The Last Mandarin (25 page)

When he left Burnham, Yen went home. He was not expected; neither was he unexpected. This was his house; when he arrived, a meal was started. He ate pork dumplings, drank tea, and finished with steaming pig's-ear soup. He brooded. He needed a department, at least a squad. He had rank; his pay was acceptable; bribes and confiscations eked out a comfortable domestic treasury. But he was a flatfoot. He liked his work and felt that he should be doing more of it. Normally it was cut and dried. A malefactor was found, apprehended and punished. But this chase for Kanamori depressed him. His files had told him more than he had told Burnham: for example, that the price on Sung Yun's head had been set by Kanamori himself. Or that Sung Yun's enemies, foreign and domestic, had a way of stumbling over trouble. One simply did not tell everything to foreigners.

Burnham had lied to him only tonight. The nature of the lie eluded Yen, but he had been a policeman for more than twenty years and the music of a lie was flat to his ear; he knew. That Burnham was leaving he did not doubt. Still, he would enjoy setting hounds on Burnham's trail this one night. Unfortunately, he lacked hounds. He knew—he had known before he asked—that Burnham had seen Sung Yun. Had he actually spoken to the beggars? What was it he had said? “Cold trails and empty warrens.”

Yen shrugged. A frosty night, and a flatfoot was better off at home. Still, if Burnham was leaving, there remained Sung Yun, who could not have been idle.

Inspector Yen came to a decision. He would sleep for some hours; he would then cast in small circles. If by tomorrow noon there were no fresh corpses, he would close the books and banish this Kanamori from his mind. There was an abundance of trouble without Japanese ghosts. The Red Bandits were everywhere. Fu Tso-yi's Thirty-fifth Army had been destroyed, two of the best divisions in North China. Lin Piao—that turtle's egg!—was sweeping down from the northeast with thirteen columns. To the south, the news was even worse: army after army wiped out on the central plains. Grudgingly Yen admired the enemy. Why were all the military geniuses on the other side? Chu Teh! Liu Po-ch'eng, the old one-eyed tiger! Chen Yi! Teng Hsiao-p'ing! And Lin Piao, worst of all because closest.

Perhaps I should have been a soldier: better to stand and die for Peking than to spy upon foreigners, or to bow and scrape before that gangster Ming.

Inspector Yen cursed them all, and then himself, and went to bed.

At four in the morning Peking was almost silent, and Inspector Yen was grateful: no armies in the distance, no roaring mobs or chattering gunfire in the streets he loved. His lemon, as if lulled by the city's repose, responded amiably and chugged away from the curb with a minimum of resistance. Yen tried to complain—Why must I do everything alone? Where are my subordinates, my planners, my staff, my communications?—but admitted to an odd happiness, as if the city belonged solely to him for this hour, as if he alone ruled, guided destinies, maintained order.

He traversed the Imperial City north to south. At Ch'ien Men he was halted, recognized, saluted and waved on. Slowly he drove past the Willow Wine Shop: darkness and silence. He proceeded to the Beggars' Hospital: silence, but within the walls a dim gleam. The streets were almost deserted; in one doorway, he glimpsed a solitary figure, and by the peripheral glow of his headlights saw that it was a policeman. Reassuring and comforting. Peiping, the old name: northern peace. Well, this city had known little peace in his lifetime.

He drove back to Ch'ien Men, the only gate open at this hour, and once more was passed through. He set his course for the East Four P'ai-lou, and swung off to inspect Sung Yun's house. What was there to see? A wall. A gate, closed and surely locked.

Thereafter he drove aimlessly and marshaled thoughts. The simplest: Kanamori was alive, Burnham had found him, lied about it, and was taking him out. Entirely possible. As they both knew, Burnham's promise to allow Yen an interview had been an empty promise.

One thing Yen knew for sure: the Americans wanted Kanamori for more than a simple hanging. And he knew the why of it. He wondered now, as he had before, whether Burnham did. In China, with his language and his delicacy, Burnham seemed canny, knowing, even powerful; perhaps to the Americans he really was only an errand boy, as he had said. Could Burnham believe that Kanamori was merely a thug? Kanamori's public crimes had been committed by thousands of Japanese officers and men, and many of them had remained in China, settled, married, melted into cities and villages unmolested. Surely Burnham must know this.

But perhaps it was not a simple case of lost-and-found. Perhaps Burnham had truly burned the boats and bridges, given up in despair or disgust.

Or had found Kanamori, learned what he wanted to learn, and had no real interest in the man himself.

Or Sung Yun had found Kanamori—in which case Kanamori was already dead, and Inspector Yen was wasting yet another night. Yen knew Ming well; he knew many Mings. No heart, no scruple, a killer almost frolicsome in his vocation. Sung Yun and his minions! A platoon of hirelings. There was one feeble consolation in a Communist victory: farewell, Sung Yun!

The thought of such a victory depressed Inspector Yen. He saw himself in uniform, demoted, directing bicycle traffic or apprehending fornicators.

He was at the West Lower P'ai-lou now, and he was hungry. Soon the noodle shops would open. He realized abruptly why the city was empty. Curfew! He had forgotten entirely. Such peace! How beautiful Peking would be unpopulated!

An inexpressible melancholy swept over him. An aging cop prowling through the night, his talents, his mind, his very life, all wasted.

22

Ming's knock was more respectful than his expression. The two Pekinese frisked at his feet, rousing his more murderous instincts.

Sung Yun's response was quick. The women were dozing.

Ming said, “Kanamori lives.”

Before his eyes Sung Yun aged, then recovered. “Very well. Report.”

“The American alerted his compatriots at the airport. In a complex spoken code he announced the capture of Kanamori, and demanded transportation for ten in the morning.”

“Then Kanamori is at the Beggars' Hospital?”

“That we cannot know. We do know that Burnham is there.”

“Bad, bad,” Sung Yun groaned. “I do not want this American killed.”

Ming shrugged.

“Pour wine.”

Ming stepped to an inlaid cabinet, and returned with two cups of kao-liang wine. “It is cold, but it is wine.”

“We will not dry these cups,” Sung Yun said. “We will sip like philosophers, and savor and think.”

The dogs leaped to Sung Yun and licked at his hands; absently he scratched their heads.

Ming waited. This old man was a riddle. His mane was gray but his face was shiny and unlined, his body limber and loose-jointed. A riddle, with his Miss Ai and Miss Mei, his transactions, his hearty commercial friends, his Sino-American Amity Association. Ming himself was only twenty-five, and impatient.

“I think I must have my horoscope cast,” Sung Yun said. “I sense emanations. Quiverings.”

“This American—”

“Ah, the American!” Sung Yun flapped a dismissive hand. “Invaluable. The brain of an egg, but he did our work for us: he charged into the tiger's lair in the name of justice. A true hero. But you know them so much better than I.”

“The language only. A few customs. My acquaintance was with soldiers, rude and vigorous, and not with the lords and princes.”

“Lords and princes! So many sides of beef! A strange tribe, Ming, lacking all delicacy and sensuality. They have no history. They swarm like demented nomads; they cross all borders, and when they see a peacock they take up a gun and slay it, and eat it raw. But,” he conceded, “they accomplish great tasks, and they ignore the laughter of their critics. Invaluable, as I said.”

“Is he to die?”

Sung Yun shrugged. “I think not. An unnecessary risk. Also I am now cautious about premature killing. When I believed that Kanamori was dead, and his secret with him—”

Ming said, “The American is a loose end alive.”

“But dead he could be an embarrassment. These are delicate matters in delicate times. Hsü! Not to know who knows what: that is the true ignorance.”

Ming inclined his head. “As you say.”

“I shall miss these tables,” Sung Yun said, suddenly glum. “In rosewood I find a special gleam and warmth. Also walnut.” He tossed off his wine. “Kanamori is of course the business of the moment, but I am concentrating poorly. To leave Peking! Think, Ming, how sad! There will be rosewood in other cities, and lovely ladies too, but all stability is of the past and a dream. I shall be an exile. Once, my dear Ming, men of talent made this city a corner of heaven. Men of my stamp were archers and musicians, horsemen and lords. Have you heard of Fu Hsi?”

“No.”

“In the time of the Six Dynasties. An ordinary man but a son of Han, a Chinese! He invented the revolving bookcase. I told this once to an American, and he laughed. Gunpowder, he said. You Chinese invented gunpowder, and that was more important. No, I said, no; the compass, perhaps, but not gunpowder. After gunpowder the archer faded.”

Ming listened respectfully. Sung Yun must be humored, and the Japanese could wait; the hospital was under close watch. Fu Hsi indeed! This old man was shrewd and elegant but also full of bowl. Ming smiled slightly. For years he had said “full of bowl” until an American had corrected him: “Bull! Bull!”

“Now then,” Sung Yun said. “Fill my cup, will you?” Ming rose and complied. “Enough culture. I think now we must act, and act boldly. You will take the car and find Liao. Yes.” Sung Yun chuckled, clapped hands, nodded happily as he continued. Liao would rule the rear seat and do the heavy work. Kanamori was not to be incapacitated. Speed was essential. Perhaps Ming should mask himself. A few of them would play the pedestrian and slow traffic—perhaps Huang the Tinker would maneuver his cart strategically. The moment must be perfectly chosen. Had Ming any questions?

Ming had no questions.

Sung Yun seemed pleased. He clutched the dogs to him and kissed them in turn. “We must discuss these canine friends. I cannot take them with me.”

“I shall care for them as my own,” Ming said. Dogs!

“I think not.” Sung Yun was sleek and cheerful now, almost merry. “You will destroy them painlessly.”

Limb from limb, Ming thought.

“I do not wish to think of them harried and starving in the new Peking,” Sung Yun went on, “or dropped alive into some savage's cooking pot. Well, there is yet time. But if we succeed, I shall leave soon. Kanamori! I wonder if he can stand torture.”

Ming inclined his head. “Not Liao's.”

“Go now,” Sung Yun said. “Do this quickly, and do it well. My house will be yours. Miss Mei and Miss Ai will be yours.”

Miss Mei and Miss Ai slept on as Ming departed. The house, and Miss Ai and Miss Mei! And perhaps something more, by golly! Sung Yun was mortal: his collection was immortal. Ming warmed to the excitement of this. A-number-one; all was A-number-one. He was pleased at the turn of events, and with himself. A sharp article. It was not merely that the house would be his, or even the women, or even the hoard, whatever it consisted of; after all, the house would have to be sold, and for a song, with the Red Bandits at the gates; treasures were severely discounted; a woman was only a woman, though in time of need he could pimp these two broads all the way to Taiwan.

No, Ming's pleasure was artistic. He had used his bean. He was hip.

23

In Hao-lan's room they embraced and clung. Nurse An padded in and out like some Oriental Cupid bearing not bow, quiver and arrows but a basin, a pitcher and a chamber pot. “Our love nest,” Hao-lan said. “Do you know Yeats? ‘Love has pitched his mansion in / The place of excrement.'”

Burnham said in lofty and offended tones, “You have no sense whatever of
occasion
. This is a time for champagne, flowers and fiddles, not urinalysis. God almighty, what have I done?”

“I imagine,” she said carefully, “that you have proposed to me.”

Nurse An stood in the doorway blessing them again, and then the door clicked shut. They were alone in a weak bath of amber light.

“Yes, I've proposed to you.”

She left him to sit morosely on her iron bed, which shrieked and jingled. “It's unfair. I'm exhausted. I can't think.”

“Then don't. This may be the one time you shouldn't. Impulse is a fresh horse; ride him.”

“Is it that easy?” The smile was wan and almost tearful. “Listen: I know you love me. It's obviously impossible. I could have been betrothed at three and married at sixteen, and here I sit at the mercy of a foreign devil without even a chaperon. Oh”—she laughed shakily—“we are so silly, you and I! Tell me one thing anyway: do you love
me
, or China? I'm not a pagoda, or a picturesque corner of Peking, or the Western Hills or a rice paddy or the classics or the world's best cuisine. I'm a doctor. I want to practice medicine. I used to play the piano. I'm cranky for three days before I menstruate. I hate tapioca and the kind of music they play in hotels. Someday I may get fat. When I have a cold my nose turns scarlet. I don't ever want to find myself alone because my impulsive man feels another impulse and chases off to Hong Kong to find his China again in some silken chippie.”

“All I ever wanted to be,” Burnham said, “is monogamous. The few times I really cared for a woman I was miserable in the company of all others. Why, I remember one squab of a girl with spots—”

“In the end I will strangle you,” she said thoughtfully. “If you can't maintain a decent romantic tone, then you shouldn't be proposing at all. And if you can't establish your monogamy without a long history of sentimental high points—”