City of Shadows

by M J Lee

  ‘He looks guilty. I wonder what he did?’

  ‘He committed terrible crimes against policemen,’ said Danilov.

  ‘You can see it in his eyes.’ She turned the page of the Police yearbook, treating all the pictures of the detectives as if they were mugshots.

  Then she turned to the page that Danilov was waiting for. She stopped, moving her head closer to the album. ‘Do you have a side shot of this one? I saw the man from the side.’

  ‘This is the only picture of him.’

  She moved the page closer to her face, staring intently at the photograph. Then she shivered and threw the book down on the table, leaning back to avoid looking at it any more. ‘That’s him. That’s the man who was in the Lees’ house.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Danilov.

  She glanced at the book out of the corner of her eyes and quickly looked away again. ‘That’s him. I’m sure.’

  Danilov turned the open book around to face him. A picture of an unsmiling Gordon Cowan stared back out at him.

  ‘Got him,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘Can I go now? I have to help Madam cook the soup for the boy.’ She pointed at Strachan.

  ‘Take her home, Strachan. I have to go and interview somebody.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to drive you, sir?’

  ‘Not this time.’ He gestured towards the maid, who was till staring at the picture in the yearbook. ‘Look after her, she’s our most important witness. I’ll meet you back here after lunch. You’re having soup, I believe.’

  ‘Where are you going, sir?’

  ‘To meet the one person who has been conspicuous by their absence throughout this investigation.’

  ‘You sound cryptic, sir.’

  Danilov put on his coat and hat. ‘Ockham’s razor, Strachan.’

  ‘And now you sound crazy, sir.’

  As he left Central Police Station, Danilov stopped and looked down at the spot where, just two days ago, Mr Kao had been shot to death. There was little to show that a man had died there. The blood had been washed away. The tent guarding the body had been dismantled. The chalk outline vanished into thin air. Nothing remained to show a murder had been committed.

  A wave of sadness washed over Danilov as he stared at the clean steps. Washed away and forgotten as if he had never existed. Are all our lives of such little consequence? Will no one remember us?

  No point in thinking about that now, Danilov, you have work to do. ‘Let’s go.’

  Chapter 79

  Danilov stepped out of the taxi in front of the cemetery on Shantung Road. Above him, the old fire watchtower loomed, its stone walls festooned with creepers. In the past, he had visited this place to see the old gravestones that lay, forlorn and unkempt, strewn around its untidy grounds. Gravestones that told the story of the early Europeans in Shanghai, some living to prosperous old age, but most dying young, far away from their home.

  Some people might find it strange, visiting a cemetery, but Danilov found peace there. And a reminder of his own mortality.

  He glanced at the graves facing the road. The stones were engraved with the names of those who had come from America and Britain to make their fortunes in the wild East. The saddest graves were those of the young children, who died of the flux or the fever, long before they had the chance to discover the joys of youth, or the heartache of old age.

  He walked past the cemetery and turned left onto Canton Road. This was an old area, a place for a first wife to live. He would have to find out her proper name even though he knew, for Chinese people, she would be forever known as the ‘first wife’.

  As he walked, he remembered his own wife. It was nearly four years since he had last seen her. Four years since he had held her in his arms. Four years since he had kissed her. Her face, her lips, even the colour of her hair was beginning to fade. It was funny how the memory played tricks on you. Some things from his youth, a day at the park, a morning in school, were as clear as if they had happened yesterday. But his own wife’s face, whom he had held with his own hands and kissed with his lips, had faded.

  An old lady wearing an extravagant mink stole brushed past him. He had forgotten that this was the fur district. Ornate shops displaying the latest styles, colours and cuts clustered on the street, intermingled with old curio shops, selling the trinkets that the tourists bought by the boatload.

  The area was different from the one occupied by the Lee family. To go there from here must have been a leap. As if they were escaping from a life they no longer wanted to live.

  He checked the address that Strachan had given him. Here was the number, sandwiched between two curio shops. The ornate Ching vases, stone pillows, dancing ivory figurines and cloisonné bowls scattered on the street with little care.

  He knocked on the door. Nothing. And then the patter of soft-soled feet. The door was opened by a maid who looked exactly like the one from the Lees’ house. She spoke to him in Chinese. He answered in his pidgin, ‘Number one woman, here or not?’

  The maid shrugged her shoulders and shut the door. Danilov was left standing on the doorstep. He was about to knock again when the door opened. ‘My maid said there was a big nose here. She was right.’ The woman spoke English with a heavy accent that matched the size of her body.

  ‘I’m Inspector Danilov of the Shanghai Police. I’d like to talk to you about...’

  ‘The death of my husband.’ She finished his sentence as if she had been expecting the words. ‘Well, come in, I haven’t got all day.’

  Danilov took off his hat and entered. Inside the house was dark, stuffy and warm. Too warm. A blazing fire burnt in the living room, giving off enough heat to bake bread. She noticed that he was looking at the fire.

  ‘I have cold blood,’ she said, ‘the doctors have advised me to keep a fire going in the autumn. It chases away the chills.’

  He decided to be direct with this woman. He took off his coat and laid it on the sofa. The woman sat down. There was no offer of tea.

  ‘Where were you on the night of the murder of your husband? The 6th of November?’

  ‘At the Opera on Foochow Road, with my maid and three friends.’

  ‘They can vouch for that?’

  ‘My maid is here. Ask her. As for the friends, ask them.’

  ‘We will, Mrs Lee, we will.’ Danilov didn’t like this woman. There was a defiance in all her answers that was her attempt to suggest confidence and a lack of care. But he could see through the tough exterior. There was brittleness inside. A weakness that, like a fine crack on one of the porcelain jars in the curio shops, could easily be broken.

  He pulled out his notebook and began writing. He wrote the names of his children and his wife, he wrote his address and then the names of a few detectives. He took his time, it would unnerve this woman.

  Finally, he looked up, placed his pen in the gap between the pages and closed it. ‘You don’t seem to be sad at the death of your husband.’

  ‘Why should I? He was a two-faced cheating bastard who gave his concubine everything that was mine. She spat out the word ‘concubine’ like a miner spitting a gob of coal dust.

  ‘What did he give her?’

  ‘My jewellery, my money, everything we had saved. All wasted on that whore. You know she used to be his secretary at that company of his?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘She had some sort of hold over him. Bought her that new house he did. When all I’m left with is this.’ She looked around at the dark walls and old furniture.

  ‘You went to the house last week?’

  ‘As soon as I found the new address. He should have been living with me. I was the first wife, not her. He should have been showering me with jewels and furs, not her.’

  ‘You sound bitter, Mrs Lee.’

  ‘I’m not bitter. I’m happy. I’m going to go to the temple and pray to the gods that they both rot in hell for the rest of their existence.’

  ‘And the children?’

 
She was silent for a moment. ‘My children.’

  Danilov pursed his lips. ‘Your children? I was told the mother was Mr Lee’s second wife?’

  ‘You forget, Inspector, in Chinese law the children of the concubine still belong to the first wife.’

  He could do with a cigarette now. Anything to take away the taste of this woman. ‘But you were divorced, Mrs Lee.’

  ‘We can’t be divorced. I never agreed to it. I’m still his wife.’

  Danilov took out the notebook again and made a note in it to remind him to check the status of the marriage. He stood up, picked up his coat and placed it across his arm.

  ‘You’re leaving? That’s all you want to ask?’

  Danilov nodded. He walked to the door and opened it, letting in a welcome draught of cool air.

  ‘When will you find the killers? I want the will to go through the lawyers as quickly as possible.’ The tone of her voice had changed, becoming coy almost coquettish.

  Danilov stopped and turned slowly back to face her.

  She smiled at him. He could see the girl through the powdered face. The young, selfish girl inhabiting the body of an older woman.

  ‘Who said anything about killers, Mrs Lee? I never mentioned anything about “killers”.’

  The smile vanished. ‘I just presumed there was more than one. I mean, it seems…’ she stammered.

  ‘One more question.’

  She stopped speaking and stared right at him.

  ‘When did you decide to have your husband murdered?’

  Chapter 80

  ‘Drink it all up, that’s a good boy.’

  Strachan slurped the last spoonful of soup that remained in his bowl, wiping his mouth with a napkin. The constable had finished his too, sitting back in his chair clasping his stomach. ‘That was good, the best I’ve had in years. I wish the wife made it like that.’

  ‘It’s Ah Ching’s recipe.’

  ‘But you added more ginger. And it seems to work much better with white radish than with carrot.’

  Both women were clearing the pots and left over bones from the table, sweeping them into the now empty soup pan.

  ‘This evening, we should make a suan la tang. Something sweet and sour to revive the boy after his work. What do you think, Ah Ching?’

  ‘I’ve got a recipe. Given to me by a cook at the Four Rivers Restaurant on Foochow Road.’

  ‘We’ll go to the market and get the ingredients this afternoon.’

  His mother had come to the station for the first time since his father had died, bringing the soup. She had avoided the place for so many years. He guessed it brought back too many memories for her. But today, she seemed happy. Bringing Ah Ching into his home had been the right thing to do.

  ‘I’ll take you back home, Mother.’

  She pushed him back into his chair. ‘You stay here. You have work to do.’

  He got up again. ‘But the Inspector made it clear that you weren’t to be left alone.’

  ‘Perhaps the constable can take us home, then? But I’m not having a policeman standing outside my house. What will the neighbours think?’

  ‘But, Mother…’

  ‘Shush, David, and do as you are told. Constable Yim will take us back. I won’t hear another word.’

  ‘But, Mother…’

  ‘What did I say?’ She wagged her finger in front of his face, turning to Ah Ching. ‘Sometimes, boys get so they don’t listen any more.’

  ‘With Ah Ming, I used to threaten him with a beating. Always worked.

  ‘I might have to try that, Ah Ching.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Strachan held his hands up. ‘The constable will escort you back, but you’re to stay in the house, agreed?’

  ‘Of course, David. It’s so good when they see sense, isn’t it, Ah Ching?’

  The old maid had a broad smile on her face. ‘He’s an obedient boy when he wants to be, isn’t he?’ She leant forward and tweaked Strachan’s cheek.

  Constable Yim tried to stifle his laugh but failed miserably.

  ‘You, take them home and look after them. That’s an order, Constable Yim.’

  ‘Yes, David.’

  Chapter 81

  ‘That’s an outrageous accusation, how dare you?’ Mrs Lee’s face flared as red as the fire in her grate. ‘Get out of my house. You have no right...’

  ‘Oh, I have every right,’ said Inspector Danilov. ‘You arranged for someone to kill the family in a fit of rage.’

  She took two deep breaths. ‘That’s not true.’ Her voice was calmer now, quieter. ‘I would never kill the children. I loved the children as if they were my own.’

  ‘Perhaps the killer went too far. He was only supposed to kill Mr Lee and his second wife.’

  She stood up, her fists clenched tightly. ‘Get out of my house.’ Her face had become bright red. ‘How dare you accuse me? Get out.’ She pointed towards the door.

  Danilov picked up his hat. ‘I will return, Mrs Lee. I’m sure you arranged the murder.’

  ‘You’ll have to prove it, won’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I will, Mrs Lee, I will.’

  He walked out of the door and the house. She slammed the door behind him, shouting at her maid as she did so.

  He crossed over the road, pretending to window shop at the curio store on the corner. Then, he ran down one of the back alleys, past a sleeping watchman and doubled back further up Canton Road. He stood in the shadows of one of the curio shops, behind a fake Ming armoire, giving him an ideal view of Mrs Lee’s front door.

  The wood of the armoire smelt new and freshly cut, but the patina of the piece gave it the appearance of being 400 years old as if made in the Ming Dynasty. In fact, it had probably been made the day before yesterday. Still the tourists would love it, proudly showing their friends their beautiful piece of furniture from so long ago.

  He rolled a cigarette with one hand without taking his eyes off the door. It was like the old days; him watching a house, patiently waiting for long hours. He had been a young copper back in Minsk then. When the Tsar, bless his mortal soul, still ruled and world wars were just a gleam in the eye of the Kaiser.

  He lit the cigarette and felt the welcome choke of tobacco in his throat. One day he would have to give them up, but not today. Not when a warm cigarette was the only thing to comfort him in his vigil.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The door to Mrs Lee’s house opened and she bustled out, her hat sitting askew on her head. She strode down the street away from him, occasionally skipping into a run.

  He walked after her, making sure to stay well back. She was walking with the speed of a troika on a fresh winter’s morning. Then she put out her hand and waved down a rickshaw.

  He looked around him. No rickshaws.

  I mustn’t lose her. I have to know where she’s going.

  Then he spotted one coming towards him. An old man was slowly padding down the street. He looked exhausted, his ribs showing starkly against his chest through the ragged blue shirt.

  Danilov got on board. ‘That piece, follow.’ Mrs. Lee was just turning the corner into Kiangse Road.

  The old man turned back to Inspector Danilov. ‘That piece?’ he said in pidgin.

  ‘Five dollar if catch him.’

  The old man picked up the limbers of his rickshaw and started to run. Danilov was surprised at the speed. It was as if the order to follow that rickshaw had given the old man new energy and life. Either that or the money had talked. When money spoke in Shanghai, people listened.

  They followed Mrs Lee round the corner, already gaining fifty yards. Soon, they would be right on top of her. ‘Slow,’ he shouted at the rickshaw boy. ‘Me watch. No catchee.’

  Immediately, the rickshaw slowed down and slipped behind another rickshaw, hiding them from Mrs Lee. It was like the old rickshaw man understood what he had to do.

  They followed her all the way down Kiangse, crossing the bridge over Soochow Creek and then turning right on Tieng Dong Road. She had
looked over her shoulder once or twice, but the rickshaw driver always kept well back behind the rest of the traffic.

  Mrs Lee’s rickshaw pulled up in front of the new Main Post Office. She quickly got off, paid her boy and ran through the Doric columns guarding the front entrance.

  Danilov signalled the rickshaw driver to stop too. He reached into his pocket for the five dollars. ‘You did that well.’

  ‘Used to be police.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Owed money. Loved women. Liked opium. Now a rickshaw boy. Money less but hours better. You?’

  ‘Detective.’

  ‘Thought so.’ He looked at the entrance of the Main Post Office. ‘You going to lose her.’

  Danilov gave him the money and began to run towards the entrance.

  ‘You want me to stay?’

  ‘OK,’ he shouted over his shoulder. He ran through the entrance and his eyes went blank as they adjusted to the dark of the interior from the bright light of the day outside.

  The Post Office was as busy as a street market in the Old City. People queued in haphazard lines or didn’t bother to queue at all. Others just hung around, waiting and watching. A few more were curled up asleep on the floor, oblivious to the noise and commotion around them.

  He couldn’t see Mrs Lee anywhere.

  He dived into the morass of people, shoving his way forward. Then he looked up and caught a glimpse of her on the second floor. She was moving quickly down the corridor.

  He pushed his way through the people, charging up the marble stairs at the back, just arriving at the top in time to see the back of her dress vanish into a large room at the end. If he followed her in, she would see him. He ducked behind a large marble pillar and waited. She came out in two minutes, walked past him without looking, and down the stairs out of sight.

  This time, her walk was slower, more controlled. She wasn’t rushing any more.

  Which way to go? To follow her or find out what she was doing in the Post Office? He was sure she was just going home now. She had completed what she had set out to do.

  He stepped out from behind the pillar and walked down to the door at the end. He entered a large room with a single counter in the far corner. The room was quiet and there were no people. A refuge from the hustle and bustle downstairs.