David Rotenberg - The Shanghai Murders

The building was bathed in the eerie glow of the construction site’s arc lights.

Fong was about to yell Fu Tsong’s name when he heard her moaning.

The door burst open under his running thrust, and he was greeted with a vision from hell.

The baby must have been in the breech position. A botched attempt to “untimely rip.” Something had ruptured. The butcher fled-and left this.

White walls, grime encrusted. Aluminum table. A single lightbulb swinging wildly from the ceiling. Rain pouring through the roof. And there in the midst, on the table, wrapped in her tartan bathrobe, a small line of her blood dripping off the table onto the already blood-rich earthen floor, Fu Tsong clutched a blood-and mucus-covered thing to her-and screamed for the mercy of death.

Fong felt his heart click in his chest.

Then everything stopped. Fu Tsong’s eyes opened wide for an instant, her arm swung off the side of the table and something infinitely cold filled the room.

Fong felt himself falling, plumeting through darkness, utterly, totally alone.

Even as Fong was fighting his night demons, Wang Jun was remembering how he had found his young friend that night four years ago in the Pudong. It was a vision Wang Jun could not easily forget.

A lightning flash had silhouetted Fong against the open back door of the shanty. The outline of the small man, his feet seemingly stuck to the mud floor of the horrible little room. Then a scream filled the confined space. And the small man moved with terrible speed. Before Wang Jun could intercede, Fong lifted the inert bodies of his wife and unborn child and raced out the back door into the rain.

When Wang Jun finally caught up to Fong, the younger man was standing alone on the lip overlooking the construction pit. Sixty feet beneath him was the newly poured cement foundation of a huge building. Even as Wang Jun looked over the edge, the bodies of Fu Tsong and her baby were swallowed by the grayish muck. The sash of Fu Tsong’s bathrobe floated incongruously on the surface-gently in motion as if catching life from the rain itself.

He stared at Fong.

Fong stood very still for a long time. The rain increased. The thunder roared its approval. Fong seemed to take it all in. For a moment his eyes brightened, then the light behind them dimmed. As they did he shouted to the sky. “You win! You win! I have delivered her to you. Take her. Take her for my sins!” Then he tilted back his head and spat well out into the pit.

Wang Jun rubbed his eyes, chasing away the image. As far as Wang Jun knew that was the last time that Fong had ventured into the Pudong. But it was all one now. It was late. They’d find Fong tomorrow. They most certainly would.

Fong awoke from his nightmare covered in sweat. The dream had ended the way it always did. Him alone. Them gone. A truth. But not the complete truth. Not yet.

Breathing heavily he looked out at the city. In the Shanghai dawn the smog clings quilt-thick to the buildings. Roads, still passable, await the coming assault of day. For a breath the bamboo-coated construction sites let out a sigh of relief between shifts-restful, but only for a moment. For the tumult would begin again, as it must, if Shanghai was to continue its assault upon the sky. And, just for a moment, Fong thought, To have been an ant in its midst, a moment of its time, the slightest ripple in its stream has been an honour. Then he spat and faced the reality of a dangerous dawn after a terrifying night.

The Portman, like every other major hotel in Shanghai, had extensive security in its lobby. Discreet but extensive. Also like most Shanghai hotels, at the Portman you could sit in the lobby if you ordered a drink or a cup of coffee. It was too early for a drink so Amanda ordered coffee. She was not surprised that the cup of bitter coffee cost more than the entire lunch she and the two policemen had eaten at the Old Shanghai Restaurant on the day of their dead man’s walk.

She sipped the rancid stuff as she watched the human traffic in the lobby. After fifteen minutes she knew that this would get her nowhere. There were too many elevators to watch and besides even if she saw the man in the picture how would she find his room number?

She finished her coffee and went over to the concierge’s desk. A young man with pimples, reasonable English, and a well-cut suit stepped forward to help her. She asked for a city map and was given a small piece of paper that was almost decipherable. She looked at it closely and put on a puzzled expression. “Is there a problem?” the young man asked her. Amanda bit her lower lip. Why do men like that?

“Well, there is, actually.”

“May I help?”

“I hope so.” She pulled out the picture of Loa Wei Fen from her purse and put it on the table. “Do you know this man?”

The young concierge nodded.

“He’s staying here?” Once again he nodded. Then, with seemingly uncontrollable excitement, Amanda bit her knuckles. “Bobby Tol is staying here? Really?”

“Who?”

“Bobby Tol, the Okinawan singer, here in this hotel?” The young concierge looked at the picture again and said, “I guess he is.” It was clear that he didn’t know who Bobby Tol was but it was also clear that he was more than a little taken with Amanda.

“Would you do something for me?” Amanda said and marked the effect of her words on the young man.

He replied weakly, “What?”

“Take some flowers up to his room for me. I don’t want to invade his privacy but I’m such a fan. Would you take care of delivering them?” He nodded eagerly. If he were a dog his tongue would have been on the pavement.

“You’re great, thanks. I’ll be right back with the flowers.” With that she touched his hand gently. He spluttered and reddened and looked ready to drop to the ground and kiss her feet.

• • •

There was a florist in the arcade on the west side of the hotel. She bought an enormous basket of flowers and winced when she saw the price. Oh well, the better to follow you by, she thought. She carried the flower basket back into the Portman lobby, smiling back at all the questioning looks.

By the time she brought the flowers to the concierge, he had regained his composure. He took the basket and asked if she wanted to send a card as well. She declined and after thanking him profusely retreated to the far end of the lobby. The concierge called over a uniformed bellhop and gave him the flowers and a room number.

It was not difficult for Amanda to follow the enormous basket of flowers to room 2714.

Li Xiao was in a fury. The object of that fury was Wang Jun. The two men sat alone in the big conference room.

“It was a mistake,” yelled Wang Jun.

“All our men just happened to take a break at the same time? Is that what you are trying to tell me? That the three men detailed to stake out Zhong Fong’s apartment just happened all to be called away. I’m supposed to believe this?”

“Talk to Commissioner Hu if you have a problem,” snapped back Wang Jun.

“You’re telling me you didn’t do this, Wang Jun?”

“I’m telling you this isn’t any normal investigation in case you haven’t figured that out yet.”

“We have new testimony from the Canadian director, whatever his name is, and so we reopened the investigation. Right?”

“Sure, if you have to believe that, believe that. But just for the record, I wouldn’t get carried away by the idea that you are in charge of this investigation. Everything here is going through his Hu-ness. He may look stupid, but he’s cleverer than you and me put together.”

“If that’s so, why did our cops miss Fong yesterday?”

“Because his Hu-ness had another surprise waiting for Fong.”