David Rotenberg - The Hamlet Murders

Chen was ecstatic. “Right. Perfect . . . ” But he stopped before he completed his thought.

Fong had left the theatre. He now knew two things for sure that he’d been uncertain of before. He knew that it was possible to hang Geoff and that Geoff’s hanging was the work of at least two people: one to put the noose around Geoff’s neck, one to pull the counterweighted flyline.

Sometimes knowledge sets you free. Sometimes it makes you want to puke.

Standing in the shadows at the back of the auditorium, Li Chou didn’t want to puke. He wanted to jump for joy. He already had motive: jealousy – and now he had means: counterweights. All he needed was opportunity.

As the men packed up the equipment, Captain Chen found Fong outside the theatre. “That leads to something else, doesn’t it, sir?”

Fong nodded. “My place is just around the corner. Let’s talk there.”

Once in Fong’s rooms, Chen didn’t know where to look. His wife, Lily, had lived here with Fong. The shadowed outline of the antique lintel piece she had bought that caused so much trouble was still on the wall beside the window.

A letter from the condo people awaited Fong on the floor just inside the door. He opened it and was informed that he had only two weeks left “to make his intentions known.” It went on to suggest to him that an “insider’s price” like this was a once-in-alifetime thing. Ignoring Chen, Fong went into the bedroom and put the “offer sheet” on his desk. So much money to buy what was already his. When had this place that he and Fu Tsong had loved in stopped being his? When had it become theirs? Whoever they were. He remembered the French guys with blueprints and “bum-winged” silk jackets and their Beijing keeper with the raspberry-stained cheek.

So they were the ones who offered him the special insider’s price. And what a price! He moved the offer sheet to the top-left corner of his desk. Then to the top-right corner. Then to the centre – yep, everywhere he put the thing, the price was still completely beyond his means, way beyond. The only people he knew who had this kind of money were people he had arrested and were now spending time in jail. How could anyone, anywhere, make this kind of money, let alone have it just lying around to spend on buying back something that was already theirs?

Finally he made a decision. He folded the damn thing and shoved it in the desk drawer. That felt better. Then he remembered that Chen was waiting for him in the other room. When he entered, Chen was looking out the window at the courtyard with the ludicrous Henry Moore-esque statue in it. “Tea, Captain Chen?”

Chen nodded and Fong poured hot water from a large Thermos he kept on the floor into a simple ceramic teapot. “So this was definitely a murder then, sir?” asked Chen bluntly.

“A murder made to look like a suicide,” said Fong as he swirled the water around inside the pot to get the tea to infuse the liquid.

“Then shouldn’t we start with opportunity, sir?” asked Captain Chen.

Fong noted the strength in Chen’s voice, wondered about it for a moment then nodded. He poured the hot liquid into a clean jelly jar and held it out to Chen.

The man didn’t take the proffered cha. “Keys for the theatre then? Isn’t that where we should start? Who had keys to get into the theatre. Keys provide opportunity. Opportunity is the place we should start.”

Fong nodded. Chen took the cha. Fong hesitated. Suddenly new vistas of danger were opening as this very sturdy, very dogged cop stood before him drinking his tea. “Let’s get a list of those who have keys to the theatre, Chen.”

“Shouldn’t the custodian have a list, sir?”

Fong thought of saying that he would pick up the list then put that idea aside. He would just have to weather the storm that list would let loose.

“Surely he’d know who has keys,” said Chen.

Again Fong nodded – that old man knew. He knew too much.

The old geezer rummaged through a stack of papers on the floor and mumbled angrily. Chen stood patiently waiting for the standard Shanghanese complaints about authority to run their course. They finally did. “Keys? It’s keys you want? To the theatre?”

“No,” Chen almost shouted. The man was clearly hard of hearing but it was also possible that he was delaying for some reason. “I want to know who has keys to the theatre.”

Then the man brightened and pushed aside a desk to get at an old filing cabinet. He opened it by twisting the handle and giving it two sharp knocks to the side – your basic Soviet-made locking mechanism. The cabinet, surprisingly, had only one tall drawer. The old man took out several large, mounted, theatre posters and dropped them onto the desk with a thud.

The poster on top featured a lithograph of a profoundly beautiful actress. Chen read the information. The play was by an English playwright whose name he didn’t recognize. But the name of the actress was extremely familiar – Fu Tsong. Chen looked at the image, the exquisite skin, the deep deep eyes, and marvelled.

“She was more than just a looker,” said the old custodian. “She made birds sing in the trees when she acted. I never missed a performance when she was acting. And her Peking Opera work was . . . ” Unable to find the words, he waved his liver-spotted hands like a fan in front of his face. Then he smiled unabashedly showing off an almost toothless maw.

“Have you found the list of theatre keyholders?”

“Yep,” the man replied and handed over a muchrumpled pad of paper and then returned to admiring Fu Tsong’s likeness.

Chen read the handwritten list on the top page. Names were printed, then a signature appeared beside each name. Chen assumed you signed out the keys. The list was predictable: Mr. Hyland as director had one, as did his two Canadian producers, as did the old man in front of him – those names were expected. Chen flipped through the following pages. Each entry was signed and then crossed off when the key was returned. Nineteen pages later he saw the first entry that had not been crossed off. The name there was Zhong Fong.

Back in Fong’s office on the Bund, Chen reported most of his findings.

“I’ll want to interview each of the keyholders at the office. Out of courtesy we’ll see the custodian in his room.”

“No need, sir. He gave me an alibi for the time in question and it checks out.” Now it was Chen who hesitated.

Fong stood. “There were more keyholders?”

Captain Chen nodded.

“Tell me,” said Fong knowing full well his name and signature ought to be on the list.

“You’re the only other name on the list, sir.”

Fong nodded. “Want my alibi, Captain Chen?”

Captain Chen looked past Fong, out the window, to the Bund. Fong felt for the young man, trapped between his admiration for him and his need to do the right thing. Fong sighed. “I took Xiao Ming to the theatre and brought her back to you and Lily by 10:30 p.m. The rest of the night I was home. Alone. Reading. Not much of an alibi is it?”

Chen didn’t meet Fong’s eyes.

Fong took a step toward Chen. The younger man backed away. “I’ve told you that this is a political place. You must protect yourself in a situation like this, Captain Chen.” The country cop nodded and finally met Fong’s eyes. “Tell the next in command about my name on the list then arrange for me to interrogate the other keyholders.”

Captain Chen bore the brunt of much mockery from Li Chou and his men. But this afternoon they were not busy thinking up nasty cracks about his appearance. This time they offered him a seat and listened carefully to his story about theatre keys, keyholders and Zhong Fong.

Li Chou had to stop himself from chuckling and rubbing his chubby hands together as he closed his office door behind Chen. All would be inappropriate under the circumstances but all were burbling up inside him. Motive – jealousy; means – counterweights that Fong had deviously pointed out to all and sundry; opportunity – Fong lived literally two minutes away from the theatre because his wife had been a star there and he had a key. His name and signature were on the caretaker’s list.