Her ladies despite their tears
Did become her little ears
A sporting circle was her suggestion
Unquiet meals make ill digestion.’
‘What does it mean, sir?’
‘It means the killer has another victim, Strachan. A Russian victim this time.’
‘Where are they being held, sir?’
‘The fifth line would appear to tell us, Strachan. Let’s go back to the station. I have a hunch I want to follow up.’
Strachan pointed to the words written on the coffin. ‘What shall I do with this, sir.’
‘Get the photographers to take a shot of it.’
‘I’m not sure they can shoot in the dark, sir.’
‘Tell them to find a way. A bad workman blames a bad saw.’
‘Another Russian idiom, sir? I’ll let them know. I’m sure they’ll understand them as much as I do.’
‘One day, I’ll explain the meaning to you, Strachan. Until then, ignorance is bliss.’
‘More Shakespeare, sir?’
‘I’m shocked, Strachan. “Where ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise.” It’s Thomas Grey.’
75
Sergeant Wolfe was enjoying his day so far. There had only been three robberies, a kidnapping, four cases of pickpocketing and seven fights.
A quiet day.
He folded his arms over his chest, and, from his perch behind the vast oak desk of Central Station, surveyed his domain. The reception area was strangely silent. Nobody was clamouring for his attention. Nobody was arguing or shouting. And the beggars who usually hung around the place, sheltering for a few hours from the cold streets of the city, had all vanished.
A quiet day.
A large, thick-set man with a stomach dangling over the top of his trousers approached the desk. This one enjoyed his food and wasn’t short of opportunities to eat. ‘Can I help you?’ Sergeant Wolfe asked.
The man grunted and, in an accent thick with the streets of Moscow, said gruffly, ‘Inspector Danilov.’
‘He’s not here at the moment, can I take a message?’
The big man’s eyebrows went up, reaching his hairline. He grunted again and repeated, ‘Inspector Danilov.’
Sergeant Wolfe ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. He had noticed the grey was beginning to show around the temples again. Time to get his wife to bring out her magic box of tricks, helping him lose ten years of age with the nimble application of a few drops of dye. ‘Like I said, he’s not here. Can I take a message?’
The big man stared at him, hitched his trousers over the descending waist and said again, ‘Inspector Danilov.’
We’ve got a right one here. Either he’s deaf, or stupid, or both. ‘He’s not here.’
The waist of the man’s trousers slowly slid down, exposing the vast expanse of stomach once more. ‘Inspector Danilov?’
For the first time, this sounded like a question rather than a statement to Sergeant Wolfe. He was about to tell the man to wait in the corner when, in through the main doors, hurried Danilov and Strachan. ‘You’re here, Inspector Danilov.’
‘Was I supposed to be somewhere else?’
‘No, but we have a situation.’ Sergeant Wolfe stood up in his chair and lent across the oak desk. ‘This man keeps repeating your name,’ he whispered, pointing at the large man with his thumb.
Danilov took one look and smiled. ‘Sergei, priyasni snova vas videt.’
The large man stepped forward, holding his arms wide, enveloping the inspector in a large hug and kissing him on both cheeks. They both began speaking in a gabble of words.
‘I don’t go in for this kissing lark. Especially, two men kissing. Not very English, is it?’ Sergeant Wolfe said from behind the desk.
‘It’s because they are Russian,’ answered Strachan.
‘Still, not right is it? Two grown men kissing each other.’
Danilov’s face changed as he listened to the large man speaking. He put his hat back on his head and ran out of the reception area. ‘Come on, Strachan, this man is the Princess’s cook. She’s gone missing.’
Strachan followed him, as did the large man, moving with a speed and grace that belied his size. ‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘To the cafe, where she was last seen.’
76
‘You have one minute to decide, Princess. Is it to be the steam or the oil?’
The voice rasped out from the loudspeaker above the pipes. What was she to do? She had struggled for an hour to free her hands from the ropes, but had only succeeded in cutting deep into her wrists. Each movement was absolute agony now, as the fibres of the ropes bit into the open wounds.
‘You still haven’t decided, Princess? I always believe in giving people a choice. A lot more than they ever gave me…’
Could she hear the victim in his voice? Did this man believe the world had conspired against him? ‘Why weren’t you given a choice?’
She heard a cough through the loudspeaker. ‘They never gave me a choice when they sent me out into no man’s land. Alone I was. Three days and nights. They expected me to die, wanted me to die. But I found refuge there with the bodies, German and English. They kept me safe from the shells and the machine guns. And the voices, they talked to me through the long night.’
She had to keep him talking. ‘How did you survive?’
‘I nestled in among my new-found friends. The innocents of war, sent to die by those who had committed crimes far greater than mine.’
‘What crime did you commit?’
‘I refused to do what I was told.’
‘You refused to send your men over the top?’
‘I refused to kill them.’
‘But now you will kill me?’
There was a pause before the answer came back over the loudspeaker. ‘Yes.’
‘Why? I have done nothing wrong.’
A strange, tinny laugh echoed through the small room, amplified by the pipes. ‘Princess, you deal in opium. You sell your countrywomen to the highest bidder. You give information to Danilov. You are not an innocent, but one of them.’
‘One of them?’
‘One of the people who feed and prey on the weaknesses of others. I am here to rectify that injustice, to balance the world in favour of the innocents. The voices gave me my mission. I am the Judge of Souls.’
The Princess listened to his mad ramblings. How to keep him talking? ‘Everybody in Shanghai is the same. We all make a living in any way we can.’
‘Not all.’
‘Yes, all,’ she shouted as loudly as she could. Her voice echoed off the pipes facing her.
There was another long pause. ‘Then, they will all die. You won’t be around to see it happen, though. One last time, Princess, which do you choose?’
The Princess struggled to free her hands again, but the pain shot up her arms and into her shoulders.
She stopped.
Get it over with. Time to end this farce. ‘Like you, I refuse to do what I’m told.’
‘You won’t make a choice?’
‘No. Kill me now, get it over with.’
She closed her eyes. The image of a young girl, dressed in a silk, peacock-blue gown, dancing to a waltz by Strauss, swam into her mind. On her arm, a young cavalry officer, his white uniform like snow against her body. She whirled and whirled and whirled. The music ever faster. Her feet dancing across the wooden floor. His smile as he held her. Her head thrown back as she stared into his eyes.
The music stopped.
She heard a voice. ‘I will make the choice for you.’
The room went silent as the buzz from the loudspeaker ceased. All she heard was the drip from the pipes on to the damp stone of the floor.
She waited for the next drop to fall.
She heard a rumbling from the pipes, getting louder and louder. Something was sitting on top of them, vibrating slowly. A chess piece, a white queen. Why was a chess piece there? Why hadn’t she noticed it
before?
And she remembered the man from the dance. A man who loved chess. The man she had married all those years ago. Dead now. Killed with so many others in a cavalry charge at Tannenberg.
The rumbling in the pipes grew louder.
She closed her eyes. The Strauss waltz began playing again, stronger this time. She felt his touch on her arm, her feet on the wooden floor and the breeze through her hair as he whirled her around the dance floor.
It was time to join him again.
The rumbling in the pipes was getting closer and closer.
77
Danilov pushed open the door of the cafe. Everything appeared as usual. On the left, two chess players were enjoying a game. He noticed white was winning quite easily, but black had a chance with his queen. The smell of fresh baking flooded his nostrils, making him realise he hadn’t eaten. He often forgot to eat; there was little pleasure in it. At the back, the large brass samovar bubbled and steamed.
The only thing missing was the Princess. She wasn’t there to greet him.
The large man, the cook of the cafe, bustled past, shouting in Russian.
He’s asking if the Princess has returned, Danilov translated for Strachan.
The waiters simply answered. ‘Nyet, me ne videli yeye.’
‘I guess that means she hasn’t,’ said Strachan.
‘Well done, we’ll have you speaking Russian in no time.’
Danilov questioned the large man, Sergei. He translated as quickly as the cook spoke. ‘She was last seen late last night. They left early while she closed up. They have checked her apartment; she hasn’t slept there. Also, none of her girls has seen her.’
‘Her girls, sir?’
It pained him to say this but Strachan needed to know. ‘The Princess runs brothels in the French Concession, all high class but not strictly legal. The French authorities turn a blind eye…’
‘Like Nelson, sir.’
‘Just so, Strachan, except the Princess deals with a more refined clientele than sailors.’
The large man began speaking again. As he did so, he pointed to a blackboard hanging on the wall.
Written on the board were the same words they had seen at the undertaker’s:
‘ A Princess from the Ice did roam,
A new city to find a home,
Her ladies despite their tears
Did become her little ears
A sporting circle is her suggestion
Unquiet meals make ill digestion.’
‘The second time we have seen this, Strachan. Our killer is desperate to make sure we receive this message.’
And then it hit him. He knew exactly what it meant and where the Princess was being kept.
78
He ran out of the cafe, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Quickly, Strachan, we’ve no time to lose.’
Strachan chased after him. ‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘The Cercle Sportif.’
‘The French club, sir? Why there?’
‘It’s the only place she could be. Quickly, man.’
At the top of the alley, Danilov turned right on to rue Brenner de Montmerrand, increasing his pace. Strachan caught him easily.
‘Shouldn’t we take the car, sir?’
Danilov was already breathing heavily. ‘No time… this way.’ He ran left on to Avenue Joffre. ‘It’s over there on the right.’
‘I’ll go ahead, sir’ With a kick of his heels, Strachan surged down the road. Pedestrians jumped out of his way. A couple out shopping tried to move aside, only for the man to be caught by his shoulder and tumbled to the ground. Strachan shouted a brief apology and ran on.
‘Be careful.’ Danilov was trying to keep up but Strachan was already running down the road, dodging the trishaw drivers, young men with brilliantined hair and spats, delivery men on bikes, elegant ladies dressed in tight qipaos, hawkers selling the latest fashions from France made in Shanghai, and the rest of the denizens of Shanghai out for a day of quiet shopping.
‘Be careful,’ Danilov shouted again as Strachan disappeared from view into the crowd.
79
The rumbling in the pipes stopped.
The Princess opened her eyes. A single drop of something liquid oozed out of the left-hand pipe and fell to the floor, sizzling as it hit the wooden boards.
The loudspeaker buzzed again. ‘I’m going be generous and give you one more hour to choose, Princess. As a person of noble birth, I think it’s only right I should prolong your agony a little longer.’
‘Bastard…’ she screamed. ‘Kill me now.’
‘Not yet, Princess. I’m saving the pleasure for later. Just one hour later. It will be so much easier if you make a choice.’
‘No choice. Kill me now.’
‘Don’t be so eager to die, Princess. If you choose the pipe with water in it, you will just become wet. A trifle undignified for one such as you, but you will survive a little longer. Perhaps you will be able to escape before we turn on the other pipes?’
He was playing with her, dangling a thread of hope, wanting her to reach for it. ‘Bastard, kill me now,’ she screamed again and again.
The buzz from the loudspeaker clicked off.
Another drop formed on the opening of the left-hand tube. It fell lazily to the floor, sizzling when it kissed the ground.
‘Bastard,’ she screamed at the walls.
But at least now she knew the left-hand pipe was not the one to choose.
80
Danilov could see the ornate roof of the Cercle Sportif just five hundred yards away.
He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving and the lungs grasping for air. He ran past the Cathay Theatre where a crowd was queueing up to see The Love Parade. A romantic comedy with Maurice Chevalier.
One of my wife’s favourite films, he thought. Before the Revolution, of course. The supply from America had dried up after Lenin took over, leaving only a few Chaplin shorts. They had been to watch The Rink eleven times.
Must focus, concentrate on running. His breath was coming hard now and he could feel the pain in his calves.
The Cercle Sportif wasn’t far ahead. The place where the French played and danced and exercised. Strange how Allen kept choosing open places, as if he wanted to be discovered. Danilov was moving slowly now. Must get fitter, he told himself. Need to run more. Can’t run like before.
On the right was a building site for one of the new developments sprouting up all over the city. Cathay Mansions, the hoarding said, ‘a home for elegant living’.
He limped across the street. He heard the squeal of brakes and the shouts of an irate driver behind him. He ran on anyway.
Where was Strachan?
Danilov glanced to the left and right. The man should have waited for him; it was too dangerous to go in alone.
A new neo-classical building dressed in the finest marble greeted him. People of all ages lounged on the veranda, eating and drinking, smoking and chatting, Chinese waiters dancing between the tables.
He ran up the steps and stood there, his hands on his waist, fighting for breath, staring down at the ornate brown and white tiles on the floor.
The people stopped what they were doing and stared at him, glasses half-raised to their mouths, a snapshot of surprise.
‘A man… running… where…?’ was all he managed to gabble between breaths as, hands on knees, he stared down at the brown and white tiles. One of the waiters pointed to the interior of the building.
He stumbled on through the doors. Behind him, he could hear the hubbub of French voices beginning again as if he had never been there.
Where was Strachan?
Through the large double doors into the entrance.
A French couple lounged on the leather armchairs reading newspapers. To his left, the way was blocked by planters embedded with large palms. In front, a long, high-ceilinged corridor with small motifs of fans picked out in gold along its length. On his right, more rooms.
It was an
other day, just like all the other days at the Cercle Sportif.
Where was his detective sergeant?
He shouted ‘Strachan? Strachan?’ in the loudest voice he could manage.
The couple looked up from their newspapers, but didn’t move, as if it was perfectly normal for a tall, thin man, struggling for breath, to be shouting in English at the entrance to their club.
From the direction of the corridor, Danilov heard a faint reply.
He ran along the corridor, shouting ‘Strachan, Strachan’.
He could hear the man more clearly now, but it was muffled as if coming from behind a smothering pillow.
The sound seemed to be hiding behind a door on the left. He yanked it open and a stairwell was in front of him, leading into the depths of the building.
He shouted again, ‘Strachan, where are you?’
The answer was clear now, but still distant. ‘Down here, sir.’
Danilov hurried down the stairs, the sound of his shoes echoing in the stairwell. No marble here, the stone reserved for upstairs. He bustled down two flights and was confronted by a long corridor stretching out in front of him, lit by lights set into the ceiling.
‘Strachan, where are you?’
‘Here, sir.’
The voice sounded like it was next to him. ‘Where?’ he shouted.
‘Here, at the end of the corridor’
The corridor must act like a loudspeaker. An interesting effect, thought Danilov, as he hurried along its length. At the end, he could see an open door and the shadow of a man inside a room. The face turned towards him.
It was Strachan.
Danilov pushed the door open with his right arm. The Princess, or what was left of her, was sitting tied to a chair.
Danilov looked away and then forced himself to look back.
In front of her, three pipes were pointing like evil eyes staring directly at her body. The walls and floor dripped with water and the air had a heavy, moist feel, like an indoor pool.
He forced himself to look at the Princess’s body. Her face was red and the skin was peeling from it in sheets of transparent white flesh. The arms were blotchy and inflamed, while the hair, which had always been so beautifully coiffeured and brushed, hung down in limp strands over her face. The mouth was open wide, inflamed gums unnaturally red, as if shouting a last scream at the world.
The Murder Game Page 23