“I get the most unsettling feeling the way that these slant-eyed coolies leer at me,” the blonde Aussie whined. “Oh, I can’t wait to go home to Melbourne!”
“Be patient dearest,” the man said, taking her arm. “As soon as my business with these yellow monkeys is finished, we’ll leave this dreadful place.” The Australians turned and strolled past Tom and the newsboy, secure with their own racial superiority.
Anger boiled inside Tom, stoked from years of similar snide comments. A sock to the man’s jaw and shoving that newspaper in the blonde’s mouth would placate his rage. Still, assaulting a white man and woman would be enough to land Tom in jail for at least a year, despite being an American. He didn’t have that long.
Instead, he lit a calming cigarette and went back to the Bentley. In between drags, he read through the rest of the Shanghai Evening Post & Mercury. Japanese forces were advancing on Harbin in northern Manchuria, expecting the city to fall within days. After Harbin, the entire region would be secure in Japanese hands.
Wang Ching-wei – Chiang Kai-shek’s main rival within the Kuomintang – had been sworn in as premier of the Chinese Republic. However, the Generalissimo was expected to still exercise considerable power as commander-in-chief of the Nationalist Army. Economic depression left many out of work all over the world, especially in America. However, President Hoover proclaimed that “rugged individualism” could get the country through these hard times.
An hour passed, then two. Tom went through five more cigarettes, but there was no sign of Whitfield. In light of today’s events, everyone at the US Consulate must have worked late. The sun sank over Shanghai, coating the city with a gloomy darkness. Thankfully, across Soochow Creek, the neon lights of the Bund brightened the sky.
Then, at 8:04, a figure in a light gray overcoat, suit, and homburg, exited the gate and approached a waiting sedan. Although dark, Tom could spot Whitfield’s wardrobe of gray double-breasted suits anywhere. The sedan pulled out onto Soochow Road. Tom started the Bentley and followed after them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tom maintained a safe distance behind as he followed Whitfield across the Garden Bridge. The dread that choked the city had lifted, replaced by a gay frivolity. Bathed in neon lights, the Bund pulsated with activity as rickshaws, automobiles, and cable cars ran up and down the street. Junks and cargo freighters glided along the Whangpoo River, while the Japanese gunboats just floated there, rendered impotent and harmless.
Whitfield’s car turned right on Foochow Road, and Tom steered the Bentley around the corner. He braked at the intersection of Szechuen and Foochow, where a red-turbaned Sikh police officer halted traffic. Tom peered into the distance across the street and saw Whitfield’s vehicle pull over at the corner of Kiangse and Foochow, diagonally across from the American Club. The US Consulate man exited the car and let himself into a brownstone building.
In his peripheral, Tom saw a procession approach. Led by an officer on horseback and wearing khaki uniforms and peaked caps, a formation of British troops marched past. The young, apple-cheeked Tommies were cheerful enough as they sang out “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” But the officer’s ashen face looked like he’d seen hell itself at the Somme and Passchendaele. Lucky for these lads that there wasn’t going to be any war. Not now at least. Maybe they’d get their chance for glory next time.
After the remainder of the British soldiers passed, the Sikh policeman waved Tom through. The American Club loomed on his left, a reminder of simpler times. Had it really only been two nights since he had dinner with Captain Tung and that man from the Finance Ministry, Chow? So much had happened since then; it felt like a dream in a past life. No, he couldn’t think about that now. Tom parked in a nearby alleyway a block over, then double backed to the brownstone where Whitfield had entered.
That son of a bitch never mentioned just how close he lived to the American Club. This was prime real estate, even for a diplomat. Old money must travel far. Tom hopped out of the Bentley and walked up the steps to the entrance, where a uniformed doorman held up a hand.
“Whot do you vant?” he asked with a heavy Russian accent. “Zis building has no Chinees tenants.”
Tom searched for a placating excuse. Something told him this doorman wouldn’t believe he was American, which might tip off Whitfield. He cleared his throat and forced out his best pidgin accent.
“Me am Mr. Whitfield new servant.”
The old Russian’s face wrinkled further with a smile. “Da, da, his new house boy! But, dressed like that?”
Tom glanced down at his dark blue serge suit and overcoat.
“Mr. Whitfield say, ‘dress to impress.’”
“Da, that sounds like Meester Whitfield! His apartment is 402,” the Russian said, opening the door.
“Shi shi,” Tom said with an ingratiating bow. As he climbed the stairs, anxiety began shaking his legs. What was his plan? The Browning automatic – snug in his shoulder holster – was all he could think of. Approaching the fourth floor, a tremor of fear ran through his body. It was either them or him. After a deep breath, he knocked on room 402.
After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing Whitfield’s startled face.
“Tom, old boy! What the devil are you doing here?”
Tom gave a cocky grin. “Surprised, Chuck? I hope you’re not still sore at me. I…er…came by to apologize. Why don’t you invite me in for a drink?”
Whitfield’s blue eyes darted to the side, then back over at Tom. “Tonight’s not ideal. The place is a mess. I hope you understand.”
“What’s the matter, Chuck? Got company over?”
“No, that’s not it. Look, perhaps we can have a drink over at the American Club. What do say to th—”
Tom plunged his hand into his jacket and whipped out the Browning. Jamming it into Whitfield’s cheek, he pushed himself inside the apartment and shut the door behind him.
“Tom, old boy! Have you lost your mind?”
“On the contrary, Chuck. My head is quite clear now,” Tom said, guiding Whitfield out of the small vestibule and into the apartment’s living room. Oriental knick-knacks clashed with upholstered furniture and a glass coffee table. On it lay several papers, documents, even a passport, and a pair of black leather gauntlets. Ho Mei-chen – still in her red cheongsam – sat on the couch, looking at Tom with a stern glare.
“Now I see why you never invited me over, Chuck. Afraid I’d uncover your little love nest?”
Whitfield gulped. “Look, I’m sorry you had to find out this way…”
Tom jerked the pistol over to Mei-chen, then back at Whitfield. “How long has this been going on?”
Shame cast Whitfield’s blue eyes downward. “About six months now. I’m sorry Tom, I truly am. It just happened.” He swallowed again, then drew a long breath. “Take your anger out on me, but please leave the poor kid out of this.”
Tom kept the gun level at Whitfield’s chest. “Save your apologies, Chuck. I’m almost impressed by your little scheme. You pass secrets along to Mei-chen at my club, then let me take the fall. The Green Gang bumps me off, then you two love birds resume your little espionage escapades?”
Genuine confusion shone in Whitfield’s face. “What the devil are you talking about, old boy?”
The reaction caught Tom off guard. He glanced over at Mei-chen, staring back without emotion. Could it really be that Charles Whitfield was another of this spider woman’s dupes? Still keeping the gun level, Tom made his way over to the coffee table and scooped up one of the documents. It was an American passport with Mei-chen’s photograph. Only she wasn’t Ho Mei-chen anymore, but rather Margaret Wong. He slid the passport into his pocket, then picked up two other documents. A birth certificate for this mysterious Margaret Wong, born in Chinatown, Los Angeles, and a travel visa.
“Forgeries?” Tom said, sliding the documents into his pocket.
Whitfield nodded. “Please try and understand, Tom. The kid just couldn’t wait any longer for you to take h
er to America. And with war on the horizon, she asked me to get her out as soon as possible.”
“So you made phony documents? You’d jeopardize your career for her?”
After several moments of silence, Whitfield gave a slow nod.
Tom couldn’t hold in a laugh. “So she used you too, huh? You know she’s a Jap spy, right? Ho Mei-chen isn’t even her real name.”
Sudden realization illuminated Whitfield’s face. How else could those top secret documents gotten out? Fury streaked the Consulate man’s face as he turned toward Mei-chen, busy putting on her black gloves. “Is this true? Are you really a spy?”
She stood up and regarded Whitfield with a cold glare. “Of course not. Tom is the spy. It was his club. I found out about his double life and he tried to kill me.”
“You lying two-timing bitch,” Tom growled, slapping her with his free hand. The blow forced Mei-chen back down on the couch, leaving a bright pink splotch across her cheek.
“Don’t touch her!” Whitfield roared as he rushed Tom, slamming him up against the wall. Air whooshed out of his lungs, loosening his grip on the Browning. The pistol practically flew out of his hand and clattered onto the floor. Tom swung his hands out for some weak spot, but Whitfield’s body was solid muscle. Instead, Whitfield landed a hammering punch into Tom’s gut, doubling him over.
“Stop it right now,” Mei-chen’s soft voice commanded.
Grasping his stomach, Tom lifted his head up. The Browning was now in Mei-chen’s hands, aimed straight at Whitfield and Tom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tom eyed the Browning automatic as it swayed between him and Whitfield. With that pistol, Mei-chen looked like an Oriental gun moll, tough and threatening. But a slight tremor in her gloved hand betrayed the fear she must have felt.
“Mei-chen,” Whitfield began, “what the devil is this all about?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Tom cut in. “She used both of us. At my club she could meet important rubes such as yourself, whom she could pry secrets out of. Ho Mei-chen isn’t even her real name.”
Shock gave way to anger, reddening Whitfield’s chiseled face. “Is this true? Was it really you who made copies of my documents?”
Despite her trembling hand, Mei-chen radiated a casual confidence. “You should always keep your briefcase locked, Charles, even when you’re at home.”
Whitfield fumed, balling his hands into tight fists. “How could you?”
“It was easy. You’re a heavy sleeper,” she quipped.
“No, how could you betray me—” he glanced over at Tom “—betray us, like this? Are you really Japanese?”
“Absolutely not,” she snapped with enough forced to echo off the walls.
“Then how could you betray your country?” Tom demanded.
“I have no country,” she said coldly. “It doesn’t matter who I really am, because I’m leaving Shanghai forever. Tonight.” She bit her lip, and the gun shook again. “Nobody will ever find me in America. I’m sorry to both of you. I truly am. But I won’t anyone stop me. Now step aside!”
“You two-faced tramp,” Whitfield roared, stepping forward. “I’ll be damned if I help a Japanese spy into my country!”
Mei-chen jerked the pistol toward Whitfield’s chest, now rattling in her trembling hand. “Stay back! I don’t want to hurt you!”
Ignoring her warning, Whitfield gripped the pistol and twisted. After a brief struggle, the gun muzzle flashed and a shot rang out. With awkward, halting steps, Whitfield let go of her and backed up. Against the light gray suit, a hideous red patch grew over his chest. Strained groans rasped out of his throat just before he collapsed face-first through the coffee table. Glass shattered and burst out in twinkling shards.
Tom didn’t miss the opening. He lunged forward and snatched the Browning out of Mei-chen’s hand, now loosened in shock. She didn’t resist, and instead sank to her knees with a dumbfounded expression. Tom returned his attention Whitfield, who had rolled over onto his back. Thick spurts of blood oozed over his lips. Thanks to the broken glass, raw cuts and scratches now crisscrossed his face like tic tac toe. Tom knelt down and cradled him in his arms.
“S-sorry…about all of this, old boy,” Whitfield said in between bloody coughs. “I-I never meant to hurt my best friend. Me and Mei-chen…it…it just happened one night…”
What could Tom say to that? A tempest of conflicting emotions swirled inside Tom. Part of him wanted to ring this backstabber’s neck, but he also wanted to cry. They’d been best friends ever since they’d met at the US Consulate, in November of ‘29, although it seemed like a lifetime ago now. Charles Whitfield was one of the few white men to treat Tom with any respect, and here he was dying in his arms. Although it seemed ludicrous, he felt a twinge of guilt about this whole, sordid affair. Choked by emotion, Tom just nodded.
Whitfield’s blood-soaked mouth turned up in a ghoulish smile. Eyelids fluttering, he rasped out a final wheeze then went stiff. Tom laid him back down and turned to Mei-chen. Still on her knees, she stared blankly at Whitfield’s body. She showed no emotion at first, but tears soon blotted her brown eyes.
“I…I didn’t mean to shoot him…” she muttered. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
It was surprising how genuine her words sounded. Perhaps this Oriental Mata Hari wasn’t so coldblooded after all. Tom glanced at this Rolex – 8:55. There was no time to waste crying over the dead.
“Get up,” he ordered, gesturing with the pistol. “We’re going for a ride.”
Tom slid the Browning into his coat pocket, but kept it leveled at Mei-chen’s back. With his free hand, he guided her down the stairs.
“Keep quiet and let me do the talking,” he said. Mei-chen gave a dumb nod.
They walked outside where the Russian doorman greeted them with a bright smile. “Leafing so soon?”
“Oh yessiree, Mr. Whitfield very busy with work. He ask me to take Miss Ho shopping.”
“Da, da! Haff a goot night!”
They walked out the steps, crossed the street and toward the Bentley, parked in the nearby alley. Tom glanced around from side to side, confirming it was still deserted. A chilly wind blew through them both, and Mei-chen let out an involuntary shiver, rubbing her bare arms to warm up. Tom looked her over. Her short-sleeved red cheongsam and leather gloves were scant protection against the cold.
Tom opened the Bentley’s trunk, small and compact, but big enough for a person. He gestured for her to go inside with the Browning. A deep fear radiated from her eyes and trembled her lip.
“What…what are you going to do, Tom?”
“Don’t ask questions! Just get in,” he snapped. There was enough anger in his voice to let her know there wouldn’t be any debate.
Mei-chen took a dainty step inside the trunk, then curled up inside. Shivering from the cold, she fixed him with a pitiful, helpless look, the kind that would have melted him a day before. Despite everything that had happened, Tom couldn’t repress an urge to protect his Beautiful Pearl. He slid off the overcoat and tossed it inside.
Curling up inside it, Mei-chen gave a thankful nod as Tom slammed the trunk shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
As Tom drove the Bentley northward toward the Chapei district, his mind wandered. How the hell did he get here? He’d never considered himself a gangster, despite his long association with organized crime. Yet here he was, fleeing the murder scene of his best friend with his former lover locked in his trunk. At what point did Tom Lai’s life go astray?
Probably early on. Some of his happiest memories were with his uncle and the Suey Sing Tong. They’d groomed him early on to be a member, letting him run fan-tan games and listening in on important meetings. Tom’s enthusiasm for the Suey Sing was dashed during the Tong Wars, when a rival gangster buried a hatchet deep into his uncle’s skull. After that, he promised never to dive too deep into the underworld.
The World War had focused his attention to patriotism, but the seeds of c
orruption and crime had already been planted. They grew and grew when he moved to Shanghai, ingratiating himself with Tu Yueh-sheng and the Green Gang. He always tried to keep an arm’s length while maintaining a cordial relationship with Shanghai’s grandmaster of crime, or at least that’s what he told himself. Tom Lai was like a man sinking deeper and deeper into the swamp who insisted that he could pull himself out at any time.
The Bentley plowed across the Soochow Creek via the Garden Bridge, passing into Hongkew. Hanging a left, he cruised past Consulate Way on the left and the Astor House on his right. A gaggle of ritzy-looking white foreigners poured out of the hotel, all set to live it up now that crisis had been averted. He continued westward into Little Tokyo, still barren and desolate. Curiously, units of Japanese Marines remained in position, as if they still thought there was a war afoot.
As he passed into Chapei, Tom realized why the Mikado’s warriors hadn’t stood down yet. The streets with thronged with thick, furious crowds. They carried signs, placards, and banners that proclaimed slogans like, “MAYOR WU SHAMES CHINA” and “RESIST THE DWARF BANDITS WITH BLOOD AND BULLETS.” A group of students, no older than teenagers, waved Chinese flags while setting a Japanese standard alight. The White Sun fluttered while the Rising Sun burned.
As Tom pressed deeper and deeper into Chapei, the mobs only grew larger and angrier. An effigy of the Mikado was pelted with rocks before being ripped apart. Patriotic songs echoed throughout the streets. There was an incessant chanting for Mayor Wu to “Reject the demands and throw the Japanese devils out of Shanghai.” Most disturbing was a Japanese couple, identified by their kimonos, surrounded by a ring of enraged students. Like sharks to chum, they attacked, pummeling the couple with unrestrained ferocity. Within seconds they were bloodied and battered, their kimonos shredded rags. Something told Tom that this wasn’t the machinations of Commander Fukuzaki and his ronin. This was patriotism at its ugliest.
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