Death In Shanghai (8 page)

With a little wave, the director flounced off into the darkness of the theatre.

Richard took out his pocket book and quickly wrote a note for Elsie. ‘Would you be good enough to give Miss Everett this, if you see her?’

The concierge took the note, leaving his hand extended, palm upwards.

‘Oh yes, of course.’ He gave the man a dollar.

‘Thank you kindly, sir. Very generous. But between you and me, I don’t think we’ll see her again. There was another gentleman who used to hang around here waiting for her. If I were you, I would forget Miss Everett. Not your type at all, if you get my drift.’ And once again, he touched his finger to the side of his nose.

The concierge pocketed the dollar and returned inside his shed guarding the theatre door.

At the bottom of the alley, a hawker was selling newspapers. In his hand was a copy of the
North China Daily News
with a large headline:

WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN CREEK

Richard shivered as if someone had just walked over his grave.

***

‘Both occurred in the last eight days?’

Lieutenant Masset nodded. ‘We found the second body three days ago, over towards the old Chinese city, on the borders of our Concession. At first, we thought they were gang related.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘They lack the simple brutality of a gang killing. With the gangs, it’s either a shot to the head or long, painful torture, followed by dumping the body in the street. Both are there to set an example. To discourage the others, as you English are fond of saying.’

‘It’s actually to “encourage” the others, and it was used first by a Frenchman,’ said Strachan.

Danilov held his hand up for silence. ‘But you think something else is happening?’

The Lieutenant again brought his three fingers up to his mouth and blew on them. ‘It’s almost as if the bodies had been put on show. Like an art gallery. We were meant to find them, to see them, as they had been displayed.’

Danilov reached into his pocket and pulled out his tobacco tin. He took one of the papers from the tin and laid it on the table, adding a few strands of tobacco. Then he closed the tin, placing it on its side on the edge of the table, adjusting the angle until it matched the lip of the wood. That felt better. The tin was in perfect alignment. ‘Tell me about the bodies,’ he said.

Masset opened the case file. ‘The first victim was one of our resident magistrates, a lawyer by training, Monsieur Flamini. The body was found on the steps of the courthouse, hands tied behind his back. He had been strangled. That was eight days ago.’

‘He could have been killed by a gang. Perhaps he had jailed one if their members,’ said Strachan.

‘That is true,’ agreed Masset, pausing for a moment for effect, ‘but why was the body frozen? As hard as ice it was. The weather has been cold recently but not cold enough to freeze a body.’ Lieutenant Masset stared into mid-air. ‘I’ll always remember the way the man’s lips were parted from his teeth. Pulled back in a snarl like a scared dog.’

He took out a silver case and lit a cigarette. The aroma of Turkish tobacco filled the room. ‘It was a grimace, the look of a man who had seen something terrible at the point of his death.’ Masset took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘I was at Verdun, Inspector, and I’ll tell you, I never saw anything like the look on the magistrate’s face.’

He took another drag on the cigarette. ‘And we found a ten dollar note frozen in the man’s hand, his fingers gripping it tightly. Our pathologist thought he had been alive when he was frozen.’

‘Could I see the body?’

Masset shook his head. ‘It has already been returned to his family. I believe it is on its way back to France.’

‘That is disappointing.’ Inspector Danilov looked down at his hands. ‘Had Monsieur Flamini been threatened in any way?’

‘Not that we know. He had been a magistrate here for four years. He was known as diligent in his work. A wife and two children in France. A mistress in Shanghai but that is common, is it not? Even among the English.’ Masset shrugged his shoulders in a way only the French know how. ‘We checked all his recent cases to see if someone with a grudge would want him killed but he handled property related work rather than criminal law. There was a suggestion of small irregularities in some of the recent property cases that came up before him. But nothing could be investigated or proven. If we arrested every official for “small irregularities”, we would have none left to do the work.’

Again he shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was when the pathologist undressed Monsieur Flamini that he found the strangest piece of evidence. There were Chinese characters carved into his chest. The characters for “vengeance”.’

Danilov took the Lieutenant’s lighter and lit the cigarette he had been holding in his fingers. He inhaled deeply and blew out a long stream of blue smoke. ‘Now, that is interesting.’ He glanced across at Strachan. ‘And the second murder?’

‘A Russian prostitute. Not high class and not a street walker. Just another Russian prostitute.’ Masset stopped speaking, suddenly realising that the inspector in front of him had the surname Danilov.

‘Just another Russian. Please carry on, Lieutenant.’

‘She was found outside the abattoir close to the old Chinese city on Rue Albi, floating in a barrel of pig’s blood. For making
boudin noir
, you know.’

Danilov nodded to encourage the Frenchman to continue.

‘According to our pathologist, Dr Legrand, she was alive when she was put in the barrel. He found blood in her lungs and trachea.’

‘How did she die?’ asked Strachan.

‘She drowned. According to our pathologist, she had been lying in the barrel of blood for at least two days before she was found.’

Danilov took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Her time of death?’

‘He couldn’t be certain. The warmth of the pig’s blood you see…’ Lieutenant Masset stopped talking. He blew on his fingers once more and then continued. ‘Her hands had been tied with a thin rope. There was one other thing. She also had Chinese characters carved into her chest. But this time, they were different. They were the characters for “damnation”.’

‘Were the characters carved in the same style?’

Lieutenant Masset shrugged his shoulders once more. ‘I think they were, but I can’t be sure. I didn’t spend a lot of time with the body. You’ll find the coroner’s report in our case files.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant Masset, I’ll read it.’

‘We have no real leads to the killer. To be frank, our detectives are more used to managing brothels and opium dens than investigating murder.’ He brought his fingers up to his mouth and blew on them. ‘You seem to be very interested in these murders, Inspector. Why?’

Inspector Danilov stubbed out the end of his cigarette and immediately rolled another. The office was now a warm fug of blue smoke, the whispers of fumes caught in the bright light from the sash windows.

‘We may have a similar murder ourselves. A young woman, or should I say a young man, found in Soochow Creek, his body nearly cut in two, his stomach and genitals slashed to ribbons.’

‘You think they’re connected?’

Danilov shrugged his shoulders, copying the Frenchman, but not achieving the same Gallic elegance. ‘I’m not sure, but they do show similarities: hands tied, Chinese characters carved into the chest. And it is strange that all three murders should occur within such a short space of time. If it were the usual gangland squabbles, we would see shootings and very public displays of revenge. These killings, brutal though they are, seem very personal.’

He took another long drag on his cigarette. ‘A message from the killer to the world, perhaps. Could I see the body of the second victim?’

‘I’m afraid not. Nobody came to claim her, so she was cremated according to French law. It’s one of the few areas in which we are remarkably efficient.’

‘Then her clothes may give us some clues.’

‘She was naked when she was discovered.’ Masset thought for a moment. ‘We still have the barrel in which she was found. It’s in the cellars beneath here.’

Danilov stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Let’s take a look, Lieutenant.’

***

Lieutenant Masset led them through a maze of corridors in the basement of the building. Here, the richly painted walls of the floors above had been replaced by rough grey brick. It many areas it was badly finished as if the builders couldn’t be bothered with any surface that their bosses were unlikely to see.

Danilov realised that not many people were invited down to this part of the building.

‘I think it’s this way, Inspector.’

They passed an open room filled with junk from past investigations. It was all piled in the room in one heap, without any thought for filing or organisation. Danilov looked inside and shuddered.

‘I think it’s in here.’ Lieutenant Masset pointed to another room across the corridor. He opened the door and switched on a light. A bare bulb hung from a black and white flex in the middle of the room. Danilov could see that it was just half-filled with junk, evidence from investigations and props from a Christmas party. A lack of cobwebs indicated that most of these things had been left here recently.

‘It should be in the corner.’

He picked his way around the remains of a lion’s head. The kind used by the martial arts troupes at Chinese New Year when they dance their blessing of good fortune on a business or shop. The body of the lion was nowhere to be seen.

Masset removed a dust sheet. Underneath was a wooden barrel. Its appearance was nothing out of the ordinary. Just another wooden barrel, used to store wine or vinegar, about four feet tall and with the classic round waist and tapered top and bottom.

Nothing about it indicated that it had once stored the body of a dead Russian prostitute.

Strachan coughed. ‘This makes our filing system look modern, sir.’

Danilov raised his hand. ‘This is the barrel in which she was found?’

Lieutenant Masset nodded.

‘What happened to the pig’s blood?’

‘It was poured away in order to retrieve the body’

‘Was it saved? Or filtered to see if anything was trapped in it?’

Lieutenant Masset shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The first constables on the scene thought she was still alive. They poured it away and tried to revive her.’

‘But your pathologist said she had been dead for at least two days.’

‘We can’t fault them for enthusiasm. And anyway, the coroner may have been wrong. He wasn’t certain of the exact time of death. The warmth of the pig’s blood had affected the onset of rigor mortis.’

Danilov grunted. He walked over and examined the barrel. In the thin light of the bulb hanging from a flex in the ceiling, he could just make out the red stains down one side of the barrel. ‘Did the pathologist notice anything else?’

‘As I told you, he thought she was alive when she was put in there. The top of the barrel had been sealed with pitch. A small air pocket above the blood may have allowed her to breath for a short while. Not long. Gradually, she would have used up the air and…’

‘Drowned.’ Strachan was writing in his notebook. He stopped and lifted his head. Both men were staring at the barrel.

‘Not a pleasant death,’ whispered Lieutenant Masset.

Danilov ached for a cigarette. Anything to get him out of this cellar and away from the tomb of his fellow Russian. ‘I think we’ve seen enough.’ He turned to go and stopped. ‘Lieutenant Masset, do you still have the lid of the barrel?’

‘It’s somewhere around here, I think.’ He scanned the ground at his feet. The lid was propped up against the lion’s head. Masset picked it up and handed it to Danilov.

It looked like a normal lid, around twenty inches across. At the edges a thick layer of pitch or tar had created a black ring that stuck to the top and side.

‘The pitch would have made the seal airtight. She must have used up all the air that remained in the barrel before gradually sinking into the pig’s blood,’ said Masset. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat
boudin noir
again.’

Danilov turned the lid of the barrel over to look at the underside. He could see traces of red staining the wood where the blood had lapped against the lid. He walked over to the centre of the room, avoiding the evidence from the countless other cases strewn on the floor. He examined the underneath of the lid, tilting it left and right under the harsh light.

There was something, Scratches, faint marks against the grain of the wood. ‘Stra-chan, come here. Your eyes are better than mine. Look at that.’

Strachan rushed over and took the lid, holding it up to the light. ‘There seems to be something scratched on the lid, sir. Two words, I think.’ He tilted the lid so that the light shot obliquely across it. ‘The first letter is an “H”, sir. Then, there’s an “A”.’ He brought the lid closer and then moved it away, squinting with his eyes as he did so. ‘Then there seems to be a “T” and an “E”. Spells HATE.’

‘Thank you, Stra-chan, even I can work that one out.’

‘The next line is not so clear. An “A”, I think. Then an “L” and maybe another “L”. But the last letter is very faint, sir. It’s hard to see down here, sir.’

‘“HATE ALL” That is interesting,’ said Danilov.

‘A message from the killer, sir?’

‘It looks like it, doesn’t it, Stra-chan? Lieutenant Masset, you didn’t notice these scratches?’

The Lieutenant shrugged his shoulders once more. ‘We thought they were marks from the makers. Not important.’

‘I think you were wrong.’ Danilov put his hat back on his head. ‘Let’s get out of here. I need the fresh air of a smoke.’

Chapter 7

‘Come, Stra-chan, we’re close to Moscow cafe.’

They walked down the crowded streets of the French Concession. Despite the cold, both sides of the road were a hive of activity. Hawkers sang the praises of their wares. Gamblers, wrapped up in jackets and mufflers, surrounded the mahjong tables on the pavement, watching and understanding every nuance of the play. Shoppers dawdled at shop windows, admiring the latest trinkets imported from France. Chauffeurs chatted, sharing a smoke as their idling cars pumped exhaust into the street.