M. Lee - Death In Shanghai

‘I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you. You have so little of it left.’

There it was, in the far left-hand corner, a slightly paler shade of black. If he squinted, he could just make out two faint crescents of white, almost like paint splashes, which were the whites of Allen’s eyes. Faint glimmers of white in a death-black wall.

‘I see you’ve found my little observation post. Just like the trenches. The Germans eventually found us too, sitting out there all alone in no man’s land. The others used to hate being a spotter. I loved it. Hiding in full sight. Story of my life. I started in the Staff, of course. Now, they were real criminals, sending men to their deaths like pigs to the butcher. I found my calling as a spotter though. All alone, with nothing but the mud and the rats for company. And the corpses. One mustn’t forget the corpses.’

The voice was stronger now, more obviously that of Allen, less concerned with concealment.

‘I think I began to discover who I was during the war. I began to see the evil men do to each other. I was like a larva with only a sense of what it was. It took the violence of war for the larva to pupate, to find a sense of meaning. It took Shanghai, and ten years of sorrow, to bring the larva to full awareness of what it was to do with its life.’

‘The war was a long time ago.’

‘Perhaps for you. For me, it was just yesterday.’

Danilov’s head slumped forward, his body held in place by the rope. The sweat and blood dripped off his brow and fingers onto the floor, pooling at his feet, forming a rich, sticky mess.

‘You see, for those of us who were there, unlike you, we live it every day. Oh, we may bury it beneath an orgy of sex or champagne or dancing, but it’s always there, buried deep in our bones. A part of us, you see, a desperate part of us.’

‘I never went to the Front.’

‘You were lucky.’

Danilov lifted his head. ‘Lucky?’

‘Yes, lucky. The war was horrific yet beautiful. Nobody ever understands its beauty.’

‘Beauty? The war destroyed my country, killed my Tsar, brought famine and destruction to my city,’ Danilov sucked in a deep breath of the foetid air of the cell, ‘and destroyed my family.’ The eyes blinked behind the darkness of the wall. Was he laughing at him?

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Your family is still alive. Well, at least part of it is.’

Danilov sat bolt upright. ‘What? How do you know? Where are they?’ He twisted and jerked against the ropes again, struggling to free himself.

‘You had a telegram from a Mr Willis in Tsingtao. An answer to your advertisement. Cartwright took it.’

‘I know.’

A soft chuckle came from behind the wall.

‘Cartwright…you have been using Cartwright, haven’t you?’

‘Not directly. But Charles Meaker was so very keen to return to Central, and he controlled Cartwright.’ The voice trailed off leaving Danilov to work out the rest.

‘You’ve been watching my investigation all this time?’

‘I just wanted to make sure I knew what you were doing. It’s knowing the moves your opponent is going to make before he makes them. Like chess, only with people.’

‘Just pawns, aren’t we?’

‘Like flies to the gods…’

‘Cartwright told you everything I was doing?’

‘Him and Miss Cavendish. She didn’t know, of course. But she’s such a terrible gossip. I find a few sweets always loosens her tongue.’

‘And Stra-chan?’

‘Such an innocent, isn’t he? Shame. Under you he would have the makings of a halfway decent copper. Pity we’re never going to find out. Meaker will probably be his new boss.’

‘So it was time to get rid of me.’

‘You were getting a little too close, asking the wrong sort of questions.’

‘Time to kill me off?’

‘Oh no, you did that yourself, Danilov, the day you deserted your wife and children. I am merely the agent of Di Yu, punishing those who transgress.’

There was a loud snap as the small window high on the black wall closed.

Danilov was left staring at the wall. ‘Where are my family?’ he shouted. ‘Where are my family?’

His body slumped forward again, the sweat running down his forehead into his eyes. He pulled against the ropes, twisting his body for extra leverage.

His right arm came free.

***

Strachan parked the Buick around the corner from the Rowing Club on Yuanmingyuan Road. There was no point letting the killer know he was there. Not until the back-up arrived in their Red Marias.

He walked to the Rowing Club, the sun fighting with its late afternoon strength to cast strong shadows across the buildings. He passed one of the new Art Deco buildings that was finished yet still not occupied. The streets were deserted. This wasn’t the Shanghai he knew, full of lights and noise and people and smells. Here, everything was as quiet as a funeral parlour with no bodies.

A mist was creeping off the creek and drifting around the dark buildings of the club, shrouding the mock-Tudor frontage and the black and white boathouse. Strachan sniffed the air. The unmistakable reek of salted fish assaulted his nostrils, carried on the mist from the boats on the river.

He crept around the building trying to remain hidden from view. So like the British to build something like this, as if it were located on the Thames at Henley rather than here, in the middle of the biggest Chinese city in the world.

He stared down at the flotsam and jetsam floating off the launch ramp of the Rowing Club. Over there, they had found the body of Henry Sellars, stretched out on the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’, his stomach ripped apart. It seemed so long ago. A lifetime and an age away.

He turned back to the building. Should he go in, or wait for help to arrive? It looked empty and deserted, but the killer might be inside right now.

And if the killer came out before the Mobile Unit arrived, what was Strachan going to do? He could try to ambush him, but there was nowhere to hide on the open street.

Better to catch him unawares inside, when Strachan would be in control. Besides, the Inspector was probably in there too. What if he had already been captured by the killer? A shudder went down Strachan’s spine.

He stood on tiptoes and peered through the window of the boathouse. The waters of an indoor swimming pool reflected into dancing shadows on the walls. He could stand here waiting for help to come, or he could go in and check it out for himself. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Was that one of Danilov’s Russian idioms or something he had picked up at school?

He didn’t care.

He smashed his revolver against the glass. The sound seemed so loud in the silence of the street. He stopped and looked around, waiting for a reaction.

Inside, the building nothing moved. Outside, the streets were empty, the only sound the waves lapping against the launch ramp of the club, and the muffled chug of some ancient motor as it struggled against the tides of the Whampoo.

He cleared the remaining glass from the window, reached inside and drew back the bolt. He pushed the window open and climbed in. His boots made a loud crunch as they landed on the broken glass on the inside of the building.

Once again, he froze and listened for any reaction.

Nothing.

He stepped forward, carefully checking where he put his feet, the revolver clenched in his right hand. A vehicle drove past outside, its headlights briefly illuminating the shadows in the boathouse, throwing blue light onto the walls.

He was five feet from a shimmering swimming pool. The smell of the water – a mixture of chlorine and damp bath towels – took him back to his childhood, swimming with his father, laughing, being wrapped up in a giant swathe of Lancashire cloth, teeth chattering with the cold.