Larren realised that it was time that he got out; he had things to do and no time to waste answering police questions. If the police caught him he would be delayed while they contacted Naval Intelligence to vouch for him, and it was imperative that he reached Cheng Kia’s home immediately. He knew that Cheng must have been an accomplice in the attempt to murder him, and it was only by luck that he had been able to duck down and avoid getting that red-handled hatchet in the back of his own skull. Even now he could taste the dryness of fear that had filled his mouth as Cheng’s hesitant hands had gripped him firmly in the sudden darkness; and he knew that Cheng’s task had been to hold him still in the brief seconds while the killer struck, then they would have both slipped away before the lights came on again. But the attempt had failed; Cheng Kia was dead, and provided that Larren moved fast there was just a chance that he could pick up something useful at the dead man’s home.

  Without another thought for the trembling barman Larren turned and hurried out of the club. A large crowd had gathered on the pavement outside, but they kept their distance and merely gaped at him as he came through the door. Farther up the road a Chinese policeman was puffing wildly into his whistle and thrusting his way into the crowd. Larren’s mind registered the scene at a glance and then he quickly pushed his way through the crowd, moving in the opposite direction to the oncoming policeman. No one in the crowd made any attempt to detain him and he hurriedly lost himself in the sea of humanity that swirled through the streets. An empty taxi came towards him and he stepped off the pavement to flag it down. It stopped with a screech of brakes and instantly Larren swung inside. Without waiting for directions the young Chinese at the wheel put his foot down and the taxi roared off again.

  The driver neatly steered between two dodging pedestrians crossing the road and then looked back over his shoulder, his teeth showing in a wide grin.

  “Where to, Johnny? Nice girls? Film show?”

  Larren said grimly. “How long will it take you to drive out to Tolong Bay?”

  The Chinese shrugged. “Half an hour — maybe.”

  “Make it in twenty minutes and I’ll pay you three times the fare — if you don’t I’ll bang your head through the windscreen.”

  The driver looked startled and then he grinned again.

  “You said it, Johnny.”

  His foot pressed down and the taxi leaped forward like a rearing stallion. Larren leaned back and tried to relax.

  While the taxi charged through the wide chasms of light and feverishly rushing traffic that made up the main streets of Kowloon, Larren began to arrange the incidents at the Scarlet Dragon into logical order in his brain. He couldn’t quite remember whether he had seen Cheng Kia when he first entered the club or not, but somehow he didn’t think that the man had been present then. He seemed to remember the man standing near the door while he was talking to Nancy Kang, but again he couldn’t be sure; it was always difficult to think back to things that had had no importance at the time.

  He changed the subject of his thoughts and concentrated on Nancy Kang. The dancer had vanished well before the lights went on again, which meant that she had probably known exactly what was happening; and that in turn seemed to indicate that she had had a hand in arranging the murder attempt. During his conversation with her he must have blundered somewhere and she had guessed who he was; then she must have made some sign to the barman or one of the waiters who had promptly sent for Cheng Kia and his unknown accomplice.

  The point that really puzzled him was the fact that Cheng Kia had known his name. He had entered Hong Kong with an efficiently faked passport and until Cheng Kia had addressed him he would have sworn that only Alan Kendall and a few of his colleagues knew of his real identity. However, he had to face the facts; somehow Dressler and his comrades had learned that he was in Hong Kong, and they were not hesitating to use messy techniques in trying to kill him.

  That Cheng Kia and his accomplice had been sent by Dressler Larren did not doubt for a moment. Cheng Kia had obviously been a tong man, fake or otherwise, and the merciless slaughter of Maclean’s household proved that the tong were working hand in hand with Dressler and Reutall. The barman had also said that Cheng Kia was a rich man who lived in a very big house, and it was reasonable to suppose that a man who was rich and influential in one way would also be an influential member of any society to which he belonged. That last thought gave Larren good cause to hope that he might find a new lead at Cheng’s home, if not to Dressler at least to the newly-revived Red Hatchet Tong. However he had to get there fast, before Dressler learned of Cheng’s death and ordered his minions to erase any clues at the dead man’s home.

  Larren did his best to restrain his impatience as his taxi honked and screeched its way through the garish streets. At any other time he would probably have been sweating at the suicide fashion in which the young man at the wheel was driving, but at this moment he craved only speed.

  They began to pass blocks of shabby tenement flats, built like unattractive stacks of matchboxes with grey, washing-draped balconies. The teeming, neon-lit heart of Kowloon was behind them and the road began to bear left, circling towards the sea. At last the taxi mounted the crest of one of the foothills behind the city and beyond the buildings below was the blackness of the sea, pierced with countless red splashes of light from the night-fishing boats that were scattered over its surface.

  The driver looked back and beamed. He held up his wrist and gestured to his watch as he said. “Tolong Bay, Johnny. Eighteen minutes.”

  Larren said quickly. “Do you know the home of a man called Cheng Kia?”

  The Chinese shook his head and his face looked genuinely sad.

  Larren pulled out his wallet and extracted a fistful of notes, for he had been well supplied with cash before he had left Naval Headquarters. He said briskly, “Cheng Kia is a very rich man, and he lives in a big house somewhere down there. Find it for me.”

  “Sure, Johnny.”

  The Chinese slammed in his clutch and Larren was thrown back into his seat as the taxi rushed down the hill. The grinning driver took a corner on two wheels as he swung into another well-lighted street, and a few minutes later he braked hard before an open café where a jukebox was shrieking into the night. He was out of the taxi almost before the vehicle had stopped and he darted swiftly into the café. Two minutes later he had returned and wriggled back into his seat, his grin broader than ever.

  As he pulled away again he said cheerfully. “Like you say, Cheng Kia very rich man — everybody know him. Most helpful.”

  Larren grinned back at him and said, “You ought to sell this heap and become a detective, you’ll make more money and you’ll probably live longer.”

  The man laughed politely as he scorched his protesting tyres around another corner. Then he was heading up the slope of another low foothill that was flanked with scrub and dotted with small villas. One building stood out from the rest, a sprawling, white-painted house that was by far the biggest in the area. Larren’s driver pointed his arm and said.

  “That the house of Cheng Kia.”

  Larren separated enough notes to make sure that the man was amply repaid from the roll in his hand, the rest he replaced in his wallet. Leaning forward he paid the driver off and said:

  “Drop me about a hundred yards away. I’ll walk the rest.”

  “Sure, Johnny. Sure.” He did as he was ordered and pulled the car into the roadside. “You want me to wait, Johnny?”

  Larren shook his head. “No, I might be quite a while. Thanks a lot.”

  The driver saluted and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he reversed his vehicle and drove away.

  Larren watched him go and then turned to walk the last few yards to the villa. There were lights showing in the big white building, but there were no cars parked outside to indicate any late visitors, and Larren’s hopes that he had arrived before any of Dressler’s hired tong men grew brighter. He walked up the short, narrow drive to the door and then paused to take a final reconnoitre of his surroundings. Then he carefully smoothed his hands down his thighs in a characteristic gesture that removed the sweat from his palms, and moving forward he calmly pressed the bell beside the door.

  He barely had time to step back before the door was pulled open and he found himself facing a small, almost fragile-looking young Chinese woman. She was not much more than twenty years old, and was wearing a high-collared dress of black and gold silk that was clasped tightly to her slim waist by a broad white belt. She wore her blue-black hair in a long ponytail and her dark eyes were shaded by delicate brows. She was smiling but when she saw Larren the smile instantly faded. Her red lips mouthed a startled, almost soundless O and Larren knew that she had been expecting someone else.

  He said calmly, “I am looking for Mr. Cheng Kia. Is he at home?”

  The young woman’s hands moved vaguely, fluttering like slender white swallows. “I am sorry,” she said, “Cheng Kia is not at home. I am expecting him though. I thought it was he who was ringing.” Her words tumbled over each other in short, nervous sentences.

  Larren said blandly, “I have a message for him — from Comrade Dressler.”

  The woman obviously knew the name for she made no comment. Instead she stepped back and said, “You will wait for him? You must come in.”

  Larren stepped past her into a wide hallway, and she closed the outer door behind him. She turned quickly to look up at him and said, “My name is Maxine. I am Cheng’s sister.” She held out her right hand and after a few seconds Larren realised he was expected to shake it.

  His own grip almost swallowed her small palm and he had to suppress a smile at the incongruous formality of the gesture. He decided that she had obviously been watching too many English films and humoured her by remaining solemn. He introduced himself in the name of Mr. A. Simon.

  Maxine Kia looked vaguely troubled when Larren relaxed his grip and she pulled her hand away with a sharp jerking movement.

  She said, “What is it that you must tell my brother?”

  Larren said apologetically. “It was rather personal.”

  “From Comrade Dressler?”

  “That’s right.”

  She hesitated for a moment and then said, “You had better come into the living-room. I will find you a drink.”

  Larren accepted the invitation and followed her into a large room that was expensively and tastefully furnished. One wall was almost wholly taken up with a wide window that looked out on to the slope of the low hill and the light-speckled blackness of the bay beyond. The opposite wall was draped with tall red curtains. Maxine Kia moved over to a small lacquered table that supported a variety of bottles and glasses, and after a brief query to Larren she poured him a whisky.

  Larren took the glass she offered him, deciding that he had successfully allayed any suspicions she might have had and wondering how he could best turn the situation to his advantage.

  Maxine watched him drink and then said suddenly:

  “You say you come from Dressler — have you come for the papers that Cheng has been keeping for him?”

  Larren had no idea of what papers she was talking about, but anything that was important to Dressler was worth following up and he answered blandly, “As a matter of fact that is why I am here. I did not realise that you knew about them.”

  “Cheng told me,” she replied. She hesitated and then went on, “If you wish I can get them for you, I know where they are kept.”

  Larren finished his drink and replaced the glass on the table. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “If you can get them now it will save time when Cheng comes.”

  Maxine nodded and her long ponytail danced a little jig between her shoulder blades with the motion of her head. She moved over to the tall red drapes that curtained off the far wall and pushed them aside to reveal a hidden door. From the wide belt around her waist she extracted a small key which she deftly inserted in the lock. Pulling the door open she held the curtains back so that he could pass through.

  “Come,” she said. “They are in here.”

  Larren had to duck low through the secret door as he passed her and instantly the smell of burning incense swept into his nostrils. He found himself standing in a large black-draped room that was dimly lit by sinister, red-shaded lighting. Directly opposite him was a curtained alcove that was reached by three low steps, in front of the alcove was a dark-stained altar and on each side smoking joss sticks released the sickly smell that filled the room. The dark curtains above the altar bore the blood-red emblem of a short hatchet.

  Larren realised that he was in a tong temple.

  Maxine closed the door and he heard the lock click behind him, and in the same moment he was aware of the fact that they were not alone. A man was standing rigidly in the black shadows to the left of the altar, and even in the dim light Larren could see that he was a massive giant of a creature. His features were those of a Mongol, the cheekbones high and the domed skull completely bald. He was naked but for a loincloth and the huge muscles of his arms and chest rippled beneath a glistening film of sweat.

  As he stepped forward into the light Maxine Kia gave Larren a violent push, at the same time tripping his feet to send him sprawling face down on to the temple floor.

  She screamed frantically, “Kill him, Kolo. Kill him. Kill him.”

  CHAPTER 8: VICTORY AND DEFEAT

  In the few brief seconds as he fell headlong to the temple floor Larren realised how neatly he had been snared by Maxine’s innocent, half-nervous smile. It was abruptly clear now that the mysterious papers she had mentioned were nothing but a non-existent lure to entice him into the temple where the huge guardian could deal with him. Maxine Kia was nowhere near as fragile and un-resourceful as she looked.

  The Mongol was already moving forward as Larren fell; his lips were drawn back in a hideously child-like smile that indicated low mental abilities as well as revealing ugly, yellow-stained teeth. His fingers were outstretched as he reached towards Larren and he was more of a lumbering, hairless ape than a man.

  Larren managed to break his fall slightly with his palms, and with Maxine’s screaming orders to kill still ringing in his ears he rolled clumsily to one side. The Mongol’s first rushing lunge missed and Larren came up on to one knee and thrust one hand inside his jacket in an attempt to reach his beloved sheath knife. He was still winded from his fall and the movement was far too slow. The Mongol wheeled on to him instantly with an unbelievable show of speed, one massive hand clamping on his knife wrist and the other clutching at his throat.

  Larren choked helplessly as the throttling fingers dug into his flesh just below his chin. The Mongol had stopped grinning and his mouth was closed tightly in an effort of concentration. His eyes were staring and his sweating body gleamed in the dim light. The muscles of his powerful arms swelled and bulged as he held Larren still. Larren’s lungs were bursting and his mouth gaped helplessly as he fought for his life. His free hand clawed at the Mongol’s wrist.

  “Kill him, Kolo. Kill him!” Maxine ordered shrilly.

  Larren’s vision was veiled by a red mist now and he knew that at any second he must black out. He struggled feverishly in one final bid for life and somehow he managed to straighten up from his knees. Deliberately he allowed his body to sag again and braced the soles of his feet against the Mongol’s ankles as he pushed the man’s legs apart. The Mongol roared with anger as his feet were forcibly splayed out, and losing his balance he crashed over on his back. He pulled Larren with him as he fell, but as his shoulders hit the floor he had to relax his grip on Larren’s throat. Larren used the last of his fading strength to drive his knee with sickening force into the man’s groin.

  Larren barely knew what he was doing as he rolled away from the Mongol’s embrace. He sucked in life-giving air that burned like draughts of fire in his bruised throat, and for the moment he was too dazed to see anything more than the hideous red mist that swam in his brain. More by instinct than intention he stumbled to his feet, but then he had to slump against the nearest wall for support.

  The Mongol still writhed on the floor, his body doubled up from that cruel blow to the groin. He snarled in agony through the frantic panting of his breathing and banged his shining skull against the floor in a wild effort to kill the pain. Then suddenly the pain transformed itself into sheer blood-lusting fury and he seemed to throw himself to his feet.

  Larren still leaned against the wall, hanging on to one of the black velvet drapes for support. His head still throbbed and his throat burned with pain but some of his strength had ebbed back into his limbs. He heard the roar of the Mongol as the man charged, even though he could still barely see through the tears in his eyes, and desperately he heaved himself up by the velvet drapes and kicked out with both feet. His heels caught the Mongol squarely in the forehead and the giant guardian let out a howl as he toppled back to the floor. In the same moment Larren’s weight pulled the heavy curtain down from its fastenings and he too crashed back to the floor with the smothering weight of the curtain on top of him.

  For a moment Larren panicked as he fought his way free of the restraining folds, and then sanity came back to him as he struggled clear. The Mongol was facing him on his hands and knees and without hesitation Larren scrambled to his feet and hurled the encumbering curtain over the man’s head.

  The heavy drape settled perfectly, completely enveloping the enraged guardian of the temple. He reared up with the black velvet still swirling round him and blinding him, and as he struggled in turn to get clear Larren smashed his clubbed fist down on to the back of his neck where the shape of his bullet head showed clearly through the folds.

  The Mongol staggered drunkenly, roaring with anger. Savagely Larren struck again and again at the same spot, exerting every last ounce of his strength into the merciless blows. With the last, tremendous blow of his fist the Mongol sagged forwards and fell with a crash, and the swirl of black velvet settled round him like a shroud.

 

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