The little dog dreamt peacefully on. There was no more yelping. In its sleep it wagged a lively tail. Cheung grunted, his dark enjoyment frustrated.

“This Carp’s Eye seems like a good anti-opium pill,” Tak-Wing said. “I should take them myself.”

“Curse your dead mother,” Cheung hissed. “Find me something else, son.”

But then the little dog twitched again. Released a long and troubled whine. It arched its back unnaturally, then began to shake. It vibrated uncontrollably, more machine than animal. The whining grew intense, and unbearably pitiful. A bolus of white foam oozed past its black lips. It whimpered.

Cheung stared, fascinated.

The little dog released a last thin wail, then shuddered. Finally, it went still.

Tak-Wing touched its neck. “Dead,” he said. “Quick, easy, and almost painless.”

The old steward got hold of his former, human self. “This is devilish business.”

“Did you imagine it to be otherwise?” said Tak-Wing.

He took one box of pills, which he figured would be enough to dispatch Emily and Raymond, the monster’s child. The rest he left for Cheung to do his work.

“To the victors!” Cheung shouted. He placed on the counter the largest punch bowl in the club, filled to the brim with syllabub, or his own variation of it: Horace’s rum, good Portuguese Madeira, fresh Dairy Farm cream, lemon juice, ground carp’s eyes, and a splash of Russian vodka for good measure. He grated nutmeg generously over the top.

The Kempeitai were still in a good mood that day because of some success in the torture chamber or on the streets, Cheung didn’t know and didn’t ask. When they looked in Cheung’s eyes they saw a fool and a chump. They felt the power of their supremacy. It would not be long now before Emperor Hirohito drove the white man and his Chinese lackeys from Asia forever. They sipped the syllabub. One glass. Then another. “It’s really delicious tonight, Old Cheung!” The concoction seemed to give them real pleasure. “Ha ha, what secret ingredient did you add? Vodka? Oh, the nectar of the White Russians, hey? Or no—the Communists!” They chatted and laughed and patted each other, and Cheung too, on the back. The punch was really good. Each of them took a third glass, then a fourth. “Very good, very good, when the war is over we’ll buy you your own bar, and this can be your signature drink! What will you call it? You should change the name to make it yours, but something related to the original.” Their faces contorted with thought. They giggled and muttered. “Syllable? Syllabus? Sybillant? Silly babble? Sober sybil? Sybil bubble? Cello blubber? Babble blooper? Bible looper? Sub slubba blub blub blub blub blu—blue—” Their faces grew gentle.