Noble House

Dunross leaned back in the chair. "What's up?"
Armstrong said, "I'm sure you already know. It's about the guns on Bartlett's plane."
"Oh yes, I heard this morning," he said. "How can I help? Have you any idea why and where they were destined? And by whom? You caught two men?"
Armstrong sighed. "Yes. They were genuine mechanics all right —both ex-Nationalist Air Force trained. No previous record, though they're suspected of being members of secret triads. Both have been here since the exodus of '49. By the way, can we keep this all confidential, between the three of us?"
"What about your superiors?"
"I'd like to include them in—but keep it just for your ears only."
"Why?"
"We have reason to believe the guns were destined for someone in Struan's."
"Who?" Dunross asked sharply.
"Confidential?"
"Yes. Who?"
"How much do you know about Lincoln Bartlett and Casey Tcholok?"
"We've a detailed dossier on him—not on her. Would you like it? I can give you a copy, providing it too is kept confidential."
"Of course. That would be very helpful."
Dunross pressed the intercom.
"Yes sir?" Claudia asked.
"Make a copy of the Bartlett dossier and give it to Superintendent Armstrong on his way out." Dunross clicked the intercom off.
"We won't take much more of your time," Armstrong said. "Do you always dossier potential clients?"
"No. But we like to know who we're dealing with. If the Bartlett deal goes through it could mean millions to us, to him, a thousand new jobs to Hong Kong—factories here, warehouses, a very big expansion—along with equally big risks to us. Everyone in business does a confidential financial statement—perhaps we're a bit more thorough. I'll bet you fifty dollars to a broken hatpin he's done one on me."
"No criminal connections mentioned?"
Dunross was startled. "Mafia? That sort of thing? Good God no, nothing. Besides, if the Mafia were trying to come in here they wouldn't send a mere ten M14 rifles and two thousand rounds and a box of grenades."
"Your information's damn good," Brian Kwok interrupted. "Too damn good. We only unpacked the stuff an hour ago. Who's your informant?"
"You know there're no secrets in Hong Kong."
"Can't even trust your own coppers these days."
"The Mafia would surely send in a shipment twenty times that and they'd be handguns, American style. But the Mafia would be bound to fail here, whatever they did. They could never displace our triads. No, it can't be Mafia—only someone local. Who tipped you about the shipment, Brian?"
"Tokyo Airport Police," Kwok said. "One of their mechanics was doing a routine inspection—you know how thorough they are. He reported it to his superior, their police phoned us and we said to let it through."
"In that case get hold of the FBI and the CIA—get them to check back to Honolulu—or Los Angeles."
"You went through the flight plan too?"
"Of course. That's obvious. Why someone in Struan's?"
"Both of the villains said …" Armstrong took out his pad and referred to it. "Our question was, 'Where were you to take the packages?' Both answered using different words: 'To 15 go-down, we were to put the packages in Bay 7 at the back.' " He looked up at Dunross.
"That proves nothing. We've the biggest warehouse operation at Kai Tak—just because they take it to one of our go-downs proves nothing—other than they're smart. We've got so much merchandise going through, it'd be easy to send in an alien truck." Dunross thought a moment. "15's right at the exit—perfect placing." He reached for the phone. "I'll put my security folk on it right n—"
"Would you not, please, just for the moment."
"Why?"
"Our next question," Armstrong continued, "was, 'Who employed you?' Of course they gave fictitious names and descriptions and denied everything but they'll be more helpful soon." He smiled grimly. "One of them did say, however, when one of my sergeants was twisting his ear a little, figuratively speaking of course"—he read from the pad—" 'You leave me alone, I've got very important friends!' 'You've no friends in the world,' the sergeant said. 'Maybe, but the Honorable Tsu-yan has and Noble House Chen has.'"
The silence became long and heavy. They waited.
Those God-cursed guns, Dunross thought furiously. But he held his face calm and his wits sharpened. "We've a hundred and more Chens working for us, related, unrelated—Chen's as common a name as Smith."
"And Tsu-yan?" Brian Kwok asked.
Dunross shrugged. "He's a director of Struan's—but he's also a director of Blacs, the Victoria Bank and forty other companies, one of the richest men in Hong Kong and a name anyone in Asia could pull out of a hat. Like Noble House Chen."
"Do you know he's suspected of being very high up in the triad hierarchy—specifically in the Green Pang?" Brian Kwok asked.
"Every important Shanghainese's equally suspect. Jesus Christ, Brian, you know Chiang Kai-shek was supposed to have given Shanghai to the Green Pang years ago as their exclusive bailiwick if they'd support his northern campaign against the warlords. Isn't the Green Pang still, more or less, an official Nationalist secret society?"
Brian Kwok said, "Where'd Tsu-yan make his money, Ian? His first fortune?"
"I don't know. You tell me, Brian."
"He made it during the Korean War smuggling penicillin, drugs and petrol—mostly penicillin—across the border to the Communists. Before Korea all he owned was a loincloth and a broken-down rickshaw."
"That's all hearsay, Brian."
"Struan's made a fortune too."
"Yes. But it would really be very unwise to imply we did it smuggling—publicly or privately," Dunross said mildly. "Very unwise indeed."
"Didn't you?"
"Struan's began with a little smuggling 120-odd years ago, so rumor has it, but it was an honorable profession and never against British law. We're law-abiding capitalists and China Traders and have been for years."
Brian Kwok did not smile. "More hearsay's that a lot of his penicillin was bad. Very bad."
"If it was, if that's the truth, then please go get him, Brian," Dunross said coldly. "Personally I think that's another rumor spread by jealous competitors. If it was true he'd be floating in the bay with the others who tried, or he'd be punished like Bad Powder Wong." He was referring to a Hong Kong smuggler who had sold a vast quantity of adulterated penicillin over the border during the Korean War and invested his fortune in stocks and land in Hong Kong. Within seven years he was very very rich. Then certain triads of Hong Kong were ordered to balance the books. Every week one member of his family vanished, or died. By drowning, car accident, strangulation, poison or knife. No assailant was ever caught. The killing went on for seventeen months and three weeks and then stopped. Only he and one semi-imbecile infant grandson remained alive. They live today, still holed up in the same vast, once luxurious penthouse apartment with one servant and one cook, in terror, guarded night and day, never going out—knowing that no guards or any amount of money could ever prevent the inexorability of his sentence published in a tiny box in a local Chinese newspaper: Bad Powder Wong will be punished, he and all his generations.
Brian Kwok said, "We interviewed that sod once, Robert and I."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Scary. Every door's double locked and chained, every window nailed up and boarded over with planks—just spy holes here and there. He hasn't been out since the killing started. The place stank, my God did it stink! All he does is play Chinese checkers with his grandson and watch television."
"And wait," Armstrong said. "One day they'll come for both of them. His grandson must be six or seven now."
Dunross said, "I think you prove my point. Tsu-yan's not like him and never was. And what possible use could Tsu-yan have for a few M14's? If he wanted to, I imagine he could muster half the Nationalist army along with a battalion of tanks."