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  Hong Kong: Where East meets West in a boom of skyscrapers and shanty towns, of luxury hotels and sleazy waterfront bars. Where anything can be had for a price, from a pretty girl to a shipment of raw heroin.

  When an American mob backed by Mafia money muscles in on the colony’s lucrative rackets, offering their own special brand of ‘protection’, they trespass on Crown’s patch.

  Big mistake.

  Chief Superintendent John Crown isn’t your usual policeman. Tough, bitter and ruthless, he believes that bullets speak louder than words. And he has a special dislike of trespassers.

  CROWN 1: THE SWEET AND SOUR KILL

  By Terry Harknett

  First Published by Futura Books in 1974

  Copyright © 1974, 2022 by Terry Harknett

  This electronic edition published July 2022

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  THE OLD MAN finished totalling the cash from the drawer beneath the counter and sighed deeply. The exercise had used up little time—how long does it take to count one-hundred-and-ninety-six Hong Kong Dollars, even if the largest bill is a five? Not so long as it takes to earn it: alternately sitting on a stool and shuffling forward to attend to the requirements of too few customers for a whole working day in a cramped and overheated tailor’s shop located in a narrow alley off Queen’s Road Central in Victoria City. Chang Tsong sighed again and replaced the money in the drawer, currency in one compartment and coins in another. Tomorrow might be better, he told himself. Tomorrow a cruise ship might arrive in the harbour filled with passengers unwilling to listen to the illegal touts: discerning people who would find their way to the best and most honest of the more than two thousand tailors in the Colony. Every night Chang told himself this after counting the day’s takings: in the full knowledge that his customers would inevitably be the same as they always were—Chinese with just the occasional European resident. With such a clientele, a man had little chance of becoming rich.

  But then, as he shuffled out from behind the counter on arthritic legs and moved along the narrow shop to the door, he smiled. It was an expression that sat well upon his ancient features, the loose skin crinkling at the corners of eyes and mouth in well-defined lines carved over many years. For the seventy-year-old Chinese was blessed with a natural good-humour and an incurable optimism that allowed him to smile when others might feel more like weeping.

  This smile, however, as he leaned his slight body out of the open doorway and peered through the murky twilight towards the bright splash of Queen’s Road at the end of the alley, was not simply a false facade to challenge adversity. It sprang from genuine joy as the old man anticipated the return of his grandson, Po. Soon, the giant jetliner would land at Kai Tak Airport and the boy would be back where he belonged.

  “There is much time yet, Tsong.”

  Chang turned away from the bright neon glare of the main street at the end of the alley and looked along the shop towards his wife. Sui Li was just a fragile silhouette against the dim electric light in the doorway behind her, but when a man has been married for fifty-two years he does not need to see his wife to refresh his memory about every plane and angle of her face and body. Sui Li matched her husband in age and temperament: and once their heights had been identical. But for many years pain had stooped her shoulders and bent her head so that her chin almost brushed her chest. She could walk only with the aid of two sticks but even this would not be for long. For although her near fleshless legs continued to retain their low degree of strength, the arthritis was spreading fast down her arms to attack the skeletal hands. And once she was unable to grip the sticks, she was destined to become a helpless invalid.

  Her face was as emaciated as her frail body, holding no trace of the beauty that had been hers as a young girl. Pain and hardship had drained her of such physical attributes. But, as Tsong shuffled towards her, he saw that her eyes were as bright as ever as they swivelled up to look at him from her enforced stooped, head-forward posture: and that the skin stretched taut over the prominent bone structure of her face was creased in the much used smile lines.

  “Not so much,” he replied. “After three months.”

  Sui Li nodded—an almost imperceptible movement of her grey-haired head. “You aren’t going to close the shop?”

  “Another hour,” he told her. “Perhaps a rich American…”

  “Or an even richer German,” his wife countered.

  Tsong shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “You know,” she said with a short laugh. “And I know. But you would not be who you are if you didn’t hope and I would be failing in my duty if I did not encourage you.”

  “Everything is ready for Po’s arrival?” he asked.

  “Only our grandson is missing,” she answered.

  “Then we will wait together,” Tsong told his wife, and took her arm to lead her behind the counter and helped her on to a lower stool than the one he used.

  They talked little as the empty minutes dragged by and full night swooped down over Hong Kong, entering into regular battle with the millions of coloured neon tubes and electric light bulbs spread thickly over the island city of Victoria and mainland Kowloon. Chang’s Tailor’s Store had its own neon sign above the doorway, regularly spilling blood-red light across the width of the alley and over the threshold into the front of the shop, the name alternately emblazoned in English and Cantonese. When, at seven o’clock, Chang closed and locked the door and switched off the sign, the alley became a shadowy and faintly ominous backwater and the shop with its shelves lined by bolt6 of cloth and racks of ready-made suits and dresses took on a somewhat sombre aspect.

  Then it was plunged into complete darkness as Chang switched off the pale yellow overhead lights and followed his slow-moving wife through the rear doorway into the living quarters. A shopkeeper who had a turnover of less than two hundred dollars on a good day could not afford the luxury of an establishment dripping with bright lights during the closed hours. And such an expensive indulgence was pointless in Black Dog Street which was out of the tourist area and therefore unlikely to be visited by night-time strollers. The only other shop on the street was a butcher’s catering exclusively to the local trade. The rest of the buildings were given over to cheap apartments and the offices of obscure trading companies and agencies. After dark the only strangers to step off Queen’s Road Central into Black Dog Street would be either drunks who had lost their way or adventurous clients of the many streetwalkers who rented several of the apartments flanking the narrow alley. Such people would not be inclined to be attracted by a bright window display or in a proper state of mind to think about returning the next day to make a purchase.

  The two Chinese in badly tailored western-style suits who climbed out of a green Volvo station wagon on Morrison Street and started to walk slowly back towards Queen’s Road were in a blank state of mind. They knew what they had to do and they would do it: there was nothing to think about.

  In the cramped living room behind the tiny shop, Chang regarded his wife’s handiwork and gave her a nod of approval. Somehow—he knew only that it must have caused her a great deal of pain—in the period since they shared their midday meal together, Sui Li had transformed the room from its usual clean but nonetheless Spartan drabness into a semblance of bright cheerfulness. The centrepiece was the table pushed against one wall, filled to near overflowing with numerous dishes of food resting on warmers. Above this was the coloured photograph of Po, his handsome face caught in a moment of severity beneath the jutting peak of the uniform cap. Strung out below the framed picture and above the heavily loaded table was a paper banner lettered in Chinese characters that proclaimed WELCOME HOME AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY PO. The other walls were decked out with brightly coloured bunting, beneath which the ancient but well cared for furniture gleamed with the sheen of recent polishing. Every shelf, the television set, bureau and the two low occasional tables were lined with framed pictures of Po, from the age of a few weeks to full manhood. And the whole scene
was lit by many strategically placed coloured candles which flickered and danced in stray draughts to give an impression of warmth in addition to their gentle light.

  To will be most impressed,” Chang said as he helped his wife to lower herself among the cushions on one of the two easy chairs in the room. “You should have allowed me to help.”

  The mixed aromas of the food reminded him how hungry he was.

  “It is woman’s work,” Sui Li replied.

  Chang waved a gnarled hand to indicate the paper decorations. “Even this?”

  She rested the sticks across the arms of the chair and leaned back, presenting her face to full view in the soft, warm light. She was smiling again. “A labour of love for a grandmother,” she said. “For a grandfather, too. I was selfish.”

  Chang shook his head. “For you, that is not possible.”

  Again, a comfortable silence settled upon the old couple. The wife content that one of the infrequent exciting moments of her life was approaching: the husband’s quiet enjoyment of anticipation marred only by the fact that he was very hungry and the food—such as they would take a whole week to eat under normal circumstances—must not be touched before Po arrived.

  The two Chinese men from the green Volvo—both in their late twenties, both tall in the northern China manner and both coldly deadpan—jay-walked across Queen’s Road Central and on the opposite pavement headed eastwards. It was the quiet time of the evening when the Colony seemed to be pausing for breath. The working day was over for most and nightlife had not yet begun. But the pavement was not entirely deserted, although the men treated it as if it were so: maintaining an unwavering line which forced others to angle clear of their path. It so happened they were in step so that, when they reached the corner of Black Dog Street, there was something vaguely military about the way they turned—a casual right wheel.

  There was no hesitancy; no searching for street numbers or shop signs. Like regular visitors on familiar ground they marched along the centre of the uneven, narrow street until they came to an abrupt halt beneath the darkened sign above the doorway of Chang’s shop.

  “He closes early,” the slightly thinner man said in English, his voice having a faint drawl that suggested his tutor had been American.

  The other man shrugged. The movement caused the lapels of his jacket to gape. The butt of the Snub Magnum in a shoulder holster looked black and evil against his very white shirt. “Now his overheads are going up, he’ll have to work longer hours.” He might have been taught by the same language teacher.

  He turned to put his back to the door and swung his leg. The heel of his black, patent-leather shoe crashed hard against the foot of the door.

  In the living room, Chang and his wife were jerked out of their private thoughts and their eyes locked. Each stare held a tacit question.

  “Would Po have lost his key?” Chang said.

  “It is too early,” his wife replied. “And he would not use his feet.”

  Again the heel of the caller’s shoe crashed into the bottom of the door: even more forcefully this time so that the long pane of translucent glass bearing the name of the establishment in gold-leaf lettering rattled ominously in the beading. Fear leapt into the eyes of the old couple as Chang struggled to his feet. Sui Li pushed her sticks against the floor, but Chang shook his head and thrust out his palm to tell her to remain where she was.

  “Come on, we know you’re in there!”

  The harshly spoken English, heavy with a threat, urged Chang into unaccustomed and painful haste. But his aching joints refused to respond quickly enough to the dictates of his frightened mind. He had reached the door to the shop and was opening it when the patience of his callers was exhausted. The man with the potbelly of over-indulgence jabbed backwards with the point of his elbow then leaned forward as shards of shattered glass exploded under the blow. He whirled, pushed his hand through the large hole, released the catch of the Yale lock and followed the inward swing of the opening door. His partner was immediately behind him, hand resting easily in the vee of his jacket lapels. They halted, side-by-side, and blinked in the sudden brightness from the overhead lights which the shocked Chang had switched on. The old man felt himself rooted to the spot by fear, unable to advance against the intruders: helpless even to beckon Sui Li back into her chair as he heard the thud of her sticks and shuffling of her slippers.

  “You’re the owner?” This from the one with the big belly.

  “We know he’s the owner, Ma,” the thin one said.

  “We gotta be sure, Wang.” He grinned cruelly. “All these damn southern Chinks look alike to me.”

  “What do you want here?” Chang managed to force around the lump in his throat, speaking Cantonese. “Why you break in?”

  Sui Li reached the doorway and peered around the thin frame of her husband.

  “That must be his wife,” Wang said.

  “Trying the sympathy bit,” Ma replied. “It ain’t gonna work. We all got our problems.”

  Both the Chang’s knew English. Every Chinese in any kind of business in Hong Kong had to be at least bi-lingual.

  “Please, tell me what you want here?” the old man pleaded.

  Ma nodded. “Gonna be a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Chang. Appreciate a man who don’t wanna waste time. Me and my partner gotta lot of calls to make tonight. Nice if all our clients wanna hurry things along.”

  “Clients?” Chang said, puzzled. “I do not…”

  “Tell him, Wang.”

  Wang nodded. “Like we’re in the insurance business, Mr. Chang. Insurance and commission agency, really. You’re with another company now, but we think we can persuade you to change.”

  Sui Li emitted a low groan and her husband moved back a pace and put a supporting arm around her shoulder. The fear in his expression deepened as the unknown retreated before established fact.

  “I already pay,” the old man blurted out.

  Ma dropped his false grin and his expression and voice became a snarl. “Listen to my partner, you stupid old bastard! He said that we’re with a better company. One hundred dollars a week and we don’t only cover this crumby joint. Our men at Ocean Terminal at Kai Tak and on the streets add the name of your store to their sheets. You get advertising as well. It’s an investment. You’ll make a lot of money with new business.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Chang. Our service can’t be beat,”

  Chang shook his head emphatically. “I already pay. Can’t afford more.”

  “Not more, Mr. Chang,” Wang corrected, slipping into Cantonese. “You pay us instead of the others. The premiums you pay us will cover protection from the others.”

  “Please, we are poor people,” Sui Li implored. “My husband pay other men only yesterday. We have nothing to pay. All our money spent on homecoming and birthday celebration for grandson.”

  “Makes you wanna cry, don’t it, Wang?” Ma drawled. “Check the cash drawer.”

  “If I can,” Wang replied solemnly. “Hard to see anything, my eyes are so misted up.”

  A laugh burst from his lips.

  Chang released his wife and started forward, grimacing at the pain which the sudden movement triggered in his limbs. He reached the end of the counter a moment before Wang, and grasped its top corner gratefully. “Please, the money is to pay bills,” he said breathlessly. “We can spare nothing.”

  The humour drained from Wang’s features. His narrow eyes became like strips of ice and a soft whistling sound escaped his compressed lips. “Step aside, old man,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t want any personal injury before you were covered, uh?”

  “Tsong!” Sui Li exclaimed fearfully.

  Chang started to turn to look at his wife. Wang began to whistle again. He brought up his right leg. The kneecap smashed into Chang’s groin. The old man screamed for a part of a second, until his voice cracked. He was lifted bodily from the floor by the power of the blow and when he thudded down again the agony of his injury swamped his strength. His legs buckled and he crumpled. He stretched out full length, his back arching. Then he rolled on to his side, clutching at his injury and folding himself into the foetal position. The sound of his pain had become a croaked groaning.