by M J Lee
Danilov moved the blade away from Anderson’s nose slightly, but he kept his grip on his hand as tight as a vice. The fat man’s flesh quivered as he pressed his knee on it.
‘What’s that got to do with Shanghai?’
‘Got a lead the killer was here.’
Normally, Danilov disliked violence. The last refuge of the mentally incompetent, he always thought. But the American only understood force. A shame he had to use it. He took the cutthroat from Anderson’s hand and pulled his knee from his back. The fat man’s body collapsed on the floor.
‘That was easy, wasn’t it? What was the lead?’
Anderson was breathing heavily, his body slumped beneath the sink. ‘The family thought the murderer had gone to Shanghai. I thought it was a good idea.’
‘A good idea?’
‘To have a month here on the family’s dime. Life ain’t easy as a gumshoe. It’s not all Pinkerton stuff. Anyway, they’re rich, they won’t miss it.’
‘And did you find anything?’
Anderson rubbed his jaw where it had struck the sink, moving his mouth left and right. ‘Not much, not yet. Only got here a week ago.’
‘And already another woman is murdered, and you just happen to be in the same place at the same time she disappeared. Strange that.’
Anderson lifted himself onto his knees. ‘Listen, buddy, I got nuthin to do with those dames. I’m from Boston, not Washington.’
‘Don’t leave town just yet.’ The Inspector took out a card from his wallet. ‘If you find out anything, call me. Even if you find out nothing, call me.’
He reached out to the man’s face. Anderson flinched.
Danilov wiped off a large blob of shaving cream from the side of his face and showed him his index finger. ‘You missed a bit.’
***
The old man lived on Roberts Street on the second floor of a modern apartment. Strachan knocked and it was immediately opened. He was ushered inside and given tea.
The old man sat down opposite him, carrying a brown Pekinese whose colour and demeanour matched his owner. The dog, however, was the one baring its teeth and growling. ‘There, there, Xiao Hu Mei, it’s just a smelly young man.’
‘You are Mr…?’
‘Kung, the same as the surname of Confucius. We’re related you know. In the distant past, of course. A direct line of descent. Would you like to see the lineage?’
‘Thank you, Mr Kung, another time perhaps.’
The old man looked disappointed. Strachan realised he didn’t get many visitors. Loneliness was a disease of the old. ‘I’m here about the murder of a young woman.’
‘I didn’t do anything like that. I wouldn’t do anything like that, would I, Xiao Hu Mei?’ He nuzzled his face with the dog.
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t. She was at the tea dance at the Astor House hotel two days ago. You were there too, I believe?’
‘Two days ago?’ The old man counted on his fingers. His hands had the liver spots of old age, and scratches from the dog on their back. ‘Yes, I was. Clever of you to remember. This one is smart isn’t he, Xiao Hu Mei?’
‘Do you remember anybody else who was at the dance?’
‘We do like to go to the dances, don’t we, Xiao Hu Mei? All the young women in their finery. And the men, dressed in black and white. Reminds us of our youth in Peking, before the Boxers, of course. But, we don’t drink, do we? You don’t like Daddy to smell of silly alcohol, do you?’ He leant his head close to the dog and was smothered in wet licks from a small, pink tongue.
Strachan thought this wasn’t going very well. He tried again. ‘Do you remember anything from the tea dance?’
The old man sat upright. ‘I may be old, young man, but I’m not senile. I certainly remember the tea dance. Cost me four dollars and thirty cents. It’s ridiculous the price they charge for tea at that hotel. They should be ashamed.’
Strachan was about to close his notebook and say goodbye when the man continued.
‘There was someone I remembered quite well because he was like me, he wasn’t drinking. Or at least, he was only drinking soda water. He was European, English I would guess from the cut of his jacket. Tall and elegant, dark hair, in his late thirties, I would think. I remember him because he was like me. He wasn’t there to dance or drink or listen to the music. He was there watching the people. Just like me. Another watcher.’
Strachan wrote it all down. ‘Is there anything else you remember, Mr Kung?’
‘I won’t go back again, will I, Xiao Hu Mei? Too tiring now.’ He took out a pocket watch hanging from a fob around his waist. ‘If you’ll excuse me, young man, it’s time for Xiao Hu Mei’s nap now. I usually join her. We’re both not as young as we used to be.’
‘Thank you very much for your assistance, Mr Kung. This is my card. If you think of anything else, just give me a call.’
‘A call? Myself and Xiao Hu Mei don’t have a telephone. Nasty things. Make nasty noises that disturb our beauty sleep.’
‘If you think of anything else, just come down to the station and ask for Detective Constable Strachan.’
Mr Kung thought for a moment. ‘There was one other thing, Constable Strachan, the man had a strange smell, sweet, almost sickly, like a woman’s perfume. The older I get, the more sensitive my nose becomes. A bit like you, hey Xiao Hu Mei?’ The old man nuzzled the dog once more.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Inspector, I told you, I may be old but I’m not senile. My mind is as sharp as Xiao Hu Mei’s teeth. And my nose is a good as a bloodhound’s.’
‘Thank you, Mr Kung, you have been extremely helpful.’ He finally passed his card over to the old man. The dog, seeing the movement, snapped at his hand, the jaws just missing his index finger.
‘There, there, don’t be a naughty bunny.’ The dog continued to growl at Strachan, its eyes never leaving the young detective.
The old man examined the card. ‘Strachan. Your father was European?’
The detective nodded, keeping one eye on the dog.
‘Shame that. You speak such beautiful Chinese and have such good manners. Oh well, we can’t all be perfect.’ He stood up and hobbled to the door, the dog tucked underneath his arm.
Chapter 27
Strachan was already five minutes late. Inspector Danilov was looking at his pocket watch when he came running up.
‘Sorry, sir, the interview with the old man took longer than I thought. Very interesting, though.’
‘It’s 11.05 am, Stra-chan, let’s not keep your uncle waiting.’
They both walked through the imposing iron gates and were confronted by the black stone of a tall three-storey house. Strachan was always afraid of this house. It reminded him of some haunted place in the pictures, all crenellated bumps and lost towers. Every stone was covered in a layer of black soot as if it had been dipped in bitter chocolate. He never understood why his uncle lived there nor had he ever worked up enough courage to ask. It was just another strange eccentricity of his family, or at least of the part of the family that recognised he existed.
Danilov knocked on the door. Padded feet tumbled down the corridor, muffled by the imposing grandness of the carved mahogany.
‘Shi she?’ came a voice through the door.
‘It’s the Ah Yi. She’s from Peking. Only speaks Mandarin,’ Strachan said to the Inspector, ‘been with the family for ages but never learned Shanghainese.’ He stepped up to the door and shouted through the letterbox, ‘Shi wo, Ah Yi. Second cousin Da Wei, to see Uncle Chang.’
The door opened immediately, moving smoothly despite its size. A small woman stood there, dressed in black from head to toe. Strachan looked down at her feet. They were the small, butterfly feet of woman who had been hobbled since childhood. He always thought they were like the tiny hooves of a donkey, not a harbinger of sexual promise.
She led them into the front parlour swaying from side to side on her bound feet. It was as if they had stepped back sixty years. Inside all was d
ark wood and even darker walls. A large throne-like ironwood chair dominated the centre, faced by four smaller chairs and a mother of pearl inlaid table. All the chairs had matching carvings of vine leaves and peach blossoms on the backs and crawling up the legs. Above the main chair were two stern portraits; an old man and woman, both seated and facing the room. The man wore an ornate hat and an elegantly embroidered Mandarin overcoat.
‘My great grandfather,’ whispered Strachan.
On the opposite wall, a large character flowed off white paper. Strachan recognised the character for “shou”, the character that symbolised long life in Chinese, a blessing somebody had sent to his uncle a long time ago. It had worked so far.
‘Good morning, Hong Yee, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’
Strachan stood straighter and bowed slightly from the waist. His uncle always had this effect on him, making him seem like a seven-year-old boy all over again.
His uncle was wearing the traditional morning coat of blue, with soft wool court shoes. His appearance hadn’t changed since the last time Strachan had visited. The hair was still flecked with grey and his beard a brilliant white. There may have been a few more wrinkles around the eyes, but Strachan wasn’t sure. The eyes themselves, though, were still as vibrant and alive as ever.
‘Good morning, First Uncle,’ Strachan stammered.
‘I see you have been in the wars, Hong Yee.’
Strachan touched the side of his face. His ear had been re-bandaged this morning by his mother after a lot of fuss. ‘It’s nothing, Uncle, a small injury.’
His uncle frowned. ‘Please offer our guest a seat, Hong Yee, he will think we have no manners.’
Strachan’s face began to redden. He reached for one of the smaller chairs and offered it to Inspector Danilov.
‘And this is…?’ said Uncle Chang quietly.
Again, Strachan felt he had embarrassed his uncle, failing, in his clumsy Scottish way, to mimic the elegance of Chinese hospitality.
‘This is Inspector Danilov, First Uncle. He’s my boss.’
As soon as the word had left his lips, Strachan knew he had made another mistake.
‘Boss, such a strange, modern word. So…blunt,’ he said to nobody in particular, but Strachan knew he had been rebuked. ‘Please be seated, Inspector. And please excuse the clumsiness of my nephew. He means well but sometimes…’ The voice trailed off.
Strachan stood even straighter, making sure his eyes remained fixed on the ground.
Inspector Danilov sat down. Uncle Chang followed him, sitting in the larger chair, his rightful position, adjusting his long Mandarin gown elegantly as he did so, revealing two thin, white wrists with small, almost feminine hands attached to them.
‘Danilov, a Russian name, I believe.’
‘From Minsk originally. I arrived in Shanghai in 1925.’
‘Along with many others from your country. Did you join the police right away?’
‘Almost immediately. I had been in the Imperial Russian police, so it seemed the right thing to do.’
‘And your family?’
Strachan watched as the Inspector hesitated for a moment, his eyes staring glassily into space. Uncle Chang stayed quiet, respecting the feelings of their guest.
Eventually, Danilov spoke. ‘I was separated from my wife and two children.’ There was a slight pause. ‘I’m still looking for them.’
‘War is a terrible thing. And Civil War is the cruellest of all. We, in China, know better than most. If I can be of any help at all, Inspector, please don’t hesitate to ask. I still have many friends in the government.’
‘Thank you, Mr Chang, for your generous offer.’
‘Please call me Hong Lin, Inspector, all my other friends do.’
Strachan felt the meeting was going well. It wasn’t often his uncle asked people he had just met to call him by his given names.
‘I must admit, Inspector, I wasn’t in favour of Hong Yee joining the police force. His present state merely confirms my foreboding.’
‘Hong Yee?’
‘I’m sorry, David, my nephew.’ With a slight wave of the elegant white hand, he indicated Strachan, still standing beside the chair like an errant schoolboy in the headmaster’s study. ‘The police force is, shall we say, not the normal career of a young man from a good family, but David insisted he wanted to follow in the footsteps of his father.’
‘I understand. My father wasn’t keen on me joining either. He always used to say “A good police force is one that catches more criminals than it employs”.’
A small smile crossed the uncle’s lips. ‘How correct, Inspector. Unfortunately, it has been the Chinese experience the police have always employed more criminals than they have caught.’
There was a slight tap on the door. It opened slowly, and the old woman entered, followed by two other servants.
‘A few snacks to help lighten the conversation, Inspector. I’m afraid they are not as good as those you are used to. It’s so difficult to find the right servants these days. Ah Yi is the only one left, and she has looked after me since I was a baby.’
The Ah Yi placed five dishes, each on elaborately designed blue plates, in the centre of the table. She added a small blue and white plate in front of the Inspector and Uncle Chang, placing a pair of silver chopsticks on a rest in the shape of a lotus leaf, next to it.
There were no plate and chopsticks for Strachan. His stomach rumbled. The perfumed aroma of garlic, chili and anchovies filled the air. It was one of Strachan’s favourite dishes, the crunch of the fried anchovies complementing the bite of the garlic and chili. The other dishes were no less tasty: crispy tofu, boiled peanuts, dainty little xiao mai still in their bamboo steaming basket, and freshly-pickled cucumber. His stomach rumbled again.
‘Please do not stand on ceremony, Inspector.’
The Inspector picked up the chopsticks, tapping them gently on the table as they became an extension of his fingers. He reached over and picked up a single boiled peanut from the plate. He put it in his mouth and a broad smile of pleasure lit up his face. ‘Your food is remarkable, Hong Lin, even a simple peanut becomes a taste of heaven.’
‘You are too generous, Inspector. These snacks are a poor imitation of food. I remember back in 1903, before the revolution, a meal in Peking that would put this poor offering to shame, a meal that was the manna of the gods.’
Strachan stood there as the two men occasionally dipped their chopsticks into the dishes, talking of meals they had eaten and meals they had not. Even where one could find the best peaches in China. From Wuxi, at the beginning of August, according to his uncle.
Strachan was beginning to become impatient. There was so much work to do. He was about to interrupt when his uncle placed his chopsticks down on the lotus-shaped rest and leant forward. Inspector Danilov immediately followed suit.
‘Have you eaten enough, Inspector, or shall we have some more?’ Strachan could see most of the dishes had plenty left on them.
‘No, Hong Lin, I’ve eaten my fill. I fear if I eat any more, your nephew will have to carry me out of here on his shoulders.’
‘It has been a pleasure talking to you, Inspector, but I’m sure you haven’t come to my home simply to exchange pleasantries and try a few poor snacks. How can I help you?’
‘Thank you for the dian xin, Mr Chang, they were worthy of your elegant home. However, we have come for something more than your excellent food. I presume your nephew has explained the purpose of our visit?’
‘Very poorly, I’m afraid, Inspector, he still has a lot to learn. You are investigating a murder I believe?’
‘Five murders to be exact.’
Mr Chang sucked in his breath and pulled on his white beard. ‘Somebody has been busy.’
‘And will continue to kill, we think.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Each victim has Chinese characters carved into their body. The first victim was a French magistrate, and he had the characters for
“vengeance”.’ Danilov passed across the photo sent across by the French. Mr Chang looked at it without any emotion on his face. ‘The second was a Russian prostitute who had “damnation” carved on her body.’
‘All the characters so far have been of the same style, Inspector, quite precise with no indication of personality.’
‘That is interesting, Mr Chang. There are two other victims. The third was an androgyne…’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know this word, Inspector.’
‘A man who dressed as a woman.’
‘Ah, quite a common occurrence. As you know, all opera singers are male, even those playing female roles. I believe some of them continued to play their parts even when they left the stage. Mei Lan Fang at the moment is famous for his ability to mimic the mincing gait and gestures of a woman, though he is without doubt, a man. Such androgynes, as you call them, were highly prized by the emperors as entertainers and for their sexual services.’
The Inspector passed across the photograph of the dead Henry Sellars in the morgue. ‘This androgyne was young and American, Mr Chang.’
‘The characters for “justice”. Most unusual. Archaic even. Related to judgement in Chinese. Judge Bao and all the old writings.’
‘The fourth victim was an English actress. She had “retribution” carved on her body.’ Danilov spread all four pictures out on the table. ‘I’m afraid they are quite explicit.’
‘I have seen worse. In 1903, I spent two years as the assistant to a magistrate in Guizhou in southern China. Not a post I enjoyed. Far too many executions.’
‘The last murder occurred last night. The victim was butchered into five separate pieces. We are still waiting for the pictures to come back from the lab.’
‘The victim also had characters carved into his chest. The characters for “revenge”, Uncle.’
Uncle Chang picked up the pictures one by one and examined them closely, stroking his beard as he did so. ‘The characters are all interesting, Inspector, all legal in one way or another.’
‘Legal?’ asked Danilov.
Mr Chang stopped for a moment and stared into mid-air. ‘Of course, I have been a fool, old age is creeping up on me and with it the dulling of the wits.’ He turned to Danilov. ‘Please excuse me, Inspector.’
