Broken Meats: A Harry Stubbs Adventure Page 2

  “David versus Goliath is an evergreen fixture,” Arthur told me one morning over a cup of tea at his table at the Electric Cafe. This was not long after that odd shooting. Arthur’s table was in the corner farthest from the entrance, where he had a good view of the comings and goings and a back door handy should the need for it arise. “The public love it. They’ll always be able to sell tickets for that match. But the thing is, Stubbsy… you’re not headed for the Albert Hall. The young David in the other corner, the one working his way up, is who they’ll be cheering for. You’ll be Goliath.”

  I could only nod in agreement. Before, I had boxed as the hero. I had been Harry Stubbs, “the Norwood Titan.” I could have flown to the moon on the cheers when I won my first big fight. It would be different this time around. It might have been better to be a pantomime monster in the ring than a real one collecting debts, but I did not relish the thought of being jeered by delivery boys, especially after a loss.

  There was another point against it that weighed more heavily although Arthur was too tactful to point it out: I was a few years older, a few years slower. My fighting style was well-known. Other fighters had the measure of me and knew my weaknesses. I had stopped fighting professionally after losing a few bouts. If I went in again, I would be losing more. The experience was likely to be as hard on my carcass as my conscience. I could easily wind up as a punch-drunk has-been, trying to persuade a promoter that I was still good for one more match.

  “On the other hand,” Arthur said, holding up an empty palm, “there is paid employment that doesn’t involve any bashing about of your own person or third parties.”

  Now we were getting to it. The Electric Cafe was where Arthur and those he did business with gathered. I was there because of a communication that I might hear something to my advantage.

  Arthur is a consignment man. Shipments that have been written off for one reason or another, but which still possess some market value, pass through his hands. He coordinates a vast network of associates who have vehicles or storage room or pairs of hands that can be used at short notice. On occasion, I have helped unload crates when he was short staffed, just for some beer money. You meet all sorts of people in the process. The point is that Arthur knows everyone, and everyone knows Arthur. The benefits of his business are spread far and wide.

  Your wife’s dressmaker may offer her ten yards of genuine Indian Calico at a bargain price; your neighbours might acquire a silver-plate tea service that looks more fancy than they can afford; your cook may always manage to stretch housekeeping and still have a bit of stewing steak left over—perhaps you know some of the beneficiaries of Arthur’s network. It’s how the common man gets a little bit of his own back, Arthur always says. It puts a little bit of money into the pockets of everyone involved.

  Arthur never puts himself forward as a leader. He’s no gang boss, and nobody exactly answers to him. But he is universally known as a coordinator of great skill and unflagging energy. He has more worldly wisdom than a whole bench of judges. He is the one we turn to, the man who makes things happen. And if Arthur intimates that someone is making trouble or taking more than his share, word will spread, and bones will be broken on behalf of those who care about the common good.

  Because of his connections, he sometimes ends up providing unlikely favours, a procedure that leaves people far and wide obliged to him, people who can be called on as and when needed.

  “At this point, I will invite our colleague to join us,” said Arthur. He gestured for Reg to join us from another table. Reg, a florid, slow-moving man with a fine walrus moustache and bushy eyebrows to match, pulled up a chair and seated himself by stages.

  Reginald Brown had taken early retirement from the colonial service in the Far East. I imagined his job had positioned him in some dusty office with a fan revolving lazily overhead, where he spent long days filling out forms with the infinite slow care that keeps the Empire ticking over. His respectability had not been absolute. It seems he had taken advantage of his situation, although Reg always insisted that he had only accepted the customary “cumshaw,” or commission, for doing his job, as refusal would have been an insult. He had not exactly left under a cloud, but they say the sky had not been so very fair on that day, either.

  As a result of that premature retirement, Reg’s pension was less generous than it might have been. He needed a bit extra, and he gravitated to Arthur, making himself useful in small ways. He was generally reliable if not overly honest. We exchanged pleasantries before Arthur addressed the matter at hand.

  “You know Captain Hall of course,” he said by way of preamble.

  Of course I knew Captain Hall. Everyone did. He was a genuine seafarer, a retired ship’s captain who'd sailed tall ships in the old days. On some nights, you could find him in the Conquering Hero, leading the assembled company in a sea shanty. Pretty salty some of those songs were, too, in the unexpurgated versions. Or sometimes old Captain Hall could be persuaded to tell stories, long sailors' yarns of terrific storms and shipwrecks and adventures in far-off ports, with the whole circle gathered around him, holding their breath as the fire burned low.

  He knew how to tell a tale—which was not to say I believed everything he said. The captain expected to have drink supplied while he yarned, and the longer he went on, the more his tales were apt to swell up and blossom to ever-greater extravagance—blooming roses watered by rum. I’m an open-minded man, but I draw the line at sea monsters and sunken cities.

  “There was a Chinese fellow called Yang, a ship’s steward, who sailed with the good captain for years. This Yang is settled in Shanghai now, but he has a nephew—or a cousin or some such—who is travelling to these parts. By which I mean Norwood.” He tapped the table for emphasis. “He needs a native guide, as you might say, to help him get around and learn the ways of us English folk. I said, 'I know just the man for the job: Harry Stubbs.' “

  “I'm gratified that you should think of me. But I don't know as how I'm specially qualified to guide any visitor anywhere. Why doesn’t Captain Hall do it? He’s hale enough, isn’t he?”

  “Well, this is where it gets ticklish. Captain Hall resorted to me because he had some concerns about this visitor. And at this point, I will defer to our colleague here, who was twelve years in Hong Kong and can speak with authority.”

  “Yang’s nephew says he’s visiting for religious reasons,” said Reg. “In China, claiming they’re on what they call ’God-pidgin’ is a way of telling others to mind their own business. And in my experience, you have to be very careful when the Chinese don’t speak plainly.”

  “It doesn’t ring true, does it?” said Arthur. “He’s coming all the way from Shanghai and won’t tell his own uncle why. You don’t come ten thousand miles unless there's money… but that’s not the worst of it. Tell him about this secret society.”

  “I have a few connections Shanghai way,” said Reg. “I cabled them, and it seems Yang is affiliated with the Si Fan Society. It’s one of their more important secret societies, and one with its long yellow fingers in a great many plum pies.” He tapped his nose.

  “A criminal fraternity like the Triads?” I had read about the Chinese gangs in the newspapers and in stories. They were famed for their cruelly creative ways of torturing and killing their enemies, for revenge they exacted decades after the event, and for their profound and devious cunning.

  “Oh, no,” said Reg hastily. “I'm not calling anybody a criminal, and I don't advise you to, neither. That would be exceedingly tactless. But in China, they have an extra way of doing things that runs alongside the official channels. The government, or governments, are a mess. Official channels run slowly—painfully ruddy slowly, to tell you the truth. But they have these mutual-aid societies, like the Si Fan, with their own unofficial channels, and then it all goes ‘chop chop’ -- very quickly. They’re not really criminal, mostly.”

  “Reg is being diplomatic,” said Arthur. “He’s too used to dealing with Chinese. You ha
d it about right with the Triads, Stubbsy, and that’s why Captain Hall is chary of getting himself involved. Besides, I don’t need to tell you that Shanghai means opium and a few other things besides.”

  There have been Chinese opium dens in the East End since the last century, or maybe longer. They are only patronised by the Chinese and a few adventurous bohemians. But there has been a fuss about Chinese gangs and white slavery in the papers recently, and hackles have been raised. If you believe what you hear, every Chinese laundry is a front for a crime syndicate bent on kidnapping English girls and shipping them out to a life of debauchery in the Far East.

  The East End, like every such community, probably harboured a few Chinese gangsters who preyed on their own. But genuine stories of white slavery were as rare as hens’ teeth. I couldn’t see the Triads setting up shop in South London with no Asiatic population to work with. But Arthur made his living out of his talent for seeing what others missed and making connections. If he thought there was reason to be worried about the visitor, chances were his hunch was right.

  “You just keep an eye on Yang and see that he doesn't get into any trouble. I’ll pay you the going rate, of course,” he said. “Mainly, though, I’m asking you to do it as a favour to me.”

  It was a matter of record that I owed Arthur. I was not in a position to refuse him. Besides, paid work was very welcome at that juncture. It bothered me, though, that it sounded like the sort of thing that a fourteen-year-old might have carried off just as well. I said as much.

  “You’re big for an errand boy,” said Arthur, winking at me. “But trust me, this is a heavyweight errand. Call it counterespionage.”

  “Your Chinaman is a subtle fellow,” said Reg. “But we can beat them at that game.”

  “If I was to get Reg to do it, Yang would tumble him in no time,” said Arthur. “But we thought that with your looks, you won't arouse no suspicion.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Be helpful. Show Yang around. I don’t know… show him how to get on a tram and whatnot. Get fish-and-chips for him. Take him round the Crystal Palace.” Arthur waved his hands in an and so on gesture. As if Yang were some country cousin up to London for the day who might be entertained after the usual fashion. “Meanwhile, stick close. Find out who he’s talking to. See that he's not doing anything as might prejudice our business interests.”

  “Why don’t we just out with it and ask him what he wants here—make it clear where he stands and where we stand?”

  “No, no, no,” said Reg. “That won’t do. You can't ask straight questions like that, and the Chinese don’t answer if you do. Did you know there are no words for 'yes' and 'no' in Mandarin? You’ve got to do everything with polite circumlocutions. What the Chinese call ‘face’ is very important. If a man chooses not to tell you something, you choose not to ask. See?”

  “It's a funny way of doing things,” I objected.

  Reg wagged a finger at me. “’East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,’” he quoted sagely. I was to find this was his stock explanation for any puzzling Chinese ways. “It’s the only way to deal with them. And mind your Ps and Qs—some of them understand English better than you think. Be circumspect and polite at all times.”

  “I suppose so,” I said.

  “And the sooner we get rid of him, the happier I’ll be. I’ve got enough to worry about.” Arthur swallowed his tea as though it tasted bad and turned to me. “This business with Collins, blazing away like the Wild West, getting the police called in. We can’t be having that sort of harum-scarum behaviour round here. Ruins it for all of us.”

  I told him about the greatcoat with the bullet holes, but apparently, he already knew about it. It had been stolen off the back of a tramp called Slingsby an hour before the shooting, while the man was comatose on cheap gin. Slingsby knew nothing about the shooting and was equally indignant at the theft and the bullet holes.

  “It’s all tomfoolery,” said Arthur. “Some people haven’t got the sense to realise that actions have consequences. I gave Collins notice to pack his bags and clear out.”

  “What about Sally – what will she do?”

  “Already seen to. I got them to take her in at Virgo Fidelis. She’s a nervous wreck, poor woman.”

  “A nun? Surely…”

  “No, Stubbsy, not a nun. She’ll be scrubbing floors or something. Doing her penance.”

  “Funny business, that shooting,” said Reg with a sidelong look at Arthur as if he were fishing for information.

  “Funny, and very unprofitable at that,” said Arthur darkly. “Why is it always me clearing up the messes left by other people? Why do I bother?”

  Reg and I tactfully remained silent.

  “One funny thing about it that did occur to me,” Arthur said, brightening a little. “Bill McCann was always very smart, very well turned out. He wouldn’t be seen dead in Slingsby’s old greatcoat.”

  Chapter Two: The Visitor Arrives

  I like to have things cut and dried. The Royal Artillery suited me. When it comes to lugging shells from one place to another, I’m as good a man as you’re likely to find and stronger than most. I can follow plain orders to the letter. When I have to rely on my own initiative, I'm a traveller without a map.

  Arthur and Reg wanted to promote me to the Intelligence Corps, and I had to live up to it. After all, I said I wanted a job that required some brainwork, so I could not complain. It was with no small amount of trepidation that I turned up at the railway station. I arrived in good time and occupied myself at a bench in the waiting room, perusing a book of poetry by Mr Robert Browning. Browning had inspired Sir Ernest Shackleton, and I wanted inspiration.

  I could not concentrate on the fine writing. The hands of the station clock seemed to be fixed in place; every time I looked up, it was still 2:43. The experience was as bad as going for a job interview, and a deal worse than stepping into the ring.

  My one good suit was something the worse for wear, having already been turned. It would pass at a pinch but was hardly smart. My bowler had been dented in a scuffle with a debtor and had never quite recovered. Nor could any amount of polishing disguise my scuffed shoes.

  I thought I would have the advantage of Mr Yang, and so I did. I spotted him from the other side of the concourse, not because he was Chinese but because of his distinctive attire. If I had half expected a robed figure off a Willow Pattern plate, surrounded by cranes and pagodas, the image was dispelled at once.

  Mr Yang was clad in an immaculate cream linen suit, with cream leather shoes and spats, topped off with a Derby hat in the same shade. The effect was set off by a pale-blue shirt and a dark-blue tie, and gold gleamed from his tiepin. He stood with one hand in his jacket pocket and a light overcoat over the other arm. A neatly trimmed goatee completed the look; he was posed as perfectly as a fashion plate. If you could say a man was beautiful, then Yang looked beautiful. Not foppish, but sharp as a new razor. And he held himself at a distance, as far above everyone else as a statue on a plinth.

  Yang looked through the gawking people as though they were no more than wraiths of steam that swam around him. And in spite of the smoke and soot from the train, there was no trace of smut on him. The elements themselves seemed to respect him.

  Yang was no more than a bantamweight, and maybe not even that, but he had the presence of a man six feet tall. He stood with the certainty of a high official surrounded by invisible attendants ready to drag off for execution anyone who crossed his path.

  His eyes took focus, and he looked in my direction as I approached. Those eyes! I almost stopped in my tracks. He seemed to have a third eyelid, like a bird, so that his gaze became suddenly penetrating. That look was disconcerting even for an instant.

  “Mr Yang, I presume,” I said, raising my hat. “I’m Harry Stubbs. Welcome to Norwood. Captain Hall sends his compliments.”

  “So I understand,” he said without offering a hand. There was no smile, no mor
e warmth than if I were a bus he had been waiting for.

  “Allow me to show you to your hotel.” His steamer trunks would arrive on the next train, and he only had light luggage with him: two suitcases, a valise, and a round wicker basket. I gathered them up.

  “Are there no porters here?” he asked.

  I suspected that the porters might not give a Chinese gentleman's luggage quite the respect that was due. I did not want Yang to get a bad impression of England. “No need, sir. These don’t weigh anything.”

  I lifted the cases high to illustrate my point. Something shifted in the wicker basket, and two green eyes looked out at me through a lattice—hard, feline eyes, like matched emeralds. They blinked once, as if in warning, but there was no meow. I lowered the basket carefully.

  It was a scant two hundred yards to the Tulse Hill Hotel from the station. I pointed out the local landmarks, which Mr Yang barely acknowledged. He was not excited to be in the beating heart of the Empire, our great metropolis from which the world is ruled. The streets full of motorcars and buses and the bright modern shop fronts with their plate-glass windows seemed beneath his notice. London may not have been very exotic after Shanghai’s streets, which I imagined to be crowded with coolies and mandarins, but it was by far the greater city. Yang might have been walking through a mud village for all the attention he paid.

  He stopped in front of the hotel, looking left and right and then upwards. “The sky is good,” was all he said.

  I looked up, too. The sky was almost clear with faint ripples of high cloud that put me in mind of fish bones.

  The reception desk sat between two potted palms. A spotty young man with a starched collar stood behind it. I took charge of the checking in, not that there was any need. Mr Yang's English was certainly up to scratch, and he understood the procedure. There was, however, a problem.