When I returned to the gambling house, Sarah and Sir Cecil were already outside. She was supporting him with both her hands, but his tall, bent form looked likely to overwhelm her at any second. As I came hurrying up, I could hear him saying:
“It’s you they don’t like in there, my dear. When I used to frequent this place by myself, they always treated me like royalty. Oh yes, like royalty. Don’t like women of your sort. They only want real ladies or else whores. And you’re neither. So you see, they don’t like you one bit. Never had any trouble here until you insisted on tagging along.”
“Come along, darling. Here’s Christopher. Well done, Christopher. Look, darling, he’s found Boris for us.”
It was not a great distance to the Metropole, but the car could often move at no more than a crawl through the pedestrians and rickshaws. Throughout the journey, Sarah continued to hold Sir Cecil by the arm and shoulder while he drifted in and out of sleep. Whenever he came round, he would try to shake Sarah off, but she would laugh and continue to hold him steady in the lurching vehicle.
It was my turn to assist him as we negotiated the revolving doors of the Metropole, and then the lift, while Sarah exchanged cheerful greetings with the lobby staff. Then we were finally up in the Medhursts’ suite and I was able to lower Sir Cecil into an armchair.
I thought he would doze off, but instead he grew suddenly alert again and began asking me some meaningless questions of which I could make neither head nor tail. Then when Sarah emerged from the bathroom with a flannel and began to mop his forehead, he said to me:
“Banks, my boy, you can speak frankly. This wench here. As you see, she’s a good few years younger than me. No spring chicken herself, mind you, ha ha! But still, a good few years my junior. Tell me frankly, my boy, do you suppose, in a place like tonight’s, where you found us tonight, a place like that, do you suppose a stranger looking at the two of us together . . . Well, let’s speak frankly! What I’m asking you is, do you suppose people take my wife for a harlot?”
Sarah’s expression, as far as I could see it, did not change, though a slight urgency entered her ministrations, as though she hoped the treatment would bring a change of mood. Sir Cecil waved his head in irritation as though avoiding a fly, then said:
“Come on, my boy. Do speak frankly now.”
“Now, now, darling,” Sarah said quietly. “You’re being unpleasant.”
“I’ll tell you a secret, my boy. I’ll tell you a secret. I rather enjoy it. I like people to mistake my wife for a harlot. That’s why I like to frequent places like that one tonight. Get off me! Leave me alone!” He pushed Sarah aside, then continued: “Other reason I go, of course, no doubt you guessed it, I owe a little money. Run up bit of a debt, you know. Nothing I won’t win back, of course.”
“Darling, Christopher’s been very kind. You mustn’t bore him.”
“What’s the harlot saying? Hear what she said, my boy? Well, don’t. Don’t listen to her. Don’t listen to trollops, that’s what I say. They’ll lead you astray. Particularly in times of war and conflict. Never listen to a trollop in times of war.”
He climbed to his feet unaided, and for a moment stood swaying before us in the middle of the room, his unfastened collar sticking out from his neck. Then he moved off into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Sarah gave me a smile, then went in after him. Had it not been for that smile—or rather, something like an appeal I detected behind it—I would certainly have withdrawn at that point. As it was, I remained in the room, examining absent-mindedly a Chinese bowl on a stand near the entrance. For a time, I could hear Sir Cecil shouting something; then there was silence.
Sarah emerged after perhaps five minutes and looked surprised to find me still there.
“Is he all right?” I asked.
“He’s asleep now. He’ll be fine. I’m sorry you were inconvenienced, Christopher. Hardly what you were seeking when you came looking for us this evening. We’ll arrange something to make up. We’ll take you out to dinner somewhere. Astor House has good food still.”
She was guiding me out of the room, but I turned at the door and said:
“This sort of thing. Does it happen a lot?”
She gave a sigh. “Often enough. But you mustn’t think I mind. It’s just that I do worry sometimes. About his heart, you know. That’s why I always go with him now.”
“You look after him well.”
“You mustn’t get the wrong impression. Cecil’s a dear man. We must take you out to dinner very soon. When you’re not busy. But I suppose you’re always busy.”
“Is this how Sir Cecil tends to pass all his evenings?”
“Most of them. Some of his days too.”
“Is there anything at all I can do?”
“Anything you can do?” She gave a light laugh. “Look, Christopher, I’m fine. Really, you mustn’t get the wrong impression about Cecil. He’s a dear. I . . . I do love him so.”
“Well, then, I’ll say goodnight.”
She took another step towards me and raised a hand vaguely. I found myself grasping it, but not quite knowing what to do next, kissed the back of it. Then, mumbling another goodnight, I stepped into the corridor.
“You’re not to worry about me, Christopher,” she whispered from the door. “I’m perfectly all right.”
Those were her words to me last night. But today, it is those earlier words of hers, uttered three weeks ago when I first saw her at the ballroom of the Palace Hotel, that return to me with particular pertinence. “I don’t expect we’ll be going anywhere in a hurry,” she had said. “Unless someone comes to the rescue.” What could she have intended by making such a remark to me that evening? As I say, even at the time it puzzled me, and I may well have quizzed her further about it had not Grayson, just at that moment, emerged out of the crowd, looking for me.
PART FIVE
CATHAY HOTEL, SHANGHAI,
29TH SEPTEMBER 1937
CHAPTER 14
I MISHANDLED my meeting this morning with MacDonald at the British consulate, and recalling it tonight only fills me with frustration. The fact is, he had prepared himself well and I had not. Time and again, I allowed him to lead me down false avenues, to waste my energy arguing over things he had decided to concede to me from the start. If anything, I was further forward with him four weeks ago, that evening at the ballroom of the Palace Hotel, when I first put to him this notion of an interview with the Yellow Snake. I had caught MacDonald unawares then, and had at least got him to admit, in so many words, his true role here in Shanghai. This morning, however, I had not obliged him even to relinquish his charade of being simply an official charged with protocol matters.
I suppose I underestimated him. I had thought it simply a matter of going in and reprimanding him for his slow progress in arranging what I had requested. Only now do I see how he laid his traps, realising that once I became annoyed, he would easily get the better of me. It was foolish to show my irritation in the way I did; but these continuous days of intense work have left me tired. And of course, there was the unexpected encounter with Grayson, the Municipal Council man, as I was going up to MacDonald’s office. In fact, I would say it was this more than anything else which threw me off balance this morning, to the extent that for much of my subsequent discussion with MacDonald, my mind was actually elsewhere.
I had been kept waiting for several minutes in the little lounge on the second floor of the consulate building. The secretary finally came to inform me MacDonald was ready, and I had crossed the marbled landing and was standing before the lift doors when Grayson came hurrying down the staircase, calling to me.
“Good morning, Mr. Banks! I’m so sorry, perhaps this isn’t the best time.”
“Good morning, Mr. Grayson. As a matter of fact, it isn’t ideal. I was just on my way up to see our friend Mr. MacDonald.”
“Oh well then, I won’t keep you. It’s just that here I was in the building and I heard you were here too.” Hi
s cheerful laugh echoed around the walls.
“It’s splendid to see you again, Mr. Grayson. But just now . . .”
“I won’t keep you a second, sir. But if I may, you see, you’ve been a little difficult to track down recently.”
“Well, Mr. Grayson, if it can be dealt with very briefly.”
“Oh very briefly. You see, sir, I realise this may seem like jumping ahead, but a certain amount of forward planning is required in these matters. If things aren’t up to scratch at such an important event, if things look even a little shoddy or amateurish . . .”
“Mr. Grayson . . .”
“I’m so sorry. I just wished to have your thoughts on a few details concerning the welcome reception. We’ve now settled on Jessfield Park as the venue. We shall erect a marquee with a stage and public address system . . . I’m so sorry, I’ll come to the point. Mr. Banks, I really wished to discuss with you your own role in the proceedings. Our feeling is that the ceremony should be kept simple. What I had in mind was that perhaps you would say a few words concerning how you went about solving the case. Which vital clues finally led you to your parents, that sort of thing. Just a few words, the crowd would be so delighted. And then at the end of your speech, I thought they might care to come out on to the stage.”
“They, Mr. Grayson?”
“Your parents, sir. My idea was that they might come on to the platform, wave, acknowledge the cheers, then withdraw. But of course, this is no more than an idea. I’m sure you’ll have some other excellent suggestions . . .”
“No, no, Mr. Grayson”—I suddenly felt a great weariness coming over me—“it all sounds splendid, splendid. Now, if that’s all. I really must . . .”
“Just one other thing, sir. A small matter, but one that might lend a most effective touch if pulled off just so. My idea was that at the moment your parents come out on to the platform, the brass band should strike up. Perhaps something like ‘Land of Hope and Glory.’ Some of my colleagues are less keen on this idea, but to my mind . . .”
“Mr. Grayson, your idea sounds a marvellous one. What’s more, I’m exceedingly flattered by your utter confidence in my ability to solve this case. But now, please, I’m keeping Mr. MacDonald waiting.”
“Of course. Well, thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me.”
I pressed the button for the lift, and while I stood waiting, Grayson continued to hover. I had actually turned away from him to face the doors, when I heard him say:
“The only other thing I wondered about, Mr. Banks. Have you any idea where your parents will be staying on the day of the ceremony? You see, we shall need to ensure they’re conveyed to and from the park with minimum bother from the crowds.”
I cannot remember what I said to him in reply. Perhaps the lift doors opened at that moment, and I was able to take my leave of him with nothing more than a cursory response. But it was this last question which hung in my mind throughout my meeting with MacDonald, and which, as I say, probably did more than anything else to prevent me thinking clearly about the matter in hand. And tonight, again, now that the demands of the day are behind me, I find this same question returning to my mind.
It is not that I have given no thought at all to the matter of where my parents should eventually be accommodated. It is just that it has always seemed to me premature—perhaps even “tempting fate”—to contemplate such questions while the great complexities of the case have still to be unravelled. I suppose the only occasion over these past weeks when I gave the matter any real thought was on that evening I met up with my old schoolfriend, Anthony Morgan.
IT WAS NOT LONG after my arrival here—my third or fourth night. I had known for some time that Morgan was living in Shanghai, but since we had never been especially friendly at St. Dunstan’s—despite our being in the same class throughout—I had made no special arrangements to meet up with him. But then I received from him a telephone call on the morning of that third day. I could tell he was rather hurt at my failure to get in touch, and eventually found myself agreeing to a rendezvous that evening in a hotel in the French Concession.
It was well after dark when I found him waiting in the dimly lit hotel lounge. I had not laid eyes on him since school and was shocked by how worn and heavy-set he had become. But I tried to keep any such impression out of my voice as we exchanged warm greetings.
“Funny,” he said, patting me on the back. “Doesn’t seem so long ago. And yet in some ways, it feels like another age.”
“It certainly does.”
“Do you know,” he went on, “I got a letter the other day from Emeric the Dane? Remember him? Emeric the Dane! Hadn’t heard from him in years! Living in Vienna now, it seems. Old Emeric. You remember him?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, though I could summon only the vaguest memory of such a boy. “Good old Emeric.”
For the next half-hour or so, Morgan chattered on with hardly a break. He had come out to Hong Kong straight after Oxford, then moved to Shanghai eleven years ago after securing a position at Jardine Matheson. Then at one point he broke off his story to say:
“You wouldn’t believe the God-awful trouble I’ve been having with chauffeurs since all this trouble started. Regular one got killed the first day the Japs started shelling. Found another man, turned out to be a bandit of some sort. Kept having to rush off to perform his gang duties, could never be found when you wanted to go somewhere. Picked me up once at the American Club with blood all over his shirt. Not his own, I soon gathered. Didn’t say a word in apology, typical Chinaman. That was the last straw for me. Then I had two others, couldn’t drive at all. One actually hit a rickshawman, hurt the poor fellow quite badly. Driver I’ve got now’s not much better, so let’s keep fingers crossed he gets us there all right.”
I had no idea what he meant by this last statement, since as far as I could recall we had not agreed to go anywhere else that night. But I did not feel like picking him up on it, and then he had quickly moved on to telling me about the shortages afflicting the hotel. The lounge we were sitting in, he confided, was not always so dimly lit: the war had stopped the supply of light bulbs from the Chapei factories; in some other parts of the hotel, guests were having to wander about through darkness. He pointed out also that at least three members of the dance-band at the far end of the room were not playing their instruments.
“That’s because they’re really porters. The real musicians have either fled Shanghai or been killed in the fighting. Still, they do a fair impersonation, don’t you think?”
Now that he had pointed it out, I saw that their impersonations were, in fact, poor in the extreme. One man looked utterly bored and was hardly bothering to hold his violin bow near his instrument; another was standing with a clarinet virtually forgotten in his hands, staring in open-mouthed wonder at the real musicians playing around him. It was only when I congratulated Morgan on his intimate knowledge of the hotel that he told me he had in fact been living there for over a month, having judged his apartment in Hongkew “too close for comfort” to the fighting. When I muttered some words of sympathy that he had had to abandon his home, his mood suddenly changed, and for the first time I saw about him a melancholy that brought to mind the unhappy and lonely boy I had known at school.
“Wasn’t much of a home anyway,” he said, looking into his cocktail. “Just me, a few servants that came and went. Miserable little place really. In some ways, it was just an excuse, the fighting. Gave me a good reason to walk out. It was a miserable little place. All my furniture was Chinese. Couldn’t sit comfortably anywhere. Had a songbird once, but it died. It’s better for me here. Much quicker to my watering holes.” Then he looked at his watch, drained his glass and said: “Well, better not keep them waiting. Car’s outside.”
There was something about Morgan’s manner—a kind of nonchalant urgency—that made it hard to raise any objections. Besides, these were still my early days in the city, when I was in the habit of being taken from function to functi
on by various hosts. I thus followed Morgan out of the building and before long was sitting with him in the back of his car, moving through the lively night-time streets of the French Concession.
Almost immediately, the driver only just avoided an oncoming tram, and I thought this would start Morgan off again on his chauffeur problems. But now he had fallen into an introspective mood, staring silently out of his window at the passing neon and Chinese banners. At one point, when I remarked to him, in an attempt to glean something about the event to which we were going: “Do you suppose we’ll be late?” he glanced at his watch again and replied distractedly: “They’ve been waiting for you this long, they won’t mind a few more minutes.” Then he added: “This must feel so odd for you.”
For a while after that we travelled on, speaking little. Once we went down a side-street on both sides of which the pavements were filled with huddled figures. I could see them in the lamplight, sitting, squatting, some curled up asleep on the ground, squeezed one upon the other, so that there was only just enough space down the middle of the street for traffic to pass. They were of every age—I could see babies asleep in mothers’ arms—and their belongings were all around them; ragged bundles, bird-cages, the occasional wheelbarrow piled high with possessions. I have now grown used to such sights, but on that evening I stared out of the car in dismay. The faces were mostly Chinese, but as we came towards the end of the street, I saw clusters of European children—Russians, I supposed.
“Refugees from north of the canal,” Morgan said blandly, and turned away. For all his being a refugee himself, he appeared to feel no special empathy with his poorer counterparts. Even when once I thought we had run over a sleeping form, and glanced back in alarm, my companion merely murmured: “Don’t worry. Probably just some old bundle.”