Death In Shanghai

by M J Lee

  He charged up the stairs. As he got to the first landing, he stopped, afraid he would be ambushed by the man again. He climbed slowly up until he could just see over the top of the stairs. The man was running down the corridor towards another staircase at the end.

  A sing-song girl wearing the traditional high-collared gown of the courtesan, slit up the leg to the same level as her hip, got in his way. The man threw her to one side. As she fell, she hit her head on the edge of a slot machine.

  Strachan ran up the stairs and knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse. There was none, just a small trickle of blood running from her ear. Another shot rang out from the floor above. He lay the girl’s head down on the parquet floor, and ran after the thug, determined that he was not going to escape.

  He took the stairs two at a time, not caring any more if the man was lying in wait. On the next floor, a stuffed whale hung from the ceiling, its once blue skin now a tired and dusty grey. Ahead, the shadow of the gunman passed across a row of mirrors, suddenly becoming four men as the reflections rebounded on each other.

  Strachan raised his Webley but the shadow didn’t appear again.

  Cautiously, he inched forward. A young girl, no more than sixteen, with a gown that was slit up to the armpits, displaying her black lingerie, put her fingers to her lips and pointed upwards.

  Strachan nodded to thank her and ran up the next flight. He reached the top of the stairs. The kidnapper was already running down the corridor.

  As he neared the end, the man took a quick look over his shoulder. Again, he turned and fired. Quicker this time, without taking aim.

  The shot passed over Strachan’s head thudding into the ceiling above him.

  More screams from the bystanders. They had come for an exciting day at Shanghai’s most famous amusement centre, but this was far more than they had bargained for.

  A crowd of people rushed past Strachan, desperate to get down the stairs and away from the noise of the gun. Strachan was thrown to the side against the wall. His ear was aching now, a deep throb.

  The man ran up the stairs at the opposite end, two at a time. Strachan got up and charged after him. Nothing was going to stop him. That bastard was going to pay for what he had done.

  Outside, the noise of the sirens of the Red Marias, doors being slammed, commands shouted.

  Get a bloody move on, Strachan thought as he ran after the gunman.

  ‘Police. Police,’ he shouted at the scared people hiding in the shops and doorways.

  He ran up the stairs, and around the landing. Another shot crunched into the plaster wall, just to the left of his eye this time. He stumbled forward and fell, landing heavily.

  The steps of the kidnapper echoed on the wooden floor ahead of him. More screams from the patrons as they dived out of his way.

  Can’t let him go. Must keep going.

  He saw an open window and leant out to shout at the Red Marias below. ‘Police. Up here. UP HERE.’

  The gunman vanished at the top of the next stairs. Suddenly, the shouts of the patrons of Great World were louder now, on the fifth floor, more intense.

  Strachan charged after him, not caring any more about the gun. Only wanting to bring the man down and beat him unconscious.

  The man ran through the nightclub, bursting between dancing couples. The band stopped playing. The singer stood in front of her microphone. The taxi dancers ceased hustling for business.

  Then they saw the gun and all hell broke loose.

  People knocked each other over, desperate to get out of the kidnapper’s way, caring only to save their own lives. Three women lay sprawled on the floor, their tight chi paos shredded above the knee.

  Strachan followed him through the carnage of knocked-over tables and cowering dancers. He ran out of the nightclub and up to the next floor. The gunman was charging through a door at the end out onto the open-air cafe on the roof of Great World.

  Strachan could feel his heart beating and his chest heaving. There was no pain any more from his ear but he didn’t know whether that was good or bad. He stumbled after the man, pushing open the door at the end.

  The gunman had knocked over two tables, spilling tea and cakes all over the wooden floor.

  Strachan ducked down behind an advertising sign. ‘Tsingtao’ it read. He could certainly do with a beer right now.

  The man had run to the edge of the roof. Waitresses were screaming, the customers were running towards the door like lemmings.

  The gunman reached the edge of the roof and peered over.

  Strachan got up and walked slowly towards him, his Webley extended in front him. The man was starting to panic, running left and right, his chest heaving and his large eyes frantic with fear.

  ‘There’s nowhere to go,’ shouted Strachan in Shanghainese, ‘just give yourself up.’

  The man peered quickly over the parapet once more.

  ‘Go ahead and jump if you want. I will enjoy scraping your brains off Nanking Road.’

  Strachan was just twenty feet away now. The man still had his gun. ‘Put the gun down.’

  The man glanced at the gun as if suddenly realising he was still carrying it. Then he raised it quickly and pointed it straight at the detective, pulling the trigger.

  There was a loud click and for a second, they just stared at each other.

  Then the man threw his pistol at Strachan. He ducked, but the heavy gun hit him on the side of the head, right next to his damaged ear.

  Again, waves of pain rolled over his body. A long stream of blood ran down his face, dripping off his shirt and onto the roof.

  He was hit in the chest by something large. The breath exploded from his body. The man was on top of him, raining blows down on his head. Strachan lifted his right arm to protect himself. The man grabbed the gun, trying to wrestle the pistol free from his hands. Strachan fought back, arching his back and pushing off with his legs to topple the man to the side.

  They wrestled with the gun, rolling over and over. Their joined hands, with the pistol between them, hit the edge of a table. The pistol slithered along the roof.

  Strachan punched the man as hard as he could with his free right hand, connecting just above the temple. The man grunted and fell to the right.

  Strachan scrambled to his feet, rushing over to grab the pistol. His feet suddenly went out from under him as the man grabbed his legs. He fell heavily to the floor; pain shot up through his left shoulder.

  The man was on top of him, knocking his head against the wooden floor. Banging it again and again. He started to lose consciousness, hearing the crunch of his head against wood echoing in his skull.

  For a moment, he thought of his mother. What would she think now? Her precious son, rolling around on the roof of Great World, his head being smacked again and again against the wooden floor.

  He kicked up with his legs, feeling them crash into the back of the man.

  The weight was off him now. He tried to lift his head, shake the fuzziness out; why was he moving so slowly?

  Strachan tried to get up but a blow hit him on the head next to the damaged ear. He grabbed the leg, but a jolt of pain shot through his head and he released his grip.

  The man stood up and kicked out again, his boot landing flush on Strachan’s chest.

  You’re not going to get away, Strachan thought, launching himself upwards, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the throb of his ear.

  He dived forward, grabbing hold of the man’s leg. His shoulder hit the ground, and a stabbing pain lanced into the joint. Another kick thundered into the top of his head but he hung onto the man’s leg, he wasn’t ever going to let go.

  The man toppled over him, landing heavily.

  Strachan flung his body on top of the sprawling man, thrusting his shoulder into the man’s chest, forcing the air to shoot out of his lungs in one sharp gasp.

  He brought his right elbow up to connect with the man’s nose, hearing a soft thud as it struck home. The gunman’s head flew back, an
d he kicked out, trying to dislodge Strachan again.

  But the detective pressed down harder, using his left arm to pin the man’s body. Another stab of pain through the shoulder but Strachan ignored the pain. He lifted his right elbow and slammed it into the face that stared up at him.

  The man’s eyes rolled upwards until all that Strachan should see were the whites.

  Strachan hit him again with his elbow, this time slashing down vertically. Blood began to fly from the gunman’s nose, spurting all over the detective.

  Strachan levered himself over the man’s body, bending his back as far as it would go and then slamming forward, putting all his weight on the point of his elbow, smashing with all the strength he possessed into the gunman’s mouth.

  The body beneath him went limp. Strachan could see the man’s mouth was a mass of blood, slashed lips and broken teeth.

  He lifted himself slowly off the broken body and gingerly got to his feet.

  This is not getting any easier, he thought, giving the man a sharp kick in the ribs for good luck. Strachan’s luck, not that of the man lying stretched out on the roof of Great World.

  ‘Get your hands up,’ shouted a voice from behind him.

  Strachan turned slowly. Two constables were waving pistols in his face.

  ‘I said get your hands up or I fire.’

  He tried to put his arms up in the air, but the pain shot through his shoulder. ‘Police. Detective Constable Strachan,’ he gasped, ‘my warrant card is inside my jacket.’

  One of the constables kept his pistol and eyes trained on Strachan as he had been taught to do in the Training School. The other reached into Strachan’s jacket and pulled out a thin wallet.

  He checked the warrant card inside and nodded, finally dropping the pistol to his side. ‘It’s Stra-chan, is it?’

  ‘The name is pronounced Straaan.’

  The gunman groaned and began to sit up. Strachan walked over and punched him on the top of the head. ‘Enjoy the nap.’

  He collapsed back onto the roof.

  ‘Make sure this piece of shit doesn’t move.’

  ‘Ye shouldnae have let the bastard hurt ye so.’

  Strachan looked up to see a tall, burly Inspector with a shock of ginger hair standing at the entrance to the roof.

  ‘I remember ye from ma classes. Should hae done better, laddie.’

  Strachan lifted his head and looked at the Inspector more closely. It was Fairbairn, the head of the Mobile Unit and the fighting instructor for the police.

  Inspector Fairbairn shook his head at Strachan. ‘I’ll book ye in for some classes. Looks like ye need ’em.’

  Strachan watched as a large globule of blood fell from his ear and landed on his shoe. ‘I got the bastard,’ he said as he gasped for breath.

  ‘Aye, but this time, it looks like he got you.’

  ***

  ‘While you were enjoying yourself on the roof of Great World, Stra-chan, I spent my time searching the car.’ Danilov placed a large box down on the desk. ‘It’s being dusted down by the fingerprint team as we speak.’

  Strachan stood up and peered into the box. He began to take things out from it one by one. ‘Five brass cartridge cases. These must be from the floor of the car, Inspector.’

  ‘Right. These were the shots that nearly killed us. Allow me to compliment you on your driving, Stra-chan.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He felt the side of his chest. ‘And remind me never to share a car with you again.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Strachan pulled the rest of the objects from the box: a cheap wallet with three dollars inside but no ID, two fedoras, old and used, a coat which had seen better days, a half-eaten packet of sweets, a used handkerchief, a woman’s shoe, three dirty rags and, finally, a small bag full of what looked like metal prongs.

  ‘I wonder what these are used for, sir?’

  ‘I think they are house-breaking tools, Stra-chan. It looks like our killer did a bit of burglary on the side. There’s one thing left inside. I found it in the boot.’

  Strachan reached in and brought out a leather-covered book with the words ‘Holy Bible’ embossed in gold on the cover. He opened it to the fly leaf. ‘Ex Libris. The Church of the Redeemer, Sinza Road, Shanghai.’

  ‘It’s the same one Harriet Sole, I mean Henry Sellars, had in his locker.’

  ‘Right once again, Stra-chan. Where is our man?’

  ‘Downstairs in Room Four, sir.’

  ‘I think it is time to speak to him, don’t you?’

  ***

  Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Strachan entered the interview room without knocking. The man who had been arrested on the roof of Great World was touching a large bump on the top of his head that already protruded through his crew-cut hair. Two yellowish-black circles sat just beneath his eyes whilst a straight cut ran across the bridge of his nose.

  He did not look a happy man.

  The two detectives sat down at the table without saying a word. Danilov took out his tobacco tin and rolled a cigarette.

  The man said something in Mandarin.

  ‘He’s just asked if he could have a fucking cigarette, sir.’

  ‘Tell him no, Stra-chan.’

  The detective repeated the message. The man spat on the floor. Danilov carried on rolling his cigarette without looking up. He brought it to his mouth and sealed it with his tongue. From his pocket he produced a lighter and lit the end of the roll-up. He took a long, cool drag and blew three smoke rings out into the air of the interview room.

  The man watched as the rings widened and eventually dissipated.

  Danilov leant forward and placed his tobacco tin at 90 degrees to the edge of the table. He leant back to check if it was in the correct alignment before leaning in again to adjust it to the left slightly.

  The man continued to watch the Inspector, his eyes, with their prominent bruises, making him look like a new species of panda.

  Finally, when Danilov was satisfied with the position of the tin, he leant back in his chair. His head fell forward on his chest and he appeared to go to sleep.

  The man shouted out in Mandarin. ‘Look, I know what you’re doing. I’ve been inside before. You can’t scare me.’

  Danilov’s eyes opened slightly. ‘Just tell him exactly what I say, Stra-chan.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Please reassure Mr…?’ He looked at Strachan to translate.

  ‘Lin. He says his name is Lin, sir, sounds like Jimmy Lin, but his Mandarin is very thick. The aitches sound like Fs and the Ns like Ls. I think he’s from Hunan, sir. Probably Changsha.’

  ‘Thank you, Stra-chan. Please reassure Mr Lin that we have no intention of hurting him. On the contrary, we wish to help him.’

  Strachan translated the words. The man shouted back.

  ‘He’s asking why, sir. Why do you want to help him?’

  ‘Because the other two men who died in the crash were his relatives. We must help him to see them get into the next life properly.’

  Again Strachan translated. The man looked at the Inspector suspiciously. ‘He’s asking why you would do that?’

  ‘Because he is going to tell us why he committed the murders.’

  The man listened to Strachan and stared at the Inspector. After a long pause, he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He says that if he tells you, will you send his cousins back to their families in Changsha?’

  ‘I give him my word. On the soul of my father.’ Danilov touched his heart.

  The man spoke again.

  ‘He says they got in his way.’

  ‘How did they get in his way?’

  The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘They just did, sir.’

  ‘Why did he carve Chinese characters into their bodies?’

  The man looked surprised. ‘What Chinese characters? He says he shot them.’

  ‘The Chinese characters on the French magistrate, the Russian woman, Henry Sellars a
nd Elsie Everett.’

  Strachan translated again. ‘He’s asking who these foreigners are. He’s never heard of them.’

  Danilov crushed his cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Let’s start again. His car was seen leaving the Astor Hotel with one of the victims inside. Elsie Everett. She was later found murdered.’

  Strachan translated and the man giggled.

  ‘Why is he laughing, Stra-chan?’

  ‘He says the car isn’t his, sir. He stole it. With his friends. They found it on the Bund with the keys inside. Took it for a joy ride. Then we showed up. Now his cousins are dead.’

  Danilov held up the bible he had taken from the car. ‘How does he explain this? It’s the same bible that we found in Henry Sellars’s locker.’

  The man giggled again.

  ‘He says he doesn’t know, sir. They just stole the car.’ Strachan thought for a moment. ‘I think he’s telling the truth. This isn’t an educated man. He’s just a street thug with bad Mandarin. Can I try something, sir?’

  Danilov lit another cigarette and placed the tobacco tin back in its proper place on the table, Jimmy Lin watching him all the time.

  Strachan produced his pen and note book from his pocket. He passed it over to Jimmy Lin. ‘I’ve just asked him to write down what happened, sir.’

  Jimmy Lin stared at the pen, holding it between his third finger and his thumb.

  ‘This man is illiterate, sir. He can’t read or write.’

  Danilov sighed a long blue trail of smoke. ‘I do know what illiterate means, Stra-chan. Charge him with the murder of the waiter and the taxi dancer. He’s not our killer.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Danilov got up to go. ‘And tell him I will send the bodies of his cousins back to Changsha. I give him my word.’

  Chapter 22

  ‘Please sit down. Cigars?’ Boyle offered them his box of Havanas. There were only two left. Both Danilov and Strachan declined.

  ‘I just thought I would extend my personal thanks to you both. Catching the murderers so quickly was a bit of a coup for us. Upstairs is very pleased. I’ll leave you to phone the French, Danilov. Put them out of their misery. We had to do their detective work for them. Of course, you’ll both receive commendations and a note on your records. How’s your ear, Strachan?’