by M J Lee
Dr Fang had been educated in London, then studied under Locard in Lyon, which he never tired of telling people. He believed in Locard’s principles religiously. Procedures were to be followed to the smallest detail because every contact leaves a trace, however minute. There was no room for speculation, no margin for error. It was the facts, just the facts, that were important.
‘Come into my parlour.’ Dr Fang opened the door to the morgue. The pungent smell of formaldehyde hit Danilov like a Shanghai tram. And, as always, he was transported back to the sweets of his youth. He never knew why the smell of formaldehyde had this effect on him, bringing back memories of running down the streets of Minsk, his shoes clattering on the cobblestones, an aunt, elegant, austere, reaching into a large jar of sweets and bringing out a soft pink bonbon that melted in his mouth, covering his teeth in sticky sugar.
But he wasn’t in the Minsk of his youth now. He was in a brightly lit white-tiled room that ached of loneliness and solitude. In front of him lay six stainless steel tables, each covered with a white sheet.
Dr Fang stood next to the nearest of these tables and removed the cover revealing a white, bloodless corpse. The body had a Y-shaped incision on the chest that had been crudely sewn up with large, even stitches. The stomach and lower body was a mass of nothingness, revealing glimpses of pale meat hidden in the dark emptiness.
He heard Strachan coughing behind him.
‘Is this your first post-mortem, young man?’ asked Dr Fang.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Strachan with a voice that was much stronger than Danilov expected.
‘If you’re going to be sick, please do it outside. There’s a pail placed there precisely for the purpose. I will not have my clean floor covered in the acids of your stomach, is that clear?’
‘I’m not going to be sick, sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Shall we begin?’
Danilov nodded.
‘Good. I would like to thank you, Inspector Danilov. As ever you have given me a most interesting specimen to work with. Found in Soochow Creek wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right, sir. Early this morning, floating on the “Beach of Dead Babies”. It must have been washed down the creek on the ebbing tide,’ said Strachan.
Dr Fang gave a loud sniff as if he had just inhaled a large dose of formaldehyde. ‘Oh, I doubt that, young man, it’s…?’
‘Detective Constable Strachan, sir.’
‘Well, Detective Strachan, we are here today to deal in facts, not idle suspicions, rumours, conjectures or suppositions. Is that clear?’
‘As the Soochow Creek, sir.’
Dr Fang sniffed once again. ‘Let us begin, with just the facts this time.’
Danilov watched as the doctor tugged at the end of his nose, letting the pause add to the drama, playing the game of silence.
‘As I said before, a most interesting case. Of course, a cursory examination of the body would conclude the victim had died from a deep incision across the lower abdomen and the pubic region.’ He indicated both areas with a retractable metal pointer. ‘But one would be wrong to leap to such an erroneous conclusion.’
Here he stared pointedly at Strachan. ‘I’m quite sure the cuts were made post-mortem. See, there is no bleeding from the wounds.’ He pointed to the deepest slash across the base of the stomach.
‘But wouldn’t the creek have washed away the blood?’ asked Strachan.
‘For a layman, that would be the most obvious inference,’ sniffed Dr Fang, ‘but examining the capillaries under the microscope indicates no blood flowed through them when these cuts were made. Ergo, the victim,’ again he pointed to the body lying naked on the slab, ‘had already been dead before the wounds were made.’
‘Approximately how long had the victim been dead?’
‘I’m afraid it’s impossible to say. Being in water makes the time of death uncertain.’
‘So the victim drowned?’
‘It seems, Detective Strachan, you have quite a lot to learn about forensic science. The first thing you should learn is that we will complete these examinations more quickly if you keep quiet and not ask so many damn fool questions.’ Dr Fang adjusted his red bow tie and sniffed once again.
Danilov held up his hand to prevent any response from Strachan. ‘Please continue, Dr Fang.’
‘As I was saying, the victim couldn’t have drowned because there is no water in the lungs. Interestingly, this medical phenomenon was first reported by a Chinese physician. His name was Song Ci and he produced a fascinating book called Xi Yuan Lu or The Washing Away of Wrongs, in 1248 during the Song Dynasty. I’m presently preparing an English translation which I would be happy to let you read, Inspector Danilov.’
‘I would be delighted, Dr Fang. But to return to our present investigation…’
‘Of course. I’m sure that the victim was killed before entering the water. An examination of the skin shows few signs of wrinkling, it wasn’t in the water for long.’
‘But there is one sign that indicates this more than anything else, isn’t there, Dr Fang?’
‘As ever, Inspector Danilov, you have noticed that something is missing.’ Again, the doctor paused for effect. ‘There are no rat bites. Normally, when a body ends up in any of the creeks or rivers surrounding Shanghai, our friends, rattus rattus and rattus norvegicus, like to partake of a little spot of luncheon or supper. One can usually estimate the length of time in the water from the number of bites. Of course, this can depend on the time of year and the exact place in the river they were found, but an absence of rat bites indicates the body was not in the creek long enough for our friends to gather a party for luncheon. In fact, after a thorough examination, I only noticed one bite, here…’ he pointed to the right side of the body closest to him ‘…and possibly one more, here on the intestines.’
‘Hmm, interesting and very illuminating, Doctor,’ said Danilov, ‘I thank you for the depth of your investigation.’
Dr Fang beamed like a schoolboy who had just received a gold star for having spelt hypothalamus correctly. ‘But, there is more, Inspector. You see the bruising around the neck, here and here…’
Danilov leant in to take a closer look. The dead eyes of the victim stared up at him. Cornflower-blue eyes, he noticed. Such a beautiful colour. He forced himself to look closely at the marks on the victim’s neck.
‘You will notice bruising on the neck. I would say with certainty this victim died from strangulation.’
‘The bruising seems to go all the way round.’
The doctor nodded.
‘So it wasn’t manual strangulation?’ Inspector Danilov demonstrated by holding his hands out in front of him, grasping an imaginary neck.
‘I would say not. More likely to be mechanical or ligature strangulation, but using something soft, not hard or abrasive. There is incomplete occlusion of the carotid arteries and the skin is not broken.’
‘A garrotte then.’
‘I couldn’t say, Inspector. All I can say with certainty is the victim wasn’t strangled with the hands. There are no finger or thumb impressions or bruising.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. The facts are just what we need.’
Dr Fang sniffed again. ‘There are four other facts that may interest you, Inspector.’
‘Please continue, my ears are on the top of my head, as we say in Russia.’
‘That would be interesting anatomically, Inspector, but a little painful when it rains.’
Strachan laughed and received a warning glance from Danilov.
‘As I was saying, four facts. Firstly, here, on the inside of the wrist, the faint mark of a tattoo. Somebody has tried to remove this, but the words are still clear.’
Danilov leaned forward once more and inspected the inside of the wrist. He reached into his pocket and produced a pair of wire-framed glasses. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me,’ he said out loud.
‘Luke, chapter 18 verse 16,’ said Strachan, looking pleased with himsel
f.
‘I’m sorry, Stra-chan?’
‘Luke, chapter 18 verse 16. “But Jesus called them unto him, and said, suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” Sunday school years ago, sir. Comes in handy once in a while, all those years on my knees, learning the bible. But I think everybody knows these particular verses.’
‘I suppose they do, Detective. But why would our victim have a tattoo like that? Not so common is it?’
‘Not common at all, sir. Usually, it’s a tiger. Or a heart with Mother written in the middle.’ Strachan seemed to think a little more. ‘Or even a naked lady. One time…’
‘Yes, yes, Detective, we don’t have time to hear about your experiences with naked ladies. I have two more bodies I have to examine before supper.’
‘Please continue, Dr Fang, we wouldn’t want to keep you from your bodies. Or your supper. It seems you have three more pieces of information to give us?’
‘Thank you, Inspector. The second is that the victim’s hair was dyed.’ He pointed to the long locks of blonde hair, now dry, that flowed from the head of the body. ‘Recently dyed, I would say. No traces of new growth coming through at all. The third is the characters carved into the chest with a knife or similar instrument. The characters are those for “justice”. Neatly cut, almost like a stencil. I will try to ascertain what type of knife made the strokes of the characters when I have time.’
‘And the final piece of information?’
Now a smug smile passed across the lips of Dr Fang. ‘This is probably the most interesting thing I discovered in my examination of the body. Most interesting indeed.’
‘And what is that, Doctor?’
‘Well…’ Dr Fang dragged out the revelation, playing the moment for all it was worth, ‘our victim was a man, not a woman.’
‘But the hair? The breasts? The make-up?’ said Strachan.
‘Yes, detective, all there. But this is, without doubt, a man.’
‘How can you be sure?’
Dr Fang sniffed as if the imparting of secrets of his profession was beneath him. ‘There are noticeable physical differences between the male and female bodies. The most obvious, the genitalia, are how most laymen distinguish between the sexes.’ Here, he stared at Strachan. ‘But there are other indicators. The first is bone size. Males tend to have larger bones then women. Next I would look at the pelvic region, here…,’ he pointed to the area around the body’s missing stomach. ‘But with this particular corpse, that area has been devastated by the murderer.’
Strachan leant over to look closely. Dr Fang sniffed once more and pointed to the skull. ‘Then, I would look here. In males, the chin tends to be squarer. Females tend to have a more pointed chin. If you look closely, our corpse has a quite pronounced square chin. The last giveaway is the supraorbital ridge…’
‘The what?’ said Strachan.
‘The brow, for our young Detective Constable. In males it tends to be much more prominent. Finally, if all else fails, I check the fingers. On women the index finger is longer than the third finger. The reverse is true of men.’
Danilov couldn’t stop himself from checking the hands of the victim.
‘This, taking everything into consideration, gentlemen, is most definitely a man.’ Dr Fang folded his arms across his chest, daring Strachan to question him any further.
‘Now that is interesting,’ said Danilov.
***
Elsie glanced at her Vacheron Constantin watch, a present from Richard. ‘I’ve got to be off now, back for the evening show.’ She took one last swallow of her Old-Fashioned, draining her glass.
‘Such a bore,’ said Margery.
‘Terrible isn’t it? But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.’
‘Can I give you a lift?’ said Richard.
‘Don’t worry, you stay here and…’ she looked straight at Margery ‘…enjoy yourself with your friends. I’ll see you this evening at Ciro’s. Shall we say 11 pm? Don’t be late, it’s no fun sitting there all alone.’
‘I’ll pick you up from the theatre if you want.’
‘Don’t bother. Trevelyan gets awfully jealous when he sees any of his girls with somebody else. You know how old theatrical poofs get, more possessive and catty as they age. That one has the claws of a female tiger with cubs to protect.’ She looked at her watch again.
With a blown kiss to Richard thrown over her shoulder, she dodged the white-jacketed waiters and ran out of the ballroom. With luck, there would be a taxi waiting, hang the expense. Anything was better than another dressing down from Trevelyan.
She stepped out of the hotel, and immediately a taxi started its engine and pulled up in front of her. Maybe my luck has finally changed, she thought.
Elsie Everett didn’t notice that a man had followed her out of the hotel.
She didn’t notice that he nodded to the driver of the taxi as it picked her up.
She didn’t notice that there was no meter in the taxi.
***
He watched her leave, stepping past all the waiters and the scum who frequented these cesspits. How the smell of them disgusted him. The sharp odours of stale perfume sprayed on liberally to smother the even sharper stench of sweat. The powder spotting the women’s faces, clumping in small white boils as they pranced to the beat of the band. And the raucous laughs, hollow red-framed mouths showing nicotine-stained teeth. All laughing too hard, too long and too falsely.
He saw all the dancers and their escorts, the waiters and waitresses, the musicians and their shiny dinner jackets, and he knew they couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see him for what he was. He blended in so well, like a chameleon in human form, he was changed by wherever he was, melting into the background, hiding in plain sight.
If you never want to be noticed, just be bland, be ordinary. It was the same at the Front, just wear khaki like all the others and nobody could ever see the real you. Just another soldier they would say. Never noticed his face they would say. Well, you don’t, do you? Just notice the rank not the man, they would say.
Here, in Shanghai, he needed to cleanse the city of its degenerates, to remove the bloated maggots that fed on its flesh. He had made a start in other places, of course, but somehow, it never felt right. Meaningless deaths to salve an itch. There was no pleasure in it. But here, he had found his reason to exist. Perhaps the city had fed it, like a mould growing on a petri dish, concentrating the need like never before. And, strangely, Shanghai had made it so much easier to act. Here, everything was allowed, nothing forbidden, not even him.
He took out another cigarette and lit it with his gold Dunhill lighter. Time to play with her now. She deserved not to be kept waiting.
***
‘Are you both leaving? Just as I was beginning to enjoy myself. The dance doesn’t end for at least another half an hour.’
‘I need to check in at the office,’ said Richard, ‘you know how I’m expected to show my face every day. Ah Ching will have already finished everything, of course.’
‘And I’m feeling incredibly dirty, like I’ve been swimming in Soochow Creek. Horrible feeling,’ said Alfred.
She pouted, placing another cigarette in the ivory holder, leaning forward for Alfred to light it. ‘I’m not happy, but you can both make it up to me tonight at Ciro’s. It’s going to cost you a bottle of Belle Epoque and Lobster Thermidor.’
‘Can I at least give you a lift back to your place?’
‘No thank you, Richard. If you two are both leaving me, I think I’ll do a little window shopping. Dimitri has some new Art Deco pieces in from Paris. There’s this wonderful titanium bracelet that shouts my name every time I see it.’
‘I’ll get this.’ Richard took the silver plate off the table and checked the bill: $13.50. He quickly signed the chit, adding a dollar from his pocket as a tip.
All three got up and ambled towards the door. The waiters still danced frenetically around the tables. A black tru
mpeter, having received a smattering of applause for his solo, sat back down on his seat as the rest of the orchestra took up the melody. There were fewer dancers now but the short, shiny-haired man and his tall, grinning partner still beat their merry path round the outside of the dance floor, magically avoiding all the other dancers.
Before they had even reached the door, the waiters had removed the glasses, plates, tablecloth and half-drunk bottle of champagne, replacing them with a fresh supply of tableware from behind the counter.
The money had gone too. It had been removed first, of course.
Chapter 3
Danilov stared out over the creek and onto the now empty ‘Beach of Dead Babies’. The sun was just going down over the post office on the other bank, casting an orange haze over the river.
‘I always like to come back to the scene of the crime afterwards, Stra-chan. It lets me see at it as the murderer knew it, without the crowds and the rest of the watchers.’
Life in the creek carried on as usual despite the excitement of that morning. The sampans wobbled in their ungainly way up to the Whampoo or down into the interior. The wharves bustled with sweat and energy as cargo was unloaded from the lighters that served the ships in the harbour. The young boy still sat on the prow of the boat playing with his dog, the tether attached to his foot.
The waves continued to lap the shores of the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’, where just eight hours before a body had lain with its belly slit open.
The hawker, with his fragrant pot of sweet potatoes, had vanished though, gone to ply his trade somewhere else.
‘It’s quiet, sir.’
‘It is if you ignore all the bustle and noise of the river.’
‘I meant compared to this morning.’
‘That’s the point, Stra-chan.’ He rolled a cigarette with tobacco from his tin. ‘I can see it as it was when the murder was committed.’ He brought the cigarette up to his mouth and took a long drag, coughing as he exhaled, clearing his lungs. ‘But of course, this wasn’t the primary murder scene. The body was carried here.’
