Death In Shanghai. M J Lee

his mouth. ‘So?’

      ‘How’s home life?’

      Cartwright smiled ruefully. ‘As good as it gets. The wife refuses to speak to me. The servant has run off. And the kids, well, they think I’m just a piece of shit on the end of a stick. Other than that, everything’s hunky-dory. Why are you asking?’

      ‘Like to make a few bob on the side?’

      ‘Now you’re talking, Charlie.’

      Meaker took a sip of his whisky. Cartwright filled his glass from the bottle, adding just a splash of water for the health of it.

      ‘I’ll put my cards on’t table, George. Hongkew’s a dead end. I’ve been stuck there for six months…’

      ‘You went there after working with Danilov, didn’t you?’

      ‘Sent there, not went there. Boyle thought it would be better if I “spent some time in a smaller station”. Silly old fart.’

      ‘Danilov dobbed you in, didn’t he?’

      ‘Strung up like a kipper, I was. Fuckin’ Russian. Always has his tongue up Boyle’s arse, cleaning his teeth from the inside.’

      ‘You know how I feel, Charlie. Can’t stand the little fucker, with his smug smile and neat desk.’ He took another long swallow of whisky and wiped his mouth. ‘I screw with his desk every day. Just to annoy the little fucker.’

      ‘Anyway, I’m looking to come back to Central but…’

      ‘Danilov’s in the way. What do you want me to do?’

      ‘Nothing. Yet.’ Meaker took a sip of his whisky. ‘Just let me know what he’s up to. He’s got that creek body to handle at the moment.’

      ‘And Miss Cavendish tells me Boyle has him working with the French.’

      ‘Rather him than me. If there’s one lot I can’t stand more than the Russians, it’s the French. Wanted nowt to do with ’em when I was in the trenches, unless they were female and horizontal.’

      ‘What’s in it for me, Charlie?’

      ‘A few bob on the side. Plus a nice cushy number when I come back to Central. I’ll look after you.’

      ‘Sounds good.’ Cartwright downed another glass of whisky in one long swallow. Meaker took a sip of his.

      ‘Well, are we kicking on? The Handle Bar is just getting going. Got a new load of Russians in from Siberia. Fresh meat for the grinder.’ He thrust his hips forward.

      ‘You go on, George. The missus will kill me if I’m out late again.’

      ***

      ‘Richard, you’ve finally made it. I’ve been sitting here like a lonely jam tart at the Mad Hatter’s tea party waiting for Alfred. What’s happened to the man?’

      ‘I’m supposed to know? You’re the one engaged to him.’

      ‘Engaged to nothing. You know that was just for his family and mine. Kept them both off our backs.’

      The band finished their number and there was a smattering of applause from the dancers. Like a flock of errant sheep, they returned to their seats surrounding the wooden floor. Ciro’s was the most elegant place in town. No luxury had been spared no matter how frivolous: Italian marble, French glassware, an American band, the latest dancers from across the world. All because its owner, the richest man in Shanghai, David Sassoon, had once been refused entry at another club.

      Sassoon was now sitting in his usual place, to the left of the band, at the front of the dance floor, surrounded by his latest harem of young women. Richard smiled and waved. Sassoon waved back but quickly returned to his girls.

      ‘Sassoon’s here with his FOBs.’

      ‘I do wish you wouldn’t use that term, Richard. I was “Fresh Off the Boat” once. Anyway, he can do what he wants. He owns the bloody place.’ She glanced across at Sassoon, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was looking. ‘The FOBs are getting younger. Either that or I’m getting older.’

      ‘Still as fresh as a cherry blossom to me, Margery.’

      She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Always the charmer, Richard. What would I do without you?’

      ‘Probably every man in Ciro’s, knowing your appetites. Somebody has to keep you in check.’

      ‘Somebody has to keep me in alcohol.’

      Richard took the hint. ‘Champagne?’

      ‘The Belle Epoque. It feels like a fin de siècle sort of evening.’

      He raised his arm and was immediately served by two waiters. ‘A bottle of the Belle Epoque.’

      ‘Certainly, Mr Ayres.’

      ‘Here’s Alfred now. God, he’s bumped into that awful man, Doyle. I do hope there isn’t a scene.’

      Richard turned and craned his neck towards the door. He could see Alfred apologising profusely to a one-armed man, brushing the man’s jacket with his handkerchief. Doyle did not look too pleased, and kept waving Alfred away with his one arm, finally turning on his heels.

      Alfred stood there a moment before carefully wending his way through the tables. ‘I just met the most awful man.’

      ‘Don’t you know who he was?’

      ‘Am I supposed to?’

      ‘That’s one-armed Doyle. He’s American, bodyguard for one of the warlords. General Sung, I think. He’s supposed to be a killer.’ Margery took a drag at the cigarette in her ivory holder. ‘I hope you apologised profusely.’

      Alfred went a strange shade of pale.

      ‘Sit down. Here comes the wine.’

      Alfred coughed once and pulled out a chair. ‘Where’s Elsie?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ Richard glanced at his watch. ‘She should have been here half an hour ago. I thought I was going to get the cold shoulder for being late again.’

      The waiter returned with the glasses and a wine cooler filled with ice. He opened the champagne with a satisfying pop and filled three glasses to the brim. Richard lifted his and said, ‘Let’s drink to my good news.’

      ‘Good news?’

      ‘I’m going to be married.’

      All the glasses froze in mid-air, except Richard’s. He drank his champagne in one long swallow, and reached for the bottle to pour himself another glass.

      Margery was the first to react. ‘Married? To whom?’

      ‘Elsie, of course. She doesn’t know yet so keep it a secret. I’m going to ask her tonight. The band is primed to play our favourite song.’

      ‘It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? You’ve only known her for a few months. And Susan only passed away last year,’ said Alfred.

      Margery’s glass slammed on the table. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Richard. You know nothing about her.’

      ‘I know I love her. That’s enough for me.’

      ‘But she’s an actress ’

      ‘Yes and a bloody good one too, so you keep telling me, Alfred. But let’s not talk about it now. It’s a done deal, I’ve made my mind up. Rien ne va plus.’ He took the bottle from the ice bucket and poured the champagne, filling his glass right up to the rim.

      They danced a little. Drank another bottle of Belle Epoque. Argued about Elsie again. Danced some more. And had yet another bottle of Belle Epoque. The dance floor was becoming a little less crowded, the band a little more subdued. All three of them had gradually slipped into a lassitude that comes from too