The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory (16 page)

Lunch at the Old Shanghai Restaurant upstairs in the Old City, around the corner from the famous YuYuan Gardens, was not all that Fong had expected. It seems that Ngalto Chomi had brought his freshly killed snake to the restaurant to have it cooked. He had done it several times before and the cooks knew him well. For a foreigner, especially a black foreigner, his memory was treated with surprising deference by the staff at the Old Shanghai. Wang Jun suggested that they should have brought a snake too, but Fong didn’t respond. Ms. Pitman’s silence had been ominous since the snake merchant had displayed his unique talent. Fong wondered how much whiter Amanda Pitman could get. He also wondered if all this was too much for her.

“Would you like me to get an officer to drive you back to your hotel?”

In her distracted state she had to ask him to repeat himself and he did. She declined his offer, but also declined all food at the restaurant. She smoked instead.

Chinese women smoked, but not in public. It would be wrong to say that both Wang Jun and Fong didn’t find it just a little bit titillating to be at a table with a tall blond white woman who was smoking cigarettes.

As the men finished eating their lunch Fong turned to Amanda. “You could help us by filling in some of your ex-husband’s background.”

Through the plume of her cigarette smoke, she said, “Shoot.”

“He was a police officer in New Orleans?”

“Not really.”

That surprised Fong. “His identity papers said that he worked for the New Orleans Police Department.”

“Where’s New Orleans?” Wang Jun asked in Shanghanese.

“Ohio, I think,” replied Fong in English.

“What’s Ohio?” said Amanda.

“Where New Orleans is,” said Fong.

“It’s in Louisiana, if that makes any difference.”

“Fine, Louisiana, but he wasn’t a police officer?”

“He technically worked for the New Orleans parish police department, but he was seconded from the federal fish and wildlife department,” said Amanda.

“And what did he do there?” queried Fong.

“He specialized in the prevention of the poaching of endangered species.” Fong quickly translated into Shanghanese and a bored Wang Jun perked up and took note.

“Ask her if he’d ever been to Africa,” said Wang Jun in Shanghanese.

“Later,” replied Fong, “after I find out if he was a cop on the take.”

“Anyone care to translate for me?” snapped Amanda.

“Wang Jun was just expressing his condolences for your loss.”

Amanda looked at Fong for a moment and then viciously spat out, “My husband was a much better liar than you, Inspector Zhong.” On Fong’s stunned look she rose from the table and, ignoring all the sidelong glances of the Chinese men, made her way to the ladies’ room.

Once she was gone, Wang Jun asked for a translation of the last few moments and got them. Then he turned to Fong and said, “We don’t need her for the rest of this. The next part is going to get pretty rough. Why do you want her here anyway? Get her a ride back to her hotel. You and I can complete this.”

But Fong wasn’t listening. He was watching the movement of people in the room. “You figure there’s a back way out in the kitchen?”

“There has to be by law.”

“Since when do restaurants listen to the law? If he did leave through the kitchen, the killer must have been waiting by the alley entrance. Someone might have noticed. Check if he left that way.”

Wang Jun had just entered the kitchen when Amanda returned. From the glint of moisture on her face, Fong could tell that she had splashed it with cold water.

“Feel better?”

“A little, thanks.”

“You don’t have to go through with this. The next two stops aren’t going to be pleasant, that I can guarantee you.”

She didn’t say anything. Then carefully Fong moved forward. “How much did the State Department tell you about your husband’s death?”

“Just that he’d been murdered and . . . and I wouldn’t be able to view the remains . . . and that, uh”—she was getting faint, he could tell from her pallor—“uh, that it wouldn’t be possible to have an open-casket funeral.” As if having said it relieved the pressure, some colour came back into her face.

Unable to resist her vulnerability, Fong chipped in, “Did you love your husband, Ms. Pitman?”

Her “no” came out so loudly that several other people around the restaurant turned to see who was speaking.

Then a chatter of explanation,
mao, boo she, boo dui.

“Mao
what?” said Wang Jun.

“Nothing, just a comment from Ms. Pitman.”

“Well it’s
mao
from the kitchen too. There’s no exit and besides, one of the waiters remembers Mr. Chomi going out the front.”

Getting up, Amanda asked, “Who’s paying?”

She didn’t offer up any cash but moved through the crowd toward the exit as the two men fished out some bills and tossed them to the waiter. Then Fong went ahead to catch up with Amanda while Wang Jun yelled for a receipt. On a monthly salary of under 600 yuan, called kwai by the locals, about $75 U.S., he was damned if he was going to pay 68 kwai for a meal that he didn’t enjoy.

• • •

The three headed along Fang Bang Road through the heart of the Old City. Amanda was stunned. Squat hovels fronted the road, seemingly jostling each other for a little light and air. Despite the sunshine it was murky here. And despite the murk and the smell and the dirt Amanda loved it. She breathed in the pungent odour and drank in the dense view. She clearly sensed the life here. Fong looked at the strange American with more than a bit of surprise. The black man had walked this way but even if he hadn’t Fong had determined that Amanda Pitman was one white tourist who wasn’t going to leave his city believing that Shanghai was nothing more than Nanjing Road and Huai Hai. Nothing more than the Bund and the YuYuan Garden. This was the real Shanghai. Not the English Concession down by the river or the French Concession farther south. This was what was laughingly called the Chinese Concession. A concession that allowed the Chinese to live on the only piece of ground in Shanghai that Europeans didn’t want. They were actually within a few blocks of the house in which Fong had been raised when Amanda turned to him and said, “It’s. . . alive, isn’t it.” For a moment he checked for sarcasm, but he knew there was none. This place. This sinkhole was like a deep stagnant pool. Never good to drink from, often bad to smell, but always teeming with life. There was no need here to figure out where the killer had watched from. There were few alleys here and when there were they didn’t go anywhere. So he must simply have followed, pushing his bicycle—pushing his bike until he got to the Fu Yu antique market.

Wang Jun and Fong stopped at the same time. How did he manage to follow Ngalto Chomi into the market? This narrow, extremely crowded place had side shoots and cul-de-sacs everywhere. More important, each side of the building was backed by an alley.

“Where did the driver wait?” demanded Fong. Wang Jun checked his notes and pointed left. With a heightened sense of urgency they moved south on Fang Bang and headed down the first alley. Halfway down Wang Jun stopped and tried to check a dirt-encrusted number sign. It was what he was looking for. “The driver waited here. Back there, around the bend”—he pointed down the alley—“is the rear exit of the place where Chomi was, and farther back is where they found him.” To Amanda’s surprise, Fong headed back up to the street.

Once there he squatted and using a stick, marked a path in the dust. “Chomi ate at the Old Shanghai Restaurant here, and walked down this way. He must have walked along Fang Bang and come to that intersection.” He pointed back to the entranceway of the Fu Yu market where they had been before they went into the alley.

“The driver said he always went through the Fu Yu market.”

“I know, but how does our killer know which way he’s going to go? There are alleys behind the houses. How does he cover that?”

“Two guys?”

“Couldn’t be. Not with this kind of thing. Wang Jun?”

“I agree. So—” Wang Jun began to walk back toward the entrance to Fu Yu—“so our guy leaves his bicycle here and races into the market to follow Chomi.”

“So what does he do with the bicycle? He figures out where Chomi is going but does he know how long he’ll stay? No. He may be going into a store or trying to change money or selling something. How would the killer know? So he sees him go into the place and races wildly around trying to find a back exit in the hope that Chomi doesn’t just turn around and come back out the way he went in. But lo and behold he comes across Chomi’s car and driver and he knows. So he crouches down and waits. Leaving his bicycle where it stood.”

“I like it. Let’s check out the house first and then follow up the bike.”

Fong conveyed all this to Amanda as they waded through the dense crowd of Fu Yu.

Wang Jun stopped in front of a vendor and pointed to the shallow alley behind him. “How do you want to play this?”

“By the book—we’re not vice. He wasn’t killed there, all I want is to see if there’s anyone who remembers Mr. Chomi.”

“Show them ID?”

“If they ask, but I don’t think they will. No doubt, we’re expected.”

“Could I be caught up?” asked Amanda.

“Of course. When you were in school did you do any drugs, Ms. Pitman?”

“This from a police officer?”

“Your president did drugs.”

“And your president swam the Yangtze.”

“He’s not our president now and no one, in China at least, believed he swam the Yangtze.”

“Yes, I did, as you put it, do some drugs.”

“Mr. Chomi did drugs too. Elaborate drugs. And he did them in a rather ancient establishment whose entrance is off this alley. We’re going in. Would you like to join us or are you going to stay outside?”

“I’ll join you.” Then as she followed them she timidly asked, “Heroin?”

“No, Ms. Pitman, this is China. Opium is the drug of choice here.”

It was all remarkably simple, Amanda thought. They entered a tiny doorway through which even Fong had to bend down and were greeted as if they had arrived a little late for a casual party. They were asked if they would like to leave their coats. All declined. Then they were asked if they would like some food with their opium. That too was declined. Some alcohol perhaps? No thanks. What about women? Wang Jun beat Fong to the punch with “That sounds like a good idea.” Fong flashed him a look. “Maybe next time, I’m trying to cut down,” said Wang Jun. They were led by another man back into the recesses of a long corridor with small rooms on either side. The smell of the burning tar was thick in the tight space. Several of the rooms were partially open. Many had no doors, the entrances strung simply with blankets or tattered curtains. As they passed the rooms, Amanda saw men in various states of recline. Some had the pipe held, others were being fed, one with two young half-clad women at his side. The whole place seemed in slow motion. Time alteration was the most immediate effect of the drug and even the tendrils of smoke that Amanda had inhaled were enough to begin the process.

When finally they reached their cubicle, Wang Jun took off his coat and breathed deeply. Then he smiled. “When I get old I’m going to buy a membership to one of these places and spend my days and nights here.”

“Better start saving—such a retirement could get expensive.”

The curtain opened and an old man with a long braid stepped into their room and lit the brazier in the corner. He was right out of a Hollywood Fu Man Chu film— floor-length black silk robe with large sleeves, small black beanie, long braid and soft green slippers. He carried a beautiful lacquered box in his long-fingernailed hands. If he was surprised by the constituents of the room, two men and a woman, he didn’t let on.

“Do you know who we are?”

“Not by name,” said the old man, “but we have been expecting you for some time. Since the large black man was murdered.”

“Did you serve the large black man?”

“Once, but Wu Yeh usually did these honours.”

“Is she here?”

“Yes, she is always here. Shall I get her for you?”

“Please.”

“Would you like. . . ?” He opened the box, revealing several balls of opium rolled and ready, and he produced a beautiful pipe from his sleeve, which he showed, rather than offered, to Fong.

“Is that Mr. Chomi’s pipe?”

“Is that the black man’s name?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is indeed Mr. Chomi’s pipe.” Fong again noticed the obvious signs of deference to Mr. Chomi’s memory. He took the pipe and marvelled at the thing’s deep yellowish-white density and the layers of incredibly delicate carvings that saturated its entire two-foot length. Then he saw Amanda’s admiring stare and passed her the pipe.

“Is this ivory?” asked Amanda.

“Without a doubt,” replied Fong and without missing a beat asked, “Have you seen much ivory in your life, Ms. Pitman?”

“The odd trinket that Richard picked up for me at airports, but nothing like this.” She allowed her fingers to trace the pipe’s length.

A slender hand parted the curtains and the tiny thing called Wu Yeh slipped into the cubicle. The old man introduced her and then retired. Amanda looked at the delicate girl/woman in front of her—exquisite tapered fingers, skin without a blemish and deep liquid pools for eyes.

Wang Jun looked at her differently. He saw a practised prostitute who knew her craft and the wiles needed to succeed in that craft. Fong saw a masterful liar. He also saw cleverly hidden age and addiction. Unlike Amanda, he was not impressed with Wu Yeh’s beauty. Beauty is relative. In Fong’s case it was relative to Fu Tsong.

“Do you know that I am a police officer?”

“I have been told.”

“I’m not with the vice squad. I’m investigating the murder of Ngalto Chomi, the black man who owned this pipe. You knew him?”

For a moment Fong thought she was going to cry. Then she said weakly, “Yes, I knew him. He came often. Near the end, almost every day.”

“Did you always serve him?”

“It was my pleasure to serve him.” Fong thought he must be losing his mind. He could have sworn that what the little whore said actually sounded honest. He looked to Wang Jun who signalled that he was at a loss too. Amanda asked to be caught up and Fong did. Then Amanda looked at the girl/woman more closely. “She loved him, Inspector Zhong. We may be in China, a long way from my stomping grounds, but I have seen that look before on others. She loved him.”