Shanghai Twilight
A Noir Thriller
by
Matthew Legare
Contents
Copyright
Author’s Note
Mailing List
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 FIFTEEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Afterword
Thank You
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2019 by Matthew Legare. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are works of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Reproduction of this publication in whole or in part without the author’s permission is strictly prohibited.
https://matthewlegare.com
Author’s Note
The Chinese language has two systems of Romanization – pinyin and Wade-Giles. Although pinyin has become the dominant method in mainland China, it was not invented until the 1950s, after the events of Shanghai Twilight. Therefore, Chinese terms and places are Romanized using Wade-Giles e.g. Nanking instead of Nanjing, Kuomintang instead of Guomindang, and lung (dragon) instead of long. It also helps to lend a more vintage feel.
There are many dialects in China, the most important to this novel are Cantonese and Shanghainese. Since Tom Lai is of Cantonese descent, he often uses Cantonese terms e.g. cheongsam instead of the qipao.
Many Chinese and Japanese terms that have not entered the English lexicon have been italicized, followed by a brief translation e.g. changshan long shirt.
In China, surnames come before given names e.g. Lai Huang-fu instead of Huang-fu Lai. In keeping with literary tradition, I have kept this custom for the Chinese characters. Chinese given names also tend to have two parts e.g. Huang-fu, but some have only one e.g. Ping.
Japanese surnames also come before given names e.g. Fukuzaki Jiro, however, to make this story more palatable to Western readers and keeping with the literary custom of my other works, Japanese given names will come before their surnames e.g. Jiro Fukuzaki.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to my parents, my sister, my brother-in-law, and my friends for the support, my readership, Caroline T. Johnson for her fantastic cover design, especially my other half, Jenny.
Mailing List
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Thanks!
January 1932
CHAPTER ONE
An ethereal feeling hung in the Shanghai night, and Tom Lai wondered if he was dreaming. As the Bentley passed over the Garden Bridge, Tom stared out the window at his adopted city. Bright neon lights punctured the darkness like blinking flares. They also illuminated the Whangpoo River, alive with Chinese junks, foreign merchant vessels, and two Japanese Navy ships, lying anchored like enormous sea monsters. War could soon devour the city, but Shanghai shimmered in an electric glow – bright, gay, and decadent.
The Bentley soon cruised into Shanghai’s glamorous promenade, nestled on the waterfront. Crammed full of clubs, banks, bars, and brothels, the Bund was like a Chinese Times Square, crackling with energy. The people out and about tonight were dressed to the nines – men in three-piece suits, frock coats, and top hats walked alongside women in elegant gowns and long gloves. Most were foreign but a few were native Chinese.
If anyone was concerned, they didn’t show it. Tensions between China and Japan had reached fever pitch in the past few months. The newspapers predicted war, but there was little anxiety in this crowd. After all, the Bund was secure inside the International Settlement, where foreigners ruled over a piece of China’s territory. They would be spared while the rest of Shanghai burned. There was an eerie unrealness to it all.
The chauffeur turned the Bentley west onto Foochow Road and became ensnarled in traffic. Tom reexamined his overcoat, blue serge suit, and silk gray tie. His usual duds, but thankfully, they were just ritzy enough for tonight. It wasn’t every day that a nightclub owner had dinner with an official from the ruling Nationalist Party, the Kuomintang. And at the American Club, no less!
It was about time he received some recognition. After all, his own Club Twilight was one of the most popular spots in Shanghai, even if it was located in the working class Chapei district. It earned him enough money to send a steady stream of donations to the Nationalist Government in Nanking, the only hope for a strong, modern China. Maybe this meeting was to announce that they wanted to dedicate a statue to him? He’d settle for a street in his name.
Tom glanced at his Rolex wristwatch and sighed. Almost half past six.
“What’s the hold-up?” Tom asked his chauffeur in Shanghainese.
“There’s a demonstration about a block up, sir. It’s backing up the whole street.”
Tom peered through the front window. A snakelike throng lurched down Kiangse Road, grinding all traffic to a standstill. Minutes ticked by, but the river of people passed on and on with no end in sight. Tom grumbled, remembering an old wives’ tale. If everyone in China walked past you in a line, it would never end because new Chinese would be born and grow up. He’d have to go the rest of the way on foot or risk being late.
“I’ll get out here,” Tom said. “Wait outside of the American Club when you manage to get out of this traffic.”
The chauffeur gave an obedient nod as Tom exited. Outside, the air was cool and moist, tempering his mood. A thin fog crept through Foochow Road which reminded Tom of his native San Francisco. Just across the street was the six-story brick building which hosted the American Club, the social hub of all Yankee expats in Shanghai. The Stars and Stripes flapped back and forth in the breeze, so close it was almost taunting. Hopefully, he could pass through the crowd without too much trouble. But as Tom approached Kiangse Road, the parade took on a more ominous focus.
People carried placards and banners that read “BOYCOTT JAPANESE GOODS” and “JAPAN GET OUT OF MANCHURIA!” A blown-up photograph of the Japanese Mikado – Emperor Hirohito himself – was stamped with the word “BANDIT” across it. An illustrated poster showed a Chinese soldier impaling a Japanese devil on his bayonet. Such patriotic demonstrations were a common sight these days, ever since Japan invaded the north
eastern region of Manchuria back in September.
From the throng arose an angry chant, “Don’t buy from the Japanese devils! Boycott all Japanese goods! Don’t buy from the Japanese devils!”
But instead of simple patriotism, Tom could see a lit fuse that threatened to blow Shanghai into dust. Hitting Japan in its wallet was tantamount to declaring war. Not that the Land of the Rising didn’t deserve it. But for all the love he had for his adopted country, Tom didn’t know which side would win in the coming conflict. Regardless of the victor, he would survive. He always survived. His thoughts turned to Ho Mei-chen, his Beautiful Pearl, waiting for him back at the club. Whatever happened, she would survive too. He’d see to that.
The procession continued uninterrupted, which made it impossible to cross the street. Tom looked at his Rolex again and noticed a couple near him. They were two middle-aged Orientals – a man in a Western suit, coat, and fedora, and a woman in a green kimono. Looking back and forth, the couple conversed in worried Japanese. They must have gotten lost looking for Little Tokyo, Japan’s enclave within the International Settlement.
Tom approached them and pointed northward, past the Soochow Creek. The Japanese couple smiled and bowed their thanks, drawing attention from the passing crowd. Three rough-looking men detached from the procession and surrounded the Japanese couple.
“Japanese devils! Get out of Manchuria!” one of the toughs snapped in Shanghainese.
“Get out of Shanghai while you’re at it!” another roared, pushing the man forward.
The woman babbled out a stream of frightened Japanese, giving submissive bows and gripping her husband’s arm.
“Dwarf bandits,” the third man growled. “You come to our cities and don’t even speak our language! Just wait until our soldiers throw all of you Japanese devils into the Whangpoo River!”
The ring of men closed tighter and tighter until Tom stepped forward.
“That’s enough,” Tom said in Shanghainese. “These two didn’t invade Manchuria.”
“What are you? Some sort of Japanese sympathizer?”
“Better walk away now,” a thug growled, a switchblade flicking out from his clenched fist, “or we’ll carve you up too.”
Tightness gripped Tom’s chest and his eyes darted about for assistance. The nearest cop was a few blocks away, helping with crowd control. Even the people in the procession focused their attention straight ahead. Maybe he could reason with these thugs.
“Use your head, friend,” Tom said. “Can’t you see the headlines in Tokyo now? ‘Chinese thugs murder two of the Emperor’s subjects!’ All the Japanese need is another excuse to attack Shanghai.”
Just last week, five Japanese Buddhist monks had been beaten by an angry, patriotic mob. One later died from his wounds. There had been no apology thus far, raising tensions between the Chinese Republic and the Japanese Empire to a boiling point.
The knife-wielder grumbled and spat on the sidewalk. “Let them attack. Those dwarf bandits are no match for the great 19th Route Army!”
Such patriotism was admirable, but foolish. Shanghai’s garrison force was stronger than most Chinese units, but even the vaunted 19th Route Army would have a hell of a fight on its hands. The tough drew closer, his knife seemingly growing longer with every step. All too late, Tom regretted not bringing his Browning automatic, tucked harmlessly away back at Club Twilight.
With an angry roar of “Jap lover!” the thug lunged forward, swishing the blade back and forth. Tom sidestepped and let him cut open air. A few other passersby and protesters took notice. One man, carrying a sign reading “STOP THE CIVIL WAR AND FIGHT JAPAN,” froze in his tracks and gawked.
Tom grabbed the sign and ripped the paper off the wooden pole, creating a makeshift weapon. The protester looked ready to complain but rejoined the procession. Tom soon saw why. The knife wielder had repositioned himself for another attack and charged again. With a heavy swing, Tom brought the wooden pole down and swatted the blade out of the man’s hand, sending it swirling into the air.
Glancing around, Tom realized what a hollow victory it was. The two other thugs drew their own knives, even longer and sharper. The procession finally passed in its entirety; however, the chants of “Boycott Japanese Goods” lingered in the frosty night air. But soon, all Tom could hear was his own heart, thumping rapidly. It looked like he might miss that dinner after all.
CHAPTER TWO
The thugs moved closer, brandishing their knives like butchers. Tom gripped the wooden pole and waited for an attack. Taking advantage of the commotion, the Japanese couple beat a quick retreat. The woman ran so fast it looked like her kimono would tear itself apart. Not that he could blame them. That’s what he got for sticking his neck out. The few passersby on Kiangse Road paid them no attention other than a sideways glance. If you wanted to live long in Shanghai, you minded your own business.
One hoodlum slashed forward and Tom thrust out the wooden pole as a shield. The man backed up and repositioned his blade, ready to strike again. A few feet away, the first tough had found his weapon and was back for a rematch. Three against one and no way out. Tom gritted his teeth and prepared for the worst.
A shrill whistle cut through the air, drowning out the fading anti-Japanese slogans. In the near distance was a dark-uniformed police officer. Blowing his whistle like a bleating billy goat, the cop waved a nightstick and charged forward.
The three toughs froze in fear before scattering in different directions like scurrying rats. Tom straightened up, presenting himself to the police officer with a curt nod.
“Thank you, officer,” Tom said in Shanghainese, hoping he understood the dialect. In this city, every block seemed to speak a different language.
The cop nodded and said, “What happened here?”
“Those thugs were going to kill a Japanese couple so I intervened.”
“Where are you from?” the cop asked, examining Tom with suspicious eyes
“My accent, huh?” Tom gave a wide smile. “American, born and bred.”
The suspicion morphed into contempt. “It’s not wise to be so friendly with the Japanese devils these days. My duty obliges me to protect them, but as someone with Chinese blood in your veins, you shame your ancestors.”
Tom braced himself. “My loyalties are with China.”
After a dismissive scoff, the police officer said, “Your kind have no homeland to be loyal to. You are neither Chinese nor American, yet you pretend to be both.” Sliding the nightstick back into his belt loop, the cop added, “Go back where you came from. China doesn’t need any more foreign devils.”
With that, the police officer turned on his heel and traipsed back down Kiangse Road, a good patrolman returning to his beat. Taking a steadying breath of chilly air, Tom suppressed an inner rage that had been kindling for years. Here he was, halfway around the world from San Francisco, and still treated like a foreigner. For a moment, he heard Mei-chen’s soft voice in his head, calming him further. He would see her soon enough. For now, there was no time for anger. His good deed had cost him precious minutes, making him even more tardy. Tom turned around and crossed the street, toward the fluttering Stars and Stripes outside of the American Club.
*****
After walking up elegant marble stairs, Herbert Hoover’s dour, lumpy face greeted Tom as he entered the lobby. Even in an official portrait, the thirty-first president of the United States looked like a man twice his age. As a nightclub owner, Tom sympathized. Running a business was hard enough and running a nation – especially during the worst economic depression in history – would age anyone.
“May I help you?” an irritated voice asked.
Tom took his eyes off of President Hoover’s picture and focused on a fat-faced white man in a tuxedo, standing behind a podium. The manager of the American Club was a familiar sight but evidently, he didn’t remember Tom. Perhaps he thought that Chinamen looked alike?
“Yes, I’m Thomas Lai. I have a reservation for tonight.
”
“Oh, you speak English,” the manager said with a chuckle.
“I would hope so since I’m an American.”
A frown creased the manager’s flabby face as he scanned the registry book. “Ah yes, you’re Charles Whitfield’s friend, right? The Chinaman he sponsored?”
“Yes.”
The American Club’s membership was made up of well-connected white men in the foreign service, finance, and industry. A Chinese-American nightclub owner didn’t meet their criteria. However, thanks to a sponsorship by an esteemed Boston Brahmin like Charles Whitfield – along with a hefty donation – Tom Lai had become something of an unofficial member to the American Club. Left off the membership roster, but able to pass in and out with ease.
“Ah, that’s right, I see your reservation now. Your guests have already arrived, Mr. Lai.”
Handing his fedora over to a Chinese attendant, Tom walked to the nearby elevator and took it to the fifth floor. There were all sorts of gentlemanly entertainment throughout the American Club’s six stories– a bar, a billiards room, a library, a mahjong hall, a rooftop garden, along with personal rooms for members and guests. But Tom was only concerned with the fifth floor tonight, the spacious dining hall.
Polished Maplewood floors gleamed from the many chandeliers shimmering overhead. Red velour curtains around the windows were parted to let in the neon glow from the nearby Bund. Most magnificent of all was an enormous oil painting of George Washington in his Continental Army uniform, which made the lobby’s portrait of Herbert Hoover look even dumpier by comparison.
The patrons – mostly white men – and staff – mostly Chinese waiters – were half-obscured by a veil of cigar smoke that wafted throughout the dining hall. Several hostile stares greeted Tom through the bluish haze as he walked past, as if he were a heathen violating this sacred temple.
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