City of Shadows

by M J Lee

  The Sikh policeman had seen the gun. He was frantically blowing his whistle. A few cars stopped. Others kept on going.

  The killer in his black Baker drove on. Across the junction into the French Concession.

  Strachan ran past the Sikh, who was still frantically blowing his whistle at the retreating car.

  ‘Use your call box. Inspector Danilov.’

  The Sikh nodded.

  Strachan looked ahead, down the road. The stark outline of the gateway into the Old City shivered in the distance. He knew where the killer was going. The one place where he could vanish without a trace.

  ‘Tell him, the Old City. He’s heading to the Old City.’

  The Sikh nodded again and ran off to the police call box at the corner.

  Strachan chased after the car as it accelerated down the road. He had his second wind now. His breathing was easier, the legs pumping up and down, his arms thrusting him forward.

  People seemed to know that he was not going to stop. Hawkers skipped out of his way. Rickshaw drivers pulled to the side of the road. Women, men and children seated at the roadside cafes stared at this madman running down the middle of the street, his head thrown back and his arms pumping up and down.

  The North Gate to the Old City and its glistening white walls loomed ahead. Outside it, all was chaos and confusion on the wide roads of the French Concession gave way to the narrow, congested alleys of the Chinese quarter.

  The car skidded to a stop. The man in the green uniform jumped out and ran under the arch and into the Old City, vanishing into the crowds.

  Strachan reached the car. The driver was staring out through the windscreen, his hands on the wheel, shaking.

  Strachan ran through the arch. Up ahead, he could see the green uniform dodging between the white suits, blue Mandarin coats and white T-shirts that thronged the alley.

  A young Chinese man dressed in a patchwork coat stood in front of him. ‘You wan’ antique?’ He held up a garish green and yellow figure. ‘Tang Dynasty, very cheap.’

  Strachan skipped around him. The man somehow managed to get in front of him again, blocking his way.

  ‘How about girl? You wan’ girl?’

  Strachan took the man by the shoulders and physically moved him to the side.

  The green uniform had vanished.

  He ran on down the alley, hearing the shouts of the other touts ringing in his ears as he charged past them.

  ‘You wan’ fur?’

  ‘Cheap tickets.’

  ‘Curios. Real curios.’

  He reached a crossroads. He looked left and right.

  Nothing.

  Up ahead, crowds and crowds of people but no green man. He moved to his right and ran down the alley and around a bend. A market, bustling with people.

  He ran back to where he came from. The same tout spotted him again. ‘You wan’ girl? Clean girl? Lot of girl.’

  Strachan ignored him and ran down the alley on the left.

  Nothing.

  He had lost him.

  Strachan sank down to his knees in the mud and slime of the street. It was as if he were praying to some cruel god. He was exhausted as if all the energy had been sucked out of him. He put his head in his hands and just knelt there as people, bicycles, and rickshaws flowed past.

  Even the touts didn’t bother him. They knew he was crazy.

  Chapter 89

  Danilov ran into the back garden of the house and shouted after Strachan. ‘Come back. It’s too dangerous.’ But there was no answer.

  He went back inside the house, kneeling down in front of Strachan’s mother. He took hold of the thin bony wrist and felt for a pulse again, hoping against hope that he had been wrong the first time. But he knew it was useless as soon as he touched her.

  There is a stillness, a lifelessness about the dead. It was as if the spark of life had fled, leaving behind just a shell, a reflection of what had been. The body was still there, but what has made it alive was gone. He made the sign of the cross over the body, a relic of his Orthodox Church upbringing, beaten into him by his father.

  He looked at the hands that had held the wrist and made the sign of the cross. They were old now, starting to show the first signs of wrinkling. The scars on his knuckles were still there, though, inflicted by his father with the end of a steel ruler so long ago. He could still feel the pain of each stroke but worse than the pain was the anticipation of the pain as his father raised the steel ruler over his head.

  The maid whimpered behind him. He mustn’t live in the past, not now, there was so much to do in the present. He stood up and walked over to the maid. She was whimpering, trying to bury herself deep into the plaster of the white walls.

  The scream of brakes outside. The clatter of iron-soled boots. The sharp rap, rap on the door.

  He left the maid and went out into the hall. He opened the door. Five constables and a sergeant had their pistols pointed at his head. It was time to take control again, not a time to mourn Strachan or his mother.

  ‘You, call an ambulance from a police box. A woman has been shot.’ The constable looked at his sergeant.

  ‘Get a move on, man,’ Danilov shouted.

  The constable put his revolver back in its holster and ran off.

  Two red marias pulled up outside the house, their sirens blaring. A small, stocky man jumped out with his pistol drawn followed by six more constables and a group of detectives.

  ‘Chief Inspector Fairbairn.’

  ‘Danilov, what’s happening?’

  ‘Sergeant Strachan has chased after the killer. He went down Tientsin Road.’

  Fairbairn turned back towards his men. ‘You four, tek one of yon vans and gae after him. You two, follow on foot.’ The man’s Scottish accent was so strong, Danilov could hardly understand him.

  The men stood there.

  ‘Now!’

  There was the hiss of static from the radio in one of the red marias, followed by a disembodied female voice coming from a speaker in the roof.

  The driver waved. ‘It’s for Inspector Danilov.’

  Danilov ran to the van. The tinny voice from the speaker echoed in the cab of the red maria. ‘A message from Detective Sergeant Strachan for the Inspector. He’s going to the Old City.’

  Danilov picked up the Bakelite handset, pressing a button on its side. ‘Danilov here. Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all we’ve received, sir.’

  Danilov put the handset down. Fairbairn joined him at the van. ‘I know where the killer is going.’

  ‘If it’s the Old City, ye ken we cannae gae there. Chinese territory.’

  Danilov nodded. This was his responsibility. Him and Strachan. Nobody else.

  ‘Can you get somebody to drive the Buick? Preferably plain clothes?’

  ‘Aye, I can. But ye ken if they catch ye, it’s the end of your career. They’ll hang ye out tae dry.’

  Danilov nodded. ‘I need the driver now.’

  Fairbairn unfastened the strap of his holster. ‘Ye might be needin’ one of these.’ He handed over one of the latest Smith & Wessons. ‘Dun’ tell anybody I gae it to ye.’

  Danilov felt the heavy weight of the gun in his hand and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector Fairbairn, I’m going to need it.’

  Chapter 90

  He spotted Strachan immediately. There was a space of twenty yards in front of the North Gate where there were no touts hustling for business, no rickshaw drivers hassling for rides and no hawkers selling their wares.

  There was just one man sitting on the ground, surrounded by the rubbish of the streets.

  Danilov walked up and stood in front of him. Strachan didn’t raise his head but continued to stare at the ground. ‘I lost him, sir.’ And then after a moment. ‘I lost her, too.’

  ‘I know where he is, Strachan.’

  The red-rimmed eyes lifted. A face stared back at Danilov but it didn’t look like
Strachan. This man looked infinitely older and wearier. ‘Where is he?’

  A cold voice. A voice without feeling.

  ‘The Tea House. He’s arranged to meet the first wife there. His last killing, I suspect. The last person who knows who he is.’

  ‘Will he come?’

  ‘He will. He has to tidy up all the loose ends.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now, Strachan, five o’clock.’

  ‘What are we going to do, sir?’

  Danilov noticed that Strachan had started to call him ‘sir’ again. ‘We’re going to arrest him and take him back for trial.’

  ‘He might not want to come back, sir.’

  ‘Then, we will have to persuade him. ’Danilov patted his pocket, feeling the heavy weight of the gun there. ‘Let’s go, Strachan.’

  The Inspector looked up at the North Gate towering above him, the entrance to a place where he had no jurisdiction and no right to arrest anybody. He didn’t know what he was going to do if the killer just sat where he was and refused to go with them.

  Strachan had stood up and was brushing down his trousers. ‘Let’s do it, sir.’

  ‘Are you all right, Strachan?’

  The young detective nodded and walked under the arch of the North Gate. Danilov followed him.

  They went down a short covered passage and emerged into an open courtyard. To their left was a large stone wall. Alleys led off in three directions. All around them hawkers, beggars, shoppers, traders, rickshaw drivers, touts, tourists and thieves bustled, ignoring the two Europeans standing in the middle of the courtyard.

  ‘I lost him here, sir.’

  ‘I can see why. The Tea House, Woo Sing Diong, is that way.’ Danilov pointed to an alley just wide enough for two sedan chairs that led South.

  They strode off down the alley, ignoring the beggars with their stumps held out waiting for a few coins. On either side, ivory, fan and sandalwood shops lined the alley, their goods stacked up in front of the shop, ready for a customer to inspect.

  Danilov and Strachan ignored them. They increased their pace, past the brassware, Ningpo porcelain, gaily coloured silks and silk tassels. Past the Chinese temple on their left, the strong stench of incense oozing out from under the richly painted eaves. Past the bird market, with its canaries, mynahs, and white-eyes, all jailed in elaborately carved cages, singing for their supper.

  Danilov and Strachan were pushing through the crowds now, turning left at the end of the street. Ahead of them a wooden bridge crossed a small creek.

  ‘Which way, sir?’

  ‘Over there, Strachan.’

  ‘You know the way, sir?’

  ‘I’ve been here before, Strachan, when I first came to the city.’ Danilov thought back to those days, now so far away, when he had walked every inch of the city, searching for his wife, hoping that somewhere she would be hiding.

  He never found her.

  They crossed the bridge, brushing aside two beggars who blocked their way and turned down a narrow alley on the right. After twenty yards they emerged into an open courtyard, surrounded by shops, open-air dentists, cooks, jugglers, more beggars and even more cages filled with birds. They were the only Westerners but nobody took any notice of them.

  At its centre sat the Woo Sing Dong Tea House, surrounded on all four sides by a lake of dark green water. The Tea House was built in the old Chinese style; sloping roofs ending in gorgeous finials, elaborately carved balconies, wooden shutters for windows, all standing on thin stilts that rose gracefully from the dark waters.

  Through the open windows they could see waiters pouring hot water onto the earthenware teapots.

  ‘He’s in there, Strachan.’

  The only entrance to the Tea House was through a zig-zag bridge over the lake.

  Danilov strode forward, past the singing birds and onto the wooden bridge. What was he going to do? He laughed to himself because he had no idea.

  They followed the winding path of the bridge to the entrance of the Tea House.

  A young man dressed in a beautifully embroidered Chinese gown rose to greet them. ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’ he asked in perfect English, his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer.

  ‘We’re here to meet Mr Han.’ It was a wild stab in the dark from Danilov.

  The young man pursed his thin lips before deciding. ‘Come this way, gentlemen.’ He leant forward from the waist and guided them with his hand before leading them up a flight of wooden stairs.

  At the top, they were greeted by a young girl who bowed from the hips.

  The young man said, ‘Mr Han is in the corner over there.’

  Han had his back to them, staring out over the lower tiled roof to the lake and West Garden, sipping tea from a porcelain cup.

  Danilov patted the gun in his pocket. He hoped he wouldn’t have to draw it. Strachan was behind him, still on the stairs.

  Danilov walked through the narrow gap between the tables. Han was still looking out over the lake.

  He was getting closer now, he could see the shape of the hair in the back of Han’s head.

  Han was turning now, somehow aware that somebody was coming towards him.

  For a moment, Danilov stared at the cold eyes and thin-lipped mouth of the mouse-like face.

  Then Han was on his feet, reaching inside his Mandarin jacket. Strachan rushed past him and dived straight at Han, hitting him full in the chest with his arm still in his pocket.

  Both men fell backwards over the table, knocking the hot tea service onto the floor where it crashed and splintered.

  Behind him, Danilov could hear the shouts and screams of the patrons of the Tea House.

  Strachan was on top of Han, beating down on him with his fists, knocking his head into the wooden floor with every strike.

  Again he hit down into Han’s face, putting all his strength, anger and bitterness into the punch.

  Han’s body went limp but still Strachan kept striking down.

  ‘Stop,’ Danilov shouted.

  But Strachan kept hitting the inert body, striking with his left and right fists again and again at Han’s head.

  Danilov leapt forward and wrapped his arms around Strachan. The detective shrugged him off, continuing to punch the side of Han’s head.

  Danilov leapt at Strachan, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling him off the inert body of Han.

  Strachan continued flailing with his arms, hitting Danilov across the top of the head.

  Danilov held on, holding Strachan tighter and tighter. ‘Shush, shush,’ he whispered in Strachan’s ear.

  ‘Kill him, have to kill him.’ Strachan tried to break free from Danilov’s grip but he held on, holding him even closer, talking softly. ‘Don’t do that. If you do, you’re no better than him.’

  Strachan stopped struggling, his arms dripping to his sides. “My mother…’

  ‘Your mother would want you to take him back, wouldn’t she?’

  Strachan was breathing heavily, his head resting against Danilov’s chest.

  ‘We have to take him back.’

  Another huge gulp of air. Danilov felt a nod against his chest. Thank god, for that. He slackened his hold on Strachan and the detective sank to his knees, drained.

  There was a scream behind Danilov. Han had raised his head from the floor, blood streaming from his eye and nose, one ear hanging lazily off the side of his head. In his hand, a Smith & Wesson was pointing straight at Danilov.

  He fired.

  The stench of cordite filled the Tea House with smoke. A strangled cry from a man on his left.

  Danilov reached into his pocket for the revolver.

  Han was wiping the blood from his eyes and raising the automatic again.

  Danilov pulled the revolver from his pocket and fired. A cloud of white smoke rose from the barrel like a shroud in front of his face.

  More screams and shouts from behind him. The crash of tables, teapots, plates and tea cups on the wooden fl
oor. The high-pitched screech of a woman.

  The cloud of cordite cleared. Strachan could see Han lying on the floor, the automatic still in his hand but now with a third eye drilled in his forehead.

  There was no blood. Danilov was surprised at that. There should have been blood, lots of it. But there wasn’t.

  At his feet, Strachan lay staring at the dead body of Han.

  Danilov stepped over him and took the Smith & Wesson out of Han’s hand.

  The cold eyes in the mousey face were even colder now.

  Dead cold.

  Chapter 91

  Danilov couldn’t remember it ever having happened before. He walked through the entrance of Central Police Station to be greeted by all the constables, sergeants and detectives, Chinese, Sikhs, Russians and Japanese, even the English, lined up, clapping and cheering him.

  Chief Inspector Boyle was in the middle of them. He shook Danilov’s hand first. ‘Well done, old chap, well done. It’s good to see you back, Danilov, even if you do look a little worse for wear.’

  As Danilov walked through the crowd, they came forward and shook his hand, patting him on the back.

  ‘Well done, old chap.’

  ‘You got the bastard.’

  ‘Didn’t know you had it in you.’

  Even the normally reserved Sergeant Wolfe stood in his way and refused to move until he had given him a giant bear hug.

  Danilov accepted all the congratulations with a simple nod of the head. He had to stay focused on what was to come.

  Chief Inspector Boyle raised his arms and gradually quiet descended on the room. ‘Gentlemen, you have before you a marvellous example of the courage, bravery, and the resourcefulness of the Shanghai Municipal Police.’

  There were shouts of ‘hear hear’ from the middle of the detectives.

  ‘It took us three days to secure the release of Detective Inspector Danilov and Detective Sergeant Strachan from the Chinese authorities, but I’m happy to report that all charges have been dropped.’

  The room erupted into a chorus of cheers and clapping. Boyle held up his arms again and waited for the room to be quiet. ‘Unfortunately, Detective Strachan cannot be here with us today. The funeral of his mother is tomorrow. Attendance in full dress uniform is compulsory for all those not on duty.’