Strachan, and the Buick, wriggled their way past the white bumper of the van, missing it by less than an inch.
And then they were through. The roads of the French Concession were open to them.
The shops had changed now. They were more elegant and stylish, with the latest fashions and furs from France. Even though it was November, a few hardy souls still sat outside the cafes enjoying an aperitif, a coffee or the company of a friend.
Strachan ignored everything. He raced through a junction, shouting ‘stay out of my way, mad man at the wheel’ in the universal language of the blaring horn.
Drivers braked sharply. Rickshaw drivers pulled to the side of the road. Pedestrians, attempting to cross the street, saw the onrushing Buick and jumped back on to the pavement, more concerned with their lives than any need to get to the other side.
Strachan’s jaw was clenched tight, his hand banging on the horn.
Danilov hung on to the seat with one hand, pushing back from the dashboard with the other.
Up ahead, he could see the Art Deco tower of the Canidrome, its solid shape white against the coal smoke-stained houses around it. On racing nights, millions were won and lost as fifty thousand people streamed in to watch a few dogs running round in circles after a stuffed hare.
Today, though, was not a race day. The place was empty and deserted, like a ghost town in a Western.
Strachan swung the car into one of the many open spaces in front of the main entrance.
‘It looks quiet, sir?’
Danilov looked around. Major Renard was nowhere to be seen. Either he hadn’t received the message or he hadn’t arrived yet. He hoped it was the latter.
12.58.
Where could she be? Had he made the wrong guess? Had his intuition deserted him, as he always expected it would one day?
He spotted some steps at the side leading down to a door. He remembered the lines from the poem. ‘She’ll be below ground, Strachan. Over there.’
They ran out of the car, leaving the doors open. Strachan drew his pistol.
Then they heard the scream.
62
Miss Cavendish watched the clock tick over.
12.58.
The hiss of the loudspeaker echoed through the room again. The noise made the rats and dogs more animated, as if they sensed the time to feed was near.
The Chinese voice, in it mellow, disinterested tones, came from the loudspeaker. ‘This is your last chance to make a choice. If we do not hear from you within the next sixty seconds, both the rats and the dogs will be released.’
Sweat dripped down Miss Cavendish’s face, mingling with her mascara, her foundation and the blood from her neck, to pool on the earth around her. ‘Please, no…’ she whined.
The second hand swept around the face of the clock.
The rats threw themselves at the wire of the cage.
‘You have thirty seconds left to decide.’
‘I can’t decide, I can’t.’ She shook her head, beads of sweat and blood flying off it to land close to the cages. The dogs sniffed the air.
She looked into their red eyes. She hated dogs. Had hated them all her life.
The clock ticked over once more. The minute hand juddering slightly with the effort of moving. The second hand seeming to speed up as it raced around the dial.
12.59.
Sweat dribbled down her face, stinging her eyes.
‘Just fifteen seconds left.’
‘Rats,’ she shouted. ‘I choose the rats.’
‘A wise choice. The rats it is. You have ten seconds left before we release them.’
The rats seemed to know their prey had chosen them. The wriggling mass threw itself once more against the wire of the cage. She saw one of the bars give way and snap. One of the rats tried to get its body through the hole but its stomach was caught in the gap. The others pushed against it, forcing it to squirm as the metal bit into the soft underbelly. Its head rose and stretched, baring the yellow teeth.
‘Five seconds left.’
Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.
She closed her eyes, squirming in her earth prison, feeling her body against the soil.
The rats threw their bodies against the wire mesh of the cage.
The dogs snarled.
The buzz from the loudspeaker stopped.
Despite herself, she opened her eyes.
The clock had ticked over once more. The hour hand was pointing straight upwards now, reaching up to the sky.
1.00.
A metal click from the door of the cage.
Nothing.
It was a joke. It was all a cruel joke. They wanted to scare her. To frighten her.
The door to the cage of the rats began to swing open.
63
Danilov and Strachan raced through the door and down a flight of steps that plunged deep beneath the stands of the Canidrome.
Another scream.
‘This way, quickly, man.’ Danilov burst through a door on the right. He was in a long, dark corridor with openings on either side. Above him, whitewashed brick arched over his head.
He stopped and listened.
Nothing.
Strachan ran along the corridor, the sound of his boots on the concrete floor echoing off the whitewashed walls.
‘Stop, Strachan,’ Danilov shouted.
The detective sergeant skidded to a halt.
They both stood and listened.
Another scream. Behind them.
Danilov jumped through the entrance on the left. Another long corridor. Light washed in through small, square windows set high in the walls.
A scream, louder, longer, this time, more painful.
‘This way, Strachan, she’s down here.’
They ran along the corridor. A double door, painted a bright Greek blue, the colour of the Mediterranean. Danilov threw himself against it.
He bounced off the solid wood.
Another scream, louder, beyond the door.
Strachan stepped forward and kicked the door in the centre at the lock. It flew open.
A large barrel-shaped room. In its centre a writhing mass of rats, surrounding a head buried in the ground. Two cages, one filled with snarling dogs. A clock. Some old boxes. Straw-covered earth.
As Danilov watched, one rat, braver than rest, launched itself at the head, latching on to an ear with its sharp teeth. The head shook and shook, trying to dislodge the rat. But it hung on.
The other rats were moving closer now, a seething mass surrounding their prey.
Danilov grabbed one of the boxes and launched himself into the mass of rats, kicking furry bodies out of the way. Strachan was next to him.
For a moment, the rats were stunned and fled in all directions away from the kicking feet.
The head, Miss Cavendish’s head, shook once more and the rat flew across the room, landing on the straw. It immediately rolled over and leapt to its feet, bloodlust in its small red eyes.
It charged back towards Miss Cavendish. The others followed it, the smell of blood heavy in their nostrils.
Danilov placed the box over Miss Cavendish’s head and stood on it. ‘Strachan, the cage… release the dogs.’
Strachan ran over to the cage, jumped on top and pulled open the sliding door.
The dogs leapt out, snarling, and immediately began to attack the rats, seizing them in their mouths and shaking them.
The rats turned on their new attackers, biting, leaping, dancing out of the way. One dog went down in a mass of brown, furry bodies and struggled to its feet again, jaws snapping all around it.
All three dogs clustered together in a pack, jaws crunching on brown heads. The lead dog scrambled for the open door, a rat hanging from its rear leg by its teeth. The two other dogs ran after their leader, followed by a flowing river of rats, into the dark labyrinths beneath the stands.
Danilov jumped off the box and lifted it. Miss Cavendish’s head lay slumped forward, her face a mass of small re
d bites, her earlobe half hanging off.
In the distance, the sound of pistol shots.
Danilov began scrabbling at the earth around Miss Cavendish’s head. ‘Help me, Strachan; quickly, man.’
Strachan was staring at the blood-covered head buried in the ground. He knelt and began to tear at the soil like a mole.
Together they shifted the dirt to reveal Miss Cavendish’s body encased in a wooden box, buried in the earth. They lifted the body out and laid it on the ground.
‘Strachan, cut the ropes.’
Strachan took out his knife. Her hands and feet were bound with thin rope. He sawed through it as gently as he could, finally releasing her hands and feet.
Miss Cavendish moaned.
Danilov put his ear close to her mouth.
She moaned again, mumbling something through her swollen lips.
Three French constables appeared at the door with Major Renard, guns in hand.
‘Quick, Major, an ambulance, now. And some water.’
A constable ran for help.
Danilov lifted Miss Cavendish’s head and cradled it in his lap, wiping the blood, dirt and sweat from her face with the handkerchief his daughter had packed for him.
She moaned once more and mumbled something. Once again, Danilov bent over and placed his ear close to her mouth.
‘He’s back,’ she whispered through cracked lips.
* * *
The ambulance men placed Miss Cavendish in the back of their van and closed the doors.
‘Please make sure she’s guarded, Major.’
‘It will be done.’
‘We’ll interview her as soon as she wakes.’ Danilov lit one of his roll-ups. A crowd had gathered outside the entrance to the Canidrome, curious to see what was happening at the dog-racing track.
As he exhaled the warming smoke, Danilov scanned the faces in the crowd. Was he here in the mob of silent watchers? Was he staring at them now? Did he know he had failed to kill her?
Once again, he smelt the aroma of roasting sweet potatoes, heavy in the November air. He was taken back to the Orthodox churches of his youth. The gold, the chants of the priests, their heavy chasubles sparkling in the candlelight. And surrounding it all, the faded blue smoke of incense, spilling forth from a censer swinging on a heavy silver chain, rising past the serene face of Mary and the infant Jesus. He remembered staring up at the picture of her haloed face, asking her to forgive the sins of a seven-year-old boy.
Since that time, there had been so many sins to forgive. Too many sins to forgive.
Major Renard coughed. ‘How did you know she would be here, Inspector?’
Danilov took another long drag of his roll-up, exhaling towards the crowd, covering them with his smoke. ‘The killer told me, Major.’
Strachan came running up. ‘The cable from the cages and the loudspeaker led to a small room next door, sir.’
‘Could they see what was happening?’
‘Through the clock, sir. There was a hole cut above the number six. They could see everything.’
The major pointed back towards the dog track. ‘You mean they were watching this?’
‘Watching, observing and controlling, Major.’
‘Monstrous.’
Strachan held something in his hand. A white queen. ‘This was in the table in the room, sir.’
Danilov took it off him and held it up to the weak November sun. A common or garden queen, the most powerful piece, seen on chess boards all over the world. But why had they been left two white queens?
Major Renard joined him in looking at the chess piece. ‘Inspector? What does it mean?’
‘I don’t know, Major. But I’m going to find out.’
64
She was older than he imagined, more careworn. Her hair was mousey grey and lines like spider webs spread out from the corners of her eyes.
The young man was bigger and stronger than he thought. He had expected somebody all stretched and gangly, but this young man was broad-shouldered and fit, with the tanned complexion that always signified rude health. So different from the pallor of the citizens of Shanghai.
He would have to be careful with this young man, up the dose next time.
He relaxed back into the leather seat as the woman slept beside him.
The plan had come to fruition; he had the final piece in his game. The piece that would win everything.
His queen.
He wondered if Miss Cavendish was dead. Sometimes, giving people options meant they missed the obvious choice. He hoped Miss Cavendish had chosen correctly.
Perhaps Danilov had managed to work it out in time. He hadn’t particularly wanted her to die. She was just a pawn in the game
It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered.
The net was closing in around Danilov now, just two more moves for checkmate. The detective would soon realise the danger he was in. The man would choose death and be happy to make the choice.
The thought sent a frisson of pleasure down Thomas Allen’s spine. After all this time, and all the pain, he would see the end of Danilov.
65
It was only the second time it had ever happened.
All the European, Chinese, Russian, Sikh and Japanese constables, sergeants and detectives were lined up in the foyer of Central Police Station waiting for them as they arrived.
Danilov and Strachan took off their hats as soon as the clapping started. Danilov looked at his feet, noticing a spot of dirt on the wooden floor. Strachan flushed bright red.
‘Well done, Inspector.’ A beefy Sikh constable in a blue turban patted him on the back with a hand the size of a club.
Danilov pushed his way through the crowd.
Another inspector seized him by the hand, pumping it up and down. ‘You saved the old girl; I was beginning to miss her.’
Danilov nodded and pushed his way through the swing doors. Strachan was behind him, still revelling in the unaccustomed adulation.
‘Come on, Strachan, we have work to do.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan shook one last hand and hurried after the inspector. ‘Didn’t know Miss Cavendish meant so much to everyone, sir.’
‘She’s the heart and soul of this place, Strachan. Where’s Chief Inspector Rock?’
They were standing in front of his empty office. ‘See what I mean? Without her we’re lost.’
They eventually found Chief Inspector Rock in the Ongoing Investigation Room with Meaker and Cartwright.
‘Ah, Danilov, you’re back. How is Miss Cavendish?’
‘Distressed and unhappy, sir. She’s in Lester Hospital under sedation.’
‘Have you interviewed her yet?’
‘Not yet. She’s in no state…’
The Chief Inspector turned away before Danilov could finish his sentence. ‘Interview her as soon as you can, Danilov. It would help if we could get a physical description of the perpetrator.’
‘I intend to interview her tomorrow morning, when she has recovered sufficiently to be questioned.’
‘Good.’ He pointed to something written on the blackboard. ‘Come in and sit here, will you? Meaker and Cartwright have come up with something interesting.’
Danilov and Strachan edged into the room, taking a seat on the chairs in front of the blackboard. The room still had all the notes about the case on easels at the front. He noticed more information had been added since they were last there. A new easel with a picture of Miss Cavendish at the top and the details of her disappearance below.
‘But before we get to their discoveries, can you add anything to our knowledge?’ Chief Inspector Rock stood with his pen poised at the easel.
‘Miss Cavendish was found in the basement of the Canidrome, sir.’
‘In French Town?’ asked Meaker.
‘Yes.’
‘Everything seems to happen there; fits with what we discovered.’
Chief Inspector Rock stood in front of the map. ‘Where did you say this place was?’
‘The Canidrome. It’s a dog-racing track owned by the French. It’s just where your left hand is, sir,’ said Cartwright.
‘Here?’
‘Exactly, sir. Right next to the Morriss estate.’
‘Isn’t he the man who owns the North China Daily News?’
‘And the rest, sir.’
The Chief Inspector placed a picture of Miss Cavendish next to the Canidrome on the map. It joined the other pictures of Lieutenant Deschamps and Rossana Gurdieva at the War Memorial, the unknown man at the Shanghai Country Club, and Sally Chen at the river.
Danilov stared at the map. The victims had been found in both the International Settlement and the French Concession. But why were they placed there?
‘How did you find Miss Cavendish?’ asked Meaker.
‘Through interpreting the clues in the newspaper.’
‘Those poems? I told you to forget them, Danilov,’ said Rock.
Danilov paused for a moment. ‘If I had ignored them, sir, Miss Cavendish would be dead. The poems were a clue from the killer. He’s taunting us, playing a game with us. A deadly game.’
Chief Inspector Rock coughed. ‘Well, we’d better make the winning move, hadn’t we, Inspector?’ Rock glanced at Cartwright and a brief smile passed between the two.
Something was going on. Rock was far too smug at the moment.
‘Anything else, Inspector?’
Danilov held up a small paper bag. ‘We found another chess piece at the scene. Another queen.’
‘He does like to leave these things afterwards, doesn’t he? A calling card, perhaps?’
‘I think it’s more, Chief Inspector. I think it’s another clue.’
‘You and your bloody clues, Danilov,’ Cartwright sneered.
Chief Inspector Rock ignored the interruption. ‘Is there any writing on it?’
‘None I can see, sir.’
‘Is it special, one of a kind?’
‘I think I can help, sir.’ Cartwright smiled. ‘We looked into the chess pieces and checked all the shops selling chess sets. We thought this was the correct procedure as the pieces were obviously new and unused. Unplayed with, I should say.’ Another smile from Cartwright, returned by Rock. ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, we found identical sets being sold at Wing On Department Store. We checked with their sales manager,’ he looked at his notes, ‘a Miss Chiang, and they sold forty-two of the sets in the last three months. Unfortunately, there are no records of who they sold them to.’
The Murder Game Page 19