He couldn’t see the face of his watch in this darkness, but estimated it to be about three-thirty, given how long they’d been standing here. Dawn wouldn’t break for almost two hours yet. From the sliver of moonlight low in the sky, he could barely make out the white rectangle of the nearly blank page of his open notepad.
He’d been in bed fast asleep—and not alone, damn it—when his telephone rang shortly before three o’clock, rousing him from a rather pleasant dream. He’d groused when he answered that someone had better be dead; the voice on the other end of the line belonged to an Irish police corporal who owed him a favor, telling him that yes, in fact, three someones were dead, on a deserted road that circled the aerodrome. Two Japanese naval officers, and a Chinese soldier. Reporters from all of the major papers were on their way, he said, so Jonesy had better hurry if he wanted to be one of the lucky ones to get the scoop.
That had been enough incentive for him to throw on some clothes, send the handsome German boy home, and hop into a cab. At least he got to use the Hollywood line “And step on it.”
While the cab barreled through the night, Jonesy scribbled down the most obvious questions: What were a pair of Japanese navy men doing more than a dozen miles inland from their barracks? What caused a shoot-out with a Chinese soldier? And were any others involved?
So far, the night had been devoid of answers. What looked like a simple shoot-out couldn’t possibly be that simple. Jonesy stood with more than a dozen reporters from the city’s English, French, and Chinese newspapers, behind a police barricade erected across the road. None of them spoke, all straining their ears to pick up snippets of hushed conversation among the inspectors.
Jonesy stifled a yawn.
“Want some of my coffee?” whispered the man next to him, a scrawny American reporter for the Shanghai Herald named Jack Ramsey.
Jonesy could barely make out the shape of a thermos in Ramsey’s hand—hardly necessary to keep the coffee hot, given the heat of the August night. The air was thick and still, and hung on them like a wet blanket.
“Thanks,” Jonesy muttered. He didn’t like Jack, but he wasn’t going to turn down a free gulp of coffee at this ungodly hour.
Dozens of police inspectors with electric torches moved in and out of the darkness that wrapped around the bright circle created by the headlights, pacing back and forth with their eyes glued to the ground, scouring for evidence. Their numbers were an obvious testament to the important—and highly sensitive—nature of this homicide scene.
They were also a surprisingly diverse group of inspectors. In addition to the British and Chinese inspectors who dominated the Shanghai Municipal Police in the International Settlement, there were police inspectors from the Chinese municipality, plus Japanese, French, and American detectives.
Suddenly, the solemn atmosphere of the crime scene was broken with shouts in Pidgin between Chinese and Japanese inspectors.
Every reporter started scratching pencils on paper, jotting down shorthand that they’d have to interpret later in the daylight.
Jonesy had been in Shanghai for most of the current decade, and he could interpret Pidgin as well as if he were listening to a conversation in Standard English. The Chinese and Japanese inspectors were arguing over who shot first, where, and—most intriguing—who cut open the gut and mutilated the face of the Japanese lieutenant lying not far from the open passenger door of the sedan.
That was a juicy little detail.
And it indicated at least one additional person no longer present. If the Chinese soldier lying dead a little farther down the road had been the one who shot and killed the two Japanese navy men, as it appeared, then how could he have had time to do that much damage to one of the Japanese bodies before dying of gunshot wounds that one of his victims had previously inflicted on him?
Tense silence resumed after British and American detectives convinced their Chinese and Japanese counterparts to return to the search for evidence.
“We’re gonna hafta do a special edition,” Ramsey muttered next to Jonesy. “Deadline’s coming up real fast, and there ain’t no phone booths out here to dial in the story.”
Jonesy smirked in the darkness. “Not my problem,” he whispered. Working for an international wire service had its advantages. He could still file a story a few hours from now that would get picked up by papers in the U.K., Ireland, and across North America.
“Rub it in, why dontcha?” Ramsey grumbled.
Jonesy supposed that meant no more offers of coffee would be forthcoming. Worth it.
More arguing, even louder and more hostile. Reporters' pencils flew into action. What were members of the Japanese Navy’s Special Landing Force doing all the way out here, anyway? A Chinese inspector demanded of his Japanese counterparts. That was not relevant, a Japanese inspector replied. Even if the Chinese soldier fired first—which the Chinese inspector wasn’t admitting, he was quick to stipulate—it would have been justified given the unauthorized presence of forces from a hostile nation.
He said that last part with special vehemence. No one present missed the inference, and Jonesy swore he could hear the collective intake of breath. The undeclared war in the north was soon to enter its fifth week, and despite international pressure, Japan was showing no indication that it would scale down its offensive.
The shouting match switched from Pidgin to competing Chinese and Japanese, and it looked almost ready to devolve into fisticuffs when western detectives got in-between the sparring parties.
*
A ribbon of sky along the northeastern horizon was slowly fading from black to dark blue when the police packed into their cars and sped off toward the city.
“That was dramatic, to say the least,” Jack Ramsey muttered to Jonesy as both turned around to search for transportation back to Shanghai. “No answers, though.”
“I doubt we’ll get any,” Jonesy said. The Chinese and Japanese had already settled on their own conflicting conclusions, and were unlikely to budge from their positions.
There was no doubt in Jonesy’s mind that secretive forces, highly trained, had been responsible for whatever had transpired here—and they would have been sure to clean up after themselves, leaving as little evidence of their existence as possible.
An idea jumped into his mind, and he almost stopped in his tracks at the image. It wasn’t as far-fetched as it seemed at first glance, either; certainly no more far-fetched than any other possibility.
“There’s not that many cabs coming to the airfield at this hour,” Ramsey said. “Wanna hitch a ride with me on one of those trucks goin’ by?” He nodded toward the Great Western Road, a short distance away.
Over the years, Jonesy had shared rides with reporters he hated worse than Jack Ramsey, so he agreed. The sooner he could get downtown and file his story, the sooner he could go back to bed.
“This could mean war, ya know,” Ramsey said as he held out his thumb at a truck rumbling by. It didn’t stop.
“We’ve already got a war,” Jonesy groused.
“I mean here, in Shanghai, you numbskull.”
“You don’t say? In Shanghai?” Jonesy slapped his hand against his cheek and opened his mouth in mock astonishment.
“Alright, alright, wise guy.”
Jonesy had been here during the two-month little war the Japanese and Chinese had fought in the northern districts of Shanghai in the winter of 1932. The fighting had been intense, but localized. Five and a half years later, many buildings in the Chapei District still bore bullet holes.
This time, given the tensions up north, the fighting wasn’t likely to remain so contained.
Jack Ramsey had been here, too; and like Jonesy, he had already been in Shanghai a couple of years. Their rivalry had started long before the “Shanghai Incident” that sparked that little war. Jack was a staff writer at the English-language Shanghai Herald; Jonesy had scooped him one day in late 1930 and got his byline in the opening pages of the Herald, much to Ramsey’s chagrin
.
Jonesy grew serious, thinking of Jack’s family back in the International Settlement. “If fighting does break out here—and that seems likely—you should make sure your kids have their American passports.”
“Yeah, my kids got passports.”
“All of them?” Jonesy took special glee in landing that little jab.
Jack Ramsey had an American wife, who had come with him to China, and they had three children. But he also had five children from two Chinese mistresses he kept in Yangtzepoo.
Ramsey’s lips tightened into a thin line as a truck pulled onto the shoulder of the road a few yards past them. “It’s bad form bringing up a man’s bastards in public, Jonesy.”
“You claim ‘em, dontcha?”
Ramsey stared at Jonesy for several seconds with his hand on the handle of the truck’s passenger door. “Yeah, I claim ‘em. They all got birth records from the Shanghai Municipal authority, listing my name.”
“Try telling me something I don’t already know, Jack.”
“So what’s your point, smart aleck?” Ramsey opened the passenger door and climbed into the truck.
“Just that you might want to think about getting them American passports sooner rather than later,” Jonesy said, and huffed as he heaved himself into the truck and squeezed in beside Ramsey.
“Where go?” asked the Chinese truck driver, a young man of about thirty in a dark gray tunic and matching cap.
“Nanking Road, in Shanghai,” Jonesy said.
They rode in silence for several minutes. Then Ramsey nodded toward a Chinese soldier standing at the edge of the road near the entrance to the Columbia Country Club in the western suburbs, holding a rifle in front of his chest with both hands, watching the traffic that passed.
“I noticed sentries all along this road during my drive out a few hours ago,” Ramsey said.
“Yeah, I did, too. As soon as my cab passed out of the International Settlement, I started seeing them at regular intervals.”
“The uniforms are Peace Preservation Corps.” Ramsey let his voice trail off.
I know where you’re going with that. The Peace Preservation Corps was a paramilitary unit that was allowed to arm and train militia men in the Chinese municipality of Shanghai, where China was not otherwise permitted by treaties to send troops.
“Yeah, I’ve heard some rumors, too,” Jonesy said. “Probably the same ones you have. Regular army, eighty-eighth Division in disguise?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
Jonesy harrumphed. In a time of high tensions like this, wild rumors ran rampant. “I haven’t written anything about it, because I haven’t seen any proof. You?”
Ramsey shook his head. “Just unsubstantiated rumor—but I’ve heard it a lot.”
“Without evidence, a rumor’s not worth a hill of beans.” Jonesy heard a lot of rumors in his line of work, and sometimes they brought him valuable leads—but more often than not, they didn’t pan out. Jack Ramsey was a good enough journalist to know that, too—Jonesy may not like him much, but he at least respected Jack’s professionalism.
They rode in silence the rest of the way. When they got downtown, the driver let them out at the intersection of Nanking Road and Honan Road—closer to the Associated Press office where Jonesy worked than to the offices of the Shanghai Herald, which tickled Jonesy a little. He and Ramsey nodded to each other as they alighted from the truck, and then hurried off to their respective offices.
Gladys Thompson looked startled when Jonesy walked through the AP’s door, and glanced at her watch. “You’re in awfully early.”
Jonesy glanced up at the clock on the wall, and realized it was only a few minutes after eight. Ordinarily, he might just now be rousing himself from bed.
Next to a handsome German he’d been pursuing for weeks, damn it.
“Trouble out at the Hongqiao Aerodrome last night. I could use some coffee, though.” He took a seat at the desk he only occupied on occasion, rolled a blank piece of paper into the typewriter, and started writing the story. He’d pretty much already written it in his head on the drive back to the city, and he was able to whip out a thousand word feature in fifteen minutes.
“Wainwright in yet?” he asked as he tugged the finished story out of the typewriter.
Gladys nodded. “He got here two minutes before you, tops. I’m surprised you didn’t see him on your way in. Maybe you were still half asleep?”
“Hardy har, har, har.” Then he winked at her on his way toward the editor’s office.
Jonesy had worked with Gladys for six years, and good-natured ribbing had been a part of their relationship almost from the start. With her parents back in Kansas and unable to attend, Jonesy had agreed to give her away at her wedding last fall to Dan Thompson, who worked around the corner at the American Express office. It was probably just as well, since Gladys hadn’t told them Dan was half Chinese.
He found Chuck Wainwright at his desk, staring at one of the stacks of papers that covered his desktop and sipping a cup of steaming coffee, while a cigarette smoldered in the ash-tray.
“Big story, boss,” Jonesy said, handing over the copy. “If we get this filed in the next half-hour, it can still get picked up by the London papers.”
“Hmmm,” Wainwright said, eyes narrowing. He read the story in less than a minute, with a couple of wordless grunts in between. Once he took his red pencil and circled something, then crossed out something else and wrote a replacement word—not bad, considering how fast Jonesy had whipped out the copy.
“Good work, Jones,” he said, thrusting the page back. “Fix those two things, and file it.”
8
Wednesday, August 11
Doug was excited to be home a couple of weeks earlier than expected, for many reasons—the first, of course, was being with Lucy. The reason he didn’t talk about out-loud was the excitement he felt that a battle might actually break out near Shanghai between Chinese and Japanese forces. It wasn’t that he was excited by the possibility of warfare in and of itself—it was the likelihood that he would get to observe first-hand, up close, things that he’d been trained to observe.
As the USS Valparaiso steamed up the Huang Po River toward downtown Shanghai, it passed more than twenty Japanese navy vessels moored at wharves, including cruisers and destroyers. Marines in olive-green uniforms marched down gangplanks.
Reinforcing their garrison. Japan maintained a permanent presence of two thousand five hundred marines in Shanghai, in barracks two miles inland, to the north of Japantown. With the mounting tensions, the arrival of reinforcements could be the spark that would ignite the dry timber.
The largest ship was the Cruiser Izumo, anchored near the Hongkou shore, not far from the Japanese Consulate and Japantown. Doug stood on the deck of the Valparaiso, in plain sight, watching the flurry of activity on the Izumo.
The Valparaiso was slowing considerably by the time they made their closest pass to the Japanese heavy cruiser, giving Doug ample opportunity to observe the movements of Japanese seamen and marines on board. He continued standing at the rail, staring at the Izumo, even after Valparaiso came to a stop off-shore near the Garden Bridge. He took a few extra minutes of observation time while dozens of crew members scrambled down to waiting sampans.
When Doug finally moved toward the rope ladder hung over the side, and climbed aboard the third and final sampan, he was at the end of the line. Commander Rose stood next to the line, and when Doug approached he waved him over.
“I’m not going ashore right away, Bainbridge. Given the tensions and the possibility of armed conflict in the area, I think it best I stay with the ship, at least until something changes. If we’re called away again, I will notify you immediately. I’ll try the Navy office first, before disturbing you at home.”
“Thank you,” Doug said. They saluted each other, and Doug flung his legs over the side and scrambled down the ladder. A seaman at the rail signaled down to the sampan’s driver that all had disemb
arked, and pulled up the ladder.
When the boat delivered them ashore at the Bund several minutes later, Doug ignored the line of seamen and officers waiting for rickshaws, and took off on foot down the sidewalk, hurrying toward the offices of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet, Yangtze River Patrol.
Once inside the Navy office, he hurried to the little office—not much bigger than a closet—that was assigned to him. He pulled reports from his attaché case, and prepared them to be flown to fleet headquarters in Manila. That took a little while, but then he got down to the main reason he was in a hurry to get to the office.
He strode down the narrow hall to the office of Captain Jansen. He handed his Intelligence Officer credentials to the lieutenant at the desk, Jansen’s adjutant—who had seen Doug before in his current capacity, a few times—and asked to speak with the captain.
“Commander Bainbridge to see you sir,” the lieutenant said into a black telephone. Then he hung up the receiver and told Doug, “He’ll see you now, sir.”
Captain Jansen’s office was large and well-apportioned, with a big mahogany desk, behind which the captain sat in a black leather chair. Doug stopped in front of the desk, stood at attention, and saluted.
The captain returned his salute without rising. “Welcome back, Bainbridge. Learn anything interesting?”
“A few things, sir.” Doug gave a brief explanation of his observations from north China and the Korean peninsula, and then got down to brass tacks. “If I’m to effectively advise the fleet concerning the escalating hostilities in China, I’ll need a detailed account of the situation here in Shanghai. We’ve been away more than four weeks, so I’m short on details; and I’ve only heard what’s generally known about the incident at the aerodrome yesterday morning. Could one of your staff provide me with a detailed run-down of the situation?”
“Absolutely. Have a seat.” Jansen buzzed an intercom on his desk, and called the lieutenant to join them. “Harmon, take notes, and then type up copies for me and the Commander.”
No Accidental Death Page 6