Noble House by James Clavell
The safe was behind the brass bedstead. He pulled it away from the wall, opened the safe and took out all of John’s papers, then his very private deeds, letters and promissory notes which he stuffed into his coat pocket and went downstairs again.
“Here are John’s letters,” he said. “I thought I’d save you the trouble of moving the bed.”
She noticed the bulge in his coat pocket but said nothing.
“I’ll be back by 5:30 P.M. sharp.”
“Good. Drive carefully,” she said absently, her whole being concentrated on a single problem—how to get the coin for Kevin and herself. Secretly.
The phone rang. Phillip Chen stopped at the front door as she picked it up. “Weyyyy?” Her eyes glazed. “Oh hello, tai-pan, how’re you today?” Phillip Chen blanched.
“Just fine thank you,” Dunross said. “Is Phillip there?”
“Yes, yes just a minute.” She could hear many voices behind Dunross’s voice and she thought she heard an undercurrent of covered urgency which increased her dread. “Phillip, it’s for you,” she said, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice. “The tai-pan!” She held up the phone, motioning him silently to keep the earpiece a little away from his ear so she could hear too. “Yes, tai-pan?”
“Hello, Phillip. What’re your plans this afternoon?”
“Nothing particular. I was just leaving to go to the bank, why?”
“Before you do that, drop by the exchange. The market’s gone mad. The run on the Ho-Pak’s Colony-wide now and the stock’s teetering even though Richard’s supporting it for all he’s worth. Any moment it’ll crash. The run’s spilling over to lots of other banks, I hear—the Ching Prosperity, even the Vic …” Phillip Chen and his wife glanced at each other, perturbed. “I heard the Vic’s got problems at Aberdeen and at Central. Everything’s down, all our blue chips: the V and A, Kowloon Investments, Hong Kong Power, Rothwell-Gornt, Asian Properties, H.K.L.F., Zong Securities, Solomon Textiles, us … everyone.”
“How many points are we off?”
“From this morning? Three points.”
Phillip Chen gasped and almost dropped the phone. “What?”
“Yes,” Dunross agreed pleasantly. “Someone’s started rumors about us. It’s all over the market that we’re in trouble, that we can’t pay Toda Shipping next week—nor the Orlin installment. I think now we’re being sold short.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
2:45 P.M.:
Gornt was sitting beside his stockbroker, Joseph Stern, in the exchange watching the big board delightedly. It was warm and very humid in the large room that was packed and noisy, phones ringing, sweating brokers, Chinese clerks and runners. Normally the exchange was calm and leisurely. Today it was not. Everyone was tense and concentrating. And uneasy. Many had their coats off.
Gornt’s own stock was off a point but that did not bother him a bit. Struan’s was down 3.50 now and Ho-Pak tottering. Time’s running out for Struan’s, he thought, everything’s primed, everything’s begun. Bartlett’s money had been put into his Swiss bank within the hour, no strings—just 2 million transferred from an unknown account into his. Seven phone calls began the rumors. Another call to Japan confirmed the accuracy of the Struan payment dates. Yes, he thought, the attack’s begun.
His attention went to the Ho-Pak listing on the board as some more sell offerings were written up by a broker. There were no immediate buyers.
Since he had secretly started selling Ho-Pak short on Monday just before the market closed at three o’clock—long before the run had started in earnest—he was millions ahead. On Monday the stock had sold at 28.60, and now, even with all the support Richard Kwang was giving it, it was down to 24.30—off more points than the stock had moved ever since the bank was formed eleven years ago.
4.30 times 500,000 makes 2,150,000, Gornt was thinking happily, all in honest-to-God HK currency if I wanted to buy back in right now which isn’t bad for forty-eight hours of labor. But I won’t buy back in yet, oh dear no. Not yet. I’m sure now that the stock will crash, if not today, tomorrow, Thursday. If not then, Friday—Monday at the latest, for no bank in the world can sustain such a run. Then, when the crash comes I’ll buy back in at a few cents on the dollar and make twenty times half a million.
“Sell 200,000,” he said, beginning to sell short openly now—the other shares hidden carefully among his secret nominees.
“Good God, Mr. Gornt,” his stockbroker gasped. “The Ho-Pak’ll have to put up almost 5 million to cover. That’ll rock the whole market.”
“Yes,” he said jovially.
“We’ll have a hell of a time borrowing the stock.”
“Then do it.”
Reluctantly his stockbroker began to leave but one of the phones rang. “Yes? Oh hello, Daytime Chang,” he said in passable Cantonese. “What can I do for you?”
“I hope you can save all my money, Honorable Middleman. What is Noble House selling for?”
“25.30.”
There was a screech of dismay. “Woe woe woe, there’s barely half a dog-bone hour of trading left, woe woe woe! Please sell! Please sell all Noble House companies at once, Noble House, Good Luck Properties and Golden Ferry, also … what’s Second Great Company selling at?”
“23.30.”
“Ayeeyah, one point off from this morning? All gods bear witness to foul joss! Sell. Please to sell everything at once!”
“But Daytime Chang, the market’s really quite sound an—”
“At once! Haven’t you heard the rumors? Noble House will crash! Eeeee, sell, waste not a minute! Hold a moment, my associate Fung-tat wants to talk to you too.”
“Yes, Third Toiletmaid Fung?”
“Just like Daytime Chang, Honorable Middleman! Sell! Before I’m lost! Sell and call us back with prices oh oh oh! Please hurry!”
He put the phone down. This was the fifth panic call he had had from old customers and he did not like it at all. Stupid to panic, he thought, checking his stock book. Between the two of them, Daytime Chang and Third Toiletmaid Fung had invested over 40,000 HK in various stocks. If he sold now they would be ahead, well ahead, but for the Struan losses today which would shave off most of their profit.
Joseph Stern was head of the firm of Stern and Jones that had been in Hong Kong for fifty years. They had become stockbrokers only since the war. Before that they were moneylenders, dealers in foreign exchange and ship’s chandlers. He was a small, dark-haired man, mostly bald, in his sixties, and many people thought he had Chinese blood in him a few generations back.
He walked to the front of the board and stopped beside the column that listed Golden Ferry. He wrote down the combined Chang and Fung holdings in the sell column. It was a minor offering.
“I’ll buy at 30 cents off listing,” a broker said.
“There’s no run on Golden Ferry,” he said sharply.
“No, but it’s a Struan company. Yes or no?”
“You know very well Golden Ferry’s profits are up this quarter.”
“Tough titty! Christ, isn’t it bloody hot? Don’t you think we could afford air-conditioning in the exchange? Is it yes or no, old chap?”
Joseph Stern thought a moment. He did not want to fuel the nervousness. Only yesterday Golden Ferry had soared a dollar because all the business world knew their annual meeting was next week, it had been a good year and it was rumored there was going to be a stock split. But he knew the first rule of all exchanges: yesterday has nothing to do with today. The client had said, Sell.
“20 cents off market?” he asked.
“30. Last offer. What the hell do you care, you still get paid. Is it 30 off?”
“All right.” Stern worked his way down the board, selling most of their stocks without trouble though each time he had to concede on price. With difficulty he borrowed the Ho-Pak stock. Now he stopped at the column listing the bank. There were many sell orders. Most of them were small figures. He wrote 200,000 at the bottom of the list in the sell column
“Is Quillan trying to wreck the Ho-Pak?” a broker asked.
“It’s already under siege. Do you want to buy the shares?”
“Not on your bloody life! Are you selling Struan short too?”
“No. No I’m not.”
“Christ, I don’t like this at all.”
“Keep calm, Harry,” someone else said. “The market’s come alive for once, that’s all that counts.”
“Great day, what?” another broker said to him. “Is the crash on? I’m totally liquid myself, sold out this morning. Is it going to be a crash?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shocking about Struan’s, isn’t it?”
“Do you believe all the rumors?”
“No, of course not, but one word to the wise is sufficient they say, what?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Struan’s off 3½ points in one day, old boy, a lot of people believe it,” another broker said. “I sold out my Struan’s this morning. Will Richard sustain the run?”
“That’s in the hands of…” Joseph Stern was going to say God but he knew that Richard Kwang’s future was in the hands of his depositors and that they had already decided. “Joss,” he said sadly.
“Yes. Thank God we get our commissions either way, feast or famine, jolly good, what?”
“Jolly good,” Stern echoed, privately loathing the smug, self-satisfied upper-class English accent of the exclusive British public schools, schools that, because he was Jewish, he had never been able to attend. He saw Forsythe put the phone down and look at the board. Once more he tapped his offering. Forsythe beckoned him. He walked through the throng, eyes watching him.
“Are you buying?” he asked.
“In due course, Joseph, old boy!” Forsythe added softly, “Between you and me, can’t you get Quillan off our backs? I’ve reason to believe he’s in cahoots with that berk Southerby.”
“Is that a public accusation?”
“Oh come on, it’s a private opinion, for chrissake! Haven’t you read Haply’s column? Tai-pans and a big bank spreading rumors? You know Richard’s sound. Richard’s as sound as … as the Rothschilds! You know Richard’s got over a billion in res—”
“I saw the crash of ’29, old chap. There were trillions in reserve then but even so everyone went broke. It’s a matter of cash, credit and liquidity. And confidence. You’ll buy our offering, yes or no?”
“Probably.”
“How long can you keep this up?”
Forsythe looked at him. “Forever. I’m just a stockbroker. I just follow orders. Buy or sell I make a quarter of one percent.”
“If the client pays.”
“He has to. We have his stock, eh? We have rules. But while I think of it, go to hell.”
Stern laughed. “I’m British, I’m going to heaven, didn’t you know.” Uneasily, he walked back to his desk. “I think he’ll buy before the market closes.”
It was a quarter to three. “Good,” Gornt said. “Now I wa—” He stopped. They both looked back as there was an undercurrent. Dunross was escorting Casey and Linc Bartlett to the desk of Alan Holdbrook—Struan’s in-house broker—on the other side of the hall.
“I thought he’d left for the day,” Gornt said with a sneer.
“The tai-pan never runs away from trouble. It’s not in his nature.” Stern watched them thoughtfully. “They look pretty friendly. Perhaps the rumors are all wrong and Ian’ll make the Par-Con deal and make the payments.”
“He can’t. That deal’s going to fall through,” Gornt said. “Bartlett’s no fool. Bartlett’d be mad to throw in with that tottering empire.”
“I didn’t even know until a few hours ago that Struan’s were indebted to the Orlin Bank. Or that the Toda payments were due in a week or so. Or the even more nonsensical rumor that the Vic won’t support the Noble House. Lot of nonsense. I called Havergill and that’s what he said.”
“What else would he say?”
After a pause, Stern said, “Curious that all that news surfaced today.”
“Very. Sell 200,000 Struan’s.”
Stern’s eyes widened and he plucked at his bushy eyebrows. “Mr. Gornt, don’t you think th—”
“No. Please do as I ask.”
“I think you’re wrong this time. The tai-pan’s too clever. He’ll get all the support he needs. You’ll get burned.”
“Times change. People change. If Struan’s have extended themselves and can’t pay … Well, my dear fellow, this’s Hong Kong and I hope the buggers go to the wall. Make it 300,000.”
“Sell at what figure, Mr. Gornt?”
“At market.”
“It’ll take time to borrow the shares. I’ll have to sell in much smaller lots. I’ll hav—”
“Are you suggesting my credit’s not good enough or you can’t perform normal stockbroking functions?”
“No. No of course not,” Stern replied, not wanting to offend his biggest customer.
“Good, then sell Struan’s short. Now.”
Gornt watched him walk away. His heart was beating nicely.
Stern went to Sir Luis Basilio of the old stockbroking firm of Basilio and Sons, who had a great block of Struan’s personally, as well as many substantial clients with more. He borrowed the stock then walked to the board and wrote the huge offering in the sell column. The chalk scraped loudly. Gradually the room fell silent. Eyes switched to Dunross and Alan Holdbrook and the Americans, then to Gornt and back to Dunross again. Gornt saw Linc Bartlett and Casey watching him and he was glad she was there. Casey was wearing a yellow silk skirt and blouse, very Californian, a green scarf tying her golden hair back. Why is she so sexual, Gornt asked himself absently. A strange invitation seemed to surround her. Why? Is it because no man yet has ever satisfied her?
He smiled at her, nodding slightly. She half-smiled back and he thought he noticed a shadow there. His greeting to Bartlett was polite and returned equally politely. His eyes held Dunross and the two men stared at each other.
The silence mounted. Someone coughed nervously. Everyone was conscious of the immensity of the offering and the implications of it.
Stern tapped his offering again. Holdbrook leaned forward and consulted with Dunross who half shrugged and shook his head, then began talking quietly to Bartlett and Casey.
Joseph Stern waited. Then someone offered to buy a portion and they haggled back and forth. Soon 50,000 shares had changed hands and the new market price was 24.90. He changed the 300,000 to 250,000 and again waited. He sold a few more but the bulk remained. Then, as there were no takers, he came back to his seat. He was sweating.
“If that number stays there overnight it’ll do Struan’s no good at all.”
“Yes.” Gornt still watched Casey. She was listening intently to Dunross. He sat back and thought a moment. “Sell another 100,000 Ho-Pak—and 200,000 Struan’s.”
“Good God, Mr. Gornt, if Struan’s gets brought down the whole market’ll totter, even your own company’ll lose.”
“There’ll be an adjustment, lots of adjustments, certainly.”
“There’ll be a bloodbath. If Struan’s go, so will other companies, thousands of investors’ll be wiped out an—”
“I really don’t need a lecture on Hong Kong economics, Mr. Stern,” Gornt said coldly. “If you don’t want to follow instructions I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
Stern flushed. “I’ll … I’ll have to round up the shares first. That number … to get that sum …”
“Then I suggest you hurry up! I want that on the board today!” Gornt watched him go, enjoying the moment immensely. Cocky bastard, he was thinking. Stockbrokers are just parasites, every one of them. He felt quite safe. Bartlett’s money was in his account. He could buy back Ho-Pak and Struan’s even now and be millions ahead. Contentedly his eyes strayed back to
Joseph Stern was weaving through the brokers. Again he stopped at the Basilio desk. Sir Luis Basilio looked away from the board and smiled up at him. “So, Joseph? You want to borrow more Noble House shares?”
“Yes, please.”
“For Quillan?” Sir Luis asked. He was a fine old man, small, elegant, very thin, and in his seventies—this year’s chairman of the committee that ran the exchange.
“Yes.”
“Come, sit down, let’s talk a moment, old friend. How many do you want now?”
“200,000.”
Sir Luis frowned. “300,000 on the board—another 2? Is this an all-out attack?”
“He … he didn’t say that but I think it is.”
“It’s a great pity those two can’t make peace with one another.”
“Yes.”
The older man thought a moment, then said even more quietly, “I’m considering suspending dealing in Ho-Pak shares, and, since lunch, Noble House shares. I’m very worried. At this precise moment a Ho-Pak crash, coupled with a Noble House crash, could wreck the whole market. Madonna, it’s unthinkable for the Noble House to crash, it would pull down hundreds of us, perhaps all Hong Kong, unthinkable!”
“Perhaps the Noble House needs overhauling. Can I borrow 200,000 shares?”
“First answer me this, yes or no, and if yes when: Should we suspend the Ho-Pak? Should we suspend Struan’s? I’ve polled all the other members of the committee except you. They’re divided almost equally.”
“Neither have ever been suspended. It would be bad to suspend either. This’s a free society—in its best sense, I think. You should let it work itself out, let them sort themselves out, the Struans, and the Gornts and all the rest, let the best get to the top and the worst…” Stern shook his head wearily. “Ah but it’s easy for me to say that, Luis, I’m not a big investor in either.”