Death In Shanghai (6 page)

He raised his arm and was immediately served by two waiters. ‘A bottle of the Belle Epoque.’

‘Certainly, Mr Ayres.’

‘Here’s Alfred now. God, he’s bumped into that awful man, Doyle. I do hope there isn’t a scene.’

Richard turned and craned his neck towards the door. He could see Alfred apologising profusely to a one-armed man, brushing the man’s jacket with his handkerchief. Doyle did not look too pleased, and kept waving Alfred away with his one arm, finally turning on his heels.

Alfred stood there a moment before carefully wending his way through the tables. ‘I just met the most awful man.’

‘Don’t you know who he was?’

‘Am I supposed to?’

‘That’s one-armed Doyle. He’s American, bodyguard for one of the warlords. General Sung, I think. He’s supposed to be a killer.’ Margery took a drag at the cigarette in her ivory holder. ‘I hope you apologised profusely.’

Alfred went a strange shade of pale.

‘Sit down. Here comes the wine.’

Alfred coughed once and pulled out a chair. ‘Where’s Elsie?’

‘I don’t know.’ Richard glanced at his watch. ‘She should have been here half an hour ago. I thought I was going to get the cold shoulder for being late again.’

The waiter returned with the glasses and a wine cooler filled with ice. He opened the champagne with a satisfying pop and filled three glasses to the brim. Richard lifted his and said, ‘Let’s drink to my good news.’

‘Good news?’

‘I’m going to be married.’

All the glasses froze in mid-air, except Richard’s. He drank his champagne in one long swallow, and reached for the bottle to pour himself another glass.

Margery was the first to react. ‘Married? To whom?’

‘Elsie, of course. She doesn’t know yet so keep it a secret. I’m going to ask her tonight. The band is primed to play our favourite song.’

‘It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? You’ve only known her for a few months. And Susan only passed away last year,’ said Alfred.

Margery’s glass slammed on the table. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Richard. You know nothing about her.’

‘I know I love her. That’s enough for me.’

‘But she’s an actress ’

‘Yes and a bloody good one too, so you keep telling me, Alfred. But let’s not talk about it now. It’s a done deal, I’ve made my mind up.
Rien ne va plus.
’ He took the bottle from the ice bucket and poured the champagne, filling his glass right up to the rim.

They danced a little. Drank another bottle of Belle Epoque. Argued about Elsie again. Danced some more. And had yet another bottle of Belle Epoque. The dance floor was becoming a little less crowded, the band a little more subdued. All three of them had gradually slipped into a lassitude that comes from too much to drink and too little to say.

It was Alfred who broke the ice. ‘She’s not coming.’

‘Perhaps she heard you were going to ask her to get married,’ said Margery.

‘You’re drunk, Margery. Go home.’

‘No, Alfred, I’m not drunk. Just getting started actually.’

‘She’s probably just a little tired. Gone straight home I expect. I’ll go to see her tomorrow morning,’ said Richard swallowing the last of his champagne.

‘I thought you were off to Nanking tomorrow?’

‘I’ll put it off. Father will be angry but I can handle him.’

‘Do you want me to go to the theatre tomorrow?’

‘Alfred, always keen to see little Elsie, aren’t you?’

‘Margery, you’re drunk.’

‘But tomorrow I’ll be sober and you’ll still be trailing after Elsie like a lovelorn lamb.’

‘Margery, that’s enough.’ Richard’s voice was sharp and cutting.

Margery raised her glass. ‘Let’s have another bottle of bubbly for the road. Just one more won’t hurt. To celebrate Richard not getting engaged tonight.’ Margery drained it and fell forward onto the table, her hair resting on the remains of a plate of Lobster Thermidor.

‘I think it’s your turn to take her home,’ said Alfred.

‘I’ll do it. Don’t worry about the theatre tomorrow, I’ll handle it. She’s my fiancée, after all.’

‘Not yet she isn’t,’ said Alfred.

Richard stared at him through the blur of champagne. He couldn’t quite work out what he meant.

***

Strachan found the registry of doctors filed behind the desk of Miss Cavendish. It was dated 1927, he would have to ask her if there was a more recent copy. He knew she would be annoyed with him for taking it, but he didn’t care. It was more important to give Danilov his report tomorrow morning, rather than later in the day. He would soften her up with a box of chocolates from Loewenstein’s. He knew she had a particular weakness for nougatine.

He took the registry back to his desk and switched on the light.

‘Working late, Strachan?’ asked one of the night shift officers. He didn’t know his name.

‘Need to get this finished for Danilov by tomorrow. The Soochow Creek murder.’

‘You’re working for him? Poor bugger. Daft as a brush that one is. And Russian. Can’t trust ’em. You should try to get into Charlie Meaker’s team in Hongkew. Cushy number that is. Charlie knows how to play the game.’

‘I’ll remember. Thanks for the tip.’

‘And you might try Serendipity at Easter.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Another tip.’

Strachan frowned, still confused.

‘The Easter races. I’d put a few dollars on if I were you.’

‘Thanks again. I’ll remember.’ He opened the registry hoping the detective would take the hint.

‘You’ll be working all hours with Danilov. Never lets a body have a moment’s peace that one.’ The detective walked away to get himself a cup of coffee from the canteen.

Strachan opened the registry, scanning the specialisations of all the listed doctors. These were just the ones trained in Western medicine, there was no registry of traditional Chinese medicine. If there were, it would be a book of more than 1,000 pages. He would have to concentrate on the Western doctors.

Danilov was a queer fish, the others were right. Such a prim and proper man, different from the other White Russians he had met. But as they were all madams, ex-Tsarist soldiers, conmen or call-girls, he knew his knowledge of them was limited. But did Danilov have to be as frosty as an arctic winter?

He wasn’t used to such treatment. Of course, a few of the English had been difficult at first, looking down at him because he had a Chinese mother, but they usually came round when they found out his father had been a copper.

He never talked about him to any of them, but he knew the story was well known in the station. His father had been called to a robbery in the middle of his beat. Three hoodlums raiding a jewellery shop just off Haig Road. Before he had even taken his pistol from its holster, he was dead, shot through the heart.

That day always stayed in his memory. He was just seven years old. Strange people filled all the rooms of the house on Amoy Street. His mother was wailing in the bedroom. He tried to comfort her, to stop her crying, but he couldn’t. He didn’t even find out why she was crying until later.

He still missed his father. It was like an ache that was always going to be there, deep within him, missing the warmth of his body when he came home in the evening. Always missing that warmth.

He’d joined the police as soon as he was old enough, passing through the training course with flying colours. His mother was disappointed, she wanted him to go to University and become an architect but he knew this was what he wanted to do. It had been difficult at first. The English police had been wary of him whilst the Chinese just shunned him. But he had soon won the English over, drinking, fighting and taking down the bad guys as well as any of them. The Chinese were harder but their love of food helped. None of them could resist his mother’s soup.

The detective came back from the canteen carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. ‘You’re gonna need one of these if you’re working with Danilov. Never stops, that one.’ He placed a mug down in front of Strachan.

‘I know what you mean. Look at this.’ He pointed to the directory. ‘He wants a report on his desk tomorrow morning.’

‘Rather you than me.’ He went back to his desk, sat down and opened his newspaper to the sports pages.

Strachan began to scan the registry, turning the pages quickly as he read the doctors’ names and their particular fields. One entry caught his eye. Dr Teuscher, specialising in the psychiatry of sexual disorders. He wrote the address and the details down in his notebook.

But what to do about the traditional Chinese doctors? Perhaps he could ask Uncle Chang?

His uncle was the only member of his mother’s family who had kept in touch with her after the marriage to his father. The rest of the family had treated her as if she didn’t exist. She was no longer invited to family gatherings for grandfather’s birthday or Chinese New Year. No longer welcome in the family home in Wuxi with its single peach tree in the courtyard. No longer a member of the family.

She would be waiting for him to come home now. Every night, when he returned, she would get up and bring him his bowl of soup, sitting by his side as he ate it. There were no servants, there hadn’t been for a long time. He had often asked her to get a maid from the country to help her with the washing and cooking, but she had refused. It seemed her penance for marrying his father was to spend the rest of her life cooking, cleaning and caring for his son.

He returned to the registry of doctors. Another entry caught his eye. Dr Ian Halliwell, an American, newly arrived from New York, and specialising in genito-urinary infections. Well, he would certainly be kept busy in Shanghai. He added the doctor to his notebook. He took a sip of the coffee, but it was already cold. What time was it? He glanced up at the clock on the wall. 10.15. Just a few more pages to go.

On the second to last page, he found another entry that was in the right area. Dr Lamarr, sexual dysfunction with particular reference to androgyne conditions. He wrote down the address. The clinic was not far from where the body was found, on Yuanmingyuan Road.

Interesting. He wondered if there were a connection.

He heard the clock chime eleven as he finished the last page of the registry. Enough for tonight. Time to go home, drink my soup and tell Mother about the day. He would miss out some of the details though. He didn’t think his mother would enjoy the story of a body almost severed in two, belonging to a man pretending to be a woman.

***

Danilov opened the door of his apartment in Medhurst Gardens. It was small with one bedroom, an attached living room and bathroom, and servant quarters. There were no servants though. He didn’t need looking after.

He switched on the light. The bright whiteness of the walls always stunned him. He walked in, took off his hat and coat and hung them behind the door. The living room was bare. There was an old leather sofa which he occasionally sat in to read, facing an even older fire that was never lit, even in the depths of winter. If it was cold, he just kept his hat and coat on in the flat. Above the fire was his sole possession, a clock. He had bought it with his first salary from the police. The ticking was a constant reminder that life without his family was continuing. The only other furniture was a small table with a telephone, installed by the police commissioner to ensure he was always available. In the two years he had lived here, it had rung just once.

He didn’t like the flat. In fact, he hated it. But he stayed because he wasn’t there often, only returning to sleep each evening, like a bear returning to its cave. In this case, an empty, white cave.

He walked into the bedroom. The single bed was neatly made from this morning. Beside it was an old, rickety table with a light and a chess set. He switched on the light and removed a white pawn from the board. ‘You are going to be in trouble, Mr Allen,’ he said out loud to the white walls.

He had first met Allen at the promotion board two years ago. They had discovered a mutual love for chess and had been playing by correspondence ever since. He knew Allen was in Intelligence, anybody connected with Special Branch had to be, but that was none of his concern. All he cared about was Allen’s next move. Checkmate was just four moves away unless he was very careful.

He took off his brown jumper, folding it carefully on the rattan chair at the end of the bed. He sat down and removed his shoes. He fingers were slightly stiff, his left shoulder aching. He no longer had the energy or the
joie de vivre
of his youth. Where had all the years gone, he wondered?

He opened the door of the bedside table and took out a tray. On it was an opium pipe made from bamboo with an ivory bowl, a spirit lamp, silver lighter, small ebony box and a silver pin, all placed neatly in their usual positions.

He took the lighter and lit the spirit lamp on the tray. The flame spluttered briefly before glowing brightly, throwing a shadow on the wall of the bedroom. He picked up the pin and rolled the pea-sized ball of opium in the flame, heating it all over. He watched the shadow changing shape on the wall as the opium ball reacted with the flame.

The first breath of the opium filled his lungs. Immediately, a soft wave of ease, like being caressed by an eel, flowed across his body. He exhaled, smelling the sweet, ashy fragrance of the opium freshen the stale room.

Another mouthful of smoke, seeing the little ball of opium flare briefly before going out and returning to black ash. The smoke again filled his lungs and a renewed sense of ease filled his body. Less intense this time, but still there, still flowing into every cell and dancing around, relaxing every fibre of his being.

He placed the pipe next to the chess set and lay back on the bed. Images of his wife and children flashed through his mind.

A white dress, cinched at the waist, sun setting behind his wife’s shoulder, silhouetting her hair.

A dance, music playing, her body held at arm’s length, her head back, laughing.

A child sitting on a table in the kitchen, jumping down and running to greet him, nothing but joy on her face.

Waving goodbye at the station, her tears, his children shouting, him leaving to go to Moscow.