a 489. The strong must protect the old and weak.”
“True, true.” He thought a moment, wanting to be fair. “Very well, 7 percent.”
“Oh how generous you are, sir. Thank you, thank you.” Happily she watched him count 22 dollars, then reach into his jeans pocket and count out 61 cents. “Here.” He gave her the change and the remainder of her money back.
She thanked him profusely, delighted with the bargain she had made. By all the gods, she thought ecstatically, 7 percent instead of, well, at least 15 would be fair. “Have you also money in the Ho-Pak, Honored Lord?” she asked politely.
r /> “Of course,” the youth said importantly as though it were true. “My Brotherhood’s account has been there for years. We have …” He doubled the amount he first thought of. “… We have over 25,000 in this branch alone.”
“Eeeee,” the old woman crooned. “To be so rich! The moment I saw you I knew you were 14K … and surely an Honorable 489.”
“I’m better than that,” the youth said proudly at once, filled with bravado. “I’m …” But he stopped, remembering their leader’s admonition to be cautious, and so did not say, I’m Kin Sop-ming, Smallpox Kin, and I’m one of the famous Werewolves and there are four of us. “Run along, old woman,” he said, tiring of her. “I’ve more important things to do than talk with you.”
She got up and bowed and then her old eyes spotted the man who had been in the line in front of her. The man was Cantonese, like her. He was a rotund shopkeeper she knew who had a poultry street stall in one of Aberdeen’s teeming marketplaces. “Yes,” she said hoarsely, “but if you want another customer I see an easy one. He was in the queue before me. Over $8,000 he withdrew.”
“Oh, where? Where is he?” the youth asked at once.
“For a 15 percent share?”
“7—and that’s final. 7!”
“All right. 7. Look, over there!” she whispered. “The fat man, plump as a Mandarin, in the white shirt—the one who’s sweating like he’s just enjoyed the Clouds and the Rain!”
“I see him.” The youth got up and walked quickly away to intercept the man. He caught up with him at the corner. The man froze and bartered for a while, paid 16 percent and hurried off, blessing his own acumen. The youth sauntered back to her.
“Here, Old Woman,” he said. “The fornicator had $8,162. 16 percent is …”
“$1305.92 and my 7 percent of that is $91.41,” she said at once.
He paid her exactly and she agreed to come tomorrow to spot for him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Ah Su, Lord,” she said, giving a false name. “And yours?”
“Mo Wu-fang,” he said, using a friend’s name.
“Until tomorrow,” she said happily. Thanking him again she waddled off, delighted with her day’s profit.
His profit had been good too. Now he had over 3,000 in his pockets where this morning he had had only enough for the bus. And it was all windfall for he had come to Aberdeen from Glessing’s Point to post another ransom note to Noble House Chen.
“It’s for safety,” his father, their leader, had said. “To put out a false scent for the fornicating police.”
“But it will bring no money,” he had said to him and to the others disgustedly. “How can we produce the fornicating son if he’s dead and buried? Would you pay off without some proof that he was alive? Of course not! It was a mistake to hit him with the shovel.”
“But the fellow was trying to escape!” his brother said.
“True, Younger Brother. But the first blow didn’t kill him, only bent his head a little. You should have left it at that!”
“I would have but the evil spirits got into me so I hit him again. I only hit him four times! Eeeee, but these highborn fellows have soft skulls!”
“Yes, you’re right,” his father had said. He was short and balding with many gold teeth, his name Kin Min-ta, Baldhead Kin. “Dew neh loh moh but it’s done so there’s no point in remembering it. Joss. It was his own fault for trying to escape! Have you seen the early edition of The Times?”
“No—not yet, Father,” he had replied.
“Here, let me read it to you: ‘The Chief of all the Police said today that they have arrested a triad who they suspect is one of the Werewolves, the dangerous gang of criminals who kidnapped John Chen. The authorities expect to have the case solved any moment.’”
They all laughed, he, his younger brother, his father and the last member, his very good friend, Dog-eared Chen—Pun Po Chen—for they knew it was all lies. Not one of them was a triad or had triad connections, and none had ever been caught for any crime before, though they had formed their own Brotherhood and his father had, from time to time, run a small gambling syndicate in North Point. It was his father who had proposed the first kidnapping. Eeee, that was very clever, he thought, remembering. And when John Chen had, unfortunately, had himself killed because he stupidly tried to escape, his father had also suggested cutting off the ear and sending it. “We will turn his bad joss into our good. ‘Kill one to terrify ten thousand!’ Sending the ear will terrify all Hong Kong, make us famous and make us rich!”
Yes, he thought, sitting in the sun at Aberdeen. But we haven’t made our riches yet. Didn’t I tell father this morning: “I don’t mind going all the way to post the letter, Father, that’s sensible and what Humphrey Bogart would order. But I still don’t think it will bring us any ransom.”
“Never mind and listen! I’ve a new plan worthy of Al Capone himself. We wait a few days. Then we phone Noble House Chen. If we don’t get immediate cash, then we snatch the compradore himself! Great Miser Chen himself!”
They had all stared at him in awe.
“Yes, and if you don’t think he’ll pay up quickly after seeing his son’s ear—of course we’ll tell him it was his son’s ear … perhaps we’ll even dig up the body and show him, heya?”
Smallpox Kin beamed, recalling how they had all chortled. Oh how they had chortled, holding their bellies, almost rolling on the floor of their tenement apartment.
“Now to business. Dog-eared Chen, we need your advice again.”
Dog-eared Chen was a distant cousin of John Chen and worked for him as a manager of one of the multitudinous Chen companies. “Your information about the son was perfect. Perhaps you can supply us with the father’s movements too?”
“Of course, Honored Leader, that’s easy,” Dog-eared Chen had said. “He’s a man of habit—and easily frightened. So is his tai-tai—ayeeyah, that mealy-mouthed whore knows which side of the bed she sleeps in! She’ll pay up very quickly to get him back. Yes, I’m sure he’ll be very cooperative now. But we’ll have to ask double what we would settle for because he’s an accomplished negotiator. I’ve worked for the fornicating House of Chen all my working life so I know what a miser he is.”
“Excellent. Now, by all the gods, how and when should we kidnap Noble House Chen himself?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
4:01 P.M.:
Sir Dunstan Barre was ushered into Richard Kwang’s office with the deference he considered his due. The Ho-Pak Building was small and unpretentious, off Ice House Street in Central, and the office was like most Chinese offices, small, cluttered and drab, a place for working and not for show. Most times two or three people would share a single office, running two or three separate businesses there, using the same telephone and same secretary for all. And why not, a wise man would say? A third of the overhead means more profit for the same amount of labor.
But Richard Kwang did not share his office. He knew it did not please his quai loh customers—and the few that he had were important to his bank and to him for face and for the highly sought after peripheral benefits they could bring. Like the possible, oh so important election as a voting member to the super-exclusive Turf Club, or membership in the Hong Kong Golf Club or Cricket Club—or even the Club itself—or any of the other minor though equally exclusive clubs that were tightly controlled by the British tai-pans of great hongs where all the really big business was conducted.
“Hello, Dunstan,” he said affably. “How are things going?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Very good. My horse had a great workout this morning.”
“Yes. I was at the track myself.”
“Oh, I didn’t see you!”
“Just popped in for a minute or two. My gelding’s got a temperature—we may have to scratch him on Saturday. But Butterscotch Lass was really flying this morning.”
“She almost pipped the track record. She’ll definitely be trying on Saturday.”
/> Barre chuckled. “I’ll check with you just before race time and you can tell me the inside story then! You can never trust trainers and jockeys, can you—yours or mine or anyone’s!”
They chatted inconsequentially, then Barre came to the point.
Richard Kwang tried to cover his shock. “Close all your corporate accounts?”
“Yes, old boy. Today. Sorry and all that but my board thinks it wise for the moment, until you weath—”
“But surely you don’t think we’re in trouble?” Richard Kwang laughed. “Didn’t you see Haply’s article in the Guardian? ‘… malicious lies spread by certain tai-pans and a certain big bank.…’”
“Oh yes, I saw that. More of his poppycock, I’d say. Ridiculous! Spread rumors? Why should anyone do that? Huh, I talked to both Paul Havergill and Southerby this morning and they said Haply better watch out this time if he implies it’s them or he’ll get a libel suit. That young man deserves a horsewhipping! However … I’d like a cashier’s check now—sorry, but you know how boards are.”
“Yes, yes I do.” Richard Kwang kept his smile on the surface of his face but he hated the big florid man even more than usual. He knew that the board was a rubber stamp for Barre’s decisions. “We’ve no problems. We’re a billion-dollar bank. As to the Aberdeen branch, they’re just a lot of superstitious locals.”
“Yes, I know.” Barre watched him. “I heard you had a few problems at your Mong Kok branch this afternoon too, also at Tsim Sha Tsui … at Sha Tin in the New Territories, even, God help us, on Lan Tao.” Lan Tao Island was half a dozen miles east of Hong Kong, the biggest island in the whole archipelago of almost three hundred islands that made up the Colony—but almost unpopulated because it was waterless.
“A few customers withdrew their savings,” Richard Kwang said with a scoff. “There’s no trouble.”
But there was trouble. He knew it and he was afraid everyone knew it. At first it was just at Aberdeen. Then, during the day, his other managers had begun to call with ever increasing anxiety. He had eighteen branches throughout the Colony. At four of them, withdrawals were untoward and heavy. At Mong Kok, a bustling hive within the teeming city of Kowloon, a line had formed in early afternoon. Everyone had wanted all their money. It was nothing like the frightening proportions at Aberdeen, but enough to show a clear indication of failing confidence. Richard Kwang could understand that the sea villages would hear about Four Finger Wu’s withdrawals quickly, and would rush to follow his lead—but what about Mong Kok? Why there? And why Lan Tao? Why at Tsim Sha Tsui, his most profitable branch, which was almost beside the busy Golden Ferry Terminal where 150,000 persons passed by daily, to and from Hong Kong?