The old man sat in front of the Chartered Bank building on the corner of Nanking Road and the Bund, opposite the Cathay Hotel. Beside him, on the left, a young puppy lay sleeping, occasionally opening one eye to check out the possibility of food from passers-by. On his right, leaning against the wall, was his staff of office: three long willow rods bound together with rope that opened out at the top to form a circle. From this circle an assortment of feathers, trinkets, leather straps and brightly coloured pieces of glass slowly turned in the breeze off the river.
‘Business must be quiet if you have time to spend wondering.’
The King of Beggars chortled. ‘Always got time. It’s money I’m lacking.’ He held out his tanned hand, creased palm upwards.
‘Not what I’ve heard. You’re one of the richest men in Shanghai, my sources tell me.’
‘Your sources are as wrong as the Big Ching over on the Bund.’ He pointed to the clock tower on the opposite side of the road. ‘Information always costs money. I have twenty-seven children and four wives to feed.’
‘How do you keep count?’
‘The children are easy, the wives come and go. This week it is four, last week it was five. Tomorrow, it will be six. And you?’
‘One wife is more than enough.’
The old man looked up for the first time at the inspector standing over him. The bright blue eyes shone against the dark wrinkled skin. They were a startling contrast to his moon-like Chinese face, betraying his Mongolian heritage. ‘Children?’ he asked.
Danilov hesitated before answering. ‘Only one.’
‘You should spend more time with your wife and less time with this.’ He pointed at Strachan.
The detective sergeant frowned.
‘I’m afraid Shanghai always provides work for the police, now more than ever.’
‘Not a good time. Business is slow, even for beggars. Too many refugees, too many soldiers. When war comes, beggars run.’
‘War will come?’
The King of Beggars nodded slowly. ‘My beggars have eyes. They see the ships in the river. They see the soldiers in blue landing every day at the wharves. They see their guns and their bullets and their swords. They see the people crossing the bridge. Old people who can’t walk, young people who can’t speak. They are all flowing across like a spring tide. The bandy-legged bandits are preparing to attack; only the blind and the politicians can’t see the truth.’
‘Talking about the blind, there was a beggar standing at the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue Cardinal Mercier. Is he one of yours?’
The gnarled hand came out again, its skin as tanned as the darkest leather. ‘No money, no talk.’
Danilov dug deep into his pockets, pulling out a silver dollar and laying it on the man’s palm.
The King of Beggars looked at it closely before putting it in his mouth and biting down with the only two yellow teeth that remained. ‘I love the taste of silver,’ he said finally, after placing the coin in one of his many pockets. ‘Red Cap Ching is one of my men. That’s a good pitch; used to put the amputees there, but Ah Ching plays the blind man well and works it better.’
‘He’s not blind then?’ asked Strachan.
‘Is the emperor a woman? Does the sun rise in the west? Why does your assistant ask silly questions, Inspector?’
‘Please forgive him, he’s young.’
‘Youth is not an excuse, Inspector. You have to teach him better.’
The King of Beggars unfolded his legs from under him, stretched and began to stand up. The dog next to him woke up, instantly alert and ready to go.
Danilov offered his hand to help the aged man, but it was waved away: ‘I’m not so old I can’t stand on my own two feet.’ As he stood up, his ancient clothes – a patchwork of leather, old silk and rough hessian – seemed to drape around him, creating the effect and look of a nomad’s tent.
He grabbed his staff of office and whistled though his grey-tinged lips. Instantly a man hobbled forward on a pair of crutches, left leg missing at the knee. ‘Ah Song will look after the pitch while we talk with Red Cap Ching. Can’t let a good pitch stand idle, not with visitors coming in and out of the hotel all the time.’
‘How did he lose his leg?’ asked Strachan.
The King of Beggars looked down his nose at the young detective sergeant. ‘He didn’t lose it all. His family were hungry during the winter of ’24; fresh meat was nowhere to be found. The mother knew he would always find work with me.’ He patted the man on the back of the head. ‘One of my best earners, is Ah Song. Already on the council of beggars, could be king one day.’
The man mumbled something in the King of Beggars’ ear in a language neither Danilov nor Strachan recognised. The old man chuckled to himself.
‘What did he say?’ asked Strachan.
‘He asked if you were as stupid as you look. I told him you weren’t. You were more stupid. Come on, Inspector, the blind man is waiting for you.’
54
The King of Beggars strode up Nanking Road, his dog dutifully following in his footsteps, with Danilov and Strachan bringing up the rear like imperial eunuchs. Forewarned by the rattle of his staff, the yap of the dog and the smell of his clothes, businessmen, clerks, secretaries, traders and employees of the various hongs, all dressed in the latest fashions, hurried to get out of the way as the dishevelled beggar advanced towards them.
‘Who is he?’ whispered Strachan.
‘He is known as the King of Beggars. Nobody knows his real name, but it’s said he was born in Mongolia and is the son of a prince.’
‘Doesn’t dress or smell like royalty.’
‘And you have so much acquaintance with the royal houses, you know how they dress and smell?’
‘Yes, sir… I mean, no, sir.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘But I’m sure none of them smell like him.’
Up ahead, the king turned right onto Szechuan Road. Two young beggars rushed forward to kiss the hem of his clothes. He patted both of them on the head, reaching into his pocket to give each a coin. They thanked him profusely before running back in their bare feet to rejoin their mother at her pitch on the corner of the street.
‘See that,’ Danilov continued. ‘Those beggars haven’t anything to eat or drink, yet I bet they won’t spend those coins this evening. To be given money by the King of Beggars is considered the greatest good fortune by his people.’
‘His people?’
Danilov sighed. ‘Why do you think we arrest so few beggars?’
Strachan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Because there are too many. We don’t have enough room in the cells.’
‘That is true, Strachan.’ Danilov conceded the point. ‘But the real reason is that this man controls them all. He makes sure they do not fight. He regulates the pitches. He sets the daily rates for each class of beggar… ’
‘Class of beggar, sir?’
‘Really, Strachan, I thought they would have taught you more in the training school. It’s rudimentary knowledge. There are different classes of beggars. At the top are the disfigured, those who by accident or design have lost one or more of their limbs. Next are the blind, recognised by their red canes and cups. After them are the women with children. A sleeping child in its mother’s arms often encourages people to give more even when they know the sleep was induced by opium. Finally there are the common-or-garden beggars, people who just stand in the street with their hand out and a pitiful look on their face.’
‘So this man regulates it all.’
‘No, Strachan, he rules over it all, in the same way as Catherine the Great once ruled over Russia, using a mixture of threats, violence, charm and sheer bloody-mindedness to keep it all in check. Without him, there would be anarchy on the streets of Shanghai.’
‘And yet he still begs every day, sir.’
‘Always the same pitch. On the corner of the Bund and Nanking Road.’
The King of Beggars turned right onto Kin Lee Road, followed by the dog.
‘Wh
ere are we going, sir?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Strachan.’
After ten yards, the king crossed the road, vanishing into a narrow dark alley between two tall buildings. By the time the two detectives reached the place, he could no longer be seen.
Strachan looked all around. The alley was empty and quiet, the perfect location for an attack. He touched his jacket pocket. The weight of his revolver made him feel more comfortable for a short time.
The king appeared as if from nowhere. ‘What are you waiting for, Danilov, come on.’ The dog at his feet yapped in agreement.
They followed him behind a metal grating and down some narrow steps into an underground passage. At the bottom, a large wooden door blocked the way. As they approached the door, it opened as if by magic, an attendant bowing low as they entered.
The rooms in front of them were brightly lit. On the left, three beggars, all missing sundry limbs or body parts, sat reading the papers. In the next room they could hear the clack, clack, clack of mah-jong tiles being mixed before a game. The King of Beggars strode off to the right, down a short corridor. ‘I asked Red Cap Ching to wait here for us.’
‘You knew we would come?’
‘Once I heard about the kidnappings, it was inevitable.’
He pushed open a door into a large, dimly lit room. The same man they had seen at the accident site, still wearing his round black glasses and bright red cap, stood in the corner, leaning over an open brazier, smoking a cigarette. He appeared as comfortable as a gentleman in his club, relaxing after a particularly fine lunch.
‘This is Red Cap Ching.’ The King of Beggars introduced them. ‘Please tell these gentlemen what you observed yesterday.’
The man turned towards them, taking off his glasses and cap. He spoke hesitantly in heavily accented Mandarin. ‘I don’t want any trouble, sir.’
Danilov understood his reluctance and the basic Mandarin. ‘Please explain to him there will be no trouble, Strachan. This conversation will not be communicated to anybody else.’
Strachan spoke to the man in Chinese first, followed by Shanghainese in case he hadn’t understood.
The King of Beggars then spoke in the same language they had heard him using to Ah Song: an underworld dialect used exclusively by the beggars.
The man threw his cigarette into the fire, then began to speak. His voice was deep and smoky, as if coming from the depths of a volcano. Strachan translated, sometimes asking for clarification from the King of Beggars when he didn’t understand the man’s accent.
‘Dark glasses are made for me. Nobody see into them but I see out. Morning, arrived at pitch early, supposed to pay dues at end of week—’
‘He means his membership fees to the Union of Beggars, in case he falls sick or is unable to work,’ the King of Beggars explained.
‘Anyway,’ the man continued, ‘standing at the corner with red cane and red box. Day had been good. Cold but two old women gave money. Box rattling nicely with coin. Then noticed men in car—’
‘Which men in which car?’ asked Danilov.
‘I dunno make. Never been in a car. But was big and black.’
‘And the men?’
‘Two in car, one in front, the other in back. Another on the corner looking down the road. The little one was the lookout.’
‘Little one?’
‘Like a midget. Taller, though not much.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Well, one minute he look down road, and next he suddenly run back to car. It were funny ’cos I never seen little man’s legs move so fast. Driver, he one with scar, edged car forward. As soon as car with bandits’ flag came, heard him revving engine. When next to alleyway, drove forward and crashed into the side of Japanese car, catching it near rear door.’
‘The Japanese car was deliberately chosen?’
‘For sure. Like aiming at target with bow, ’cept arrow was car. After hit, car spun round twice and then came to stop. Little man stepped out, walked up to driver and shot him twice.’
‘Did the man with the scar say anything?’
Ah Ching thought for a moment. ‘Shouted at little man in Chinese. I think it was “Watch out!” Japanese driver was looking for gun. That’s when little one shot him.’ He mimed the actions of Corporal Mamuchi scrabbling for his revolver.
‘Hmm.’ Danilov grunted, pulling his bottom lip out using his index finger and thumb. ‘Please continue.’
The blind beggar used the interruption to pull a pack of Prosperity from his pocket and light one. He blew the smoke into the brazier, where it was swallowed by the fire. ‘Other man, the one with scar, rushed to rear of car, opened door and dragged boy into road. Boy tried to fight him but man too strong. With the help of little man, they shoved him in the boot and drove away.’
‘In which direction?’
‘Down towards Bund.’
‘You said there was another man in the car?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Nothing. He just sat smoking, but… ’
‘But what?’
‘But didn’t see his face, hidden in back of car.’
‘You couldn’t identify him again?’
The beggar shook his head. ‘Too dark in car. Had something pulled down over his eyes… ’
‘A hat?’
‘No, something else. Saw through rear windscreen as they drove away: a cap. Think he was in charge… ’
‘How do you know?’
‘Don’t, a feeling. Way he held self, way he smoked cigarette. Get to know people, standing on corner watching, pretending blind. See without being seen.’
‘Invisible, like a sign that’s been there so long nobody notices it any more. A part of the street.’
Ah Ching nodded. ‘A part of street.’
‘Anything else you saw that day?’
The man took a deep drag on his cigarette, expelling the smoke into the air between them. ‘I did see something, but king said get more money now.’
Danilov stared at the King of Beggars, who had suddenly found something captivating on the floor. ‘How much did he tell you to ask for?’
‘Twenty silver dollar.’
‘But that’s a month’s wages,’ blurted out Strachan.
‘And what is his share?’
The man seemed surprised at the question. ‘The usual. Half. King’s share of reward from police.’
‘And is the information worth the money?’
The King of Beggars looked up and nodded.
‘Well, you shall have your reward. A deal.’
Ah Ching’s hand snaked out. ‘No money, no talk.’
‘I’m hearing that a lot recently,’ said Danilov.
‘Inspector good for the money,’ said the King of Beggars. ‘Tell him what you know.’
Ah Ching seemed to want to argue for a second, then he saw the look on the king’s face and stopped. He took another long suck on his cigarette, the end glowing bright red. A smug smile crossed his face as he released the smoke from his lungs.
‘I saw number plate of car.’
55
His teeth chattered uncontrollably. He wrapped his arms around his thin chest, bringing his legs up as close to his body as they would go, forming himself into the tightest of balls.
But still he was cold.
The air misted in front of his face as he breathed out.
Why was he so cold?
Was it night-time?
He tried to remember how long it was since the men had visited him. He hadn’t heard anything outside his door for a long time. Had they forgotten about him? Had they gone away, leaving him to die in this stark room?
The light bulb still burned brightly above his head. A few grains of rice was all that remained of his meal. He had finished the food a long time ago. The bucket of water was nearly empty now.
He felt hungry and cold.
So cold. It was as if the fingers of frost were reaching deep inside
his bones. He curled up even tighter but it did no good. When would they come again?
He forced his mind to stop thinking about his chattering teeth, the icy touch of his skin and the cold mist in front of his mouth.
What are you?
A soldier of Japan.
Who are you?
A soldier of the emperor.
Why are you on this earth?
To live and die for the emperor.
When will you die?
When he commands it.
How will you die?
With his name on my lips.
For a second, the mantra of his cadet corps filled his body with strength. Then his teeth began chattering again.
He must stop. What would his father think? What would the emperor think?
He sat up quickly; too quickly. For a moment, his head spun and he thought he was going to faint.
Got to keep moving.
He stood up and began to march up and down the cell, his arms swinging as if he were on parade.
One, two, three, four. Reach the wall. Turn. Five, six, seven, eight. Touch the other wall. Turn.
He marched up and down until he could no longer remember what number he was supposed to be counting.
Eventually he collapsed back onto the straw, panting with exertion, the faint sheen of perspiration dampening his forehead.
When would they come again?
His fingers reached for the pair of chopsticks he had sharpened against the wall and hidden behind the water bucket.
When they came, he would be ready for them.
56
‘Get on to the Register of Vehicles. Track down the number plate immediately.’ They rushed back to the detectives’ room, with Danilov barking out orders as they walked through the door.
It had been dark before they had managed to get out of the beggars’ lair, the king and his court refusing to let them leave before they had drunk at least three toasts in glasses of fiery Mao Tai.
Strachan had driven like the wind to get back to the station, narrowly missing three pedestrians crossing Peking Road, with Danilov hanging onto the strap above his head throughout the journey.
The detective sergeant ran to his desk without taking off his coat, checking the government telephone list and dialling the number.
The Killing Time Page 20