Yellowthread Street (2 page)

‘No,’ Spencer said, ‘Your name?’

‘Skilbeck.’

‘I’ll get the W.P.C.’ He went down the corridor and tapped lightly on the door with a tingle of anticipation. He thought of Minnie’s face on a white pillow with her black hair and brown eyes and—He thought, ‘Say, “Hullo, Bill”—’

Minnie came out.

‘Minnie,’ Spencer said.

Minnie said, ‘Hullo, Bill.’

‘How long’s he going to be?’ Mrs Skilbeck asked O’Yee.

The cinema manager’s voice said, ‘The U.S.S.
Scranton
—’

‘I’ve got that.’

‘Hey,’ the American lady said.

‘Yes?’ O’Yee said.

‘The last time it was in—’

‘Just a minute.’

‘How long’s he going to be?’

‘Who?’

‘The one with the yellow hair.’

‘Inspector Spencer?’

‘If you say so.’

‘What’s the matter?’ the manager asked, ‘am I going too fast for you again?’

‘Wait a minute. He’ll be back in a moment. Excuse me.’ He said to the manager, ‘The U.S.S.
Scranton
—’

‘Weren’t you here last year when we had the—’

‘No.’

‘You don’t remember the cinema robberies?’

‘No.’

The manager drew a calming breath. He had had nothing but the cinema robberies on his mind for over thirteen months and it annoyed him that the full weight of the forces of law and order had had other things to think about.

‘Well?’

‘Well?’

‘Well, tell me.’

The manager sighed. The manager said, ‘I’ll explain it to you.’

The manager explained between more sighs. The manager explained that thirteen months ago, over a period of forty-eight hours, there had been three hold-ups of cinema cashiers and that an amount veering close to the sort of figures you only heard at bankruptcy hearings had been taken. It was an African gunman with an American accent in a sailor suit, and the
Scranton
had been the only American ship in port at the time and they had had forty-eight hours shore leave.

‘Jesus!’ the American lady said, and Auden, who also thought Spencer was taking too long with Minnie for a simple matter of police business, said, ‘He’s been gone a long time.’

‘He had a gun,’ the cinema manager said. ‘Inspector Feiffer said—’

‘I’ll get him for you,’ Auden said.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he’d have one of his men take over the cashier’s job when the
Scranton
came back.’

‘If he was from the
Scranton
why wasn’t he arrested the last time it was in? Don’t tell me all Africans look the same.’

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Auden poked his head around the corridor and called, ‘Inspector Spencer—’

‘Well?’ O’Yee said.

There was silence at the other end of the line in the manager’s office of the Peacock Cinema on Icehouse Street. O’Yee thought, ‘He is going to tell me all Africans look the same.’ ‘O.K.,’ O’Yee said, ‘I guess I’m the man for the job.’

‘Inspector Feiffer said it would have to be a Chinese policeman.’

‘I’m Eurasian,’ O’Yee said.

Spencer came back down the corridor with Minnie Oh. He looked pleased with himself. Auden said irritably, ‘This lady’s been waiting.’

‘All right,’ the cinema manager said. His voice had the
resignation of a man who thought he was going to be robbed and the police were going to assist the robber to get away with it. He said lamely, ‘The
Scranton
came in this evening.’

‘So I’ve gathered. I’ll come down. You’re open all evening?’

‘All evening and all night.’ The manager said, ‘He’s got a gun.’

‘So have I.’

Minnie said, ‘How can I help you?’

‘Didn’t he tell you? My husband’s missing. For Chrissakes!’

‘He said “lost”.’

‘O.K. “lost”. I went into a store to get something of a personal female nature and when I came out he was gone. “Lost.” “Missing.”—gone.’

Minnie took out an incident sheet for the details. Auden and Spencer went back to their desks out of earshot.

‘You’ll have to do.’ The manager said, ‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ and hung up.

Minnie told the New Jersey lady that her husband would turn up and that she should come back in an hour to see if he had. She said, ‘That’s the best we can do. He’s probably gone into a bar for a drink.’

‘He had better not,’ Mrs Skilbeck said. She thought the place looked just like the precinct stations in New Jersey. She shook her head in pessimistic disgust and went out.

O’Yee decided he was not going to sit there and check his gun. He thought it was the sort of thing cops only did in old movies. He thought if he had forgotten to load the damn thing then he deserved to get shot and there was no point in checking it anyway. He said to Auden, ‘What’s the movie at the Peacock?’

‘What?’ Auden said. He was watching Minnie’s long legs. ‘That John Wayne film—the one where he’s got a machine gun that shoots thirty bullets a second.
McQ
or
O Yez
or something. I don’t remember. All the cops get killed in it.’

‘I’ve seen it,’ O’Yee said, and checked his gun.

‘Licensing Department.’ It was a Hong Kong university
educated Chinese voice speaking English, ‘Night Duty Clerk.’

Feiffer was ringing from a leather goods and luggage shop. He cupped his hand around the mouthpiece of the telephone to keep his business private. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Feiffer of the Yellowthread Street Police Station.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Feiffer.’

‘Did you say you were the police?’

‘That’s right. I want some information about the location of a certain food stall somewhere between Cat Street and Beach Road, Hong Bay.’

‘Your voice sounds muffled.’

‘I’m ringing from a luggage shop. I don’t want them to hear.’

‘You said you were the police. Is this some sort of joke? Is that you, George?’

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Harry Feiffer of the—’

‘I think I’d better ring the police station.’

‘I’m not ringing from the police station. I’m ringing from a luggage shop because it was the only phone I could find that wasn’t being used. I want some information.’

‘What sort of information?’

‘I want the exact location of a food stall in the Hong Bay area.’

‘I don’t know. Are you sure this isn’t—’

‘Are you the person to speak to?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘In that case the name of the stall is Chen and Wang. It’s a street food stall. It’s somewhere in the Cat Street area near the Bay. I’m in that area now, but half of the stalls are still closed and they don’t have their signs out.’

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s eight o’clock.’

‘Most of them don’t open until nine. I often go to a street stall for a meal myself, although I must say, not in the Hong Bay district. It isn’t safe.’

‘I’m trying to make it safe. I’m a policeman. Now can you just give me the information?’

‘I’m not sure about this. I’d better have your full name and rank. I’ll write it down.’ That would make it all right.

‘My full name is Harry Feiffer and I’m a Detective Chief Inspector at Yellowthread Street Police Station in the district of Hong Bay on Her Majesty’s Crown Colony of bloody Hong Kong and can I please have the information?’

‘How do you spell that?’

‘I-n-f-o-r—’

‘Feiffer.’

‘F-e-i-f-f-e-r-fullstop. I’m in a hurry.’

‘I assume this is a serious crime you’re investigating?’

‘None of your damn business. Have you got the information or not?’

‘Oh, yes,’ the voice said, ‘I’ve got the card index in front of me by a funny coincidence. I was just looking over an application for a new shoe stall and the girl made a mistake and brought me all the—’

‘Chen and Wang,’ Feiffer said. ‘Street stall, food, location of.’ The proprietor of the luggage shop kept glancing at him and blinking at the hand cupped over the mouthpiece. ‘He thinks I’m a kidnapper,’ Feiffer thought. The proprietor thought he was an extortionist.

‘Wait a minute,’ the Night Duty Clerk said.

Feiffer waited. He grinned reassuringly at the proprietor. The proprietor looked away.

‘No,’ the Night Duty Clerk said.

‘What do you mean, “no”?’

‘There isn’t any such stall. Are you sure you got the name right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then no.’

‘Then no, what?’

‘Then, no, it doesn’t exist. You probably got the name wrong.’

‘I got the name right.’

There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Really? I thought we’d closed all the unlicensed stalls. I’ll put you on to our investigation section.’

‘I don’t want to talk to your—’

‘They’re policemen there too,’ the Night Duty Clerk said soothingly, ‘You can—’—he broke off—‘I’m astounded there’s still one in that area we missed. It is very serious. I’ll transfer you.’

Feiffer hung up. The luggage shop proprietor breathed a sigh of relief.

‘My mother,’ Feiffer said. The proprietor nodded and kept one eye on his cashbox. ‘Deaf,’ Feiffer said and tapped at his ear. The proprietor stared at the bulge Feiffer’s pistol made under his coat.

‘Policeman,’ Feiffer said and tapped at his coat bulge and that seemed the most unlikely tap of all.

Hong Kong itself is an island of some 30 square miles under British administration in the South China Sea facing the Kowloon and New Territories areas of continental China. Kowloon and the New Territories are also British administered, surrounded by the Communist Chinese province of Kwantung. The climate is generally sub-tropical with hot, humid summers and heavy rainfall. The population of Hong Kong and the surrounding areas at any one time, including tourists and visitors, is in excess of four millions. The New Territories are leased from the Chinese. The lease is due to expire in 1997 but the British nevertheless maintain a military presence along the border although, should they ever desire to terminate the lease early, the Communists, who supply all the Colony’s water, need only turn off the taps. Hong Bay is on the southern side of the island and the tourist brochures advise you not to go there after dark.

The woodcarvers used to be in Camphorwood Lane and the
smaller goldsmiths used to be situated one after the other in the Jasmine Steps area and Goldsmiths’ Street used to be where you could find undertakers. The undertakers moved away to the Street of Undertakers and the larger goldsmiths moved into Goldsmiths’ Street. The woodcarvers then moved en masse into Wyang Street and evicted several hordes of tailors. The tailors moved into Hanford Road and evicted the ivory carvers. That left Camphorwood Street empty and several posses of ivory carvers premises-less. The smaller goldsmiths moved into Camphorwood Lane and the ivory carvers went around to the Jasmine Steps. The Jasmine Steps already had new tenants. The African governments decided no more elephants were going to be shot for ivory so the ivory carvers became small goldsmiths and moved into Camphorwood Lane with the smaller goldsmiths. So when the Mongolian decided to move his business to Camphorwood Lane he had plenty of customers to choose from.

The Mongolian went to the first small goldsmith’s at the west end of Camphorwood Lane off Canton Street (you are not expected to remember any of this) and asked to see the owner.

It was just after eight o’clock and he was the only customer. At Camphorwood Lane at that time of night there was probably only one customer in each of the thirty or forty smaller goldsmiths’ shops so things were very slow for Hong Bay. In Carrier’s or Tiffany’s it probably would have amounted to a riot.

The Mongolian was well over six feet three inches tall and he weighed in at two hundred and eighty-five pounds even with a shaved head and he wore three signet rings on his right hand and four on his left hand. Each of the rings was made out of brass and since they were not joined together they were technically not brass knuckles, although Mr Yin, who owned the first smaller goldsmith’s shop, wasn’t so sure.

‘A hundred dollars,’ the Mongolian said and drew an Indian Gurkha kukri knife with an eleven-inch blade and a silver lion’s
head pommel from under his shirt.

Mr Yin cocked his head to suggest he had not heard correctly so the Mongolian grabbed him by the wrist, laid his fingers flat on the glass display table, held the kukri a few inches above it and said again, ‘A hundred dollars.’

At twenty-five dollars a finger Mr Yin did not think the price exorbitant, and if he calculated it—he did, swiftly—at eight dollars fifty a joint, it was downright reasonable.

Mr Yin paid.

The Mongolian grunted and went next door.

Next door, Mr Kwan calculated it at thirty dollars a pint of blood and thought it was the bargain of the year.

In the shop next to that, Mr Ho, who had a mind quicker and more logical than either of his two previous colleagues, made the equation at twenty-five dollars for his mistress, two dollars fifty each for his two wives, fifteen for his aged father and five dollars for each of his eleven children and retrieved his hand considering himself a man of decision.

The Mongolian sheathed his kukri, said, ‘I’ll be back again,’ and watched Mr Ho nod happily. Mr Ho raised his other hand and even waved a little. Mr Ho’s assistant watched the Mongolian leave and then reached for the phone. It was a pleasure, Mr Ho thought, an absolute pleasure to be able to put two complete hands on the instrument to stop him.

His assistant said, ‘Police—’

Mr Ho looked horrified and waved his index finger at him again. He looked at the index finger and the other fingers surrounding it and thought they made a nice set.

‘He wouldn’t have done it,’ Mr Ho’s assistant said. His face said he thought Mr Ho weak, contemptible and cowardly. He was Mr Ho’s nephew whom Mr Ho hadn’t taken into his finger calculations anyway so Mr Ho fired him.

The Mongolian went next door and repeated his transaction with Mr Yin. By now, he was four hundred dollars the richer. He went next door to
Alice’s Goldsmith’s and Jewellery
and made his first mistake.

For those who take the Tourist Office’s advice and stay away from Hong Bay it will come as news to hear that there are bad ladies in the night area between Beach Road where it circles along the shantytown area and the Jasmine Steps where the ex-ivory carvers sit about complaining about Jomo Kenyatta and General Amin. There are also bad men who have a financial interest in the bad ladies, but they live high up on Hanford Hill in villas in the next district so they leave the administration of the bad ladies to older badder ladies like Hot Time Alice Ping and you hardly ever see the bad men.