Authors: M J Lee
Death In Shanghai (13 page)
‘Yes, sir.’
Danilov looked down at the body once more. A strand of blonde hair hung down over her forehead, framing one of the cornflower-blue eyes. A pretty woman, he thought, vivacious.
‘Who took your life?’ he asked out loud to the corpse.
A sudden breeze whistled through the trees, blowing Danilov’s hat off his head and past the bench with its cold body. The hat rolled on, pushed by the breeze, across the lawn towards the bandstand.
Danilov stood there and watched it go.
‘How was your day?’
‘Just the same. Busy. Bureaucratic. Corrupt. Nothing new. Did you see Elsie?’
Richard put down his drink. He stared up at the carvings of laurel leaves, acorns and cherubs that adorned the ceiling of the Shanghai Club and decided to come straight out with it. ‘She’s gone away with another man.’
‘Impossible. I don’t believe it. She couldn’t…she wouldn’t.’
‘I’m afraid it’s true. I went to the theatre. They said she didn’t turn up for work last night. I also went to her home. Her flatmate said she had gone away.’ He paused for a moment and thought about what he was going to say. ‘It appears I wasn’t the only one.’
‘Rubbish,’ Alfred shouted loudly. Two of the other members turned and stared at them. He lowered his voice. ‘It can’t be true. Not Elsie. I don’t believe it.’
‘She left all her clothes behind. Took nothing.’
‘Elsie wouldn’t have gone without talking to you. She wasn’t that sort…’
‘And what sort was that?’ asked Richard.
Alfred had the sense to remain quiet.
‘It does seem strange, her vanishing like that.’ Richard finished his Scotch and water. ‘Not like her at all.’
‘Listen. She wouldn’t just go off. Something must have happened to her.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. A lot of kidnappings lately.’
‘But Elsie hasn’t got any money. And there’s been no ransom note.’
‘Not that sort of kidnapping. One reads about it all the time. Pretty girl. Kidnapped. Taken to some foreign mansion. Held against her will. You know the sort of stuff I’m talking about.’
‘But that’s just the stuff for the yellow press like the
Daily Mail
. It doesn’t really happen.’
‘There is a word for it, isn’t there? Shanghaied.’
‘I thought that was just for sailors.’
Alfred shrugged his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t feel right to me. She wouldn’t just go off.’
‘I think you’re right. If I haven’t heard from her by tomorrow morning, I’ll go to the police. They’ll know what to do.’
‘Do it. You never know what could have happened to her.’
Richard checked his watch. ‘No point in hanging round here. Can I give you a lift anywhere?’
‘Let’s go to the Lido.’
He got up and nodded to the waiter, who went behind the bar and brought Richard the chit to sign. ‘Last night, I was going to ask her to marry me and now she’s vanished.’
Alfred guided his friend out of the Long Bar to the door of the club. A doorman leant to one side, pulling open the imposing double doors. The car was already waiting with its engine running.
‘I can’t believe there was anybody else in Elsie’s life. I know there was only me.’
Richard threw his cigarette into the gutter. As he did so a copy of the
North China Daily News
drifted alone the road, blown by the wind. In big, bold, black letters, the headline on the cover read:
ANOTHER BODY FOUND
Beneath it, in smaller type, a subhead made it plain to all but the most stupid reader.
THE CHARACTER KILLER STRIKES
Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Strachan were sitting alone in the detectives’ room at Central Police Station. A solitary lamp burned above Danilov’s desk. A clock ticked loudly on the wall. Smoke hung in the air, its white trail caught in the light like a silk shroud.
Danilov was slouched in his chair saying nothing.
Strachan was sitting opposite him, tapping his fingers on the table.
The rest of the night shift had been called out to a stabbing on the Bund near Chu Pao Street. An American marine had taken a strong dislike to a British squaddie over a game of darts and knifed him between the ribs. .Just another quiet night in Blood Alley.
‘Another killing, sir.’ Strachan was just trying to make conversation with his boss who had spent the last half hour just sitting there, rolling his pungent cigarettes.
‘An acute observation, Stra-chan.’
‘Sorry, sir, you were lost in thought, I just thought…’
‘You just thought you would disturb me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You will learn, Detective Stra-chan, that silence can be the most useful weapon in a policeman’s arsenal. Silence makes people feel uncomfortable. Just as you felt when you were sitting here with me.’
‘Yes, sir, I…’
Danilov held his hand out in front of his face and his finger came up to his lips. As he did so, he noticed a yellow note peeping out from under his desk blotter. He picked it up with the tips of his fingers. ‘A Lieutenant Masset called. Would like an update on the investigation? Miss Cavendish.’
She even signs it Miss Cavendish, thought Danilov. I wonder what her first name is. Something very English, I’m sure. Daphne. Dorothy. Daisy. Maybe all three.
But who had hidden the note? One of the children, Cartwright, Ford, or Tinkler. Would they never stop playing games? Their childishness was affecting his investigation. He would have to do something. ‘Masset is inquiring about our progress, Stra-chan. What shall I tell him?’
‘You could tell him there’s been another murder, sir.’
‘I’ll let him know tomorrow morning, I’m sure it’s not the news he wants to hear.’
Danilov then lapsed back into silence, staring at a brown mark on his desk. ‘It’s the same man,’ he said quietly. ‘The rope marks, the characters on the chest, the personal, close method of killing.’
‘The same man who killed Henry Sellars?’
‘No. The same man who killed Henry Sellars. And the magistrate. And the Russian prostitute. And the woman tonight.’
‘I think I understand, sir.’
‘What are the patterns?’ He looked across at Strachan. ‘What colour was the prostitute’s hair?’
Strachan reached for the files that had arrived from the French Garde Municipale that afternoon. He scanned down the form. ‘She was blonde too, sir.’
‘And the magistrate?’
He took the other file and scanned it too. ‘
Ch
â
tain
. I think that means chestnut, sir. Reddish-brown.’
Danilov was deflated. ‘It does, Stra-chan, your years studying French under Mademoiselle Lafarge were not wasted.’
‘Actually, I studied under a large Belgian monk called Georges who weighed 300 pounds and stank of beer. I think he brewed it himself.’
‘The Belgians make good beer. They don’t make good monks.’ Danilov thought again. ‘What about the eyes? Both our victims had a beautiful shade of cornflower blue. Most striking.’
‘The magistrate had hazel eyes, sir. “
Yeux noisette
” it says here. The Russian prostitute had green eyes.’
‘Stra-chan…’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How much did you understand during our meeting with the French?’
‘Quite a lot, sir.’
‘You never let on.’
‘No, I thought it better not to reveal how much I understood. You never know when silence can come in handy.’
‘Silence is golden, Stra-chan.’
‘We have the same proverb in English, sir.’
‘I know. I was speaking English.’
‘Oh, I thought…’
‘Don’t think, Stra-chan, that’s my job. So the only link between the victims seems to be the characters carved on their chest and the rope that tied their wrists.’
‘That seems to be it, sir. But the characters have been different every time.’ Strachan checked his notebook. ‘“Vengeance” written on the magistrate. “Damnation” on the Russian prostitute. “Justice” on Henry Sellars. And “retribution” on our woman in the park. Not common characters, sir. Quite old-fashioned. The sort of language a Mandarin would use in the Imperial examinations, not your normal johnnie’s word at all. I had to look it up in the dictionary.’
‘Like Shakespeare or Chaucer?’
‘Exactly, sir, except a Chinese version.’ Strachan thought for a moment. ‘I know somebody who could help us. My mother’s eldest uncle, Chang. He sat the Imperial examinations in 1910.’
‘Not the best time to be a Mandarin.’
‘Took him fifteen years of study and he finally passes them just as the Empire begins to crumble. Not much use for a Mandarin in a republic.’
‘How can he help?’
‘I don’t know, sir, but as you said, we’re missing something. He may be able to give us a new angle.’
‘And what about the scratches on the bottom of the lid?’
‘HATE ALL. The words of a madman, if you ask me.’
‘Luckily, I wasn’t asking you. But they are frightening words, Stra-chan. It seems our killer has no love for the human race.’
‘Do you want me to check the local asylums, sir? See if anybody has been released lately?’
Danilov became much more active, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Not yet. I think there is a logic in their madness. We just haven’t seen it yet. But you can set up a meeting with your uncle. I think we have to learn more about these written characters.’ He stood up in front of his desk. ‘Did you find out anything about the church? The Children of God, I think it was called.’
‘I’ve got an address, sir. It’s across the creek in Hongkew.’
‘Meaker’s territory.’
‘Shall I tell him we’re coming, sir?’
Danilov took out his tobacco pouch and began rolling another cigarette. ‘No, don’t, he won’t want to get involved. The man’s a waste of oxygen. I worked with him once. Not a good partnership. We’ll pay it a visit tomorrow morning.’
‘I also checked the club, Paresis Hall, with the local coppers. Well known, it is. Somebody must have been paid off because it’s been going strong for a number of years. Attracts tour groups apparently. There to see the local “sights”.’
‘Hmmm, let’s visit there now. You don’t have anything else to do, do you?’
Strachan hadn’t eaten all day. A warm bowl of dumplings was waiting for him at home. As his mother always said, the one thing that was definitely Chinese about him was his stomach. ‘No, sir, nothing else to do.’
‘Good, let’s get going.’ Danilov picked up his hat and coat from the stand next to the door. ‘Heard anything from the river people?’
‘Not a dicky bird, sir.’
‘At least we won’t be getting any red herrings from them.’
‘Was that a joke, sir?’
‘Yes, Stra-chan, we Russians are famous for our sense of humour.’
‘Very good, sir, very funny.’
‘Let’s go and meet our androgynes, shall we? It should be an interesting evening.’
From the outside, the building was just like all the others in the street: three storeys tall with a classic Shikumen gate at the entrance, leading into a small courtyard before the front door.
Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Strachan were standing at the door with their hats in their hands. A small man had tried to stop them from entering, but they had shown their warrant cards and brushed past him.
It went quiet as soon as they entered. There were twenty people standing at the bar, with another four wooden tables occupied by an assortment of patrons: two Russians with dyed platinum hair obviously taking a break from walking the streets, some Chinese and Western men, and a pair of Chinese girls dressed in ornate
chi paos
. In one corner, a threesome played piano, drums and an upright bass on a stage raised just three inches off the floor, the music providing backroom noise to fill in the gaps in conversation.
Before they had entered, the patrons had been laughing and joking with each other. Now they were silent, looking straight at Danilov and Strachan.
A six-foot tall woman, dressed in a bright red silk dress with long flowing ruffles, high heels and black stockings, approached them. She was wearing the longest string of pink pearls Danilov had ever seen. When she opened her mouth, out came a deep, booming voice. ‘I don’t want any trouble, gentlemen.’
‘I’m sorry, Plum, I couldn’t stop them.’ The small man squeaked from behind the detectives. Danilov realised that the man was a woman.
‘Don’t worry, Lesley. I’ll handle it from here.’ Lesley adjusted her purple tie, pulled down her dinner jacket, and went back to her place by the door.
‘We have no desire to cause you any trouble…madame. We just want a chat.’
‘Call me Plum. And you are…?’
‘Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Stra-chan.’
‘Delighted, I’m sure.’ Plum held out her hand towards Danilov. She obviously meant him to kiss it. Instead, he shook it once, before stepping back.
‘Come, we’ll sit over there. We don’t want to disturb the guests.’
She led them to a table in the rear of the room. As they walked through, the other patrons at the bar pulled back or turned their faces away. Danilov walked past an assortment of women dressed as men, men dressed as women and men dressed as men who looked like women. He tried to look straight ahead so that he wouldn’t stare at the patrons, but a woman with a moustache got the better of him.
Plum pulled out three chairs at a table next to some stairs leading to the upper storey. On the wall beside the stairs was a large poster with ‘Entrance through the rear’ written on it, with a large black arrow pointing upstairs.
Strange, thought Danilov.
‘Would you like a drink, gentlemen?’
‘No thank you, Miss Plum, we’re here on business, I’m afraid.’
‘What a shame,’ said Plum looking straight at Strachan. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Do you recognise this person?’ Danilov showed her the picture of Henry Sellars.
Plum stared at it for a long time before placing it down on the table. ‘It’s Harriet. Her hair looks pretty in this shot.’
‘Harriet?’
‘Harriet Sole. One of our patrons. I don’t know her real name. We don’t go in much for real names here.’
‘What can you tell me about her?’ Danilov was conscious of using the female pronoun. He was sure it was the right approach to take.
