Kazuo Ishiguro (26 page)

‘But look here, old fellow, this is hardly a matter for my office. If you wish, I’ll get the police commissioner over to see you. Mind you, even then, you see, I’m not at all sure you’ll get anywhere useful. It’s not they who have the Yellow Snake…’

‘I fully appreciate it’s the Chinese government who are keeping the Yellow Snake under their protection. That is why I have come to you and not to the police. I’m aware that in a matter of this magnitude, the police are an irrelevance.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, old chap. But you must understand, this isn’t a British colony. We can’t go ordering the Chinese about. But I’ll talk to someone in the appropriate office. Don’t bet on anything happening too quickly though. Chiang Kaishek’s had informers before, but never one with quite such extensive knowledge of the Reds’ network. Chiang would lose a good few battles with the Japs before allowing anything to happen to this Yellow Snake chap. As far as Chiang is concerned, you see, the real enemy’s not the Japs but the Reds.’

I gave a loud sigh. ‘Mr Mac Donald, I do not care about Chiang Kaishek or his priorities. Just now, I have a case to solve, and I would like you to do whatever you can to secure an interview for me with this informer. I am putting it to you personally, and if all my efforts come to nothing because this simple request is not granted, I shan’t hesitate to let it be known that it was you I came to…’

‘Now really, old fellow, please! There’s no need to take this sort of line! No need at all! We’re all friends here. We all wish you to succeed. Take my word for it, we really do. Look here, I’ve said I’ll do all I can. I’ll talk to a few people, you know, people in that line of work. I’ll talk to them, tell them how strongly you feel. But you have to understand, there’s only so much we can do with the Chinese.’ Then he leant forward and said confidingly: ‘You know, you might try the French. They have a lot of little understandings with Chiang. You know, of the off-the-record sort. The kind of thing we wouldn’t touch. That’s the French for you.’

Perhaps there is something in Mac Donald’s suggestion. Perhaps I might indeed get some useful help from the French authorities. But frankly, since this morning, I have not given this option much thought. It is clear to me that Mac Donald, for reasons which as yet remain unclear, is prevaricating, and that once he has recognised the overwhelming importance of granting my request, he will do whatever is necessary. Unfortunately, it is probable I handled this morning’s meeting so incompetently I will have to tackle him one further time. It is not a prospect to which I particularly look forward, but at least the next time my approach will be different, and he will not find it so easy to send me away empty-handed.

Cathay Hotel, Shanghai,

20th October 1937

I knew we were somewhere in the French Concession, not far from the harbour, but otherwise I had lost my bearings. The chauffeur had for some time been steering us through tiny alleys quite unsuitable for a car, sounding his horn repeatedly to get pedestrians out of our way, and I had begun to feel ridiculous, like a man who has brought a horse into a house. But eventually the car stopped, and the driver, opening my door, pointed out the entrance to the Inn of Morning Happiness.

I was led inside by a thin Chinese man with one eye. What comes back to me today is an overall impression of low ceilings, dark damp wood and the usual smell of sewage. But the establishment seemed clean enough; at one point we stepped around three old women on their knees, diligently scrubbing the floorboards. Somewhere near the rear of the building, we came to a corridor with a long row of doors. I was reminded of stables, or even a prison, but these cubicles, it turned out, contained the inn’s guests. The one-eyed man knocked on one of the doors, then opened it before any reply had been given.

I stepped into a small narrow space. There was no window, but the partitions did not go right up to the ceiling - the last foot or so being wire mesh - thus allowing light and air to circulate.

For all that, the cubicle was stuffy and dark, and even when the afternoon sun broke brightly outside, it resulted only in the mesh throwing odd patterns over the floor. The figure lying on the bed appeared to be asleep, but then moved his legs when I took up a position in the gap between the bed and the wall. The one-eyed man mumbled something and vanished, the door closing behind him.

Former Inspector Kung looked to be little more than bones.

The skin on his face and neck was shrivelled and spotted; his mouth hung open slackly; a bare, stick-like leg was protruding from the coarse blanket, though on his top half I saw he had on a surprisingly white undershirt. He did not at first make any attempt to sit up, and appeared only vaguely to register my presence. And yet he did not seem directly under the sway of opium or alcohol, and eventually, as I continued to state who I was and my purpose in coming to see him, he became more coherent, and began to show signs of courtesy.

‘I’m sorry, sir’ - his English, when it came, was fluent enough - ‘I have no tea.’ He began to mumble something in Mandarin, shuffling his legs about beneath his blanket. Then he appeared to remember himself again and said: ‘Please forgive me. I’m not well. But soon, I will recover my good health.’

‘I sincerely hope so.’ I said. ‘After all, you were one of the finest detectives ever to serve in the SMP.’

‘Really? How kind of you to say so, sir. Yes, perhaps I was a good officer once.’ With a sudden effort, he raised himself, and placed his bare feet gingerly down on to the floor. Perhaps out of modesty, perhaps because he was cold, he kept his blanket gathered around his middle. ‘But in the end,’ he went on, ‘this city defeats you. Every man betrays his friend. You trust someone, and he turns out to be in the pay of a gangster. The government are gangsters too. How is a detective to do his duty in a place like this? I might have a cigarette for you. Would you care for a cigarette?’

‘No, thank you. Sir, let me just say this. When I was a boy, I followed your exploits with great admiration.’

‘When you were a boy?’

‘Yes, sir. The boy next door and I’ I gave a little laugh - ‘we used to play at being you. You were… you were our hero.’

‘Is that so?’ The old man shook his head and smiled. ‘Is that so indeed. Well then, I am all the more sorry I cannot offer you anything.

No tea. No cigarette.’

‘Actually, sir, you may be able to offer me something much more important. I came to you today because I believe you may be able to provide a vital clue. In the spring of 1915, there was a case you investigated, a shooting incident in a restaurant called Wu Cheng Lou in Foochow Road. Three people died and several more were injured. You arrested the two men responsible.

In the police records, the matter is referred to as the Wu Cheng Lou Shooting Incident. It’s many years ago now, I realise, but Inspector Kung, I wonder if you remember this case?’

Behind me, from perhaps two or three rooms away, there came the sound of frantic coughing. Inspector Kung remained deep in thought, then said: ‘I remember the Wu Cheng Lou case very well. It was one of my more satisfying moments. I sometimes think about that case, even these days, lying here in this bed.’

‘Then perhaps you’ll remember that you interrogated a suspect whom you subsequently established was unconnected with the shooting. According to the records, the man’s name was Chiang Wei. You interrogated him concerning the Wu Cheng Lou, but he instead made some other quite unrelated confessions.’

Though his body remained a sagging sack of bones, the old detective’s eyes were now full of life. ‘That’s correct,’ he said.

‘He had nothing to do with the shooting. But he was afraid and he began to talk. He confessed everything. He confessed, I remember, to having been a member of a kidnapping gang some years earlier.’

‘Excellent, sir! That’s just as it’s recorded in the files. Now, Inspector Kung, this is very important. This man gave you some addresses. Addresses of houses the gang had used to hold their captives.’

Inspector Kung had been gazing at the flies buzzing around the wire mesh near the ceiling, but now his eyes turned slowly to where I was standing. ‘That is so,’ he said quietly. ‘But Mr Banks, we had all those houses checked thoroughly. The kidnappings he talked of were years in the past. We found nothing suspicious in those houses.’

‘I know, Inspector Kung, you would have done everything duty required of you most thoroughly. But of course, you were investigating the shooting. It would be perfectly natural if you didn’t expend your energy on such a side issue. What I’m suggesting is that if powerful people had gone to some lengths to prevent you searching one of those houses, you would perhaps not have persisted.’

The old detective was deep in thought again. He said finally: ‘There was one house. I remember now. My men brought me reports. All the other houses, seven of them, I received reports.

I remember it troubled me at the time. One last house, no report. My men were being prevented in some way. Yes, I remember wondering about it. A detective’s nose. You will know what I mean, sir.’

‘And that remaining house. You never did see a report on it.’

‘Correct, sir. But as you say, it was not a great priority. You understand, the Wu Cheng Lou was a large matter. It had caused much outrage. The hunt for the killers had gone on for weeks.’

‘And I believe it had defeated two of your more senior colleagues.’

Inspector Kung smiled. ‘As I have said, it was a most satisfying moment in my career. I came on to the case when others had failed. The city was talking of nothing else. I was able after a few days to apprehend the killers.’

‘I read the records. I was filled with admiration.’

But now the old man was staring at me intently. Eventually he said slowly: ‘That house. The house my men failed to go to.

That house. You are saying…?’

‘Yes. It’s my belief that is where my parents are being held.’

‘I see.’ He fell silent for a time, digesting this colossal idea.

“There’s no question of negligence on your part,’ I said. ‘Let me say again, I read the reports with great admiration. Your men didn’t get to the house because they were obstructed by persons in the higher echelons of the police force. People we now know were in the pay of criminal organisations.’

The coughing had started up again. Inspector Kung remained silent for a moment longer, then looked up at me again and said slowly: ‘You’ve come to ask me. You’ve come to ask if I can help you find this house.’

‘Unfortunately, the archives are in chaos. It’s a disgrace how things have been run in this city. Papers have been misfiled, others lost altogether. In the end, I decided I’d do better if I came here to you. To ask you, unlikely though it is, if you remember. Something, anything about that house.’

‘That house. Let me try to remember.’ The old man closed his eyes in concentration, but then after a time, he shook his head.

“The Wu Cheng Lou shooting. It is over twenty years ago. I am sorry. I can remember nothing about this house.’

‘Please try and remember something, sir. Do you recall even which district it was in? Whether for instance it was in the International Settlement?’

He thought for another moment, then shook his head again.

‘It is a long time ago. And my head, it doesn’t work in a normal way. Sometimes I remember nothing, not even of the day before. But I shall try and remember. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the next day, I shall wake up and remember something.

Mr Banks, I am so sorry. But just now, no, I remember nothing.’

It was evening by the time I returned to the International Settlement.

I believe I spent an hour or so in my room, going through my notes once again, trying to put behind me the disappointment of my meeting with the old inspector. I did not go down to supper until after eight, when I took my usual corner table in that splendid dining room. I remember I did not have much of an appetite that evening, and was about to abandon my main course and return to my work when the waiter brought in Sarah’s note.

I have it here now. It is no more than a scribble on unlined paper, the upper edge torn off. It is doubtful whether she gave the words much thought; it simply asks me to meet her at once on the half-landing between the third and fourth floors of the hotel. Looking at it again now, its connection with that small incident at Mr Tony Keswick’s house a week previously seems all too obvious; that is to say, Sarah probably would not have written the note at all had it not been for what took place between us then. Oddly enough, though, when the waiter first presented it to me, I failed to make any such association, and I sat there for some moments, quite mystified as to why she should summon me in such a way.

I should say here that by this point I had run into her a further three times since the night at Lucky Chance House. On two of these occasions, we had seen each other only fleetingly in the presence of others, and little had passed between us. On the third occasion too - the night of the dinner at the home of Mr Keswick, the chairman of Jardine Matheson I suppose we were again in a public place, and exchanged barely a word; yet, with hindsight, our encounter there could well be viewed as some sort of important turning point.

I had turned up a little late that evening, and by the time I was shown into Mr Keswick’s vast conservatory, upwards of sixty guests were already taking their places at the several tables situated among the foliage and trailing vines. I spotted Sarah on the far side of the room - Sir Cecil was not present but I could see she too was searching for her seat, and so made no attempt to approach her.

It appears to be a Shanghai custom at such events for guests, as soon as dessert has been served - even before they have had time properly to eat it - to abandon the original seating plan and mingle freely. No doubt then, it was in my mind that once this point came along, I might go over and exchange a few words with Sarah. However, when dessert finally appeared, I was unable to get away from the woman seated beside me, who wished to explain in some detail the political position in Indo-China. Then no sooner had I extricated myself from her than our host stood up to announce that the time had come for ‘the turns’. He proceeded to introduce the first performer - a willowy lady who, emerging from a table behind me, went to the front and began to recite an amusing poem, evidently composed by herself.