M. Lee - Death In Shanghai

Boyle sat back in his chair and knitted his fingers in front of him. ‘Look here,’ he said more softly, ‘the Chinese may be right in their idea of what life means and we may be wrong. But if we admit they are right, and we are wrong, then we undermine the whole moral basis for our government in Shanghai. We are only here because they think we are bringing them the benefits of Western civilisation. They only allow us to rule because they believe they will benefit from that civilisation.’

‘But Western civilisation is maintained by the rule of law.’

‘Not in Shanghai it isn’t. It’s maintained by the perception that the rule of law applies. In actual fact, the Chinese carry on doing what they have always been doing for centuries. We simply provide a veneer of respectability.’

‘And in return?’

‘And in return we have a standard of life unknown in the West. A life of luxury and servants and money and all those things none of us could afford if we were not attached to the great tit of Shanghai. Remember, Shanghai was founded as a commercial venture. It’s still that even today.’ Boyle sat forward. ‘And when the Russians, your countrymen, were looking for somewhere safe to run to, they came here, to the haven that is the International and the French settlements. Here, they found freedom.’

‘The freedom to become killers and prostitutes and drivers and pimps…’

‘And policemen. We don’t mollycoddle people here in Shanghai, you either sink or swim.’

‘Or die.’

‘Or die.’ Boyle sat back, his argument finished. ‘Can’t you see? Our prestige, the veneer that keeps us in power, must be maintained – otherwise we have nothing.’

‘What about the French? Or Richard Ayres? Doesn’t he have the right to see his fiancee’s murderer brought to justice?’

‘The French are happy that Allen is dead. Saves them the cost of a trial. Mr Ayres is an intelligent young man. He understands what’s at stake. His father represents many of the commercial interests I mentioned earlier. Unfortunately, his fiancee will be forgotten just as quickly as one of her roles.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s just the way of the world.’

Danilov felt the cigarette burning his fingers. He stubbed it out in the ashtray. ‘Allen’s crimes will go unpunished?’

Boyle leant forward again; his eyes had changed, become harder, more focused. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? You killed him. He’s been punished by you.’

Danilov’s head went down.

‘He deserved to die,’ Boyle said softly, ‘you and your family deserve to carry on living.’

Danilov lifted his head at the mention of his family.

‘You are separated from them?’

‘How do you know?’

‘Allen kept a file on you. He was a most efficient Intelligence officer. You recently placed an advertisement in the North China Daily News looking for them?’

Danilov nodded.

‘And received a telegram in response to the advertisement?’

‘You know all this, Cartwright burnt it.’

Boyle sighed. ‘Inspector Cartwright is not the brightest hammer in the toolbox. We will be sending him out to police the Badlands for a few years. I doubt whether he will survive it, few do.’

‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better.’

‘No, not at all.’ Boyle opened the drawer to his desk. ‘But what if we could show you what was in the telegram?’

‘It was burnt. I know Cartwright burnt it.’

‘You may be interested to discover our Intelligence division, formerly headed by Mr Allen, keeps copies of all telegrams coming into the Shanghai Post Office. It’s a matter of security.’

Danilov sat back in his chair. ‘That’s how Allen knew.’

‘Knew what?’

‘The name of my daughter. He knew her name was Elina. He had seen the telegram.’

‘Probably. It took some persuasion, but I managed to get our Intelligence johnnies to give me a copy.’

‘A copy?’

‘Of the telegram.’ Boyle reached into his drawer and pulled out a light green envelope. Danilov could see the words ‘Shanghai Post Office and Telegram’ typed in both English and Chinese on the front. Stamped across the top was a large square box with the word COPY in bold letters. The ink was breaking up, the red lines of the stamp bleeding into the pale green of the envelope.

Danilov leaned across and took another Turkish cigarette from the box. This time Boyle didn’t reach over and light it. ‘In exchange for what?’

‘In exchange for all the good work you did in solving this heinous series of murders.’

‘And in exchange for my silence.’

Boyle remained quiet.

Danilov brought the unlit cigarette up to his mouth. He fumbled with the lighter in his left hand before finally getting the flame to touch the tip of the cigarette. There was a brief flare as it finally lit. ‘And Detective Constable Strachan?’

‘Detective Sergeant Strachan will continue to work with you. He’s going to be a good copper. Takes after his father.’ He picked up the pale green envelope and put it down on Danilov’s side of the table.

He stared at it for a moment before crushing the cigarette out into the ashtray. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector Boyle, for your time.’ He took one more look at the pale green envelope lying there on the mahogany of the table and reached out to put it in his pocket.

‘Inspector Danilov, if I were you, I would open the envelope at eight o’clock this evening. That would be a good time.’

Danilov opened the door and walked out.

***

Strachan relaxed in his armchair pulled up in front of the fireplace. His mother passed him a steaming bowl of Hong Dao Sa . The sweet, maroon soup with its soft balls of red bean had always been one of his favourites. He lifted the porcelain spoon to his mouth and drank. It was warm and sweet and comforting, just what he needed tonight.

He was feeling better but he had lost weight. Two weeks surviving on cold hospital soup had not done him a world of good.

He fingered the raised edge of the scar that ran down his throat. It still hurt sometimes and coughing was a nightmare he avoided as much as the hospital food. The gun shot was not as serious as they thought. It was the shock that had nearly killed him.

He remembered very little from the bridge. He had felt no pain as the bullet entered his chest, but his legs didn’t seem to want to go forward. The bridge had rushed up to meet him. Its concrete and metal floor kissing his face. In slow motion, he had seen Danilov raise his Webley, two loud bangs coming from it. Then all was a series of images: the iron stanchions of the bridge, black against the grey of the sky, like the bars of a prison. Danilov above him, his mouth moving but no sound coming from his lips.

He had woken up hospital, his whole body aching.

He had finally been released from that particular prison early that morning. Danilov had picked him up and brought him home. They hadn’t said a word until the driver had parked the car in the small space next to his building. He didn’t know what say. What do you say to a man who saved your life?

As he got out of the car, all he could think of was, ‘Thank you, Inspector Danilov.’

The Inspector nodded. ‘It was all Dr Fang’s work. You are one of the few men who can say that they came to life in a morgue.’

‘I suppose that’s something to tell the children.’

‘It will make a great story for them. And thank you, Detective Sergeant Strachan.’

‘I did nothing.’

‘You misunderstand. I’m thanking you for turning up.’ He took a few deep breaths and continued, ‘I had to bring him out into the open, you see, otherwise we would never have caught him.’

‘Bring him out?’ Strachan thought for a moment. ‘You mean you were the bait to trap him?’