Broken Meats: A Harry Stubbs Adventure Page 7

  “Thank you,” said the second man when I had finished. “A friend of Yang is a friend of ours. We are grateful for your assistance.”

  The three of them looked so much alike that I assumed they were brothers. The conversation switched back to Chinese. I resumed my study of the screen until suddenly the others were standing up.

  “We have completed our explanations, and they have been accepted,” said Yang. “There will follow some refreshment.”

  I followed them into a larger, better-lit room with silk cushions. There was a whole Chinese family of a dozen or more gathered there, from little children to a wizened old grandmother, and tables spread with covered dishes of all shapes and sizes. They waited for the men to sit down before taking their places. I was the subject of much scrutiny. They may not have seen many people of my size and bulk; I towered over the largest of the men. I did not meet their eyes but looked around, taking in colourful details of decoration and clothing. The women wore the tiniest slippers—I had never seen such small feet.

  It was early for lunch, but everyone set to with a good appetite. This presented a challenge to me. The only cutlery was a pair of chopsticks, slender wooden rods that they deftly held together in one hand, picking morsels of food as easily as if they were using a fork or a pair of tongs. But after some experimentation, I could still not see the trick of it. So I could only watch as the others chattered around me, picking up this item and that without any effort. They must have noticed my difficulty but were too polite to offer assistance.

  Yang ate sparingly, and though the three brothers were relaxed and at their ease, joking casually among themselves, he sat with stiff formality, nibbling at his food without enthusiasm. I was resigned to not eating when a small girl, perhaps six years old, noticed my difficulty. With the utmost seriousness, she left off tending to her infant brother and came over to show me the correct use of chopsticks.

  “Like this, see?” she kept saying.

  Unfortunately, I could still not get the knack of it after repeated demonstrations. Everything I tried to pick up fell back into the dish or onto the table. Undeterred, she held my fingers in place with both her hands and helped me steer a piece of meat into my mouth.

  The little girl was as pleased as if she had been feeding buns to an elephant at the zoo. One of the grandmothers cackled with laughter at the sight while the child's mother and aunts clapped. Two small boys joined in excitedly, not used to such entertainment at mealtime. We repeated the maneuver, and to the entertainment of all, I sampled every dish on the table this way.

  “Try this one!”

  During this process I introduced myself. She told me that her name was Chun Hua. “That’s my Chinese name,” she added offhandedly. “In English I’m Spring Flower. I can write it in English and Chinese.”

  Various increasingly awkward foodstuffs were pushed forward as challenges to our combined skill. The rice was glutinous and easier than you would expect; slivers of some pale vegetable needed to be gripped firmly; crunchy nuggets had to be handled more gently, or they popped up into the air, occasioning laughter in the audience. Each success was met with applause for the little girl and her performing beast.

  I cannot describe the flavours, which were pungent and savoury. I recognised pork and chicken in the meats and some offal as well. Most of it was entirely strange to me. Perhaps others would have been put off by the bowl of deep-fried chickens' feet, but as a butcher’s boy, I was less delicate than most. Even the rice was mixed with bits of seafood. The mushrooms I knew but not the other vegetables—some crisp as cucumber, others melting like well-cooked asparagus, and all seasoned in unexpected ways.

  Yang’s fixed expression signified disapproval. And yet, as the performance continued, he seemed to soften. He even smiled as a crisply fried prawn, spicy with hot pepper, reached my mouth on the third attempt, to a fresh round of applause.

  I never mastered the use of chopsticks without assistance, but my little helper didn't tire of the experience of aiding a grown-up. She wanted to help me lift a teacup to my lips and was disappointed that I was capable of drinking without assistance. When I managed to assure her that I had eaten enough, she bowed politely and returned to her mother’s side.

  I parted with the Chinese family on the most cordial of terms in spite of the lack of common language, and there was much bowing and smiling, which I imitated.

  “I hope my behaviour was acceptable,” I said soon as we were out of earshot.

  “They are exceptionally well-bred. You could never offend them,” he said coldly.

  Yang would have left it at that, but I wanted to find out more. “It was a most interesting experience, as you promised. I enjoyed having a traditional Chinese meal. They seem a nice family.”

  “They are a traditional family of old China,” he said with such unmistakable contempt that I looked up. “In Shanghai, we do not wear our hair in a queue and wear old clothes. We do not sit on the floor—and English guests are offered a knife and fork.”

  “Some people like their colourful traditions.”

  “Colourful traditions like killing female children? In China, we find many daughters die of a scorpion sting while they are in the cradle. Chun Hua is lucky there are few scorpions in England! But they are not binding her feet; maybe even the old dragon learns at last.”

  I held my tongue.

  “Now, I have a further formality to complete with others who may be less sympathetic. Please direct us to this address. This visit I will conduct on my own.”

  I was not so familiar with this part of London, and we stopped twice to ask directions but found our way easily enough. Yang left me sitting in the car while he disappeared into an ordinary-looking, big house. I was content enough to digest my lunch and reflect on the exotic dining experience.

  After half an hour, I began to wonder how long Yang would be. He had given no indication, but some inner barometer warned me that something was awry. When he said that these people were less sympathetic, I suspected he might have been understating the case. I decided to stretch my legs and walk past the house a couple of times. It was a four-storey villa with steps leading up to the front door. On my second pass, I saw a grey object by the basement windows beside the stairs. It was Yang’s hat.

  Another man might have worked his way round the back and clambered over the garden wall. I wasn't a great one for clambering or shinnying up drainpipes or any other cat-burglar tricks. Instead, I took the frontal approach.

  A Chinese man in an English shirt and waistcoat opened the door. He did not look friendly.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but I'm looking for Mr Yang.”

  “Never heard of him,” he said in an East End accent. He jerked his head. “Now, get lost.”

  That was uncalled for. I did not care for his language and was about to tell him so when there was an unmistakable cry of pain from within the house. It sounded like Yang.

  The rude man glanced back over his shoulder at the noise. He knew the game was up, and he started to draw a weapon from behind him. That was not a wise move. By the time he had pulled out what looked like a jointed wooden cosh, I had one hand around his forearm and the other gripping a fistful of his shirtfront. Without pausing to formulate a plan, I hauled him bodily out of the door and threw him towards the pavement. While he was still stumbling down the stairs, I stepped smartly through the door and had it bolted behind me before he reached the ground.

  The cry appeared to have come from above. I moved swiftly through the hall and up the stairs two at a time, stepping as lightly as I could. From the landing I saw Mr Yang through an open doorway. He was in a chair, facing me. His hands were bound behind him; his face was bruised. His shirt had been torn open at the neck.

  A man with his back to me turned partly and rapped out a question in Chinese. He was holding a sharpened piece of bamboo the size of a pencil in one hand. As he turned, I saw he was also Chinese and had a livid scar down one cheek.

  I register
ed another person in the room, sitting in the far corner. A card table had been pushed against the wall to make more space, and a number of objects were arranged on it—more bamboo skewers, a crumpled cloth, Yang’s cigarette case, and a compact automatic pistol.

  This was no time for questions. I stepped in and gave the scarred man a straight right between the eyes. The blow knocked him on to the table, which tipped over.

  The man in the corner was getting to his feet—not that quickly, because he was a very fat man, but not as slowly as all that. He was not just fat; he was big all round, practically a giant by Chinese standards, and there were powerful muscles underneath the rolls of flab. He had a scarf around his waist instead of a belt, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, showing thick forearms covered in oriental tattoos.

  His eyes were almost closed. For a moment, I thought that it was because his face was so fat, then I realised that he could not see. I relaxed for an instant, and the blind man, hearing my sigh, half-smiled. Then he lowered his head and charged right at me. I threw a quick left, which simply glanced off his shoulder, and then we were grappling.

  Clinches are a part of the art of boxing, and you have to know how to use them to your advantage. But wrestling is another matter.

  The fat man had a grip like a steel clamp, and I felt my ribcage grinding. That grip would have crushed the life out of most of his opponents but not one of my physique. My arms were free, and I was able to jab at his head and neck with sharp, quick punches. He let go with a grunt and stepped back.

  Yang was still sitting in the chair, dazed. The scarred man was getting to his feet, grabbing a handful of pointed bamboos, until I clubbed him heavily over the back of the neck with the side of my fist.

  The wrestler turned his head this way and that, still smiling faintly. He was the scarred man’s hired muscle as surely as I was Yang’s. We were put to fighting each other to see who the better man was. And if he was blind, it didn’t seem to affect his ability to come straight at me again like a charging bull.

  There was not enough space to dodge him properly or back off. In the ring, I would have been able to keep him off and rain punches on him all the while. It was a different story in a confined space.

  I was carried backwards two paces into the wall. The impact shook plaster dust loose. His grip was lower this time, below my ribs. I got in two awkward blows, hammering downwards on his head. Then the wrestler straightened up and did a move that I had not experienced since I was ten years old: he threw me clean over his shoulder. I would not have said it was possible… I dived headlong, my feet struck a light fixture, and the room tumbled about me. My landing felt as though it made the house shake.

  They say you could drop an ant from the top of St. Paul’s and it would walk away unhurt, but an elephant would be injured by the slightest fall because of its great bulk. In this respect, I am more elephant than ant. The force of the impact was considerable. If I'd landed worse, I could have broken an arm or a wrist or my neck. I was lucky not to crack my head on a stone mantel or fireplace.

  Luck was with me, though, and I landed flat. Acting on instinct, I rolled and pulled myself to a crouch. A sighted opponent might have thrown himself down on top of me before I could move, and that might have been the end of it. He would have been on top of me, his hands round my head, and there would be no escape. But the confusion of noises made it difficult for the blind wrestler to locate me exactly, and he hung back.

  We faced each other again. I needed to end the fight quickly before the man I had thrown down the stairs could make his way back in and before anybody else in the house could join in—I could hear voices downstairs. The fat man’s smile was fixed. He reminded me of someone I had seen once, a slaughterman my father had pointed out to me once. He was an odd character, and Father said that the man enjoyed killing a bit too much and I had best stay away from him. The wrestler had that selfsame cold, complacent smile of pleasure at suffering.

  I took a half step forward to jab at his face, left and right. I would make him earn his money, at least, and buy enough time to try something else. A clinch was the only way he could keep from being beaten black and blue, and this time, I planned to throw myself out of his path as soon as he came forward.

  His hand moved like a striking cobra and caught my left wrist. It was like being trapped in a vice. I directed a straight right at his shoulder, and the grip lessened. As well as an ungodly strength, he must have had iron self-control not to flinch at the pain. His other arm moved over to foul my next punch.

  I have often wondered how the fight would have proceeded from that point on. When you review a bout in your mind, you always think of the moves that you might have done if you were given a second chance, if the fight had only run to another round.

  My supporters might say that Harry Stubbs could beat any Chinese, but you have to look at the facts behind the bravado. I had a few more tricks in my repertoire, but I’m a boxer. All my routines were ingrained through long hours of training that turned them into reflex actions. And they are all boxing moves. If a man wants to stand toe-to-toe in any approximation of boxing, I know what to do. But the arts of grappling, of holds and throws and breakfalls, of knowing where to twist an arm or a wrist or a neck, are all comparative mysteries to me. I am a boxer of more than average mettle, but I am not a fighter.

  The wrestler was a real fighter. He knew how to play the game in which the only rule was to win. It was a game that I had little experience of, and this was no way to learn.

  The fight was interrupted by the sharp crack of a pistol shot. Yang was still sitting, but now he had his hands in front of him. He was aiming the automatic at the fat man. At the time, it did not occur to me that what made the wrestler stop was not the threat of the pistol but the sound of the report. For those who rely on hearing, a loud noise in a small room is like a dazzling light in the eyes of a sighted person.

  “Mr Stubbs, we must leave,” Yang said. I did not need to be told twice. He said something sharp in Chinese at the fat man while I hurried back down the stairs. There were two men at the bottom, but they scattered when Yang fired at their feet.

  I unbolted the front door. There was no sign of the rude individual whom I had manhandled earlier, and we made it clear to the car. Nobody was pursuing us. This was a London street in broad daylight after all.

  Yang sat heavily in the driver’s seat and put down the pistol. He held his hands out to me. His thumbs were fastened together with wire; I untied it with some difficulty. Then Yang felt cautiously around one of the bloodstains on his shoulder, and I saw for the first time what looked like a pencil stub sticking from low down on neck. With a grimace, he pulled out a bamboo skewer and tossed it into the footwell. A moment later, he pulled out a second.

  “My second appointment was less successful than the first,” he said at last. “There has been some… misunderstanding between the Si Fan and the Yellow Emperor’s Clan.”

  They had ambushed Yang on the steps before he could even knock on the door. The blind man had come up from behind, seized Yang, and thrown him to the ground before he knew what was happening. He never had a chance to draw his gun.

  Yang raised and lowered his injured arm experimentally, frowning at the result. “I will require your assistance with the handbrake and the gears.”

  Chapter Seven: A Warning

  That evening, with Yang safely back in his hotel room and having devoured a healthy portion of my landlady’s steak and kidney pudding, I raided the cigar box under my mattress for money. Shillings jingling in my pocket, I made my way to the Conquering Hero. I had earned a pint or two, or three or four. The place was as warm and cheerful as you could wish, half-full with the usual weekday crowd.

  I nodded to a few acquaintances while the barman drawing my pint said casually, “Feller over by the corner is looking for you, Harry. Funny sort of bloke.”

  As he spoke, my eye fell on Howard, the scholarly young man of the Theosophy Circle. He was sitting alone at a
table with a shot glass and a decanter of water. He had witnessed my entrance and looked up expectantly.

  “I know him,” I said.

  “Don’t think he comes in pubs much,” said the barman. “He wanted hot water with it. I haven’t heard that since before the war.”

  “I’m so glad you came,” said Howard, pulling up a chair for me. He pushed back his thinning hair with one hand. “The situation is grave, and you’re the only man alive who can help.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what situation you’re referring to.”

  “Don’t worry, old man,” he said. “I’m not with the police or anything. But I don’t think you came to the séance the other day out of idle curiosity, and I happen to know a little about your connections.” He glanced about as though the Hero was a notorious thieves’ den. “The thing is, I know what you’re on to, and I can help.”

  “Is this in reference to Mr Roslyn D’Onston?” I ventured.

  “Absolutely right; you’ve got it in one,” he said with a fierce smile. “Roslyn D’Onston, that notorious creature, unparalleled master of the dark arts. You know of his infiltration of the Theosophy Circle?”

  “I had ascertained some connection.”

  “Connection? He’s in charge of it! You do realise of course that he isn’t dead?”

  “Well, I can’t say…”

  “Let me lay the whole thing out for you.” He leaned closer. “As you know, I’m just a poor bookworm. I’ve dabbled in the arts for a few years, as an intellectual exercise—in a field where there are so few true scholars, an amateur like me can earn a little distinction. And then out of the blue, I have an approach from this woman, the one who calls herself Lavinia.

  “It seems that she’s turned up out of nowhere and is occupying that house, Maycot—Blavatsky’s place and D’Onston’s former base of operations. Well, that ought to have made me suspicious. And with her is this Victor. His bona fides are in India and not so easy to check.”