The jade dragon, p.6
The Jade Dragon, page 6
“There’s not many places in the world where you can hear a Russian dame singing Gershwin or Cole Porter in Chinese, with a full stage production all around her. Pretty swell, huh?”
“I’m really enjoying this,” Doug said. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“Then maybe we can come here together again sometime,” Tim said.
Doug smiled, a bit surprised at how much that appealed to him. It hadn’t been easy to make friends in Washington, let alone Shanghai, and it would be nice to have someone to meet up with on the weekends.
“That would be real swell,” he said.
“There’s Tatiana,” Tim said, motioning toward the side of the stage, where the singer had emerged and stood, statuesque, next to the dance floor, appearing to watch the couples doing the fox trot.
“Here,” Tim said, slipping a dollar into Doug’s right hand. “This one’s my treat. Go dance with her. I’ve got to visit the men’s room, then I’m going outside to get some fresh air for a little bit. It’s like an oven in here.” He fanned himself with his hat, then slipped it on his head and walked toward the exit.
Doug watched Tim disappear around the corner, and slid the dollar into his pocket. He’d find a way to slip it back to Tim unnoticed later on. If Tim had many more of those whiskey drinks he’d ordered, Doug figured it shouldn’t be difficult.
He saw the Chinese lady return to the table in front of theirs, folding her arms and looking annoyed. He ignored the Russian singer standing by the dance floor, and instead he approached the elegant young woman sitting alone. He bowed and greeted her in Mandarin.
“Good evening, miss.”
She looked startled for a second, but then her face relaxed, and a coy smile crept across her lips. “Good evening, sir.”
“I can’t understand why three gentlemen would leave a charming and lovely lady such as you all alone,” he continued, still in Mandarin.
Her smile disappeared, and she glanced toward the door with a slight scowl. “They’ll be back,” she said with a tiny disapproving shake of the head. “They have business to conduct. They always have business to conduct.”
She looked back at Doug, and this time she gave him a brilliant smile that showed even white teeth. “You speak excellent Mandarin, sir. I’m impressed. Not many Europeans speak it so well.”
“I’m American.”
“Oh? Even more fascinating.”
“May I have a seat?” Doug asked, and she closed her eyes and gave him a genteel nod, her head cocked slightly to the left. He took the seat across from her. With her fine manners, elegant clothing, and crisp bell-like accent in Mandarin, he deduced that she was high-born and well-educated. “My name is Douglas Bainbridge, from San Francisco.”
She extended her arm, wrist up in the European fashion, and he kissed her hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bainbridge. I am Ming Lin-wen. How long have you been in China?”
“Just a week,” Doug said. “I like it very much.”
Her smile became more fixed, polite. “Just a week? Are you staying long in our country?”
“Yes, a few years at least,” Doug said. “I live in Shanghai now.”
Her smile grew bright again. “Ah, that’s wonderful. Hopefully we will see you again, perhaps often.”
“Do you and your gentlemen companions come to the Jade Dragon often?” Doug asked.
“From time to time,” she said, her smile once again turning coy, and she lowered her eyes, letting the dark lashes partially cover them.
“Who are the gentlemen you are with, may I ask?”
She glanced back at the door with a slight scowl, and waved her hand in the air dismissively. She turned back to him and smiled. “As you can see, I am not with anyone now—except for you.”
He felt a tingle in his stomach, and he couldn’t help but grin back at her like a schoolboy.
The music changed, and the orchestra played a slower jazz melody. Couples on the dance floor began to waltz.
“Would you care to dance?” he asked.
She cast a quick glance at the door, and then held out her hand. “I would love to.”
He led her to the dance floor, and waltzed her around the floor. He noticed Tatiana Molonov waltzing with an older Chinese man, balding and probably late fifties, at least half a foot shorter than she; and yet she beamed at him the entire time he spun her around.
“Do you live in Shanghai, Miss Ming?” he asked.
“Yes. My family has a house on Broadway, near the Garden Bridge.”
“I was in that area just yesterday,” Doug said, recalling the enormous mansions that lined Broadway, at the entrance to the Hongkou district. “It’s quite lovely. Do you live with your parents there?”
“My parents live in Nanjing now—my father is in the government, you see. They come to Shanghai on occasion.”
“Besides going to places like the Jade Dragon, what do you do?” he asked, genuinely interested.
“I supervise the house and the gardens, manage the servants and the accounts. I entertain ladies for tea some afternoons, or go calling. And at least once a week I go downtown to shop on Nanjing Road. What do you do, Mr. Bainbridge?”
“I work for my father, and we import Chinese goods to the United States. I’m going to open a new office here in Shanghai.”
She smiled, but he saw in her eyes that she wasn’t really interested in his business, any more than she was interested in the business her gentlemen companions had left to discuss.
They finished the waltz, and returned to her table. He held her chair, and as she sat he saw the big-shouldered man returning without his two companions. Doug turned to her and bowed. “You are a lovely dancer, Miss Ming. I hope I have the honor again sometime.”
He returned to his table as the large man passed, and the man looked him square in the eyes. Doug wasn’t able to read his expression.
**
Another show started, with Tatiana singing the standards while the Chinese chorus girls tap-danced around her. Doug looked toward the door, surprised that Tim hadn’t returned. He’d been gone more than thirty minutes.
After the second song, Doug asked the waiter for the bill, paid it, and collected his hat. Ming Lin-wen looked over as he stood, and their eyes met for a second before she looked back toward the stage. He went outside, and the sultry night air felt cool in comparison to the stuffy air in the club.
He looked around, but saw no sign of Tim.
Several people stood around, talking and smoking, some laughing. Almost all of them were Chinese. He approached groups and asked in his mix of Mandarin and Shanghainese if they had seen a slender young white man in a light blue suit. The first few groups shook their heads, but then a young woman and her boyfriend said they had seen that man a while ago.
“He was talking with two other men, both Chinese,” the young man said. “They went around the corner a long time ago.”
“I think they were having tense words,” the young woman volunteered. “It was not friendly.”
“They went that way?” Doug pointed east, and they nodded. He thanked them and hurried that direction, concerned, but not sure why. He turned the corner they had indicated, but saw no sign of Tim. This side street was not well-lit, and fewer pedestrians walked the sidewalks.
He began to call Tim’s name, walking slowly, looking in all of the doorways and alley entrances.
Then he saw him, lying face-down between two trash cans on wet cobblestones.
“Tim! Are you alright?” he called, rushing toward him.
He reached Tim in a few seconds, knelt down and shook his shoulder. Then he realized with a start that the wetness on the cobblestones was a pool of blood—a pool spreading out from Tim’s body.
He turned him over, and the air caught in his throat.
Tim’s eyes were open and glassy, staring straight up at the night sky. A huge bloody gash stretched across his throat, deep and gaping. The blood no longer flowed from the wound, but had congealed into a thick goo that shined in the moonlight.
“Oh Tim,” he breathed, feeling his own tense body deflate. Then he looked back down the alley toward the street, and shouted.
“Help! Please, somebody, I need the police! Help!”
5
The Detective sat across a metal table from Doug in a bare interrogation room at the Central District precinct, reading the statement Doug had given to the constables who arrived about ten minutes after he’d discovered Tim’s body. The constables had interviewed him and the residents who had responded to Doug’s shouts, and after the two detectives arrived—one white, one Chinese—the police had brought him down to the station, where he’d waited alone in this room.
The white detective had finally come into the room, introduced himself perfunctorily as Detective Sergeant Phillips, and sat down to read. He had a thick brown mustache and pocked cheeks.
To Doug it seemed that he didn’t want to be there.
“So Mr. Bainbridge,” he said in a working class English accent, looking up from the page. “It appears you were the last one to see Mr. McIntyre alive, other than his killer.”
“No one in the buildings above the alley saw anything?” Doug asked, unable to keep the incredulous tone from his voice.
The detective folded his arms and took on an imperious posture. “I know that probably seems strange to a Yank, since interfering with your neighbors is a national preoccupation where you come from, but here in China people really do mind their own business—often to a fault, as in these unfortunate circumstances. It ain’t always easy to find reliable witnesses to a homicide.”
Doug’s posture stiffened. The detective’s attitude rankled, and he wasn’t confident they were taking this as seriously as they should.
“Did your officers interview everyone in the buildings?”
“They knocked on all of the doors on the sides that faced the alley where you found Mr. McIntyre’s body, talked to anyone who answered the door. No one saw or heard a thing. You’d be surprised how often we run up against that wall.”
“How many people were interviewed?”
It was Detective Sergeant Phillips’ turn to look annoyed. “I don’t know exactly, can’t remember the figure off hand. Quite a few.”
“Detective, it was barely after ten o’clock. It was too early for everyone to be turned in for the night. Someone had to see something.”
“Detective Sergeant, if you please, sir.” Phillips wore a scowl and kept his arms folded across his chest. “Listen, Mr. Bainbridge—even if someone did see something, they ain’t saying nothing, and I know from years of experience on this force that you can’t force ‘em to talk if they don’t want to. The Chinese are the most bloody stubborn race in the whole damned world, if you ask me—an’ every other white copper on the force. I tell ya, this happens all the bloody time. Yeah, it’s frustrating, for all of us, but that’s Shanghai, gov.”
Doug took a deep breath, tried a different tack. He leaned forward, placed his hands on the table, and softened his eyes and his tone just short of pleading.
“Please, Detective Sergeant—this was my friend, my only friend in Shanghai, and I can’t accept that you’re unable to track down his killer.”
Phillips sighed, and unfolded his arms. He stared Doug hard in the eyes for several seconds before he replied.
“Armed robberies happen dozens of times a day in the International Settlement. Sometimes they go horribly bad, and the victim winds up six foot under. Even if we manage to identify the robbers and give pursuit, nine times out of ten they cross the boundary out of the Settlement into either the French Concession or Chinese territory, and we have to stop chasing ‘em. If we’re really lucky, we can convince the police in the French Concession to take up the trail, but if it’s Chinese territory, they’re as good as gone. In your friend’s case, we don’t even know who the robbers were, and likely never will. I’m sorry, sir.”
Doug nodded slowly, figuring this was probably true. “Why do you think it was a robbery?”
“Simple. His wallet was found in the trash down the far end of the alley, and it was empty. Only his identification papers, no cash. No coins in his pockets, no watch on his wrist. No cuff links, no ring, nothing a man on the town would be expected to have. Only thing he had on him was the key to his apartment.”
Doug sighed and leaned back in the hard wooden chair. “So whoever killed him wanted it to look like a robbery.”
“I’m tellin’ you, it was a robbery. I’ve seen more of these than I care to remember, and I know a robbery gone bad when I see one.”
“What about what that couple told me outside the Jade Dragon? They saw Tim talking with two Chinese men, and said the conversation was tense. Then he went with them around the corner—which is where I followed right before I found him in an alley off that street.”
“We never located the two you say told you that story,” Phillips said, his expression hard. “There were hundreds of people in and out of the Jade Dragon all evening, and any number could’ve fit the description you gave.”
“That I ‘say’ told me that? I didn’t make it up, Detective Sergeant.”
“I didn’t say you did, Mr. Bainbridge.”
Doug took another deep breath, trying to fight the exasperation welling up. This was getting nowhere. “What’s the next step?”
“Detective Sergeant Xiong and I will put feelers out for any leads, and let you know if we learn anything helpful. You just let us worry about that, alright?”
“Alright,” Doug said, though he hardly agreed.
“I hate to ask you this now, I know this is difficult, but who’s going to be in charge of Mr. McIntyre’s personal effects?”
It occurred to Doug that he had no idea who should get Tim’s things. He didn’t know Tim’s girlfriend, didn’t even know her name. He didn’t know exactly where Tim lived. But Tim’s identification papers would tell him that.
“I’ll take them,” he said.
“You can pick up the body for burial at the morgue tomorrow after the forensics examination is finished, probably mid-afternoon. Bring whatever clothes you want him buried in—unless you don’t mind the orderlies down there stuffing him into the coffin naked.”
Doug found himself getting unexpectedly choked up. He wasn’t sure why—he hadn’t known Tim well, they weren’t really friends—and yet, he’d really enjoyed Tim’s company this evening, and it had made him feel free to be able to talk to him as he had. He kept his composure with effort.
“Where do I pick him up?”
“You come to the station, and tell the constable at the desk that you’re picking up a body from the morgue. He’ll walk you down there. You give the clothes to the orderlies, an’ they’ll dress the body. They’ll provide your basic pine box, but if you want something fancier you’ve got to bring it yourself. You can provide your own transportation for the coffin, or for twenty Shanghai dollars one of our drivers will transport the coffin to the funeral.”
**
Ten minutes later, a Chinese constable brought him a paper bag containing Tim’s clothes, shoes, and wallet. He could see the rust-colored blood stains on the collar of the jacket and white shirt, the well-worn brown leather wallet lying on top of them.
Doug waited until he was out on the sidewalk before retrieving Tim’s identity papers from the wallet and finding his address. It was late, but there were still a few rickshaws out on the main streets, and he hailed one a few blocks away on Nanking Road. He gave the coolie Tim’s address.
It turned out to only be a few blocks from Doug’s apartment, just a little to the east. So Tim hadn’t been lying about that last Saturday afternoon outside of the store. Doug felt oddly comforted by that discovery. He paid the coolie two quarters and got out, carrying the paper bag.
He tried the front door of the building, and found it unlocked. He was about to go up the stairs when the door to his left opened, and an older Chinese man came out. He gave Doug a suspicious look. “Who wantchee?” he asked in Pidgin.
Doug answered in his mix of Shanghainese and Mandarin. “I’m going up to Tim McIntyre’s apartment.”
“No can do,” the man answered in Pidgin.
Doug replied in Chinese, “I’m his friend. Is his girlfriend at home?”
The man stared at him for several seconds, seeming to appraise him. Then the suspicion left his face and he shook his head. “They are not home. What do you want?” he asked in Shanghainese.
“I went out with Tim this evening. Tim was killed. I need to speak with his girlfriend. Do you know when she’ll be home?”
The man bowed his head and kept it there for a moment, standing perfectly still. When he looked up, his eyes were wet.
“That is very sad. Mr. McIntyre was a good tenant, a good man. We will miss him.”
“Do you know when his girlfriend will be home?” Doug pressed, gently.
“Li Sung isn’t staying at home right now,” the man said. He seemed reluctant to go on.
“Do you know where she is? It’s important that I talk to her. I have to tell her what happened to Tim.”
Doug dreaded that conversation. In everything that had happened tonight, he hadn’t stopped to imagine the reaction he’d likely get when delivering the news to someone who loved Tim.
And then he thought of Tim’s parents in San Francisco. Who was going to tell them? That responsibility also seemed to be his. Damn it! How had he inherited these morbid tasks?
The older man in front of him nodded. “I am Chen Gwan, I am Mr. McIntyre’s landlord,” he said. “Li Sung is in a sanitarium downtown. Mr. McIntyre took her there after she got off the opium. She’s been there two weeks, has one more week there.”
That was unexpected, but Doug stayed calm. “Where is it?”
“Downtown somewhere. I don’t know exactly. Tim found it from that white priest at the church on Tianjian Road.”
Doug’s eyes widened. “The Presbyterian church?”
Mr. Chen shrugged. “I don’t know, they’re all the same to me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chen. I’ll speak to the minister there in the morning. May I go upstairs to Tim’s apartment? I have the key.”
“I’m really enjoying this,” Doug said. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“Then maybe we can come here together again sometime,” Tim said.
Doug smiled, a bit surprised at how much that appealed to him. It hadn’t been easy to make friends in Washington, let alone Shanghai, and it would be nice to have someone to meet up with on the weekends.
“That would be real swell,” he said.
“There’s Tatiana,” Tim said, motioning toward the side of the stage, where the singer had emerged and stood, statuesque, next to the dance floor, appearing to watch the couples doing the fox trot.
“Here,” Tim said, slipping a dollar into Doug’s right hand. “This one’s my treat. Go dance with her. I’ve got to visit the men’s room, then I’m going outside to get some fresh air for a little bit. It’s like an oven in here.” He fanned himself with his hat, then slipped it on his head and walked toward the exit.
Doug watched Tim disappear around the corner, and slid the dollar into his pocket. He’d find a way to slip it back to Tim unnoticed later on. If Tim had many more of those whiskey drinks he’d ordered, Doug figured it shouldn’t be difficult.
He saw the Chinese lady return to the table in front of theirs, folding her arms and looking annoyed. He ignored the Russian singer standing by the dance floor, and instead he approached the elegant young woman sitting alone. He bowed and greeted her in Mandarin.
“Good evening, miss.”
She looked startled for a second, but then her face relaxed, and a coy smile crept across her lips. “Good evening, sir.”
“I can’t understand why three gentlemen would leave a charming and lovely lady such as you all alone,” he continued, still in Mandarin.
Her smile disappeared, and she glanced toward the door with a slight scowl. “They’ll be back,” she said with a tiny disapproving shake of the head. “They have business to conduct. They always have business to conduct.”
She looked back at Doug, and this time she gave him a brilliant smile that showed even white teeth. “You speak excellent Mandarin, sir. I’m impressed. Not many Europeans speak it so well.”
“I’m American.”
“Oh? Even more fascinating.”
“May I have a seat?” Doug asked, and she closed her eyes and gave him a genteel nod, her head cocked slightly to the left. He took the seat across from her. With her fine manners, elegant clothing, and crisp bell-like accent in Mandarin, he deduced that she was high-born and well-educated. “My name is Douglas Bainbridge, from San Francisco.”
She extended her arm, wrist up in the European fashion, and he kissed her hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bainbridge. I am Ming Lin-wen. How long have you been in China?”
“Just a week,” Doug said. “I like it very much.”
Her smile became more fixed, polite. “Just a week? Are you staying long in our country?”
“Yes, a few years at least,” Doug said. “I live in Shanghai now.”
Her smile grew bright again. “Ah, that’s wonderful. Hopefully we will see you again, perhaps often.”
“Do you and your gentlemen companions come to the Jade Dragon often?” Doug asked.
“From time to time,” she said, her smile once again turning coy, and she lowered her eyes, letting the dark lashes partially cover them.
“Who are the gentlemen you are with, may I ask?”
She glanced back at the door with a slight scowl, and waved her hand in the air dismissively. She turned back to him and smiled. “As you can see, I am not with anyone now—except for you.”
He felt a tingle in his stomach, and he couldn’t help but grin back at her like a schoolboy.
The music changed, and the orchestra played a slower jazz melody. Couples on the dance floor began to waltz.
“Would you care to dance?” he asked.
She cast a quick glance at the door, and then held out her hand. “I would love to.”
He led her to the dance floor, and waltzed her around the floor. He noticed Tatiana Molonov waltzing with an older Chinese man, balding and probably late fifties, at least half a foot shorter than she; and yet she beamed at him the entire time he spun her around.
“Do you live in Shanghai, Miss Ming?” he asked.
“Yes. My family has a house on Broadway, near the Garden Bridge.”
“I was in that area just yesterday,” Doug said, recalling the enormous mansions that lined Broadway, at the entrance to the Hongkou district. “It’s quite lovely. Do you live with your parents there?”
“My parents live in Nanjing now—my father is in the government, you see. They come to Shanghai on occasion.”
“Besides going to places like the Jade Dragon, what do you do?” he asked, genuinely interested.
“I supervise the house and the gardens, manage the servants and the accounts. I entertain ladies for tea some afternoons, or go calling. And at least once a week I go downtown to shop on Nanjing Road. What do you do, Mr. Bainbridge?”
“I work for my father, and we import Chinese goods to the United States. I’m going to open a new office here in Shanghai.”
She smiled, but he saw in her eyes that she wasn’t really interested in his business, any more than she was interested in the business her gentlemen companions had left to discuss.
They finished the waltz, and returned to her table. He held her chair, and as she sat he saw the big-shouldered man returning without his two companions. Doug turned to her and bowed. “You are a lovely dancer, Miss Ming. I hope I have the honor again sometime.”
He returned to his table as the large man passed, and the man looked him square in the eyes. Doug wasn’t able to read his expression.
**
Another show started, with Tatiana singing the standards while the Chinese chorus girls tap-danced around her. Doug looked toward the door, surprised that Tim hadn’t returned. He’d been gone more than thirty minutes.
After the second song, Doug asked the waiter for the bill, paid it, and collected his hat. Ming Lin-wen looked over as he stood, and their eyes met for a second before she looked back toward the stage. He went outside, and the sultry night air felt cool in comparison to the stuffy air in the club.
He looked around, but saw no sign of Tim.
Several people stood around, talking and smoking, some laughing. Almost all of them were Chinese. He approached groups and asked in his mix of Mandarin and Shanghainese if they had seen a slender young white man in a light blue suit. The first few groups shook their heads, but then a young woman and her boyfriend said they had seen that man a while ago.
“He was talking with two other men, both Chinese,” the young man said. “They went around the corner a long time ago.”
“I think they were having tense words,” the young woman volunteered. “It was not friendly.”
“They went that way?” Doug pointed east, and they nodded. He thanked them and hurried that direction, concerned, but not sure why. He turned the corner they had indicated, but saw no sign of Tim. This side street was not well-lit, and fewer pedestrians walked the sidewalks.
He began to call Tim’s name, walking slowly, looking in all of the doorways and alley entrances.
Then he saw him, lying face-down between two trash cans on wet cobblestones.
“Tim! Are you alright?” he called, rushing toward him.
He reached Tim in a few seconds, knelt down and shook his shoulder. Then he realized with a start that the wetness on the cobblestones was a pool of blood—a pool spreading out from Tim’s body.
He turned him over, and the air caught in his throat.
Tim’s eyes were open and glassy, staring straight up at the night sky. A huge bloody gash stretched across his throat, deep and gaping. The blood no longer flowed from the wound, but had congealed into a thick goo that shined in the moonlight.
“Oh Tim,” he breathed, feeling his own tense body deflate. Then he looked back down the alley toward the street, and shouted.
“Help! Please, somebody, I need the police! Help!”
5
The Detective sat across a metal table from Doug in a bare interrogation room at the Central District precinct, reading the statement Doug had given to the constables who arrived about ten minutes after he’d discovered Tim’s body. The constables had interviewed him and the residents who had responded to Doug’s shouts, and after the two detectives arrived—one white, one Chinese—the police had brought him down to the station, where he’d waited alone in this room.
The white detective had finally come into the room, introduced himself perfunctorily as Detective Sergeant Phillips, and sat down to read. He had a thick brown mustache and pocked cheeks.
To Doug it seemed that he didn’t want to be there.
“So Mr. Bainbridge,” he said in a working class English accent, looking up from the page. “It appears you were the last one to see Mr. McIntyre alive, other than his killer.”
“No one in the buildings above the alley saw anything?” Doug asked, unable to keep the incredulous tone from his voice.
The detective folded his arms and took on an imperious posture. “I know that probably seems strange to a Yank, since interfering with your neighbors is a national preoccupation where you come from, but here in China people really do mind their own business—often to a fault, as in these unfortunate circumstances. It ain’t always easy to find reliable witnesses to a homicide.”
Doug’s posture stiffened. The detective’s attitude rankled, and he wasn’t confident they were taking this as seriously as they should.
“Did your officers interview everyone in the buildings?”
“They knocked on all of the doors on the sides that faced the alley where you found Mr. McIntyre’s body, talked to anyone who answered the door. No one saw or heard a thing. You’d be surprised how often we run up against that wall.”
“How many people were interviewed?”
It was Detective Sergeant Phillips’ turn to look annoyed. “I don’t know exactly, can’t remember the figure off hand. Quite a few.”
“Detective, it was barely after ten o’clock. It was too early for everyone to be turned in for the night. Someone had to see something.”
“Detective Sergeant, if you please, sir.” Phillips wore a scowl and kept his arms folded across his chest. “Listen, Mr. Bainbridge—even if someone did see something, they ain’t saying nothing, and I know from years of experience on this force that you can’t force ‘em to talk if they don’t want to. The Chinese are the most bloody stubborn race in the whole damned world, if you ask me—an’ every other white copper on the force. I tell ya, this happens all the bloody time. Yeah, it’s frustrating, for all of us, but that’s Shanghai, gov.”
Doug took a deep breath, tried a different tack. He leaned forward, placed his hands on the table, and softened his eyes and his tone just short of pleading.
“Please, Detective Sergeant—this was my friend, my only friend in Shanghai, and I can’t accept that you’re unable to track down his killer.”
Phillips sighed, and unfolded his arms. He stared Doug hard in the eyes for several seconds before he replied.
“Armed robberies happen dozens of times a day in the International Settlement. Sometimes they go horribly bad, and the victim winds up six foot under. Even if we manage to identify the robbers and give pursuit, nine times out of ten they cross the boundary out of the Settlement into either the French Concession or Chinese territory, and we have to stop chasing ‘em. If we’re really lucky, we can convince the police in the French Concession to take up the trail, but if it’s Chinese territory, they’re as good as gone. In your friend’s case, we don’t even know who the robbers were, and likely never will. I’m sorry, sir.”
Doug nodded slowly, figuring this was probably true. “Why do you think it was a robbery?”
“Simple. His wallet was found in the trash down the far end of the alley, and it was empty. Only his identification papers, no cash. No coins in his pockets, no watch on his wrist. No cuff links, no ring, nothing a man on the town would be expected to have. Only thing he had on him was the key to his apartment.”
Doug sighed and leaned back in the hard wooden chair. “So whoever killed him wanted it to look like a robbery.”
“I’m tellin’ you, it was a robbery. I’ve seen more of these than I care to remember, and I know a robbery gone bad when I see one.”
“What about what that couple told me outside the Jade Dragon? They saw Tim talking with two Chinese men, and said the conversation was tense. Then he went with them around the corner—which is where I followed right before I found him in an alley off that street.”
“We never located the two you say told you that story,” Phillips said, his expression hard. “There were hundreds of people in and out of the Jade Dragon all evening, and any number could’ve fit the description you gave.”
“That I ‘say’ told me that? I didn’t make it up, Detective Sergeant.”
“I didn’t say you did, Mr. Bainbridge.”
Doug took another deep breath, trying to fight the exasperation welling up. This was getting nowhere. “What’s the next step?”
“Detective Sergeant Xiong and I will put feelers out for any leads, and let you know if we learn anything helpful. You just let us worry about that, alright?”
“Alright,” Doug said, though he hardly agreed.
“I hate to ask you this now, I know this is difficult, but who’s going to be in charge of Mr. McIntyre’s personal effects?”
It occurred to Doug that he had no idea who should get Tim’s things. He didn’t know Tim’s girlfriend, didn’t even know her name. He didn’t know exactly where Tim lived. But Tim’s identification papers would tell him that.
“I’ll take them,” he said.
“You can pick up the body for burial at the morgue tomorrow after the forensics examination is finished, probably mid-afternoon. Bring whatever clothes you want him buried in—unless you don’t mind the orderlies down there stuffing him into the coffin naked.”
Doug found himself getting unexpectedly choked up. He wasn’t sure why—he hadn’t known Tim well, they weren’t really friends—and yet, he’d really enjoyed Tim’s company this evening, and it had made him feel free to be able to talk to him as he had. He kept his composure with effort.
“Where do I pick him up?”
“You come to the station, and tell the constable at the desk that you’re picking up a body from the morgue. He’ll walk you down there. You give the clothes to the orderlies, an’ they’ll dress the body. They’ll provide your basic pine box, but if you want something fancier you’ve got to bring it yourself. You can provide your own transportation for the coffin, or for twenty Shanghai dollars one of our drivers will transport the coffin to the funeral.”
**
Ten minutes later, a Chinese constable brought him a paper bag containing Tim’s clothes, shoes, and wallet. He could see the rust-colored blood stains on the collar of the jacket and white shirt, the well-worn brown leather wallet lying on top of them.
Doug waited until he was out on the sidewalk before retrieving Tim’s identity papers from the wallet and finding his address. It was late, but there were still a few rickshaws out on the main streets, and he hailed one a few blocks away on Nanking Road. He gave the coolie Tim’s address.
It turned out to only be a few blocks from Doug’s apartment, just a little to the east. So Tim hadn’t been lying about that last Saturday afternoon outside of the store. Doug felt oddly comforted by that discovery. He paid the coolie two quarters and got out, carrying the paper bag.
He tried the front door of the building, and found it unlocked. He was about to go up the stairs when the door to his left opened, and an older Chinese man came out. He gave Doug a suspicious look. “Who wantchee?” he asked in Pidgin.
Doug answered in his mix of Shanghainese and Mandarin. “I’m going up to Tim McIntyre’s apartment.”
“No can do,” the man answered in Pidgin.
Doug replied in Chinese, “I’m his friend. Is his girlfriend at home?”
The man stared at him for several seconds, seeming to appraise him. Then the suspicion left his face and he shook his head. “They are not home. What do you want?” he asked in Shanghainese.
“I went out with Tim this evening. Tim was killed. I need to speak with his girlfriend. Do you know when she’ll be home?”
The man bowed his head and kept it there for a moment, standing perfectly still. When he looked up, his eyes were wet.
“That is very sad. Mr. McIntyre was a good tenant, a good man. We will miss him.”
“Do you know when his girlfriend will be home?” Doug pressed, gently.
“Li Sung isn’t staying at home right now,” the man said. He seemed reluctant to go on.
“Do you know where she is? It’s important that I talk to her. I have to tell her what happened to Tim.”
Doug dreaded that conversation. In everything that had happened tonight, he hadn’t stopped to imagine the reaction he’d likely get when delivering the news to someone who loved Tim.
And then he thought of Tim’s parents in San Francisco. Who was going to tell them? That responsibility also seemed to be his. Damn it! How had he inherited these morbid tasks?
The older man in front of him nodded. “I am Chen Gwan, I am Mr. McIntyre’s landlord,” he said. “Li Sung is in a sanitarium downtown. Mr. McIntyre took her there after she got off the opium. She’s been there two weeks, has one more week there.”
That was unexpected, but Doug stayed calm. “Where is it?”
“Downtown somewhere. I don’t know exactly. Tim found it from that white priest at the church on Tianjian Road.”
Doug’s eyes widened. “The Presbyterian church?”
Mr. Chen shrugged. “I don’t know, they’re all the same to me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chen. I’ll speak to the minister there in the morning. May I go upstairs to Tim’s apartment? I have the key.”
