by M J Lee
So it was going to be one of those meetings, he thought. Boyle had a particular style: no offer of a seat was going to be a dressing down. A seat and a cigarette was a ‘quiet’ chat. A seat and a cigar was an understanding that Boyle wanted something that only the person blessed with the cigar could provide. All the police dreaded the seat and the glass of whisky, for that meant the miscreant was going to be transferred to some obscure job in the nether reaches of the police universe where the offender would spend the rest of his life arresting dog eaters and night soil collectors.
Danilov inhaled the rich earthy smoke of the Turkish. Fine tobacco, a little elegant for his taste but still a fine smoke.
‘Or would you like a cigar?’ Boyle opened the other wooden box that lay on the table, revealing a selection of the finest Havanas and Dominicans.
‘Thank you, sir. A coffin nail is fine for me.’
Boyle chuckled. ‘Coffin nails. That’s what we used to call them during the war. Long time ago though. Lost a lot of good men, too many.’ He blew a long cloud of blue smoke out into the office. ‘You didn’t fight, did you, Danilov?’
‘No, sir, I was in the Imperial Police in Minsk. We weren’t sent to the Front.’
‘I was a Captain, Manchester Regiment, you know. The scum of the Earth from the back streets of Hulme but damn fine men, if you get my meaning.
‘I understand, sir.’
Boyle stared into mid-air. Above his head, a print of a Chinese street scene hung at a slight angle. Hawkers sold food from banana leaves placed on the ground. People wandered through examining the wares. On each building, Chinese characters blared the names of the proprietors of the shops.
Not a traditional choice for a head of detectives, thought Danilov. He stubbed his cigarette out in a bronze ashtray already full of stubs.
The movement seemed to pull Boyle out of his remembrance of the past. ‘Jolly good. I’ve asked you here today for a couple of reasons, Danilov. Firstly, how was the body that you found this morning?’
‘How was it? Dead, sir, extremely dead.’
‘Suicide?’
‘No. Not unless this one decided to kill herself by slashing her stomach and thighs to the bone, tying her wrists with stone weights, rowing out to a sandbank and then jumping into Soochow Creek. No, sir, I think suicide is out of the question.’
‘Shame that. I had Meaker on the phone. He thought it was, but as it was on our side of the creek, he was going to leave it to us. He seemed rather pleased at the idea.’
‘Inspector Meaker is entitled to his opinion, sir, but it’s not a suicide. Far from it. Murder I’m afraid. A brutal one as well.’
Boyle shuffled the papers in front of him. ‘Well, get it over with as quickly as you can. Upstairs gets its whiskers in a curl when Europeans are murdered. The murder of European women particularly seems to excite them. Got to maintain our prestige. The Chinese depend on us maintaining order. Without it, where would we be? Solve it quickly, Danilov.’
‘The body is on its way to the pathologist now, sir. Dr Fang will do his usual thorough job.’
Boyle harrumphed and lifted a piece of paper from the top of his pile. ‘There’s one other thing that requires a delicate touch. You did rather well with the Bungalow Murders last year and that awkward affair with the American Consul in ’26. As for your time with Scotland Yard, well, enough said.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Danilov recognised when he was being buttered up. ‘But my two years in London were wasted. We never found the anarchists we were looking for.’
‘At least it meant you could polish your English. You speak it better than most of my English chaps.’
‘Thank you again, sir.’
‘As I was saying, you handled those delicate situations rather well. The thing is, we’ve had a strange note from the French. The French Head of Detectives actually, a Mr…’ he glanced down at the paper he was holding ‘…a Mr Renard.’
‘Is it the note that’s strange, sir, or the fact that the French have sent it?’
‘It’s both, Danilov. Last time we talked to them was spring last year, when we had that little problem with the communists. Anyway, a meeting has been set up for tomorrow morning with him. Usually, I’d go myself but I’ve got a Council session and it can’t be postponed. Can’t stand the frogs anyway. Had enough of them in the war. Far too dramatic for my tastes. Quite like the language though, became quite good at it, even if I do say so myself. Damn fine wine too, if my memory serves me right.’
‘Where is the meeting, sir?’
‘Oh yes, that would help wouldn’t it?’ He scanned the note quickly, his lips moving as he read the words. ‘Ah, here it is, Avenue Stanislaus Chevalier at 10 am. Their HQ, it would seem.’
Danilov took out his notebook and wrote down the details.
‘Do report to me afterwards, Danilov. Can’t have those frogs sending you off on a wild goose chase. Une poursuite de l’oie sauvage, if I remember my French.’
‘A better translation, sir, might be un ballet d’absurdités or more simply une recherche futile.
‘Well, that’s as may be. French never was my strong suit.’ Boyle closed the cigarette case, always a sign that the meeting was over. ‘Clear this blonde case up quickly, Danilov.’
‘I’m going to see the pathologist right away, sir.’
‘Good. It’s probably just a lovers’ quarrel that’s gone too far.’
‘It went too far, sir, of that I am sure, but it’s more than a lovers’ quarrel. I believe it’s far darker and more dangerous than that.’
***
Inspector Danilov returned to his desk after the interview with Boyle. He stood in front of it for a long time, realising that something was wrong. The ink bottle was in a different place, and the pencil was half an inch out of alignment. He reached down and put them back exactly where they should have been.
Behind him, he could hear the muffled sniggers of the other detectives.
‘Wha’s up, Danilov, somethin’ not right?’ This was from Cartwright, a detective with the imagination of a bull and the wit of a dinosaur. ‘Out of whack, are we?’
Danilov turned back and addressed Cartwright, but actually talking to all of them. ‘I’d rather you didn’t touch anything on my desk in future.’
‘Always so prim and fuckin’ proper aren’t we? I thought you Russians were rougher and tougher, like the girls in Blood Alley.’ More sniggers from the detectives.
‘Not all of us are the same, Cartwright. Just like you English, we are different too.’ He looked him up and down. ‘You, for instance, had an egg with two slices of bacon this morning for breakfast. I had just one cup of coffee. You had an argument with your wife last night and this morning it continued. I live alone. And your house boy has left, as well. I prefer to do without servants. Your…’ he stopped here looking for the right word ‘…paramour…is also two-timing you with…’ he swivelled round and pointed at another detective, Robson, sitting to the left of Cartwright. ‘Such women, of course, do not interest me.’
‘Wha’ the fuck? How do you know…?’
But Cartwright was already talking to the back of Danilov as he walked out of the detectives’ office.
‘You’ll get your comeuppance one day, you mark my words. You may speak bloody English but you’ll never be an Englishman. Bloody Russian prick!’ Cartwright shouted to the closing door.
Danilov had already gone next door to see Miss Cavendish, the office secretary. She was an old maid who had been born in Shanghai and lived there all her life, but still didn’t speak a word of Chinese. ‘Well, there’s no need is there, they all speak English. Or at least the ones I have to speak to. Or they speak pidgin. And I’m frightfully good at pidgin. Second language to me it is.’
Danilov stood in front of her desk and coughed. She glanced up and he caught a waft of her scent. French and very floral. ‘Miss Cavendish, could I bother you for the file on the French Head of Detectives? A Mr Renard, I believe.’
&nb
sp; ‘Actually, it’s Major Renard, Inspector. I’ll have it on your desk in an hour.’ She leaned forward and whispered, ‘I couldn’t help but hear what you said about Cartwright, he will be upset.’
‘Cartwright can’t be upset, Miss Cavendish. That would indicate an ability to feel. He is either totally happy or totally drunk. Those are the limits of his emotions.’
‘Was it true?’
‘He has the same breakfast every morning because he can’t be bothered explaining to his cook he would like something different. He wasn’t wearing his normal pungent eau de cologne which only happens when his wife locks him out of the marital bedchamber after an argument. She was still unhappy with him, so he was unable to splash more on this morning. You may have noticed he is still wearing the same clothes as two days ago. Hence, the boy is no longer providing his services.’
‘But how did you know about his…’ she leaned forward and whispered ‘…paramour?’
‘That part was easy. I observed her with Robson on Nanking Road two nights ago. It seems she has switched her favours recently. And everything I said about myself was true.’
‘You are a proper Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you, Inspector Danilov?
‘I admire your famous detective, Miss Cavendish, but I always believed he missed the patterns in crime. The patterns are everything. Once we understand them, everything else falls into place.’
‘A bit like my knitting, without the pattern I’m lost.’
‘Precisely, Miss Cavendish. All criminals have patterns through which they reveal themselves. Our job is to discover the pattern. It was one of the first things they taught us at the Imperial Police Academy.’
Miss Cavendish was the ears of all gossip in Central. If he wanted to know anything about the station or its inhabitants, Chinese, English, Russian or Japanese, he just asked her. She was better than any stoolie on the street, and she was free, which was even more important.
‘I would look out for him if I were you.’ She indicated the closed door of the detectives’ room. ‘A bit of a bull in a china shop is our Inspector Cartwright. Or a bull in a China police station, I should say.’ Miss Cavendish giggled as she played with the pearls that encircled her neck. Danilov wondered if she were flirting with him.
She popped a sweet into her mouth from the packet that lay on her table. She offered one to him. For a moment he was tempted but then shook his head. His hands lay on her desk, the scars that creased the skin above his knuckles vivid red against the pale white, a legacy of the education his father had given him years before in Minsk. He quickly hid them behind his back.
‘Inspector Allen from Intelligence gave these to me.’ In her left hand, she waved her packet of purple sweets. ‘Haven’t had these French sweets since before the war. He’s such a nice man. He left this for you.’ Her right hand held a large brown internal envelope marked private and confidential.
He took it, ensuring his hands were palm upwards. Inside was a white sheet of expensive writing paper. ‘Too predictable, Allen.’
He took out a large fountain pen and wrote P X QKN below Allen’s last line. Folding the paper, he returned it to the internal envelope.
‘Secrets and secret notes, Inspector Danilov.’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a long time.
‘Ask away, Miss Cavendish, if I am able to satisfy your curiosity, I will be happy to oblige.’
‘How is it you speak such good English? For a Russian I mean.’
‘Two years at Scotland Yard, Miss Cavendish, looking for some Russian bombers. We never found them so it was a wasted time. It did give me a love for your language though. Such a less stoic tongue than my native Russian.’
‘Well, you are a card, I must say. Scotland Yard indeed. Who would have guessed?’
‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish. If you see Detective Stra-chan, please tell him to meet me at the morgue.’
‘Now, that’s an invitation nobody could refuse.’
Danilov stood there for a moment, nodded once and left. He would never understand the English sense of humour.
Chapter 2
Elsie Everett strode across the classic wood-lined lobby and entered the Grand Ballroom. A resplendent peacock dominated the stage above the band, couples shuffled around the dance floor and waiters danced between the tables, carrying drinks and plates of snacks.
She couldn’t see Richard. Was he late again? There was Margery Leadbitter. She would have to sit with the viper. Richard was so annoying; if it wasn’t for his money, she would…well she didn’t know what she would do, but she would have to bring him under control quickly.
She dodged the dancing waiters and presented herself in front of Margery, leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks. She felt a slight stickiness from the woman’s skin and it gave her a frisson of disgust. ‘Where’s Richard?’
Margery picked at something that lay on her bottom lip and examined it closely. ‘I don’t know. He was supposed to have been here half an hour ago. Alfred’s late too.’
‘Typical men. What are you drinking?’
‘An Old-Fashioned. I can’t face anything bubbly today.’
Elsie caught the eye of one of the waiters. ‘Another Old-Fashioned, with a maraschino cherry and no lemon.’ She turned back to Margery. ‘How’s Alfred these days?’
‘I don’t see much of him any more. He always seems so busy. I was surprised he wanted to come this afternoon.’ She paused for a moment and then continued, ‘Maybe it was because I told him you were coming.’
Elsie didn’t know how to respond, so she lit a cigarette and studied the room. It seemed to be the usual crowd of wasters, good-time charlies and hangers-on. On her left, a young Chinese man with closely-cropped hair like a military helmet was surrounded by three extremely young and giggly women. In one corner, an elegant Chinese grandfather in a long Mandarin coat sat all alone drinking tea. Across the dance floor, she caught a fat, bald European staring at her, his gaze averted as she noticed him through the dancers.
Then she was seized in a big bear grip and kissed on the cheeks. He was always a little rough, like a colt who had just learned to walk, but she enjoyed the hard bristle of his moustache against her soft skin.
‘Look who I met outside. He was prowling around like a cat looking for a sparrow.’ Richard stepped back to reveal the long, lean silhouette of Alfred. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, bowing slightly from the hips.
‘Don’t be so stiff, Alfred. Give her a kiss on the cheeks. You remember how we used to do it in France, don’t you?’ Richard rounded the table and reached over to kiss Margery. She accepted as if it were exactly what she was supposed to receive, nothing less, nothing more.
‘I’m so thirsty, I could drink Lake Tai.’ Richard raised his hand and instantly a waiter appeared at his elbow. ‘Champagne?’
‘Not for myself and Margery,’ said Elsie.
‘But you’ll join me won’t you, Alfred? Can’t drink champagne alone.’
‘I’ll join you too,’ said Margery, looking at Elsie.
The waiter ran off to fetch the bottle. ‘Sit down, Alfred. You’re making my neck tired looking up to you.’
Alfred pulled out the cane chair and placed himself between Richard and Margery, opposite Elsie.
‘How was this morning, Richard?’ She emphasised her refined vowels, taught at considerable expense and even more pain by Madame Tollemache all those years ago. Pain that had been worth it, as she had long lost the nasal twang of the streets of Salford.
The waiter brought the champagne and poured out three glasses. ‘Here’s to life, liberty and the pursuit of drunkenness.’ Richard drained the glass in one gulp and indicated for more to be poured.
‘As I was saying, Richard, you really need to get that pony of yours into better shape. You have a real chance at the races this Easter.’
‘I can’t be bothered getting up early and exercising the bloody thing in the wee small hours of the morning. I’d rather wall
ow in my pit.’
‘Well, it’s your loss…’
‘I just hate it when men ignore us, don’t you, Elsie?’ Margery’s voice cut through the music from the band, and all the other conversations at the tables nearby.
‘Well, I…’
‘Elsie’s far too polite to complain, aren’t you, dear?’
‘Of course she is,’ said Alfred quickly, ‘the manners of an angel and a voice to match. I was in the audience the other night at the theatre. You were perfect in the Novello song. What was it called?’
‘“The Land of Might-Have-Been”,’ said Elsie, ‘a lovely tune, almost as good as “I Can Give You Starlight”.’
‘Thank you, Alfred, we all know how you admire Elsie’s…attributes,’ said Margery, finishing her champagne.
A hush enveloped the table like a damp sea mist.
‘Let’s dance shall we? I love this new one from Harry Horlick.’ Richard held out his hand to Elsie.
They stepped out onto the brightly lit dance floor. A woman glided past them with a manic grin on her face, her partner a stiff, small man with the shiniest hair Elsie had ever seen. The band seemed to get louder and gayer.
‘Thank God, I got you away from them. Alfred’s fine, but Margery’s becoming a little shrill, a shrike with claws.’
‘She’s fine, Richard, she means well.’ Elsie had decided to play the shy innocent girl for all she was worth. It was going to be her best role.
‘Just like you to say something kind about Margery, when she’s been such a witch.’
‘No she hasn’t.’ She leaned away from him, beating her little fist playfully on his jacket. He laughed, pulled her closer and together they shimmied across the dance floor.
***
‘Good afternoon, Inspector, good to see you again, even if it is always under the most trying of circumstances that we meet.’ The voice was elegantly patrician, the Received Pronunciation even more pronounced than usual.
Dr Fang was dressed in his normal working attire: bright red bow tie with a fine gold weave, a crisp, rather old-fashioned shirt with wing collars and a beautifully tailored dark-green tweed suit. On his small feet, polished brown brogues peeped out beneath the turn-ups of the tweed trousers.