The jade dragon, p.7
The Jade Dragon, page 7
Mr. Chen nodded. “I’ll go with you.”
Doug stepped aside to let the older man climb the stairs ahead of him. It was a four-story building, but Mr. Chen climbed all the way to the top floor without growing visibly winded. Impressive for a man his age, Doug thought.
Chen led him to the door, and stood aside for Doug to unlock it.
The apartment was dark, but Doug could hear the soft whir of an electric fan on the far side of the room—the same fan he’d bought, he recalled. A little bit of light spilled in through the open door from the hallway, and after a few seconds Doug’s eyes had adjusted enough to see the shadow of a lamp on a table in the corner. He walked towards it, taking small steps lest some unseen object on the floor trip him, and pulled the cord.
The layout of the apartment was surprisingly similar to his own, and Doug figured most of the buildings in this neighborhood were built around the same time by the same builders, thirty-five or forty years ago. It was much better decorated, however, and Doug had no trouble imagining a feminine hand at work. The curtains were cerulean blue, which complemented the lighter shades of blue that patterned the wallpaper, reminiscent of the colors and patterns he’d seen on countless Chinese porcelain vases his father’s company imported. A cabinet of blue china stood in the kitchenette.
He set down the paper bag in a corner. “I need to see if he has a suit for the burial,” he told Mr. Chen before walking down the hall to the bedroom.
He turned on another lamp when he reached the bedroom. Signs of Tim’s presence were visible everywhere. A half-full glass of water sat on top of the dresser, Tim’s fingerprints visible on the outside. A damp white shirt was flung on the back of a chair next to a whirring fan on the bedside table, and a white sleeveless undershirt lay on the bed. A pair of boxer shorts and socks lay on the floor next to the bed. A slightly frayed towel hung from a peg on the back of the bedroom door, and it too was damp.
“Nothing ever fucking dries here,” Doug muttered, too tired to care that he’d used such language out loud.
Doug opened the closet door, where he found a few hanging shirts that ranged from white, to off-white, to light blue. Three neckties hung from pegs on the wall. An empty suit bag hung next to the shirts; this must be from the suit Tim had worn that evening. He found another suit bag delineating Tim’s side of the closet from the other side where a woman’s clothes hung, and pulled it out.
He laid it on the bed, unbuttoned it, and was relieved to see a black suit inside. Doug assumed Tim had been brought up to know that every gentleman needed to own a black suit, and he figured Tim needed one even in Shanghai for business meetings. Doug got out a white dress shirt and a black necktie, put them inside the suit bag and buttoned it back up.
That task completed, Doug set about looking for Tim’s address book. He’d need to send a cable to Tim’s parents in San Francisco. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say yet, but first things first.
He found Tim’s address book easily enough in one of the desk drawers. He was about to slip it inside his coat pocket, when curiosity overtook him and he opened it to the B tab. He found his name and Shanghai address written neatly in pencil.
He glanced at the file drawer in the desk, and after a few seconds’ hesitation he crouched down and opened it. He thumbed through the first several files—sorted alphabetically, as he’d assumed—and found one labeled “Bainbridge, Doug.” It was a thin manila folder, and he pulled it out and opened it. It contained a single piece of notebook paper with a few scribbled notes:
May 25 ‘35, Cathay Hot restrnt, DB lunch w/ cmdr Rbrt Hilliard (asst naval attaché)
DB left San Fran June ’32—not SF res (G Lloyd, AP SF Cal)
DB – Lt Cmd Navy, job unk/classfd, res Wash DC (K Hartmann, AP Wash)
As Doug read the notes in Tim’s shorthand, it occurred to him that the answer to Tim’s murder might be hidden in the files in this desk drawer. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
His mind began to race. There was no time to look through them all, not with Mr. Chen waiting in the next room. Would they be safe if he left them? Probably, but wasn’t there a chance the killer might come here looking for something? If Doug waited until morning, might he lose vital evidence forever?
He looked around for some way to take them with him. He needed a large box, preferably one with a lid so Mr. Chen wouldn’t see what was inside.
He looked in the closet, saw a couple of hat boxes. Not big enough, he decided. There was a coat closet in the short hall that connected the bedroom to the rest of the apartment, so he hurried there and opened the door to look inside.
“Almost finished?” Mr. Chen called from the main room. Out of the corner of his eye, Doug could see him standing by the open door.
“Yes Mr. Chen, I’m almost finished,” Doug said. There was a large box on the floor, and he knelt down to look inside. He found a shoe shine kit, an electric iron, a sewing kit, and a few tools—hammer, screwdriver, wrench, pliers. He removed all of these as quickly as he could, and set them on the ground in the corner of the closet without making a sound.
He took the empty box and hurried back into the bedroom. He removed stacks of files and stood them in the box.
When he’d emptied the file drawer, he quickly looked through the other desk drawers for anything else that might prove informative, and he took Tim’s date books for 1934 and 1935.
The box had no lid, so he draped the suit bag across the top. Pleased with the effect, he carried it to the main room. “All finished,” he said.
Mr. Chen looked at the box for several seconds, but didn’t ask about it. Still, Doug felt obligated to offer some explanation.
“Things to send to his parents in California.”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Chen said, nodding. “You are a good friend to think of his parents.”
Doug felt a slight pang of remorse for the lie, but it had been necessary, and he pushed the feeling aside.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Chen,” Doug said as they walked out into the hall. He set the box and suit bag on the ground, fished Tim’s key from his pants pocket and locked the door. “I’ll let you know when the funeral arrangements have been made.”
“Tomorrow or day after, makes no difference to me and Mrs. Chen,” the landlord said. “We will walk for Mr. McIntyre.”
Not sure what that meant, Doug followed him down the stairs, and the landlord escorted him to the front door, bidding him goodnight.
**
He’d walked about two blocks when he realized he was being followed.
It was almost midnight, and the streets in this quiet residential area were nearly empty of people, only a few here and there , in pairs or trios returning home from a night out, and these walked the opposite direction than Doug, most likely coming from the streetcar stops on Honan Road.
But the footsteps behind him were alone, keeping pace with him, and they had started within a moment of leaving Tim’s building.
The way home rounded two corners, and after turning the first one Doug listened closely to see if the footfalls continued his way. They did.
Doug turned around, but only saw a shadowy figure duck into a doorway. He turned back and picked up his pace. It was only a block to the second corner onto Huang Lei Road, Doug’s own street. From here it was just two blocks to his building.
He heard the footsteps behind him again, and his heart pounded as he turned onto Huang Lei Road.
Ahead of him, strolling toward him down the middle of the street with his hands behind his back, Doug recognized the young English constable who patrolled his neighborhood most nights, Constable Billy Dickinson, and he began to breathe easier. Within seconds, the footfalls behind him stopped, then reversed.
“Good evening, Mr. Bainbridge,” Billy Dickinson said, touching his fingers to his hat rim as he approached. “A bit later than usual this evening. Did you have a nice night out?”
“I did at first,” Doug said, and stopped walking. “My friend Tim McIntyre and I went out this evening, to the Jade Dragon.”
“Oh, very nice place,” Billy said. “Went there with some blokes from the force a couple weeks back, lovely time, loads of fun.”
“Yes, well...my friend left to get some air after the first show, but he didn’t come back. I found him dead in an alley. He’d been killed, throat cut.”
“Oh God!” Billy said, sounding genuinely concerned. “I’m dreadfully sorry to hear that, Mr. Bainbridge, sir. What a bloody rotten thing to happen. Is there anything I can do?”
Maybe get your colleagues at the Central District precinct to do their jobs, Doug thought. But he just shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t think there’s anything you can do. I appreciate the gesture.”
Billy Dickinson patted his shoulder. “Not a gesture, mate. I meant it, so if you think of anything I can help with, you just let me know. I pass by here every hour. Good night, Mr. Bainbridge.”
Billy touched the rim of his police hat again, and resumed his patrol down the street.
6
Doug barely slept, tossing and turning on top of the covers, unable to get his mind to shut down, just dozing in and out of consciousness.
At one point he must have slept, for he had a disturbing dream about being followed down a foggy street, hearing the echo of footsteps louder and louder, until they were far louder than real life could ever be. He wanted desperately to know who was following him, but something kept telling him not to look around. He grew frightened, and began to run, and the steps behind him began to run also. Finally he found himself in a dead-end at the back of an alley, and he turned around. A giant dragon, green and shimmering, emerged from the fog. It opened its enormous jaws, sharp teeth as big as his face looming closer and closer.
He felt the dragon’s hot breath on his face, then he awoke with a start, sitting up with a sharp cry, and saw that he was sitting naked on top of his bed, dripping sweat, and a sudden blast of hot summer breeze had come in the window and awakened him.
He lay back down, his heart pounding against his breast bone, and stared at the ceiling. When the pale light of dawn began to make shadows on the walls, he got up, dressed in last night’s rumpled clothing, ran a comb through his hair, and left.
He kept his eyes and ears alert as he walked toward Honan Road, but there was no indication that anyone was following him. He hoped the streetcars ran this early on a Saturday morning; he didn’t want to walk downtown. He was in luck, and he hopped off the streetcar at the Peking Road stop and walked to the American Express office.
It was ten minutes to seven when he walked through the door. A wooden sign on the counter with removable blocks announced that it was Saturday, June 1, 1935. There was only one customer at the counter at this early hour, but Doug thought he recognized the dress and the short plump figure.
Then he definitely recognized her voice.
“I’d like to send a message to the United States, please,” she said in an exaggerated slow and loud voice. “I’m Mrs. Herbert Kinzler, and I need to send a cable to my husband, that’s Mr. Herbert Kinzler, in Chicago, Illinois. That’s I-L-L-I-N-O-I-S. Don’t forget the ‘S’ at the end, we just don’t pronounce it.”
The tired-looking young man at the counter, who appeared to be of mixed heritage—half white, half Asian—answered her in an American accent. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Kinzler, I know how to spell Illinois.”
“Oh! You speak very good English!” she said, at normal pace this time, but still overly loud.
“I’m from Seattle, Mrs. Kinzler,” the young man said, somehow managing to keep his patience.
Doug suppressed the urge to laugh out loud.
“What is your message, ma’am?” the young man asked, pencil ready. He wrote it down on a form as she dictated.
“Leaving Shanghai Monday AM. Stop. Taking Yangtze River cruise with Lucy, stop. No, make that just the letter “L,” capital L, and stop. Arrive Chungking Sunday AM, stop. Will write. All our love, Lucinda.”
The clerk finished writing, and turned the form around to face her. “Sign here please, Mrs. Kinzler, and I’ll get that sent as soon as there’s a free wire on the cable. That will be $26.70 U.S., please.”
“Gracious, so expensive from here.”
“It’s a long way, ma’am.”
“It’s as expensive as two nights in our hotel.” She removed a wallet from her purse and handed him three $10 bills. He went to the cash register and came back with change. Doug watched her take the change, and hand back just a dime as his tip.
“How soon will you be able to send that?” she asked.
“Probably within the next five or ten minutes, ma’am,” the young man said. “There’s more inbound traffic on the cable than outbound at this time of day, we shouldn’t have too much trouble securing an open wire.”
“Let me make sure I’ve got this right,” she said, looking up in thought. “It’s seven AM here, and the difference is 13 hours, so that makes it six PM there—Friday or Saturday night?”
“Friday night, ma’am,” the clerk said, while slipping her message through a chute that would take it to the telegraph operator. He looked over her to Doug, and said “Next, please.”
Mrs. Kinzler turned around to leave, and her eyes widened in surprise when she recognized Doug. She smiled at him. “Why, Mr. Bainbridge! What a pleasant surprise.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Kinzler,” Doug said, returning her smile. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Lucy and I have enjoyed Shanghai this past week. I would love to stay here longer, but she insists we take a river boat up the Yangtze to see some gorges.”
“Yes, the Yangtze Gorges are quite famous,” Doug said. “I look forward to seeing them myself sometime.”
“Well perhaps you can come along,” she suggested, her face lighting up at the prospect. “I’m sure the river boat has state rooms still available, and I know Lucy would be happy to see you again.”
Still her daughter’s matchmaker, Doug thought with mild amusement. He wondered if Lucy would be annoyed to know about this conversation, or if she’d be eager to see him again.
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Kinzler, I have work to do. That’s why I’m here, in fact; I have to send a cable to San Francisco before business closes. It’s still Friday afternoon there, you see.”
“Oh, yes of course. We’re here until Monday morning, feel free to call on us at the Astor House Hotel. It’s on Broadway by the Garden Bridge. Good day, Mr. Bainbridge.”
The clerk had busied himself with the papers on the desk, but he looked up when Doug stepped up to the desk. “May I help you, sir?”
“I need to send a cable to San Francisco, but I confess I’m not really sure what to say. Perhaps you can offer some advice? You see, my friend was killed last night, and I need to let his parents know—but I’ve never had to tell someone that their son was dead, and I don’t know how to do that delicately in a cablegram.”
The young man looked startled. “Oh, I see. That is difficult. Well, during the Great War, didn’t the War Department send telegrams to the families of soldiers killed in battle?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Doug agreed. “It just seems wrong to send them a short message that their son is dead, but there isn’t really any other way, is there?”
“We do have a telephone, sir,” the clerk offered, though his expression was doubtful. “But it’s thirty-nine dollars for three minutes to call, and the sound isn’t very good. And it can take thirty or forty minutes to connect.”
Doug shook his head. “No, I’ll send a cable.”
“I’m very sorry sir,” the clerk said, getting his pencil ready. “I can mark it urgent, so it will go on the next open wire, ahead of any other waiting messages. It’s double the price, but that will also put it in line ahead of other messages received at the San Francisco office for the next available delivery boy. It would be in their hands in less than thirty minutes.”
“That’s fine, thanks.”
“What name and address, sir?”
Doug gave the name of Tim’s father, and their address on Russian Hill in San Francisco. Just a few blocks from Mother and Dad’s house.
“And what is the message?” The clerk’s tone was sympathetic.
Doug thought for a few seconds. “Terrible news from Shanghai, stop. Tim McIntyre killed Friday PM, stop. Unknown assailant, police investigating, stop.” He paused, unsure. “I should probably give them my address to reply, shouldn’t I?”
The clerk gave him a sympathetic look. “I would, sir. We can receive cablegrams for you at this office, but under the circumstances you probably want it delivered.”
“Alright, then the last line is ‘Deepest condolences, Douglas Bainbridge 118 Huang Lei Road, stop.’”
The clerk finished writing, counted up the characters, and said “That will be $25.34 U.S. for the message, plus another $25.34 for the priority delivery.”
Doug handed him $51 and told him to keep the change. More than triple Mrs. Kinzler’s tip, he thought with satisfaction.
“Thank you, sir. Sign here, please.”
Doug signed it, and watched the clerk slip it into a chute marked “Urgent/Priority.” Well, that’s that. No going back now, he thought. He thanked the clerk and turned to leave.
“I’ve very sorry about your friend, Mr. Bainbridge,” the clerk called after him.
Doug paused for a moment. “I’ll get breakfast at the Cathay Hotel. If they reply quickly, would you deliver the message to me there? I’ll be home by eight. After that, you can deliver it to me at home.”
“Absolutely; my pleasure, Mr. Bainbridge.”
**
Doug drank his tea, deep in thought. He barely picked at the red bean pastry in front of him. He was picturing Mrs. McIntyre—he thought he could remember what she looked like—receiving the cablegram at their home, bursting into tears upon reading it, and throwing herself onto a sofa, distraught. Then she’d probably pick up the telephone and call her husband at his office—it would be about four-thirty there now—and he imagined her bursting into tears all over again as she relayed the news.
