by Evelyn James
“I used to go every year as a boy,” Tommy was eyeing up the tickets. “Until Clara had a nervous breakdown over Mother Goose and the parents refused to take us ever again.”
“The goose was scary!” Clara said defensively.
“You screamed the theatre down and stopped the performance,” Tommy reminded her with a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “It was dreadfully embarrassing. We were asked to leave.”
“I am sure others were scared too,” Clara pouted. “They probably just internalised their fear. I am not one for leaving my opinion unheard.”
“That is for sure,” Tommy laughed.
“I don’t like geese,” Annie reflected, twisting her lips into a worried scowl. “They attack you for no reason, and I can’t see the point of them. They don’t lay as many eggs as a good hen and, if you ask me, they are not much for making a nice roast out of either.”
“No wonder geese attack you if you go around saying such horrid things about them,” Tommy teased her.
Annie ignored him.
“Well, I have four tickets to the pantomime on Saturday. It is for the evening performance. I shall ask Captain O’Harris if he would like to come, which leaves two spare tickets.”
She left the information hanging in the air. Tommy was quick to grasp it.
“I’ll gladly go to the panto, what is it?”
“Aladdin,” Clara handed him a ticket. “Annie?”
Annie glared at the ticket in Clara’s hand.
“Which one is Aladdin?”
“Arabian nights,” Tommy explained. “Boy gets shut in a cavern by wicked uncle, or vizier, depending on the version, and finds a magic lamp with a genie inside. Genie helps him escape and grants him wishes, which he uses to save the kingdom from said evil uncle-slash-vizier and marry the princess.”
“That sounds all right,” Annie said cautiously, taking a ticket also. “I shall have to rearrange dinner, if we are out in the evening.”
Clara could see that the thought of upsetting her cooking schedule had almost over-ridden Annie’s desire to see a pantomime.
“Well, if that is settled, I am going to write my sharp letter to Mr Carter,” Clara told them.
She moved to the table where Tommy had been working and was laying out some paper when she caught a glimpse of some documents sticking out of a book on cricket that Tommy had apparently been reading. She could not help but read the last few lines of the text and her heart sank a fraction. She said nothing, however, until Annie had departed the room.
“I could take that letter to Mr Carter in person?” Tommy was offering her.
Clara was only half-listening.
“Why is there a police report sitting in that book?” She asked.
Tommy glanced at the book and she was sure he had a slightly panicked expression on his face, that evaporated in the next moment.
“I was just using one as a bookmark, shouldn’t have done, I know…”
“The report is about criminal gang activity in Brighton,” Clara said firmly. “The bottom corner is sticking out and I can read that quite clearly. You are investigating the gang who hurt Private Peterson, aren’t you?”
“No!” Tommy did not lie well. He cringed. “I was just looking up some information. One of my pals from the trenches now works for the police in London, he was able to provide me with some papers as a favour. I was just trying to get my head around what happened.”
“Inspector Park-Coombs insisted I not investigate this,” Clara pointed out, not entirely sure why she was so angry. “He made me promise.”
“I was just looking to see if there was any danger from these people towards us, towards you,” Tommy had gone a little red.
Clara did not know quite what to reply. She felt people had been going behind her back, but perhaps that was unreasonable. The gang situation had unsettled her, left her questioning her own abilities. It was rare for Clara to be confronted by a mystery she could not solve, or rather, one it was too dangerous for her to attempt to solve and it left her feeling uneasy. That made her sharp and cross about anything relating to the affair.
“You should have told me,” she snapped. “Were you going to tell me?”
Tommy turned his head away, the answer altogether obvious.
“No, you were going to keep quiet, because you thought I would go off looking into this matter. You didn’t trust me,” Clara did not raise her voice, but her anger was plain.
“Clara…”
“Don’t!” Clara held up a hand to stop him. “Park-Coombs asked me to keep away from this and I promised I would. I don’t break my promises. It hurts that you think I would.”
Clara rose and headed out of the room.
“Where are you going?” Tommy asked, his words anxious.
“For a walk,” Clara replied, barely keeping her tone even. “To clear my head.”
Clara stormed out the front door while Tommy protested behind her. She stepped onto the pavement and began to walk, heading for nowhere in particular.
She knew her anger was unnecessary. She was hurt though, hurt that Tommy was keeping secrets from her. All through her career as a private detective she had felt as if people did not entirely trust she could take care of herself, that she would get into trouble. She thought she would have proved by now that she could handle any situation thrown at her, and she knew when to seek help if an affair was getting beyond her. It stung that people questioned her judgement.
Would people be so concerned if she was a man? Would they doubt her so?
And it wasn’t just Tommy, no, that was the tip of the iceberg. It was this whole business with the trouble in Brighton which she could not touch. She was sensible enough to realise this was outside her expertise, that she had to stand back, that didn’t stop it from rankling like a fishbone in her throat.
It would pass, she told herself. She would calm down and this trouble would be consigned to a memory of another time, like all such events. It might occasionally come to mind and annoy her, but that was all. As long as the police could resolve the matter, she should be able to live with her lack of involvement.
Clara was beginning to lose the edge to her temper, the cold weather having a suitably cooling effect, when she heard a car horn behind her. She turned and saw a luxurious red sportscar pulling to a stop beside her. It was not the sort of car you saw in Brighton and not one she recognised. Clara paused and glanced to the driver’s window. She scowled when she saw who was there.
“A delight to meet again, Miss Fitzgerald,” said Brilliant Chang.
Brilliant Chang was a Chinese gangster, one who had done exceptionally well for himself and had, conversely, found his way into upper-class English society. He wore smart suits, drove flashy cars and was invited to all the best parties, the hostesses charmed by his manner and his danger, the hosts feeling his presence added a little spice to the occasion. Brilliant Chang was photographed with actresses dripping off his arm, standing next to dukes and earls, eating caviar at the best restaurants. He was a celebrity criminal, and he was clever. He kept himself safely removed from his various nefarious activities, causing the police endless frustration. They had cracked some of his operations and rounded up gang members, but they could not make the important connection back to him. And they had to be careful, for Chang knew the right people and could easily make life hell for a police detective who pushed him too hard.
“I would like to talk,” Chang continued, his smile revealing neat white teeth. He was only in his thirties and handsome, which made him all the more popular. He was not a typical backstreet thug, and there was something enticingly dangerous about him that aroused the curiosity of the foolish.
“I don’t see what we have to talk about,” Clara said, though she did not turn and walk away. Chang was here for a reason, she wanted to know what that was.
“We have a mutual problem,” Chang grinned. “Would you care to join me?”
He motioned to the passenger seat of his car.
/> “Certainly not,” Clara laughed at the idea. “I don’t trust you, remember?”
Chang pulled a sad face.
“I am hurt you would think I should be anything other than a gentleman,” he purred. “You have my word you shall be safe.”
“All the same, I shall stay here on the pavement,” Clara replied.
Chang gave a snort of annoyance; it was not often people refused him. He tapped his steering wheel with his fingers, then came to a decision and turned off the car engine. He stepped out of the car and strode towards Clara. He was only as tall as her, which made her feel somewhat better. Clara faced him with her arms folded across her chest and a frown on her face. She would give no quarter.
“You are stubborn, Miss Fitzgerald,” Chang said.
“You mean I don’t do exactly as you say?” Clara remarked. “Shockingly, Mr Chang, I see you for what you are, a criminal. No doubt a charming and affable one, but a criminal. You can sweet talk me all you like, I shall not change my opinion.”
Chang’s grin had returned.
“This is why I like you, Miss Fitzgerald, you are honest. People lack honesty these days, don’t you think?”
Clara started to deny this, then thought of how she had snapped at Tommy for hiding things from her.
“People are complicated,” she shrugged. “Now, why have you tracked me down in this cold weather?”
“My car is warm,” Chang motioned behind him. “I have fur rugs in the back, to keep my passengers cosy.”
“I already said no,” Clara reminded him.
Chang gave a sigh to indicate he was finding her frustrating, then carried on.
“As I said, we have a mutual problem. Brighton is beset by a gang; you have already encountered them briefly.”
Clara was not surprised he had learned of the situation. The story concerning Peterson had been in all the papers, and the usual rumour mill had been spreading plenty of gossip far and wide. London had close ties with Brighton with criminals regularly journeying between the two. Chang was bound to hear about everything, what intrigued Clara was why he cared.
“Why is this a problem for you?” Clara asked him
“Business,” Chang replied. “And betrayal. I do not want to say more until I can be assured you will not speak of what I say to anyone. I believe private detectives are rather like doctors and priests, with what their clients saying remaining confidential?”
Clara wondered at him referring to a Roman Catholic priest’s parishioners as ‘clients’.
“While that is correct, and I am protective of my client’s privacy, you are not a client.”
“Yet,” Chang interjected. “If I hire you, will you keep everything I say private?”
“I shall not work for a criminal, Mr Chang, surely that is obvious?”
Chang tilted his head and spread out his hands in a gesture of understanding.
“Of course, I forget you have a very stout moral code. That is why I feel I can trust you. If I cannot hire you, would you agree to cooperate with me upon the understanding that we would be assisting each other with a mutual problem?”
“I’m not sure,” Clara admitted. “Working with you rather goes against the grain.”
“Even the police have informants in the underworld to assist them,” Chang pointed out. “It depends how much you fear this gang that is operating in Brighton. I have information that will be vital in bringing them down, but I cannot go to the police myself. Obviously. I shan’t insult your intelligence by suggesting I am doing this out of a sense of public spiritedness. I am doing it because this gang threatens me too, and because their leader has personally offended me. It is pure selfishness on my part.”
“At least you are honest,” Clara shrugged. “But why should I even consider working with you?”
“You won’t get this gang without me,” Chang said, and it was not an arrogant statement, it was pure honesty. “You need inside information, that just won’t come from any other source. But I shall offer you more, for this gang is a big problem to me. Work with me on this and I promise I shall have no criminal dealings in Brighton again.”
Clara’s frown deepened. She didn’t trust Chang, but she knew this gang was beyond her and likely beyond the police and they needed to be dealt with.
“All right, let’s talk.”
“In my car?” Chang said.
“In my office,” Clara replied. “And we shall walk there.”
Chapter Three
Brilliant Chang took a long look around Clara’s office. She could not read his face to see what he made of it. She set about making tea for them both.
“Do you drink tea?” She asked over her shoulder. Tea making was a comfort habit Clara had picked up from Annie, it gave her time to think. She needed time right then.
“Green tea only,” Chang replied. “Though I do like coffee.”
Clara gave up on tea making and motioned for Chang to take a seat before her desk.
“Who is that?” He asked, pointing at the painting on the wall.
“My late father,” Clara replied.
Chang nodded, as if this explained something to him.
“I expected your office to be…”
“Grander?” Clara suggested.
Chang grinned.
“I like this place,” Clara shrugged. “It’s where it all began.”
“My career began in a slum in Hong Kong,” Chang said. “I was ten or eleven. I am not sure as no one ever bothered to tell me when I was born.”
“We all have to begin somewhere,” Clara replied nonchalantly. If he had expected pity, he was not going to receive it.
Chang seemed amused.
“Why don’t we get down to business,” Clara said.
“I need your assurance you shall not repeat what I say, other than what I am happy for you to repeat,” Chang had become serious.
Clara paused to consider. Chang was a criminal and she didn’t like him, but his help was likely to be essential in her current problems. This would not make them friends, or associates, just temporary allies. Sometimes you had to work with old enemies to deal with an immediate threat. Besides, Clara was still not satisfied that Peterson’s attackers had been brought to justice – oh, they had got the man who had wielded the knife, but he was but the instrument of another, and she wanted that man.
She wanted to put Chang in prison too, but he was not going around terrorising Brighton residents and murdering people in the town. She had to do something to restore order here. It might be selfish, but Brighton was her priority and she would leave Chang to a London detective.
“You can talk freely, I shall not repeat what you say,” she agreed at last.
“You are wise,” Chang bowed his head. “There are worse than me out there.”
“Really?” Clara said in obvious disbelief.
“Oh yes. I may be ruthless, I may be a criminal, but I have certain standards. I avoid hurting the innocent, for a start. I remember when I was a boy, I remember the gang wars in Hong Kong. I recall vividly what it was like to be a child mixed up in that and perpetually afraid,” Chang’s smile was now ironic, his voice tainted with bitterness. “I kill people, yes, I have people murdered. I supply drugs, I run a string of brothels, but I do have a conscience. I don’t employ children, for a start.”
“Look, I am not going to feel any better about this than I already do. I am ignoring my instincts because I want revenge. Revenge for Peterson and for Jenny who was slaughtered by this gang. I want my town free of this pestilence,” Clara told him bluntly.
“And you are angry that you can’t conquer these thugs?” Chang guessed astutely. “You don’t like being defeated any more than I do. That is what makes you dangerous Miss Fitzgerald.”
“Well, I don’t feel very dangerous right now,” Clara snorted. “This gang is running amok and I can’t do much about it. They are too powerful for me.”
Chang nodded his understanding. His smile had faded to a business-like
stern expression.
“We are more akin than either of us would like to admit. It pains me to be here, as much as it pains you to welcome me. We are both risking our reputations, I am not blind to that. That is why I am grateful for this audience.”
For once Clara felt there was no acting from Chang. He was not just saying these things to get her on his side.
“You better explain why this gang is such a problem that you are prepared to come to me,” Clara said.
Chang leaned forward over her desk.
“It all began a year or so ago. Some of my people took this idea in their heads that they could do better without me. Not in London, of course, for I am everywhere in London,” Chang sounded proud at this statement, “but here, in Brighton. Near enough to the Capital to get a slice of the action, but far enough away to not attract my attention too soon.”
“I am guessing this is about drugs,” Clara added.
“Yes, mainly,” Chang agreed. “I have been using various seaside resorts as drop sites for drug deliveries. Opium, mostly, but some other varieties too. The drugs come aboard pleasure craft, yachts, and so forth. The supplies are smuggled into the towns, transferred to my people and then sent to London. The police have no idea.”
Clara said nothing.
“These traitors decided they wanted a piece of my pie and they would take over the drugs coming into Brighton. They plotted against me, taking out my associates here in town and filling their places. Then they started to lure the smugglers to them, offering larger shares in the profits. It was dangerous for these men, I would have them killed for their treachery, but smugglers like money.”
“This was happening right under your nose?” Clara said, somewhat surprised.
Chang looked grim.
“You have picked up on what shames me the most. Yes, this was going on without me realising what was happening. I was blind to it all until it was too late. This new gang had consolidated, made itself strong and put down sturdy roots in Brighton. By the time I realised what had happened, they were big enough to threaten me and, without launching a full-scale war against them, I could do very little,” Chang scowled angrily. “Oh, I killed the odd smuggler, tried to scare them back to serving me, but I couldn’t reach enough of them. And my rivals only increased the money they offered. The danger is spreading, smugglers at other seaside resorts are switching sides. I have increased the money I pay, but so have my rivals. This simply can’t go on.”