Part 1 (2/2)

Despite having had no warning that his employer was returning, Monk opened the door for him as Seyton ascended the steps of his Kensington house. Monk's square face and crooked nose were legacies of his earlier days as a boxer, but these days he had a more peaceful profession as a valet.

'Run a bath for me, old boy,' Seyton told him. 'I seem to have picked up the most d.a.m.nable stink from somewhere.'

'It's already waiting, sir.'

'Oh. In that case, while I get freshened up, I'd like you to send a telegram for me. I have some news that might greatly interest a friend in Shanghai.'

One.

Shanghai.

Though the night was still young when Seyton returned ho me to Kensington, it was well into the small hours when Shek Yeung applied the brakes to a rusty old Opel truck. He had stolen it a few hours earlier, and now drew up beside the North Railway's freight loading area not far from the banks of Suzhou Creek.

The freight terminal lacked the neocla.s.sical architecture of the more well-off areas of Shanghai. It was mostly built of timber, with iron supports and brick outbuildings. The actual railway tracks and sidings were mostly just laid across a dark field, with grey planking between them to allow engineers to fuel or water the trains. Reflected moonlight picked out the rails themselves as pale veins threading across the ground.

Beyond them, the city's lights flickered in the breeze, since a fair amount of the streetlights were naked flames in paper shades.

The station was in a more utilitarian and cosmopolitan area than the freight terminal. The western edge of the j.a.panese Concession sat like a watching tiger on the eastern side of the street, and Europeans of various persuasions had land on the other side. Yeung wasn't afraid of any of them; the authorities of all the concessions were so wary of stepping on each other's toes that the freight terminal was not as well guarded as it might have been. No government wanted to risk jurisdictional disputes by showing too much of a presence here.

The Concessions of America, j.a.pan and Germany were all guarded by their own troops. It was an odd arrangement for the prime trading city of Nationalist China, but it seemed to work. Technically, though, the British-run Settlement Police had jurisdiction here, so Yeung kept a wary eye out for any sign of their diligent Sikhs.

He rubbed idly at the scar that branched across his swollen-looking cheek, and lowered his burly frame to the ground. He slapped the side of the truck to rouse his confederates to business. The ten men were scruffy dock rats in mismatched items of clothing that were either hand-me-downs or simply stolen from was.h.i.+ng lines.

Yeung wasn't impressed; his shabby black garb might be of low quality, but he had paid for it new, with the proceeds of rolling a drunk or two. Unlike his partners in crime, Yeung at least had some standards.

The men reached back into the truck to pull out a trolley with some cutting equipment and a.s.sociated gas cylinders.

Their arms were all covered with scratches and bruises from mishandling it, but Yeung didn't care; all that mattered was that he could see that none of them had a Tong or Triad tattoo.

It was not that he disapproved of the Tongs; but the Great Circle in particular didn't like unauthorized crimes, so they would certainly disapprove of him. While his men struggled with the cutting gear, Yeung lifted a fire axe down from the cab of the truck and moved towards a side door. The freight warehouse had huge doors at either end so that trains could be shunted from the main line to inside the building, but someone would notice if he opened them.

Yeung used to work here, until he was sacked for pilfering the petty cash, and so he knew that the night watchmen were lazy and only watched those main doors across the tracks. This side door, therefore, was fair game.

Hefting the axe in his ma.s.sive arms, he swung it down onto the solid padlock. It took only a few blows to shatter the lock, which dropped to the ground. Unfortunately, the noise had not gone unnoticed, and he opened the door to find three watchmen skidding to a halt.

Yeung slammed the haft of the axe into the nearest watchman's face with a wet splintering sound. The others tried to run, but Yeung's dock rats swarmed over them before they got ten paces, and beat them to the ground.

Leaving the unconscious men, Yeung moved inside the warehouse. The others followed, dragging the cutting gear on its little trolley. Yeung searched for the fuse box to turn the lights on. Two wide trenches ran through the stone floor, with a pair of tracks in each, leaving room for four trains to be loaded or unloaded at one time. Thick iron pillars supported the distant roof, and the floor had its own landscape of dirty and smudged crates.

One set of rolling stock was in residence; half a dozen boxcars, the last of which was constructed of steel rather than wood. Taking a satisfied deep breath of air, which was tinted with the scent of oil, rust and wood shavings, Yeung directed his men towards the steel boxcar.

The door of the boxcar was emblazoned with the logo of the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank. That, and the unusual st.u.r.diness of its construction, meant that even the most opium-fuzzed mind among Yeung's band could work out what sort of cargo it contained. Waving the others to spread out and keep watch three guards was so little that it was suspicious Yeung watched as his cracksman, Liu, ignited the cutting flame.

'Be careful with that,' Yeung warned. 'There are KMT wages inside, both banknotes and bonds; we don't want them burnt.'

'I know what I'm doing,' the weaselly Liu a.s.sured him. He lowered a pair of black goggles over his greasy face, and played the flame across the thick latch in order to soften it generally.

Yeung had never been patient, and all this waiting was making him jumpy. Every vehicle that pa.s.sed in the distance made him reach for his gun. After a few minutes, and an increase in the metallic smell of the air, Liu shut off the cutting flame, and started to prise open the door with a crowbar. Yeung s.n.a.t.c.hed it from him as the others hurried over, breathless with excitement.

Yeung's bulging muscles were a better match for the weight of the door than Liu's, and at least Yeung felt that his irritation was being put to good use in pulling the door open.

Yeung relaxed with a sigh as the door finally swung wide, and he discarded the crowbar without a second thought. He suddenly felt a very unseasonable chill as he saw the tiny piece of card that was the sole occupant of the boxcar's dusty floor.

Feeling as dissociated from himself as if he had been bewitched by a ghost, Yeung picked up the card. In Chinese ideograms, it read 'Crime does not pay'. On the reverse side was 'I know'.

There was a faint footfall from above. Yeung looked up, having been in Shanghai's underworld long enough to know in advance what he would see. A lean figure in boots and a leather coat was watching them from atop a hill of crates, his face obscured by motorcycle goggles. 'All the money has been re-routed to a different warehouse. Drop your weapons, and wait quietly.' The voice was perfunctory and clearly used to command. Yeung hadn't noticed his approach, since the black leathers blended in so well with the moonless night. 'The Settlement Police will be here in moments; we will all wait quite comfortably.'

He had heard of the man, though. The petty criminals who frequented Yeung's favourite waterfront bars spoke of a nuisance they had nicknamed Yan Cheh Man of Endurance.

They were a superst.i.tious bunch of dock rats, who got so drunk before a job that they could scarcely stand. Whether Yan Cheh was a police officer, or just some young fool who had listened to too much of the American forces' vigilante radio dramas, he would cease operations tonight. First, though, Yeung would find out how he came to be waiting here for them. He decided he would only maim this Yan Cheh to start with.

'Yan Cheh,' he called out, 'endure this!' He swept open the blade of a b.u.t.terfly knife. Yan Cheh s.h.i.+fted slightly, a Colt.45 appearing in one hand and firing instantly. Yeung ducked instinctively, then cursed himself as the lights went out, the fuse box shattered by the bullet. His hand had already released the knife on its curving path through the air, and he hurled himself to the side just in case.

There was a soft swis.h.i.+ng sound a few yards away; and a high-pitched scream. The boom of a shotgun immediately followed, the blaze of sparks from the muzzle jetting briefly in the direction of the cry. Yeung was puzzled and unnerved.

Somehow he had lost the initiative, and he didn't dare ask what was going on in case the noise alerted Yan Cheh to his position. His companions were not so careful, however; the fools were chattering to each other and b.u.mping into crates as noisily as pregnant pandas.

Moving as silently as he could, Yeung drew out the Nambu pistol he had looted from a j.a.panese bluejacket back in the troubles of '32, and padded towards the source of the scream.

His foot slipped in something wet, but he didn't need to see to be able to identify the source of the warm coppery smell that haunted the area.

'Put down your weapons and wait for the police.' The voice drifted around the warehouse. Yeung clenched his ma.s.sive fist around the Nambu as he glared into the darkness. If Yan Cheh would just keep that up and give him time to determine his position...It seemed to be coming from the right, and Yeung quickly adopted a firing stance and fired several shots in the direction of the sound.

There was the clang of bullets. .h.i.tting metal and a ball of yellow fire erupted with a soft whoosh as Yeung's shots. .h.i.t the oxyacetylene equipment. Yeung was slammed off the platform and onto the neighbouring tracks by a blast of heat, while Liu was blown clear across the loading area, his body a ma.s.s of flames. When Yeung's vision cleared, he saw that the blast had cut down another two men as well.

A number of the warped and dusty crates around were on fire, as was the nearest boxcar. At least, Yeung thought, there was now some light to see by. The remaining five visible members of Yeung's gang picked themselves up from the sawdust-strewn floor and looked around fearfully.

The survivors turned as running footsteps approached the far side of the stack of crates. Since it was from the opposite direction to the last sound from Yan Cheh, perhaps it was one of Yeung's men coming to see what had happened. Yeung signalled for the others to hold their fire for now, and looked around for his fallen Nambu.

The running stopped an instant before Yan Cheh vaulted over the stacked crates, two Colt.45 automatics firing in turn.

Two more thieves slammed to the ground under multiple impacts, and the others bolted, as Yan Cheh landed on the raised loading platform and the guns jammed empty. Yeung saw his chance, and sprang up onto the platform, tugging a nunchaku nunchaku from a deep pocket. Yan Cheh spun at the sound of the footfall, drawing a from a deep pocket. Yan Cheh spun at the sound of the footfall, drawing a katana katana from under his leather coat. from under his leather coat.

Yeung leapt back to avoid a vicious slash, and snapped the nunchaku forward so that the chain between the staves wrapped itself around the sword's blade.

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