Death In Shanghai

by M J Lee

  ‘Yes, sir….I know…I think.’

  Danilov stubbed the cigarette out. ‘All had been bound with rope. But the rope is available at any merchants. At least the killer is consistent, is he not, Stra-chan?’

  ‘He is, sir. Always the same way of operating.’

  ‘And most important, all had Chinese characters carved into their bodies with a sharp knife.’

  Strachan flicked through his notebook until he found the characters. ‘They were “vengeance”, “damnation”, “justice” and “retribution”, sir, in order of the victims’ discovery. It suggests our killer is Chinese, sir, using Chinese words.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Strachan, do not jump to conclusions. All it tells us is that the killer, or killers, knows Chinese.’ Danilov began to roll another cigarette. ‘Or at least knows enough Chinese to copy the character from a book.’

  ‘And enough Chinese to understand what the character means, sir.’

  ‘Yes, there may be something in the meaning of the words. Or their order. Or their usage. I think we need to see your uncle, Stra-chan, as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll call him right now, sir. How does 11 am suit?’

  ‘It suits very well, Stra-chan. Tailor-made, one could say.’

  While Strachan made his call, Danilov stared into space, smoking his cigarette, blowing the ice-blue smoke into the air above his head. Why was the killer killing? Revenge? Excitement? Pleasure? Or all three? He blew another smoke ring. Until they knew why he was killing they weren’t going to find him. They had to understand the reasons, understand the patterns, and he would be discovered.

  He stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. It was already full to the brim with ash and used stubs. What about the words on the barrel lid? ‘HATE ALL’. Such a strong, violent phrase, frightening in its intensity. Why had the killer written it on the underside of the lid? Why write anything? And then, for a moment, Danilov was struck by the thought that maybe the words were not linked to the killings at all.

  He shook his head. They had to be. The coincidence of those words being scratched into a barrel that just happened to be used for a brutal murder was impossible. Dr Fang would be able to tell them more.

  ‘Done, sir. We’ll meet Uncle Chang at 11 am tomorrow in his house.’

  ‘That gives us time to check out the people at the tea dance in the morning. You start with the old Chinese man. A strange place for him to be. I’ll look in on the American.’

  ‘He’s staying at the Palace Hotel, sir.’

  ‘We’ll meet up at your uncle’s house. What’s the address?’

  ‘10 Jessfield Road on the western borders, sir. You can’t miss it, it’s big and dark.’

  Danilov carried on staring into the air. ‘What are we missing, Stra-chan? We have four bodies, but we have no motive, and no reason for the murders.’

  ‘Does a serial killer need a reason, sir? Isn’t killing reason enough?’

  ‘All killers need a reason, Stra-chan. Killing is the one human activity that always has a reason. Whether it’s love or jealousy, pride or greed, anger or sadness, we all need a reason to kill another human being. Even a soldier needs a reason, even though it could be he’s just scared of his sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But we don’t know why our killer is killing these people. There seems to be no link between any of them.’

  ‘Oh, there is a link, Stra-chan. We just haven’t found it yet.’ Danilov blew out another long plume of smoke. ‘Maybe we are looking at it incorrectly.’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Well, what if we stop looking at the victims and start looking at our killer?’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘How does our killer know his victims? How does he select them? How does he know these are the people he wants to kill?’

  ‘Well, they are all foreigners, sir, there have been no Chinese victims.’

  ‘Is he preying on foreigners? Why?’

  ‘Could it be political, sir?’

  ‘Political, no, I don’t think so. Examine the evidence. There have been no anti-foreign messages attached to the bodies. And the Chinese characters are not linked to any known political movements. No, this is more personal than political. This matters to him personally, it’s not in aid of any cause.’

  ‘What about criminal activity?’

  ‘No ransom demands. No evidence of gang activity. No increase in gang-related crimes. The French magistrate may have been corrupt. The Russian prostitute may have had a pimp who was a gang member. But our androgyne certainly wasn’t involved with the Triads. I don’t think they would welcome a man dressed as a woman into their ranks. Whilst the English actress may have acted criminally on the stage but that’s as far as her involvement with crime went.’

  ‘Then it could be racial, sir. Somebody who just hates foreigners.’

  ‘They exist in every culture, Stra-chan, those who hate people who are different, blaming them for the problems in their own society. God knows, the Chinese have enough to blame the foreigners for over the last hundred years, but this is not the wholesale murder of foreigners. These victims are chosen.’ Danilov blew two more perfectly formed circles of blue smoke. ‘It’s like these particular people were being punished for something.’

  Danilov jumped up. ‘Come on, Stra-chan, I want to go back to the park where Elsie Everett was found. It will help to look at it again when the crowds are not around.’

  ‘I’ll fetch the car, sir.’

  ‘Do you remember which one it is?’

  ‘The black one, sir.’

  ‘You’re learning, Stra-chan. One day, you might even become good at this.’

  Chapter 21

  They had barely crossed Nanking Road when the radio on the dashboard buzzed. Strachan picked the receiver up and pressed a button on the side. ‘Strachan here, over.’

  From the speaker on the inside roof of the car, the crackly voice of the radio operator blasted out. ‘A black taxi, licence plate ST 105, has been spotted by a beat constable on Weiheiwei Road, turning into Hart Road, heading towards the French Concession. Over.’

  The Inspector pointed to the road on the right. ‘Stra-chan, turn along Sinza Road. We’ll head them off at the bottom near Avenue Joffre. This could be the break we were looking for.’

  The tyres squealed as Strachan heaved the bulky sedan around the corner. A rickshaw boy jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being hit by the car. The rickshaw itself wasn’t so lucky.

  Strachan glanced in his rearview mirror, seeing the rickshaw boy waving his fist in the air and mouthing obscenities. He pressed harder on the accelerator, honking the horn with his right hand.

  ‘Please don’t do that, Stra-chan, you’ll give me a headache. We’re just two minutes away from the border with the French Concession. We mustn’t let them cross over.’

  Strachan accelerated even harder, scattering some schoolgirls as they ambled across the road. He changed the gears down and turned left into Hart Road.

  ‘Go down to the corner with Avenue Joffre and stop there.’

  Strachan accelerated and the Buick responded well. Hart Road was a wide, spacious street, with plane trees lining its length. On either side, elegant shops displaying the latest fashions from Paris, Rome, New York and London lined the pavement, their windows hidden by a mass of afternoon shoppers.

  ‘Pull in here, Strachan.’ The Inspector had seen a space at the side of the road, facing back towards the Settlement.

  ‘The taxi could have passed us already, sir.’

  ‘I think not. The streets are narrow and congested around Weiheiwei Road. As long as we’re here, they can’t escape into the French Concession. Do you know how to use that thing?’ Danilov pointed to the microphone. Strachan nodded. ‘Call the Mobile Unit to provide back-up.’

  Strachan took hold of the microphone and began speaking. ‘Central, over. Come in Central…’

  Danilov scanned the approaching cars, looking for the licence
plate.

  A crackly female voice came over the loudspeaker above their heads. It was as if an angel were speaking to them. ‘Car 12, come in, over.’

  ‘This is Car 12. Request support from the Mobile Unit. We are at corner of Hart Road and Avenue Joffre. Over.’ Strachan let go of the button and listened for a reply.

  After an age of hisses, squeaks and static, the voice returned. ‘Car 12, Mobile Unit on its way. ETA, eight minutes. Over.’

  At the same time, Danilov tapped Strachan’s arm. The black taxi with number plate ST 105 was coming towards them. They could see a driver in the front and two passengers in the back.

  Strachan jammed his foot on the accelerator. The car surged forward blocking the taxi. It braked sharply, swerving to the left. The driver swore at them.

  ‘Show him who we are, Stra-chan.’

  Strachan leaned forward and flicked a switch on the dashboard. Suddenly, a loud wailing filled the air, its pitch rising and falling as if a thousand devils had suddenly been jabbed with hot pokers.

  The driver’s anger turned to fear. He looked behind him and immediately the car reversed backwards, towards a crowd of people standing at the side of the road. There were shouts and screams as they jumped out of the way. One old man wasn’t quick enough. His body hit the boot of the taxi and vaulted into the air, landing on the tarmac of the road with a soft thud.

  The driver of the taxi fought with the steering wheel, twisting it hard right. It surged forward away from the screaming crowd and back the way it had come.

  ‘Get after them,’ ordered Danilov.

  Strachan put the car in gear, heaved round on the steering wheel, pulling straight into the oncoming traffic. A delivery van screeched to a halt just inches away from Danilov’s door. He could see the badge on the driver’s cap: Lee’s Laundry. Then Strachan accelerated away, throwing Danilov over to his right.

  The car in front was getting away from them. Strachan changed up and pressed the pedal even harder. The surge of the car threw Danilov back into his seat. He gripped the dashboard to hold himself upright.

  The taxi in front weaved in and out of traffic, racing past lorries and cars, first on the inside and then on the outside. Strachan followed exactly in its wake, keeping his eyes on the road and his jaw clenched.

  They were coming to the crossroads with Weiheiwei Road. The car paused as if ready to stop, then quickly surged through the traffic, turning right at the junction.

  Strachan kept following just thirty feet from the taxi. Behind them, Danilov could hear the squeal of brakes and the loud honk of horns. He peered through the split windscreen. They were going to hit the rear of a truck! Then they swerved out, passing the truck on the inside. A pedestrian crossing the road jumped out of their way, a look of sheer terror animating his face.

  Strachan’s eyes were fixed on the road, calmly keeping the black Chevrolet taxi in his sights.

  In front, the right hand rear door of the car opened and a small Chinese man dressed in a brown business suit stepped onto the running board. His arm came up and their windscreen cracked with a round bullet hole appearing in the middle. Then Danilov heard the shot. He thought how strange that he would see the shot before hearing it.

  Another hole appeared and another. The loud wailing suddenly ceased.

  Strachan swerved to the left, narrowly avoiding a cyclist.

  ‘They are shooting at us, sir.’

  ‘I had guessed, Stra-chan.’

  The gunman’s arm was coming up again. The Chevrolet took a sharp right at the next junction, throwing him off balance. He clung to the top of the door, but it swung closed, smashing into his body, throwing him off the car. He landed with a sickening bounce at the edge of the road, rolling over twice and then hitting a fire hydrant.

  As they passed, Danilov could see there wasn’t much left of his face. ‘Keep going after the taxi,’ he commanded.

  Strachan accelerated again, throwing Danilov to this left against the handle of the door. A sharp pain stabbed beneath his rib cage. He glanced down; spots of blood were already seeping through his shirt.

  The Chevrolet was going much faster now, not caring who, or what, was in its way.

  It swung to go right along Myburgh Road, but the back wheels locked and it slid towards one of the plane trees, hitting it full on, throwing a cloud of steam and bits of metal into the air.

  The back door opened and a man clambered out. He fired two shots at their car, before running down one of the narrow lilongs that led off the street. Pedestrians scattered in front of him.

  Strachan braked the car and jumped out. He began to run after the suspect, chasing him into the lilong. Danilov shouted after him, ‘Let him go,’ but Strachan carried on running.

  Danilov gingerly stepped out of the car. Strachan was already halfway down the lilong, heading back towards Nanking Road; no point in trying to stop him.

  He approached the taxi cautiously. In the front seat, a young Chinese man lay draped over the steering wheel, his face a mass of blood and bone, his skull shattered, revealing the pink sheen of the brain.

  Behind the man, the back seat was empty except for five brass cartridges littering the floor.

  Brakes squealed behind him and there was the sound of running feet. The Mobile Unit had arrived.

  He felt the side of his chest. He hoped he hadn’t been shot again. The shirt was wet with blood. His fingers traced the outline of his ribs.

  Pain. A sharp shooting pain. But no bullet hole. He was lucky this time.

  ‘Get after Stra-chan,’ he shouted at a sergeant of the Mobile Unit.

  ***

  Strachan could see the stocky man weaving through a crowd of people up ahead, his dark suit distinctive against the chi paos and long Mandarin coats of the shoppers. A woman screamed as she fell over, struck by the man when she didn’t get out of his way fast enough.

  They were running down a narrow alley, hemmed in on both sides by three-storey buildings housing tenants on every floor. Above Strachan’s head, the sky was dense with wet clothing hanging out to dry on long bamboo poles. On the right, a door was open to the street. Inside, an old man, sitting on a bamboo chair, slowly devoured a bowl of rice. As he ran past, the man lifted his head for a moment before returning to his bowl.

  Strachan ran faster. The wind stung his face and his feet clattered heavily on the cobblestones. As he ran round the corner, his legs went from under him and he slid into a pile of stinking rubbish lying against a wall.

  He picked himself up quickly and ran on, throwing away the remains of a steamed fish that had become stuck to his jacket.

  The man ran through the stone exit of the lilong and straight across the street. Strachan was closer now, gaining on him. A loud screech as a car braked suddenly. The man jumped to avoid the thrusting bonnet, landing heavily on his side.

  Strachan had him now. He increased his speed, racing under the stone gate and crossing the street.

  The man picked himself up and limped heavily up the stairs of the Great World entertainment complex, knocking another young woman out of his way.

  Strachan saw a gap in the traffic, darting in between the lorries and cars, sticking out his hand to stop a rickshaw driver. He scurried across Nanking Road after the limping man. He could hear swearing and the screech of brakes behind him.

  The man was only fifteen yards ahead.

  Strachan charged up the steps, following him through the entrance of Great World. A shot rang out and a bullet clanged against a brass bell to the right of his head. He ducked beneath a counter. Up above him, the bell still sang its song.

  The man aimed again, his right arm coming up. Everything was slowing down now for Strachan. He had time to see the man was young, not more than twenty-five, with a round head and crew-cut hair. He was breathing heavily, his chest panting, grabbing for air, like a drunk grabbing a drink.

  The pistol was up now, pointing directly at Strachan. A German Mauser, not terribly accurate, thought Strachan as the bul
let ripped into the wall an inch from his head, spraying his cheeks and ear with shards of plaster and stone.

  He threw himself back behind the counter. A torrent of candies, nuts, dried fruit and pineapple cakes tumbled down on top of him from a shelf above his head. All around him, the screams of the patrons of Great World as they ran for cover. The harsh squeals of the taxi dancers cutting through every other sound.

  And then the pain hit him.

  He reached up to the left side of his face. It was covered in blood. He touched the lobe of his ear and a stab of pain shot through his body. Vomit welled up in his throat, like he was going to throw up every meal he had ever eaten, and one more, just for luck. He swallowed the saliva that stuck to the roof of his mouth. Got to keep going, can’t let him get away. Can’t let this bastard get away.

  He jerked himself away from the wall and peered around the corner of the counter. The kidnapper was running down the corridor, past the fan tan tables and slot machines.

  Shoppers, patrons, taxi dancers, waiters and customers just out to enjoy the entertainment of Great World, scattered in front of the man, as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea. Others just cowered in the shop doorways, staring at the pistol gripped in his hand.

  One young man, a waiter, stepped forward to stop the gunman running up the stairs. Another shot rang out and the waiter slumped forward, a large red stain already spreading across his white shirt.

  Strachan reached up to the edge of the counter and jerked himself up. He stepped forward, pulling out his gun from the holster beneath his arm. It had a smear of blood on its black barrel.

  He raised himself up and stood as still as he could, sighting down the barrel of the Webley. But the man had already disappeared up and around the corner of the stairs.

  Strachan lurched on, scattering the people in front of him, shouting ‘Police, police.’ He ran past the young waiter lying in a pool of blood. Nothing could be done for him, he thought. Got to get the bastard who shot him.