Death In Shanghai. M J Lee

and everybody else. Didn’t turn up last night. Not good, not good at all. The artistes always turn up. Once we had Mr Mayhew here, wonderful actor, magnificent Lear. He turned up with a broken leg one day. Still went on. Had to do the heath scene in a chair but he did it anyway. What a trouper, if you catch my drift.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Can’t say the same for Miss Everett though.’

      ‘I was supposed to meet her last night…’

      ‘I thought I’d seen you before, but there are always so many chaps waiting for the girls, I can’t tell ’em apart. Here’s Mr Trevelyan, the director. Miss Everett is not in his good books, if you catch my drift.’

      ‘You’re looking for Miss Everett?’ The director was a bulky, florid man with red-veined cheeks and a large spotted handkerchief sitting like a toadstool in his top pocket. ‘Aren’t we all. She was supposed to be here last night at six o’clock for rehearsals. Didn’t make those and didn’t make the show either. Miss Davenport had to take her place. Heavy calves, Miss Davenport. Doesn’t have the lightness of foot for the part.’

      ‘I was supposed to meet her last night after the show. She didn’t turn up.’

      The director shrugged his shoulders and sighed. ‘So you were stood up too. Typical. A girl gets infatuated with some man and her standards drop quicker than her knickers. Well, if you see her, tell her not to come back. She’s been replaced by Miss Smith.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, she was getting a little past it anyway. They all have a sell-by date those sort of girls. And hers had been sold a long time ago.’

      ‘So she didn’t come here yesterday evening?’ Richard persisted.

      ‘That’s what I’ve been telling you, my dear. Didn’t see a hair of her once pretty little head. I hope she enjoys her little fling because the final curtain has been lowered on her career. The only place that will have her now is Little Piddling rep, on a Wednesday night, in the middle of February.’

      ‘But she said she was coming here. We were at the Astor…’

      ‘Drinking again, was she? I warned her about that. Ages actresses dreadfully does the booze. The skin never recovers, you know.’ He glanced at the clock in the concierge’s office. ‘Is that the time? I must be off to see Harold about his shimmy in the third act.’ The director looked at Richard and his voice changed, adding an edge to his words. ‘If you see Miss Everett, tell her not to come back. She’s been sacked. Given the elbow. Shown the curtain. Danced her last chorus. She won’t be paid either. We don’t pay those who let us down, do we, Mr Harcourt?’

      ‘No, we don’t, sir,’ the concierge said smiling.

      ‘Anyway, I have a dance number waiting. Goodbye.’

      With a little wave, the director flounced off into the darkness of the theatre.

      Richard took out his pocket book and quickly wrote a note for Elsie. ‘Would you be good enough to give Miss Everett this, if you see her?’

      The concierge took the note, leaving his hand extended, palm upwards.

      ‘Oh yes, of course.’ He gave the man a dollar.

      ‘Thank you kindly, sir. Very generous. But between you and me, I don’t think we’ll see her again. There was another gentleman who used to hang around here waiting for her. If I were you, I would forget Miss Everett. Not your type at all, if you get my drift.’ And once again, he touched his finger to the side of his nose.

      The concierge pocketed the dollar and returned inside his shed guarding the theatre door.

      At the bottom of the alley, a hawker was selling newspapers. In his hand was a copy of the North China Daily News with a large headline:

      WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN CREEK

      Richard shivered as if someone had just walked over his grave.

      ***

      ‘Both occurred in the last eight days?’

      Lieutenant Masset nodded. ‘We found the second body three days ago, over towards the old Chinese city, on the borders of our Concession. At first, we thought they were gang related.’

      ‘What changed your mind?’

      ‘They lack the simple brutality of a gang killing. With the gangs, it’s either a shot to the head or long, painful torture, followed by dumping the body in the street. Both are there to set an example. To discourage the others, as you English are fond of saying.’

      ‘It’s actually to “encourage” the others, and it was used first by a Frenchman,’ said Strachan.

      Danilov held his hand up for silence. ‘But you think something else is happening?’

      The Lieutenant again brought his three fingers up to his mouth and blew on them. ‘It’s almost as if the bodies had been put on show. Like an art gallery. We were meant to find them, to see them, as they had been displayed.’

      Danilov reached into his pocket and pulled out his tobacco tin. He took one of the papers from the tin and laid it on the table, adding a few strands of tobacco. Then he closed the tin, placing it on its side on the edge of the table, adjusting the angle until it matched the lip of the wood. That felt better. The tin was in perfect alignment. ‘Tell me about the bodies,’ he said.

      Masset opened the case file. ‘The first victim was one of our resident magistrates, a lawyer by training, Monsieur Flamini. The body was found on the steps of the courthouse, hands tied behind his back. He had been strangled. That was eight days ago.’

      ‘He could have been killed by a gang. Perhaps he had jailed one if their members,’ said Strachan.

      ‘That is true,’ agreed Masset, pausing for a moment for effect, ‘but why was the body frozen? As hard as ice it was. The weather has been cold recently but not cold enough to freeze a body.’ Lieutenant Masset stared into mid-air. ‘I’ll always remember the way the man’s lips were parted from his teeth. Pulled back in a snarl like a scared dog.’

      He took out a silver case and lit a cigarette. The aroma of Turkish tobacco filled the room. ‘It was a grimace, the look of a man who had seen something terrible at the point of his death.’ Masset took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘I was at Verdun, Inspector, and I’ll tell you, I never saw anything like the look on the magistrate’s face.’

      He took another drag on the cigarette. ‘And we found a ten dollar note frozen in the man’s hand, his fingers gripping it tightly. Our pathologist thought he had been alive when he was frozen.’

      ‘Could I see the body?’

      Masset shook his head. ‘It has already been returned to his family. I believe it is on its way back to France.’

      ‘That is disappointing.’ Inspector Danilov looked down at his hands. ‘Had Monsieur Flamini been threatened in any way?’

      ‘Not that we know. He had been a magistrate here for four years. He was known as diligent in his work. A wife and two children in France. A mistress in Shanghai but that is common, is it not? Even among the English.’ Masset shrugged his shoulders in a way only the French know how. ‘We checked all his recent cases to see if someone with a grudge would want him killed but he handled property related work rather than criminal law. There was a suggestion of small irregularities in some of the recent property cases that came up before him. But nothing could be investigated or proven. If we arrested every official for “small irregularities”, we would have none left to do the work.’

      Again he shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was when the pathologist undressed Monsieur Flamini that he found the strangest piece of evidence. There were Chinese characters carved into his chest. The characters for “vengeance”.’

      Danilov took the Lieutenant’s lighter and lit the cigarette he had been holding in his fingers. He inhaled deeply and blew out a long stream of blue smoke. ‘Now, that is interesting.’