Authors: M J Lee
Death In Shanghai (7 page)
How he missed them. Their hugs, their joy, their love. Would he ever see them again?
The fleeting images softened. Filtered light through the leaves of birch and needles of pine. He was at home again, running through the forest, discovering a natural pool, diving deep within in it, feeling the chilling warmth of the water. Then the wriggling energy of his son beside him, just learning how to swim and moving with all the grace of a hippopotamus. His beaming smile wondrous at defying the attempts of the water to keep him in its embraces. Afterwards, teeth chattering like the heels of a Spanish dancer, they smelt the sweet aroma of hot chocolate beside a pine-scented fire, and devoured the warm soup of piroshki.
Home.
Softness.
Sleep.
No more worries.
No more nightmares.
Not tonight.
***
In the dark basement of a building not far from the life and bustle of the Bund, Elsie Everett screamed her lungs out for most of the night.
Nobody heard her.
February 23rd 1928.
The 32nd day of the Year of the Earth Dragon.
Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Strachan stopped in front of the ornate stone building on Avenue Stanislaus Chevalier. They could have been in front of any building in any department of France. Two Doric columns soared to a heavy tiled roof, punctured by three mansard windows. Two sitting lions guarded each side of the elegant entrance. The whole place had the aroma of suburban France; cooking chicken, red wine, rosemary and garlic.
It was only the presence of Annamese constables, flowing in and out of the tall oak doors, that destroyed the image of rural France.
They walked up the granite steps and approached a gendarme sitting behind a bleached walnut desk. ‘We have an appointment with Major Renard.’ said Danilov.
‘And who shall I say is calling?’ replied the gendarme in fluent, if accented, English.
‘Inspector Danilov of the Shanghai Municipal Police and Detective Constable Stra-chan.’
Strachan winced visibly as he heard his name pronounced by Danilov.
‘Certainly, Inspector, this
fonctionnaire
will take you to the office. Please follow him.’
The
fonctionnaire
was Annamese, dressed in an eighteenth-century costume of brightly coloured satin waistcoat and trousers, accessorised with a white powdered wig. Following closely behind him, they walked up sweeping marble stairs. On either side, pastoral scenes of an idyllic France, with pretty shepherdesses guarding placid sheep, decorated the walls. They passed under a low arch etched with ‘Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité’ in strident gold letters. A long corridor stretched before them.
‘A bit different from our HQ,’ whispered Strachan.
‘The French always have a hint of the baroque in their public buildings. It’s meant to intimidate the masses,’ said Danilov.
‘It’s certainly working.’
They passed heavy wooden doors on either side of the corridor. All of them were closed with no sounds coming from within. The silence of the building was interrupted by the echoes of their boots on the marble floor and the soft shuffle of the slippers of the
fonctionnaire
, a slipping, sliding sound that slithered off the walls.
Danilov tried to make less noise as he walked, but he couldn’t. The nails embedded in the heels of his boots clattered against the floor with every step.
Eventually, they reached the end of the corridor. The
fonctionnaire
knocked softly on a double door that stretched all the way to the ceiling.
‘
Entrez.
’
The
fonctionnaire
opened one side and stepped back, allowing them to enter first.
In front of them, two immense sash windows filled the room with light. Behind an ornate desk sat a young Frenchman in what appeared to be a military uniform. He got up, walked around his desk and approached them with his hand stretched out.
‘Inspector Danilov, I presume?’
‘It’s good to meet you, Major Renard.’
The officer laughed. ‘I’m not Major Renard, I’m his assistant, Lieutenant Masset.’ They shook hands and he indicated a pair of chairs, placed against the wall. ‘Major Renard will see you in a moment, Inspector. He’s a very busy man. Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Thank you but no. We’ve drunk enough coffee to float the Ile de France this morning.’ Danilov took his seat against the wall and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette. The Lieutenant returned to his chair behind the desk and continued with his paperwork. Behind him, a large ormolu clock, with two naked cherubs holding up the face, ticked loudly.
As he rolled his cigarette, Danilov looked around the room. The furnishings were decorated in the style of
fin de si
è
cle
France. As if they had been purchased thirty years ago and remained in this room ever since. The ceiling was at least fifteen feet high, and had a rounded corbel that was peculiarly French. Another painting of rural France dominated one wall, while the other had a large, faded tapestry of a hunting dog surrounded by autumn foliage.
The clock behind the Lieutenant ticked remorselessly on.
Lieutenant Masset abruptly stood up. ‘Major Renard will see you now.’ Danilov checked his watch. Twelve minutes since the time they had entered. A pre-arranged time to keep guests waiting, he thought. How typically French; just like the headmaster of a school, keeping the errant pupils waiting for their punishment.
The Lieutenant walked to another pair of double doors that stretched up to the ceiling, opening both of them to reveal a room three times larger than the antechamber. At the end, a small French gentleman sat behind an immense oak desk.
The Lieutenant guided them across a thick oriental carpet and past cabinets containing exquisite Sèvres porcelain. They were directed to sit in two wooden chairs placed in front of the desk. Major Renard did not get up.
‘I presume you do not speak French, Inspector. Major Renard does not speak English so I will translate. Forgive me if I make any errors.’
Major Renard stared at both of them. He was small with an elegant goatee, combed and manicured into a silvery point. His white hair was brushed back to reveal a high forehead. His eyes were perched above a long, beak-like nose that dominated his face. When he spoke, Danilov was surprised to hear a high, excitable squeak rather than the deep voice he was expecting. The contrast was very disconcerting, like discovering the bull one had hired to service a field of cows was only interested in other bulls.
After a long speech in French, the Lieutenant began talking in his accented English. ‘The Major had asked for Chief Inspector Boyle to attend this meeting. You are not him. You are not even English.’
‘The Chief Inspector sends his apologies. Unfortunately, given the short notice, he is indisposed at this time.’
The Major grunted at this without it being translated.
‘I am Inspector Danilov and this is my assistant, Detective Constable Stra-chan.’
Again, the Major launched into a long speech in French. ‘The Major supposes that you will have to do but he is surprised the English Head of Detectives does not give this matter the attention it deserves,’ the Lieutenant translated.
‘It would be difficult to give it any sort of attention without knowing what it was.’ This time the Major turned to Masset for a translation. There was a brief discussion between the two of them before the Lieutenant continued. ‘To save the Major’s valuable time, he has authorised me to give you an outline of the matter.’
The Lieutenant brought his thumb, index and middle fingers together and blew as if moistening them before turning the pages of a book. Danilov thought it was a very interesting idiosyncrasy. The action of a clerk, rather than of a policeman.
‘This is a very difficult situation. There have been murders.’
‘Murder is unfortunately fairly common in all parts of the city. It is a problem we are facing all the time,’ said Danilov.
‘Monsieur, this is different. These are particularly brutal murders.’
The Lieutenant let his words lie on the table between them. The Major embarked on another long speech in French.
The Lieutenant continued speaking, but it was obvious to Danilov he was no longer translating. ‘In the French Garde Municipale, we believe the murderer comes from the International Settlement.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘A witness saw the murderer’s car leaving the scene of the crime. It had a number plate from your district.’
‘What was the number?’
‘The witness couldn’t remember. It all happened so fast you understand. He just knew the car was from the International Settlement.’
‘How can we assist the Garde Municipale?’
Lieutenant Masset blew on the ends of his fingers. ‘When I explain the murders to you, Inspector, then you will understand.’
Danilov leant back in his hard-back chair. The Major began another long speech in French. But before he could get into the flow of his speech, Danilov interrupted him.
‘
Je comprends que cette situation est vraiment importante, Monsieur le Chef, comment pourrait la Police Municipale de Shanghai vous aider?
’
Both the Lieutenant and the Major watched him in silence. Eventually, Major Renard said in English, ‘Your French is quite good, Monsieur.’
‘As is your English, Monsieur le Chef. Now we’ve got that out of the way, how can we help?’
The Major nodded at Masset. ‘We expect you to find the murderer and return him to us so that he may be put on trial. The honour of France is at stake.’
‘The honour of France?’
‘One of the victims was an official of the French government, killed without mercy. This ’orrible murder must not be left unpunished.’ The Major pronounced ‘horrible’ in a very French way.
‘And the other victim?’
‘A Russian prostitute. A woman of no consequence in society, but nonetheless we believe the murders are related.’
‘Why?’
‘Lieutenant Masset will give you all the details but there was one feature that appeared in both murders. They both had Chinese characters carved into their bodies.’
Danilov looked across at Strachan. ‘We are also investigating a similar death in the Settlement at the moment. A killing without mercy. Could I see your case notes?’
‘Masset will give them to you. The killing may be just be another vicious gang war over opium but–’
‘We doubt it,’ interrupted Masset.
The Major glared at him. He tapped the table three times with a well-manicured fingernail. ‘You must understand, monsieur, when one of our officials is attacked, the nation of France itself is under attack.’
‘We will do everything in our power to help find the murderer.’
The Major pulled the end of his white goatee, sharpening it into a point. ‘I do not need to remind you of the consequences of failure, do I, Inspector?’
‘No, sir, you don’t.’
‘Good. Find him and deliver him to us.’ Once more, the Major tapped his desk three times, then waved his feminine hands. Masset stood up immediately.
Danilov understood that the interview was over. ‘Thank you for your time, Major. We will catch this man.’
There was no answer. Just another wave of the hands.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ The old concierge stretched his arm, blocking the narrow back entrance to the theatre.
‘I’m looking for Miss Everett,’ said Richard.
‘You and everybody else. Didn’t turn up last night. Not good, not good at all. The artistes always turn up. Once we had Mr Mayhew here, wonderful actor, magnificent Lear. He turned up with a broken leg one day. Still went on. Had to do the heath scene in a chair but he did it anyway. What a trouper, if you catch my drift.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Can’t say the same for Miss Everett though.’
‘I was supposed to meet her last night…’
‘I thought I’d seen you before, but there are always so many chaps waiting for the girls, I can’t tell ’em apart. Here’s Mr Trevelyan, the director. Miss Everett is not in his good books, if you catch my drift.’
‘You’re looking for Miss Everett?’ The director was a bulky, florid man with red-veined cheeks and a large spotted handkerchief sitting like a toadstool in his top pocket. ‘Aren’t we all. She was supposed to be here last night at six o’clock for rehearsals. Didn’t make those and didn’t make the show either. Miss Davenport had to take her place. Heavy calves, Miss Davenport. Doesn’t have the lightness of foot for the part.’
‘I was supposed to meet her last night after the show. She didn’t turn up.’
The director shrugged his shoulders and sighed. ‘So you were stood up too. Typical. A girl gets infatuated with some man and her standards drop quicker than her knickers. Well, if you see her, tell her not to come back. She’s been replaced by Miss Smith.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, she was getting a little past it anyway. They all have a sell-by date those sort of girls. And hers had been sold a long time ago.’
‘So she didn’t come here yesterday evening?’ Richard persisted.
‘That’s what I’ve been telling you, my dear. Didn’t see a hair of her once pretty little head. I hope she enjoys her little fling because the final curtain has been lowered on her career. The only place that will have her now is Little Piddling rep, on a Wednesday night, in the middle of February.’
‘But she said she was coming here. We were at the Astor…’
‘Drinking again, was she? I warned her about that. Ages actresses dreadfully does the booze. The skin never recovers, you know.’ He glanced at the clock in the concierge’s office. ‘Is that the time? I must be off to see Harold about his shimmy in the third act.’ The director looked at Richard and his voice changed, adding an edge to his words. ‘If you see Miss Everett, tell her not to come back. She’s been sacked. Given the elbow. Shown the curtain. Danced her last chorus. She won’t be paid either. We don’t pay those who let us down, do we, Mr Harcourt?’
‘No, we don’t, sir,’ the concierge said smiling.
‘Anyway, I have a dance number waiting. Goodbye.’