The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory

by David Rotenberg

  “Their opinion carries weight on some issues, yes.”

  Fong thought for a moment. “Would the conservation lobby be pleased to hear that Shanghai was no longer in the ivory trade?”

  “No doubt about that.”

  Fong put both his hands flat on the table. For just a moment he smelled Amanda’s perfume. He stared right into her eyes and said, “What are the American concerns about investing in China, Shanghai in particular?” Then he counted them off on his elegant fingers. “One, the fear that the Communist government of China will at some future time nationalize their businesses. Two, what happened at Tiananmen Square, what you call civil rights. And. . .” here he held up three fingers and circled his thumb and index finger, “three, the accusations of conservationists that ivory and rhino horn are still being used in China. Are there more?”

  “I’ll let you know if I think of any.”

  “Do that,” he said. But he wasn’t awaiting an answer.

  He was completing his own thoughts out loud.

  “Premier Deng in 1987 opened the doors to the West with a remark which was taken to mean that money from the East is no more valuable than money from the West. That began it all.” He swept his arms wide to encompass the notion of all the building in Shanghai. “Surely there must have been assurances given at the highest possible levels to Western business that there would be no takeovers. I may not like Western businessmen but they have never struck me as foolish when it comes to their money. Do you agree?”

  “I guess. So that leaves only Tiananmen and smuggling as obstacles to western investment, right?”

  “I agree. Tiananmen and smuggling. American secretary of state Warren Christopher broached this human rights business the last time he was here but got nowhere. He was quoted as saying that he wished the meeting was as good as the lunch.”

  “Who would have thought it possible: wit from a secretary of state.”

  “Perhaps, but not funny. China will not be bullied on this issue. Tiananmen will continue to stand as a barrier to some western investors.”

  “Some, I guess.”

  “More when you add the conservationists’ concerns about ivory to the civil rights concerns. Civil rights concerns, Tiananmen if you wish, won’t go away, but ivory will. When the smugglers understand that they chance being carved into—” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry.” For the slightest moment Amanda couldn’t figure out what he was apologizing for. Then she did and turned away.

  He sensed that she was able to hear the rest so he went on. “The ivory trade will continue but not here, not in Shanghai. Shanghai will be free of ivory. And the West will be pleased with us. The smuggling of ivory may be a small issue but it is a strategic one and if you put it together with Tiananmen it could be enough to close the floodgates of western investment in Shanghai. And make no mistake, every building project you see here is leveraged to the tip of its bamboo scaffolding. It all depends on a continuing and growing stream of Western money. Money that the smuggling of ivory endangers.”

  “Are you saying that Richard and that African man were killed to stop the ivory trade?”

  “No, they were killed so the money pipeline from the West to Shanghai will not spring a leak.” His eyes trailed across the street. On the other side of the traffic was a massive construction site, its I-beam bones protruding above the wicker fence.

  Leaving Amanda at her hotel, Fong called the office. A joyous Lily picked up.

  “Are you at my desk?”

  “No, I’ve had all your calls forwarded down to me, hoping that I’d be the one to break the good news. Now you have to ask me, ’What’s the good news, Lily?’”

  After a moment, really in no mood for this, “What’s the good news, Lily?”

  “I’m free for dinner, I have new satin sheets, and I’ve practiced tai chi for a month to get my sexual tension level up to yours.”

  “Lily!” he yelled into the phone.

  But she cut him off. “We found the killer’s bicycle.”

  The whole bike had been dusted for prints but none were found. Wearing white gloves for riding bicycles was very fashionable, so it was not surprising that the killer’s hands were covered. But he had left other tailings. Several threads from garments, a partial shoe tread on one of the pedals, specific samples of mud from tires. The length of the frame and lowered seat gave them the killer’s height. Photos of the bike were given to hundreds of policemen who headed out to the sidewalk bicycle repairmen throughout the city.

  That night Fong watched Geoffrey stage the scene at the end of the third act of Twelfth Night. This production had many unique features. It began with Orsino dressed like Mozart banging away at a piano with a quartet trying to keep up with him. At a given moment, when the music is clearly not coming together, Orsino lifts his hands from the keys and slowly the others stop playing. The effect is like a deflating bagpipe. There is a moment of silence and then a furious Orsino yells at the quartet, “If music be the food of love, play on.” And they do. But once again the music degenerates quickly into notes and numbers. Orsino stops playing and the notes become noise. Then silence.

  Throughout the production Orsino keeps returning to his piano and working on that same melody but to no effect. However, at the end of the third act, Viola (Hao Yong) creeps beneath the piano, curls up and falls asleep. Orsino, not seeing her, sits down to play. The moment he puts his fingers on the keys, the failed melody that we have heard several times before comes pouring out of the piano. The noise has become music again. The presence of Viola has returned music to the world of Orsino. Love knits the notes together and makes the harmonies joyous.

  Fong felt his heart leap in his chest as he heard the music swell. And he felt his heart break at the truth that Geoffrey Hyland saw. Only love made the mathematics of sound into the glory of music. But in Hyland’s Twelfth Night Orsino never sees Viola asleep beneath the piano and hence never knows that Viola is the source of the love that restores music.

  Fong almost leapt from his seat as a hand landed on his shoulder. When he whirled around it was Amanda Pitman.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He was going to deny that he had been startled but thought better of it. “I was someplace else for a moment there.”

  “Me too,” she said looking up at the stage.

  In the musty theatre Fong could smell her perfume again and he sensed her closeness. Was it possible that after four years he was beginning to feel again? That this strange westerner could see what he saw, feel what he felt, know what he thought only Fu Tsong could know.

  Geoffrey was pleased with the scene. It didn’t make him cry or leap for joy but it was deeply satisfying to find a theatrical moment so fully realized. He also knew that the moment touched those watching in the house. Even the cackling house manager and costume mistress had shut up for a moment. He knew that the blond woman was in the back, one row behind Fong. He knew that she had put a hand on Fong’s shoulder. But he didn’t really care. The moment he had staged was something that he and Fu Tsong had planned for their production of Twelfth Night. The one they had never gotten to do.

  The moment was broken for actors and viewers alike when the house manager decided that she just had to talk to the costumer—in a voice that could cut cheese at thirty paces. When Geoffrey first came to China he let this kind of thing pass. But not anymore. Without a moment’s hesitation he turned and pointing at the woman, yelled in fluent Mandarin, “If you have something to say, you cow of a woman, pick up your fat ass and say it outside.”

  She yelled something back at him, which he assumed had to do with him being a stinking long nose who was lucky to be invited into the Middle Kingdom and if he didn’t mind his manners she’d grind up his dick and serve it to his children as dumplings. . . or something like that.

  Whatever it was, he ignored it and turned back to the actors. It pleased him that she was upset, but when he looked back out into the house a few moments later it was he
who was upset. Upset to see that Fong and the blond woman had left the theatre.

  Nights in April in Shanghai can be chilly, especially if the dampness from the sea comes inland. And this was such a night. Amanda was wearing only summer clothing and she shivered slightly in the damp. Fong saw it and for a moment thought of offering her his coat but stopped himself. Somehow the offer of a coat was a first step in a process that he was not sure that he was interested in, or even capable of completing. So they walked side by side without contact, but closer to each other than either would openly admit.

  This did not escape the eyes of Loa Wei Fen.

  The very fact of their closeness awoke a pang of jealousy deep in the assassin’s heart but he controlled it. This would not be like the last time with the black man.

  There was no time limit on this kill. He would do it properly. He would be patient. Resume control. And when completely sure of his quarry, strike. This way he could once more move to the edge of the roof. Perhaps even leap to the slender path with the other lion cubs.

  Dearest Sister,

  I spent a large part of today with the head of Special Investigations, Shanghai District. I was his “ivory date.” I’ll explain another time.

  This evening I sought out his company in the back of a darkened theatre, and later still he walked me back to my hotel through the never empty, but gratefully quieter, night streets of this enormous city. The air was cold and I was wearing only a blouse and a cotton skirt. I know that he saw me shiver, and I know that he thought of offering me his coat, but I know he didn’t offer because it would appear forward. We did not touch all the way to the hotel. Nor did we talk, not a word. But as we approached the lobby I picked up my pace so that he had to hurry to keep up with me—through the door and directly to the bank of elevators, one of which, thankfully, was open. I do believe he followed me simply to have a chance to say good night. To be polite. Nothing more. But with the elevator door closing I noticed that it was now he who chose not to speak. He followed me silently to my room. Once inside I sat down on the bed and turned to him, I would guess a flush was on my cheek. He looked at me as if I were a series of lines and planes. As if he were at an art gallery and I was a piece on view. It was a unique and wonderful experience to be looked at that way. Then he drew up a chair at the end of the bed and sat on it. I don’t know the directions but if I was facing west he was facing east, our heads were side by side. I leaned toward him and could smell the earth. He didn’t kiss me. His hands touched, no, explored my face, as an artist does a piece of granite he is about to sculpt. Then his right hand slowly moved down my neck between my breasts and he lifted my skirt. I parted for him as his hand, inside my panties, encompassed me. Cool fingers, knowing fingers. With a shock I realized that I had my eyes shut. I opened them. He was looking into my face and inviting me to look back into his. Searching. So I did, first look and then touch. His hand still on me, a finger now gently inside, a thumb performing magic—I reached for him. A shift, a button loosed, a zipper pulled and he was in my hand, cool and hard to the touch.

  He found a rhythm for me and I for him. Fingers stroking, coated, our eyes locked together, no speech except the symphony of touch and intent.

  Asians call it the clouds and the rain.

  It poured that night.

  Pray for me, Your Sister, A.

  Loa Wei Fen took note of Amanda’s hotel room number. Then he headed back down the stairs and, although he knew he shouldn’t, raced toward the release he knew he could find only in the arms of the opium whore, Wu Yeh.

  The man with the hoarse voice read the e-mail report from Loa Wei Fen. He appreciated that Mr. Lo wanted to go slowly this time. He turned to his assistant and, handing him the printout, said, “Has Taiwan supplied the necessary information about Mr. Lo to the police?”

  “They will do as you asked.”

  “Good. Now let us twist the arm of the local police a little to throw off Inspector Zhong Fong—just in case Mr. Lo is not up to the task.”

  There was a polite bow, and the plan was put into action—the end now in sight.

  DAY EIGHT

  Shrug and Knock was smiling as Fong came into the office the next morning. The smile was so startling that Fong knew something was seriously amiss. So, without entering his office, he walked right past the door and exited down the exterior stairway. Once outside he crossed over to the promenade and waited in line at the crowded phone kiosk. When his turn finally came he called Lily.

  “What’s up?” he queried in English.

  “Really, but I think that’s unlikely, don’t you?” replied Lily uncharacteristically in content, tone and her use of Shanghanese.

  “Someone’s there so you can’t talk?”

  “Yes, I believe we in this office have answered that request before.” She then pretended to rifle through some files and continued, “Yes, we have, and what you say is true.”

  “What’s wrong, Lily? Come on, tell me, what’s his Hu-ness up to?”

  “Well yes, we are approaching an indictment in the case of that woman’s death in the Pudong. Yes, in fact we are waiting to make an arrest even as we speak.”

  Fong didn’t need to hear any more. He understood. He didn’t know how long she continued to talk, he simply held the phone in his hand with no words coming to his mouth. The young man behind him claimed with a piercing yell that his beeper was getting heavy he had so many calls to return. Fong looked at the man as in a dream and, handing over the phone, walked to the river side of the promenade. The Pudong was booming across the water. Rising like a live thing taking sustenance from the very ground. . . the very ground where his wife and unborn child lay buried in cold obstruction.

  He walked to the north end of the promenade and then crossed the Bund and walked up Beijing Road, the longest hardware store in the world. For over two and a half miles, the stores on both sides of the street sell nothing but hardware—all kinds and sizes, but in Fong’s experience never the piece you needed to fix the broken light switch in your room. Beijing Road was less travelled than most of the east-west roadways and Fong felt exposed. He crossed the street and headed north a block to the Su Zhou Creek. In fewer than twenty steps he was back in old China—sampans and river barges, people cleaning their clothes in the filthy stream. It calmed him enough to allow him to think.

  He knew they had investigated Fu Tsong’s death. He knew they still had questions. He didn’t know who was in charge of the investigation.

  That being the case, he may have already made a fatal error by calling Lily, but he didn’t think so. It occurred to him as he watched an elderly woman washing her dishes in the brown water that it was Lily he chose to call, not Wang Jun. He couldn’t justify his choice, nor at this moment did he wish to think about it. He’d try to contact Lily again. There were certain pieces of information that he needed. Today was the day he was to hear from Dung Tsu Hong the pimp, Shen Lai the customs broker/tong connection, and from the money changer. He was also anxious to get Li Xiao’s report from Taipei. But as he walked along the river, Why now? was the only real thought in his head.

  Why were they reopening the investigation into Fu Tsong’s death now? Because I was getting close? It had to be. But close to the killer? No. Now they were trying to give me the killer. They had gone so far as to make Taipei cooperate, no mean feat. I must be getting close to the one who bought the killer’s services. Who owns him.

  “Power,” Fong said aloud.

  He headed back, away from the creek, toward the book shop on Han Kou, which in the thirties had been the fanciest brothel in Shanghai. He went to the newspaper section in the back and began reading through the papers. The coverage of Ngalto Chomi’s death was still front-page news. This truly loved African had touched the hearts of so many that there was a constant stream of testimonials to his goodness and the horror of his death. The papers also had more of the specifics than before. Still nothing about the heart, so the old coroner was clean—for the time being.

>   The death had even made it into the International Herald Tribune under the headline ZAIRIAN CONSUL MURDERED IN BUSY SHANGHAI ALLEY. The word was getting out. The message was disseminating worldwide. They’d hit the mother of all communication with this one. No one gave a fuck that Richard Fallon was dead but the world seemed to mourn the passing of Ngalto Chomi. An ironic twist on the usual story, thought Fong. White man ignored, ethnic gets all the attention. Well, maybe the world was changing.

  As he was about to leave the shop, he saw an edition of the New York Times. He picked it up. On the back page of the first section was a full-page advertisement telling the Western world that Shanghai was free of smuggled ivory. That Shanghai cared about the endangered species of the world. That Shanghai was their kind of town. The only thing missing was the phrase Invest Now! Two murders was a small price to pay for the continuation of the lifeblood of Shanghai, Western money.

  Fong felt sick. He and Richard Fallon and Ngalto Chomi had been nothing more than pawns in a game. But now he was on the run, and he knew that they were serious about getting him. One more bloody stain meant nothing to these men.

  Loa Wei Fen felt the smoke curl down his throat, slither through his belly and clutch at his groin. He felt the beast on his back rear in angry protest. But then she was there to lull the monster and awaken the man.

  She’d been awakening this man for several days now Slowly the man had spoken of things in his opium dreams. Dark things. The opium works differently on different people. The keepers of the drug know this and are wary of the signs that the drug is opening deeply placed, often hidden, doors in the smokers.

  On his first night with her he had screamed in his sleep, “Old man, you stink of rotted paper,” and pushed her away. Later he had curled up and suckled at her breast for almost an hour, which seemed to give him peace and allow him to sleep. Lately his “reachings” had been incoherent jabs of speech and slashes with his body. But yesterday he had cried out in anger at her, “You love the black man, not me.” For a moment she was sure that he had awakened, that the opium had trailed with the dawn. But as she looked, his eyes had rolled all the way back in his head and the drug had taken him on another dream-filled loop.