Dunross looked around. The bar was still almost empty. It was a small, pleasing, comfortable room with dark-green leather chairs and old polished oak tables, the walls lined with Quance paintings. They were all prints. Many of the originals were in the long gallery in the Great House, most of the remainder in the corridors of the Victoria and Blacs banks. A few were privately owned elsewhere. He leaned back in the alcove, at ease, glad to be surrounded by so much of his own past, feeling protected by it. Just above his head was a portrait of a Haklo boat-girl with a fair-haired boy in her arms, his hair in a queue. Quance was supposed to have painted this as a birthday present for Dirk Struan from the girl in the picture, May-may T'chung, the child in her arms supposed to be their son, Duncan.

His eyes went across the room to the portraits of Dirk and his half-brother Robb beside another painting of the American trader Jeff Cooper, and landscapes of the Peak and the praya in 1841. I wonder what Dirk would say if he could see his creation now. Thriving, building, reclaiming, still the center of the world, the Asian world which is the only world.

"Another, tai-pan?"

"No thanks, Feng," he said to the Chinese barman. "Just a Perrier, please."

A phone was nearby. He dialed.

"Police headquarters," the woman's voice said.

"Superintendent Kwok please."

"Just a moment, sir."

- As Dunross waited he tried to decide about Jacques. Impossible, he thought achingly, not without help. Sending him to France to pick up Susanne and Avrilisolates him for a week or so. Perhaps I'll talk to Sinders, perhaps they already know. Christ almighty, if AMG hadn't put the R down I'd've gone directly to Crosse. Is it possible that he could be Arthur Remember Philby of the Foreign Office, he told himself, revolted that an Englishman of that background and in such a high position of trust could be a traitor. And the other two equally, Burgess and Maclean. And Blake. How far to believe AMG? Poor bugger. How far to trust Jamie Kirk?

"Who's calling Superintendent Kwok please?" a man's voice asked on the phone.

"Mr. Dunross of Struan's."

"Just a moment please." A short wait then a man's voice that he recognized at once. "Evening, tai-pan. Robert Armstronga sorry but Brian's not available. Was it anything important?"

"No. We just had a date for a drink now and he's late."

"Oh, he never mentioned it he's usually spot on about something like that. When did you make the date?"

"This morning. He called to tell me about John Chen. Anything new on those bastards?"

"No. Sorry. Brian had to go out of town a quick trip, you know how it is."

"Oh of course. If you talk to him tell him I'll see him Sunday at the hill climb, if not before."

"Do you still intend to go to Taiwan?"

"Yes. With Bartlett. Sunday, back Tuesday. I hear we can use his plane."

"Yes. Please make sure he comes back on Tuesday."

"If not before."

"Nothing I can do for you?"

"No thank you, Robert."

"Tai-pan, we've, we've had another rather disturbing encounter, here in Hong Kong. Not to worry you but take it easy until tomorrow with Sinders, eh?"

"Of course. Brian said the same. And Roger. Thanks, Robert. Night." Dunross hung up. He had forgotten that he had an SI bodyguard following him. The fellow must be better than the others.

I didn't notice him at all. Now what to do about him? He's certainly unwelcome with Four Fingers.

"I'll be back in a moment," he said.

"Yes, tai-pan," the barman said.

Dunross went out and strolled to the men's room, watching without watching. No one followed him. When he had finished he went into the noisy crowded mezzanine, across and down the main staircase to the newsstand in the foyer to buy an evening paper. There were crowds everywhere. Coming back, he zeroed in on a slight, bespectacled Chinese who was watching him over a magazine from a chair in the foyer. Dunross hesitated, went back to the foyer and saw the eyes following him. Satisfied, he went back up the crowded stairs. "Oh hello, Marlowe," he said, almost bumping into him.

"Oh hello, tai-pan."

At once Dunross saw the great weariness in the other man's face. "What's up?" he asked, instantly sensing trouble, stepping out of the way of the crowds.

"Oh nothinga nothing at all."

"Something's up." Dunross smiled gently.

Peter Marlowe hesitated. "It's, it's Fleur." He told him about her.

Dunross was greatly concerned. "Old Tooley's a good doctor so that's one thing." He related to Marlowe how Tooley had filled him, Bartlett and Casey full of antibiotics. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Just a touch of the runs. Nothing to worry about for a month or so." Peter Marlowe told him what Tooley had said about hepatitis. "That doesn't worry me, it's Fleur and the baby, that's the worry."

"Do you have an amah?"

"Oh yes. And the hotel's marvelous, the room boys are all pitching in."

"Have you time for a drink?"

"No, no thanks, I'd better be getting back. The amah's nota there's no room for her so she's just baby-sitting. I've got to drop by the nursing home on the way back, just to check."

"Oh, then another time. Please give your wife my regards. How's the research going?"

"Fine, thank you."

"How many more of our skeletons have you wheedled out of our Hong Kong Jan?"

"Lots. But they're all good." Peter Marlowe smiled faintly. "Dirk Struan was one helluva man. Everyone says you are too and they all hope you'll best Gornt, that you'll win again."

Dunross looked at him, liking him. "Do you mind questions about Changi?" He saw the shadow pass across the rugged used face that was young-old.

"That depends."

"Robin Grey said you were a black marketeer in the camp. With an American. A corporal."

There was a long pause and Peter Marlowe's face did not change. "I was a trader, Mr. Dunross, or actually, an interpreter for my friend who was a trader. He was an American corporal. He saved my life and the life of my friends. There were four of us, a major, a group captain, a rubber planter and me. He saved dozens of others too. His name was King and he was a king, King of Changi in a way." Again the faint smile. "Trading was against Japanese law and camp law."

"You said Japanese, not Jap. That's interesting," Dunross said at once. "After all those horrors at Changi, you don't detest them?"

After a pause Peter Marlowe shook his head. "I don't detest anyone. Even Grey. It takes all of my mind and energy to appreciate that I'm alive. Night!" He turned to go.

"Oh, Marlowe, one last thing," Dunross said quickly, making a decision. "Would you like to go to the races Saturday? My box? There'll be a few interesting peoplea if you're researching Hong Kong you might as well do it in style, eh?"

"Thank you. Thank you very much but Donald McBride's invited me. I'd like to stop by for a drink though, if I may. Any luck on the book?"

"Sorry?"

"The book on the history of Struan's, the one you're going to let me read."

"Oh yes, of course. I'm having it retyped," Dunross said. "It seems there's only one copy. If you'll bear with me?"

"Of course. Thanks."

"Give my best to Fleur." Dunross watched him go, glad that Marlowe understood the difference between trading and black mar- keteering. His eyes fell on the Chinese SI man who still watched him over the magazine. He walked slowly back to the bar as though lost in thought. When he was safe inside he said quickly, "Fen", there's a bloody newsman downstairs I don't want to see."

At once the barman opened the countertop. "It's a pleasure, tai-pan," he said, smiling, not believing the excuse at all. His customers frequently used the servants' exit behind the bar. As women were not allowed inside the bar, it was usual that it was a woman who was to be avoided outside. Now what whore would the tai-pan want to avoid? he asked himself, bemused, watching him leave a generous tip and hurry away through the exit.

Once on the street in the side alley Dunross walked quickly around the corner and got a taxi, hunching down into the back.

"Aberdeen," he ordered and gave directions in Cantonese.

"Ayeeyah, like an arrow, tai-pan," the driver said at once, brightening as he recognized him. "May I ask what are the chances for Saturday? Rain or no rain?"

"No rain, by all the gods."

"Eeeee, and the winner of the fifth?"

"The gods haven't whispered it to me, nor the foul High Tigers who bribe jockeys or drug horses to cheat honest people out of an honest gamble. But Noble Star will be trying."

"All the fornicators'll be trying," the driver said sourly, "but who's the one chosen by the gods and by the High Tiger of Happy Valley Racetrack? What about Pilot Fish?"

"The stallion's good."

"Butterscotch Lass? Banker Kwang needs a change of luck."

"Yes. The Lass's good too."

"Will the market go down more, tai-pan?"

"Yes, but buy Noble House at a quarter to three on Friday."

"At what price?"

"Use your head, Venerable Brother. Am I Old Blind Tung?"

Orlanda and Linc Bartlett were dancing very close in the semidarkness of the nightclub, feeling the length of each other. The music was soft and sensual, the beat good, the band Filipino, and the great mirrored luxurious room was deftly pool lit, with private alcoves and low deep chaises around low tables and tuxedoed waiters with pencil flashlights like so many fireflies. Many girls in colorful evening dresses sat together chatting or watching the few dancers. From time to time singly or in pairs they would join a man or men at the tables to ply them with laughter and conversation and drinks and, after a quarter of an hour or so, move on, their movements delicately orchestrated by the ever-watchful mama-san and her helpers. The mama-san here was a lithe attractive Shanghainese woman in her fifties, well dressed and discreet. She spoke six languages and was responsible to the owner for the girls. On her depended the success or failure of the business. The girls obeyed her totally. So did the bouncers and waiters. She was the nucleus, the queen of her domain, and as such, fawned upon.

It was rare for a man to bring a date though it was not resented providing the tip was generous and the drinks continuous. Dozens of these pleasure places of the night were spread about the Colony, a few private, most open, catering to men tourists, visitors or Hong Kong Can. All were well stocked with dancing partners of all races. You paid them to sit with you, to chat or to laugh or to listen. Prices varied, quality varied with your choice of place, the purpose always the same. Pleasure for the guest. Money for the house.

Linc Bartlett and Orlanda were closer now, swaying more than dancing, her head soft against his chest. One of her hands was gently on his shoulder, the other held by his, cool to his touch. He had one arm almost around her, his hand resting on her waist. She felt his warmth deep in her loins and almost absently, her fingers caressed the nape of his neck and she eased a little closer, drawn by the music. Her feet followed his perfectly, so did her body. In a moment she felt his stirring and then his length.

How do I deal with him tonight? she asked herself dreamily, loving the night and how perfect it had been. Do I or don't I? Oh how I wanta Her body seemed to be moving of its own volition, now even closer, her back slightly arched, loins forward. A wave of heat swept her.

Too much heat, she thought. With an effort she pulled herself back.

Bartlett sensed her leaving him. His hand stayed on her waist and he held her against him, feeling nothing but her body under his hand, no undergarment. So rare. Just flesh under the gossamer chiffona and more warmth than flesh. Jesus!

"Let's sit for a moment," she said throatily.

"When the dance ends," he muttered.

"No, no, Linc, my legs feel weak." With an effort she put both hands around his neck and leaned back a little, keeping herself against him but letting him take some of her weight. Her smile was vast. "I may fall. You wouldn't want me to fall, would you?"

"You can't fall," he said, smiling back. "No way."

"Pleasea"

"You wouldn't want me to fall would you?"

She laughed and her laugh thrilled him. Jesus, he thought, slow down, she's got you going.

For a moment they danced, but apart, and that cooled him a little. Then he turned her and followed her close and they sat down at their table, lounging on their sofa, still aware of their closeness. Their legs touched.

"The same, sir?" the dinnerjacketed waiter asked.

"Not for me, Linc," she said, wanting to curse the waiter for his ineptness, their drinks not yet finished.

"Another creme de menthe?" Bartlett said.

"Not for me, truly, thanks. But you have one."

The waiter vanished. Bartlett would have preferred a beer but he didn't want that smell on his breath and, even more, he did not want to spoil the most perfect meal he had ever had. The pasta had been wonderful, the veal tender and juicy with a lemon and wine sauce that was mouth tingling, the salad perfect. Then zabaglione, mixed in front of him, eggs and Marsala and magic. And always her radiance, the touch of her perfume.

"This is the best evening I've had in years."

She raised her glass with mock solemnity. "Here's to many more," she said. Yes, here's to many many more but after we're married, or at least engaged. You're too heady, Linc Bartlett, too tuned in to my psyche, too strong. "I'm glad you've enjoyed it. SO have I. Oh yes, so have I!" She saw his eyes slide off her as a hostess brushed by, her gown low cut. The girl was lovely, barely twenty, and she joined a group of boisterous Japanese businessmen with many girls at a corner table. At once another girl got up and excused herself and went away. Orlanda watched him watching them, her mind now crystal clear.

"Are they all for hire?" he asked involuntarily.

"For pillowing?"

His heart missed a beat and he glanced back at her, all attention. "Yes, I suppose that's what I meant," he said cautiously.

"The answer's no, and yes." She kept her smile gentle, her voice soft. "That's like most things in Asia, Linc. Nothing's ever really no or yes. It's always maybe. It depends on the availability of a hostess. It depends on the man, the money and the amount she's in debt." Her smile was mischievous. "Perhaps I shall just point you in the right direction but then you'd be up to no good because you fascinate all pretty ladies, big strong man like you heya?"

"Come on, Orlanda!" he said with a laugh as she aped a coolie accent.

"I saw you notice her. I don't blame you, she's lovely," she said, envying the girl her youth but not her life.

"What did you mean about debts?"