The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory

by David Rotenberg

  “I know who you are,” the editor cut in curtly.

  Anger surged in Fong. If the commissioner hadn’t been standing there he really would have let this little pisser have it. But controlling himself, he said, “It’s about your lead story this—”

  “No doubt it is. So what can I help you with, Mr. Zhong, head of Special Investigations, Shanghai District?”

  He looked up. Commissioner Hu was watching him closely. Fong turned back to the speaker. “Okay, enough of this shit. Who gave you permission to run this story!”

  Without the least hesitancy the reply came back. “We obtained our normal clearances.”

  There was a stunned silence from Fong. The paper had received clearance for the story? How could that be?

  “Is there something else with which you need my assistance, Mr. Zhong?”

  “No, well yes, could you send me your authorizations?”

  “For the story?”

  “Yes, of course for the story,” said Fong.

  “That’s quite impossible. And you know that it’s quite impossible. Now if there are no more requests I do have a busy schedule—”

  Fong snapped off the phone and looked up. To his surprise, the commissioner was gone.

  He quickly read through the rest of Wang Jun’s report. The street warden system in Shanghai was still as tight in that section of the city as it had been during the Cultural Revolution. Very little escaped the sharp eyes of these people. The majority were not native Shanghanese and took great pleasure in exercising their power over the locals. The party always awarded such positions, along with the appropriate housing, to peasants from good revolutionary stock. But, according to the wardens’ statements to Wang Jun’s men, they had seen nothing out of the ordinary.

  Fong then opened the time chart that Wang Jun had provided. There had been a domestic dispute at one end of the alley at 8:40 P.M. The quarrel had ended with the husband yelling and screaming in the alley. Another warden reported that a doctor had been summoned to a dying man’s side at 9:30, which would have made him travel the entire length of the alley from Julu Lu. The body was found by the rookie cop at 10:33. There was no possibility that New Orleans police officer Richard Fallon had been murdered and mutilated somewhere else, then carted to the alley. It is one thing to cart body pieces but quite another to haul the blood with them. Richard Fallon’s blood was clear evidence that he had been murdered in the alley off Julu Lu.

  A shiver slithered down Fong’s spine. He got up from his desk and parted the window’s ancient curtains. He looked across the river. The Pudong grew even as he watched. The huge cranes of the planet’s largest construction project, four times the size of even the dreams of Canary Wharf in London, pivoted and swung like gray metallic herons on an endless quest for food.

  Fong pulled himself away from the window. His office, the room in which he now spent a great portion of his life, was large by Shanghai standards and its view of the river was a rare privilege for a non-party member. The building itself sat right on Zhong Shan Road three blocks south of the famous Peace Hotel, on the road the Europeans, who had owned this part of the world for so long, called the Bund. From the turn of the century up until the revolution in 1949, there were four famous streets in the world: Broadway, Piccadilly, the Champs Élysées, and the Bund.

  In this very office had sat some of the most powerful men in history. Men who had controlled the trade into and out of the Middle Kingdom. Even the infamous Silas Hordoon had at one time passed through this room.

  The phone on his desk rang. It was his private line, so he knew it was Wang Jun. “Yeah, I read it,” he said when he picked up. “I think we should meet.”

  “Good. Look out your window.”

  Punching up the speaker phone, Fong moved to his window.

  There, standing on the river promenade, looking up at him with a cellular phone in his hand, was Wang Jun.

  “My new toy, you like?” Not waiting for an answer, Wang Jun continued. “I’ve got work to do but I think we need to meet. This whole thing stinks.”

  “Have you found the street sweeper?” “No, but her shift hasn’t come on yet.” There was the slightest pause on the phone. “Come down here and take a walk with me. I think what we have to say is better said away from your office.” With that Wang Jun clicked off.

  For a moment Wang Jun’s manner annoyed Fong, but he let it pass. He left his office and, taking the back stairway out of the building, managed to leave without his shrugging, knocking assistant noticing.

  • • •

  The news of her husband’s demise in far-off Shanghai left Amanda Fallon wondering what she should feel. For a moment she didn’t understand that she was faint, that the room was weaving and bobbing around her. It was only when the man from the State Department, who had come to her home in the New Orleans Garden District to tell her the news of Richard’s death, took her arm, and sat her down that she realized she was going to faint. As her living room narrowed to a single tunnel of light that then moved in on her, all she could think of was, I shouldn’t be in shock, I should be thrilled, I should be on my knees thanking fucking God that I’m free of that bastard.

  For a moment the government man didn’t know what to do. They’d never told him how to handle situations like this. He recognized from the sweat on her face and her ghostly pallor that Amanda Fallon had gone into shock. But even as he picked up the telephone to call for an ambulance, only one thought filled his mind. “This is one of the saddest-looking beautiful women I have ever seen.”

  Fong spotted Wang Jun near the photography kiosk on the promenade at the base of Nanjing Road. For the thousandth time Fong marvelled at the view of the European buildings that the raised promenade offered. Because the walkway was almost two stories high and a full six lanes of traffic away from the buildings, the viewer was offered a breathtaking look at the architect’s artistry. Gables and domes, spires and bell towers, and mass—lots and lots of elegant cock-proud mass. Although the buildings were completely unlike Chinese architecture, which he adored, Fong had to admit that the robber baron Europeans had created something of lasting beauty in the twenty-one buildings that dominated the Shanghai skyline. Of course it was from those very buildings that these same white men had raped and plundered the wealth of his country for almost fifty years.

  There were the usual tourists on the promenade being led around like so many children on a string. Click-click for Japanese, scuffle and whine for Americans, and open haughtiness for Germans. Ah yes, the world’s lords had come to gawk at what had been theirs but was no more.

  There were also the rural dispossessed. Recently arrived at the train station in the north end of the city and without work or a place to stay, they would wander down to the waterfront to sleep. A peasant can sleep sitting up, head in full profile on the back of his hand which in turn is balanced on a knee. They seem to sleep soundly. But try touching the filthy bag that contains his few worldly belongings and you will see that this delicately posed sleeper can awaken with a roar.

  A sleeping peasant looks like a delicate mantis that has fallen into strong Chinese wine and for a moment is stunned into stillness—stunned long enough for the diner to nab him with a set of chopsticks, dunk him in the sauce, and eat him whole. A fate that, at least metaphorically, awaited many of these sleeping men.

  There were the con men too. The ones who had enough English to approach white people did so. They all had some supposed family heirloom to sell or their services as guides to Shanghai’s many pleasures of the eye, the palate, or the groin. And there were the beggars, not many, not like Kwongjo, the Canton of old, but more than there used to be. The obscenity of his countrymen begging before foreigners always sent a special rush of anger through Fong.

  Stretched out on a bench, between himself and Wang Jun at the kiosk, was a clubfooted man. His filthy clothes were pulled up to reveal the stumps that were his feet. A tin soup bowl was near his deformed extremities. Spittle ran from his mouth and
there was the unmistakable reek of human waste about him. For a moment Fong’s anger subsided as he looked at this poor specimen of humankind.

  “Are you in pain?”

  The clubfooted man’s eyes fluttered open and tried to focus.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  Slowly the man shook his head.

  “There’ll be help here in a minute, but you have to promise me that you won’t fight them. Is that a promise, do I have your promise?”

  The man nodded.

  “Good, I’ll be right back.” With that he made his way quickly through the thickening morning crowd and grabbed the phone from Wang Jun’s hand.

  “Hey—”

  But Fong had already punched in the phone number of special services.

  “Is it ringing?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Wang Jun took the phone, listened, and pressed SEND.

  “You should think of joining the twentieth century sometime before it’s over,” he said, handing the instrument back.

  Quickly Fong left orders for the clubfooted man to be picked up and brought to a shelter.

  “You’re a sentimentalist, Zhong Fong, a dangerous sentimentalist. And at your age, really.”

  “He’s sick, he’s hungry, our revolution meant something.”

  “Did it really,” snapped Wang Jun. He began to walk.

  Fong moved with him. “So?”

  “Tell me about the newspapers and how they got the story, Fong.”

  “They got clearance.”

  “Bullshit. From whom? That kind of story has to have party approval before it sees the light of day. Surely that takes time. Or didn’t that cross your mind?”

  Fong resisted the taunt. “They got authorization to run the story and that’s that.”

  Wang Jun shook out a Marlboro and lit it. “I think the murderer was a pro.”

  “I agree.”

  “Anything on the wallet?”

  “A little blood that will no doubt match the dead man’s. If there are prints on the wallet or credit cards I’ll bet they’ll match Mr. Fallon’s as well.”

  “Why did he leave the wallet? A pro doesn’t make that kind of mistake.”

  “I don’t think it was a mistake. I think it was a message.”

  “If it was, then the sender’s pretty lucky that the papers got—” The older man stopped himself. Then he continued, “Pros don’t have luck, do they?”

  “No, they don’t, Wang Jun. There is nothing about luck involved here as far as I can see. Somebody wanted to send a pretty gory message and they used you and me to send it.”

  “You and me and Richard Fallon, member of the New Orleans police force. Let’s not forget that he did his part.”

  Unable to resist, Fong said, “Parts.”

  “Dim sum for giants.”

  Suddenly it stopped being funny. “Yeah, man-eating giants. Cannibals.”

  Wang Jun stared at his young friend. Fong met his gaze. “I’m not a boy, I’m not someone’s messenger boy. I want this lunatic found.”

  “Who was the message being sent to is the question, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a good question but let’s start with the killer. Find the street sweeper. I want her in my office as soon as you get her. Don’t let one of your men do it. I don’t want her scared. I want her charmed and treated like a lady, so I want you to get her and bring her to me.”

  “You have great faith in street sweepers, Zhong Fong.” Fong had no interest in discussing his family’s long history as night soil collectors. “Just find her and bring her to me.” With that he turned his back on Wang Jun and headed toward his office. As he hopped the pedestrian barrier and crossed Zhong Shan Road, he reran his mental tape of the conversation just finished. For the life of him he couldn’t understand why that conversation couldn’t have taken place in his office.

  Geoffrey Hyland handed his Canadian passport over the immigration counter at Shanghai’s Hong Qiao Airport. He always arrived in Shanghai with a sense of sadness but also a feeling of coming home. Eleven years ago, he had been invited to the Shanghai Theatre Academy to direct an obscure Canadian play called The Ecstasy of Rita Joe. The school’s acting faculty despised his non-Russian-based approaches, but to their shock and the delight of both students and audience, the play was a runaway hit. Six months later he was invited back by Shanghai’s biggest professional theatre, the People’s Repertory Company, to remount the play using the student leads from the first production to play the younger roles and the professional company’s members in the older parts. This too proved successful. It was not, however, successful for Geoffrey Hyland. This time in Shanghai he met and fell hopelessly in love with Zhong Fong’s wife, Fu Tsong.

  That love endured until the day four years ago when, in his turn-of-the-century house in Toronto’s West End, he opened a letter from Shanghai. The words were blunt and seemed to burn, as if etched, on the rice paper. All it said was: Fu Tsong is dead. Many think her husband killed her. They found her body and the body of a fetus in a construction pit in the Pudong.

  So stunned was he by the words that he never thought to question either the identity or the motive of the writer. Had he in fact been able to decipher the scribbled signature he would not have been able to recall the face of the author. All this was as intended by the writer.

  Geoffrey became aware that the immigration officer was standing as he handed back his passport. The young man surprised Geoffrey by extending his hand and saying, “High Lan, yes? Lee Ta Jo, yes?” Geoffrey’s eyes brightened. Those productions were a lifetime ago to him, but the repertory company performed them regularly. To him “Lee Ta Joe” had been a time with Fu Tsong. Now was a time without her—a sad homecoming.

  He shook the immigration officer’s hand and headed toward the airport’s lounge where he knew the driver from the Shanghai Theatre Academy would be waiting. The man looked exactly like the late American actor, Jack Soo. Geoffrey had told him that once, over lunch, and thereafter the driver insisted that Geoffrey call him Soo Jack. He also insisted that when Geoffrey needed a car, he be the driver.

  As Geoffrey left the immigration counter a note was taken, a phone lifted, and an insurance policy put into motion.

  Standing rigidly at attention, the rookie cop waited for Fong to finish reading his report. Fong put down the file and looked at the young man in front of him. He was twenty-two years old, square-shouldered with large usually rounded eyes and short spiky hair. There was some Mongolian in his blood lines somewhere. His name was Ling Che.

  “Did you speak to anyone after you left the coroner’s office?”

  “Yes, as you instructed I contacted the consulates.” The papers could have gotten their information from one of the consulates, Fong knew, but he doubted the leak would happen quickly enough to make the morning press. “You phoned them?”

  “Yes, sir. Wasn’t that how I was supposed to do it?

  Those who had no operators working late, I faxed. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, it’s right, Ling Che, it’s right.”

  There was a long pause, there was something here that was escaping Fong.

  “May I go now, sir?”

  Fong sat perfectly still for several seconds. Ling Che didn’t know what to do. Then Fong stirred. “Did you use a cellular phone to make your calls to the embassies?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cellular phones aren’t secure! Anyone could intercept your call. You’re supposed to use the precinct phones!” Fong shouted.

  The young man, completely cowed, bowed his head and mumbled, “I was at my girlfriend’s place, her parents were in the country for one night. It was the first time in three years that we—”

  Fong held up his hand for him to stop. Privacy, in a city where housing was a major problem even for the well connected and the wealthy, was nonexistent on a young policeman’s salary. If you wanted to scratch your ass in Shanghai, you had better be prepared for someone to be watching while yo
u did it. And if the watcher is Shanghanese he will probably offer advice on a better way to go about your task.

  He dismissed Ling Che with a nod. He hoped to hell that the young cop wasn’t lying to him. He made a note to check.

  The light on his phone came up. “Who?”

  “The coroner.”

  After a moment the coroner’s smoke-tired voice came on the line. “You’d better come over. I’ve got some frozen viscera here that you ought to see.”

  The parcel that arrived at the Jiang Jing Hotel had been left with the concierge. It had not been brought by a courier. In fact the concierge had been away from the desk when it arrived. The parcel had a room number and a guest’s name on it. The concierge called up to the room and informed the guest that there was a parcel for him. The guest asked that a bellboy bring it up, knock on the door, and leave it outside.

  The bellboy took the small parcel up to room 2430 and knocked politely on the door. Then he placed the parcel, as instructed, on the floor and returned to the lobby.

  A full five minutes after the bellboy’s knock, the door to the room opened and the parcel was taken inside. Forty-five seconds after that, obscenities in various languages and the clear sound of someone throwing up his lunch on the expensive broadloom came from room 2430 of the Jiang Jing Hotel.

  “It’s a part of a heart,” said Fong.

  The coroner nodded at the object in his plastic-gloved hand. “Part of Richard Fallon’s heart.”

  “Where’s the rest?”

  “There’s a good question.” The coroner pointed toward a large table on which the pieces of Richard Fallon had been laid out. If there was an order to the pieces, it escaped Fong. The coroner explained: “The body is divided into those things male and those things female, yin and yang if you will. Those that cause heat and those that cause cold. Those that are of fire, those of air, those of water.” As he spoke he pointed to different sections of viscera and organs. Then he picked up the heart again. “Only the heart, of all the body’s parts, belongs to both yin and yang, both heat and cold, and all of fire, air, and water. That is, when it is whole.” He looked at the cleft heart that he held.