Дональд Уэстлейк - Forever and a Death

“One is a police inspector from Australia,” Wai Fung said, “from Brisbane there. I believe his rank is roughly equivalent to ours.”

“I don’t think I know any Australian police.”

“This one is named Tony Fairchild.”

Writing that down, Ha said, “And the others with him?”

“Three. Two men and a woman. The ones who first became aware of the problem.”

“And what is the problem?”

“There is another man,” Wai Fung said, “lately of Hong Kong, now of Singapore, named Richard Curtis. He is in the construction business. Very successful.”

“I remember that name,” Ha said. “A corner-cutter, as I recall.”

“I’m sure he is,” Wai Fung agreed. “But also wealthy and with some acquaintances of importance.”

“Yes, of course. Is he in trouble?”

“It seems,” Wai Fung said, “he might be the cause of the trouble. At least, these people claim he intends some massive destruction very soon, possibly in Hong Kong, and most likely in connection with the stealing of gold.”

“Gold.” There was a lot of gold under Hong Kong Island, of course, not in veins in the ground but in vaults within banks. It sounded like the Big Circle gang again, combining destruction with robbery. “But that doesn’t sound quite right,” he said. “Forgive me for saying so. A businessman has other ways to obtain gold. He doesn’t run into a bank with guns blazing to steal it.”

“Nevertheless,” Wai Fung said, “there does seem to be sufficient evidence to suggest an investigation might be in order.”

And better on my turf than yours, Ha thought. He said, “This Australian policeman and the others. They have the evidence?”

“They have very little that you or I might call evidence,” Wai Fung told him, “but they have a story you ought to hear.”

Ha said, “That sounds ominous. As though I’ll be opening a hornet’s nest.”

“They are staying at the Peninsula. They are waiting for you to call,” Wai Fung said. “Do please keep me informed.”

“Certainly I’ll let you know what happens, if anything happens.”

They made courteous farewells, then Ha spent a moment in thought, brooding at the phone. Some unnamed trouble, waiting to be uncorked at the Peninsula, Hong Kong’s most luxurious hotel, an unlikely venue for lurking trouble.

Phone this Australian inspector and his friends? Or perhaps learn a bit about Mr. Richard Curtis first.

Ha intercommed to Min: “A former Hong Kong resident, Richard Curtis, businessman in construction. See what we might have on file about him.”

The surprising thing, Ha thought, as he sat in the air-conditioned back of his official Vauxhall, feeling the slight forward tug of the Star Ferry taking him back across to Kowloon, was how little the city had changed. Everyone had thought the transition from British rule to Chinese rule would be fraught with problems, particularly political and social problems, everything but economic problems, but everyone as usual had been wrong.

In hindsight, it was easy to see why. For one hundred fifty years, Hong Kong had been ruled by an oligarchy installed from a far-off capital, London. Then, for just a few years, there was an attempt to paste a democratic smile on this autocratic face, but the instant the pressure was released the smile fell off, and now Hong Kong was once again ruled by an oligarchy installed from a far-off capital, Beijing. Nothing had changed.

Except, of course, for some of the gweilos living in Hong Kong, the expats as they called themselves, the Europeans and Americans, but mostly the British, who had done well by serving the far-off capital of London but couldn’t be expected to receive the same opportunity to batten off the far-off capital of Beijing.

The ones who belonged to the working class, the barmaids and jockeys and interior decorators, mostly took it in good part, vanished when their work permits expired — or shortly after, when they were found to be still on the premises — and were presumably now living much the same lives in Singapore or Macao or Manila or half a dozen other neon-lit centers of the Pacific Rim.

At the other end of the spectrum, a few Richard Curtises had also found the world shifting beneath their feet. The homes they’d enjoyed for so many years up on the Peaks, the steep hills in the middle of Hong Kong Island, behind and south of the main financial districts, they’d sold off to their Chinese counterparts, entrepreneurs who now made their comfortable livings in exactly the same way the Curtises used to do. Those who’d left had sold those mansions on the Peak before the real estate crash; not bad. And if they hadn’t gotten quite as much in the sale as they’d have liked, well, how much money did any one rich person really need?

So maybe it was true that, although Ha could see that here in Hong Kong nothing had changed and nothing would change and life would go on very much as before, for a few British barmaids or American businessmen life had changed, in that they’d had to call the movers and buy a one-way ticket somewhere else. But none of them had been destroyed by it. No one had died or gone to jail. No one had been ruined; certainly not Richard Curtis, now living the same life as before in Singapore.

Curtis, in fact, was one of the people Hong Kong was better off without, a man who was a little too quick with a bribe or a lawsuit, a little too given to ruthlessness and sharp practice. The dossier Ha had been given on the man showed him to be a sharper who expected his contacts and his influence to keep him safely above the law. It must have been quite a bump when he’d suddenly discovered that the rules had changed.

But could the man seriously harbor a grudge? Was that even possible? It seemed to Ha that it was not possible, though the people he was on his way to see would try to convince him otherwise.

Well, he thought, either they will convince me after all or I will have at the very least had an excellent lunch at the Peninsula.

Kim found the Peninsula Hotel astonishing, and she’d found it so even before she’d first seen it. When the four of them arrived yesterday at Hong Kong International Airport, a uniformed chauffeur had been there, holding up a sign with fairchild printed on it. He had led them to a white Rolls Royce sent by the hotel to pick them up. The hotel, it seemed, kept a fleet of these white Rolls Royces for the use of its guests. That was the first astonishment.

Then there was the hotel itself, an imposing C-shaped structure, ten stories tall, with a newer twenty-story addition above the central part. Fountains splashed in front, the doormen wore white uniforms, and the lobby was huge, all gold and white, colonnaded, columned and corniced. A string quartet played Mozart, and clumps of package-tour travelers with nametags and identical shoulderbags and harried expressions, who would have cluttered and dominated most settings, here seemed to be swallowed and muted by these vast dignified spaces.

And now the suites. It had been decided, mostly by Andre Brevizin, consulted via long-distance telephone call, but with Inspector Fairchild in full agreement, that a show of luxury would make them more credible to the Hong Kong police. “It is a city centered on the acquisition of money,” Brevizin had said. “You’ll never be listened to there if you look poor.”

So here they were in suites, the inspector in one, Luther and George and Kim in another, across the hall. Brevizin was covering the cost of the inspector’s suite, while Luther had made one more international phone call and then told George and Kim, “It’s all right. My father will pay.” George had tried to argue, but Luther had smiled his now-sad smile and said, “No, don’t worry. It’s good for him sometimes to pay.”