M. Lee - Death In Shanghai

‘But how did you know about his…’ she leaned forward and whispered ‘…paramour?’

‘That part was easy. I observed her with Robson on Nanking Road two nights ago. It seems she has switched her favours recently. And everything I said about myself was true.’

‘You are a proper Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you, Inspector Danilov?

‘I admire your famous detective, Miss Cavendish, but I always believed he missed the patterns in crime. The patterns are everything. Once we understand them, everything else falls into place.’

‘A bit like my knitting, without the pattern I’m lost.’

‘Precisely, Miss Cavendish. All criminals have patterns through which they reveal themselves. Our job is to discover the pattern. It was one of the first things they taught us at the Imperial Police Academy.’

Miss Cavendish was the ears of all gossip in Central. If he wanted to know anything about the station or its inhabitants, Chinese, English, Russian or Japanese, he just asked her. She was better than any stoolie on the street, and she was free, which was even more important.

‘I would look out for him if I were you.’ She indicated the closed door of the detectives’ room. ‘A bit of a bull in a china shop is our Inspector Cartwright. Or a bull in a China police station, I should say.’ Miss Cavendish giggled as she played with the pearls that encircled her neck. Danilov wondered if she were flirting with him.

She popped a sweet into her mouth from the packet that lay on her table. She offered one to him. For a moment he was tempted but then shook his head. His hands lay on her desk, the scars that creased the skin above his knuckles vivid red against the pale white, a legacy of the education his father had given him years before in Minsk. He quickly hid them behind his back.

‘Inspector Allen from Intelligence gave these to me.’ In her left hand, she waved her packet of purple sweets. ‘Haven’t had these French sweets since before the war. He’s such a nice man. He left this for you.’ Her right hand held a large brown internal envelope marked private and confidential.

He took it, ensuring his hands were palm upwards. Inside was a white sheet of expensive writing paper. ‘Too predictable, Allen.’

He took out a large fountain pen and wrote P X QKN below Allen’s last line. Folding the paper, he returned it to the internal envelope.

‘Secrets and secret notes, Inspector Danilov.’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a long time.

‘Ask away, Miss Cavendish, if I am able to satisfy your curiosity, I will be happy to oblige.’

‘How is it you speak such good English? For a Russian I mean.’

‘Two years at Scotland Yard, Miss Cavendish, looking for some Russian bombers. We never found them so it was a wasted time. It did give me a love for your language though. Such a less stoic tongue than my native Russian.’

‘Well, you are a card, I must say. Scotland Yard indeed. Who would have guessed?’

‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish. If you see Detective Stra-chan, please tell him to meet me at the morgue.’

‘Now, that’s an invitation nobody could refuse.’

Danilov stood there for a moment, nodded once and left. He would never understand the English sense of humour.

Elsie Everett strode across the classic wood-lined lobby and entered the Grand Ballroom. A resplendent peacock dominated the stage above the band, couples shuffled around the dance floor and waiters danced between the tables, carrying drinks and plates of snacks.

She couldn’t see Richard. Was he late again? There was Margery Leadbitter. She would have to sit with the viper. Richard was so annoying; if it wasn’t for his money, she would…well she didn’t know what she would do, but she would have to bring him under control quickly.

She dodged the dancing waiters and presented herself in front of Margery, leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks. She felt a slight stickiness from the woman’s skin and it gave her a frisson of disgust. ‘Where’s Richard?’

Margery picked at something that lay on her bottom lip and examined it closely. ‘I don’t know. He was supposed to have been here half an hour ago. Alfred’s late too.’

‘Typical men. What are you drinking?’

‘An Old-Fashioned. I can’t face anything bubbly today.’

Elsie caught the eye of one of the waiters. ‘Another Old-Fashioned, with a maraschino cherry and no lemon.’ She turned back to Margery. ‘How’s Alfred these days?’

‘I don’t see much of him any more. He always seems so busy. I was surprised he wanted to come this afternoon.’ She paused for a moment and then continued, ‘Maybe it was because I told him you were coming.’

Elsie didn’t know how to respond, so she lit a cigarette and studied the room. It seemed to be the usual crowd of wasters, good-time charlies and hangers-on. On her left, a young Chinese man with closely-cropped hair like a military helmet was surrounded by three extremely young and giggly women. In one corner, an elegant Chinese grandfather in a long Mandarin coat sat all alone drinking tea. Across the dance floor, she caught a fat, bald European staring at her, his gaze averted as she noticed him through the dancers.

Then she was seized in a big bear grip and kissed on the cheeks. He was always a little rough, like a colt who had just learned to walk, but she enjoyed the hard bristle of his moustache against her soft skin.

‘Look who I met outside. He was prowling around like a cat looking for a sparrow.’ Richard stepped back to reveal the long, lean silhouette of Alfred. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, bowing slightly from the hips.

‘Don’t be so stiff, Alfred. Give her a kiss on the cheeks. You remember how we used to do it in France, don’t you?’ Richard rounded the table and reached over to kiss Margery. She accepted as if it were exactly what she was supposed to receive, nothing less, nothing more.

‘I’m so thirsty, I could drink Lake Tai.’ Richard raised his hand and instantly a waiter appeared at his elbow. ‘Champagne?’

‘Not for myself and Margery,’ said Elsie.

‘But you’ll join me won’t you, Alfred? Can’t drink champagne alone.’

‘I’ll join you too,’ said Margery, looking at Elsie.

The waiter ran off to fetch the bottle. ‘Sit down, Alfred. You’re making my neck tired looking up to you.’

Alfred pulled out the cane chair and placed himself between Richard and Margery, opposite Elsie.

‘How was this morning, Richard?’ She emphasised her refined vowels, taught at considerable expense and even more pain by Madame Tollemache all those years ago. Pain that had been worth it, as she had long lost the nasal twang of the streets of Salford.

The waiter brought the champagne and poured out three glasses. ‘Here’s to life, liberty and the pursuit of drunkenness.’ Richard drained the glass in one gulp and indicated for more to be poured.

‘As I was saying, Richard, you really need to get that pony of yours into better shape. You have a real chance at the races this Easter.’

‘I can’t be bothered getting up early and exercising the bloody thing in the wee small hours of the morning. I’d rather wallow in my pit.’

‘Well, it’s your loss…’

‘I just hate it when men ignore us, don’t you, Elsie?’ Margery’s voice cut through the music from the band, and all the other conversations at the tables nearby.

‘Well, I…’

‘Elsie’s far too polite to complain, aren’t you, dear?’

‘Of course she is,’ said Alfred quickly, ‘the manners of an angel and a voice to match. I was in the audience the other night at the theatre. You were perfect in the Novello song. What was it called?’