Death In Shanghai (10 page)

Boyle was as direct as ever, thought Danilov. He glanced at Allen, quietly puffing at what remained of his cigar. Boyle caught the look. ‘Don’t mind Allen. He’s in Intelligence, he knows everything anyway.’

‘You flatter me, Thomas. I merely know nearly everything. And anything else, I ask you.’ They both laughed like two members of a private club sharing an in-joke at the expense of a non-member. Danilov was acutely aware the non-member was him.

‘The French have a number of problems,’ he began.

‘Being French is one of them.’ Boyle laughed at his joke, joined again by Allen from his perch in the corner.

‘I’m sure it is,’ continued Danilov, ‘but at the moment there are other, more pressing problems.’

‘Which are?’ The question was from Allen and there was no joke in his voice.

‘Two murders. Both brutal.’

‘What’s that got to do with us?’

‘They believe the murderer is based in the International Settlement.’

‘On what evidence?’ snapped Boyle.

Danilov detected a tone of indignation in his voice as if he were affronted by the idea murderers might be operating in his jurisdiction. ‘Based on information received. My guess is the French have been putting pressure on their own criminal gangs, the Green Gang in particular, to find out who is behind the killings. That gang has pointed the finger in the direction of the International Settlement.’

‘Poppycock.’

‘Perhaps, sir, but the French seemed sure…’

‘The French are always sure until they are not sure. During the war, it was always the same,’ said Boyle.

Danilov ran his fingers through his hair. Be patient, he thought, explain what is happening, help him understand. ‘There have also been two murders in the last couple of weeks. A French magistrate and a Russian prostitute.’

‘I suppose they were together at the time,’ said Boyle.

Allen held up his hand again. ‘Gangland murders?’ Danilov noted Allen seemed to be asking all the questions now.

‘I don’t think so. Too clever, too vicious and too personal for a gang. us. The magistrate was strangled and then frozen in ice.’

‘Our murderer sounds very cold-blooded.’ Boyle laughed at Allen’s joke as a long stream of cigar smoke blew past Danilov’s face. He continued anyway. ‘The Russian prostitute drowned in a barrel of pig’s blood, her lungs filled until she could breathe no more.’

He waited for the inevitable joke. He heard nothing except the creak of leather on a chair as Boyle shifted position.

Danilov took a deep breath. Now was the time to take the plunge and actually say what had been swimming around in his head since this morning. ‘I think both murders are related to the killing in the creek, sir.’

‘Oh,’ said Allen, ‘why is that?’

‘There are some rather obvious coincidences. All three victims were bound with the same thin ropes, and all of them had Chinese characters carved into their bodies.’

‘Chinese characters?’

‘The characters were carved with some sort of knife, sir. It was neatly done, almost as if they had been copied from a book. The characters for “vengeance”, “damnation”, and “justice”. Not common words at all.’ Danilov ran his fingers through his hair once more. ‘On the bottom of the barrel lid, we found something even stranger. The words “HATE ALL” were scratched into the wood.’

Allen’s eyebrows were raised in surprise. ‘Strange words, indeed.’

‘So that’s the basis for your belief that the murders are related,’ Boyle snorted, a cloud of cigar smoke expelled from his mouth.

‘More than that, sir, I think we could have a serial killer on our hands.’

‘What’s a “serial killer” when he’s at home?’ Boyle sneered, looking to Allen for support. ‘Someone who kills wheat? Or corn, perhaps. Maybe he uses a machine gun on a sheaf of oats.’ His shoulders chuckled along with the rest of his body.

Danilov continued anyway. ‘It’s a new theory. From Ernst Gennat, director of the Berlin Police. He calls them “
Serienm
ö
rder
”. Literally, serial killers. It’s when a murderer kills more than one victim. I met him at a conference in Berlin in 1922. We spent a long time discussing his theories. An example would be Jack the Ripper.’

Boyle stopped laughing. ‘So now we’re listening to Germans. Had enough of them during the war. They did a lot of serial killing then, let me tell you.’

Allen was quiet for a moment. ‘Do we know the names of the victims?’

‘The magistrate was a Monsieur Flamini and the Russian prostitute was…’ he opened his notebook ‘Maria Tatiana Stepanova. The victim in Soochow Creek was a Henry Sellars.’

‘The man who had the appearance of a woman?’ said Allen.

Danilov stared at him for a long time before answering. ‘Yes.’

‘Strange people. Knew about them in India, of course. Hijras they were called. Popular at weddings and the like. But didn’t know they existed here too.’ Boyle flicked the ash from his cigar into the ashtray.

Allen glanced down at his watch. ‘Got to go, I’m afraid. Careful with the French, Danilov, they can be unpredictable to say the least. Let me know if you need any help with the murders. Intelligence can be useful, sometimes.’

Danilov stood up to take the opportunity to leave as well.

‘Good bye, Mr Allen.’

‘I’ll look into that move of yours. It’s mate in four for me unless you’re careful.’ He popped a sweet into his mouth from a packet he kept in his pocket. ‘Don’t want to breathe cigar smoke all over the secretaries upstairs. Do you want one? Got into the habit in France.’

Danilov shook his head. ‘It’s mate in three for you.’

‘We shall have to see, Inspector. Bye, Thomas, see you at the club.’ Allen left the room. Before Danilov could follow him out, Boyle stepped in front of him.

‘Do take Allen’s warnings about the French seriously, Danilov. Upstairs…’ he gestured with his thumb, ‘don’t want any mistakes on this. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, sir, I understand.’

‘And solve the killing in Soochow Creek quickly. If a prostitute and a Frenchman have been murdered in the French Concession, that’s none of our business. Let them solve their own problems.’

‘But sir,’

‘Solve the murder in the creek. Quickly. Do you understand? I want it sorted and the case closed.’

He put his arm round Danilov’s shoulder and led him to the door. ‘And let’s hear no more talk about “serial killers”. Bunch of poppycock, if you ask me.’

He opened the door and Danilov walked out.

‘Solve it soon. Do you understand?’

***

Danilov rearranged his desk again. The lamp had been placed on the left side, touching the desk blotter. His pens were now stacked on the right. Children, children, children, he thought. ‘Just carry on, Stra-chan, while I deal with this.’

Strachan checked his notes, finding his place with his finger. ‘From the registry, I discovered three European doctors who could have been dealing with our victim, sir: Dr Teuscher, Dr Halliwell and Dr Lamarr. I checked the files on them. We arrested the first one two years ago for performing an illegal abortion but he was released without charge. We had nothing to go on and the young woman involved refused to co-operate.’

Danilov sat down, his desk exactly how he wanted it. Now he could concentrate.

‘He died six months ago. Our registry appears to be out of date. Whilst Dr Halliwell is now in Peking. He fled there after the fighting a year ago. Looks like he was tagged by Special Branch as a Comintern agent.’

‘Our victim had seen a doctor recently, Stra-chan, so we can rule him out. Let’s pay a visit to Dr Lamarr. No phone call. Let’s surprise him. Have the photographs come in?’

‘Here they are, sir. I’ve passed copies over to Chief Inspector Boyle already.’

‘Have you now? And who told you to do that?’

‘Miss Cavendish. Apparently, they asked for the photographs to be passed to them.’

‘They?’

‘Chief Inspector Boyle and Mr Allen, sir.’

Danilov leant forward and took a long drag on his cigarette. The politics was already starting. They were muscling in on his investigation. He stared directly at Strachan. ‘Next time, you pass nothing to nobody without my approval. Is that understood? If they want the photographs, they can get them from the lab directly.’

‘Yes, sir, I…’

‘Nothing to nobody.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Danilov examined the photos one by one. ‘Let’s go and see this doctor now. Where is he?’

‘Just behind the Bund, sir. On Canton Road, number 131.’

Danilov opened the desk drawer to place the photographs inside and found a set of keys. They had a note attached to them from Miss Cavendish. ‘Can you drive, Stra-chan?’

‘I’ve passed the police advanced driving course, sir.’

‘Your apparently boundless range of skills never ceases to amaze me. Well, we are in luck. Apparently, Chief Inspector Boyle has been kind enough to bless this investigation with a car.’ Danilov tossed the keys to Strachan.

He caught them in his right hand and looked for any identification marks. ‘Which car is it, Inspector?’

‘I don’t know Stra-chan, but I presume it will be a black one.’

‘They’re all black, sir.’

‘Then work it out, Stra-chan. Use your detective skills.’

Strachan thought for a moment. ‘I’ll ask Miss Cavendish, sir. She’s bound to know.’

‘There’s hope for you yet, Stra-chan.’

Chapter 9

Lamarr’s office was in a building known as the surgery because of the number of doctors who congregated there. All ills were catered for, from athlete’s foot to polio, septicaemia to hair loss, typhoid to in-grown toenails.

After taking a lift to the third floor, they walked down a long, sterile corridor. On each side, glass doors had the doctor’s name stencilled in various typefaces. Some even had the specialisation beneath the name: hypnosis, osteopathy, paediatrics, bowel movements. Others preferred a long list of abbreviations and full stops: Ph.d., M.D., F.R.C.S., P.P.A.D., were just a few Danilov recognised.

They stopped outside room 323. The name was there in large, simple, sans serif letters. Dr I.P. Lamarr. No abbreviations with full stops or any specialisations were listed beneath the name.

Danilov knocked and entered. A receptionist in a light blue nurse’s uniform sat behind a neat desk, with nothing on it except a green lamp, desk diary and telephone. The room was elegant in an understated way. A light green carpet, four comfortable armchairs, lighting from two tall lamps. On a side table, a stack of magazines threatened to topple over. Danilov glanced at the magazines. Some were in English, some in Chinese, all were over a year old.

‘Can I help you?’

‘We would like to see Dr Lamarr.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’ She was looking in the desk diary. From where he was standing, Danilov could see it was empty.

‘I’m afraid Dr Lamarr is busy today. Can I make an appointment for you?’

Danilov walked up to the desk, standing as close to it as he could so his body loomed over the petite nurse. ‘I would like to see Dr Lamarr now. Please tell him the police have an appointment.’

The nurse quickly closed the desk diary and got up. ‘I’ll see if he’s available.’

She tapped gently on another glass door, waited for a quiet ‘Enter’ and went in.

When she was gone, Danilov went behind the desk and opened the diary. He leafed through the appointments for the last week. There were six names that appeared two or three times each, all written in neat handwriting. The desk itself was beautifully arranged, everything in its place and a place for everything.

The nurse appeared in the doorway. ‘The doctor will see you now.’

Danilov closed the diary and walked into the next room, passing the nurse on his way in. If looks could kill, I’ve just been stabbed a thousand times, he thought.

If the waiting room had been comfortable, Lamarr’s office was opulent. But opulence that whispered money quietly rather than shouting obscene wealth from the rooftops. A wealth that shows its ostentation through a lack of ostentation.

Danilov admired the precision of everything. The desk was exactly where it should be. A leather couch was just the right shade of brown. The chair beside it at exactly the right angle, comfortable yet stylish. All was clothed in soothing, muted colours to relax even the most nervous patient. The only block of colour was behind the desk. A Kandinsky perhaps, he thought. Evidence again of taste. And of wealth. Lamarr’s practice must be extremely lucrative despite the lack of patients.

The good doctor was sitting behind his desk, wearing a clinician’s white coat. He was writing in a notebook. Danilov noticed the fluid script and the beautiful mauve ink.

Lamarr looked up as if he had just noticed there were some people in his office and he needed to talk to them. A disturbance of little consequence.

‘Hello there, my receptionist didn’t get your names.’

‘We didn’t give them,’ answered Danilov bluntly. ‘But this is Detective Constable Stra-chan and my name is Danilov, Inspector Danilov of the Shanghai Municipal Police.’

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ An avuncular smile crossed the fleshy lips of the doctor. Danilov could see the skin was pale and shiny around his face, glossy almost, as if a fragile coat of oil had been applied just before they entered.

‘Do sit down, gentlemen.’ Lamarr indicated two comfortable chairs in front of the desk. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I wonder if you have ever seen this person.’ Danilov took a picture of the victim and passed it over the desk to Lamarr. He glanced at it briefly before putting it back down.

‘I have seen this person.’

‘His name?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information, gentlemen.’ The same avuncular smile appeared again on the doctor’s lips. ‘As you are no doubt aware, such information falls under doctor–patient confidentiality.’ He opened his arms in the classic ‘I’m awfully sorry but there’s nothing I can do’ pose. Again, a smile crossed his lips.

Danilov was looking down at the hat in his hands. When he spoke, it was quietly. ‘Doctor Lamarr, I don’t understand.’

‘I’m sorry if I haven’t made myself clear. You must understand my patients have a right to privacy.’