The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

by David Rotenberg

“The money he gets from selling the antiquities?”

  “Some goes into the buying of other antiquities that he sells later.”

  “And the rest?”

  She paused and brought a hand up to her face. He noticed that her teeth weren’t good and although her clothes were clean and attractive they were excessively modest. Modest to his eyes, he reminded himself. She brushed her hand over the front of her skirt and said, more to her hand, than to Fong, “To government officials at first and later to older men and women.”

  “What did he want from the government officials?”

  “Access to information about Jews in Shanghai during the war.”

  “He’s a Jew?”

  She nodded.

  “Did he get the information he was after?”

  “I believe so. His family was here, in Shanghai, during the Japanese occupation and was forced into the ghetto.”

  “As were many.”

  Again she nodded.

  “But now he’s moved on from greasing government officials to buying information from older men and women, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which older men and women exactly?”

  “Those who had worked for Silas Darfun.”

  Fong looked at her as if she were mad. “Silas Darfun? The rich Long Nose who raised the orphans and had the Chinese wife?”

  She nodded and turned her head to one side. “His house is up by the Hua Shan Hospital. It’s now the Children’s Palace.”

  Fong knew that, but it had never had any relevance to him before. He knew that the mansion at Nanjing Lu and Yan’an Lu, now a training centre for artistic children, had originally been owned by a wealthy man with the unlikely name of Silas Darfun.

  Fong thanked the translator for her help but as she got up to go he said, “I think it best that you leave your passport here.”

  She reached into her handbag and placed her passport on his desk.

  He was about to apologize and explain that it was just standard procedure then he remembered the smell of burnt bodies and decided to pass up the niceties.

  Chen was at the door as the translator left.

  “I hope this is good news, Captain Chen. With your face it’s hard to tell.”

  “I’ve been told that, sir.”

  “So?”

  “We’ve been able to eliminate two of the five men. They were the husbands of women waiting for their wives to have . . . you know.”

  “Abortions. It’s time that we all learned to say that word without flinching. So who’s left?”

  Chen put three photos on the desk. Two were of middle-aged hard-faced men. One wore worker’s clothes and looked like he had some Uzbek blood in him. The other was well dressed and well groomed. The third man was younger. Much younger. He wore quality but not showy clothing. He carried a briefcase.

  “A guess, sir?”

  Fong didn’t know. It could be any of these guys or for that matter any of thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of others. “What about the unidentified women?”

  “Would a woman do this, sir?”

  Fong didn’t know that either. He thought not. But this blasphemy “stuff” was really beyond his comprehension. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I can’t think about that now.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be, Chen. You’re a terrific cop.” And Fong thought but did not say, “And a very fine man.”

  Robert turned quickly when Fong entered the office.

  “Sit,” Fong said in English.

  Robert didn’t for a moment then did. “Who broke your window?”

  “I did,” Fong answered.

  “Why?” Robert said trying to be upbeat.

  “Something pissed me off,” said Fong matter of factly. “Right now, you piss me off, Mr. Cowens.”

  “Do I?”

  “You do.” Fong flipped open a folio. “You have been illegally trading in antiquities in Shanghai for the better part of three years. Why?”

  “To make money.”

  “You make much more money from your law practice in Toronto.”

  “There’s quite a large Chinese population in Toronto.”

  “Is there?” replied Fong wondering what this had to do with anything.

  “The largest in North America – mainly Cantonese, though.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “Are you finished with this?”

  “This?” Robert queried.

  “This stupid diversion. Are you finished with this?”

  Robert nodded.

  “Good. So why do you bother making pennies trading in antiquities in Shanghai when you make a fortune in your law practice?”

  Robert smiled.

  “Don’t smile Mr. Cowens, you are in very serious trouble.”

  Robert’s smile went away but he was strangely not sad or even frightened. “I trade in antiquities to be able to find information about a family member of mine who spent the war in Shanghai?”

  Fong nodded.

  “My parents and their daughter Rivkah were in the Shanghai ghetto.”

  Fong signalled him to go on.

  “I believe my sister was left behind. I’ve been trying to find her or information about her. But it costs money. More money than I am allowed to bring into the People’s Republic of China so I go ‘antiquing’ to raise the money I need.”

  So that was the missing data from Mr. Cowens’ file. It linked so many of the pieces together and, more importantly, removed any possibility that Robert might have something to do with the bombings. Of course that conclusion rested on the idea that Robert was telling Fong the truth. Fong would have it checked out but he doubted Robert was lying to him. It was writ large all over the man’s face. For a lawyer he was remarkably bad at keeping his feelings under wraps. “And have you found the information you seek?”

  Robert allowed his hands to come up into the air and then flutter down. “No.”

  “Perhaps I can help.”

  Robert couldn’t believe his ears. Then he heard the edge in Fong’s voice. “And what do I have to do to gain your help in this matter?”

  “You are a lawyer, Mr. Cowens.”

  “It shows?”

  Fong nodded but didn’t smile. He made a decision.

  Robert spread his arms in submission then repeated his question, “What do I have to do to gain your help in this matter?”

  “Help me find the man who is setting bombs in our hospitals.”

  Robert was astounded by the request. “And how would I do that?”

  “We believe he ‘antiques’ just as you do to raise his capital.”

  Robert thought about that for a moment then rubbed his chin.

  “Did you hurt yourself when you stumbled and fell to the pavement?”

  Robert didn’t miss the use of the word stumbled in “stumbled and fell to the pavement” and realized his acceptance of that version of the story was part of the deal. Naturally – this was China, after all. “Yeah, a bit,” he said.

  “Believe me, Mr. Cowens, that pain is nothing compared to what I can inflict upon you if you don’t help us find this killer.”

  “That’s a very persuasive argument. Not elegant but persuasive.”

  “I would have thought that helping you find information about your lost sister would have been incentive enough.”

  “It is.”

  “Good. I have no love of violence, Mr. Cowens.”

  “Really! Do you carry a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m an awful shot.”

  Robert was tempted to laugh but quickly realized that was not such a good idea.

  “Okay, give me a hint where to start with this guy. What do you know about the bomber?”

  Fong went through the basics of what they knew of Angel Michael. Robert sat impassively listening. Fong finished. Robert didn’t move.

  “Does that give you a place to star
t your search?”

  Robert thought about it for a full ten seconds then said, “No. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t.”

  Fong swore in Mandarin. Robert got the gist – something about a goat’s testicles. He said nothing. He had nothing to say. He did wonder if Fong was pissed off enough to break something else – maybe him.

  There was another very long silence in the room then Fong remembered the words of the American consular official and turned to Robert. Robert took a half-step back. “He’s a Manichaean apparently.”

  “A what?”

  “A Manichaean.”

  Robert smiled then quickly removed the smile from his face. “That may be a place to start, Detective. There have been rumours for years that original Manichaean scrolls had been buried in caves in the desert.”

  “Which desert?”

  “The Taklamakan. Like everyone else persecuted in the West, the Manichaeans came across the Silk Road seeking sanctuary. The Church followed them. To evade Rome the Manichaeans were said to have buried their sacred texts then disappeared into the Middle Kingdom.”

  “China is the ocean that salts all rivers,” Fong quoted quietly.

  “What?”

  “An old saying, Mr. Cowens. So the Manichaeans headed east for safety just as did your parents – and sister.”

  Robert looked at Fong trying to see if there was any sarcasm in the comment. There wasn’t. “Yes. Like my parents and my sister.” He rubbed his chin again and a smile slowly crossed his face. “I could let it be known to my associates that I have in my possession one of those original Manichaean scrolls and want to sell it. If this arsonist is a true believer it may be enough to draw him out.”

  “It may.”

  Robert nodded. “We have a deal then, Detective Zhong?”

  “Write down all the information you have about your parents’ time in Shanghai and whatever else you need to know. I will set my people to it.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “It could take a while. I’ll contact you when I know something, hopefully by exactly two months from today.”

  “Why then?”

  “Why not? It’s a friend’s birthday.”

  Robert looked at him. Fong returned his stare. Finally Fong said, “How long should it take to get in contact with our Manichaean friend?”

  “Hard to tell. But if we’re lucky it could be fast – very fast.”

  Fong turned toward the broken window and muttered, “It better be.” Then he turned back to Robert. “What do you need to start this?”

  “Let me out of here – that’s a start.”

  Fong considered putting an electronic tracking cuff on Robert. But Fong had worn one himself for some time and wouldn’t impose that misery on anyone else. “Give me your passport.”

  Robert handed it over.

  “Do you have a cell phone, Mr. Cowens?”

  Robert produced it from his jacket pocket. Fong jotted down the ten-digit local number then handed it back. As Robert reached for it Fong held his side of the phone so the two of them felt each other’s pressure through the electronic device. “Don’t switch it off. And carry it at all times. I’ll be calling in every two hours. You don’t answer me and I’ll have you arrested and tossed into Ti Lan Chou Prison. You know what that is?”

  “The political prison.”

  “Right,” Fong said and released his end of the phone.

  Robert pocketed the thing. Fong gave Robert his cell number. “Call me if anything and I mean anything begins to happen.” Robert nodded then turned to go.

  “Mr. Cowens.”

  Robert turned back to face Fong. The small man with the delicate features had his hand out. Robert took a step toward him and took the proffered hand. The two men, so very different, from such different worlds, felt the meeting as their palms touched. Neither would acknowledge it, but this was clearly the meeting of two very lonely men.

  Angel Michael used the ID he’d stolen the first time he entered the Hua Shan Hospital to pass by security. It was late and the cleaning crews were reporting for work. He slid on his smock and grabbed a cleaner’s cart. He wheeled past the reception desk and its two guards. They glanced at him then signalled for him to stop. They came over quickly and flipped open the covered area on the floor of the trolley. Astinky wash bucket with dirty bandages greeted their inquiring looks.

  “Yow!” one of them said as he threw down the sheet that covered the area. “What a smell.”

  “Yeah, but instructions said for all the trolleys to be checked.”

  “Can I go, now?” Angel Michael asked.

  “Lots of cleaning left to do?”

  “Lots,” Angel Michael said as he steered his cart toward the abortion ORs. “So they figured out the trick with the cart,” he thought, “fine I planned for that – that’s what windows are for, after all.” He moved past several ORs and came to the sixth. Only the first and the sixth had windows. He went in and closed the door carefully behind him. Then he wheeled the trolley over to the window. Standing on top of the cart, he nimbly hauled himself up to the window ledge. He slipped on his rock-climbing shoes and with the rosin pouch at his side he started up the outside wall toward the roof. The crumbling masonry gave out beneath his feet twice but his hand strength was considerable; each time he dangled briefly then pulled himself up to another foothold.

  On the roof he unearthed the cage with its gruesome contents from a pile of discarded shingle tiles and hooked it on his back. Going down was more complicated but no problem for a world-class rock climber like Angel Michael.

  He put the cage down on the ground to the side of the window ledge and slid back into the surgery, standing on the cart. Then he heard the door open. He jumped down, grabbed a rag, and started cleaning the stainless steel surgical table. Four soldiers ran in with arms drawn. Angel Michael stood back and held up his hands. One of the soldiers barked out, “Turn around and put your hands up against the wall.”

  As Angel Michael turned he realized that the small window high up the wall was open! But the soldiers were so busy searching him that they never looked up. When they were done they shooed him out of the room with the instruction, “Go clean somewhere else.”

  Fong paced back and forth in the rear of the old theatre. Onstage technicians hung, dropped, then re-hung lights. Chinese theatre technicians were not theatre specialists. They were workmen – in this case, electricians – seconded to work on productions in the final days before opening. It was hardly an ideal situation.

  Fong had already given the stage manager a note to deliver to Tuan Li. He was anxious to apologize. Insulting Tuan Li had been like insulting his dead wife, Fu Tsong. But just as he took a seat a female voice called his name. He turned. It was not Tuan Li. It was Lily.

  And she was furious.

  Angel Michael moved away from the surgeries and dragged his cart up the stairs. He didn’t know this part of the hospital but he needed to find a way out to the courtyard to retrieve the cage and RDX explosive he’d left there. He tried the first two offices but they were locked. He reached for the knob on the third door, to the office right above the first OR, and the handle turned. He shut the door behind him and turned on the light. To his surprise this was not a single office but a warren of small labs. With a shock he realized that these were police forensic labs.

  Then he saw the photo on the main desk. He’d seen the woman before – and the man – outside the hospital – speaking English. She had been the one who had the antique fresco sent to the hospital that had interrupted his first attempt to plant his bomb at the Hua Shan Hospital. She was the one who upset his schedule so that the American newspapers were now claiming that there had been no second blast – that it was an industrial accident. This woman had cast doubt on his entire enterprise.

  He picked up the photo. The two adults were huddled around a small creature – a baby. He pocketed the photo then hunted for an address. It didn’t take him long to find it. To his delight it was a simpl
e walk away – to the Shanghai Theatre Academy. Mani had said “a believer must fight those who would keep the light from the world.”

  And as Angel Michael made his way to the theatre academy that was precisely what he was planning to do.

  Fong’s cell phone rang as he and Lily entered their apartment. Lily looked at him – well not really looked, no, dared would be a more accurate description. She dared him to answer his cell phone. So he didn’t. It continued to ring. Xiao Ming began to cry.

  “Xiao Ming’s crying,” Fong said.

  “I’m not deaf, Fong,” snapped Lily and folded her arms across her chest. Fong’s cell phone stopped ringing. There was a moment where the only sound in the room was Xiao Ming’s sobbing. Fong looked at the fresco on the wall beside the window. The Western man seemed to radiate light and serenity. “We could use a bit of both of those in here, now,” he thought. He reached over and turned on the overhead light.

  “Turn that off.”

  He did.

  “What are you smiling at, Fong. There’s nothing funny here.”

  Xiao Ming’s crying became more emphatic. Fong’s cell phone rang again. “Lily, can this wait?”

  “For what?”

  “A better time. A time when . . .”

  “When you can think of a good explanation for your behaviour? No. I don’t think this can wait. And turn off that cell phone.”

  He did – mid-ring. Xiao Ming stopped crying instantly. The silence in the apartment was thick with possibilities. Lily bit her lip and turned away from Fong. Finally he said, “I don’t deserve you.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  A long silence.

  “Well, at least we agree on that.”

  “This is not funny, Fong. Not funny. We are married. You are married to me. We have a baby. Fu Tsong is dead. I never asked you how or why she died. But she is dead. She must not come between us now.” Suddenly she was crying. Through her tears she barked out, “I can’t compete with a famous actress. Especially a famous dead actress.” Then she stomped her foot and screamed, “Not fair. This is not fair.”

  Instantly, Xiao Ming began to wail. Fong’s cell phone didn’t ring because its ringer was turned off but he felt it vibrate in his pocket.

  “Lily, listen to me. Lily.”