Читать книгу Death In Shanghai - M. J. Lee - Страница 10
ОглавлениеIn the middle of Soochow Creek is a sandbank known by the locals as ‘the Beach of Dead Babies’. On a bright, cold Shanghai morning, there were no dead babies lying on it, just a dead blonde.
Inspector Danilov stamped his feet on the cobblestones of the bank, trying to force some life into his cold toes. He pulled his old coat around his thin body and searched its pockets for his tobacco tin. Blowing some warm air on his fingers, he opened the tin and rolled a cigarette with one hand. The first breaths of smoke choked his lungs, producing a series of deep, barking coughs like the alarm cries of a deer. A spit of black tar filled his mouth, the remains of the opium he had smoked the night before. He spat it out and watched it land in the mud at the edge of the creek before it was swallowed by the lapping, grey waters.
His colleague, Charles Meaker, the District Inspector from Hongkew, walked to the middle of Zhapu Bridge, scanning the area as if getting his bearings. At the centre of the bridge, Meaker located the position of the blonde stretched out on the sandbank. From a pocket, he produced a linen measuring tape and laid this along the stone parapet of the bridge.
After an age of measuring, a smug smile spread across his pale face. ‘I believe it’s one of yours. It’s on your side,’ he shouted. Then he rolled up the measuring tape and put it back inside his jacket pocket, taking the opportunity to hitch his trousers over his large stomach.
He strolled over to Danilov on the city side of the bridge. ‘Floaters are always a nightmare. Hate ’em meself. Looks like this one topped hersel’ upstream, and the body floated down. Enjoy it.’ He tugged at his moustache. ‘Another chance to enhance your reputation.’
Danilov took a long drag of his cigarette, savouring the bitter tang of the tobacco. ‘Thank you, Inspector Meaker, have you finished?’ He turned back looking for his new constable in the large crowd that now lined the banks. ‘Stra-chan, come here will you?’
‘It’s Straw-aaan,’ said Meaker, the “ch” is silent. But you Russians wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
The young detective ran up. ‘Yes, sir?’ He had a shock of black hair, an eager smile and eyes that gave away he was half Chinese.
‘Stra-chan,’ Inspector Danilov emphasised, ‘go down to the sampans and check if anybody saw anything.’
‘Good luck with that. Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil. Just do evil. That’s what this lot believe.’ Meaker mimed the actions of the three monkeys ending with an expansive gesture that took in all the watching Chinese.
Inspector Danilov ignored him. ‘Go and check them anyway. Somebody may have seen something.’ Strachan began to turn away. ‘Don’t forget to send a man to the pathologist. The morgue is just across Garden Bridge on the other side of the river. Let Dr Fang know there’s a body coming in.’
‘Yes, sir, anything else, sir?’ Strachan stood to attention awaiting his orders. He was new to the detective squad, and this was his first case.
‘Hurry up, we haven’t got all day,’ said Danilov. ‘The feet feed the wolf, as we say in Minsk.’
‘Er…yes, sir, right away.’
‘I’m off back to Hongkew for a nice cuppa. Good luck with the floater, Danilov, rather you than me, heh?’ With a long, pipe-stained chuckle, Meaker twisted his moustache and walked back across the bridge to his own district.
Danilov looked down once more at the muddy, murky water eddying around the foundations of the bridge, Inspector Meaker and his jibes already forgotten. His eyes drifted across to the sandbank where the body lay half submerged, its arms stretched out to the sides. Like Jesus on the cross, he thought. And then the image of a long-forgotten triptych came back to him, its central panel a Jesus with sharp ribs and blood pouring from a wound in his side.
He smelt the rich fragrance of incense, a smell that was only found in the Orthodox churches of his youth. He lifted his nose to the wind and looked around him. A hawker had already set up his stall on the banks of the creek, taking advantage of the crowds that had come to see the body. The hawker was stirring his pot of charcoal and sweet potatoes with a wooden paddle. Each time he stirred, the unmistakable smell of incense filled the air. How strange, thought Danilov, how very strange.
The body still lay there on the sandbank, only thirty yards from shore but a whole lifetime away. The long blonde strands of hair, washed by the muddy waters, writhing in each ripple of the creek, the blondness contrasting vividly with the bleached greys of the sampans that lined the banks tied up to each other, sometimes three deep. A child, its head as round as a football, ran to the prow of one of the boats, where it was joined by a small dog, both fascinated by all the fuss. On his right leg, the child had a rope tied around his ankle. Danilov smiled to himself. Tied to a life on his boat for the next forty years. Just like all of us.
He heard Strachan run up and stand behind him.
‘Time and tide wait for no man, the English are fond of saying, are they not?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Well then, let’s get going. Our body is waiting for us, and the tide will change soon. Find the photographer, he should be around here somewhere.’
Followed by a long line of people, Danilov walked through the crowd towards the sampan like the Pied Piper leading a gaggle of curious children.
***
He was watching from the crowd. He saw the pantomime performed by the tall detective with the absurd moustache, wearing a suit that was too small for him. The measuring, the sighting, the rushing around to achieve nothing. God, they were idiots! Why had he been forced to endure such morons all his life? But they kept him safe, he knew that. Their stupidity allowed him to hide among them, to hide in plain sight. In Shanghai, it was so easy to pretend to have a veneer of sophistication, a veil of normality. Here, surface was everything, shallowness exalted. Everybody had a secret. Everyone knew that somebody was hiding something. It just didn’t matter.
Well, he would make it matter. He would throw light on their shallowness, on their dark secrets. The city of shadows could not hide from him. Those flickering images that pretended to be real concealing their evasions, lies, and dissembling. He would shine a light on them all. He would show them up for what they were. He had already started, but now it was time to really go to work.
He caught the aroma of sweet potato on the air. An ugly vegetable with a beautiful core of sweetness within. A bit like Shanghai he thought, but in reverse.
***
Danilov stepped on to the old sampan. It rocked drunkenly beneath his feet as he was joined by Strachan, two Chinese constables who would lift the body from the river, and a photographer.
An old woman stood at the rear of the boat, her back bowed like the branch of a mulberry tree. She reached out her hand with its deeply creased palms and short, stubby, dirt-encrusted fingers. ‘One dollar,’ she said thrusting her hand closer to Danilov. He reached into his pocket and gave her 50 cents. She glanced at it, smiled toothlessly, and placed it carefully in a cotton drawstring bag around her neck.
She leant on the oar that stuck out from the back of the sampan. Slowly, rhythmically, she swayed from side to side, her gnarled feet gripping the deck of the boat, only moving her upper body. The boat swam forwards toward the sandbar in short, rolling jerks.
Along the banks, the watching faces were mostly Chinese, but with a smattering of Europeans dotted in the crowd. Their taller size and sharp, white faces stood out against the round heads and Chinese gowns of the men, the elegant chi paos of the female office workers, and the thin vests and blue trousers of the dockside labourers.
At one side, the hawker stirred his pot of sweet potatoes. It was amazing how quickly the hawkers turned up whenever a crowd formed. It was as if they sensed that something was going to happen and were drawn to the scene like flies to sticky paper.
The boat was closer to the sandbank now. He could see the naked body quite clearly. The blonde hair was longer than he thought, the muddy water hiding its length as it waved like yellow seaweed just beneath the waves. The breasts and shoulders were small, almost undeveloped. The face was thin and angular, with traces of mascara around the eyes and a thin smear of lipstick on the lips. The arms were kept in place by weighted stones. Thin sisal ropes wrapped around the wrists ensured they stayed in place, anchored to the sandbank.
Danilov thought for a moment. This was no suicide. Not a person driven to such despair that they had thrown themselves into the river rather than face life.
Then he noticed the long nails with their bright purple nail varnish. Claws rather than nails, he thought, weapons for inflicting damage. He never understood why such nails were seen as beautiful or beguiling in a woman. For him, they appeared like the weapons of a predatory insect.
A flash went off as the photographer manoeuvred to get a better shot. More flashes and more rocking of the boat. He took one last look at the body lying half submerged on the sandbank and gestured for the constables to take it out of the water. They reached over the prow of the boat. One constable untied the ropes from the wrists while the other held the body steady. The constable handed both ropes and the stones to Danilov. He felt their weight. About three pounds he guessed. Enough to keep the arms outstretched even in the face of the tide.
Both constables leant out and grasped the naked blonde underneath the shoulders. As they did so, the body came free of the water and a torrent of snakes issued from the stomach. The constables dropped it back in the river and jumped back into the boat. Danilov leant out and saw the body floating now, the blonde hair still waving in the water. For a moment, all he could see were snakes, their heads raised as if to strike. Then he realised that he was looking at intestines, which had fallen out from a vast dark hole where the stomach had once been.
The constables were next to him, chattering loudly in Shanghainese. The old lady looked at the body and spat a long stream of brown juice into the river. Strachan was just staring fixedly at the naked corpse, his mouth slightly open.
Danilov reached down and lifted the body by the shoulders whilst one of the constables took the feet. As they lifted it into the boat, the other constable pushed the intestines back into the stomach cavity with his hands. But still the guts wriggled out beneath his fingers, slithering away from his touch.
Strachan watched, unable to move, fascinated by the paleness of the corpse, its whiteness in stark contrast to the murky grey of the water. The others ignored him as they heaved it into the boat, where it lay there like a dead fish, the intestines still alive as they oozed out of the cavity.
Danilov knelt down and examined the body at his feet. The stomach and thighs had been slashed with deep, frenzied cuts so all that remained was a dark emptiness where life should have been. Surprisingly though, there were no rat bites. In a city teeming with rats, even they had avoided this particular feast. On the chest, or what remained of it, two Chinese characters had been carved. ‘Stra-chan, come and look at this, will you?’
Strachan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and slowly inched his way across the deck, keeping his eyes fixed on the pale body.
‘What do you make of this?’ Danilov pointed to the characters sliced into the flesh. Strachan’s face went bright red as he finally looked away from the body and its intestines lying on the deck.
He reached out and touched Strachan on the hand. ‘Everybody reacts differently, the first time they see a dead person up close.’
Strachan nodded and forced himself to look back at the body. ‘It’s “justice”, sir. The characters for “justice”.’
‘Thank you.’ At a nod from Danilov, the photographer moved into position. Flashes exploded, capturing the body from every angle and every side as he struggled with the rocking of the boat to get his shots.
When he had finished, one of the Chinese constables inched forward to cover the body with a loose tarpaulin. The old woman began to sway backwards and forwards again, propelling the boat towards the shore. Her mouth, with its graveyard of teeth, still held its smile.
‘When we get to shore, fingerprint the body and send it to the morgue. Come back to the station when you’ve finished.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Strachan answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘You’d better get used to bodies, you’ll see many more before you finish working with me.’
***
‘The Chief Inspector’s been asking after you. Just thought I’d let you know.’
Danilov thanked Sergeant Wolfe, and walked behind the desk of Central Police Station past two Sikh guards, into the inner sanctum of the detectives’ office.
The desks were arranged in two neat rows, one behind the other like a deck of cards laid out for a game of patience. Behind each desk was a detective. Some were going through old files. Some were on the telephone. Some were pretending to read old reports. A few were asleep, their heads nestled in the crooks of their arms.
Danilov put his tobacco tin and keys on his desk, walked up to Chief Inspector Boyle’s office and knocked.
There was no answer. He knocked again.
He heard the faint shuffling of chairs and a loud ‘Enter’. He opened the door and took off his hat. A tall, rather dapper man sat behind his desk, two white tufts of hair above his ears contrasting sharply with a florid face. The curtains were half closed, giving the room a dark, cave-like atmosphere. In the corner, a putter and ball leant up against the eau-de-nil wall, a colour that seemed to cover every wall of every British office he had ever entered. Why they loved this particular colour, he was yet to discover. Perhaps its sickly paleness reminded them of home?
Boyle coughed. ‘Inspector Danilov, do take a seat.’ He indicated the only chair in front of him. It was small and hard, forcing all those who sat in it to feel like a penitent schoolboy.
The strong smell of Boyle’s cologne dominated the room. 4711, thought Danilov, as he took one of the more comfortable seats from its place along the wall and set it down noisily in front of the desk.
Boyle reached forward to open the large silver box in front of him. Inside was a choice of cigarettes: Turkish for smokers who loved a rich aroma, American for the sophisticated and, of course, British Woodbines for those who had acquired the habit in the trenches. Danilov took a Turkish cigarette, lighting it with the onyx lighter that lay next to the cigarette box.
So it was going to be one of those meetings, he thought. Boyle had a particular style: no offer of a seat was going to be a dressing down. A seat and a cigarette was a ‘quiet’ chat. A seat and a cigar was an understanding that Boyle wanted something that only the person blessed with the cigar could provide. All the police dreaded the seat and the glass of whisky, for that meant the miscreant was going to be transferred to some obscure job in the nether reaches of the police universe where the offender would spend the rest of his life arresting dog eaters and night soil collectors.
Danilov inhaled the rich earthy smoke of the Turkish. Fine tobacco, a little elegant for his taste but still a fine smoke.
‘Or would you like a cigar?’ Boyle opened the other wooden box that lay on the table, revealing a selection of the finest Havanas and Dominicans.
‘Thank you, sir. A coffin nail is fine for me.’
Boyle chuckled. ‘Coffin nails. That’s what we used to call them during the war. Long time ago though. Lost a lot of good men, too many.’ He blew a long cloud of blue smoke out into the office. ‘You didn’t fight, did you, Danilov?’
‘No, sir, I was in the Imperial Police in Minsk. We weren’t sent to the Front.’
‘I was a Captain, Manchester Regiment, you know. The scum of the Earth from the back streets of Hulme but damn fine men, if you get my meaning.
‘I understand, sir.’
Boyle stared into mid-air. Above his head, a print of a Chinese street scene hung at a slight angle. Hawkers sold food from banana leaves placed on the ground. People wandered through examining the wares. On each building, Chinese characters blared the names of the proprietors of the shops.
Not a traditional choice for a head of detectives, thought Danilov. He stubbed his cigarette out in a bronze ashtray already full of stubs.
The movement seemed to pull Boyle out of his remembrance of the past. ‘Jolly good. I’ve asked you here today for a couple of reasons, Danilov. Firstly, how was the body that you found this morning?’
‘How was it? Dead, sir, extremely dead.’
‘Suicide?’
‘No. Not unless this one decided to kill herself by slashing her stomach and thighs to the bone, tying her wrists with stone weights, rowing out to a sandbank and then jumping into Soochow Creek. No, sir, I think suicide is out of the question.’
‘Shame that. I had Meaker on the phone. He thought it was, but as it was on our side of the creek, he was going to leave it to us. He seemed rather pleased at the idea.’
‘Inspector Meaker is entitled to his opinion, sir, but it’s not a suicide. Far from it. Murder I’m afraid. A brutal one as well.’
Boyle shuffled the papers in front of him. ‘Well, get it over with as quickly as you can. Upstairs gets its whiskers in a curl when Europeans are murdered. The murder of European women particularly seems to excite them. Got to maintain our prestige. The Chinese depend on us maintaining order. Without it, where would we be? Solve it quickly, Danilov.’
‘The body is on its way to the pathologist now, sir. Dr Fang will do his usual thorough job.’
Boyle harrumphed and lifted a piece of paper from the top of his pile. ‘There’s one other thing that requires a delicate touch. You did rather well with the Bungalow Murders last year and that awkward affair with the American Consul in ’26. As for your time with Scotland Yard, well, enough said.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Danilov recognised when he was being buttered up. ‘But my two years in London were wasted. We never found the anarchists we were looking for.’
‘At least it meant you could polish your English. You speak it better than most of my English chaps.’
‘Thank you again, sir.’
‘As I was saying, you handled those delicate situations rather well. The thing is, we’ve had a strange note from the French. The French Head of Detectives actually, a Mr…’ he glanced down at the paper he was holding ‘…a Mr Renard.’
‘Is it the note that’s strange, sir, or the fact that the French have sent it?’
‘It’s both, Danilov. Last time we talked to them was spring last year, when we had that little problem with the communists. Anyway, a meeting has been set up for tomorrow morning with him. Usually, I’d go myself but I’ve got a Council session and it can’t be postponed. Can’t stand the frogs anyway. Had enough of them in the war. Far too dramatic for my tastes. Quite like the language though, became quite good at it, even if I do say so myself. Damn fine wine too, if my memory serves me right.’
‘Where is the meeting, sir?’
‘Oh yes, that would help wouldn’t it?’ He scanned the note quickly, his lips moving as he read the words. ‘Ah, here it is, Avenue Stanislaus Chevalier at 10 am. Their HQ, it would seem.’
Danilov took out his notebook and wrote down the details.
‘Do report to me afterwards, Danilov. Can’t have those frogs sending you off on a wild goose chase. Une poursuite de l’oie sauvage, if I remember my French.’
‘A better translation, sir, might be un ballet d’absurdités or more simply une recherche futile.
‘Well, that’s as may be. French never was my strong suit.’ Boyle closed the cigarette case, always a sign that the meeting was over. ‘Clear this blonde case up quickly, Danilov.’
‘I’m going to see the pathologist right away, sir.’
‘Good. It’s probably just a lovers’ quarrel that’s gone too far.’
‘It went too far, sir, of that I am sure, but it’s more than a lovers’ quarrel. I believe it’s far darker and more dangerous than that.’
***
Inspector Danilov returned to his desk after the interview with Boyle. He stood in front of it for a long time, realising that something was wrong. The ink bottle was in a different place, and the pencil was half an inch out of alignment. He reached down and put them back exactly where they should have been.
Behind him, he could hear the muffled sniggers of the other detectives.
‘Wha’s up, Danilov, somethin’ not right?’ This was from Cartwright, a detective with the imagination of a bull and the wit of a dinosaur. ‘Out of whack, are we?’
Danilov turned back and addressed Cartwright, but actually talking to all of them. ‘I’d rather you didn’t touch anything on my desk in future.’
‘Always so prim and fuckin’ proper aren’t we? I thought you Russians were rougher and tougher, like the girls in Blood Alley.’ More sniggers from the detectives.
‘Not all of us are the same, Cartwright. Just like you English, we are different too.’ He looked him up and down. ‘You, for instance, had an egg with two slices of bacon this morning for breakfast. I had just one cup of coffee. You had an argument with your wife last night and this morning it continued. I live alone. And your house boy has left, as well. I prefer to do without servants. Your…’ he stopped here looking for the right word ‘…paramour…is also two-timing you with…’ he swivelled round and pointed at another detective, Robson, sitting to the left of Cartwright. ‘Such women, of course, do not interest me.’
‘Wha’ the fuck? How do you know…?’
But Cartwright was already talking to the back of Danilov as he walked out of the detectives’ office.
‘You’ll get your comeuppance one day, you mark my words. You may speak bloody English but you’ll never be an Englishman. Bloody Russian prick!’ Cartwright shouted to the closing door.
Danilov had already gone next door to see Miss Cavendish, the office secretary. She was an old maid who had been born in Shanghai and lived there all her life, but still didn’t speak a word of Chinese. ‘Well, there’s no need is there, they all speak English. Or at least the ones I have to speak to. Or they speak pidgin. And I’m frightfully good at pidgin. Second language to me it is.’
Danilov stood in front of her desk and coughed. She glanced up and he caught a waft of her scent. French and very floral. ‘Miss Cavendish, could I bother you for the file on the French Head of Detectives? A Mr Renard, I believe.’
‘Actually, it’s Major Renard, Inspector. I’ll have it on your desk in an hour.’ She leaned forward and whispered, ‘I couldn’t help but hear what you said about Cartwright, he will be upset.’
‘Cartwright can’t be upset, Miss Cavendish. That would indicate an ability to feel. He is either totally happy or totally drunk. Those are the limits of his emotions.’
‘Was it true?’
‘He has the same breakfast every morning because he can’t be bothered explaining to his cook he would like something different. He wasn’t wearing his normal pungent eau de cologne which only happens when his wife locks him out of the marital bedchamber after an argument. She was still unhappy with him, so he was unable to splash more on this morning. You may have noticed he is still wearing the same clothes as two days ago. Hence, the boy is no longer providing his services.’
‘But how did you know about his…’ she leaned forward and whispered ‘…paramour?’
‘That part was easy. I observed her with Robson on Nanking Road two nights ago. It seems she has switched her favours recently. And everything I said about myself was true.’
‘You are a proper Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you, Inspector Danilov?
‘I admire your famous detective, Miss Cavendish, but I always believed he missed the patterns in crime. The patterns are everything. Once we understand them, everything else falls into place.’
‘A bit like my knitting, without the pattern I’m lost.’
‘Precisely, Miss Cavendish. All criminals have patterns through which they reveal themselves. Our job is to discover the pattern. It was one of the first things they taught us at the Imperial Police Academy.’
Miss Cavendish was the ears of all gossip in Central. If he wanted to know anything about the station or its inhabitants, Chinese, English, Russian or Japanese, he just asked her. She was better than any stoolie on the street, and she was free, which was even more important.
‘I would look out for him if I were you.’ She indicated the closed door of the detectives’ room. ‘A bit of a bull in a china shop is our Inspector Cartwright. Or a bull in a China police station, I should say.’ Miss Cavendish giggled as she played with the pearls that encircled her neck. Danilov wondered if she were flirting with him.
She popped a sweet into her mouth from the packet that lay on her table. She offered one to him. For a moment he was tempted but then shook his head. His hands lay on her desk, the scars that creased the skin above his knuckles vivid red against the pale white, a legacy of the education his father had given him years before in Minsk. He quickly hid them behind his back.
‘Inspector Allen from Intelligence gave these to me.’ In her left hand, she waved her packet of purple sweets. ‘Haven’t had these French sweets since before the war. He’s such a nice man. He left this for you.’ Her right hand held a large brown internal envelope marked private and confidential.
He took it, ensuring his hands were palm upwards. Inside was a white sheet of expensive writing paper. ‘Too predictable, Allen.’
He took out a large fountain pen and wrote P X QKN below Allen’s last line. Folding the paper, he returned it to the internal envelope.
‘Secrets and secret notes, Inspector Danilov.’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a long time.
‘Ask away, Miss Cavendish, if I am able to satisfy your curiosity, I will be happy to oblige.’
‘How is it you speak such good English? For a Russian I mean.’
‘Two years at Scotland Yard, Miss Cavendish, looking for some Russian bombers. We never found them so it was a wasted time. It did give me a love for your language though. Such a less stoic tongue than my native Russian.’
‘Well, you are a card, I must say. Scotland Yard indeed. Who would have guessed?’
‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish. If you see Detective Stra-chan, please tell him to meet me at the morgue.’
‘Now, that’s an invitation nobody could refuse.’
Danilov stood there for a moment, nodded once and left. He would never understand the English sense of humour.
