It was best to leave Moy here. Let the police ponder over what might have happed. Rapidly, she walked back to the consulate, the loud tapping of her high heels crashing in her ears like bullets.
In the lavatory, she took off her blouse and skirt, scrutinising them for blood, dirt and vomit. She sponged at the stains. One of her stockings was shredded at the knee. Hastily, she took both of them off and stuffed them into her pocket. She washed her shoes with toilet paper and the letter opener under hot soapy water, carrying it back to Albemarle’s office in a towel. She placed it point side down in the leather holder, then picked up the flashlight. Lastly, she inspected the room,making a circuit, reassuring herself it looked pristine and untouched except for the sour smell of her own fear. She turned off the light and eased the door shut.
11
ON THE STREET it hit her. She was to meet Vasiliev, no Harris—she must remember—at De Santarem. Right now, all she wanted was the safety of her own uncomfortable bed. Let the bastard wait. She couldn’t imagine sitting across the table in some dive exchanging confidences with him. But if she didn’t go, it might be worse. Vasiliev was the kind of man who collected tidbits and sordid events and nothing remained secret in Macau for very long. He’d hear about Moy. And even if he didn’t suspect her, he would still hunt her down. He wanted something from her. She had no choice. She dumped her torn stockings into a reeking bin outside a closed restaurant and then hailed a rickshaw. The man said nothing when she told him the address and, grateful, she slumped into the canvas seat of the rickshaw.
The sign for De Santarem was neon lit, fancy for the Rua da Felicidade. Perhaps a better class of pimps and whores hung out here, like the highly prized lute girls with their tiny bound feet, painted faces, and their centuries-old charm. She must look a wreck. She ran a hand through her hair as she watched the rickshaw puller fade away. Neat hair wouldn’t alter her anguish. She hoped the club was very dark and that Vasiliev would interpret her long face as simple tiredness. She felt ancient, like the old Chinese women she saw on the street with their thread-bare black silk pyjamas and their bowlegs so twisted by age they could only hobble.
She pushed open the door and was trapped in a fug of smoke, booze and the dreamy glances of men: Chinese, Eurasian and Portuguese.The women didn’t bother to turn their heads.Through the gloom, she spotted Vasiliev at the bar talking to a European man while their pubescent female companions stood silent, a frozen look of boredom on their young painted faces. She waved.
She saw Vasiliev whisper into the ear of a girl, then he walked towards her, with a satisfied smile. He led her to a secluded table at the back. A waiter hurried after them with two glasses of port.Vasiliev sniffed each glass, contentment filled his large face. “It’s the best,” he declared, licking his lips. “From Douro in Portugal. The other stuff is rubbish.” He eyed her. “You look like you need a drink.”
“Long day.”
He considered this. “That so?”
“What shall we drink to?” she asked.
“To us,” he announced clinking his glass against hers and took a drink, savouring the flavours on his tongue. “Superb.”
Leah drank. It was very good, warming her from the inside. She took another sip and the nutty rich wine calmed her enough that she could focus on Vasiliev. She gazed at him, and his transformation from Vasiliev to Harris, as around them the buzz of conversations hummed. He certainly seemed to have become more successful, if you called being well-presented in a low rent bar success.
Vasiliev was studying the colour of the port, turning the glass in his meaty hand. “Such a shame in this light you can’t see the port’s true colour. It adds to the experience. All one’s senses are involved.”
“I thought you were executed in Manchuria. I was pleased.”
Vasiliev narrowed his eyes and stared. “What a terrible young woman you have become.”
“You nearly got us all killed in Manchuria,” she said, lowering her voice. “You’re the fiend. Sonia died because of you.”
She looked away and was overcome by sadness as her mind rushed back to that terrible day in the teeming train station. Poor scheming Sonia, shot, dying on its cold concrete floor. A whiff of cheap perfume hit her as a couple got up and made their way to the door. The man squeezed the woman’s buttocks with force and the woman let out a screech of drunken laughter.
Vasiliev nodded approvingly. “Someone’s happy.”
Icy with contempt, Leah demanded, “I want you to tell me how you got out.”
“You think I work for the Japanese,” Vasiliev flashed back with a hurt look on his face. “I hate them. All they know is war.” He paused. “I miss Sonia too. She was like a sister to me.” He rubbed his eyes and looked despondent.
In another minute, Leah thought, he will allow one large tear to escape. The man was an actor. It was all an act. He cared only for his own skin.
“She was dying.What was I supposed to do, stay there until the Kempeitai came, holding her lifeless hand and wailing? You didn’t. You escaped and you dare reproach me?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“So you say, Leah. I remember it differently. I was caught and thrown into a Jap prison because of you. You got away and escaped back to Hong Kong.Me, the Japs wanted to execute. I was lucky. They could have shot me on the spot. The Kem-peitai don’t go in for trials.” He sighed, took another mouthful of port and looked pensive. “Contacts.” He signalled the waiter and asked that he leave the bottle. He poured himself another glass. “I arranged for certain shipments of weapons from”—he paused again and looked around the room as if searching for a particular face—“a variety of sources and they agreed to let me go.”
“You supplied the Japanese with weapons?”
“We weren’t at war, then, Leah. Besides, if I didn’t, someone else would have. It’s business.”
“Business,” she echoed.
“Are you really Theo’s daughter?” he asked.
“Don’t you mention his name. You never knew him.”
Vasiliev sniffed the port wine. “Wonderful bouquet. And Leah, for your information Theo and I were very good friends before you were born.” He smiled serenely, as if remembering a particular enchanting event from his youth when he and Theo were young.
“You’re lying. And you are not Mr. Harris.”
“I am a very good Mr. Harris. And you and I have much in common.Not the least a fondness for your father. I did know Theo and we were very good friends.
“Don’t bring Theo into this.”
Vasiliev ducked his head under table then popped back up. “He’s not here.”
“I’m leaving.”
His massive hand came down hard on hers. “You mustn’t mind my little jokes. I am pulling your leg. It’s what we Englishmen do with our jolly sense of humour.”
“Let go of my hand.”
His face changed, congealed into a harsh set mouth and narrowed eyes. “We haven’t discussed business yet, my clever girl. It is important we understand each other. The consul depends on you so.”
He inched his chair closer and whispered compliments, his breath heavy with sweet port. He rolled his eyes in praise of her escaping Hong Kong and finding refuge at the British consulate. They were two of a kind, living by their wits.
He was repulsive: ugly, brutal, with his loose flesh and round face alight with salacious intent. If he touched her again, she would leave.
“Pay attention,” he snapped. “What happened before is ancient history.We can help each other.” He reached for her glass, touched it lightly with his and toasted, “To us.” He drank.
Leah felt compelled to finish the last of the port in her glass.
“Better,” he said. “I am a patriot now. I have good connections in China. Did Albemarle mention I’ve been in Chungking?”
She shook her head.
“It’s not good there. The allies aren’t doing enough to supply Chiang Kai-shek’s army. The American General Stilwell is ou
t of his depth.” He smirked at his pun, then continued, deadly serious. “I’m in touch with,” he paused, swivelled his head around to make sure he couldn’t be overheard, “people who can divert Japanese weapons to the Chinese. It costs money, though.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You check with Albemarle; he’ll vouch for me.”
“But I know you and I don’t trust you.”
He shook his head, clucking his sadness. “The trouble with you, Leah, is that you don’t trust yourself. I don’t know where you get that. Theo trusted me. Theo and I understood one another.” He saw her disbelief waver as he smiled knowingly. “I was the one who got him interested in Chinese antiquities,” he boasted. He’d done it, found the key to this interfering bitch, her arms drawn protectively in front of her breasts. So what if she found him repugnant? He knew so many things about her and her wily old sly fox of a father. She’d do what he wanted. He had a personal vendetta against the Japanese.What he had told her about escaping from Manchuria was mostly true. He saw no need to tell her anything more unless he needed to.What he wanted was money. Money to help the Chinese, yes; but also money to line his own pockets. It was such a tightrope to walk between the Chinese factions. He had to grease a great many palms. Politics was an expensive business.
With even more cunning, he ventured, “I miss Theo. Such a shame, how he died.” He saw the effect of his words. Leah had taken her arms away from her chest and was leaning towards him eager to listen. “Not now, it’s late.” He turned and his little bar companion came to the table, smiling sweetly and perched in his lap. He stroked the girl’s bare arm.
“We can’t discuss business here.”
“No,” agreed Vasiliev. “I’ll be in touch. The consul will be pleased we had this little meeting.”
Leah nodded, and without saying goodbye made her way out to the deserted street. A lone rickshaw man came down the road, scouting for men ready to go home to their wives. The rickshaw man grunted when she gave her address and eyed her up and down. She saw in his calculating gaze that she was an exotic European whore. Seated, she supposed he might be right. Vasiliev wanted to screw her for money and she was too ex-hausted to care.
THE thin, well-groomed Macau Police Chief Luis De Rey lounged against the wall in Albemarle’s office. Albemarle sat behind his desk; Spencer and Leah in the visitors’ chairs leaning forward, intent to catch De Rey’s every word.To De Rey, the man Spencer, who had discovered the body, looked terrible, his skin grey and waxy as if embalmed. The girl was very pretty, a real beauty.Out of habit, he kept his eyes trained on her as he mulled over what to say. It was just another stupid, senseless murder, which might or might not be linked to politics. He prayed to the saints that it wasn’t political.What an idiotic thing for a Chi-naman to do, get himself killed in the alley between two powerful enemies. If the man were alive, he’d murder him again for his stupidity and for putting his job on the line. He’d been in Macau since 1935, when António de Oliveira Salazar declared Portugal to be an Estado Nova, a New State. He understood his job: steer clear of the gangs and keep the general peace.Now his job was messy.Macau was chaotic, overflowing with refugees who had nothing. And his men couldn’t cope. How could they? There were only six of them, good men on the whole, but limited. A ridiculous number to combat this surge in lawlessness— and perhaps they were too ready to look the other way. He couldn’t blame them. They had signed up for a quiet, easy job. Well, he could look the other way too.Already, he decided it was a case of robbery pure and simple. He was not going to make himself unpopular with the Japanese.He had met Military Security Police Attaché Sawa on a number of occasions.Now, he avoided him whenever he could. There were some criminals one just stayed away from. The man was an animal.
“We will, of course, investigate,” said De Rey. “Terrible for this to happen to one of your employees and then the poor man to be found by Senhor Talbot.” He shook his head in sorrow.
Spencer nodded, glad now to have played a pivotal role in the horrid mess. “Most upsetting,” he said and realised Leah was staring at him as if he were an exhibit. Stupid girl. Why shouldn’t he look disturbed? He shot her an evil look.
De Rey was amused by the interplay between the bald ugly man and the beauty, but managed to keep his face straight and sympathetic.
Spencer said to De Rey, “Moy was such a fine fellow.We will miss him.”
“What do you think happened?” asked Albemarle. “Moy didn’t have an enemy in the world.
De Rey cleared his throat and said with authority, “My initial reaction, robbery. A thief sees your servant leave the consulate, assumes he has money. Moy resists and the thief knifes him. Desperate people without anything, what do they have to lose? They care only about their next meal.”
“You are probably right,” said Albemarle, genuinely saddened by all the unhappiness and wanton killing in the world. He sighed. “Sign of the times.”
“But may I say, Consul, on behalf of the colony of Macau and Governor Teixeira, who asked me personally to convey his condolences, we will investigate the matter thoroughly and make a full report. You have my personal guarantee.” He stood tall and saluted.
“On behalf of my country, I thank you and look forward to receiving your report,” said Albemarle.
De Rey looked around the room, smiled charmingly at Leah and left.
As soon as the door closed, Albemarle said, “Mr. Talbot, Spencer, take the day off. Go home, take a few days rest.”
“I can work,” said Spencer, desperate to show he was able to put aside his feelings of distress and carry on.
“No,” declared Albemarle, “I insist. Miss Kolbe and I can cope perfectly well for a few days.” Then more kindly, “Please as a favour to me, go home.”
“If the police need me—”
“—They have your address, Spencer.”
Spencer sighed. “If you think it best, sir.”
As he got up to leave, Spencer added, “I’ll write my report of the . . . incident . . . at home.”
“Splendid,” said Albemarle with utmost diplomacy and seriousness. “Write it all down, how you found poor Moy. It will help the police no end. Thank you for thinking of it.”
Spencer was pleased. He had a purpose. Already, he was explaining in his head how he took his usual shortcut to work and discovered the poor bugger. Nasty. He’d include how he was certain other people—Chinese people—too must have seen the body and ignored it, not wanting to get involved. He’d entitled his memorandum ‘Foul Play on the Streets of Macau.’ It had a certain hard-boiled ring to it, like something in detective novels. He liked detective novels.How everything came out all right in the end. Maybe, he’d use Moy’s death as a way to concoct his own. He might even drop in to see the police chief, De Rey. See how he was coming along with the investigation. Lovely word, investigation. It had an official ring to it. Maybe he’d even take the whole week off. “I’ll do that, sir,” he replied and even smiled at Leah as he went out the door.
“Load of nonsense,” said Albemarle to Leah when they were alone. “The Japs did it. No doubt about it. That’s why they left poor Moy in the alley. Not a very subtle message. I think they wanted to turn nice young Moy into a spy. Loyal man wouldn’t do it, so they murdered him.Teixeira has received more protest notes from that weasel Sawa about how I’m marshalling anti-Japanese forces here. All we’ve done is support the Chinese escaping Hong Kong and provide some real news about what is happening in China. The Japs claim it’s propaganda. Teix-eira is nervous.He’s a rising young star in the Portuguese bureaucracy. He doesn’t want a Japanese police action to tarnish his record. And it could happen. One regiment of crack Japanese troops and Macau would concede defeat instantly. Then it wouldn’t be only poor defenceless Chinese servants who are killed.” He looked shaken.
“It might just be robbery.”
He stared her down.
“No, you’re right,” she conceded, breathing a little hard, worried that somehow
he could read her face and see her guilt. She hurried on: “Do you think we could take a more active role in China?”
Albemarle looked suddenly old. “You met with Harris?”
She nodded. “He has some scheme. But mostly, I think he wants money.”
He shook his head. “The Americans are supposed to be supplying China.” He sighed, lowered his voice. “You didn’t hear that from me.”
“Harris says it’s not working.”
“I don’t have those kind of funds. And the Japs . . .” His voice trailed off. “There could be leaks inside. They seem to know my every move.”
Seeing his defeat, she ventured, “I’m not certain Harris can be trusted.”
“He somehow managed to get trucks to bring wounded Chinese soldiers to Macau for medical treatment and helped get drugs to the battlefield.
“He did?” She was baffled. She didn’t believe Vasiliev had a humanitarian bone in body or gave a damn who won the war as long as he came out on top.
“You mustn’t rush to judgment about Harris. He’s full of surprises. You tell him, I’ll try.”
“Okay.”
“And one more thing, he mustn’t come here again. It’s too risky for all of us. None of us wants to end up like poor Moy.”
“No,” she said, wishing Vasiliev had stayed dead.
12
WEEKS PASSED. FOOD became scarcer and prices soared. As 1942 neared a close, electricity was rationed. The Japanese claimed Macau’s coal for Hong Kong and had the naval power to enforce it. Meekly, the coal boats put in at Hong Kong. In Macau, electricity was available officially between ten in the morning and three in the afternoon and in the evening from seven to dawn. Often it was much less. Many people turned into nights owls, staying up late to enjoy the glitter of Macau’s neon lights and the relief of working fans. Leah did her routine consular work until two in the afternoon, then went home to lie on her bed naked and sweating, waiting for night to come.
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