The Shanghai Incident

by Bryan Methods

  “You gave him a lot of information he may not have already had,” said Mr. Scant.

  I looked up at Mr. Scant in surprise. “Me?”

  “It can’t be helped now.”

  “When he was talking about his race?”

  Mr. Scant only needed to give me a look, and then I realized what he meant.

  “When he said my name . . .”

  “Next time we’re in the ice house, we’ll get to work on your poker face. But first, where on Earth is Reggie?”

  Uncle Reggie was nowhere to be found. We had chosen a pleasant hotel on the rue des Beaux-Arts, close to Notre Dame, which had large rooms to accommodate the four of us. With Uncle Reggie missing and Dr. Mikolaitis now hospitalized, the hotel seemed unnaturally empty. I tried Uncle Reggie’s door, but it was locked, so I knocked softly and called for him. There was no answer.

  “It’s awfully quiet here,” I said.

  “A good time to practice your lock-picking.”

  “Oh,” I said, reaching into my breast pocket for the tools. “Two and five this time?”

  Mr. Scant nodded, so I set about trying to pick the lock of Uncle Reggie’s door. One pick had to go in the top part of the lock and the other at the bottom, which was not as easy as it sounded. When I fumbled with pick number five and dropped it, Mr. Scant let out such an aggrieved sigh I looked at him in surprise.

  “Is everything alright?” I asked.

  “With haste, if you please, Master Oliver.”

  That only made it more difficult to concentrate. I tried to feel for the little latches inside the lock, as Mr. Scant had taught me, but pressing them all down at once proved difficult. The hardest part was getting the barrel to turn once all the parts were pressed down, which took several tries.

  “I’m doing my best,” I said.

  “I appreciate that, Master Oliver,” said Mr. Scant, looking away.

  Eventually, I got the picks at just the right angle to hold everything down in the right way and twist. The door creaked open.

  “Shall we go inside?” I said.

  “Master Oliver, you don’t have to ask my permission for every little thing.”

  I nodded and cautiously stepped through the door. It only took a moment to realize that not only was Uncle Reggie not inside, he had vacated the room altogether. Though seemingly allergic to neatness in his day-to-day life, he had left the bed made and the dresser tidy. A sheet of notepaper, blotted and smudged, sat on the dresser. Mr. Scant hurried over to snatch it up.

  “What does it say?”

  “So typical of him,” Mr. Scant muttered, then looked at me. “Reggie sends his apologies, but apparently he couldn’t wait for us to do things the way we planned. He says he’s worried sick about Elspeth, so has gone off to investigate her school.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  Though Mr. Scant’s face was calm, the way he crumpled his brother’s note in his hand made his feelings clear.

  “Did he say when he’ll be back?” I asked.

  “For dinner, he said.”

  “Ah. Shall we have some tea, then?”

  “Perhaps not a bad idea.”

  I went to my room to wait while Mr. Scant prepared tea in the little kitchenette. I sat on the corner of my rather modestly sized hotel bed and tried to sort through everything that was happening, but I kept thinking about Dr. Mikolaitis in the hospital. Mr. Scant had told me that whenever I had a free minute, I ought to do my target practice, so tossed my rolled-up travel gloves from bed to drawer a few times, but soon grew tired of that. When Mr. Scant came in with a tray of tea, he found me with my head in my hands.

  “It’s all a bit too much,” I said.

  “Master Oliver?”

  “Dr. Mikolaitis in the hospital, Mr. Binns’s son out to get us . . . now Uncle Reggie going off on his own. Don’t you think it’s too much?”

  “The only one who can decide what is too much is you, Master Oliver. You are master of your thoughts.”

  “Well, I can see you’re worried too.”

  “Your tea.”

  Mr. Scant busied himself with his own cup for a moment. All of a sudden, it struck me that even though taking tea together had become commonplace for the two of us, for many years he was merely a rather frightening member of Father’s staff—a tall, forbidding man I would avoid speaking to unless I had to. Not until I discovered his hidden life, stealing artworks from secret societies and restoring them to their rightful owners, did I begin to consider Mr. Scant someone I could relax with over a hot cup of tea. I smiled a little. It was very British, but no matter how violent the maelstrom we found ourselves in, teatime felt like an island of safety.

  “Are you angry at Uncle Reggie?” I asked, as Mr. Scant sat down on the chair by the dresser.

  “It’s very typical of him to go off and get into trouble. His problem is the opposite of yours. He is too impulsive.”

  “You think I should be more impulsive?”

  “Not more impulsive, Master Oliver. More decisive. Initiative is the key. At some stage, the apprentice has to start acting without the master.”

  I frowned. “So I should stop asking you what to do?”

  “As long as you can make the right decisions.”

  “But how do I know if they’re right or not?”

  “That’s precisely what you must begin thinking about.”

  I nodded to myself and took a longer sip of my tea. Then I put my cup down onto its saucer with resolve. “In that case, I shall make the next decision. Uncle Reggie’s gone off on his own, and we both know he’s not one to keep himself out of trouble. So we ought to finish our tea and then go to find him. What do you say to that, Mr. Scant?”

  Mr. Scant nodded. “A sound proposition, Master Oliver. After we finish our tea.”

  III

  Chocolate Bonbons

  lspeth Gaunt’s place of learning, the École normale supérieure, had a special branch in Sèvres, in the southwest of Paris, for women so gifted that stuffy old academics had to admit they should receive a university education too. On the way, I imagined a striking but pretty boarding school with a prim little garden that blossomed with spring flowers. Which was why Mr. Scant’s description of what we were looking for took me by surprise.

  “It’s in a factory?” I said.

  “Well, yes and no,” said Mr. Scant. “The manufacture nationale de Sèvres. There are two sites, the old manufacture and the new manufacture. The school is in the old building. The new one is far larger; we passed it after we crossed the river.”

  “With the statues?” I recalled the place, which we had seen from the cab. I had assumed it was another of Paris’s grand art museums. “It didn’t look like a factory.”

  “Indeed not. The manufacture has little in common with the sort of factories your father owns. It is a factory for fine ceramics, often commissioned by royalty. The finest porcelain the world has ever seen is wrought by the artists in the main building.”

  “That sounds nice, but Father says his designers are artists too.”

  “There’s some merit to that,” Mr. Scant said. “I hope one day your father’s motorcars will be as beautiful as his dinner services. In any case, Elspeth’s school is one of the institutions occupying the old factory building, which is also a handsome sight. Ah, we have a view now.”

  Quite unlike a pretty little schoolhouse, the exterior of the former manufacture de Sèvres was large and imposing but simple, reminding me of Buckingham Palace. It was a long building with dozens of uniform windows. A tasteful central section stood out from the rest. The awning at the top looked a little like the front of a locomotive smashing through the roof. This being late on a Sunday afternoon, the school was closed. A tall iron fence ran the length of the building, and the gate was shut tight. There wasn’t a soul to be seen.

  Without my noticing, Mr. Scant had slipped on his claw. He walked briskly to the gate and found it locked, but had it open before I even caught up. For a moment, I was hurt that h
e hadn’t asked me to pick the lock, but I appreciated we had to be quick. If someone were spying out at us from one of the windows, numerous as books in a bookcase, my clumsy lock-picking would have been very conspicuous.

  Mr. Scant led me through the open gate and to the French windows ahead, but they were closed and there was no doorbell to ring. The school interior was dark. Mr. Scant knocked loudly with his gloved hand, having stashed away the claw as imperceptibly as he had made it appear, but he was met with empty silence.

  “There are smaller buildings to try,” said Mr. Scant. “It would be better to find some staff than to break in.”

  “I don’t see Uncle Reggie. Do you think he came here, looking for his daughter?”

  Mr. Scant didn’t answer. We began to make our way around the large building, with Mr. Scant occasionally peering through windows, until we found an attractive pavilion with a carefully tended garden and a grand stone staircase. The stairs led to a small building with a pointed roof. We made our way there, and Mr. Scant cautiously looked all around the area before knocking on the door.

  Immediately, he heard a rather loud crash, the first sign of life we had encountered since making our way into the school grounds. There was silence for a moment, as if the person inside were considering whether or not to ignore us, but then came the sound of hurried footsteps, and after a few prolonged seconds, the door opened abruptly. A red-faced man with a thick mustache looked at Mr. Scant with fire in his eyes. The sides of his mustache twitched a little. “Oui?” he said.

  Mr. Scant began to apologize, in French, for the interruption, but the man waved his hand in irritation.

  “You are English.” I couldn’t tell what had given Mr. Scant away, but then, my own French was barely strong enough to follow the average conversation anyway. “Let’s use English then. I studied at Cambridge.”

  Mr. Scant nodded courteously. “Your English sounds far better than my French. I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “Yes, well, how did you get through the gates?”

  “The gates? They were open,” said Mr. Scant, feigning confusion.

  “Hmm? That’s irregular,” said the man, rubbing his mustache.

  Just then, a woman’s voice came from somewhere inside the building, asking what was happening. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe, Paul?”

  “Je ne sais pas encore!” called the man, apparently named Paul. Then he looked at me and seemed to decide that if Mr. Scant had a child with him, he could not be a threat. “What is it that you’re after?”

  “We’re searching for a dear relative,” said Mr. Scant. “She receives her education here, but some time has passed since she last contacted her family.”

  The man nodded sympathetically. “No laughing matter.”

  “Are you by chance a teacher here at the école?” asked Mr. Scant.

  “Mostly a researcher, but a teacher on occasion. My name is Langevin.”

  “Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Scant. Are you familiar with Elspeth Gaunt?”

  “Ah, the Gaunt girl. Yes, I know her.”

  “Then do you perchance know her current whereabouts?”

  The man tugged again at his mustache. “I don’t recall seeing her in a year or more. Hold on, I remember Marie took a liking to the girl. One moment, please.”

  He allowed us into the entrance hall, but his body language made it clear we ought to stay there as he slipped away. Mr. Scant looked down at me and raised his eyebrows, but I wasn’t sure why. After a moment, the man returned with a woman who looked as though she aimed to have the appearance of a schoolmarm, only to be thwarted by wild, frizzy hair that had no intention of staying in its bun. She wore a plain smock, and her deep-set eyes flicked between us inquisitively.

  Mr. Scant bowed his head. “Madame Curie,” he said, and I felt my mouth open involuntarily—the famous lady physicist, as I lived and breathed. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Elspeth Gaunt’s uncle. My name is Scant. You of course need no introduction.”

  Madame Marie Curie smiled a little and answered in an accent that to my ear sounded a little like Dr. Mikolaitis’s, “You flatter me, sir. And who is this dear child?”

  “My apprentice, Master Diplexito.”

  “What an interesting name. Now, you say you are Elspeth’s uncle? She spoke often of her father but never of you.”

  “Alas, I did not have a great part in her childhood. But I care dearly for my brother, and he is most anxious to find his daughter. We were hoping to find him here, which would have made matters easier.”

  “I see. I wish I could help more,” Madame Curie said, “but Miss Gaunt concluded her studies almost a year ago, and I haven’t seen her since. I should probably tell you that at the time she finished, she wasn’t studying here in Sèvres. She was one of a select group of girls studying at the main branch on the . . . How would you say it? Ulm Road? The rue d’Ulm. Perhaps you could ask there.”

  “We’ll do that. Please accept our apologies for disturbing you, and thank you for your help, Madame Curie. Monsieur Langevin.”

  “It was no trouble,” said Madame Curie.

  “It was trouble, but I wish you well,” said Monsieur Langevin.

  Mr. Scant doffed his hat, and we stepped back outside. I realized that if I didn’t speak now, I would in all likelihood never get the chance again, so blurted out, “I hope they give you another Nobel Prize soon, Madame Curie!”

  She laughed. “A second Nobel Prize? Wouldn’t that be something, Paul?”

  Monsieur Langevin gave a little smile that made his mustache go lopsided and nodded to me briefly before closing the door. I looked up at Mr. Scant. “So is the other part of the school nearby?”

  “Regretfully, no. We’ll need to go back to the city center. But I’m still worried about Reginald. I was rather hoping to see him here. Hopefully we’ll rendezvous back at the hotel.”

  “Rendez-vous,” I repeated, with my best guttural French R, but Mr. Scant ignored me.

  Mr. Scant was in no mood for conversation. When I expressed my excitement at having met a famous scientist, he nodded but made no reply. Once he had asked the coachman to take us to the 5th arrondissement, the rest of our journey back toward the city center passed in silence. Mr. Scant was deep in thought, and I didn’t want to disturb him, so contented myself with looking out of the window and trying to read the French signage. I had been learning French for two years in school, and while I was by no means the worst in my class, my level of understanding was still poor, and I was grateful Madame Curie had spoken to us in English. When our carriage slowed down to navigate a busy crossroads, I heard a newspaper boy shouting in French, and I was pleased that I could understand the headline. A new aeroplane had taken to the skies—with fourteen people aboard.

  After we passed the opulent gardens of Luxembourg Palace, Mr. Scant began to gather his things—we were almost at our destination. We stepped off the coach near the Panthéon, which was busier than Notre Dame had been earlier in the day. The very moment my feet touched the street, I felt a tug at my jacket and looked around to see a young urchin of about nine years old. I almost smiled at how perfectly like the illustrations of street gamins from popular novels he was, with a shapeless cap doing nothing to contain his mass of straggly, sand-colored hair, his clothes a mess of torn material over a shirt several sizes too large for him.

  “This way,” said Mr. Scant, stalking away from the Panthéon. I made to follow him, but the little urchin did not let go of my jacket. I tried to pull away, but he stared blankly at me with big, green eyes. His nose was running, and I worried what those grubby fingers of his had touched.

  “Est-ce qu’il y a . . . quelque chose?” I said, trying to ask what he wanted. The boy cocked his head a little, probably at my bad French or worse accent, but his expression didn’t change. However, after a moment, he lifted his other palm to me. He was a beggar, probably the most forward beggar I had ever encountered. “Ah,” I said, flustered. “Je . .
. Je n’ai pas le . . . l’argent.”—I don’t have any money. “Mais . . . Ah! Bonbon! Chocolat!”

  I had remembered the little chocolate eggs the man from Scotland Yard had given me, which I still had in my pocket. They were a little warm, but the boy’s face lit up like the sun when I put them into his outstretched palm. His eyes had already been like saucers, but they seemed to grow dangerously large and then began to water as he thanked me over and over before scurrying away. He grinned back at me just for a moment before disappearing behind Mr. Rodin’s famous statue of The Thinker.

  Mr. Scant hadn’t waited to see if I had followed him. Fortunately, given his height, he was not difficult to spot, so I ran to catch up. The École normale supérieure, where Elspeth had studied, was a short walk away. Its gates were open, and even at this time on a Sunday evening, plenty of people milled about the entrance: a large doorway flanked by little columns supporting two handsome statues of seated scholarly women. As we passed through the gates, Mr. Scant blinked in surprise as he heard someone call out his name in a French accent. A rather dapper young man with a round face and straggly beard was running toward us. “You are Mr. Scant?”

  “I am he,” said Mr. Scant.

  “You’re just as your brother described. He wanted me to give you this.”

  The young stranger handed over a piece of paper, folded haphazardly. Heck, Uncle Reggie’s nickname for his brother, was scrawled on the top, with a large blot of ink.

  “Ah. I am indebted to you,” said Mr. Scant. “How did you know who to look for?”

  “An Englishman with a face like an eagle, with a boy like a barn owl, he said!” the young man replied with relish.

  “I see.”

  “He also said you would be happy to reimburse me for my inconvenience,” said the cheerful young man. “I said I was happy to help a brother who supports the Cause.”

  “Ah, the Cause,” said Mr. Scant. “We must do our best for the Cause.”

  “With all my heart!” said the earnest young man. I was certain Mr. Scant had no more idea what the Cause was than I did, but Uncle Reggie had a gift for convincing people he was on their side.