The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory (11 page)

“I do, Shen Lai, he’s too artistic for you and yours. But I want him and I want your friends to use all of their considerable power to find him for me. Because if they don’t I’ll close down this customs house, the one on the Bund, and the new one in the Pudong. Then I’ll file so many legal documents that even with the best of lawyers it’ll take months to get them reopened. Do I make myself clear?”

Fish Face nodded. His cheeks wagged. His little mouth blew a tiny smoke ring. “Perfectly clear.”

It was two o’clock before Fong got back in his car and headed toward his Yellow River. He had been in touch with Wang Jun, who had warned him that some pretty heavy artillery awaited his arrival at the office. Fong thanked the older man and set him to work on the newspaper angle. The coroner and Lily were still waiting for word on the lung shards, but both now thought them likely to be slivers of ivory and there had been no word yet from Detective Li Xiao, who was checking into the martial arts schools. One message that he’d managed to get from Shrug and Knock was that the American consulate had called to inform him that Richard Fallon’s wife, Amanda Pitman, was arriving today in Shanghai and that he should make himself available. She was staying in the French Concession at the improbably named Shanghai International Equatorial Hotel across from Jing An Park, only a few blocks from the theatre academy. Fong called the consulate and left a message indicating his willingness to meet with Mrs. Fallon. He then gave them dozens of police phone numbers that she could call to find him. None of the numbers were his. Fong could live quite well without the intrusion into his life of a grieving widow from America.

Well, his Hu-ness was something to be seen.

Fu Tsong had laughed so hard that tears came to her eyes when she first heard the English term “high dudgeon”—which initially Fong had thought was a basement prison somehow up in the air. Now, looking at his Huness, Fong was sure that he was in fact in high dudgeon. He wondered momentarily what Geoffrey Hyland would call this emotion. Then he wondered why Geoffrey Hyland had entered his mind at a time like this. Then he decided he’d better try to follow what was being screamed at him. Within the general tirade concerning Fong’s incompetence, insubordination, lack of administrative skill, and refusal to be part of a team there was a consistent leitmotif: Just find the killer. Don’t get diverted. Just find the killer. Don’t become a conspiracy monger. Just find the killer. And finally what the fuck was he doing in the customs house this morning? Just find the killer.

Then more high dudgeonness, a demand for a complete report followed by a turn on his heel and exit with Shrug and Knock in tow. If his Hu-ness were a cartoon, and who was to say that he wasn’t, such an exit would be accompanied by a puff of dirt at his heels.

After a moment his office door opened and Wang Jun entered.

“You still my boss?”

“I think so. It’s hard to be sure with him.”

“Lots of words, little substance, huh?”

Fong didn’t respond. It occurred to him that there was in fact great substance, but exactly where the substance lay was escaping him. He had Wang Jun call in Lily, and the rest of the team.

Arriving at Shanghai International Airport is not as scary for an American as landing at Sheremetyevo in Moscow, but it’s close. It’s hard for Americans to overcome their programming and really see what is in front of them. Amanda did her best but she found the bustle and the foreign faces more daunting than she was willing to admit. When offered assistance with her carry-on bag by a young Chinese man, she instinctively refused. At the immigration counter she handed in her form, complete with a “no” answer to the “Do you have AIDS” question. The bluntness of the question galled her. At the counter she waited while the young man—“boy” was the word that popped into her head—put her passport under a light. He looked at the picture, then looked at her, and then down to the picture and at her again. It seemed to her that he was following a set procedure. The catch-a-foreign-devil procedure, no doubt. It also occurred to her that he was probably unable to differentiate Caucasian faces. Be that as it may, she smiled. He didn’t, but he handed back her passport and she proceeded to baggage claim.

After a reasonable wait, her bag arrived and she headed into the arrivals lounge. There before her was her first sea of Chinese faces. She took a breath, told herself that she could do this, and stepped forward. Immediately dozens of pencilled cardboard signs were held up and waved in her direction. Although she didn’t expect to be picked up she was grateful to see a MRS. RICHARD FALLON in the hands of a young man who took the cigarette out of his mouth to say “Huh-low” and then returned it to his face. He made no movement to take her bag. She followed him out of the terminal into the brightness of Shanghai’s late April sun.

The man didn’t speak much English and didn’t have a car of his own but signalled for a taxi. After what Amanda thought sounded like a pitched battle between him and the driver, he opened the door for her, put her bag in the trunk, and then hopped in the back beside her.

As the taxi started (“took off” was Amanda’s impression), he turned to her and said, “Well-come to China.”

She thanked him but when she followed her thanks with a question as to whether they were going to her hotel or the consulate, the man just smiled and made a “sorry, no more English” shoulder movement. For a moment Amanda was going to make a scene but she stopped herself. A scene about what? She hadn’t expected to be picked up.

The cab swerved and bobbed in and out of traffic as they made their way downtown. The racket was something to hear, the smog something to smell, but it was the look of it all that most impressed Amanda. Huge hand-painted billboards lined the road on both sides. Behind them massive construction projects were under way, cranes turning like weathervanes in the afternoon wind. And bicycles, and people—so many people!

Not greatly to her surprise, the cab came to a stop outside a building with a U.S. federal seal on its outer wall and a line of Chinese people at the entrance waiting to apply for visas that would never be granted. Her escort led her to a back entrance. A marine in full parade dress uniform guarded the door. Amanda eyed the marine coolly. Military types—all spit and polish but not much real style. And forget content.

Inside the consulate, her young escort guided her to a closed door, pointed at it, and with a wave of his hand left her.

The door led to a walnut-panelled waiting room. And Amanda waited. For almost half an hour, during which time she was sure that she dozed off at least once. Finally a youngish Yale type came in with a flutter of papers and apologies. “So sorry that the consul general had to keep you waiting, how was the flight, isn’t thirteen hours the worst? Sorry we couldn’t send one of our better people out to get you but it’s a busy time, lots and lots of business here, blah, blah, blah.” She ignored him; if forced to choose she’d take the marine any day.

The consul general stood as she entered despite the fact that he was on the phone. He didn’t ask her to sit down and she finally thought “fuck it” and sank down on the leather couch. The consul general was trying to arrange a meeting with a General Electric someone or other and a Shanghai official or something like that. Amanda really couldn’t care less. What she cared about at this moment was trying to get some sleep. She felt herself begin to doze off again just as the consul general came around his desk and, extending his hand, began with, “Please accept my sincerest condolences, Mrs. Fallon.”

“Thank you. But I think I’d like to go to my hotel first if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I thought they’d brought you there already.”

“No, the man brought me here.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll get you taken to the hotel.” He phoned someone and turned to her.

“Perhaps I should see Richard first,” she said.

Before that moment Amanda Pitman didn’t really know what the phrase “His face fell” really meant. But that’s what the consul general’s puffy face did. It fell. He recovered in a moment and smiled. “How much did they tell you about your husband’s death, Mrs. Fallon?”

“Only that he’d been murdered. And that they haven’t found the killer yet.”

“Well, that’s correct on both points, but I would suggest that you go to your hotel and get some rest and I’ll arrange for a driver to pick you up tomorrow morning. There’s not really any hurry, is there?”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. For some reason they made Amanda smile.

They also let her know that there was something here that she hadn’t been told.

At 8:15 A.M. the next morning the consulate car arrived at her hotel. A young man hopped out and opened the door for her. As he climbed in he said, “Mrs. Fallon, I’d like to offer my deepest condolences.”

She was already tired of hearing that. She nodded.

“The consul general also regrets that he’ll be unable to meet with you today.”

Anger rose up in her throat but she choked it down. “All I want to do is arrange for my husband’s remains to be returned to the United States.”

“That’s already been looked after.”

“Excuse me?”

“As soon as the Shanghai coroner’s office is finished with its work, Mr. Fallon’s remains will be put on the first flight back to New Orleans.”

“Is his body at the coroner’s office?”

“Yes, as I said—”

“Then let’s go there first.”

Evidently flustered by this suggestion, but unable to find a reason why they shouldn’t go there first, he barked directions to the driver in Chinese. Then he picked up a cellular phone and, with an “Excuse me,” dialled a number. He spoke in fluent Chinese. Amanda watched him closely.

Something was wrong with all this.

“Who are you calling?”

“I’m leaving a message with the consul’s secretary.”

It was only later that it struck her as strange that he was speaking Chinese.

At the coroner’s office they were met with resistance. All the talk was in Chinese, but it seemed that the coroner was not in the office and that no one had the authorization to allow anyone into the morgue.

“Tell them I’m the dead man’s wife,” she said to the man from the consulate.

He translated and immediately the Chinese words took on a solemn tone. Amanda was sure that if she had listened closely she would have heard the Chinese word for condolences several times. Finally the American turned to her and explained that without the coroner present, no one was willing to take the responsibility for letting her in. Then he made some crack about Reds not being able to pick their noses, begging your pardon, ma’am, without a written authorization.

So more quickly than she expected she was back in the car with the man from the consulate. As they pulled away from the morgue Amanda caught a glimpse of a tall building two blocks over that she could have sworn was the Hilton. But that couldn’t be, because her hotel was beside the Hilton and the car ride to the morgue had taken almost forty-five minutes.

Out of the side of her eyes she looked at the American.

He didn’t seem in any hurry. In fact he looked as if he was trying very hard to kill as much time as he could.

As they drove she asked, “Where to now?”

“I can take you to a funeral parlor. You can pick a casket or arrange for cremation. We’ve arranged transport for your husband’s remains but the actual funeral details we’ve left to you.”

“I’m not concerned about that now. How did my husband die?”

“I’m sorry to say he was murdered.”

“I’m aware of that. I’ve been told that several times. How? How was he murdered?” Like the need to see your mate’s new lover and ask for details, she was desperate for specifics.

“I really don’t know, Mrs. Fallon,” said the consular officer, as if he’d been asked something not discussed in polite society.

“Bring me to my hotel, then.”

In a remarkably short time, she found herself disembarking from the consulate car. Once outside she asked, “Can I see the consul general tomorrow?”

“We’ll do our best. He’s booked tight for a week, but call the consulate first thing in the morning and ask for me and I’ll see if he can squeeze you in.”

“Can you arrange for me to see the body tomorrow?”

“Of course, if the coroner is there.”

Amanda looked at him and thought that he was joking with her. But upon a closer look it became clear that there was no joke here. Just a bland face that said nothing and implied that you could not get it to say anything that it didn’t want to say. As he turned to the driver, about to give him new instructions, Amanda pulled open the door of the car.

“Mrs. Fallon?”

“The Shanghai police are looking after the investigation. Right?”

“Actually Special Investigations, Shanghai District, is.”

“And who could I contact there?”

“The head of Special Investigations is a detective named Zhong Fong, but he is a very busy man, Mrs. Fallon.”

“I’m sure, all those business meetings he must be attending.” With that she less than gently shut the door and turned toward the hotel.

Getting the number for Special Investigations proved more difficult than she thought. Shanghai, unlike Moscow, does have phone books but they are of course in Chinese. They are also notoriously inaccurate. But, with the concierge’s help she finally got a number.

She returned to her room intent upon a bit of privacy while she made the call. It took her several tries before she got up the courage to complete the seven-digit number. Like calling a boy when you’re a teenager, she thought to herself. Finally she completed the call and was met with a Chinese “Wee” on the other end.

She said, “Zhong Fong please,” and waited.

On the other side she heard some talk in Chinese and finally another voice came on the phone with another “Wee.” It sounded French this time. Once again Amanda said, “Zhong Fong please.” She heard a general discussion on the other side. The discussion stopped abruptly. Amanda called into the phone, “Hello,” but there was no answer. Then the phone went dead.

For a moment she felt the unfairness of it all. She wondered what the fuck she was doing there. She wondered what to do next. She wondered if the Chinese breakfast she had eaten that morning was upsetting her stomach.

Later that day she got the concierge to make the call for her. He was told that Inspector Fong was not in at the moment. “Leave a message for him, will you. Tell him that Richard Fallon’s widow is in Shanghai and would like to speak to him.” The concierge did so and Amanda retreated to her room on the fourteenth floor. The maids had come in and done up her bed. She turned on the TV and got the CNN world service, which proceeded to tell her that if she lived in Hong Kong she could see Larry King Live at 11:00, in Kuala Lumpur ol’ Lar came on at 1:00 and in Pusan at 12:00. Amanda wondered briefly where Pusan was and then turned off the television.

She leafed through the hotel directory and found a health club listed on the fourth floor. She called down and learned that she could use the gym, pool, and weight room without an additional fee and also that there were swimsuits there if she wanted to use them.

The health club turned out to have some surprising features. A bowling alley for one. Young middle-classlooking Chinese couples were bowling just as if they were in Toledo, Ohio.

At the pool it looked as if it were “Bring Your Secretary Day.” Along with a number of young male executive-looking types who kept hopping out of the pool and using their cellulars were numerous secretaries, all in one piece swimsuits and incongruously floating inside red rubber rings. They were busily frog kicking—perhaps to keep down the cellulite on their thighs? That’s the only reason Amanda could come up with for their peculiar behavior. Periodically one or the other of the women would let out a scream as her pretty face slipped too near the water. Immediately her handsome boss would “rescue” her with more body contact than was strictly necessary considering that the pool was never deeper than five feet.

Amanda handed in her room key and was given a large white bathrobe, a purple towel and a locker key on a Velcro wristband. In the locker room, festooned with signs in English and Chinese proclaiming the hotel’s innocence should any of the patrons’ possessions disappear from the lockers, she removed her clothes and locked them away in her designated locker. Then, with the robe on, she headed for the sauna.

It was clean. It was hot. It took the tension out of her body. With her head leaning back against the sauna’s red-wood slatting, she reviewed her progress over the last few days. It occurred to her that having come all the way to Shanghai she might consider leaving her hotel and its westernness even if just for a short while. Then she thought of danger and how unfair it was. If she were a man. . . but then she remembered that Richard had been a man and the one thing that no one was denying was that he was very dead.

She reached into the wooden water bucket and sprinkled a few drops on the coals. They gave off a gratifying hiss and splutter. She rolled her robe into a ball, placed it at one end of the bench and stretched out. The heat of the wood felt good against the back of her legs. The scent of the redwood filled her nostrils. And the heat took her back. Back to a place where heat made the loving so special. “Be cool in the heat, baby,” he’d said. “Gotta be cool in the heat or we’ll slap and slosh and no one but the laundress will be pleased with the outcome.” That was only seven months after she’d married Richard. Seven months of frustration and feeling fat. Seven months of not writing or even really thinking. Just being Mrs. Richard Fallon. Then she’d met this real southerner who hated air conditioning but loved to “do the dance, Cher. Find the rhythm and do the dance.” And he was good in the heat. Bodies only touching where they had to. Standing. Leaning over. Mirrors to see. Hands to touch and grace. Joined but not on top or on bottom. A delicate balance in the heat. A blessed relief from the mistake of marrying Richard Fallon.

She’d been told that men changed once they got married but she really only believed that happened to other women. Women who couldn’t keep their men’s attention. And keeping men’s attention had never been a problem for Amanda. The problem was that the Richard she had married became a new Richard after they got married. He became obsessed with money. His interest in the wildlife issues of his work seemed simply to stop. The few friends from work whom she had really liked stopped coming around. When she would call them she clearly got the impression that they were happy enough talking to her but that they no longer cared to socialize with her husband. Richard seemed encased in an invisible shell. As if a deep solitude had descended upon him. Then the calls began to come in the middle of the night and then the business trips. And a secrecy that was not there before came between them, as easy to feel as a Canadian front blowing into New Orleans to relieve the humidity of summer. Their small house in the Garden District filled up with things she’d bought, but none were hers. She no longer really lived in the house in the Garden District with the man named Richard Fallon. For he was not the outgoing warm man that she had married. He was a silent man, a man alone.

The chatter of a Chinese woman entering the sauna, buck naked, with a cellular phone stuck to her ear, broke the spell of the heat and the smell of the redwood. Amanda sat up and headed toward the shower.

After her cold shower she dressed, got her key, and went back to her room. The message light was on. She called down to the desk and was told that an Inspector Fong had returned her call. They gave her a number to call and assured her that it would be answered by someone who spoke English.

She thanked them and dialled the number.

The phone was picked up on the first ring. “Forensicks, Lily talking.”

“I was given this number to call to get through to Inspector Fong.”

“Dui, right, you called here, good yes. Name please.”

“Mrs. Richard Fallon.”

For a moment Amanda thought she heard the words Dim Sum something or other said to someone standing near by, then Lily spoke into the phone. “Inspector Zhong not here now.”

“When there?” Amanda almost shouted into the phone, annoyed that she’d been reduced to speaking pidgin English.

“Inspector Zhong want to talk to you but not here.”

“Where Inspector Zhong?” Pidgin again!

“In theatre. Shanghai Theatre Academy on Hua Shan, 630.” Then the phone clicked off.

Fong looked at Lily. He wasn’t pleased.

“Lady sound desperate for seeing you, Zhong Fong.”

Then, in wonderful saucy Shanghanese, she added, “This lady in front of you is more than desperate, this lady waits in sweet anticipation for seeing you.”

Fong’s face didn’t break a smile.

Finally in English Lily said, “So I shitted up, don’t fuck on me.”

Fong was unable to top that so he shook his head and headed home. His only solace was the fact that few people, Chinese or otherwise, were clever enough to find the academy, let alone the theatre in the academy compound. And Richard Fallon’s widow didn’t sound all that bright.

Geoffrey Hyland was winning at a game that he had played since he was first paid to direct a play at the tender age of eighteen. He was guiding human material into art, using a play as a template but not a score. He didn’t direct the way a conductor conducts a symphony. He worked more like the lead player in a jazz ensemble. He set the theme, and made sure that everyone else knew the key signature and the tempo and then off they went: improvising freely from each other to create something that lived and breathed, had rough edges—was of life itself. All he demanded was good listening and real talking from his actors. He insisted that they play the “what game.” If someone, anyone on stage at any time, spoke a line to them that didn’t make sense, that they couldn’t believe or in any way seemed “actorly” they were to say “What?” At which point the partner had to redeliver the line, sometimes many times, until some real signal was passed. At first, the actors were reluctant to use this technique; to them it implied condemnation of a fellow actor’s work. But once Hao Yong, the brilliant young actress playing Viola, used it against Feste and then used it again and again to get the old charlatan to finally give her something real to playoff of. . . well, they were off to the races. And race was the right metaphor. An emotional race with which everyone onstage and Geoffrey in the auditorium had to keep up. It was early but already exciting.

Geoffrey’s Mandarin had improved greatly from the time eleven years ago when he first worked in Shanghai on
The Ecstasy of Rita Joe
, but he still worked with an interpreter at his side. Even in that first play, by the end of the second week he seldom needed his interpreter’s help. Geoffrey, like many stage directors, quickly memorized the script as the actors worked and hence knew where in the text the actors were at each moment. Although he could not exactly pinpoint which Mandarin word was which English word, he could always identify the emotional shifts required in the text and was able to see whether a shift was played by the actor or not. It was for this reason that the language was not a real barrier. If the States of Being were right, and that was something Geoffrey could see, and the actions played were right, then the image (that part of acting contained in the word) would basically look after itself. At least that was true in texts like Rita Joe where the language was not really of the essence. It was obviously less true of Shakespeare texts.