Authors: M J Lee
Death In Shanghai (33 page)
Strachan had rung the Inspector’s home from three different places. Each time, there had been no answer.
He tried to remember what Danilov had said to him. Something about ‘feeding the wolf’. He thought at the time it was another one of his Russian sayings. But he now wondered if it was a bit more obvious, more direct. Had Danilov gone to find the killer himself?
Strachan looked at the paper from the fingerprint lab again. The name couldn’t be right, could it? The thought was outlandish. A man who had risen so high was the killer?
He was close to the station now. He folded the paper from the fingerprint lab carefully and put it in his inside pocket.
What should he do? Danilov had vanished. Perhaps he should let Meaker know? But Meaker was hell-bent on arresting the boatman. He wouldn’t be interested.
How about Chief Inspector Boyle?
He imagined Boyle’s reaction. ‘You must be mistaken, Strachan. Check it again, boy. Who do you think you are? Making such outrageous accusations against a senior member of Shanghai society.’ His father had warned him all about the establishment and how it stuck together to protect its own.
He waved at Sergeant Wolfe as he walked through the foyer. Got to behave like nothing happened. Just another day on the job. He had to avoid Meaker though. He didn’t want to get involved with his arrest of the boatman.
He peered through the glass door of the detectives’ office to make sure neither Meaker nor Cartwright were hanging around.
Miss Cavendish would know how to get hold of Danilov. She knew everything in Central Police Station. She even knew his mother’s name. If there was one person who would know where Danilov had gone to, it would be her.
Unless, of course, he had gone to confront the killer. A shudder went down Strachan’s spine at the thought.
She was behind her desk as usual, sucking on the Parma Violets that she loved so much. Their floral scent surrounded her like a bouquet of flowers. As he approached her desk, she put her fingers to her lips and pointed to Boyle’s door. ‘They’re both in there,’ she whispered.
‘Who?’
‘Chief Inspector Boyle and Inspector Meaker. Planning the arrest of the boatman. Mum’s the word. I didn’t tell you.’
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of Inspector Danilov, do you know where he is?’
‘He rang me earlier today and asked me to give you this message. You are to go to 76, Nansoochow Road as soon as you can.’
‘Where’s that?’ He leant over and took the address from her.
‘It’s the Rowing Club, Detective Strachan. I had a wonderfully elegant evening there back in ’07, dancing in the open air in front of the creek. The lights were so beautiful and the music…’ Miss Cavendish trailed off, lost in her memories of young beaux and Strauss waltzes.
Strachan snatched his hat off her table. ‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish, you’ve been a great help.’
‘But it will be closed now, nobody uses it any more,’ said Miss Cavendish to the closing door.
It opened again a second later, and Strachan rushed back in. ‘Can you get the Mobile Unit to go to the address? I think we’ll need them.’
‘Of course, I’ll use Chief Inspector Boyle’s name. They’ll jump if they think the request is from him.’
But again, she was talking to empty space. Strachan had already gone.
***
‘So you think you know who I am, Danilov?’
‘How many people have you tried in your courts, Mr Allen?’ Danilov stared straight into the green eyes behind the mask.
The pen stopped scribbling across the page. In the cell, time stood still for a moment.
‘You were always too clever, Danilov, that was another of your failings. Cleverness is all right as long as it’s hidden. We British have been taught that in our public schools for years. The tall poppy gets its head chopped off. Better to hide away in the middle of everything, hiding behind a veneer of banality, of cigars and chums, of small talk and even smaller ideas.’
‘You were different?’
‘I’ve always been different. But I’ve always known how to play the game. To hide behind a mask.’ Allen reached up and slowly removed the face of Yama. ‘It’s always so hot in this bloody thing, but people do like a bit of theatre even when they’re facing death. How did you know it was me, Danilov?’
‘One of your victims told me.’
‘One of my victims? But they were all dead.’
‘Not all of them. Maria Stepanova was still alive when you put her in the barrel of pig’s blood.’
‘The scratches on the inside of the lid?’
Danilov nodded his head.
‘I should have arranged your trial earlier, Danilov. I underestimated you.’ Allen loosened his black jacket to reveal a green, white and red tattoo etched into his chest. The face of Judge Yama in all his glory.
Danilov stared at the tattoo. Allen had kept many things hidden beneath his veneer of civilisation. ‘At first I was confused, there were so many different things going on. Chinese characters, rope bindings, blue eyes. But it was the extremely personal nature of the killings that first struck me. The killer was always up close at the moment of death, enjoying the process of the extinction of life. These deaths meant something to him.’
‘Yes, they did.’
‘What they meant was confirmed by Mr Chang. You took the persona of Yama to judge people.’
‘Not a persona, Danilov. I am Yama.’
‘Becoming Yama gave the killings meaning. But what exactly did they mean, that’s what I asked myself? What were the patterns in your crimes?’
‘I didn’t commit any crimes. I made judgements.’
Danilov carried on regardless. ‘Two witnesses at least gave me a sketch of your identity.’
‘That I was tall and European? That could fit 90% of the men in the Settlement.’
‘True, but how did the killer choose his victims? He obviously knew a lot about them. He had to be able to get the information from somewhere. It became obvious to me only someone in the police, judiciary or high up in government, would have access to this information. Victorov’s story led me to suspect Councillor Ayres for a while but it couldn’t have been him, no opportunity to kill the preacher and display his body.’
‘You met our Russian blackmailer? You have been a busy soul. Councillor Ayres was a silly man about that Russian whore. He told me about it and asked me to sort it out.’
‘Did he expect you to kill her?’
‘No, just pay her off. And make sure she stayed paid off. You know he rang me after your visit to his office? Stupid man. I told him Victorov killed her for the blackmail money.’
‘He believed you?’
‘He wanted to believe me.’
‘I thought so. But, in the end, it was two mistakes that gave you away.’
‘Mistakes?’
‘The first was putting the prostitute into the barrel whilst she was still alive.’
‘And the second?’
‘It was your smell.’
‘You’re lying, Danilov. How can a smell give anyone away?’
‘Your smell. The boatman reported it to me. It was your trademark. The scent of Parma Violets that you used to cover your breath. At first, I thought it was a strong cologne that the killer was wearing but Miss Cavendish showed me the truth.’
‘Miss Cavendish?’
‘You gave her some of your French sweets. Your Parma Violets. A distinctive aroma when they are chewed. The fisherman recognised the smell. And you left a packet in the taxi which you used to kidnap Elsie Everett.’
‘You have been diligent, Danilov. But it’s all circumstantial. You can’t prove anything. And, as you may have noticed, you are in my courtroom now.’
‘You worked in Washington before Shanghai, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, hated it and hated Americans. Far too direct for me.’
‘You killed there?’
‘She deserved it. Selfish, rotten, corrupt woman.’
‘Did you know a private detective followed you here?’
‘Anderson? A waste of oxygen. It was easy to keep him in girls and drink.’
‘I sent a telegram to the Embassy in Washington yesterday.’
‘You have been a busy little Russian, haven’t you?’
‘The only thing I don’t understand is how you chose your victims?’
‘They weren’t victims. They chose themselves. Being in Intelligence has its advantages. Reports crossed my desk all the time. But nothing was ever done. These people were committing crimes and getting away with them.’
‘Crimes? What had Henry Sellars done wrong? And Elsie Everett was just an actress and not a very good one.’
‘Henry Sellars stole from a church collection box. You should have seen how proud she was the night she died. Stepping out for the first time on the streets of Shanghai in her blue dress, leaning on my arm. Unfortunately for her, it was also her last time. As for Elsie Everett, she was the worst. I received a request from Scotland Yard to detain her. She had murdered one of her rivals. This actress had actually won the part in Shanghai not Elsie, so she was removed. Pushed in front of a subway train, if my memory serves me right. I thought I would save them the trouble, and the expense, of repatriating her. She appeared all sweet and innocent, did Elsie, but beneath the act was a tough bitch. She died well, though. Surprised me with her strength.’
‘And the preacher?’
‘For many years, he made the lives of young boys, including Henry Sellars, unbearable. He deserved to die.’
‘And me?’ Danilov stared Allen in the face. ‘I made a mistake. Work had engulfed my life, I had lost track of what was important.’
Allen held his hand up. ‘You are guilty of deserting your family and you live your guilt every day. You know you do.’
Danilov remained quiet.
Allen checked his watch. ‘The court session has ended, Danilov. I hope you enjoy your knowledge in the underworld. I’m sure it will be useful there. The jury has examined the evidence and found you guilty.’
Li Min scribbled in his book, ending his sentence with a lavish full stop.
‘The sentence of this judge is that you will be taken to your place of execution where your eyes will be gouged out. That being the punishment suffered by all those who desert their families.’
‘I was only doing my job,’ said Danilov.
‘And I am only doing mine.’
Allen looked at his watch again. ‘It’s four o’clock now, let’s carry out the execution in an hour. We can enjoy a pot of tea first. A trial always makes me thirsty. All the talking you know. Meanwhile, Inspector, enjoy your last hours on Earth. I’m afraid we don’t go in for any of that “last meal for the condemned man” rubbish in my courts. Experience has taught us death is usually less messy on an empty stomach. We’ll see you at five.’
Li Min rolled his manuscript up like a scroll and opened the door, flooding the cell with light.
Danilov took the chance to take a good look around him. The cell was about twenty feet square with black painted walls and no windows. The light source was a small hurricane lamp, set against the wall behind him.
For the first time, his head sunk to his chest. There seemed to be no way out of this cell.
He didn’t know how long he sat with his head on his chest, slumped forward in his prison of a chair. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Blood flowed from the cuts in his wrist and ran down his fingers. He could feel its sticky embrace covering his hands.
He lifted his head and summoned one last burst of effort, straining his arms against the ropes, feeling them bite into the wounds already there. He rocked back and forth, twisting his body from side to side, the ropes biting deeper into his wrists. There was some movement now. They didn’t grip his wrists as tightly as before.
He redoubled his efforts, ignoring the shafts of pain searing through his arms. The ropes give a little more. His arms and wrists could twist now, separate from the ropes, their grip no longer holding him like a vice. One last effort. The sweat ran down into his eyes. He wanted to wipe it away, to rid himself of its salty sting.
He jerked at the ropes, twisting his forearm to create space. He pivoted his elbow against the arm of the chair, gaining a little leverage at the expense of a vast amount of pain. Gritting his teeth, he forced his arms to revolt against the bite of the ropes.
One rope began to come loose. He could feel the skin of his right arm sliding through it. He twisted his arm harder now, forcing the rope to stretch, desperate to work it free.
‘You’ll never escape. Nobody ever does.’
The voice came from above and to his left. Danilov froze like a child caught doing something wrong. Slowly, he searched the wall with his eyes, not moving his body.
‘Li Min was a sailor in a previous life. Knows how to tie somebody up properly.’
Danilov searched for the source of the voice. His eyes scanned the black wall, looking for movement or a patch of light that would give away its position.
‘I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you. You have so little of it left.’
There it was, in the far left-hand corner, a slightly paler shade of black. If he squinted, he could just make out two faint crescents of white, almost like paint splashes, which were the whites of Allen’s eyes. Faint glimmers of white in a death-black wall.
‘I see you’ve found my little observation post. Just like the trenches. The Germans eventually found us too, sitting out there all alone in no man’s land. The others used to hate being a spotter. I loved it. Hiding in full sight. Story of my life. I started in the Staff, of course. Now, they were real criminals, sending men to their deaths like pigs to the butcher. I found my calling as a spotter though. All alone, with nothing but the mud and the rats for company. And the corpses. One mustn’t forget the corpses.’
The voice was stronger now, more obviously that of Allen, less concerned with concealment.
‘I think I began to discover who I was during the war. I began to see the evil men do to each other. I was like a larva with only a sense of what it was. It took the violence of war for the larva to pupate, to find a sense of meaning. It took Shanghai, and ten years of sorrow, to bring the larva to full awareness of what it was to do with its life.’
‘The war was a long time ago.’
‘Perhaps for you. For me, it was just yesterday.’
