by M J Lee
Chapter 27
Danilov watched as the old woman placed the small black ball of opium on the end of a needle, warming it in the flame of a spirit lamp. She was sat on the edge of his divan, her thin black-clad body sheathed in an ancient chi pao.
Next to him, another man had just finished his pipe and lay back into the silk-covered cushions, relaxing into his dreams. Across the way, another older man was reading a Chinese newspaper, his pipe clenched between his teeth as he turned the pages.
Danilov saw the headlines and, even though they were written in Chinese, he knew they detailed the murder of Mr Kao on the steps of the police station.
Danilov came here quite often. It was just round the corner from the morgue, and he visited it when he wanted to get rid of the stench of death and pain from his bones.
She placed the small ball of opium into the bowl of the pipe and lit it, passing the pipe to him.
He took a few deep mouthfuls of smoke, waiting for the drug to take hold.
Nothing.
And then he felt the muscles of his legs and knees relax. A warmth and immense feeling of ease spread up through his body, across his chest and into his head, infesting every inch of his brain.
He lay back on the bed and the old woman took the pipe from him, laying it down on the tray next to his divan.
At last, he could feel nothing.
No death.
No pain.
No hurt.
And above all, no guilt.
The face of his daughter appeared above his bed, floating as if disembodied. She began to speak to him, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying.
‘What was that Elina? What are you trying to tell me?’
But her face had vanished, replaced by that of the girl he had seen in the morgue. But this face was happy and smiling. An animated face, full of life and vivacity. Not the pale white pinched corpse he had seen half an hour earlier.
He was glad she was happy. The warmth had returned to his body, filling it with pleasure and joy. A smile crossed his lips and he heard the words to a Russian song.
He remembered now. It was the song his wife used to sing when she sat by the fire, sewing. A song about love and loss.
How he missed her.
Chapter 28
Elina decided she would wait up for another ten minutes and, if father hadn’t come home, she would go to bed.
The evening at Loewenstein’s had been wonderful. They had talked about everything. Films. Music. The things he had seen. They had even talked about politics and agreed to disagree. He was an ardent supporter of the Revolution and of Comrade Stalin, seeing in him the hope for a brighter future for Russia. She was not so sure that such a future existed if it was based on war and death and suffering.
Then she had told him her story. How she had fled Minsk and Russia, finally arriving in Shanghai six months ago after her father had found her.
‘It would make a thrilling film,’ he said taking on the voice of one of the newsreel announcers. ‘The shocking story of a young woman facing an army of challenges and struggles in her desire to find her father.’
‘It would be a tragedy then.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my mother and brother are still missing.’
‘When did you last see them?’
‘A year ago in Vladivostok.’
‘I could help. My company has many contacts in the East of Russia.’
‘I couldn’t let you do that. It’s too much…I’ve only just met you. My father wouldn’t be happy.’
‘What does your father do here in Shanghai?’
‘He’s a policeman. A police inspector, actually.’
‘Sounds interesting. Does he investigate any interesting cases?’
‘I think he’s working on one now. The murder of a family, he told me.’
‘I read about that in the newspapers. Shocking story.’
And before she knew, she was telling Ivan all about her father; his life in the Imperial Police, his work in Russia, and how they had been separated after her father had been on a case in Moscow and couldn’t get back to Minsk.
Ivan was a good listener, he didn’t say much except to encourage her to carry on speaking.
When she had finished, he finally spoke. ‘It seems to me he was wrong to leave his family when times were difficult in Russia. Everything was too unpredictable.’
‘But he had another case…’
‘Even so, he shouldn’t have left.’
‘His work, it means everything to him.’
‘But to leave behind his family when there was so much danger…I wouldn’t have left you behind.’ He stared at her across the table.
She remembered becoming embarrassed and changing the subject, but the doubt remained in her mind. Had her father been wrong to leave them?
Later, he asked for her telephone number, but she had refused to give it. Eventually, he persuaded her to meet him again tomorrow for something to eat.
For the second time that night, she had to make a decision. ‘What time would you like to meet?’ she had finally said. The boldness of it all brought a smile to her face.
She looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. 11 pm. Time to go to bed now. She hoped she would be able to sleep. For the first time in a long time, she was actually looking forward to tomorrow.
She got up and switched on the desk lamp so her father would have light when he came home.
She hated to hear him stumbling alone in the dark.
Chapter 29
As Inspector Danilov lay on his divan, dreaming his dreams and hearing the song of his wife, the old woman picked up the telephone and dialled a short number. ‘He’s here again.’
There was no answer at the other end of the line. Just a click and a hum as the receiver was placed back on the cradle.
Never mind, the old woman thought, I have done what I was told. Nothing to do with me any more.
She returned to counting the evening’s takings, hoping that she had made enough to satisfy her husband’s need for opium.
She would let the Inspector sleep on for another fifteen minutes. His face looked so peaceful, it would be a shame to wake him.
DAY TWO
Chapter 30
It was a fresh November morning, the sky a deep eggshell blue. The businessman strode down the street, his rolled umbrella touching the ground in front of him, carefully avoiding the rubbish and dirt. Even in such a short walk, his spats and shoes had become covered in dust. No matter, his regular stop was just ahead.
‘Good morning, Mr Zhang, how are you?’
‘Busy, Ah Wei, very busy.’ He sat down in the middle of the three chairs parked at the corner of Canton Road. The shoeshine boy, actually an old man with white hair and brown-spotted hands, got to work immediately. His spats came off and a piece of linen lined the inside of his shoes, protecting his socks. Ah Wei smoothed the polish evenly over the black Oxford brogues, rubbing it in particularly where the sole met the upper. A vigorous shine with a brush that reached every eyelet and dimple in the leather was followed by a swift buff with a clean chamois cloth. He then wiped the spats to remove the dust and dirt, and refastened them around the businessman’s shoes and ankles.
Mr Zhang looked down at the shoes shining up at him. ‘I feel like a new man, Ah Wei.’
‘You look like a gentleman, Mr Zhang.’
He handed the old man 20 cents. It was much more than necessary, but he deserved it, and, as a successful businessman, he had to spread his wealth to those less fortunate than himself.
Mr Zhang walked the remaining twenty yards to his building. Up the stairs at the entrance and through the revolving doors. He always loved entering the lobby. Each time, he experienced a small frisson of delight as he gazed on its white marble, outlined with brass edging. Above him, on the ceiling, a painting of a Renaissance scene looked down on a floor patterned in brown and white tiles.
The concierge came from behind his desk and pressed the
lift button for him. ‘Good morning, Mr Zhang.’
‘Good morning, John.’ It always amused him that the concierge had a European name since he came from a small village in Chekiang. But that was the new way for young people. Modern names, modern manners, not like the old times.
Sometimes he missed the old days when the certainty of an Emperor on the throne made life a lot more predictable. These days, one survived by one’s wits or not at all.
He had survived and survived well.
The lift arrived. Inside a young boy in a pillbox hat and white uniform pulled aside the iron gates. ‘Good morning, Mr Zhang, you’re two minutes early today.’
‘Business knows no early or late, Alfred.’ Again, the modern name grated. ‘Work is work. It just needs to be done.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They rose in silence to the sixth floor. Alfred knew better than to speak to him once they had started their ascent. It was time to prepare himself to enter the office.
Work was work.
The lift greeted his arrival on the floor with the ring of a bell. Alfred opened the iron gates and Mr Zhang walked out. His office was facing the lift. On the frosted glass door, a stencilled sign in English and Chinese read, “The Greater Good Company” in bold, black letters.
He liked the name, created after much discussion with his brother and his wife. It sounded better in Chinese, of course. The translation into English always seemed a little stilted to him. But no matter, it had been a lucky name for him and his partners.
He opened the door. His secretary was already at her desk. ‘Good morning, Mr Zhang.’
‘Good morning, Susie.’ Again, the modern English name. Her real name was Ai Lin, which to his old-fashioned ears sounded far more beautiful and elegant. But she insisted on being called Susie.
‘Just two messages this morning, sir. A Mr Han called, can you call him back?’ She handed him a piece of paper with a number on it. ‘And your wife rang. She asked me to remind you about the charity dinner this evening at the Palace Hotel. You should go home early to change into your black tie.’
‘Thank you, Susie.’ He looked at the number in his hand. He would call it back later. Time to get settled first.
He opened the door to his office. It was elegantly, some would say opulently, furnished. A luxurious leather chair sat behind a large mahogany desk. More dark wood lined the walls, illuminated by a chandelier made of 334 different pieces of Bohemian glass. He knew because he had chosen it himself. You have to create the right impression for business he had said as he paid the extortionate amount that Wing On Department Store had demanded. In one corner was a sofa and chair, separated by a broad palm. He insisted on watering the palm himself. His secretary would have killed it in a couple of days. She had red hands, not green thumbs.
He sat behind the desk in his leather chair. His back straightened and he was in control of his world. He had worked hard to get where he was. It hadn’t been easy leaving his village at eleven years old and coming to the big city. He’d never been back to his home town. Why should he bother? His parents had pushed himself and his brother out as soon as they were both old enough.
It was hard getting started in his business, himself and his brother had to prove themselves. Unfortunately, his brother had died just as they were beginning to make it. One of the hazards of the business they were in.
And it was a spectacularly lucrative business. He merely acted as a middleman, contacted by clients and passing the work on to third-party contractors, all for 30% of the cost of the job. He never met the clients and avoided meeting the contractors unless it was absolutely necessary. All contact after the contract was signed was between the client and the contractor, never with him.
He had professionalised the chaotic system that had existed previously, introducing daily rates, expenses and a price list. A threat was $1,000. A threat with violence was $3,000. A maiming involving the loss of an arm or leg was $7,000. And a termination, or a series of terminations, began at $10,000, rising with negotiation dependent on the difficulty and complexity of the task.
His continued profitability, and that of his company, depended upon the perception of reliability and infallibility. Clients trusted him to get the job done and done well.
He pulled out three contracts from the left-hand drawer. The first had been completed successfully. The client was extremely pleased and they were looking to repeat the order later in the year. The second was a government contract. Or at least, it was a contract from a member of the government, what little government there was. This was from Nanking. An official was having trouble with one of his suppliers. He picked up the phone and asked the secretary to make an appointment with Mr Chen, one of his usual contractors. He was sure Mr Chen was right for the job. He would handle the matter with tact and diligence.
A frown crossed Mr Zhang’s face as he picked up the third contract. He was losing control of this account. It should have been an easy job, but it seemed to have escalated well past the scope of the work. Susie had placed yesterday evening’s newspaper next to the contract. Why had Mr Han chosen such a dramatic location? A quieter place than the steps of the police station would have achieved the result with half the publicity or perhaps no publicity at all.
Performing his duties in such an obvious manner had drawn attention to his activities. Had Mr Han fallen in love with the dramatics of his profession and forgotten the desired outcome? What a shame, he was usually so reliable.
Mr Zhang would have to get involved himself. He rarely returned to the front line these days, but it was important to occasionally keep his hand in. Show his contractors that the boss could still do the business, that he hadn’t gone soft sitting in his office.
He sighed. It was all a little annoying. A simple job that had gone out of control. Perhaps he would have to terminate the operator. He disliked terminating his contractors but when it had to be done, he didn’t flinch. It was part of his job as a boss. And one of the reasons he was so successful was because he didn’t tolerate mistakes.
His operatives knew it, and his clients knew it.
Success bred more success and he wasn’t about to relinquish all he had achieved because one operative had been less than competent.
He closed the file. Time to get to work. ‘Susie,’ that ugly name again, ‘please arrange a meeting with Mr Han at 11 am. Tell him at the usual place. He will understand.’
‘Not the office, Mr Zhang?’
‘No, not the office this time.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He never used the office when he had a difficult meeting and perhaps a termination to perform at the end of it. Far too public. Mr Zhang smiled. It would be good to get back to work once again. The daily grind in the office was beginning to pall with him, despite its luxurious surroundings.
Murder was an excellent business, a lucrative business. And his operation, known by his clients as Murder Inc, was well managed, the most efficient in the city, and perhaps in China. It was the best and Mr Zhang was intent on keeping it that way. He had always operated with a money-back guarantee, Either his operatives carried out their assignment to the client’s satisfaction or the job was finished by him until they were satisfied.
Mr Zhang had never failed and he wasn’t about to start now. Mr Han would solve this problem or he would solve it for him. Terminally.
He relaxed back in his leather chair. Maybe it would soon be time to expand to other cities. Peking possibly, or even Hong Kong. Perhaps later he would accept contracts from the rest of Asia: Singapore, Manila, Bangkok or Kuala Lumpur. He would stay with the Chinese community, though. He wouldn’t accept work from foreigners.
All he had to do first was solve this little local difficulty with Mr Han. That contract on the Lee family had definitely gone out of control.
Chapter 31
Danilov stood in front of the entrance to the morgue and smoked a cigarette.
In front of him, Shanghai bustled about its business. Rickshaw
s danced down the street, narrowly avoiding trams. Hawkers extolled the merits of their sweet potatoes, soft felt shoes or hand-made brushes, perfect for untangling knots in hair. The latest Fords, Chevrolets and Dodges raced past, the businessmen at the wheel oblivious to anything but the latest deal, investments or stock prices. Modern women with bobbed hair strode confidently past wrinkled old ladies tottering on their butterfly feet. Coolies bounced along, their cargo balanced on a bamboo pole slung across their shoulders.
But Danilov saw none of the beauty and chaos of Shanghai. His mind was focused on the crimes: four people from the same family shot dead in their own home, a newspaper seller accused of the murder but who seemed innocent, shot on the steps of a police station, and a policeman who had vanished in the middle of an investigation.
What was the pattern that linked them all? He knew it was there, he could feel it, almost touch it with his mind. Like a jigsaw where you have all of the pieces in your hand, but they look like they come from different puzzles.
He took a last, long drag on the cigarette, feeling the warm smoke fill his lungs before throwing the stub into the gutter.
As he went in, a shiver arced down his spine and he crossed himself, whispering the prayers of his youth beneath his breath. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but the atmosphere of the morgue infected him with an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Perhaps, it was the pristine tiled walls, or the stench of formaldehyde or even the feeling of loss, immense loss, that had soaked into the place like a sponge absorbing blood.
It hadn’t always been like this. But recently, the feeling had been getting worse, growing within him. He would have to control it. His life, his work, was spent here surrounded by the smell of death. How could he solve their murders if he couldn’t face their corpses?
His footsteps echoed on the tiled floors as he pushed open the swing doors into the main barrel-vaulted room of the morgue. Dr Fang was sitting behind one of the wooden tables eating a bowl of noodles. In front of him, the naked body of what had once been a man lay on the stainless steel lining of the table.
