"Good. What's your name?"

"Tan Shu Ta, lord."

"Liar! What's your friend's name?"

"Lim Ta-cheung, but he's not my friend, lord, I never met hnn before this morning."

"Liar! Who paid you to do this?"

"I don't know who paid him, lord. You see he swore he'd cut"

"Liar! Your mouth's so full of dung you must be the god of dung himself. What's in those packages?"

"I don't know. I swear on my ancestor's gr"

"Liar!" Armstrong said it automatically, knowing that the lies were inevitable.

"John Chinaman's not the same as us," his first police teacher, an old China hand, had told him. "Oh I don't mean cut on the cross or anything like that he's just different. He lies through his teeth all the time to a copper and when you nab a villain fair and square he'll still lie and be as slippery as a greased pole in a pile of shit. He's different. Take their names. All Chinese have four different names, one when he's born, one at puberty, one when he's an adult and one he chooses for himself, and they forget one or add another at the drop of a tither. And their names God stone the crows! Chinese call themselves lao-tsi-sing the Ancient One Hundred Names. They've only got a basic hundred surnames in all China and of those there're twenty Yus, eight Yens, ten Wus and God knows how many Pings, Lis, Lees, Chens, Chins, Chings, Wongs and Fus and each one of them you pronounce five different ways so God knows who's who!"

"Then it's going to be difficult to identify a suspect, sir?"

"Full marks, young Armstrong! Full marks, lad. You can have fifty Lis, fifty Changs and four hundred Wongs and not one related to the other. God stone the crows! That's the problem here in Hong Kong."

Armstrong sighed. After eighteen years Chinese names were still as confusing as ever. And on top of that everyone seemed to have a nickname by which they were generally known.

"What's your name?" he asked again and didn't bother to listen to the answer. "Liar! Sergeant! Unwrap one of those! Let's see what we've got."

Sergeant Lee eased aside the last covering. Inside was an Mid, an automatic rifle, U.S. Army. New and well greased.

"For this, you evil son of a whore's left tit," Armstrong grated, "you'll howl for fifty years!"

The man was staring at the gun stupidly, aghast. Then a low moan came from him. "Fornicate all gods I never knew they were guns."

"Ah, but you did know!" Armstrong said. "Sergeant, put this piece of dung in the wagon and book him for smuggling guns."

The man was dragged away roughly. One of the young Chinese policemen was unwrapping another package. It was small and square. "Hold it!" Armstrong ordered in English. The policeman and everyone in hearing distance froze. "One of them may be boobytrapped. Everyone get away from the jeep!" Sweating, the man did as he was ordered. "Sergeant, get our bomb disposal wallahs. There's no hurry now."

"Yes sir." Sergeant Lee hurried to the intercom in the police wagon.

Armstrong went under the airplane and peered into the main gear bay. He could see nothing untoward. Then he stood on one of the wheels. "Christ!" he gasped. Five snug racks were neatly bolted to each side of the inner bulkhead. One was almost empty, the others still full. From the size and shape of the packages he judged them to be more M14'sand boxes of ammo or grenades.

"Anything up there, sir?" Inspector Thomas asked. He was a young Englishman, three years in the force.

"Take a look! But don't touch anything."

"Christ! There's enough for a couple of riot squads!"

"Yes. But who?"

"Commies?"

"Or Nationalists or villains. These'd"

"What the hell's going on down there?"

Armstrong recognized Linc Bartlett's voice. His face closed and he jumped down, Thomas following him. He went to the foot of the gangway. "I'd like to know that too, Mr. Bartlett," he called up curtly.

Bartlett was standing at the main door of the airplane, Svensen beside him. Both men wore pajamas and robes and were sleep tousled.

"I'd like you to take a look at this." Armstrong pointed to the rifle that was now half hidden in the jeep.

At once Bartlett came down the gangway, Svensen following. "What?"

"Perhaps you'd be kind enough to wait in the airplane, Mr. Svensen."

Svensen started to reply, stopped. Then he glanced at Bartlett who nodded. "Fix some coffee, Sven, huh?"

"Sure, Linc."

"Now what's this all about, Superintendent?"

"That!" Annstrong pointed.

"That's an M14." Bartlett's eyes narrowed. "So?"

"So it seems your aircraft is bringing in guns."

"That's not possible."

"We've just caught two men unloading. There's one of the buggers" Armstrong stabbed a finger at the handcuffed mechanic waiting sullenly beside the jeep "and the other's in the wagon. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to look up in the main gear bay, sir."

"Sure. Where?"

"You'll have to stand on a wheel."

Bartlett did as he was told. Armstrong and Inspector Thomas watched exactly where he put his hands for fingerprint identifica tion. Bartlett stared blankly at the racks. "I'll be goddamned! If these're more of the same, it's a goddamn arsenal!"

"Yes. Please don't touch them."

Bartlett studied the racks, then climbed down, wide awake now. "This isn't a simple smuggling job. Those racks are custom made."

"Yes. You've no objection if the aircraft's searched?"

"No. Of course not."

"Go ahead, Inspector," Armstrong said at once. "And do it very carefully indeed. Now, Mr. Bartlett, perhaps you'd be kind enough to explain."

"I don't run guns, Superintendent. I don't believe my captain would or Bill O'Rourke. Or Svensen."

"What about Miss Tcholok?"

"Oh for chrissake!"

Armstrong said icily, "This is a very serious matter, Mr. Bartlett. Your aircraft is impounded and without police approval until further notice neither you nor any of your crew may leave the Colony pending our inquiries. Now, what about Miss Tcholok?"

"It's impossible, it's totally impossible that Casey is involved in any way with guns, gun smuggling or any kind of smuggling. Impossible." Bartlett was apologetic but quite unafraid. "Nor would any of the rest of us." His voice sharpened. "You were tipped off, weren't you?"

"How long did you stop at Honolulu?"

"An hour or two, just to refuel, I don't remember exactly." Bartlett thought for a moment. "Jannelli got off but he always does. Those racks couldn't've been loaded in an hour or so."

"Are you sure?"

"No, but I'd still bet it was done before we left the States. Though when and where and why and who I've no idea. Have you?"

"Not yet." Armstrong was watching him keenly. "Perhaps you'd like to go back to your office, Mr. Bartlett. We could take your statement there."

"Sure." Bartlett glanced at his watch. It was 5:43 A.M. "Let's do that now, then I can make a few calls. We're not wired into your system yet. There's a local phone there?" He pointed to the terminal.

"Yes. Of course we'd prefer to question Captain Jannelli and Mr. O'Rourke before you do if you don't mind. Where are they staying?"

"At the Victoria and Albert."

"Sergeant Lee!"

"Yes sir."

"Get on to HQ."

"Yes sir."

"We'd also like to talk to MissTcholok first. Again if you don't mind."

Bartlett walked up the steps, Armstrong beside him. At length he said, "All right. Provided you do that personally, and not before 7:45. She's been working overtime and she's got a heavy day today and I don't want her disturbed unnecessarily."

They went into the airplane. Sven was waiting by the galley, dressed now and very perturbed. Uniformed and plainclothes police were everywhere, searching diligently.

"Sven, how about that coffee?" Bartlett led the way through the anteroom into his offlce-study. The central door, aft, at the end of the corridor, was open. Armstrong could see part of the master suite with its king-size bed. Inspector Thomas was going through some drawers.

"Shit!" Bartlett muttered.

"Sorry," Armstrong said, "but this is necessary."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it, Superintendent. Never did like strangers peeking into my private life."

"Yes. I agree." The superintendent beckoned one of the plainclothes officers. "Sung!"

"Yes sir."

"Take this down will you please."

"Just a minute, let's save some time," Bartlett said. He turned to a bank of electronic gear and pressed two switches. A twin cassette tape deck clicked into operation. He plugged in a microphone and set it on the desk. "There'll be two tapes, one for you, one for me. After your man's typed it up ff you want a signature I'm here."

"Thank you."

"Okay, let's begin."

Armstrong was suddenly uneasy. "Would you please tell me what you know about the illegal cargo found in the main gear bay of your aircraft, Mr. Bartlett."

Bartlett repeated his denial of any knowledge. "I don't believe any of my crew or any of my people are involved in any way. None of them has ever been involved with the law as far as I know. And I would know."

"How long has Captain Jannelli been with you?"

"Four years. O'Rourke two. Svensensince I got the airplane in '58."

"And Miss Tcholok?"

After a pause Bartlett said, "Six almost seven years."

"She's a senior executive in your company?"

"Yes. Very senior."

"That's unusual, isn't it, Mr. Bartlett?"

"Yes. But that has nothing to do with this problem."

"You're the owner of this aircraft?"

"My company is. Par-Con Industries Incorporated."

"Do you have any enemies anyone who'd want to embarrass you seriously?"

Bartlett laughed. "Does a dog have fleas? You don't get to head a half-billion-dollar company by making friendships."

"No enemy in particular?"

"You tell me. Running guns is a special operation this has to have been done by a professional."

"Who knew about your flight plan to Hong Kong?"

"The visit's been scheduled for a couple of months. My board knew. And my planning staff." Bartlett frowned. "It was no real secret. No reason to be." Then he added, "Of course Struan's knew exactly. For at least two weeks. In fact we confirmed the date on the 12th by telex, exact ETD and ETA. I wanted it sooner but Dunross said Monday the 19th'd suit him better, which is today. Maybe you should ask him."

"I will, Mr. Bartlett. Thank you, sir. That will do for the moment."

"I'm got some questions, Superintendent, if you don't mind. What's the penalty for smuggling guns?"

"Ten years without parole."