David Rotenberg - The Hamlet Murders

Fong thought that through. He agreed with most of it. “What about Mr. Hyland?”

“What about him?”

“Did you or your younger half have him murdered?”

The older Beijing man shook his head slowly then opened a portfolio that he withdrew from the desk. From the portfolio he removed twelve eight-byten photographs and lined them up on the desk.

They showed Geoff arrested, tried for treason, disgraced in front of a large crowd, then put on an airplane in chains. Once again, the faked photos were expertly done. If Fong hadn’t seen Geoff hanging from that rope he could well believe that this was a real account of what had happened to his old rival. “This was Beijing’s intent. They didn’t care about Mr. Hyland. All they wanted from him was to lead them to Xi Luan Tu. Which is exactly what you did for us, Zhong Fong. But their intent and mine were not the same. I wanted to be led to Xi Luan Tu to tell him that he has much support in high circles, not for his religious practices which, as I mentioned, I find obscene, but for the very practical need for political ballast in the People’s Republic of China. And now you have led me to him and now he has heard what I have to say.”

Xi Luan Tu nodded, as if engaged for the first time in the conversation. Then he got to his feet and headed toward the door.

Joan leapt up and said, “We need to get you out of Shanghai. That’s what the money and the Internet access were for.”

For the first time, Xi Luan Tu spoke, “That’s what they were for, for you Ms. Shui, and I thank you for your efforts. I thank all of you. But I am not leaving Shanghai. I cannot leave Shanghai.” Fong began to protest but Xi Luan Tu cut him off, “Do you know a writer named Alan Paton, Zhong Fong?”

Fong shook his head.

“He was a world-renown South African novelist who wrote at great length against the sins of his countrymen and the Apartheid regime. Over and over again, reporters from outside South Africa would ask him why he didn’t leave. Do you know what he answered?” He waited for a response but no one spoke. Finally Xi Luan Tu said, “Mr. Paton said that a man without a country is not a man. All of us in this room know that Shanghai is like a country. In fact, it is bigger than many countries. Shanghai is my country. I will not leave it. Again I thank all of you for your efforts. I really do. But now I must leave you. I have no doubt we will all meet again.”

“Mr. Xi?”

“Yes, Captain Chen?”

“You’d better give me that phone.” Xi Luan Tu gave it to Chen who quickly removed the faceplate and extracted the small electronic bug. For a moment he held it in his hand then dropped it to the floor and stomped on it. The thing flattened without a sound. Then Chen held out the phone to Xi Luan Tu, who took it and headed toward the door. No one made a move to stop him and he did not hesitate in his going.

It left the four of them alone in the safe house – looking at each other. It was Chen who finally broke the silence, “So we are back to a straightforward murder investigation.”

The older Beijing man nodded.

“And you and yours didn’t murder Mr. Hyland?” Fong asked the Beijing man again.

The Beijing man just pointed to the object-lesson photos. “We didn’t want him killed. We wanted him to be an example to foreigners who meddle in the affairs of our country.”

“Why doesn’t Beijing know about you?” Fong asked.

“Beijing runs just like the rest of China – like the rest of humanity. It survives in boxes. Compartments. It’s how we live our lives. Not everything influences everything else. Our work doesn’t necessarily influence our politics. Our politics don’t necessarily influence our home lives . . .” He stopped and looked at Fong, “What?”

“Compartments. Work not necessarily influencing our home lives – or our love lives.”

“What are you talking about, Fong?” asked Joan.

“Are you heading back to Hong Kong right away?”

“I don’t know . . . ”

“I could really use a woman’s eyes to help me on this.” He didn’t wait for her response but turned to Chen. “Remember the woman I arrested in the bar for murdering her boss?”

“You mean for murdering the man she loved?”

Fong looked hard at Chen. “Yes, that is what I mean, Captain Chen. Arrange for Ms. Shui and me to see her – the woman who killed the man she loved.”

“To check on something?”

“Yes, Captain Chen, to check on something I’m pretty sure I overlooked.”

“Zhong Fong.” It was the elderly Beijing man. “I would appreciate the courtesy of you sharing the results of your investigations with me.”

“Why?”

“Politics is just an attempt to understand the workings of the human heart. If your findings increase my knowledge of that, then I can be of more help to our people.”

Fong nodded. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Sheng.”

Sheng was not a name you heard often. It literally meant “in the year of peace.” Fong thought, “What a good name for a man. Yet this man had shot his partner without a word of warning.” Fong took another look at the man. The man stood very still as if he understood Fong’s thoughts. “Peace in a dangerous world at times requires action – complicated action,” Fong said. The man nodded. “Well, where can I find you, Sheng?”

“I’ll be here in this house for at least a week.”

Da Wei, Geoff’s homely translator, indicated that Fong and Joan Shui should sit at the small table in the cubicle that passed as her room at the Shanghai Theatre Academy. They did.

Ignoring Joan, Da Wei said, “I’ve been expecting you, Detective Zhong.”

“Have you?”

She stopped and stared at him. “I said as much.”

“You did,” he said nodding. It startled Fong to realize that they were speaking English.

“Your English is very good, Detective Zhong.”

“Thank you, but not nearly as good as yours, Da Wei.”

She nodded and poured tea from a large Thermos into the empty glass jars on the table. The tepid-coloured liquid swirled around the slender languid leaves of the tea that stood on the bottom of the jars, waving like sea plants.

He thanked her. She poured some for herself and sat directly opposite him.

He tasted the dark earthiness of the cha and knew that it was a special treat for Da Wei to serve such an exotic blend. He was about to comment on it when she said, “I was very fond of your wife, Fu Tsong. She was a great, great actress, a true artist. I was honoured to help her prepare her English for . . . ” Her voice ended as if somehow a finger had been placed over a stop.

He looked at her. So she had prepared Fu Tsong’s English for the production she had never gotten to do with Geoff in Vancouver.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s inexcusable of me to mention such things.”

Fong looked away. A futon was folded to one side and a night table stood beside it. On the night table were small mementoes from her life. A set of tiny bells aligned between two wooden poles, an ornamental teapot in the shape of a dragon, three oblong, flat, polished blood stones from the Yangtze River and a round black rubber disk of some sort with a logo of a sporting team on it. Fong couldn’t identify either the disk or the logo. But that didn’t concern him now. Something about the way the objects were arrayed on the table did. It was as if there was a missing item – maybe two small missing items.

He looked at Da Wei then at the walls of the cubicle. Standard-issue pictures of a southern water town, two posters from plays she’d worked on at the theatre academy, a “new school” rendition of a classical pastoral scene executed in watercolours on a hanging scroll.