The jade dragon, p.16
The Jade Dragon, page 16
Doug took a moment to consider this.
“Detective Sergeant, would you mind telling me everything you told Tim?”
Wallace shook his head. “I’d leave it alone if I were you, mate.”
I probably should. But something inside him wouldn’t let it go. He owed it to Tim, he supposed; and besides that, it just wouldn’t be right. Someone needed to seek justice.
“Let me ask you this, Detective Sergeant Wallace—what are the odds the detectives working Tim’s case are going to pursue any of this?”
“None,” Wallace said, his expression stony.
Doug nodded. “That’s what I expected. I think you and I need to start at the beginning—tell me what you said to Tim, and what he said to you. I want to know everything.”
Wallace looked at him hard for a moment. “Your funeral, mate—just make certain it’s not mine, too.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice even more. “I told Mr. McIntyre that they—the Green Gang—ain’t so easy to catch by surprise. Almost every time we get information about something they’re up to, and we go out to raid one of their joints, they’re ready for us. Either they’ve cleaned house and there ain’t nothin’ left for us to find, or they’re firing down on us with bloody Tommy Guns. Someone always tips ‘em off. Maybe that someone’s the informant who told us about the joint in the first place, settin’ us up and gettin’ double payment for it; or maybe it’s someone on the inside, a dirty copper. I used to hope that weren’t it, but I ain’t stupid, neither. I told him all of that.
“And I told him if we do arrest some of the bastards, it’s even harder to get anything to stick. They always seem to get off Scot free. Chinese judges ain’t known to be lenient, or inclined to hand out Not Guilty verdicts, you know? But them Green Gang boys always get released, and almost never go to trial.”
He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face.
“Your friend Mr. McIntyre asked if I had any direct evidence of corruption. He asked if I’d ever witnessed a bribe to anyone in the police or the courts. I told him ‘No, course not. But the fellas talk, it’s no secret some of ‘em are on the take.’ I told him it’s usually small-time operators that hand out bribes, but sometimes it’s the big fish—the ones with the deepest pockets.”
“And that’s what Tim was interested in,” Doug said, as much to himself as to Wallace.
“He seemed pretty interested. Typical reporter, he asked if I’d mention any names, and told me he’d keep it off the record. I just laughed at him.” Wallace chuckled again at the memory. “I said ‘Hell, that wouldn’t save my arse! I’d find myself in a cold grave like Detective Inspector Greenlee, God rest him.’ He asked how anyone would know it was me, if, as I’d told him, the fellas talk, so couldn’t any of them be the ones who’d leaked the names?”
He stopped, and looked at his hands on the table.
“And what did you say?” Doug prompted.
Wallace took a look around. A large Indian family had come in and taken a table near the front, but the restaurant was still mostly empty.
He leaned in and whispered. “I said it’s because none of the others have ever got a visit from their captain, ordering them to let their perpetrators go, just walk out the door, with no explanation gave other than ‘That’s an order!’ I told him that happened to me twice. And I said ‘Everyone knows I was close to Detective Inspector Greenlee, so they’d suspect me in a heartbeat.’
“It only took your Mr. McIntyre a few seconds to catch what I was telling him—I wasn’t naming names, but he got my meaning.”
It was a few seconds before Doug understood. “And who is your captain?”
“I’m still not naming names, mate.”
Doug’s head was swimming. Powerful crime lords, corrupt police and judges—any number of potential killers.
And there was still Kawakami—how did he figure into it? Clearly he was not hesitant to kill. Doug felt more confused now than he ever had.
Wallace was watching him.
“So what you’re telling me is that if Tim was killed by the Green Gang, there’s no chance the police will find the killers,” Doug said.
Wallace nodded. “That’s right. It’s bloody lousy, I know—but there ain’t nothing you or I can do about it.”
“Tim must have thought he could do something about it,” Doug mused, as much to himself as to Wallace.
“Yeah, and look where that landed him.”
“Hmm,” Doug grunted, his heart sinking even as his mind grasped for any hope of justice. Clearly Tim had been looking to make a difference through exposing the corruption in the newspapers—perhaps a similar strategy would bring Tim a modicum of justice for his death. If the police and the courts wouldn’t do anything, the newspapers surely would.
That meant finding Jonesy. Doug hated that, but he couldn’t think of anyone else.
“Thank you, Detective Sergeant,” Doug said, rising from his seat.
Wallace didn’t rise. “You best leave this alone, Mr. Bainbridge. Don’t put yourself—or me—in any more danger.” His eyes narrowed. “I won’t take too kindly to that. Understand?”
Doug felt his insides go cold at the sight of Wallace’s menacing glare. “I understand.”
“Good. I’ll keep an eye on you, Mr. Bainbridge.” Wallace raised his hand to signal to the waiter as Doug walked away.
**
Back on Bubbling Well Road beside the Park Hotel, Doug briefly considered going straight to Jonesy’s apartment—it wasn’t even two blocks away, just west of the Recreation Grounds—but instead opted to cross the street into the park, remembering that Jonesy had said he went to the Rec grounds most evenings. Doug figured if he couldn’t find Jonesy there, he could easily walk over a couple of blocks to his apartment house.
The sun was getting low in the west, but the cricket match was still going, and Doug walked an arc around it, scanning the crowd. Beyond the Cricket field were the tennis courts, where several people still played, but not Jonesy. A large number of English women chatted at the lawn bowling grounds, and there were several shouts of “Well done!” when one threw a particularly good pitch. Beyond them another group of well-dressed English women played croquet.
The football/rugby field stood empty for the summer, and Doug cut across it toward the Administration building, which divided the Recreation Grounds from the horse track and its grandstand.
Inside, signs pointed right for the basketball courts, up the stairs for the offices of the Shanghai Racing Club, and to the left for “Men’s and Women’s swimming baths.”
It took him a few seconds to decide that Jonesy was more likely to go for a swim than to play a vigorous game such as basketball. He turned left. At the end of the hall signs pointed right for the “Women’s swimming baths” and left for the men’s.
It didn’t surprise him that the Shanghai Recreation Grounds still had old-fashioned swimming facilities—the sexes separated, no bathing suits— since the clubs seemed to all be run by wealthy old men, and the older generation was still suspicious of mingling the sexes in such an “intimate” activity.
The thought made Doug uneasy. It wasn’t the nude swimming that made him uncomfortable—he had grown up with that—but the idea of finding Jonesy in such a setting gave him pause.
Doug had been eleven when their country club had put in an outdoor “family” pool. His parents never used it. Father said “Public bathing is vulgar, simply vulgar.” Mother had refused even to speak of it. He and his brother Will, fifteen at the time, had taken their allowances and gone downtown to buy bathing suits—one-piece affairs, short trunks connected to a sleeveless top, in seamless synthetic fabric that was slightly stretchy. Will bought a black one, and Doug a red and white stripped one. They were stylish and slightly daring.
Doug had had butterflies in his stomach the first time he put it on and walked out to the pool area—he’d never shown bare legs, arms, and shoulders in public before. He somehow felt more exposed in the bathing suit in public than he had naked in the men’s pool.
“But girls will see our arms and legs!” he’d said to Will.
“That’s the idea, dummy!” Will had replied.
Then he saw the way the girls at the pool gathered around Will, flirting with him while eyeing his arms and shoulders, and Doug decided this wasn’t so bad.
That first summer, no one older than twenty used the outdoor “family” pool; but slowly that changed. The last time Doug had visited the country club—right before he entered the navy three years ago—there had been a considerable number of young parents in their 20s and 30s, swimming with their children at the outdoor pool. And many of the teenage boys now wore trunks only, with bare torsos—something that would have gotten Doug and his friends kicked out of the club when he was younger.
Even now, Doug didn’t think he’d be comfortable in bathing trunks—it would feel like walking around in his underwear. Ironic, perhaps, but skinny-dipping in a men-only area would feel less exposed.
But he’d never worried about men like Jonesy in those environments. What would he do if he did encounter Jonesy here? As he entered the men’s lounge and saw the young Chinese attendant, he thought he might not have to.
The white-coated Chinese attendant bowed and smiled when he came in. “Help you, sir?” he said in English.
“I hope so,” Doug said in his Mandarin-Shanghainese blend. “I’m looking for someone, a friend of mine. His name is Art Jones, an American. He’s about this tall”—he held his hand flat, level with his forehead—“and a bit heavier than me. His hair is brown, and he has a big mustache.”
“Jonesy?” the attendant replied, in English. “He write for newspaper?”
Doug couldn’t help but be surprised. “Yes, that’s him,” he said in English. “Is he here?”
The attendant was silent, so Doug handed him a dime. “He here. You go for swim too? Forty cent.”
“Would it be possible to send him a message?”
The attendant shrugged, and Doug handed him another dime. “I give him message.”
Doug asked for paper and pen, and wrote a short note; he folded it in half and handed it to the attendant. He took a seat as the attendant disappeared.
A pair of middle-aged men came out the door speaking French. They gave Doug a curious look as they passed, but resumed talking before leaving the lounge.
It was several minutes before the attendant returned. Doug stood as he approached.
“Jonesy say he meet you outside, ten minutes.”
Doug thanked him and bowed. The attendant seemed to be waiting for something, so Doug fished another dime out of his pocket and handed it over. The attendant smiled and bowed.
The sun had dropped below the buildings to the west by the time Jonesy came outside a short while later, his hair wet and recently combed. He kept his hat in his hand as he approached.
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he said. “It seemed you couldn’t get away from me fast enough, and now you track me down at the pool and send me a note that you need to speak to me right away.”
Doug’s jaw tightened at the reference to earlier. “Yes, I apologize for my manners this afternoon. I should not have been so dismissive.”
Jonesy grunted. “I’ve come to expect it. Now what is the nature of your need to see me—business, or personal?”
Doug’s gut clenched at the implication. This was a bad idea. “Business,” he said, unable to keep the irritation from his tone.
Jonesy nodded. “Let’s walk,” he said, and they headed west across the empty football/rugby field. “Is this concerning our conversation earlier?”
“Yes, I have new information.”
“Mr. Chen had the files?”
Doug scowled. “I never found out.” He hated admitting that.
“Did you ask him?”
Doug’s scowl deepened at Jonesy’s accusatory tone. “It’s not that easy. If I asked him directly, he would never tell me.”
From the corner of his eye he saw Jonesy shaking his head. “I’ll ask him, then. I’ll bet you five bucks he’ll tell me.”
Doug ignored the bet.
“So then, Sherlock Holmes, what did you learn that’s so important?”
“Mr. Chen did mention that Tim was attacked by a pair of Japanese marines in front of his building a few nights before he was killed.”
“Japanese marines, huh? Yeah, they don’t fool around. So you’re probably thinking this is connected with that Kawakami fella from last night, the one that killed those Chinese secret police.”
“I can’t believe it’s not.”
“I think it’s a good lead, anyway. Something to look into. So why rush over to tell me that? Do you need my advice on how to follow a lead?” Jonesy shook his head again. “Sam Spade you are not.”
“No, there’s more.”
“Tell me, then.”
“There was a note slipped under my door when I got home this afternoon, unsigned,” Doug said, and recounted his meeting with Detective Sergeant Wallace at the House of Singh, and everything that had been said.
Jonesy listened in silence. When Doug had finished, he looked down and shook his head. “Damn it, Tim,” he muttered.
“What?”
Jonesy grunted. “Tim never was one to back off from a story, for any reason. Seems that did him in, doesn’t it?”
Doug shrugged. “The question is, which one?”
“If you want my advice, focus on that Kawakami character. He said he’s coming back, didn’t he? So find out what’s in those files he’s looking for. I can get them from Mr. Chen.”
Doug didn’t argue. “So you think it was Kawakami, then, and not the Green Gang?”
Jonesy chuckled. “I have no idea. Could’ve been either of them. But my advice to you is to leave that Green Gang strictly alone. You go digging into that too far, and someone’s going to want you dead, too.”
“I was thinking you would want to write the story exposing the corruption.”
Jonesy guffawed. “Not on your life.”
“Don’t you think Tim deserves that?”
Jonesy stopped, faced Doug, and stared him hard in the face. “Don’t talk to me about what Tim deserved, Mr. Johnny-come-lately.”
Doug nodded in resignation. “Sorry. I meant no offense.” He turned and resumed walking. “Do you want to go see Chen Gwan now?”
“No, tomorrow. I’ve got dinner plans.”
Doug felt his chest constrict. “I don’t need to know about your personal life.”
Jonesy’s brow knit. “I wasn’t telling you anything about my personal life. I just said I’ve got plans.”
Doug felt the irritation rising, and he let himself respond without pushing it down. “Your friend Mr. Nolan, the rugby player—he was with a woman tonight. I saw him at a pub, and they were necking.” He felt a touch of schadenfreude delivering that news.
“Boy, you are a piece of work,” Jonesy said. “You think I don’t know the score? I’m not some tenderfoot, I’ve been around. It happens all the time. And what do you care, anyhow?”
“I don’t,” Doug said, defensive.
Jonesy stared at him hard for several seconds. “You’re too young to be bitter.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You and your nasty attitude. You’re alone, you’re not the loner type, probably not too happy, and, well—you know what they say, ‘Misery loves company.’ I’ll see you tomorrow, ten o’clock at Mr. Chen’s.”
Jonesy put his hat on and crossed the street from the Recreation grounds into his neighborhood.
Doug’s hands fisted at his side as he watched Jonesy storm away. He was not bitter. He loved his life. And how dare Jonesy judge him?
The Recreation grounds were deserted now as he stomped north across them to Bubbling Well Road. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten. He wondered if Lucy Kinzler were eating dinner somewhere, on her last night in Shanghai, or if she and her mother would order room service while they stayed in and packed.
He hailed a motor cab and climbed in the back. “Astor House Hotel, Broadway.”
**
12
Doug asked the desk clerk at the Astor House to dial Mrs. Kinzler’s room. His fingers drummed on the desk as he listened to the line ring. He hoped they were there. He hoped Lucy was the one to answer the phone.
He got the former, but not the latter.
“Good evening, Mrs. Kinzler,” he said, forcing himself to sound friendly. “This is Douglas Bainbridge. We met on the ship, and then at the American Express office yesterday.”
“How are you, Mr. Bainbridge? So good of you to call. You wish to speak with Lucy?”
He smiled for real at her enthusiasm. “Yes, please.”
He heard her set the phone down, followed by some muted conversation; then Lucy’s frantic voice said, “Doug? Are you alright? What’s going on?”
Her concern touched him. “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll tell you all about it—can you meet? I’m downstairs in the hotel lobby. Have you eaten?”
There was silence on the line for several seconds, and then he heard Mrs. Kinzler’s voice in the background saying, “Yes, of course dear.”
“Yes, I can meet you,” Lucy said. “Let me freshen up, and I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
When she came down the red-carpeted stairs fifteen minutes later, her long fingers gliding down the intricately carved wooden banister, she wore a long silver evening gown, diamond earrings, and her hair was curled. Doug felt shabby in his wrinkled linen suit as she came up and kissed his cheek.
“You look beautiful.” It was an understatement, but he couldn’t think of anything better.
“Thank you.” Her dazzling smile made a tingle run up his spine.
“Can we get dinner?” He gave her his arm and led her toward the dining room. “I hope you haven’t eaten.”
“We ordered room service, but it hadn’t arrived yet when you called,” Lucy said. “Mother cancelled my dinner.”
They walked through a set of dark wood doors and entered the long, colonnaded dining room; they were met by a white maître’d in a black tuxedo, with slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin black mustache.
