Sandingham went up to them.
‘Excuse me, Mr Heng. May I see you for a moment, please?’
‘Good evening, Mr Sandingham. I trust you have had a good day?’ Somehow he made the pleasantry sound genuine.
‘I have your rent. Rather’ – Sandingham saw the irony of the distinction – ‘I have my rent.’
They went to the hotel desk and Sandingham took the money out of his pocket – he’d transferred it there from his shoe – and received a receipt for the full amount. He sensed Heng was curious.
‘Gambling,’ he lied. ‘Wonderful people, the Chinese’ – he spoke as if to a European – ‘will gamble on anything. I won this on a cricket fight.’
‘Really? Where?’ Heng knew Sandingham was lying, but played along. He spoke as a European, too.
‘North Point,’ Sandingham said, ‘or beyond. Near the tram terminus in Shau Kei Wan.’
‘Sai Wan Ho,’ said the manager. ‘They do a lot of that there.’
He had not been through that part of Hong Kong Island in twelve months, but it was better to humour his guest. At least he now had the rent securely in the cash-box and would feel neither the wrath of the owners nor the acute embarrassment of having to evict Sandingham.
It was not a long walk to Ah Moy’s hideaway in Mong Kok. On the way Sandingham stopped at a kerbside food stall to eat a bowl of fried rice with cubes of diced fish, peas and cabbage in it. It was inexpensive and nourishing and, laced with soya sauce, was tasty. He ate with the gusto of a Chinese, holding the rice bowl in his left hand and scooping the rice and watery gravy into his mouth with split bamboo chopsticks. A few passers-by noticed and gave him a second fleeting look, but most ignored him.
He was careful in his approach to Nam Tau Street. He leaned on the wall at the corner with Canton Road for over five minutes pretending to read from a street library. Such places, well patronised by people who could not afford to purchase books, always drew a crowd. On the windowless end wall of a building hung an array of Chinese paperback books and comics and, for a very small fee – five cents, perhaps – one could read a book for a set length of time. Every now and then the ‘librarian’ collected the fees. Even this late at night there was a throng of readers who provided Sandingham with the camouflage he needed.
Satisfied that he was not being watched, he walked slowly along the pavement, keeping close to the shop fronts and, at an appropriate moment, ducked into a doorway. A corridor ran down to a staircase.
At the head of the stairs was a door. He knocked on it seven times. In Cantonese, a voice asked for his name. He answered ‘gweilo’, a derogatory word for Europeans but the nickname by which he was known. He wasn’t overly concerned by the rudeness of this password. He was the only European who visited here. Such a precaution was necessary.
Four bolts slid back and the door opened several inches on a chain. Reassured that the visitor was alone, the door-keeper removed the slider on the links, opening up so that Sandingham could quickly enter. As soon as he was in, the door was promptly slammed, chained and re-bolted.
In front of Sandingham stood a diminutive Chinese woman dressed in baggy black trousers and a white smock top. She looked like a child’s amah in a well-to-do civil servant’s house on The Peak.
She remained silent but held out her hand. Sandingham gave her Leung’s piece of paper and thirty dollars. Still without speaking she led him into a room about twelve feet square. Along two walls, up to the ceiling, were rows of bunks without mattresses, eight in all. They were lined with base-boards, and each had a hessian pillow on it.
He lay on a bottom bunk noticing, as he did so, that three of the other bunks were occupied. The room was dark and he could see a glow at the edge of a top bunk.
The woman returned and gave Sandingham a small brass pipe, a little porcelain oil lamp with a tiny, smoky flame
‘Excuse me, Mr Heng. May I see you for a moment, please?’
‘Good evening, Mr Sandingham. I trust you have had a good day?’ Somehow he made the pleasantry sound genuine.
‘I have your rent. Rather’ – Sandingham saw the irony of the distinction – ‘I have my rent.’
They went to the hotel desk and Sandingham took the money out of his pocket – he’d transferred it there from his shoe – and received a receipt for the full amount. He sensed Heng was curious.
‘Gambling,’ he lied. ‘Wonderful people, the Chinese’ – he spoke as if to a European – ‘will gamble on anything. I won this on a cricket fight.’
‘Really? Where?’ Heng knew Sandingham was lying, but played along. He spoke as a European, too.
‘North Point,’ Sandingham said, ‘or beyond. Near the tram terminus in Shau Kei Wan.’
‘Sai Wan Ho,’ said the manager. ‘They do a lot of that there.’
He had not been through that part of Hong Kong Island in twelve months, but it was better to humour his guest. At least he now had the rent securely in the cash-box and would feel neither the wrath of the owners nor the acute embarrassment of having to evict Sandingham.
It was not a long walk to Ah Moy’s hideaway in Mong Kok. On the way Sandingham stopped at a kerbside food stall to eat a bowl of fried rice with cubes of diced fish, peas and cabbage in it. It was inexpensive and nourishing and, laced with soya sauce, was tasty. He ate with the gusto of a Chinese, holding the rice bowl in his left hand and scooping the rice and watery gravy into his mouth with split bamboo chopsticks. A few passers-by noticed and gave him a second fleeting look, but most ignored him.
He was careful in his approach to Nam Tau Street. He leaned on the wall at the corner with Canton Road for over five minutes pretending to read from a street library. Such places, well patronised by people who could not afford to purchase books, always drew a crowd. On the windowless end wall of a building hung an array of Chinese paperback books and comics and, for a very small fee – five cents, perhaps – one could read a book for a set length of time. Every now and then the ‘librarian’ collected the fees. Even this late at night there was a throng of readers who provided Sandingham with the camouflage he needed.
Satisfied that he was not being watched, he walked slowly along the pavement, keeping close to the shop fronts and, at an appropriate moment, ducked into a doorway. A corridor ran down to a staircase.
At the head of the stairs was a door. He knocked on it seven times. In Cantonese, a voice asked for his name. He answered ‘gweilo’, a derogatory word for Europeans but the nickname by which he was known. He wasn’t overly concerned by the rudeness of this password. He was the only European who visited here. Such a precaution was necessary.
Four bolts slid back and the door opened several inches on a chain. Reassured that the visitor was alone, the door-keeper removed the slider on the links, opening up so that Sandingham could quickly enter. As soon as he was in, the door was promptly slammed, chained and re-bolted.
In front of Sandingham stood a diminutive Chinese woman dressed in baggy black trousers and a white smock top. She looked like a child’s amah in a well-to-do civil servant’s house on The Peak.
She remained silent but held out her hand. Sandingham gave her Leung’s piece of paper and thirty dollars. Still without speaking she led him into a room about twelve feet square. Along two walls, up to the ceiling, were rows of bunks without mattresses, eight in all. They were lined with base-boards, and each had a hessian pillow on it.
He lay on a bottom bunk noticing, as he did so, that three of the other bunks were occupied. The room was dark and he could see a glow at the edge of a top bunk.
The woman returned and gave Sandingham a small brass pipe, a little porcelain oil lamp with a tiny, smoky flame
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