The Shanghai Incident

by Bryan Methods

“You’re learning,” said Mr. Scant, with the tiniest hint of approval. “We’re in a hurry, so I’ll do this one, but we’ll have you practice on the next.”

  The lock turned before Mr. Scant had even finished speaking, and he pushed the door open silently. Inside, we could see at once that this was not a single residence; there were a number of different doors, and then stairs leading upward. There was also a small door marked Service, and it was to this that Mr. Scant turned after listening intently for a few moments. The door was not locked, and we found another small staircase on the other side of it. Mr. Scant stopped on the first step, listening again.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “He’s angry,” said Mr. Scant. Before waiting for a reply, he dashed up the four flights of steps leading to the little apartment. I did my best to keep pace and caught up with Mr. Scant just as he barged his way through the single door at the top of the steps. Following in his wake, I rushed into the messy, dirty entrance hall of a small Parisian apartment, where overcoats, old newspapers, and the moldy ends of baguettes were strewn everywhere. The smell of rotting vegetables made me cover my nose, but there was no time to stop—we ran straight toward the raised voices Mr. Scant had been able to hear from all the way downstairs.

  “The right friends, you say!” Monsieur Bernard was shouting, incredulous. “You come here to steal my treasures, and you tell me we need to keep the right friends?”

  I couldn’t see the men, but they must have been standing in front of a bright lamp, for their shadows fell upon the wall of a room at the end of the corridor. Monsieur Bernard was pointing his finger up at Dr. Mikolaitis’s nose, while the doctor held his hands up, protesting his innocence.

  “I’m not here to steal anything from you,” said Dr. Mikolaitis.

  “Of course you would say that. Too bad for you the boy came before you did. He told me everything you’d done, you traitor. You cowardly turncoat! Oh yes, I know all about your little game. What you did. You and the real Claw, you destroyed the Society! But the boy, ah, he’s bringing a new Society together, here in France. Stronger than it ever was with idiots like his parents in charge. Imbecile Englishmen, always preening in front of the mirror, so they never see when’re stabbed in the back.”

  I looked at Mr. Scant urgently, but he held up his hand. “Let him speak,” he whispered, just on the edge of my hearing.

  “What boy?” said Dr. Mikolaitis.

  “What boy do you think?” Monsieur Bernard said, stalking away from Dr. Mikolaitis. “The Binns boy. The new maître. The new head of the sphinx. And he’ll reward me well for doing this to the man who betrayed his parents.”

  “Let’s not—” Dr. Mikolaitis began, starting toward the smaller man, but without warning, a gunshot rang out, and Dr. Mikolaitis’s shadow twisted before dropping to the ground.

  I looked at Mr. Scant wide-eyed, and he grabbed my arm. “Remember what I taught you about guns,” he hissed.

  “Make them aim high and hit them low,” I said, a recitation from a long and painful lesson—but Mr. Scant was already hurling himself into the room, while Dr. Mikolaitis’s shadow had fallen completely out of view.

  II

  A New Society

  Scant was in the air. As I darted in after him, I saw—as if in a frozen moment—that he had leapt high, the rodent of a man looking at him with wide eyes while the barrel of the pistol still breathed out a rivulet of smoke. Mr. Scant had ensured the gun was aimed upward, and the next part was up to me.

  “Hit them low,” I repeated to myself. Monsieur Bernard was a small man, about my height, but with a much bigger belly. I did the only thing I could think of, launching myself at him in a clumsy sort of rugby tackle. I probably wouldn’t have been able to knock down most adults, but Monsieur Bernard was taken by surprise and crashed to the floor, with me falling hard onto his rib cage.

  The next thing I knew, Mr. Scant was upon us, pulling me away with his left hand while the claw on the right flashed out, two of the blades on his fingers digging into the floorboards on either side of Monsieur Bernard’s neck. Then, in practiced motions, Mr. Scant grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it in such a way that forced Bernard to roll onto his belly. Ignoring the Frenchman’s cry of pain, Mr. Scant then pressed his knee into the small of the other man’s back.

  “Did I do the right thing?” I asked, as I got out of the way.

  “Tripping him would have been . . . more elegant, Master Oliver. Now help Mykolas.”

  My eyes widened as I remembered Dr. Mikolaitis. I rushed over and was relieved to see him smile grimly.

  “I’m alright,” he told me. “Well, not alright, I’m bleeding profusely. Come, put pressure here.”

  After only a moment’s hesitation, I pushed my fingers down on Dr. Mikolaitis’s shoulder, which made him grunt. His fine new clothes were blackened all around the gunshot wound.

  “Unhand me, filthy cretin!” Monsieur Bernard yelled from the floor, his face pushed into the dirty carpet. Mr. Scant ignored him.

  “Pass me that vodka, lad,” said Dr. Mikolaitis. “The vodka’s the clear one.”

  He poured the liquid over his wound before taking a gulp for himself, then gritted his teeth as he slowly took off his jacket. “Bring me a sheet or something, for a bandage. Try to find something clean.”

  This was no easy task. Many things in Monsieur Bernard’s apartment may have started off as white but now all were a sickly gray. I found a pillowcase that appeared to have been laundered relatively recently, used a letter opener to cut the seams, and then tore it open. Dr. Mikolaitis had peeled off his shirt, and he took the pillowcase with a nod of thanks.

  “Will you be alright?” I asked.

  “Most likely, though who knows?” said the doctor. “It may get infected, and I will die a painful death. But I should say I’m lucky. He shot me in the shoulder so he could gloat before he shot me again.”

  “Yes, I wanted to gloat!” shouted Monsieur Bernard. “And I would be gloating now if not for your nasty friends.”

  “Perhaps we should shoot you in the shoulder too and see how well you gloat then,” rumbled Mr. Scant, hauling the man to his feet.

  “Ha! Go ahead, see if I care. Traitorous dogs.”

  “Oh, that’s very rich from someone whose mother won Best in Show,” Dr. Mikolaitis shot back, to a cry of outrage from Monsieur Bernard.

  “Should we take you to a hospital?” I asked.

  “No, it’s only a small amount of excruciating pain,” Dr. Mikolaitis replied. “It will pass. I’ll treat myself when we finish here. I am a doctor, after all.”

  “Aren’t you the wrong sort of doctor?” I asked.

  “Well, you could put it like that. I am a doctor of theology who also happens to know how to stitch himself up. It’s been useful over the years. Now press this down so I can tie it properly.”

  Mr. Scant pushed Monsieur Bernard down on a wooden chair and bound the man’s arms and legs to it with one of the lengths of rope he always seemed to carry around.

  “I have an itch on my nose,” the Frenchman complained.

  “Bear with it,” Mr. Scant said.

  With a grunt, Dr. Mikolaitis got to his feet and went to join Mr. Scant. He appeared to be ignoring how rapidly the improvised bandage had soaked through. Uneasily, I went to join them.

  “So, the Binns boy came to see you?” said Dr. Mikolaitis. “What did he tell you?”

  “Why should I answer?” asked Monsieur Bernard. Then he met Dr. Mikolaitis’s eye and seemed to instantly reconsider his position. “I–I’m sorry. He . . . means to use this disarray his idiot father made in England to make a new Society here in Paris, one that will actually act on the ideals his father pretended he admired. No more play. A Society to really change the world.”

  Mr. Scant looked unconvinced. “Why would the old maîtres support the son of an idiot? Why do you?”

  “Ah, perhaps you have never met the boy,” Monsieur Bernard said. “He is different. He believes. An
d he makes you believe.”

  Mr. Scant looked at Dr. Mikolaitis. “What do you think his chances are?”

  “I doubt he has any chance at all,” Dr. Mikolaitis said. “The maîtres will all want to lead the new Society themselves. Not listen to some upstart English boy.”

  Mr. Scant nodded. Then he looked back to Monsieur Bernard and said, “We are looking for Elspeth Gaunt. Do you know the name?”

  Monsieur Bernard said nothing for a moment. Then he muttered, “This name means nothing to me.”

  “She was studying mathematics at the École normale supérieure,” Mr. Scant said. “Her father was in debt to the Woodhouselee Society, and she was here under the supervision of the local members.”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “Who would?”

  “Why would I know this?” Monsieur Bernard sputtered. “And why would I tell you if I did? What does it matter now, anyway? If you know where she is, go and fetch her.”

  Mr. Scant persevered. “Before we brought Binns to justice—”

  “Ha!”

  “—it seems the debt was taken on by the Tri-Loom.”

  “The Tri-Loom? Ha, and I thought your problem was the Binns boy. If you start to—how do you say?—bark up that tree, you’ll disappear before the boy even gets to you.”

  Mr. Scant let out a deep breath. When Mr. Scant sighed, it sounded older and wearier than any normal sigh, heavy like an ancient tree finally toppled by a storm. “To whom do we need to speak?”

  “There is nobody to speak with! Binns, he was the only one the Tri-Loom dealt with, and even then, they would send for him, not the other way around. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. Secret societies are one thing. Crime syndicates are completely different. You don’t understand that? Go find out what happens if you start asking the wrong questions.”

  Dr. Mikolaitis had begun to sway, and his face was looking disturbingly pale.

  “Mr. Scant, I think we need to do something about Dr. Mikolaitis,” I said.

  Mr. Scant looked agitated, but Dr. Mikolaitis reluctantly nodded. Mr. Scant adjusted his cap and leaned forward so that his face, grimmer than any reaper’s, was inches from Monsieur Bernard’s. “We’ll be taking back everything you stole, and if I find you kept anything from us, we will return for it.”

  When Monsieur Bernard turned his face away defiantly, Mr. Scant pulled out a sack that had been hanging from his belt and gave it to me. “Get everything shiny that’s under his bed. Take care not to touch anything else. You’ll likely regret it.”

  “And put it all in this sack?”

  “What else would it be for?” Mr. Scant snapped, then swept past me to tend to his old friend. I hurried into the dingy bedroom, which was every bit as disgusting as I expected. Traces of old meat and bread had turned the same green color, while empty bottles lay where they had been dropped. Under the bed, between piles of clothes and rags that I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen moving slightly, sat a neat wooden cigar box. I pulled it out and chanced a look within. So many jewels and gold chains had been stuffed inside that it was hard to close the lid again.

  I hurried out, holding the box up demonstrably, which made Monsieur Bernard snarl. “You’re making some bad enemies, boy.”

  “If they’re all like you, I don’t think they’ll be a problem for Mr. Scant.”

  “Your precious butler won’t be able to save you forever.”

  “He’s not just our butler. He’s my father’s valet.”

  Mr. Scant had brought Dr. Mikolaitis to his feet, so I hurried over to let the injured man lean on me as Mr. Scant took the cigar box. Then he looked at Monsieur Bernard and leaned so close to him that I thought Mr. Scant’s thick eyebrows would brush the other man’s skin. “We are taking back your baubles and trinkets, monsieur. Scotland Yard will see them restored to their rightful owners.”

  The Frenchman’s round face twitched as Mr. Scant stepped away from him. “You can’t just leave me here!”

  “You are of course a popular and well-regarded man,” Mr. Scant said as he took Dr. Mikolaitis’s weight from me again. “Someone will no doubt be along to visit you soon. I’m sure they will be happy to release you.”

  “Untie me at once!”

  “I’m sorry, I have to support my friend. The one you shot.”

  With that, we left behind the rants of Monsieur Bernard and his squalid little apartment. I didn’t look back, and felt somewhat grateful I couldn’t understand the stream of French profanity that followed us.

  “What if nobody does come for him?” I asked, as we eased Dr. Mikolaitis down the stairs. To my surprise, it was the doctor who answered.

  “Lice are not so easy to kill.”

  Ignoring all objections, Mr. Scant took Dr. Mikolaitis to the nearest main road, where I managed to wave down a hansom cab to take us to a hospital. Dr. Mikolaitis put on a remarkable show of being in perfect health as he stepped into the cab, so as not to give the driver any cause for alarm, but by the time we got to our destination, he was paler than any of the sculptures from the Louvre. The driver apparently wasn’t at all upset that he’d been tricked into transporting an injured man, and helped us take the good doctor inside.

  “What shall we do now?” I asked Mr. Scant as we left the hospital, once Dr. Mikolaitis was safely admitted.

  “Reggie will be meeting with this mystery man from Scotland Yard at three o’clock,” said Mr. Scant. “We mustn’t be late.”

  The helpful driver had waited for us, so Mr. Scant asked him to take us on to Notre Dame. When we arrived in front of the western façade of the famous cathedral, the scene was oddly still for a Sunday afternoon. There was nobody to be seen but a man riding his bicycle back and forth in front of the cathedral’s closed wooden doors and two old men in caps pointing walking sticks at faint marks on the surrounding walls, perhaps made by last year’s flood.

  “Where’s Uncle Reggie?” I asked.

  “I wish I knew,” Mr. Scant rumbled.

  We waited in an inconspicuous spot by the wall overlooking the river Seine, but as time went by, it became increasingly evident that Uncle Reggie was not going to appear. The two old men shuffled off somewhere, and a small flock of nuns passed, chatting in bright voices that filled the air like hawthorn petals on the wind. The man on the bicycle went on riding back and forth, looking at us expectantly now and again.

  “Is this where we’re meeting the man from Scotland Yard as well?” I asked.

  “Yes. The fellow on the bicycle,” Mr. Scant said matter-of-factly, as though it were so obvious as to go without saying.

  “Oh! So, um . . . do we have to wait for Uncle Reggie before we can talk to him?”

  “That’s the conundrum we find ourselves in.”

  After that, we fell silent again. I took to watching the boats bumping and scraping their way down the Seine. Still, Uncle Reggie didn’t appear. Sensing movement, I turned to see Mr. Scant taking out his pocket watch with an agitated look. “There’s no helping it,” he said, and marched toward the man on the bicycle. The man pedaled toward us insouciantly.

  “It’s odd to see a jackdaw—” he began, but Mr. Scant waved a hand in irritation.

  “I’m sure there’s some pass phrase we’re meant to give you, but we don’t know it. My brother Reginald was meant to supply it, but he’s not here.”

  The man on the bicycle frowned. He was an oddly shaped fellow, with a skinny body but the thick, tapering legs of a keen cyclist, and a narrow, pointed face with a rather feeble mustache. “I think you must have made a mistake of some sort, chaps,” he said in a clear English accent. “I’m just an ordinary cycle enthusiast, training for tomorrow’s Paris-Roubaix. But it’s odd to see a jackdaw flying—”

  “My good friend took a bullet to secure for your people what I have in this bag. I ask you to consider what your superiors will say if you come back empty-handed because of your wretched jackdaw.”

  The man eyed the bag for a moment, then adjusted the
cap on his head. “I suppose you’re right about that. Alright, then. This will mean more paperwork, but I’m sure some i’s and t’s can go undotted and uncrossed. You are Mr. Scant, I presume.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Well, I should hope so,” the mustached man said. “But this probably won’t be the last time we meet. You may call me Jackdaw.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “In Scotland Yard, or at least in my department, what is necessary comes second to what works.”

  Mr. Scant nodded, as though finding that sentiment agreeable. “Here are the items. No need to check them.”

  The man took the little sack and glanced inside anyway. “If I’m honest, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to check for anyway. But rest assured, this is appreciated by the powers that be. It won’t be forgotten.”

  “Are you going to restore the contents to their owners?”

  Mr. Jackdaw thought for a while. “Yes, I think it’s safe to say we will return them to where they belong. First, my superiors may believe we can use them to catch more ne’er-do-wells, but after that, you have my solemn word that these will be restored to their rightful owners. And as gesture of my thanks—here, have some chocolate bonbons. They’re from Belgium.”

  I took the little paper bag he proffered, tied with a yellow ribbon. Inside were what looked like sugared quail eggs. “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “I got them especially for you, young Master Diplexito. Please give my regards to your father. I hold his engines in very high regard.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I will. And good luck in your race.”

  “Thank you. Of course, it wouldn’t do for me to stand out by winning the thing. I shall simply stay with the peloton and enjoy the views, don’t you know? This one is a mere warm-up for the Paris–Brest–Paris, in any case.” These place names he said in a rather exaggerated French accent, and then sighed happily. “Now there’s a race. Well then, my thanks once more—and for now, adieu.”

  After giving a little bow from atop his bicycle, the man pedaled away, holding the handlebar with one hand while the other held the bag containing the cigar box.