Death In Shanghai (19 page)

‘All wearing black jackets.’

‘One couple kept bumping into me as I served champagne.
Ta ma de.
’

‘He had shiny shoes,’ one remembered.

‘What did he look like?’

‘I dunno. Never saw his face.’

They all remembered one man though. He had been a good tipper. Giving them money every time they brought him a drink and, at the end of the tea dance, he left twenty dollars.

‘Twenty dollar. Best tip this week. He was American. Told me that. Here on business, staying Palace Hotel. Number one man, he come again, I kill anyone who stops me serving he.’

The only other people they had remembered were an old Chinese man, dressed in a long robe. The robe was pretty common but to be dressed like that was unusual at the tea dance. ‘He only drank tea too. Very strange man.’

A young Chinese guy also caught their eye or at least, his companions did. ‘He very flash. Pretty girls. Number one girls from Madame Wong’s house. Verrrrrry expensive each one. He had three. Lucky guy. Dunno why at tea dance, waste too much time.’ The waiter then placed his right index finger through a circle formed by his left hand, just so Strachan would get the point.

The chits the guests had signed proved to be more useful. He recognised Richard Ayres’s name at once, with its scrawled signature and presumption everyone knew who he was. There were twenty-one other chits, all signed clearly. The manager produced the chit book for Strachan to copy all the addresses.

The American and the two Chinese paid with cash. The manager remembered the younger Chinese man though. ‘He been here before. Big spender. Big dick. Left his tie pin here one day. Gold with two diamonds.’ He scrambled through his desk, shoving aside a pile of invoices and chits before snatching up a scrap of paper. ‘Here it is. Never lose anything.’ He handed over the address to Strachan.

‘Any reward if you find him?’

‘Maybe.’

‘We go 50-50. What you say?’

‘I say, “I’m arresting you for attempting to bribe a police officer”.’ Then he smiled.

‘Only joking. A joke among friends. You keep all of the reward.’

‘There will be no reward.’

This time it was the manager’s turn to smile.

Strachan picked up his hat and left there as soon as he could. On his way out, a bellboy ran out to get a taxi for a young, elegant woman who was wearing a dress slit up to the top of her thigh. Every time she stepped forward, the dress revealed the pale skin above her stockings.

The bellboy stood outside the revolving doors of the hotel and put his fingers to his mouth. A sharp, shrill whistle forced a taxi lurking in the shadows to switch on its engine and its headlights. The taxi drew up to the hotel’s portico. A hand reached through the driver’s window and dropped a coin into the bellboy’s hand. He ran around the back of the taxi and opened the rear door for the young woman to enter.

She took a coin from her purse and also placed it into his waiting hand. A broad smile crossed his face as he touched the coin with his fingers.

He closed the door and, as the taxi pulled away from the hotel, he wrote something in a small notepad he had pulled from his pocket.

Strachan walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘I want to ask you a few questions.’

‘Busy,’ the bellboy replied and started to run back into the hotel.

‘I’m police, it’s about a guest…’

‘Look, still busy. Many guests here. This hotel you know.’

Strachan pulled a dollar coin from his pocket. The boy’s eyes lit up and he went to grab it. Strachan clenched his fist around the coin before the little hand could snatch it away. ‘Questions first, money later,’ he said.

‘No money, no talk.’ The bellboy folded his arms across his chest.

Strachan gave him the coin.

‘What you wanna know, me busy.’

‘On the 22nd, two days ago, a young woman left the hotel.’

‘Lots of women leave hotel. Some young, some not so young.’ The boy glanced in the direction of the departing taxi.

‘This young woman left after the tea dance, around 5.30 pm. Blonde bobbed hair, silver grey dress, about so high.’ Strachan mimed the girl’s height above the boy’s head.

The boy made a pretence of thinking. ‘Lots of women at dance. Hard to remember.’

Strachan produced another coin from his pocket. The boy reached to snatch it again but Strachan closed his fist around it. ‘No talk, no money,’ he said.

The boy’s eyes furrowed and he took off his hat to scratch his head. ‘Woman left with man?’

‘No, we think she left alone. Around five-thirty.’

The boy’s eyes lit up. ‘With a shiny dress. Pretty lady?’

‘That’s her,’ Strachan said hopefully.

‘No, I don’t remember.’ The hand came out again and a smile spread across the boy’s face.

Strachan gave him the coin. This was proving to be expensive.

‘Woman left at 5.35 pm. Alone. She took taxi.’

‘Taxi?’

‘Yes, not normal taxi.’

‘Why wasn’t it “normal”?’

‘Didn’t want fares. Not normal. All taxi want fare.’

‘Didn’t want fares?’

‘I already said that. Just sat here for one hour. No want fares.’

‘So what happened when the lady came out?’

The boy’s hand came out again. Reluctantly, Strachan dug into his pocket and pulled out his last coin. He also pulled out the inside lining of his pocket to show there was nothing left.

The boy took the money quickly. ‘When she come out, taxi start engine. He pull up and she get in. No tip.’

‘Did you see the driver?’

‘Chinese man. No hair. Not friendly. No tip either.’

‘Did you get the number of the taxi?’

‘I take all numbers. Hotel policy.’

Strachan sighed, it was like pulling teeth. ‘What was the number?’

The bellboy pulled out his book and flicked through the pages. Strachan could see dense rows and columns of car numbers.

‘Hard to remember which one,’ said the boy. The hand reached out again, palm upwards.

Strachan sighed and reluctantly reached into his jacket pocket. With his good hand, he pulled out a five-dollar note and held it in front of the wide eyes of the boy, waving it just below his nose.

‘If look hard, sure can find.’ The boy flicked through his book again. He pointed to a scrawled number.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Does rice grow on trees?’

Strachan leaned over and followed the boy’s little finger with its chewed nail. The number was scrawled in pencil: ST 105.

The five-dollar note was snatched from his hand and the book closed as quickly as it had been opened.

‘Rice doesn’t grow on trees,’ he said to the bellboy.

‘You very smart. For a policeman,’ said the boy as he was swallowed up by the revolving doors.

***

‘Thank you for meeting me so quickly.’

‘That’s no problem, Inspector,’ said Alfred.

‘Yes, it bloody is.’ Margery took a sip from the cup in front of her. ‘Even the bloody coffee is awful.’

‘I’m afraid visitors to the station don’t normally drink our coffee, Miss Leadbitter.’

‘I can see why, Inspector.’

‘We’re happy to help.’ Alfred glanced across at Margery. She snorted and took another sip of coffee, making a face as she did so.

Danilov stared at the two people sitting in front of him. The man, tall and thin, almost ascetic in his looks, but elegantly and expensively dressed. The woman short and sharp, with the most beautiful cheekbones he had ever seen.

‘Can we get on with it?’ said Margery.

‘Of course, madam.’ Danilov allowed his fingers to form a steeple before he spoke, as if praying to the god of interviews. ‘You have heard of the death of Miss Everett?’

They both nodded.

‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, if you want my view…’

‘Shhhh, Margery, you shouldn’t speak like that. Elsie is dead, after all.’

Margery turned to Alfred. ‘She was a little gold-digging tramp. If you men didn’t have your eyes in your trousers, you would have seen it as sure as night follows day.’

Danilov held his hand up.

She stared at him and took another sip of coffee.

‘She died some time in the early morning hours of 23rd February. You were the last people to see her at the Astor House. Can you tell me what you did between those times?’

‘You can’t be suggesting…’

Margery snorted. ‘Yes, he is, dear Alfred. He thinks you killed her.’

Danilov held his hand up again. ‘I have made come to no conclusions…yet.’ He let the ‘yet’ hang in the air for a while. ‘Can you tell me where you were that night?’

Alfred’s eyes flicked up to the right. ‘At home in bed, I think.’

Danilov looked at Margery. ‘Can anybody confirm that?’

‘He wasn’t sleeping with me, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Thank you, Miss Leadbitter, it’s not what I meant.’ He turned to Alfred. ‘Well?’

‘My boy woke up when I got home. It was about two in the morning. We had been out at Ciro’s that night. Elsie was supposed to come, but she didn’t turn up. We stayed until one and then went home.’

‘And you, Miss Leadbitter?’

‘I can’t remember a thing, Inspector. As high as a kite. I remember having a couple of bottles of Belle Epoque in Ciro’s and after that, it’s a bit of a blur.’

‘So you can’t remember…?’

‘Listen here, Inspector. I didn’t like Elsie. She was a not-so-young, gold-digging trollop who had got her hooks into Richard and wasn’t about to let go. But I didn’t kill her. Wanted to, but didn’t, understand?’

‘Perfectly, Miss Leadbitter. So nobody saw you come home that night?’

‘Nobody.’

‘You did go home?’

‘Of course, everybody makes it home eventually, don’t they?’

Danilov made a steeple with his hands again. ‘And you, Mr Wainwright. You say your boy will confirm you went home at two?’

‘Well, he must have seen the light come on.’

‘But he didn’t actually see you come in?’

Alfred looked down at his coffee. ‘No, he didn’t.’

Danilov stood up quickly. ‘Thank you both for coming.’ He held out his hand.

‘Is that all?’ asked Alfred.

‘For now, Mr Wainwright. Thank you both for your time.’ He turned to go, stopped and then turned back. ‘Just one more thing, do either of you know a Monsieur Flamini? He’s a magistrate in the French Concession.’ Danilov glanced from one to the other. Margery was cleaning her nails.

‘I’ve had some dealings with him, Inspector,’ said Alfred.

‘Have you, Mr Wainwright? And what was it you do?’

‘Property, Inspector. I’m in property.’

Chapter 20

Strachan was already sitting in the empty detectives’ room when Danilov arrived back. ‘Sir, I’ve got the number for the taxi Miss Everett took,’ he said excitedly.

‘Good, well done.’

‘ST 105. Driven by a bald-headed man. Left the hotel at 5.35 pm. I’ve already put it out on the wire to the beat constables. Maybe somebody will spot it.’

‘Did you find out anything else?’

‘The waiters only remembered three of the guests with any certainty. An American, an older Chinese man and a young man, a big spender apparently. The rest of the guests seem to have been faceless, sir.’

‘They often are in those sorts of establishments.’

‘Richard Ayres was there, he signed a chit. There are twenty-one other chits. Here are the names and addresses, sir.’ Strachan handed over his notebook.

Danilov looked at his colleague. ‘You write like a child, Stra-chan. All capitals.’

‘It’s how we were taught by the monks, sir.’

Danilov sniffed. ‘Well at least it’s easy to read.’ He traced all the names and addresses with his finger. He stopped at one. ‘Strange, what was he doing there?’

Strachan tried to peer over his shoulder to see what he had noticed, but the Inspector closed the book quickly.

‘And while you’re at it, find out who the taxi is registered to, will you? But my bet is that it’s a false number plate.’

‘Yes, sir. The bellboy told me the taxi was waiting for Miss Everett when she came out of the hotel. It didn’t want to take any other fares.’

‘The taxi was waiting? Perhaps our killer is not choosing his victims at random, Stra-chan. He’s picking them deliberately.’ The Inspector took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled three perfectly round circles of smoke.

‘A clever trick, sir.’

‘The sign of a misspent youth, Stra-chan. It strikes me our killer or killers has us jumping through hoops, as you English say.’

‘I’m Scottish, sir.’

‘The Scots don’t say the same thing?’

‘Well, they do, sir, but…’

‘Stra-chan. I will never understand your petty English obsession with the minor regions of your country. In Minsk, we say “It’s not the horse that draws the cart but the oats.”’

‘That seems more appropriate, sir.’

‘Were you making a joke, Stra-chan?’

‘No, sir.’

Another long period of silence. Finally, Danilov stubbed his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. ‘We have at least four murders. A French magistrate. A Russian prostitute. An American androgyne and an English actress. There may be more, but these are the ones we know.’

‘All different nationalities, sir.’

‘But that’s to be expected, isn’t it? After all, Shanghai has always been a magnet for people from all over the world. No, what’s more important is not their nationality, it’s what links them. What do they have in common?’

‘Well, sir, I think…’

‘That was a rhetorical question, Stra-chan, I was thinking out loud.’

‘I’ll keep quiet, sir.’

‘That would be a good idea, for the moment.’ Danilov rolled another cigarette, filling it with just a few strands of tobacco from the tin. It flared as he lit the end and took the first lungful of smoke. ‘This requires the thoughtfulness of tobacco.’ He stared at the glowing end of the cigarette. ‘Have you ever thought, Stra-chan, that one of the unintended consequences of man’s obsession with burning a toxic weed, is his ability to think over a problem?’

Strachan shook his head, careful not to speak.

‘I wonder if the man who discovered tobacco realised this effect. The Indians did and that’s why they smoked it in the first place.’