by M J Lee
A woman stood in the doorway. ‘Can I help you?’
She was tall and elegantly dressed in a white shirt trimmed with lace and a brown embroidered silk skirt that reached just beneath her knees. Her hair was cut in the fashionable page-boy style that the magazines had been touting was the latest trend for Chinese women.
She was obviously a woman who followed the latest trends.
‘My name is Detective Sergeant Strachan,’ he began in a tone that he recognised as being far more formal than usual. ‘I’m investigating the murder of the Lee family two nights ago.’
‘That was shocking, wasn’t it? And in this neighbourhood too. You can imagine it in other parts of the city, but here?’ She moved into the room and sat on the sofa. ‘Do sit down.’ She indicated one of the armchairs. Strachan sat down and immediately sank into the soft embrace of the cushions. He moved forward, trying to make himself comfortable, balancing his notebook on his knee while sitting on the edge of the chair.
‘Were you the man climbing on the roof yesterday?’ She smiled as she looked at his torn jacket and dirty trousers.
‘You saw me?’
‘My maid saw you. She wanted to call the police. But I said you probably were police. Would you like a cigarette?’ She opened the box on the side table. Strachan shook his head. She took one, lit it with the silver desk lighter and blew a long, blue stream of smoke towards the door.
A woman who smokes, thought Strachan, definitely a modern type. His mother would be horrified at the thought of a woman smoking in public. So undignified, she thought. Yet he knew his mother often enjoyed a cigarette in the peace and calm of her own kitchen. He wasn’t supposed to know, of course.
‘How can I help you?’ she asked again.
‘My name is Detective Sergeant Strachan...’
‘We’ve done that bit before.’
The woman was smiling at him. ‘What can you tell me about the Lees?’
‘Not a lot. They moved in here about a month ago. We’re all pretty new. They seemed a very nice family. Quiet, kept themselves to themselves. He was an accountant, I think. Neither myself nor my father talked to them much. Just said hello if we met them in the lane.’
‘Your father?’
‘He’s away on business.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘How do you know Mr Lee was an accountant?’
The woman smiled and exhaled another long breath of smoke. ‘The maids, they gossip constantly. They know more about us than we do ourselves, I think.’
‘What can you tell me about the night the Lees were murdered?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. We were at the theatre that evening. We got back at 11.30 pm...’
‘That’s quite late.’
‘We went for supper at the Rendezvous Club. I think my father likes jazz even more than I do.’
‘Anybody with you?’
‘No, just the two of us.’ A frown creased her forehead between the eyes. ‘Sergeant Strachan, do you suspect my father and me?’
Strachan sighed. ‘No, Miss...’
‘Grace. Grace Chong.’
‘Miss Chong, I’m just trying to establish what happened that night.’
She relaxed a little and the frown vanished.
‘You got back at 11.30?’
‘It was mayhem here. Police cars in the Alley and strange men traipsing up and down. Then we found out that the Lees had been murdered.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Our maid. She had been here alone that night while we were out.’
‘Could I speak to her?’
Grace Chong stood up and stubbed out her cigarette. Strachan couldn’t help but admire the long and shapely curve of her calves and ankles. ‘Won’t be a sec,’ she said as she left the room.
‘Just before you go, Miss Chong.’
‘You can call me Grace, Detective.’
‘Grace. Have you been interviewed by the police before?’
‘No, you are the first one. I thought that was a bit strange. In all the novels I’ve read, the police always interview the neighbours. But I thought they just hadn’t got round to it yet. Or maybe they had already caught the criminals so there was no need. And then you turned up today.’
‘Like a bad penny.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ she said as she left to get the maid.
Strachan finished writing up his notes on the interview, but his mind was distracted. Concentrate, he told himself.
The door opened again and the maid stepped in uncertainly, Grace Chong behind her. ‘I’ll leave you two alone, call if you need me.’
‘Good morning, sir.’ The maid curtsied.
It was obvious from her voice that the Ah Yi had just come to Shanghai from the country. She still had that country burr and slowness in speaking that was very different from the sharp Shanghai tones, and fast, machine-gun speech of the city.
‘Take a seat. And please don’t call me “sir”. I’m Detective Sergeant Strachan.’
She remained standing.
He concentrated on the notebook in his hand, the pen poised over the pristine white pages. ‘How long have you been in Shanghai?’
‘Not long,’ she said tentatively, ‘just two months.’
‘You came from Jiangsu?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Your accent. You have the classic southern Wa intonation.’
‘I’m from Wuxi.’
‘My family is from Suzhou.’
‘But you don’t look Chinese.’
‘My father was Scottish.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘A foreigner, from the West. My mother was from Suzhou.’
‘You’re a half-breed?’
Strachan winced at the bluntness of the question. For years, he had suffered the same taunts at school; ‘Half-breed, half-breed, bad seed, no need,’ they had chanted in the playground. It had continued until he grew bigger and then it had stopped. His fists had seen to that. Now, its repetition had struck something within him once again, opening up old wounds. ‘Yes, I’m half-Chinese,’ he answered weakly.
‘Don’t see many of your types in the countryside.’
‘No, I suppose not. You were here the night the Lees were murdered?’
Instantly, the maid’s face changed. She looked down and whispered, ‘I was.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
She shook her head.
Strachan realised a different, more gentle approach was needed. ‘Can you tell me your name then?’
‘White Cloud, but everybody calls me Ah Yen.’
‘A pretty name.’
‘My father gave it to me. All our girls have “Cloud” in their names. There’s Pure Cloud, my eldest sister, Honest Cloud, the next. Then me. And finally, Devout Cloud.’
‘You have no brothers?’
‘Just the one. The youngest. My father was over the moon when he was born. No more clouds. He’s still studying. All the girls are working to help with his studies.’
She was talking more confidently now, so Strachan decided it was time to bring her back to the Lees.
‘You’ve been working here for two months?’
She nodded.
‘You must have known the Lees’ maid well?’
‘Her name is Ah Ching, she comes from the same county. Her village is about five miles away from mine.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘A hard worker, loves to talk. We often chat together when we go to market.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Our jobs, home, the people we work for. The Missie is kind, but she’s a little strange. Her clothes and her ideas, well, she wouldn’t last long with my father, I’ll tell you.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t.’ They both laughed. Strachan took a moment and then he asked, ‘What did she tell you about the Lees, Ah Yen?’
The maid looked down again. ‘Not a lot. A strange family, the maid said. T
he sir was an accountant who worked in the French part of the city. She stayed at home most days. Didn’t go out much. Ah Ching spent most of her time with the children.’
‘Strange? In what way?’
‘I don’t know. Not happy.’
‘Is that what Ah Ching said?’
She leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘She told me that a wicked spirit had taken the girl’s legs and that was why she couldn’t walk. The spirit was angry with the girl’s father for leaving the girl’s mother.’
‘This wasn’t the girl’s mother?’
‘Well, she was the birth mother, but she was a second wife. The first wife lived somewhere else in the city.’
‘Have you seen Ah Ching since that evening?’’
The young maid looked up immediately and fidgeted, twisting her hands together. ‘No, no, I haven’t. She’s gone away.’
‘But she was in the house that evening?’
Again, the maid fidgeted. ‘You’ll have to ask her. I don’t know.’
Strachan knew she was lying but decided to let it be for the moment. ‘Let’s go back to that night, you know the one I mean. Tell me what happened.’
The girl was silent for a moment. ‘The Miss and her father had gone out earlier. I was just doing some ironing in the kitchen. I heard a bang from next door. Like something metal had fallen, you know. The walls here are not that thick, not like my village at home. And without the Miss playing her music, well, it’s sometimes so loud that…’
Strachan held up his hand. ‘You heard a bang…’
‘And then there was more, but later. I thought Ah Ching had dropped something or the girl was being punished.’
‘Punished?’
Once again, the maid became flustered. ‘I don’t know,’ she stammered, ‘you’ll have to ask Ah Ching.’
She stood as if to leave. Strachan gently helped her to sit down. ‘What happened next?’
‘Nothing happened.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, nothing happened for a long while then I heard the police sirens. There were lots of men running in and out of the Lees’ house, making such a racket. Scared me it did.’
‘How did you find out that the Lees were dead?’
‘I crept into the courtyard and listened. The policemen were shouting about the Lees being murdered.’ She sat back on the sofa and shivered. ‘I don’t think I can stay here any longer. Their ghosts are still wandering around.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Their ghosts. I heard them hammering just before you came. Like they want to escape from the house but are being held back. I can’t stay here any longer. I’m leaving on Saturday, told the Miss already. She doesn’t want me to go, but I must. It’s the ghosts you see, they might want to get me too.’
‘Thank you, Ah Yen.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes, but I might come back and ask a few more questions.’
‘I’m leaving on Saturday.’ She stood up and walked to the door.
‘One last question before you go.’ She turned back to Strachan, her hand still on the doorknob. He had been taught by Danilov to save the most important question to the last. To wait until the interviewee thought they had escaped and their guard was down. He tried it now with the maid. ‘What happened to the maid from next door? What happened to Ah Ching?’
She burst into tears and rushed out of the room.
Grace Chong appeared in the doorway. ‘Well, Detective Strachan, you certainly have a way with women.’
‘Thank you, Miss Chong.’
‘Grace.’
‘Grace. I may have to come back to interview your maid when she’s calmed down. But she talked of ghosts in the Lees’ house. Have you heard anything?’
She laughed. ‘You know these country girls, Detective, seeing ghosts everywhere. I heard hammering yesterday, but I thought it was the police who had come back.’
‘Thank you for your time. I’ll let myself out.’
‘I’ll show you to the door.’
They both walked out into the courtyard. The sobs of the maid in the rear of the house broke up the quiet stillness of the autumn day.
‘I may have to come back to interview her again.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’ And then she closed the door on Strachan, leaving him facing the red wood.
‘Good day,’ he said to the closed door.
Chapter 33
Danilov walked along the Bund towards the North China Daily News offices. He loved this part of Shanghai. The broad thoroughfare bustled with people, traffic and noise. Rickshaw drivers hunted for customers, continually shouting ‘Ride, ride,’ to all those too well-dressed to be walking. The ancient sampans, bobbing up and down with the rise and fall of the waves, as they had done for years, and would continue to do for eons to come, ceaselessly ferrying passengers, cargo and livestock from the freighters moored in the river to the wharves that lined its banks. The coolies singing as they unloaded the tramp steamers, dreaming of their next pipe of opium with every step and every sack. And the well-dressed movers and shakers of Shanghai, looking for the finance for their next deal, hurrying down the Bund into the myriad of banks that lined its busy pavements.
Danilov loved its energy, bustle and buzz. But above all, he loved its anonymity. Here, he was no one, just another faceless man walking the broad thoroughfare. Nobody bothered him. Nobody asked any questions. Nobody wanted answers. He was just himself, smoking one of his hand-rolled cigarettes, taking in the sights, sounds and smells.
But he knew it had to end soon. Boyle was pressing him to solve the case. And there was his own reputation as a detective. He knew he was disliked by the other police but if he failed to solve this murder, would that dislike turn to hatred? Boyle tolerated him because he solved cases but how long would that toleration continue if he failed this time?
If he didn’t find the answers and quickly, the powers-that-be would start to panic, fearing the voice of the man he was going to see and the questioning of their competence to rule over the city.
He knew how precarious that rule was. Hadn’t he lived through one revolution already? Its turmoil separated families, killed children and destroyed whatever humanity existed between people. Revolutions eat their young and devour the innocent. He knew, just by looking around, seeing the conditions of the people of this city, that revolution was inevitable in China. He didn’t know when it would come, but it would. And its midwife was usually the chaos and anarchy of war.
He reached the steps of the North China Daily News at number 17. Up above him, two towers soared into the sky with the British flag on one and that of the Shanghai Municipal Council flying on the other.
Two Grecian goddesses flanked either side of the steps. He touched one lightly on the leg and said a quick prayer in Russian for good luck. The rational part of him said that it was no use. He would solve this case by his wits and his intelligence, not by the intervention of some supernatural power. But the Russian in him still believed in the old ways.
After negotiating the usual line-up of commissionaires and functionaries, Danilov’s warrant card had quickly gained him entry to the sanctum of the editor.
‘Hello, Danilov, I wondered when you would turn up.’ The editor was a gruff northern Englishman, whose large pasty face was topped by two unruly eyebrows, like hairy caterpillars living on a marble statue.
He didn’t get up from behind his desk. Danilov sat down facing him without being asked.
‘If it’s about the pictures yesterday, it’s news. Bloody good story. Had to print a special edition, before those bastards at the Shanghai Evening Post got them.’
‘I would have liked to have seen them before they were printed.’
‘Aye, and pigs would like to fly.’
‘I’d like to see them now. Plus the others you didn’t print.’
‘How d’ye know there’s more?’
‘There’s always more.’
‘And w
hat’s in it for me?’
‘The respect and gratitude of the Shanghai Municipal Police Force.’
‘Respect and gratitude, my arse. That shite don’t sell newspapers.’ He rubbed his fat cheeks with the back of his hands like a hamster after eating. ‘How about letting us know where the investigation’s goin’? We’ve heard Cowan ballsed up the Lee case and the arrest. Could be a sweetener in it for you if you come through.’
Money, always money, thought Danilov, the currency that ran Shanghai. ‘I’m not interested in your money, Mr Earnshaw, just arresting the killer. Now, can I see the photographs or not?’
‘An honest copper. Not many of those in Shanghai. You know my dad used to say a good police force is one that catches more criminals than it employs.’
‘So did mine.’
‘Still let you become a copper, though.’
Danilov thought back to the day he had told his father that he was joining the Imperial Police in Minsk. The long silence before his father looked up from his desk and signalled for him to leave the room. He went ahead and they never spoke again. His father felt that his son had betrayed his ideals and his ideas. For Danilov, it was just the opposite.
Earnshaw sighed, leaned forward and reached for the intercom on his desk. ‘Just remember, I gave you these, Danilov.’ He then pressed a switch on the machine. ‘Miss Chang, ask Mr Thomas to come in with the photographs.’
Danilov was surprised to hear a tinny, female voice reply from out of the box. ‘Certainly, Mr Earnshaw, right away.’ Modern life, he thought, new machines that save fat men from getting up from their desks.
The door opened and Albert Thomas walked in carrying a brown envelope, followed by the secretary.
‘Here they are, Mr Earnshaw.’
‘You do realise it is an offence to withhold evidence in a murder enquiry?’ Danilov told him.
‘I didn’t withhold anything. My photographer slipped away before your lot herded us into the room.’ He held his arms up. ‘Couldn’t stop him, could I?’
‘Will your guest want some tea?’ the secretary asked.
‘No, Inspector Danilov doesn’t accept gifts from the newspapers, not even tea. Leave us.’
