Death In Shanghai (29 page)

He leaned towards the Giant. ‘What about the eyes of the tall man? What colour were they?’

The Giant launched into a long monologue full of flowing sounds and sibilant esses.

‘He says the European’s eyes were green, not the brown of the land dwellers. Green like the ghosts that live in the lily pads or the trees in April. I’m sorry, but these people often use strange descriptions impossible to translate. Their ghosts must be green, I think.’

‘Don’t worry, we’re getting somewhere. Was there anything else? Did he smell anything?’

The Giant imitated the interpreter’s sniffing and then his body curled up on the chair in a fit of giggles.

‘He says he smelt fish. He always smells fish.’

‘But was there any other smell?’

The Giant thought for a moment and then spoke to the interpreter.

‘He says there was a strange smell as the boat with the European and the bald land dweller went past him. The breeze had just come off the river and drifted up the creek. It was the smell of flowers that one sees in June. A sweet smell.’

‘And what about the bald Chinese man? Was he my height?’

The Giant thought again. ‘He was smaller than you, dressed in normal land dweller clothes, not a suit.’

‘A Chinese jacket and trousers?’

‘Yes, dark blue almost black, he says, the bald man had a scar on his head – he saw that when he bent over.’ The Giant collapsed in another outburst of laughter with his shoulders rocking up and down. ‘Must have been painful,’ he says. ‘For some reason, he finds this funny. But the boat people often find the habits of land dwellers amusing.’

There was a knock at the door. It opened and Miss Cavendish stood in the doorway. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Inspector, but the Chief would like to see you as soon as possible.’

‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish, I’ll be there just as soon as I have finished.’

‘He did say it was important.’

‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish.’

She nodded and closed the door. The Giant suddenly became agitated. He pointed at the door and a long stream of sibilant esses issued from his mouth.

‘He says he smells like her?’

‘What? Smells like a woman? Like Miss Cavendish?’

‘That’s what he said.’

Danilov thought for a moment. ‘Was there anything else?’

The interpreter spoke, and the Giant stopped laughing, bringing his large index finger up to his head, before speaking. ‘He says the land dweller did all the work, this European just watched as they placed the bundle in the water. When they had finished, they went back to the Rowing Club.’

‘The Rowing Club?’

For the first time, the Giant spoke slowly, as if explaining to a three-year-old.

‘He says the place on the river used by the long noses and their useless little boats. He can’t understand what they do on the river. They don’t fish, they don’t carry cargo. They just go up and down, wearing thin little vests even in winter.’

‘Is he sure they went back to the Rowing Club?’

He watched as the Giant nodded in reply to the interpreter.

Danilov smiled. ‘Please thank him for his information, it has been extremely useful.’ He reached for his wallet. ‘The reward was five dollars, was it not?’ He pulled out a ten dollar note and passed it into the large grubby hand of the Giant.

The Giant took it gingerly, holding it carefully with his two sausage-like fingers and smelling it, before carefully folding it into four and placing it deep into his patched trouser pocket.

‘You do realise this is more money than he sees in a year?’ said the interpreter.

‘He deserves every cent,’ answered Danilov standing up. ‘Please thank him once again.’

The Giant stood up, accidentally knocking the interpreter off his chair. He reached out for Danilov’s hand, enfolding it in his own and singing his praises in the soft sibilant esses of the boat people.

Eventually, after an age of thank yous and hand pumping, the Giant was encouraged to leave with his reward.

Danilov hurried back to the detectives’ room, crossing the reception area of the station. Finally, they were getting somewhere. The killer was starting to make mistakes.

‘Inspector Danilov…Inspector Danilov.’ Sergeant Wolfe was waving to him from behind his desk, ‘Did you get the telegram?’ he shouted across the hubbub of the lobby.

‘I told you I received no telegram,’ shouted Danilov over the people pressing around the sergeant’s desk.

‘The telegram from Tsingtao. Came yesterday.’

Danilov strode over to the sergeant’s desk, elbowing aside two arguing rickshaw drivers. ‘What telegram, Sergeant?’

‘The telegram I gave George Cartwright. It came yesterday. He said he was going to give it to you.’

Danilov gritted his teeth and marched back to the detectives’ office.

The sergeant turned back to see the rickshaw drivers had started throwing ineffectual punches at each other. ‘I’ve had enough, throw them both in the nick and throw away the key.’

Two Chinese constables rushed forward and grabbed the scrawny boxers by the scruff of the neck. ‘Any more fighting in my station and you’ll all spend the rest of your worthless lives in hell,’ he shouted in bad Shanghainese.

The crowd in the lobby all stopped talking and stared at him.

‘Thank God. Peace and quiet, finally.’

Then the crowd erupted again; papers being waved in the air, children elbowed out of the way and all the dialects of China being spoken at the same time.

Sergeant Wolfe held his head in his hands and started to bang it on his desk.

***

Cartwright was sitting with his feet up on his desk, reading the
North China Daily News
. The door flew open and Danilov charged in. He leapt at Cartwright, kicking his chair from under him so he sprawled backwards on the floor.

‘What the…?’

Before he could finish his sentence, Danilov had reached down and picked him up by the lapels and pushed him against the wall of the detectives’ room, scattering chairs and tables out of his way.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about the witness?’

‘I…I…didn’t have time,’ Cartwright stammered.

Danilov slammed him back against the wall again, pushing upwards so Cartwright was standing on tiptoes, handling him as if he were a rag doll. In any other situation, it would have been funny. A small, slightly-built man attacking a much taller, much stronger one and treating him like a puppet.

Again, Danilov pulled Cartwright forward and slammed him back, making sure his head made contact with the wall. There was a loud thud as it did so and, for a moment, Cartwright’s eyes glazed over and his feet went from under him. Danilov kept him upright.

‘You should have told me,’ Danilov snarled.

‘I forgot…didn’t have time.’

‘Do you remember now?’ The head hit the wall again, and a large crack appeared in the green painted plaster.

Cartwright nodded.

Danilov pushed him harder against the wall. ‘Two more people died because of you. You scum.’

He looked past Danilov at the other detectives in the office, appealing for help. ‘Nothing to do with me, it’s your case.’

Cartwright’s head slammed into the wall once again. Danilov reached up with his left hand and gripped Cartwright’s windpipe, pushing in with his whole body against the neck. Cartwright’s eyes began to bulge, and his tongue stuck out from his open mouth.

Danilov pushed harder, feeling Cartwright’s legs kick against his own, enjoying the weakness of the taller, stronger man, watching as the eyes flickered with terror. For a moment, he imagined pushing and pushing and pushing till Cartwright couldn’t breathe any more. His hand squeezing the windpipe, grabbing it with his fingers and ripping it out of the neck.

Then the image of his wife flashed in his mind. She was smiling, gesturing for him to come forward and hug her.

He released the pressure and let go of Cartwright’s body.

The detective fell forward onto his knees, his breath coming in huge gasps of air. Danilov stepped back but remained standing over the detective.

‘Where’s my telegram?’

Cartwright was on his hands and feet, desperately trying to suck up all the air in the room.

‘Where’s my telegram?’ demanded Danilov, his fists raised ready to strike Cartwright across the head.

Cartwright looked up, and a wry smile crossed his face. Between lungfuls of air, he began to rearrange his clothes, adjusting his shirt and tie and pulling down his jacket. ‘What telegram?’

Danilov’s fist hit Cartwright full in the face. Two detectives jumped forward, wrapping their arms around the Inspector. There was no struggle from Danilov.

‘The telegram you owe me,’ he said through gritted teeth.

Cartwright’s hand went to the back of his head, feeling in the grey hair where his skull had hit the wall. He winced and pulled the hand away to see blood covering the fingers. He smiled up at the Inspector.

‘Where is it?’ snarled Danilov.

Cartwright put his hand out as if to pass him. ‘It’s in my desk.’

Danilov moved aside. The detectives let go of his arms.

Cartwright stayed on his knees for a while, before slowly getting up and adjusting his jacket and tie once again. He walked over to his desk slowly and painfully, hanging on to it when he got there, gasping for breath.

‘Where’s the telegram?

‘It’s in here.’ Cartwright took out his keys from his trouser pocket and, after fumbling with them, finally unlocked the drawer of his desk. The telegram lay there, its pale green envelope shining brightly amongst the old pens, cigarette butts, erasers, bottles of hair oil, rubber bands and paper clips. Cartwright picked it up with the tips of his fingers and held it up towards Danilov. ‘You mean this telegram?’

Danilov stepped forward to grab it, but Cartwright stopped him by wagging his finger. ‘No, you don’t. This here telegram is very valuable.’ Cartwright began to cough and rubbed his throat where Danilov had grabbed him. ‘It doesn’t contain dollars or gold, but it’s still valuable, isn’t it?’

Danilov took a step forward to grab it. Cartwright reached into his pocket and brought out his silver lighter. He held the lighter against a corner of the envelope and his thumb hovered over the lever. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. This telegram is valuable because it contains information about your daughter. What was her name?’ He pretended to think. ‘Elina, that was it. Such a nice ring to it.’

At the sound of his daughter’s name, Danilov leapt forward to grab the telegram. In spite of his weight and size, Cartwright was nimble, stepping back and pressing the lever of the lighter. Instantly a bright yellow and blue flame erupted from the silver box. Cartwright brought the flame to the edge of the envelope. Danilov could see the paper begin to curl from the heat and brown scorch marks scar the light green surface.

The door to the detectives’ room opened, ‘Danilov. In my office. Now.’ Boyle stood in the doorway.

Danilov took another step towards Cartwright. Again the flame of the lighter lifted up towards the corner of the envelope.

‘What are you waiting for?’ said Cartwright, moving the flame closer.

Danilov looked at the telegram held up by the tips of Cartwright’s fingers. The thumb holding down the lever of the lighter, the flame wavering upwards threatening to engulf the pale green envelope.

Inside was his daughter Elina, trapped there.

‘Didn’t you hear me? Inside. Now.’ Boyle turned on his heels and went back to his office.

What was he going to do? He saw the leering smile on Cartwright’s face, the flame flickering upward towards the pale green envelope, the scorch marks already forming on its surface as the paper wrinkled with the heat, and he stepped back, keeping his eyes on Cartwright all the time as he did so.

‘Shouldn’t you go now, Danilov? Chief Inspector Boyle is waiting.’

Danilov heard the words and the smiling face that produced them. He launched himself at Cartwright. A look of shock passed across Cartwright’s face. Danilov’s body hit him and they both went down in a heap in the middle of the detectives’ office.

Strong arms closed around him and pulled him away. ‘No,’ he shouted and tried to struggle free, but the arms dragged him towards the door.

As he was being carried from the detectives’ room, Danilov heard Cartwright’s laughter, followed by the smell of burning paper.

***

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, striking another officer?’

‘He stole something from me.’

‘Stole? Are you accusing another officer of theft, Danilov?’

‘A telegram was addressed to me. Cartwright took it.’

‘So, is that the pathetic reason for rolling about on the floor, fighting with another officer?’

Danilov bowed his head.

‘And that’s not all. I’ve just had a long talk with Councillor Ayres. I call it a talk but it was really me listening and nodding my head, and him talking. Ranting actually.’

‘I interviewed him and his son.’

‘Accused them of being murderers, didn’t you?’

‘That’s unfair, sir, I questioned them about their whereabouts on the nights of the murder. Councillor Ayres’s name has been mentioned in my enquiries.’

‘But didn’t he have an alibi?’

Danilov’s eyes dropped to the floor. ‘Yes.’

‘Being in the Council Chamber with one hundred of Shanghai’s leading citizens is a pretty damn good alibi, even in your book.’

A glass of whisky appeared on the table in front of Danilov. He pushed it back towards the Chief Inspector.

Danilov stayed still, ignoring the pale shimmer of the whisky reflecting through the crystal of the glass.

Boyle sighed and scratched his head. ‘That’s it, you’re suspended. Clear your desk today.’

‘But the murders…you said you would give me two days.’

‘Charlie Meaker will take over the case.’

Danilov forced himself to calm down. He took two deep breaths. ‘But we’re close to catching the killer, sir. Just a few more days…’

‘You’re suspended from now, Danilov, clear your desk.’ Boyle walked to the door of the office, opened it and stood there.

Miss Cavendish was behind her desk, looking down at her paperwork, pretending not to have heard what had happened.