Brian Freemantle - The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin

‘No,’ said the eldest of the three. ‘We’re not people you’re likely to know.’

He spoke Cantonese.

‘Oh,’ she said, in understanding.

‘Surprised we are here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Frightened?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s right you should be.’

‘What do you want?’

‘For this stupidity to stop.’

‘Stupidity?’

‘The ship. Don’t pretend ignorance.’

‘What can I do?’

The man smiled.

‘That’s a naive question.’

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she said desperately.

‘What about the man who’s come from London?’

‘He’s supposed to be investigating,’ she conceded, doubt in her voice.

‘And what is he likely to discover?’

‘Nothing,’ she admitted.

‘Precisely,’ said the man. ‘So he must be shown.’

‘By me?’

‘Who else?’

‘How?’

‘You’re a whore. Used to men. You shouldn’t have to ask that question.’

There was distaste in the man’s voice.

Momentarily she squeezed her eyes closed, to control the emotion.

‘You can’t make me,’ she said. It was a pitiful defiance, made more child-like because her voice jumped unevenly.

‘Oh don’t be ridiculous,’ said the man, irritated. He gestured towards the bedroom door beyond which Robert Nelson slept.

‘Do you feel for him?’

‘I love him,’ said Jenny. This time she didn’t have to force the defiance.

‘If you don’t do as you are told,’ said the man quietly, ‘we will kill him.’

Jenny stared across at the leader of the group.

‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe you.’

‘So you’ll do it?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Of course not.’

Cantonese was the language of another meeting that night, because most of the people assembled in one of the three houses that John Lu owned in Kowloon were street Chinese and uncomfortable with English. It had been right that he should make the announcement, according to tradition, so his father had remained on Hong Kong island. Freed of the old man’s intimidating presence, the boy had adopted the same cold authority, enjoying its effect upon the people with him.

‘Is that understood?’ he demanded.

There were nods and mutterings of agreement.

‘Even the New Territories, as well as Kowloon and Hong Kong,’ he emphasised.

‘We understand,’ said the man in the front.

‘Everyone must know,’ insisted the millionaire’s son. That was as important as the tradition of making the announcement.

‘They will,’ promised the man who had spoken earlier.

Charlie had expected his appointment to be cancelled after the court deaths of the two Chinese, but when he telephoned for confirmation Superintendent Johnson’s secretary assured him he was still expected.

Unable to lose the feeling that he was being watched, Charlie walked to police headquarters by a circuitous route, frequently leaving the wider highways to thread through the shop-cluttered alleyways, their incense sticks smouldering against the evil spirits, all the while checking behind and around him, irritated when he located nothing and growing convinced, yet again, that his instinct had become blunted.

There was another feeling, even stronger than annoyance. He’d always thought of his ability to survive as instinctive, too. It was an attribute he couldn’t afford to lose.

‘Perhaps I should bum incense,’ he muttered, recognising the indication of fear.

The police headquarters were as ordered and regimented as the man who commanded them, the regulation-spaced desks of the head-bent clerks tidy and unlittered, the offices padded with an almost church-like hush.

Johnson’s office was the model for those outside. Never, decided Charlie as he entered, would it achieve the effect of being occupied and worked in; it was more like an exhibition case.

Even seated behind the predictably imposing desk, Johnson had perfected the stretched-upright gaze of intimidation. The police chief indicated a chair to the left of the desk and Charlie sat, waiting in anticipation.

Almost immediately Johnson looked at his watch, for Charlie to know the pressure upon his time.

‘Appointment in thirty minutes,’ he warned.

‘It was good of you to see me so promptly,’ Charlie thanked him. ‘Especially after what happened in court.’

Such men always responded to deference, Charlie knew.

‘Murder,’ confirmed Johnson.

‘Murder?’

Johnson would need very little encouragement, guessed Charlie.

‘Post-mortem examinations proved they both died from a venom-based poison… created involuntary lung-muscle spasms. Cause of death was asphyxiation.’

Charlie said nothing, remembering the strangled breathing.

‘The Chinese farm snakes, you know. For food.’

‘I know,’ said Charlie.

‘So venom is freely available in the colony. Chinese doctors even use it in some cases as a health remedy. It’ll take more tests, but we think it was either from a Banded Krait or a Coral Snake.’

‘You said murder,’ Charlie reminded him.

Johnson leaned back in the chair, refusing to be hurried despite his own restriction upon time.

‘Know what solves crime?’ he demanded.

‘What?’ asked Charlie. Had Johnson always been as overbearing as this? Or had he developed the attitude since he arrived in the colony?

‘Routine. Just simple routine. Finding those responsible for the fire was merely a matter of gradually working through those Chinese employed on the refit, matching the fingerprints to those we found all over the sprinkler systems and the incendiary devices and then confronting them with the evidence. Simple, logical routine.’

‘And now you’ve made an arrest for their murder?’ said Charlie.

Johnson shifted, off-balanced by the question.

‘Employing the same principle, we’ve satisfied ourselves we know the man responsible. We’ve eliminated every person who had contact with the dead men except one.’

‘Who?’

‘A prison cook. Ideally placed to introduce the poison. His name is Fan Yung-ching.’

‘But you haven’t made an arrest?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Because he’s returned to mainland China?’ suggested Charlie.

Johnson frowned at the anticipation.

‘That’s what we strongly suspect,’ admitted the police chief. ‘We’ve established that he disappeared from his lodgings and that his family have always lived in Hunan, on the mainland. Apparently he crossed about six months ago.’

‘I’m surprised how easy it appears to be to go back and forth over the border,’ said Charlie.

The superintendent leaned forward on his desk, always alert for criticism.

Basically unsure of himself, judged Charlie.

‘It’s virtually impossible for us to control or even estimate the number that cross each year,’ conceded the police chief. ‘At least five thousand come in without Chinese permission, swimming across the bay. Double that number must enter with official approval.’

‘Ten thousand!’ said Charlie.

‘Would it frighten you to know that the majority of Chinese crews on British warships and naval support vessels come from communist China, with merely accommodation addresses here to satisfy the regulations about their being Hong Kong Chinese?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Charlie. ‘It probably would.’

‘It’s a fact,’ insisted Johnson. ‘And it frightens the Americans, too. Particularly during joint NATO exercises.’

‘So you’re convinced that the men who destroyed the Pride of America were infiltrated into the colony. Then killed by another Chinese agent?’