“When was this photo taken, Chuck?” Tom asked.
“Oh that? On my fifth birthday, in June 1900. Just before the Boxers converged on Peking and threatened to kill all foreign missionaries in the city.”
“You were in China during the Boxer Rebellion?”
Whitfield gave a solemn nod. “My family and I hunkered down in the Legation Quarter, praying every day for a miracle. When the armies of America, Britain, France, Japan, and all the others drove the Boxers away, my father said it was divine intervention.”
“Was it, Chuck?”
Whitfield stared into nothing for a moment, before replying. “I don’t know, but many other missionaries and their converts weren’t so lucky.”
For over thirty years, the Whitfields had been saving souls in China, but now Chuck looked like a man ready to cut his losses. Perhaps the Boxer Rebellion had embittered Charles Whitfield against God and China, leaving him more cynical than Tom had realized. Such cynicism could lead a man into a nefarious life of espionage for profit. But right now, as he rubbed his temple, Whitfield looked more exasperated than cynical or nefarious.
“Rough day?” Tom asked.
“It’s been a madhouse here since five in the morning.” Whitfield walked over to the liquor cart and poured them both a brandy, then handed a glass to Tom. “Now, what’s so damn important that you had to tell me here?”
Tom took a swig, letting the liquid rest on his tongue. He’d need all the Dutch courage he could get. It wasn’t every day you accused your friend of spying for the Mikado. But after the debacle with Commander Fukuzaki, this was his last chance to unmask Whitfield. Although he knew it might be his death sentence, part of Tom still hoped he had been wrong all along.
“I need your help, Chuck. Or rather…the Green Gang does.”
“So that’s what last night’s little visit was really about.” Whitfield sighed and threw back his brandy. “Well, let’s hear it. What does that old rascal Big-Eared Tu want?”
“We’re trying to catch a spy.” Tom took another sip, scanning Whitfield for any hint of nervousness. “We’ve uncovered someone using Club Twilight as a drop off location for secret documents.”
“What was in them?”
Tom took a deep breath and recalled every detail from last night. “‘In accordance with the doctrine proclaimed by US Secretary of State Stimson, the United States Government will not recognize any territorial changes in China by force and will denounce anything that might impair the existing Open Door policy.’”
He paused and scrutinized Whitfield again. But only a deep confusion clouded the Consulate officer’s face. Licking his lips, he offered, “It…it…sounds like a report I wrote…”
When the bait was good, a hunter took his shot.
“Know anything about the American Yangtze patrol ships? The USS Luzon, Mindanao, Oahu, Panay, Guam, and Tutuila? Apparently, this spy had the exact coordinates, captains, crews, and armaments for every one of them.”
A white sheet slid over the Consulate man’s face as he fixed Tom with a wide-eyed stare. He’d seen that same vacant expression in shell-shocked soldiers. It was the look of a man who realized his time was up. The mask had finally come off of Charles Whitfield.
CHAPTER FIFTEEEN
“So it’s true,” Tom said, setting the brandy glass aside.
Whitfield didn’t respond except for a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple rising and falling slowly. How did this son of missionaries and self-proclaimed friend of China fall so low? Had it all just been one long con? Enough time spent in Shanghai would make anyone cynical, so maybe this upstanding Christian gentleman had lost his faith.
“How could you work for them?”
After a few false starts, Whitfield found his voice. “What do you mean ‘work for them?’ Old boy, are you accusing me of spying for the Japs?”
Tom fixed him with an accusatory stare. “If the shoe fits.”
Whitfield’s initial surprise devolved into revulsion. Angry pink splotches grew across his cheeks. “How dare you! I love China! Why would I aid her greatest enemy?”
“Men and women fall out of love all the time. Maybe you found a new mistress.”
Whitfield pinkened further and poured himself another brandy. He threw the whole glass back and fumed with his back turned. His entire frame tensed like a park statue. “I don’t know how you can say that.”
“A Japanese was found leaving my club the other night with those documents on him. Commander Fukuzaki practically admitted to me that this Nipponese gentleman, Ono, was one of his men. He was basically just a courier, transporting messages and using Club Twilight as a post office.”
“Tom, there are hundreds of people who go to your club every night. Many of whom are diplomats.”
A fair point. Besides, Ono never claimed to have seen who this contact was. A smart choice. Keeping his spies in the dark was the best way for only Commander Fukuzaki to have any scope of the entire ring. Genuine ignorance prevented anyone from naming names. That didn’t let Whitfield off the hook though.
“Fair enough, but you’re the only regular from the American Consulate. For most of the staff here, anything outside of the International Settlement is bandit country.”
Whitfield’s shoulders sagged. “Balderdash, the whole rotten lot of it. Why on earth would I ruin my career and sell out China, Tom?” He turned, pink and bleary-eyed. Was he about to cry? Such actions were risky for a man like Whitfield but Tom knew that few people spied for any real political reasons.
“You mentioned your uncle, the banker in Boston, has been having a rough time in this depression.”
The insinuation hit Whitfield hard. Any signs of melancholy evaporated, followed by self-righteous indignation. His voice dropped to a whispered growl. “How dare you!”
All the clues lined up like dominos and the clarity of it all was sickening. Missionary work wasn’t profitable but having a rich uncle could cover the loss.
“Do I really need to say it out loud, Chuck?”
“Yes Tom,” he hissed. “So you can hear how ludicrous it all sounds.”
“That you took money from Commander Fukuzaki to help your uncle’s bank? No, that doesn’t sound ludicrous at all.”
“I don’t believe this…”
“Explain how I just recited your report, Chuck.”
“I don’t know!” Whitfield roared, hurling the brandy glass across the office. It collided with the wall and rained down shards onto the floor. “Maybe one of the Chinese porters broke into my office!”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “So when the heat is on, you look for a Chinese scapegoat?”
“For Chrissakes Tom, that’s not what I meant. All I’m saying is that it could be anyone.”
“Anyone but you, despite all evidence to the contrary? Your reports were found on the Fukuzaki’s man, Chuck. Besides, the documents were in English. The most lingo the porters here speak is ‘no tickee no laundry.’”
Whitfield rubbed his temple and expelled a bitter laugh. “Balderdash! After everything my family and I have done for China—”
“You’re not Chinese, Chuck.”
The statement was harsher than intended but it made its point. No matter how many good deeds the Whitfields had and would do, they would forever be gweilos – foreign devils, white ghosts, outsiders.
“I grew up in this country, Tom,” Whitfield snapped back as if it was his trump card. “I didn’t set foot in Boston until I was twelve. While you were playing fan-tan and mahjong with the Suey Sing Tong, my family and I were serving rice to hungry peasants.”
Tom almost flinched at such an affront to his heritage but kept his cool with a deep breath. There was no need to get emotional but he couldn’t ignore that.
“Things change, Chuck. What’s that Bible quote? ‘When I was a child, I spake as a child. When I grew up, I put away such childish things’. I put away my games and went to war.”
Whitfield scoffed. “I was in the trenches too, Tom.�
��
“Indeed you were and America was grateful, whereas Uncle Sam looked at me like a dog would a tick. You see, Chuck, I’ve never truly had a country, only half of one. I love China and America but I’m the bastard son of each.”
There was another long silence that could have stretched into infinity if they’d let it. Tom glanced at his Rolex. Ten minutes to one. He needed to tell the Green Gang he’d found the spy. Or at least the best he could come up with on such short notice.
“Goodbye, Chuck. Thanks for the brandy.”
He turned and walked toward the threshold.
“Wait.” Tom turned and stared back at Whitfield. Sorrow and regret were practically written across his face. “I love China, Tom and would never do anything to hurt her.” Such sincerity shone in those bleary blue eyes that Whitfield looked ready to swear his innocence on the Holy Bible. If only he had one. Maybe a copy of The Good Earth would suffice.
The image dried Tom’s throat, leaving him speechless. He gave a curt nod instead.
“Another thing, Tom.” An ominous look swept over Whitfield like a thunder cloud. “He who lies down with trash will become dirty.”
A subtle reference to the Green Gang.
“Chuck, I’ve been dirty for years.”
Tom turned and walked out the door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tom walked past the US Consulate’s gate and back over to North Yangtze Road. As he approached the Bentley, Yan Ping hopped out and popped open the backseat door.
“Where to, boss?”
A simple question but Tom didn’t have an answer. Right now, he wanted to be nowhere. A drive around Shanghai might clear his clouded head.
“Everything alright, boss?”
Worry must have been carved into his face. “I’m fine...let’s just take a drive for now.”
Yan Ping nodded and they hopped into the Bentley. The motor roared and sped south, over the Garden Bridge. He needed to get as far as possible away from Little Tokyo, from Commander Fukuzaki, and especially from Charles Whitfield.
They passed a steady stream of humanity, mostly refugees from outside Shanghai, but also plenty of city-born coolies, anxious to get further into the International Settlement. Crossing over Garden Bridge and Soochow Creek, the Bentley drove past the Public Garden and into the familiar modernity of the Bund.
Normally, the Customs House with its clock tower and classical architecture of the HSBC Building offered some charming comfort. However, the Bund structures looked like paper mâché now, ready to be knocked over by Japanese warships floating in the Whangpoo River. Memories of the French countryside flashed in Tom’s mind, blown to bits by artillery. Would that be Shanghai’s fate? And would he even live long enough to find out?
Of course he would. Tom Lai always found a way out. His odds of survival were high now that he’d identified the real spy. Still, turning Charles Whitfield over to the Green Gang covered him with enough shame that he needed a bath. Or at least a drink.
“Yan, take me to the Great World.”
“Of course, boss.”
The Bentley took a right on Nanking Road, plunging deeper into the International Settlement. Paying someone else for booze offended his business sense, but the last place Tom wanted to be right now was Club Twilight. Too many bad memories. The Great World was different. That was where his new life in Shanghai had really begun.
As they approached the intersection of Nanking and Chekiang Road, a Sikh traffic cop held up his hand to stop. The four great department stores of Shanghai – Sincere, Wing On, Sun Sun, and Da Sun – loomed before them like sacred shrines. Chic men and women darted in and out, oblivious to the coming catastrophe. Many of the women were foreign, but some were Chinese, decked out in chic Chanel coats, cloche hats, and gloves. One woman looked particularly familiar as she exited the Sincere Department Store, her black leather gauntlets holding a wrapped box.
“Mei-chen!” Tom called out, rolling his window down. Across the street, Mei-chen turned and waved. The Sikh traffic cop beckoned them forward, and Yan pulled the Bentley up alongside the curb. Mei-chen jumped inside and greeted Tom with a kiss.
“Going my way, pretty lady?”
“Depends on where you’re going,” she said in English, setting the box between them.
“The Great World.”
“Then yes. I always like a drink after shopping.”
Tom tapped the box. “For me?”
“Not unless you wear T-strap pumps.”
“Thanks but I don’t have a thing to wear with them.” He leaned forward. “The Great World, Yan.”
*****
The Great World was a six story amusement arcade, crammed with every form of entertainment from every corner of the world. Fitting, since it straddled the edge of the International Settlement and Frenchtown. A cacophonous mixture of languages – Oriental and Occidental – reverberated throughout the halls. An equal mixing of curious visitors wandered about. White Shanghailanders dipping their toes in one of the seedier areas of the city. Native Shanghainese abounded too, although to them, the Great World was one of the tamer parts of this vice-ridden metropolis.
Sing-song girls outside an indoor tea house beckoned lonely men closer. They showed off their tiny bound feet, a seductive trait to many Chinese men even though the practice had been officially outlawed. Compared to them, Mei-chen looked positively Western in her size 5 pumps. Across the aisle, people clustered around a shooting gallery, taking potshots at model Japanese planes. Pickpockets made their rounds, sizing up any potential marks. With Mei-chen on his arm, Tom Lai was well-known here and that notoriety was protection enough. The pickpockets doffed their hats and continued on to find more obscure prey.
Ascending the stairs to the second floor, they walked down a long hallway, famous for its enclosed bazaars, Chinese acrobats, and one of Tom’s favorite bars in Shanghai. Right now, he needed a Scotch on the rocks as if it were water on a hot day.
“What’s wrong, darling?” Mei-chen asked.
He must have been wearing his concern like a mask. Was he losing his poker face?
“Nothing dear. It’s just business.”
“From last night?”
“Yes...” he trailed off before adding, “Nothing to concern yourself with though.”
Mei-chen offered a comforting smile, squeezing his arm. They continued down the hall, past vendors hawking herbal medicines, loquat syrup, bars of Victoria Soap, toy firecrackers, Pantheon Cigarettes, Buddhist charms, and bottles of Coca-Cola. Unsurprisingly, the booths selling Japanese products were absent. Tom and Mei-chen pushed past the barking vendors until a row of small bamboo cages came into view.
“Tom, look!” Mei-chen squealed. “Crickets!”
Only in China would people buy these irritating little insects, but according to myth, crickets brought good luck and longevity. Bizarre, but his own mother believed these silly superstitions, insisting that these noisy bugs would protect the Lai family.
“The emperors used to keep crickets as pets,” Mei-chen said, running her gloved fingers over the bamboo bars. “During the Song Dynasty, aristocrats bred them for fighting.”
Tom snickered and scanned the cages. Most were scrawny with spindly little legs. But a large brown cricket on the top shelf gave a loud chirp like a bugle call at morning reveille.
“I’d put my money on that one,” Tom said.
Mei-chen leaned forward and inspected. “Yes, he does look lucky, doesn’t he?”
Tom agreed but the thought of that screeching insect in the bedroom might kill the mood. However, Mei-chen’s imploring eyes were hard to say no to. Tom rubbed his chin and considered it, when three dark shadows draped over him from behind.
Turning around, he locked eyes with Feng Lung-wei, flanked by his two brutish henchmen.
“Hello Tommy,” he said, grinning. “Tick tock.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tom searched the gangsters for any potential threat, but Feng Lung-wei seemed relaxed, a
lmost jovial. Besides, the Great World would be too public for a murder, even for the Green Gang. On instinct though, Mei-chen drew closer and gripped Tom’s arm. Feng scrutinized her up and down before extending his hand.
“I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” he said, taking her gloved fingers. “Feng Lung-wei. You must be Ho Mei-chen, right?”
She nodded before withdrawing her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Darling, would you excuse us?” Tom said in English. “I have…business to discuss with Mr. Feng.”
Mei-chen nodded but dread lingered in her brown eyes. Tom and Feng walked down to the other end of the hallway. A crowd had gathered around an acrobat in garish makeup and small band with guzheng zithers, dizi flutes, and erhu strings. Tom recognized the acrobat’s outfit as the legendary Monkey King, the magical hero from the novel Journey to the West.
“I loved this story as a kid,” Feng said, staring at the performance. “Do they have it in America?”
“Yes, my mother would read it to us at night. My brother and I took turns playing the Monkey King and Pigsy.”
Feng laughed. “The way he stormed the Dragon King’s undersea palace and demanded the best weapon,” he gestured to the acrobat’s staff, twirling in his spindly fingers. “I admired that. It takes courage to take what is rightfully yours. Not to mention the way he tormented all the deities of heaven and hell! Oh, how I craved such power!”
Tom wanted to ask if this gangster brat realized that Journey to the West was a story about redemption but dismissed it. Besides, there were more pressing concerns.
“What brings you to the Great World? It’s not Green Gang turf.”
Feng gave a confused, half-offended look. “Don’t you know that this joint was purchased by Huang Chih-jung, just last year?”
“It…it must have slipped my mind.”
Pockmarked Huang was a big shot in the Green Gang, not to mention chief of detectives in Frenchtown. The Great World had never been Coney Island, but under new management it was about to reach even lower depths of vice.
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