Chapter XX
THE PARROT AND THE VIPER
—
A PRIVATE EYE, a chauffeur and a Chinese cabbie walk into a bar: it could have been the start of a joke, but no one was laughing. The saloon was on Rue Chu Pao-San, a street better known locally as “Blood Alley.”
A rough-and-tumble drag just off the Avenue Edward VII, Blood Alley was the tawdry underbelly of the Bund — the iconic string of western-style colonial buildings that lined the Whangpoo River. If the Bund epitomized Shanghai’s image of civilized sophistication, Rue Chu Pao-San was its opposite: a madhouse of vice and violent crime. Even in broad daylight, the street projected an aura of menace.
This particular bar was incongruously named the Happy Parrot. The place catered to an international rogue’s gallery of sailors, ladies of the evening and small-time hustlers. It was early in the day, but there were already a handful of drunks hunched over the bar and a few stealthy business transactions underway in the dimly lit corners of the room. Hank ordered a scotch and surveyed the scene.
“Perhaps you could assist me,” he said casually to the bartender, “I’m lookin’ for a courier.”
“Courier? This not a post office,” snarled the man behind the bar.
“C’mon, you know,” said Hank, tapping the brim of his Homburg hat, “I mean somebody who can deliver something for me. To America. I wanna get it there in one piece, you savvy? Who do you recommend?”
The barman took a long look at Hank, then gave his companions the once-over, his face turning hard and sour. He didn’t like what he saw.
“I recommend you get the hell outta my saloon, policeman,” he said. “You try the Viper. They not so picky there.”
Back in the street, Hank reassessed the situation. Something had set that bartender on edge in a hurry. At first Hank thought his approach had been too direct, but when he stood back and looked at his two companions he could see the problem: it was Joe, the cabbie. The kid might know his way around the city, but he obviously didn’t belong in Blood Alley. He looked more out of place even than the two Americans. And in a place where the wrong kind of attention could get a man knifed or shot, anyone who stood out in that way was to be avoided.
“Joe,” he said, “Don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way. You’ve been a big help, but these mugs see you grinnin’ like a little kid an’ they think it’s a set-up. They don’t trust you, an’ dat means they don’t trust us. Thanks for bringin’ us here, but I think me an’ Sonny gotta do this alone.”
Joe was crestfallen at first, but then Sonny reminded him that the Baroness would need an escort to the Explorer’s Institute that afternoon. The thought of Angelica de Rothburg’s shapely legs worked on Joe like a tonic. His spirits restored, Joe made sure Sonny knew the way back to the lane house, then whistled back to his taxi and drove off.
Hank and Sonny walked down the street to another bar — the Black Viper — and tried it again. This place made the Happy Parrot seem almost wholesome by comparison, but they got results. Once the two men were alone at a quiet table with their “courier,” Hank got down to business.
“Look, I don’t really need a delivery,” he said. “I need info. One of yer competitors double-crossed a friend of mine, see, an’ I wanna teach him a lesson. Can you help me find him? I can make it worth your while.”
Sonny flashed some of the Baroness’s cash to drive the point home. The smuggler smiled broadly, and leaned in to hear the pitch.
“This guy owns a boat last sailed a couple months ago, had a very special cargo on board, you savvy? Boat called the Golden Star...”
The smuggler stiffened. His eyes darted flinchingly around the room as if he expected someone to throw a knife.
“No thanks,” he said quickly. “I no mix up with Chenggi. Too dangerous. You go find someone else.” He stood abruptly and walked straight to the front door without another word, taking only one nervous look back as he left the saloon.
“This is proving more difficult than we imagined,” quipped Sonny.
The double-cross story was a ruse, of course: the Golden Star had actually helped Baron de Rothburg. But Hank figured the Shadow Order might be on the lookout for any Americans trying to contact the Golden Star’s owner. It was unlikely they’d have any interest in smuggler’s feuds, though, so he’d opted for the back door approach instead.
Just then another man approached them. He was small and shifty, with the unlit stub of a cigar clamped between yellow-brown teeth. The man spoke in a thick, unidentifiable accent.
“Golden Star, yes?” he said, “I can help you gentlemen. How much?” he made a gesture with his hand indicating money.
“Dat depends,” replied Hank. “How much you know?”
“I know who own Golden Star, where they are, who they deal with. You wanna help your friend beat double-cross, you want me. I am no friend to Golden Star.” He spat on the floor to emphasize this last statement.
Hank was surprised the man had overheard that much. And there was something in his voice... he’d heard it from snitches before, back in his cop days. It was a combination of hatred and avarice. The little stool pigeon might be dangerous. But Hank trusted his instincts, and they said he wouldn’t report this conversation to anybody: he wanted the money and to see his enemies get what was coming to them, nothing more.
The next moments were critical. Hank couldn’t seem too eager or he might tip his hand.
“Okay,” said Hank. “You help us find them, and we’ll pay...” he flashed two fingers at Sonny, who pulled two large bills from his pocket. The little man shook his head, held up five fingers. Hank frowned, and pretended to consult silently with Sonny, who shook his head somberly. Hank replied with three fingers. After a few more moments of tense haggling in this manner, Sonny at last shrugged his shoulders in surrender. Hank sighed theatrically and relayed three of the large bills along with some smaller currency to the snitch. The deal was set.
Half an hour later, Sonny and Hank were alone, crouched behind a row of wooden barrels as they watched a small waterfront warehouse. There was a small sign near the door, written in both Chinese and English:
GOLDEN STAR EXPORT
silks – porcelain – tea
No Solicitors
“I think we should go in,” said Sonny. “That description the smuggler gave us was a perfect match for the man who brought the singing stone to New York. If these men helped the Baron, they must be on our side, right? They can tell us what this is all about.”
Hank hesitated. “I dunno... somethin’ don’t feel right to me. Dat description matches the mug in Frisco too, and he wasn’t anywhere near our side. You didn’t see him, Sonny, he was a dead ringer for the guy in New York. I say we just keep an eye on this joint for a while, see what gives.”
A man emerged from the warehouse. He wore traditional-looking Chinese clothing, black and loose like pyjamas, something of a rarity in ultra-modern Shanghai. He was unusually tall, with a gaunt face and a grave expression. He could have passed for either the courier in New York or the crime boss in San Francisco.
Hank was still watching the strange man when something heavy fell on him from behind, smacking the back of his head. As shooting stars burst across his vision and melted into all-consuming blackness, the last thing Hank saw was the tall man turn towards him... and smile.
* * *
The Shanghai branch of the Explorer’s Institute was less than two miles from Blood Alley, but it seemed a world away. Nestled in a neighborhood full of foreign consulates, travel agents and international commercial concerns, the Institute was much like its San Francisco sibling, only larger. It contained a private club in the English style, with overstuffed armchairs, valets and tall tales, along with a substantial library, members-only accommodations and a dining hall. The Institute was the hub of its community — a place where adventurers from all over the world could meet, relax, prepare for their next expedition, or leave messages for each other.
The
Baroness’s head was full of unanswered questions: What was this strange object, the singing stone? Where had her father found it, and why was he so desperate to get it off the continent? Had he really trekked all the way from the Himalayas to Shanghai — two thousand miles or more — just to get it onto a boat? Why Shanghai? And most importantly of all, what had really happened to him afterwards? If there were any answers to be had, the Explorer’s Institute was the best place to look.
One thing she did know was that the newspaper reports didn’t add up. They suggested that Franz de Rothburg had come down from the mountains to his base camp, then turned around, went straight back up, and vanished. She knew differently: he had come east. Perhaps — and she hated herself for daring to hope — perhaps he was still right here in Shanghai, being held prisoner by the Shadow Order and their mysterious employer. All this was running through her mind as she entered the Institute and approached the front desk, Sid and Rosie following close behind.
The receptionist was a bright, well-dressed Chinese woman named Mai-Lin. Like the famed Mrs. Murphy of Wall Street’s Rothburg Building, Mai-Lin was thorough, efficient, and prepared for any contingency. Consulting the Institute’s enormous register book, she quickly established that none of the five names on the Baroness’s list were staying at the club at that time, nor did they have any bookings for luncheon. That was disappointing, but Mai-Lin’s next revelations sent a chill down Sid’s spine.
Baron Franz de Rothburg, she reported, had reserved a room in the Institute’s members’ quarters in early August, for three nights. He had arrived on schedule, had lunch in the dining hall and then departed. He did not return; his room was not slept in. Three of the people on the Baroness’s list had visited the Institute on the same day the Baron arrived. None had been back since.
And there was more: the fourth man on the list was dead — his body had been found floating near the docks soon after the Baron disappeared. Mai-Lin distinctly remembered seeing something about it in the newspaper. There had been no further details.
Nobody spoke for a minute. It could not be a coincidence. On the contrary, Sid could reconstruct the whole scene in his mind: the Baron, on the run, calling a hasty meeting with some trusted colleagues at the Explorer’s Institute; the esteemed adventurer recruiting their help, just as his daughter would reach out for help a few weeks later; a race against time to reach the Golden Star; perhaps a battle with the Shadow Order, or worse.
And in the end, only the singing stone had survived.
Chapter XXI
DANGER ON ALL SIDES
—
THERE WAS ONE name remaining on the Baroness Angelica de Rothburg’s list, one more person who might be able to shed light on what had become of her father, if they could reach her.
Her name was Su-Xi Chang. She was not herself a member of the Explorer’s Institute, but was well known to Mai-Lin the receptionist: she had, at one time, been married to the Institute’s late president. She lived the life of a socialite widow in the International Settlement; like the Baron she enjoyed a good party as much as the thrill of the unknown. Angelica was not certain of the nature of Chang’s relationship with her father, but she could guess. He spoke of her often enough.
Mai-Lin had her on the telephone within minutes.
“Madame Chang?” started the Baroness, “This is Angelica de Rothburg. I believe you knew my father.” She realized with a start that for the first time she had spoken of him in the past tense.
“Angelica, darling!” The voice on the other end spoke perfect English in a bright soprano voice with a lilting accent. “Of course I know Franz. We are dear friends. I’ve been hoping you would call, ever since those ridiculous reports started about your father going missing.” The Baroness’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Was he alive and well?
“I tried to reach you in New York,” the voice continued, “But you’d already gone. Are you in Shanghai?”
“Yes, I’m at the Explorer’s Institute with some friends. Could you come here? There are so many questions I need to ask you...”
“I’m sure there are, darling. If you’re here, then Franz’s package must have reached you in New York, yes? It was very smart of you to call me; I’m probably the only person who knows the whole story. But listen...” she dropped her voice to a whisper, and it was difficult to hear her through the crackle of the telephone line.
“Your father is lucky to be alive. There is danger. You have no idea how much.”
“Yes, I know,” said the Baroness. She was whispering too, now. “They’ve been after us for weeks. Who are they? What do they want?”
“We’ve said too much already, darling. No more over the telephone. We must meet so I can explain in person. And not at the Institute, it’s not safe. Does Mai-Lin know you’re there? How much have you told her?”
The Baroness gulped. Had she trusted the wrong person? “Not much,” she said. “We’ve just been trying to find people who might know what happened. You’re the only one I’ve reached.”
“Good. Don’t breathe another word to anyone. Meet me...” — there was a pause, leaving the Baroness anxiously listening to the quiet buzz of the phone lines for a moment — “Meet me in the Chinese City, you know it? The old walled city. Near the North Gate there’s a temple called Da Ching. Meet me there in two hours.”
The Baroness scribbled the information in her notebook. “Got it,” she said. Glancing up, she saw Mai-Lin watching her intensely and suddenly wondered whether the receptionist could read lip movements. She turned away from the desk, hiding her face behind the telephone receiver.
“One more thing,” said Madame Chang. “Do you have the package? Please bring it. I can’t explain all of this properly, it’s just too strange; like something out of a storybook. There are some things I’ll simply have to show you.” The Baroness could believe that. Whatever the singing stone really was, it defied description.
“I’ll be there.”
Another pause. “Good,” Madame Chang said at last. “Please, you must bring the package if we’re going to help Franz. He... his safety means a great deal to me. And you said you were with friends? Bring them too. We’ll need them.”
The arrangements made, Angelica hung up the phone and returned it to Mai-Lin, whom she eyed suspiciously. She gathered up Sid and Rosie, who were admiring the Institute’s collection of exotic artifacts, and hustled them back towards the cab, where Joe the driver sat waiting.
“I think we’re finally going to get to the bottom of this,” she said. “Joe, take us back to the lane house. I need to pick something up.”
“Can do, gorgeous!” said Joe, and off they went.
* * *
In a chic apartment somewhere in the International Settlement, Su-Xi Chang hung up her telephone and stared at it for a moment. The room was unlit, with all but one of the windows covered by heavy drapes. A narrow rectangle of gray daylight streamed in and illuminated her face. Madame Chang was no longer young, but she still possessed the delicate beauty that had made her a movie star in Shanghai and attracted the attention of her dashing adventurer husband. The light made her look ethereal, but the rest of the room was gloomy, lost in dark shadow.
“They’re coming,” she said. “They’ll bring the stone.”
“Excellent,” said a voice from the shadows. It was deep, resonant, but with a high, clipped undertone giving the word an unreal quality.
“I did as you asked,” she said. “I did everything you asked. You’ll let me go now?” She turned and her eyes were pleading, her hands trembling as she addressed the shadows.
“Yes,” said the other. “I release you.”
Madame Chang sighed with relief and closed her eyes. She was ashamed of her betrayal, but she still had two hours: that was time enough to make things right, to warn Angelica of the trap. She still did not know who this stranger was, or how he knew so much about her connection to Franz, when they had always been so discreet. But Chang feared him as she had feared
nothing before. He was like the Devil incarnate: tall, cold and surrounded by an almost-hypnotic aura, projecting power and menace.
With her eyes closed and full of tears, she did not see the hand rise from the man’s robes. It was a slender yet powerful hand, with long curved nails and the head of a tattooed dragon visible just below the sleeve. The hand held a metallic globe, covered with ornate decoration.
The hand squeezed, and the shadows erupted in white flame.
* * *
“My dear Captain, you may have some limited knowledge of engineering, but you know nothing of politics.” Professor Armbruster was in one of his fervent moods. He strode about the room as Captain Doyle leaned over a workbench, tinkering with an odd electrical device.
“I’m telling you,” he continued, “China will never become a Communist country. There are more than two hundred million people here, most of them illiterate peasants, all of them devoted to notions of authority and tradition. There is no way they’d ever cede that to a gang of upstart intellectuals and cutthroat guerillas.”
“Tell that to the late Emperor, my dear Professor,” quipped Doyle. He crimped a wire into place and stood back to admire his handiwork. “The Imperials underestimated Sun Yat-Sen, and you underestimate the Reds. All it takes to overthrow a country today is control of the radio.”
As if to illustrate his point he gestured grandly at the machine on the table. The two men were in a small laboratory at St. John’s University, a cluster of buildings overlooking a bend in Soochow Creek. Gaining use of the facility for the day had been a simple matter: it just so happened that Dr. Hu Qishan of St. John’s science faculty was a great admirer of Armbruster’s work in physics.
The new, pliable rock was much easier to work with than the impenetrable cylinder. Still, the Professor’s analysis revealed little, except that the flecks of glowing substance bore reactive similarities to certain metals. Doyle was following a different tack: his new machine was a miniature counterpart of sorts to the fluorospectrocitor, the device that had changed the singing stone from green to blue. But instead of invisible light, this one beamed radio waves at a target.
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