“A friend of your husband's needs to speak with you urgently.”
“I don't understand all the secrecy, Mr. Tichborne. He can leave his card at my house if he'd like to see me.”
He began to grow nervous, glancing furtively left and right.
“Mr. Jiang can't go to your house, madame. You're being watched day and night.”
“What?” I asked indignantly. I was no stranger to the various ways a man can approach a woman, but this was really ridiculous. “I think, Mr. Tichborne, that you've had too much to drink.”
“Listen!” he exclaimed, gripping my arm urgently. I pulled away sharply and tried to walk toward the consul, but Tichborne grabbed me again, forcing me to look at him. “Don't be a fool, madame. You're in danger! Listen to me!”
“If you dare touch me again,” I warned him coldly, “I will inform the consul at once.”
“Look, I don't have time for silly games,” he declared, letting me go. “Your husband wasn't killed by thieves, Mme De Poulain, but by hired assassins from the Green Gang, the most dangerous mafia in Shanghai. They broke into your house in search of something very important. When they didn't find it, they tortured your husband to make him confess. But Rémy was nghien, madame, and couldn't tell them anything. Now they're after you. They've been following you since you disembarked yesterday. You can be certain they'll try again, so your life and your niece's life are in grave danger.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you don't believe me,” he said haughtily, “interrogate your servants. Don't accept the official story without investigating first. Get to the truth with a sturdy rod; yellows won't talk unless they're afraid. The Green Gang is extremely powerful.”
“But what about the police? The French consul told me today that the police report—”
The Irishman let out a guffaw.
“Do you know who's in charge of the French Concession police force, madame? Huang Jin Rong, better known as ‘Pockmarked Huang’ because of the smallpox scars on his face. Pockmarked Huang is also the boss of the Green Gang. He controls the traffic of opium, prostitution, and gambling, as well as the police who're watching your house and wrote the report concerning your husband's death. You have no idea what things are like in Shanghai, madame, but you'll have to learn quickly if you want to survive.”
The anguish I'd felt since speaking with Rémy's lawyer that morning suddenly returned with a vengeance. I had heart palpitations and felt as if I were suffocating all over again.
“Are you serious, Mr. Tichborne?”
“Look, madame, I never joke unless I'm drunk. You should meet Mr. Jiang. He's a respectable antiquarian from Nanking Road who was a good friend of your husband's for many years. Since you're being followed, Mr. Jiang can't go to your house and you can't go to his shop. You'll have to meet somewhere the Chinese aren't allowed. That way your pursuers will have to remain outside, like now.”
“But if the Chinese aren't allowed in, Mr. Jiang won't be either.”
“He will if I bring him in through the back door. I'm speaking of my club, the Shanghai Club, on the Bund. I live there, in the hotel, in one of two rooms the Royal Geographical Society keeps for members who travel to this part of the Orient. Mr. Jiang will come to my room through the kitchen, and you'll come in normally, through the front door. Let me warn you that it's an all-male club, so you won't be able to go into the parlors or the bar. You'll have to come to my room on the pretense of bringing me this book.” He surreptitiously pulled a small, leather-bound volume out of his jacket pocket. Luckily, it just fit into my purse. “Say you're coming to have me sign this book I wrote. Hotel guests receive all sorts of female visitors—secretaries, American businesswomen, Russian jewelry merchants—so you won't arouse too much suspicion or endanger your reputation, especially since we met here tonight. Don't even think of bringing anything the Green Gang assassins might mistake for a piece of art. Mr. Jiang is convinced they're looking for something like that. They would kill you in plain sight just to get their hands on it.”
I tried to reflect on that flood of information but still didn't understand what this Mr. Jiang could want with me.
“Mr. Jiang is convinced that if you can discover what the Green Gang wants and give it to them, then you and your niece will no longer be in danger,” Tichborne hurriedly explained, staring fixedly over my shoulder. The expression on his face was clear: Someone was approaching. “He has a few ideas in this regard…. Of course I can sign my book for you, madame!” he exclaimed, suddenly sounding happy. The consul's smiling wife entered my field of view. “Come by my hotel tomorrow at noon, and I'd be delighted to dedicate your copy.”
“I've come to rescue you, Elvira,” Julio Palencia's elegant wife declared in her slightly accented Spanish, giving me a wink. “Patrick can be rather annoying at times.” Then, in English, she asked him to bring her a glass of champagne.
“She's read my book, darling. That's what we were talking about,” he said snidely in French.
The consul's wife was wise enough not to ask questions as she kindly led me to the largest group of guests, who were discussing the threat of a military uprising in our country. I'd always followed events in Spain with a certain amount of interest, such as the opening of the first big department stores or the construction of the first subway line in Madrid. I'd never been very interested in politics, perhaps because it was so confusing and problematic that I didn't quite understand it. I had, however, been very worried by the recent attacks and riots. I simply couldn't imagine that the military would once again attempt to take power. Consul Palencia maintained an impartial silence as Antonio Ramos, owner of the movie houses, and Lafuente, an architect from Madrid, expressed worry about an imminent coup.
“The king won't allow it,” Ramos offered hesitantly.
“The king, my dear friend, backs the military,” Lafuente objected. “Moreover, he backs General Primo de Rivera.”
The consul's wife intervened to bring the thorny conversation to an end. “What do you say we play some Raquel Meller on the gramophone?” she asked out loud, with that slight accent of hers.
That was all it took. Enthusiasm rippled through the guests, who exclaimed jubilantly and rushed moments later to dance enthusiastically. It was then I began to feel tired—exhausted, in fact. I was suddenly so worn out I could hardly stand. Thus, when “La Violetera” came on and everyone began to sing the refrain “Llévelo usted, señorito, que no vale más que un real” at the top of their lungs, I decided it was time to leave. I collected Fernanda, who was still chatting with Father Castrillo, and we said good-bye to the consul and his wife, thanking them for everything and assuring them we'd visit again before we left China.
As we crossed the garden on our way to the street, I began to worry about what Tichborne had said. Were the Green Gang's henchmen really out there? It was a frightening thought. Once we were through the gates, I glanced all around but saw only a couple of slender, ragged women bent under the weight of the baskets they were carrying and a few coolies dozing in their vehicles as they waited for their patrons. Everyone else was European. In any event, that night I would have every single one of the servants stand guard once they'd secured the doors.
Fernanda and I got into the rickshaws as Meller's piercing voice drifted out the consulate windows; it was a truly extravagant experience in that Oriental setting. Much later, after I'd heard the intolerable caterwauling that Celestials consider the most exquisite of operatic songs, I realized that Meller actually had a very beautiful voice.
Chapter
2
I was so exhausted I slept deeply all night long and woke feeling completely rested. What I needed most that morning was the time and tranquillity to organize my thoughts. It would have done me good to sit and sketch for a while, take a few notes in the garden, and regain the clarity I'd lost due to nerves the day before. My head was filled with noise. Fleeting images and bits of the conversations I'd had with M. Julliard, M. W
ilden, Consul Palencia and his wife, and especially Tichborne sped through my mind, out of control. The fear of ruin weighed on my soul like a stone. I was usually quick and efficient at making decisions—the result of living alone for so long and having had to stand on my own when I was just a girl. And yet these problems that had come crashing down on me rendered me dim-witted, slow; they aggravated my panic attacks. I resignedly told myself that even if I couldn't sketch, I should at least try to get out of bed and make an effort to rally.
I had breakfast with Fernanda, from whom I had to pry a short summary of her very long conversation with Father Castrillo. It seems the two had become quite friendly, as strange as a friendship between an elderly expatriate priest and a seventeen-year-old orphan might seem. Father Castrillo had invited her to attend church on Sundays and to visit the institutions that the El Escorial Augustinians ran in Shanghai. At the orphanage there was a young boy who spoke perfect Spanish and could serve as Fernanda's servant and interpreter. The girl wanted to head over as soon as breakfast was finished, but I was obliged to ruin her plans, telling her she had to accompany me on the strange visit I was to pay Tichborne at the Shanghai Club. I preferred to take a chaperone just in case the risk to my reputation was more than he had so blithely said.
After breakfast I led Fernanda into the office and whispered the Irishman's bizarre story to her. She did not believe a word and remained completely impassive upon learning we were in the very room where Rémy had been tortured and killed. The only minor apprehension she expressed was when she found out we weren't going to a public place but to the journalist's rooms at the hotel. Deprived of her complicity, I was left no choice but to call Mrs. Zhong into the office. If she confirmed Tichborne's tale, the girl would have to believe me. But Mrs. Zhong turned out to be a hard nut to crack. She denied the accusations over and over again with increasingly exaggerated displays of emotion, culminating in a note of hysteria in defense of her honor and the honor of the other servants. Since I didn't plan on using the rod to get her to confess—I was horrified by the thought of actually hitting and causing another human being pain—I finally had to resort to other, slightly more civilized measures. I threatened to throw her out, send her packing, and fire the rest of the staff as well, condemning them to a life of hunger roaming the streets. Through Mrs. Zhong's pleas, I learned she had a daughter and three grandchildren in the squalid district of Pootung—the very same area Rémy's murderers were from—whom she supported with some of the leftovers from this house. That broke my heart, but I had to maintain my harsh, inflexible image no matter how callous I felt. The ruse worked, and the old servant finally spoke.
“Your husband stayed up very late that night,” she explained, kneeling reverently before us as if we were sacred Buddhas. “All of us servants had gone to bed except Wu, who opens the door and takes out the garbage. Master Rémy had run out of medicine and sent him for more.”
“Opium,” I murmured.
“Yes, opium,” Mrs. Zhong reluctantly admitted. “When he got back, a group of thugs were waiting to get inside. It's not his fault, tai-tai. Wu just opened the door, and they attacked, leaving him hurt in the garden. The rest of us were awakened by the noise. Tse-hu, the cook, crept up to see what was happening in the office. When he came back, he told us they were beating your husband with sticks.”
My stomach churned and tears stung my eyes as I imagined how poor Rémy must have suffered.
“A little while later, when everything went quiet,” Mrs. Zhong continued, “I ran to help your husband, tai-tai, but there was nothing I could do.”
Her eyes turned to the floor, between the window and the desk, as if she could see Rémy's body just as she had found it that night.
“Tell me about the murderers, Mrs. Zhong,” I said.
She shuddered and looked at me anxiously. “Please don't ask me that, tai-tai. The less you know, the better.”
“Mrs. Zhong …” I admonished, reminding her of my threats.
The old servant shook her head sadly. “They were from the Green Gang,” she finally admitted. “Filthy murderers from the Green Gang.”
“How do you know?” Fernanda asked in disbelief.
“Everyone in Shanghai knows them,” she murmured. “They're very powerful. Besides, Master Rémy bore the mark of what's known as ‘hamstringing.’ The Green Gang severs the tendons in their victims’ legs before killing them.”
“Oh, God!” I exclaimed, bringing my hands to my face.
“And why did they want to kill M. De Poulain?” Fernanda inquired, less skeptical now.
“I don't know, mademoiselle,” Mrs. Zhong replied, wiping her cheeks with the tails of her blouse. “This office was destroyed. The table and chairs were overturned, books were on the floor, and the expensive artwork was strewn all around. It took me two days to clean this room and put it back in order. I didn't want any of the other servants to help me.”
“Did they take anything, Mrs. Zhong?”
“No, tai-tai. I was familiar with everything your husband had in here. Some of the pieces were very valuable, so I was the only one allowed to do the cleaning.”
Rémy was not a brave man, I thought, letting my eyes wander over the beautiful furniture and bookcases. There was no way he could have withstood physical pain without giving in to their questioning. Since he was too old to be called to active duty during the war, he went to work for the French government's Welfare Service. They had to assign him an office job because he couldn't stand the sight of blood, not to mention how his hands would shake and his face would turn white every time the air-raid sirens sounded for a German zeppelin attack. I wasn't sure what it meant to be nghien, but surely it would have given Rémy sufficient reason to talk, to tell those heartless swine whatever they wanted to know.
“Mrs. Zhong, my husband stayed up late that night because he was nervous, wasn't he? He needed opium.”
“Yes, but he wasn't in need when they attacked. He sent Wu to buy more because he'd smoked the last pipeful.”
Oh, so Rémy had been dazed, asleep!
“Had he smoked very much?”
Mrs. Zhong stood with surprising ease for someone her age and walked toward the shelves crammed with piles of Rémy's Chinese books. She pulled a couple of the stacks out, revealing bare wall behind. With a soft knock of her fist, a square piece swiveled on a central axis, revealing a sort of cupboard. She pulled out a painted wooden tray that held several antique objects: a long stick with a jade adornment on the end, something that looked like a little oil lamp, a small gold-colored box, a paper wrapper, and a saucer made of copper. It was all very beautiful at first glance. Mrs. Zhong brought the tray over and set it on my lap, then moved back and humbly knelt again. I stared perplexed at the objects and was overcome with repugnance and a desire to push them away as soon as I realized what they were. As if in a dream, I saw Fernanda's hand rise up and head resolutely toward the opium pipe I had initially thought was nothing more than a stick. I couldn't resist the instinct to grab her wrist.
“Don't touch a thing, Fernanda,” I said without averting my eyes.
“As you can see, tai-tai, your husband had smoked several pipes that night. The box of opium balls is empty.”
“Yes, quite right,” I said, opening it and examining the inside. “But how many were there?”
“As many as are in the paper wrapper. Wu had gone to buy them that afternoon. Master only wanted the purest ‘foreign mud,’ the best quality, and only Wu knew where to get it.”
“And he went out again that night?” I asked, astonished. I carefully unfolded the wrapper and saw three strange black balls inside.
Mrs. Zhong seemed bothered by my question.
“Your husband liked to have a supply of opium in the bishachu in case he felt like smoking several pipes.”
“The bishachu?” I repeated with difficulty. Everything in that strange language seemed to consist of sibilant s's and explosive ch's.
She pointed to the secret c
upboard.
“That is a bishachu,” she explained. “It means ‘green silk cupboard,’ and it can be as small as this one or as big as a room. The name is very old. Master Rémy didn't like his opium pipe out in view. He said it was vulgar, and since these items called for discretion, he had the bishachu built.”
“And that night he had smoked so much he couldn't say a word, isn't that right, Mrs. Zhong?”
She leaned forward until her forehead touched the floor and remained there in silence. A pair of narrow sticks crossed through her black ponytail.
“So he was completely drugged when the Green Gang thugs arrived,” I reflected out loud as I held the tray in both hands and stood up to set it on the table. “And so, even though they beat and tortured him, they didn't get the information they were looking for, because Rémy couldn't speak. He was in no shape to confess. Perhaps that's why they were so brutal….” I instinctively walked toward the bishachu. According to Tichborne, the murderers had come looking for something of great importance but didn't find it. Also according to Tichborne, Mr. Jiang, the antiquarian, was convinced that the Green Gang was looking for a piece of art. Furthermore, Mrs. Zhong had said that the assassins had torn through everything in the office on the night of the murder, making a terrible mess. Whatever they were after was valuable enough to kill for. Rémy may have been many things—including foolish—but he wouldn't have left something like that out in plain sight.
I leaned over the bookshelf to look inside the cupboard; the empty shelf that had held the tray was at eye level. When I tried to move it, I found that it was loose and lifted it very slowly. The light coming in from the room outlined a barely visible rectangular shape down below, in a deep, dark hollow. I reached in carefully until my fingertips brushed against it. It felt rough, and a soft aroma of sandalwood drifted up. I pulled my arm out and put the shelf back in its place. I turned toward my niece, who was watching me silently with a furrowed brow, and signaled that she was not to say a word.