by M J Lee
‘Good, let’s get going.’ Danilov picked up his hat and coat from the stand next to the door. ‘Heard anything from the river people?’
‘Not a dicky bird, sir.’
‘At least we won’t be getting any red herrings from them.’
‘Was that a joke, sir?’
‘Yes, Stra-chan, we Russians are famous for our sense of humour.’
‘Very good, sir, very funny.’
‘Let’s go and meet our androgynes, shall we? It should be an interesting evening.’
Chapter 13
From the outside, the building was just like all the others in the street: three storeys tall with a classic Shikumen gate at the entrance, leading into a small courtyard before the front door.
Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Strachan were standing at the door with their hats in their hands. A small man had tried to stop them from entering, but they had shown their warrant cards and brushed past him.
It went quiet as soon as they entered. There were twenty people standing at the bar, with another four wooden tables occupied by an assortment of patrons: two Russians with dyed platinum hair obviously taking a break from walking the streets, some Chinese and Western men, and a pair of Chinese girls dressed in ornate chi paos. In one corner, a threesome played piano, drums and an upright bass on a stage raised just three inches off the floor, the music providing backroom noise to fill in the gaps in conversation.
Before they had entered, the patrons had been laughing and joking with each other. Now they were silent, looking straight at Danilov and Strachan.
A six-foot tall woman, dressed in a bright red silk dress with long flowing ruffles, high heels and black stockings, approached them. She was wearing the longest string of pink pearls Danilov had ever seen. When she opened her mouth, out came a deep, booming voice. ‘I don’t want any trouble, gentlemen.’
‘I’m sorry, Plum, I couldn’t stop them.’ The small man squeaked from behind the detectives. Danilov realised that the man was a woman.
‘Don’t worry, Lesley. I’ll handle it from here.’ Lesley adjusted her purple tie, pulled down her dinner jacket, and went back to her place by the door.
‘We have no desire to cause you any trouble…madame. We just want a chat.’
‘Call me Plum. And you are…?’
‘Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Stra-chan.’
‘Delighted, I’m sure.’ Plum held out her hand towards Danilov. She obviously meant him to kiss it. Instead, he shook it once, before stepping back.
‘Come, we’ll sit over there. We don’t want to disturb the guests.’
She led them to a table in the rear of the room. As they walked through, the other patrons at the bar pulled back or turned their faces away. Danilov walked past an assortment of women dressed as men, men dressed as women and men dressed as men who looked like women. He tried to look straight ahead so that he wouldn’t stare at the patrons, but a woman with a moustache got the better of him.
Plum pulled out three chairs at a table next to some stairs leading to the upper storey. On the wall beside the stairs was a large poster with ‘Entrance through the rear’ written on it, with a large black arrow pointing upstairs.
Strange, thought Danilov.
‘Would you like a drink, gentlemen?’
‘No thank you, Miss Plum, we’re here on business, I’m afraid.’
‘What a shame,’ said Plum looking straight at Strachan. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Do you recognise this person?’ Danilov showed her the picture of Henry Sellars.
Plum stared at it for a long time before placing it down on the table. ‘It’s Harriet. Her hair looks pretty in this shot.’
‘Harriet?’
‘Harriet Sole. One of our patrons. I don’t know her real name. We don’t go in much for real names here.’
‘What can you tell me about her?’ Danilov was conscious of using the female pronoun. He was sure it was the right approach to take.
Plum looked at him, saying nothing. Danilov could hear the bar sounds increase in volume as the patrons gradually forgot the presence of the detectives, and returned to their games and flirting.
‘Harriet is dead, Plum. She was murdered. We need you to help us find her murderer.’
Plum’s face changed, going from stubborn resistance to shock to horror, all in a few seconds. He could see the veneer was cracked now. Beneath the make-up, she was a lot older than she seemed. Wrinkles led from her eye to the edge of her hair and a flap of flesh beneath her chin wobbled.
‘But she was here only two nights ago.’
‘Was she with anyone?’
Plum’s eyes glanced towards the stairs and up to the second storey.
‘We’re here to find a murderer not to arrest anybody.’
Plum placed her hands on her lap and inhaled deeply. Then in a soft, deep voice said, ‘She was here two nights ago. She may have entertained a few gentlemen upstairs that evening.’
‘Do you know who they were?’
‘One was a tall man, a European. I hadn’t seen him before, but he seemed pleasant. The other was one of her Chinese regulars, Mr Chan. He comes here every two weeks.’
‘Names?’
‘We don’t take names. Here, people can be who they want to be, not a name.’
He decided to take a different tack. ‘Can you remember anything about the tall man?’
‘Well, he was thin, quite elegant. He had an air of superiority about him. Not my type at all. I only saw him for a few seconds, across the bar. It was a busy night. Harriet was in a good mood. Her Chinese friend had visited her earlier and she obviously liked her tall beau.’ Her hand went to her mouth and stifled a sob. ‘Harriet dead?’ she whispered.
The door opened at the front of the room and a group of people, both men and women, entered, headed by a small Chinese woman.
Plum pulled out a large silk handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her eyes. ‘If you will excuse me.’
She got up and approached the group. Soon they were seated at different tables, each attended to by the girls and the boys.
Plum stepped onto the stage and nodded at the band. They stopped playing. She leant into the microphone. ‘I’d like to welcome our guests from the liner Orestaia, I do hope you have a wonderfully perverse time in Shanghai.’ Her voice, channelled through the wires of the microphone, had a sound like melted chocolate. ‘Here’s a song I’d like to sing for you. It was one of Harriet’s favourites.’
She turned back to the band and whispered something. The bassist put down his instrument and picked up a trumpet.
She began singing, slowly and sensuously, the band providing a soft, unembellished accompaniment.
‘Baby face, you’ve got the cutest little baby face.’
Danilov recognised the lyric but thought it was a much happier, more vibrant song. Plum sang it slowly with a melancholy edge that matched her deep, sad voice, each word enunciated beautifully and mournfully.
‘There’s not another who can take your place,
Baby face, my heart poor heart is thumpin’,
You sure have started somethin’,
Baby face, I’m up in heaven when I’m in your fond embrace,
Uh well I need a shove because I’m in love, with my pretty baby face.’
The trumpet came alive with a plaintive lament to the lost ‘baby face’. Plum wiped a tear from her eyes, smearing her make-up in the process.
‘Baby face, I’m up in heaven…’
She stopped singing and just stood there. The band carried on with the melody, finishing the chorus and bringing the song to an end.
The audience clapped loudly. Plum took a deep breath, bowed and walked back to rejoin the table. ‘Sorry for the interruption, I have to sing occasionally. It keeps the girls happy.’ She wiped a tear from her eye.
‘Who are the new arrivals?’ asked Danilov.
‘As I said, a tour group from one of the cruise ships in the harbour.
We often get them here, seeing the joy, gin and jazz of Shanghai. They’ll be off to the Lido soon. A few will stay here longer, of course.’
‘Enjoying the city of shadows,’ said Danilov.
‘It’s always enjoyable as long as you can return to the light. Or a luxury cruise ship, in their case,’ replied Plum.
‘It seems everybody knows about your establishment except the police.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they know. One of your inspectors owns the place. Charges a fat rent too.’
‘I’m sure you can afford it.’
‘I can’t not afford it. Given my particular taste in dresses.’ She waved her long elegant hands over the red satin.
Danilov tapped his fingers on the table. ‘What else can you tell me about Henry Sellars, also known as Harriet Sole?’
‘Not a lot. We don’t ask too many questions, so we don’t get told lies. Started coming here about six months ago. Kept her clothes in an upstairs locker and kept herself to herself. Not one of the chatty types. Liked her finery though, Harriet. Loved her blue silk, I remember. A gorgeous girl. An even prettier boy.’
‘Could we look in the locker?’
‘Be my guest. It’s padlocked, but I’m sure your muscular friend could pull it off quickly. I’m sure he’s good at that.’ She stared at Strachan. He stared at his feet.
She led them up the stairs to another small room above the bar. Four girls were waiting for customers in various stages of undress. They quickly put on some clothes and left as soon as Danilov and Strachan appeared.
‘You certainly have a way with the girls,’ said Plum from the doorway. She pointed to a locker in the corner. ‘That’s Harriet.’
At a nod from Danilov, Strachan took the lock in his hands. It was cheap and light. With a sharp tug and a downward pull, it came free from the latch.
Plum clapped her hands from the doorway.
Strachan went red and stepped back. Danilov opened the locker. Hanging inside were two blue silk dresses, obviously expensively tailored, with matching blue court shoes. Next to the dresses was a man’s suit with a white shirt hanging inside and a tie draped over it.
‘She always wore male clothes outside and changed when she got here.’
‘What about the long, blonde hair?’ asked Strachan.
‘What do you think a hat is for?’
Danilov held up his hand in front of Strachan. ‘Were these the clothes she wore when she arrived?’
‘Probably. Looks like her suit.’
‘Then, she left the club wearing female clothes. Was that normal?’
‘Listen, honey, nothing is normal around here.’
The Inspector changed his question. ‘Was that usual?’
Plum sighed. ‘No, it wasn’t. Harriet always wore male clothes outside. She said this was the only place she could be herself.’
Danilov searched the pockets of the suit. In one of them he found a small bible, printed by the Overseas Chinese Missionary Organisation of Missouri. He opened the fly page and read, ‘To Henry, from your preacher, may you always find comfort in his words.’ He opened the next page and saw a printed sticker: “Ex Libris. The Church of the Redeemer, Sinza Road, Shanghai.”
He passed the book back to Strachan and checked the rest of the suit. Nothing. He examined the shelves of the locker. Some talcum powder, a safety razor, a small bottle of Chanel No 5, a brush, a pair of brown brogues and a trilby.
He closed the door of the locker. ‘Thank you, Miss Plum, you’ve been a great help.’
‘Always happy to give a hand to the police. Wouldn’t you like to stay for a drink?’
‘Thank you, but no. We have work to do.’
‘And what about you?’ Plum looked straight at Strachan. ‘The girls would be happy to help you relax.’
‘Detective Constable Stra-chan is busy tonight unfortunately. Perhaps, another time.’ He reached inside his jacket and pulled a card from his wallet, giving it to Plum. ‘Please ask the other girls if they saw or knew anything about the tall man, or Harriet Sole. It’s very important.’
Plum took the card. ‘I will, Inspector, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. We spend our lives avoiding the stares of others. In the end, we stop seeing anything at all. Even here. Especially here. A consequence of our situation you see…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘I understand, Miss Plum. But call me if anything comes up, however small or insignificant.’
Danilov put on his hat and said goodbye. Strachan followed the Inspector down the stairs.
‘Thank you for rescuing me back there.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll need you to come back on your own tomorrow night though. Take some witness statements from the girls.’
Strachan’s face fell.
‘We’ve all got to make some sacrifices in the line of duty.’
As they left, the Inspector said goodbye to the man guarding the door. All he got was a high-pitched squeak in answer.
Back on the street, they could hear the sounds of laughter returning to the club.
Danilov was used to the effect of his presence in certain places. It was almost as if he carried around with him a magic wand that somehow removed all happiness, laughter and gaiety.
He was used to it, but it still left him saddened. Strachan appeared not to notice. He hides it well, thought Danilov. Already, he hides it well.
‘What time will I meet you tomorrow, sir?’
Danilov looked at his watch. ‘Let’s say 7.30 am. We should go to the church early. Time to atone for our sins.’
Strachan brushed his hair away from his eyes. ‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘It was nothing. You’d better get some sleep. Not much chance in a murder enquiry. Good night, Detective Constable Stra-chan.’ The Inspector lifted his hat.
‘Can I drive you home, sir?’
‘No, Stra-chan, I prefer to walk. It gives me time to think. You should try it some time.’
‘Walking or thinking, sir?’
‘Both, Stra-chan. You should start with the thinking first though. For example, why did Henry Sellars leave his clothes in his locker? And how did he meet our tall man?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘So think about it. Good night,’ the Inspector shouted over his shoulder as he drifted off into the shadows.
‘Good night, Inspector.’
***
Danilov pulled his hat down lower over his eyes and put his hands into his pockets. Ahead of him the lights of Nanking Road shone bright against a fog of coal smoke.
The streets were still crowded with people, scurrying here and there in search of bargains, food or the denizens of the night. Stalls in all shapes and sizes crowded in on the road; an itinerant barber shaved a man’s head beneath the light of a hurricane lamp. Fortune tellers, with the sticks and bones and birds of their trade, called out to all and sundry to find out what lay in store for them in the future. Danilov was tempted to ask one of them who the killer was. He was sure the man would have an answer, it just wouldn’t be the one he was looking for.
Across the street, a group of American sailors in their wide-bottomed trousers and white hats poured out of a bar, singing raucously. They staggered on down towards the Bund and Blood Alley, in search of more beer, more love or more fighting.
A rickshaw ran by, his load an overweight merchant, dressed in a white suit. The rickshaw puller wore nothing but a loincloth wrapped around his belly, despite the cold. The merchant was berating him to go faster.
Danilov watched it all as he walked along. Shanghai was a hard place to live if you had nothing. An even harder place to live if you had nobody.
For a moment, he considered going to a nearby opium den that he knew well and that knew him. A bed awaited him there, and the pipes were clean. But not tonight, tonight he had work to do.
He walked on between the stalls that lined either side of the pavement. Firecrackers were going off on his left, sparkling the night skies with their br
ight colours and rainbow flashes. A conjurer appeared in front of him, keeping six balls in the air, his hands catching and tossing the balls with the speed of a well-greased machine.
He stepped past him and walked on only to find his way blocked by a large circle of people. They surrounded what looked like a fight between two midgets. The fighters pulled left and right, tugging each other round like two martial artists, until one fell upon the other. Then, they were up again, their heads leaning against each other, their legs gripping the road, looking for an advantage. The music ended and the audience clapped loudly. The two midgets stood, one balancing on the head of the other. A shirt was taken off and a single man stood there. He had been the body, the arms and the legs of both midgets.
Danilov clapped the display of agility and nimbleness. And then it occurred to him: the acrobats had found a way of demonstrating a basic human truth. Some people have more than one personality inside themselves, fighting for control. Was this the case with their killer? Could he be living two lives? Walking among them right now?
He sat down at a tea house. The owner rushed over with a pair of chopsticks and a bowl. Danilov indicated that he just wanted tea. He got out his tobacco tin and rolled a thin cigarette.
The investigation was troubling him. There seemed to be too many clues – bound wrists, characters carved into the bodies of the victims. Now, a message scratched into a barrel lid. ‘HATE ALL’. What a message of disgust with the world. Nihilism of the worst kind. He had dealt with the Nihilists in Russia, but even they would have balked at such a message. Somehow it felt wrong, out of keeping with the characters that were carved into the bodies.
He took another drag on the cigarette. The waiter arrived with his tea, pouring out a small cupful before departing to return inside his store.
He took a sip of the hot tea. Its smokiness complemented his cigarette perfectly.
He would have to watch Boyle. The man was more concerned with keeping his superiors happy than actually capturing the killer. How he hated these petty bureaucrats. They seemed to be everywhere though, crawling out of whatever cesspit had given birth to them, to infect every place he had ever worked with their small-minded beliefs.
