“And besides,” someone asked loudly, “hasn’t Mr. Banks turned up?”
This question, obviously intended to be rhetorical, nevertheless hung oddly in the air, causing a hush to fall and all eyes to turn to me once more. In fact, I got the idea that it was not only the immediate group around the balcony, but the entire ballroom that had fallen into silence and was awaiting my response. It struck me that this was as good a time as any to make an announcement—one that perhaps had been called for from the moment I had entered the room—and clearing my throat, I declared loudly:
“Ladies and gentlemen. I can well see the situation here has grown rather trying. And I have no wish to raise false expectations at such a time. But let me say that I would not be here now if I were not optimistic about my chances of bringing this case, in the very near future, to a happy conclusion. In fact, ladies and gentlemen, I would say I am more than optimistic. I beg then for your patience over this coming week or so. After that, well, let us see what we have achieved.”
As I uttered these last words, the jazz orchestra suddenly started up within the ballroom. I have no idea if this was simply a coincidence, but in any case the effect was to round off my statement rather nicely. I felt the focus of the room shifting away from me, and saw people starting to return inside. I too made my way back into the room, and as I tried to find our table again—I had for a moment lost my bearings somewhat—I noticed that a troupe of dancing girls had taken the floor.
There were perhaps as many as twenty dancers, many of them “Eurasians,” dressed skimpily in matching outfits with a bird motif. As the dancers proceeded with their floor show, the room seemed to lose all interest in the battle across the water, though the noises were still clearly audible behind the cheery music. It was as though for these people, one entertainment had finished and another had begun. I felt, not for the first time since arriving in Shanghai, a wave of revulsion towards them. It was not simply the fact of their having failed so dismally over the years to rise to the challenge of the case, of their having allowed matters to slip to the present appalling level with all its huge ramifications. What has quietly shocked me, from the moment of my arrival, is the refusal of everyone here to acknowledge their drastic culpability. During this fortnight I have been here, throughout all my dealings with these citizens, high or low, I have not witnessed—not once—anything that could pass for honest shame. Here, in other words, at the heart of the maelstrom threatening to suck in the whole of the civilised world, is a pathetic conspiracy of denial; a denial of responsibility which has turned in on itself and gone sour, manifesting itself in the sort of pompous defensiveness I have encountered so often. And here they now were, the so-called elite of Shanghai, treating with such contempt the suffering of their Chinese neighbours across the canal.
I was moving along the line of backs that had formed to watch the cabaret, trying to contain my sense of disgust, when I realised someone was tugging on my arm and turned to find Sarah.
“Christopher,” she said, “I’ve been trying to get over to you all evening. Have you no time to say hello to your old friends from home? Look, Cecil’s over there, he’s waving to you.”
It took me a little while to get a view of Sir Cecil through the crowd; he was seated alone at a table in a far corner of the room, and indeed was waving to me. I waved back, then looked at Sarah.
It was our first encounter since my arrival. The impression I received of her that evening was that she seemed very well; the Shanghai sun had removed her customary pallor to some advantage. Moreover, as we exchanged a few friendly words, her manner remained light-hearted and assured. It is only now, after the events of last night, that I find myself thinking over again that first encounter, in an attempt to discover how I could have been so deceived. Perhaps it is only hindsight that makes me recall something overly deliberate in her smile, particularly whenever she mentioned Sir Cecil. And although we exchanged little more than pleasantries, after last night, one phrase she uttered that evening—which even at the time rather puzzled me—has continued to return to me all day.
I had been enquiring how she and Sir Cecil had enjoyed the year they had spent here. She had been assuring me that although Sir Cecil had not achieved the breakthrough he had hoped for, he had none the less done much to earn the gratitude of the community. It was then that I had asked, with nothing much in mind:
“So then you’ve no immediate plans to leave Shanghai?”
At which Sarah had laughed, cast another gaze towards Sir Cecil’s corner, and said: “No, we’re quite settled for now. The Metropole’s very comfortable. I don’t expect we’ll be going anywhere in a hurry. Not unless someone comes to the rescue, that is.”
She had said all this—including this last remark about being rescued—as though telling a joke, and although I did not know exactly what she meant, I had responded with a small laugh to go with hers. We had then, as far as I recall, talked about mutual friends in England until Grayson’s arrival effectively put an end to a seemingly uncomplicated conversation.
It is only now, as I say, after last night, that I find myself searching back through my various encounters with Sarah over these three weeks, and it is this one phrase, added as a kind of afterthought to her breezy reply, to which I continue to return.
CHAPTER 13
I SPENT MOST of the afternoon yesterday inside the dark, creaking boathouse where the three bodies had been discovered. The police respected my wish to carry out my investigations undisturbed to the extent that I lost all track of time and hardly noticed the sun setting outside. By the time I crossed the Bund and strolled down Nanking Road, the bright lights had come on and the pavements were filled with the evening crowds. After the long, dispiriting day, I felt the need to unwind a little and made my way to the corner of Nanking and Kiangse Road, to a small club I had been taken to in the days soon after my arrival. There is nothing so special about the place; it is just a quiet basement where most nights a lone French pianist will give melancholy renditions of Bizet or Gershwin. But it meets my needs well enough and I have returned there several times over these weeks. Last night, I spent perhaps an hour at a corner table, eating a little French food and making notes on what I had discovered in the boathouse, while the taxi-dancers swayed with their clients to the music.
I had climbed the staircase back up to the street intending to return to the hotel, when I happened to fall into conversation with the Russian doorman. He is some sort of count, and speaks excellent English learnt, he tells me, from his governess before the Revolution. I have got into the habit of passing a few words with him whenever I visit the club, and was doing so again last night when—I no longer remember what we were discussing—he happened to mention that Sir Cecil and Lady Medhurst had passed by earlier in the evening.
“I suppose,” I remarked, “they were off home for the night.”
At this, the count thought for a moment, then said: “Lucky Chance House. Yes, I believe Sir Cecil mentioned they were on their way there.”
It was not an establishment I knew, but the count proceeded without prompting to give me directions, and since it was not far, I set off towards it.
His instructions were clear enough, but I am still uncertain of my way around the side-streets off Nanking Road, and managed to get a little lost. This was not something I minded so much. The atmosphere in that part of the city is not intimidating, even after dark, and although I was accosted by the odd beggar, and at one point a drunken sailor collided with me, I found myself drifting with the night-time crowd in a mood not far from tranquillity. After the depressing work in the boathouse, it was a relief to be amidst these pleasure-seekers of every race and class; to have the smells of food and incense come wafting towards me as I passed each brightly lit doorway.
Last night, too, as I have come increasingly to do of late, I believe I looked about me, scanning the faces in the passing crowd, hoping to spot Akira. For the fact is, I had almost certainly seen my old friend shortly afte
r my arrival in Shanghai—on my second or third night here. It was the night Mr. Keswick of Jardine Matheson and some other prominent citizens had decided I should “taste the night-life.” I was still at that stage in something of a disorientated condition, and was finding the tour of dance-bars and clubs tiresome. We were in the entertainment area of the French Concession—I can see now my hosts were rather enjoying shocking me with some of the more lurid establishments—and we were just emerging from a club when I had seen his face go by in the crowd.
He was one of a group of Japanese men dressed in sharp suits, evidently out on the town. Of course, glimpsed so fleetingly—the figures had been virtually silhouettes against a row of lanterns hanging in a doorway—I could not be completely sure it was Akira. Perhaps for this reason, perhaps for some other, I did nothing to attract the attention of my old friend. This might be hard to understand, but I can only say it was so. I suppose I was assuming then there would be many more such opportunities; perhaps I felt that to meet in such a way, by chance, when we each had other companions, was inappropriate—unworthy, even, of the reunion I had anticipated for so long. In any case, I had let the moment pass, and had simply followed Mr. Keswick and the others to the awaiting limousine.
Over these past weeks, however, I have had much cause to regret my inaction that evening. For although, even at the busiest times, I have persisted in searching the crowd, in streets or in hotel lobbies, as I have gone about my business, I have yet to spot him again. I am aware I could take active steps to try and locate him; but really, the case must for now take priority. And Shanghai is not such a vast place; we are sure to happen upon one another sooner or later.
But to return to the events of last night. The doorman’s directions eventually brought me to a kind of square where a number of little streets intersected and the crowd was thicker than ever. There were people trying to sell things, others trying to beg, while yet others were just standing about talking and watching. A lone rickshaw that had ventured into the throng had become stuck in its midst, and as I passed, the rickshawman was arguing furiously with a bystander. I could see Lucky Chance House on the far corner, and before long was being conducted up a narrow stairway covered in scarlet plush.
I first entered a room the size of an average hotel room, where a dozen Chinese were crowded around a gaming table. When I enquired if Sir Cecil was in the building, two of the staff conferred quickly, then one of them signalled for me to follow.
I was led up another flight of stairs, along a dim corridor, then into a room filled with smoke in which a group of Frenchmen were playing cards. When I shook my head, the man shrugged and beckoned me again. In this way I soon established that the building was a gambling emporium of some size, comprising many smallish rooms, each with some game or other in progress. But I grew exasperated at the way my guide would nod knowingly each time I repeated Sarah or Sir Cecil’s name, just to lead me into yet another smoky room where only the wary eyes of strangers would look up at me. In any case, the more I saw of the establishment, the more unlikely it seemed Sir Cecil would bring Sarah into such a place, and I was on the point of giving up when I stepped through a door to find Sir Cecil sitting at a table, staring at a roulette wheel.
There were as many as twenty people present, mostly men. The room was not so smoky as some others, but felt hotter. Sir Cecil was utterly absorbed and gave me only the most cursory of waves before fixing his eyes back on the wheel.
Placed around the periphery of the room were some worn armchairs covered in a reddish material. In one of these, an old Chinese man—in a Western suit and drenched in sweat—was snoring away. The only other chair occupied was in the shadowy corner furthest from the gaming table, where Sarah was resting her head on the heel of a hand, her eyes half-closed.
She gave a start when I sat down beside her. “Oh, Christopher. What are you doing here?”
“I was just passing by. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Just passing by? This place? I don’t believe it. You’ve been pursuing us.”
We were speaking in lowered tones so as not to distract the players at the table. From somewhere in the building, I could hear faintly someone practising a trumpet.
“I have to confess,” I said, “I did happen to hear you’d come here. And since I was walking past . . .”
“Oh, Christopher, you were lonely.”
“Hardly. But I’ve had rather a gloomy day, and I felt like unwinding a little, that’s all. Though I must admit, I’d have hesitated if I’d known you were in a place like this.”
“Don’t be cruel. Cecil and I, we enjoy being low-life. It’s fun. It’s all part of what Shanghai’s about. Now tell me about your gloomy day. You’re looking despondent. No breakthrough yet on your case, I suppose.”
“No breakthrough, but I’m not despondent. Things are starting to take shape.”
When I then began to describe to her how I had spent over two hours on my hands and knees in a rotting boat in which three decaying corpses had been found, she pulled a face and stopped me.
“It’s all so ghastly. Someone was saying at the tennis club today, the bodies all had their arms and legs cut off. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She pulled another face. “It’s too ghastly for words. But these were Chinese factory workers, weren’t they? Surely, they can’t have much to do with . . . with your parents.”
“Actually, I believe this crime has a very significant bearing on my parents’ case.”
“Really? They were saying at the tennis club these murders are all part of this Yellow Rat business. They’re saying the victims were the Yellow Rat’s nearest and dearest.”
“Yellow Snake.”
“Pardon?”
“The communist informer. Yellow Snake.”
“Oh yes. Well anyway, it’s so ghastly. What are the Chinese doing, tearing at each other’s throats at a time like this? You’d think the Reds and the government might put up a united front against the Japanese just for a little while at least.”
“I suppose hatred between communists and nationalists runs pretty deep.”
“That’s what Cecil says. Oh, look at him, how can he play like that?”
I followed her gaze and saw that Sir Cecil—who had his back to us—had slumped over to one side, so that most of his weight was on the table. There seemed every possibility of his sliding off the chair altogether.
Sarah looked at me a little awkwardly. Then rising, she went over to him, placed a hand on each of his shoulders, and spoke gently into his ear. Sir Cecil came awake and glanced about him. It is possible that at this point I took my gaze off them for a second, for I am not at all certain about what exactly happened next. I saw Sarah reel back, as though she had been struck, and for a second she seemed about to lose her balance, but then recovered. Sir Cecil, when I scrutinised his back, was sitting upright again, concentrating on the game, and I could not say it was he who had caused Sarah to stumble.
She saw me staring at her, and smiling, came back and sat down beside me again.
“He’s tired,” she said. “He has so much energy. But at his age, he really needs to rest more.”
“Do the two of you often come to this place?”
She nodded. “And a few others very similar. Cecil doesn’t much like those big glittering places. He doesn’t think it’s possible to come out a winner in those places.”
“Do you always accompany him on these expeditions?”
“Someone has to look after him. He’s not a young man, you see. Oh, I don’t mind it. It’s rather exciting. It’s what this city’s all about really.”
A collective sigh went around the gaming table and the players broke into conversation. I saw Sir Cecil attempt to rise, and only then did I realise how inebriated he was. He slumped back down in the chair, but on a second attempt, managed to rise and come unsteadily towards us. I stood up, expecting to shake hands, but he rested his hand on my shoulder, as
much for balance as anything else, saying:
“My dear boy, my dear boy. Delighted to see you.”
“Did you have any luck just now, sir?”
“Luck? Oh no, no. Tonight’s been a foul night. Whole wretched week, it’s been bad, bad, bad. But you never know. I’ll rise up again, ha ha! Rise from the ashes.”
Sarah too was on her feet and put out a hand to support him, but he brushed her off without looking at her. Then he said to me:
“I say. Care for a cocktail? There’s a bar downstairs.”
“That’s very kind, sir. But I really should be getting back to my hotel. Another hard day tomorrow.”
“Good to see you’re working hard. Of course, I came out here to this city wanting to sort things a little myself. But you see”—he bent his face right down to me until it was only an inch or two away—“too deep for me, my boy. Too deep by far.”
“Cecil, darling, let’s go home now.”
“Home? You call that rat-hole of a hotel home? You have an advantage on me, my dear, being the vagabond that you are. That’s why you don’t mind it.”
“Let’s go now, darling. I’m tired.”
“You’re tired. My little vagabond’s tired. Banks, do you have a car outside?”
“I’m afraid not. But if you like I’ll try and find a taxi.”
“Taxi? Think you’re in Piccadilly? Suppose you can hail a cab out there? Just as soon cut your throat, these Chinamen.”
“Cecil, darling, please sit down here while Christopher finds Boris.” Then she said to me: “Our driver should be somewhere not far. Would you mind terribly? Poor Cecil’s a little the worse for wear tonight.”
Doing my best to look good-humoured, I made my way out of the building, making a mental note of how to return to the room. The square outside was as dense as ever with people, but a little further on I could see a street in which rickshaws and motor cars were waiting in rows. I made my way over, and after a while of going from car to car uttering Sir Cecil’s name at chauffeurs of varying nationalities, I eventually got a response.