Death In Shanghai (18 page)

He pushed the blade in further. He could see the pale whiteness of the bone through the blood. There was a roundness to the ball of the joint where it slotted into the arm socket. What a perfect piece of engineering, so beautifully designed to give a range of movement and strength.

He pushed it deeper and turned the blade. The preacher had gone limp now, unconscious.

Don
’
t sleep, preacher, you
’
ll only hurt yourself.

Li Min stepped forward and threw a bucket of cold water over the preacher
’
s face. The man opened his eyes, looked at him and tried to scream again, his mouth tearing at the glue of the duct tape.

He pressed the knife down and cut through the final tendons that held the arm to the shoulder. The arm pulled away neatly when he removed it from the body. Quite a good job, even if he did say so himself.

He showed the severed arm to the preacher. The man tried to scream but collapsed, unconscious.

The preacher didn
’
t know yet he still had to remove the man
’
s other arm and both legs.

He would do them later after he had eaten a spot of dinner.

Chapter 18

Victorov was seated at the table with a glass of tea in front of him. Danilov knew it was him as soon as he entered the cafe. Three days’ worth of beard. A dirty black overcoat and the constant shifting of the eyes, first to the left and then to the right, gave it away.

The Princess introduced them. ‘Victorov, this is an Inspector from the Shanghai Police. He’s here to have a chat with you.’

‘But Princess Ostrepova, you promised…’

‘I promised nothing. Enjoy the tea.’

Danilov sat down on the chair opposite. ‘Hello, Victorov, I want to ask you a few questions.’

‘The Princess tricked m’ into comin’ here.’ The man spoke with a heavy Moscow accent. Once again the eyes flicked from left to right, never looking Danilov directly in the face. ‘I don’ have to answer. Shanghai Police. No power in French Concession.’

For the first time, he stared directly at Danilov, defiance dancing in his eyes, before they darted to the left and right again, like a rat in a sewer.

The Inspector sighed. Time to end this. ‘Look, Victorov, you have two choices. Either you answer my questions and walk out of here, free to run wherever you want. Or I call my men to come and drag you back to the International Settlement. By the time the French hear about it, you will be locked up in Ward Road Jail for a couple of years. The Warders take a perverse pleasure in Russian prisoners, I have heard.’

Victorov’s eyes had resumed their constant darting this way and that. The Inspector opened his arms wide, hoping the thug would not call his bluff. ‘The choice is yours.’

Victorov sat in his chair, rocking backwards and forwards. For one moment, Danilov thought he was going to take a chance and make a dash for the door and freedom. Then, he saw him shrug his shoulders and his head went down. ‘What d’ye wanna to know?’

Danilov relaxed and sat back in his chair. ‘Victorov. Is that your only name?’

‘That’s what they call m’. Given names are Ivan Yuri, but everybody calls m’ Victorov’

‘How did you know Maria Stepanova?’

Victorov inhaled deeply. He picked up the steaming glass of tea and sipped carefully from it. ‘We met in Shanghai, in ’27. She came from same part of Moscow as m’. Didn’t start working for m’ then. Still had money.’

‘But you helped her spend it?’

The eyes squinted up over the rim of the glass. This man wasn’t as tough, now he wasn’t facing a woman. ‘Money finished. Came to m’, begging m’ to help her. She wasn’t bad looking and wasn’t old, what else could she do?’

‘So, she went out on the streets or worked the clubs?’

Victorov became offended. ‘M’ girls don’t work streets or clubs. Better places to meet men. I set her up in own apartment. Much better for her.’

‘And for you. Easier to control and monitor the money and the merchandise.’

A smile spread across Victorov’s face like an oil slick spreading on the sea. ‘I know m’ business.’

‘So, you set her up. What then?’

‘She got her own men. Usually by word of mouth. She was good at job was little Maria. One of m’ best little earners.’

His grizzled face supped his tea again. The glass was empty. Danilov signalled the waitress to bring him more.

He took another slurp of the fresh tea and wiped the back of his mouth. ‘Maria had special man. Came every couple of weeks. An Englishman. Well-dressed, well off. Said name was Mr Thomas. Liked it rough, if you know what m’ mean.’ He took another slurp of tea. ‘Maria found his real name and address one day. He some bigwig in the Shanghai Council, name of Ayres.’

Danilov’s brain sparked at the mention of the name, but he kept his voice under control as he asked his next question. He had to keep Victorov talking. ‘So, you decided to make a little money on the side.’

‘It wasn’t m’, it was Maria. She wanted get away from Shanghai. Ayres was ticket out of here.’

‘What did you do?’

‘We waited for Ayres t’come again. Waited till he was in leather costume and I burst in.’

‘The outraged boyfriend, who just happened to have a camera at the ready.’

‘Outraged husband,’ Victorov chuckled. ‘Ayres promised would send money. We just had to give him couple of days.’

‘And…?’

‘Two days later, we were called by man. Said he was from Shanghai Police. Like you. Said he had Ayres’s money ready.’

‘So you sent Maria to get it?’

‘She was one they knew. I followed her though. She met a tall, thin man. Well-dressed too. Wealthy. A gentleman.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because when they met, he gave her his card, all polite and official like. They went into cafe but never came out. I went after them but owner said they had gone out back.’ His shoulders slumped forward and all the cockiness seemed to leave the man like air escaping from a balloon. ‘Was last time I saw her. Two days later French police found her. Dead.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I got out of Shanghai. You can’t trust police. I would’ve been set up for murder. I swear I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Other than sending her out on her own to face a killer.’

Victorov shrugged his shoulders once more.

‘Would you recognise the man she met again?’

‘No. Only saw him quickly and was dark. All I remember, tall and well-dressed. His hat covered face most of the time.’

Danilov sighed. He wasn’t going to get any more out of this thug. He pointed to the door. ‘You’ve got five seconds to get out of here, Victorov. If I were you, I would run now and keep running. The man you sent Maria to see could be looking for you as we speak. If he is…’

Danilov left the last words unspoken. Victorov finished the last of his tea and bolted for the door, slamming it behind him in his rush to get away.

‘That man leaves a bad smell wherever he goes.’ It was the Princess speaking.

Chapter 19

Sergeant Wolfe looked up from his duty book. What a day, he thought. I’ll be happy to get home to the missus tonight and put my feet up. He could feel his boots pinching his toes and the ache in his calves from standing. Lord, how he wanted to put his feet up.

It had been a good day though. Nothing had gone wrong. That was important for Sergeant Wolfe. When things went wrong that meant problems from upstairs. And he needed those like he needed a new arsehole. Years of walking the beat and being behind the desk in countless police stations across the International Settlement had taught him one thing: nobody noticed when things went right, they only saw the cock-ups. Avoid Mr Cock-Up and everything was plain sailing.

A young Chinese boy wearing the uniform of the post office was standing in front of him. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in English before immediately switching to pidgin. ‘Lookee, what wan?’

‘Telegram.’

‘Well, this is a police station not a bleedin’ poste restante.’

The post office boy just stood there. The sergeant asked again ‘Who for?’

The boy examined his book. ‘Telegram for Danny Love.’

‘Danny Love. There ain’t no Danny Love here. So piss off back to where you came from.’

The boy reached over and showed the open book to the sergeant. Wolfe scanned down the list of names with his finger until he came to Danilov. ‘Inspector Danilov, why didn’t you say?’ Then he switched back to pidgin. ‘Give one piece here.’

‘Can give only to number one man.’

‘Now look here, sonny. Me number one man, you give.’

The boy handed over the telegram reluctantly. ‘You sign chit.’

‘Me sign your arse off,’ replied Wolfe. Another fucking troublemaker, he thought, should have the lot of them thrown in Ward Road Jail. Lord knows, it’s big enough.

He glanced at the clock on the wall opposite. Nearly the end of his shift. Soon, he would be able to put his feet up and have a nice cup of tea. He took the book from the young boy and signed an illegible scrawl along the bottom. Work that one out, sonny.

‘What you got there, Jim?’

‘A telegram for Danilov. You know, George, I think I’m becoming a blooming concierge in a flophouse, not a copper any more. The amount of stuff I do, I should get three times what I get. I’m not paid to run errands and take notes for nobody.’

‘I’ll give it to him if you want. Save you the trouble.’

Wolfe looked at the telegram and the onion-sheet wrapper in his hand. ‘I should give it to him myself. I signed for it.’

‘Please yourself. Both Danilov and Strachan are out. Miss Cavendish is on her chocolate break, I wouldn’t disturb her if I was you. You could wait for her to come back…’

Sergeant Wolfe glanced at the clock on the wall again. The minute hand was just one tick away from the 12. Nearly 4 pm. The cup of tea was calling his name. He handed over the telegram to Cartwright. ‘Make sure he gets it, won’t you?’

‘You can count on me.’

As Cartwright took the telegram and walked back to the detectives’ room, Sergeant Wolfe turned round to see the post office boy still standing there with his hand held out. ‘Fuck off, before I give you a clip around the ear.’

‘Fuck you too, copper. And your mother,’ said the boy in perfect English, before running out the door.

Lord save me, thought the sergeant. He stared at the clock on the wall. The minute hand just clicked on to the twelve. Before another tick occurred, the sergeant had already taken off his uniform jacket and was heading to the back office to change.

At his desk in the detectives’ room, Cartwright opened the telegram. It was in the usual onion-skin envelope with two lines of text pasted onto a pro-forma sheet, typed in capital letters.

HAVE INFORMATION RE DAUGHTER STOP CALL TSINGTAO 73546 WILLIS STOP

Short and to the point, he thought. What’s it mean? A daughter? I didn’t know Danilov had a family. Always a bleedin’ loner that one.

He checked the telegram again, turning the sheet over to see if there was anything on the other side. He didn’t know why he did that, there was never anything on the reverse side of a telegram.

He read the typed information at the top. Standard rate telegram sent from Tsingtao at 12.45. Tsingtao was a former German colony now controlled by Japan, about 300 miles north of Shanghai. Strange it should be coming from there, he thought. But it was on the coastal route between here and Siberia. The telegram was received at the Shanghai Post Office on February 24th at 2.15 pm and delivered to the Shanghai Central Police Station at 3.30 pm. Remarkably efficient, thought Cartwright, for once something actually worked in China.

‘Have information re daughter.’ That looks interesting. Was Danilov looking for his daughter? He didn’t even know that Danilov had a wife never mind a daughter.

What was he going to do? He could just leave it on Danilov’s desk.

But he wouldn’t. The bastard didn’t deserve it, the way he had humiliated Cartwright in front of all the other detectives. All that stuff about his wife and his boy, it shouldn’t have been said. Too clever for his own good was Mister fucking Danilov.

He checked the Tsingtao number. He could ring it and discover what the information was. Have something to get back at Danilov. Show the bleedin’ Russian he could be just as clever, knowing stuff the Russian didn’t have a clue about. Surprise them all with his little piece of detective work.

He picked up the phone and immediately put it back on its cradle. No, not here. Somebody would have to put through the call, and Miss Cavendish was bound to hear about it. Nosey old arse, that one.

He folded the telegram and its envelope neatly, putting it in the inside pocket of his jacket. For the first time that week, a smile appeared beneath Cartwright’s bushy moustache. He might even treat himself to an early pick-me-up, and work out what to do with this little gem of information that had fallen into his lap.

***

It was late in the afternoon by the time Strachan finished at the Astor Hotel.

He had gone in there to be greeted by the sound of the band playing and a horde of revellers, shuffling along to the latest dances from America. It wasn’t Strachan’s idea of enjoyment. He much preferred a quiet evening at home, eating his mum’s cooking and listening to the radio. The loud bonhomie of the dancers did nothing for him. The only time he enjoyed it was when the black singer got on stage and opened with ‘Thinking of You’, a beautifully sad song that she sang from the heart. The mood didn’t last long though. She next launched into ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’ and immediately the dancers returned to the floor in their swaying masses.

At the end of their tea dance shift, the staff had been less than co-operative. He couldn’t blame them as most of them wanted to go home. Or on to some seedy casino hidden in the depths of the Badlands, out past Bubbling Well Road. Or just to find a quiet place where they could rest their tired feet and enjoy a gossip over a meal and a pot of tea.

He had work to do, so he held those back that had been working on the tea dance when Elsie Everett vanished. He didn’t get much from them though. It was as if most of the patrons of the tea dance had been faceless.