When The Fox Dies Even The Rabbit Weeps

By Edgar Bailitis

‘When the Fox dies Even the Rabbit Weeps’ is a crime thriller of novel proportions inspired by historical facts and characters.
A Chicago homicide detective searching for a kidnapped girl in 1930 colonial Shanghai unearths an unlikely international conspiracy...
For disillusioned Detective Jake Puccini, the shortest distance between a cop and a crime is never a straight line. In order to find the young girl in his last few days of an enforced police exchange program in China, Jake must first re-evaluate a stagnant multiple murder case he thinks he is leaving behind. He must also determine for Police Commissioner Gibbons why a high profile councilman, who allegedly suicided, was shot post mortem. Even more puzzling, Jake must determine how communist organizer Kang Sheng, in masquerade and wanted by Gibbons, appears to know his every move.
As Jake delves into three seemingly disparate events, he’s unwittingly drawn into a precarious John Le Carre-esque cloak-and-dagger game by both Gibbons and Kang, discovering that virtually everybody he knows is not who they appear to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edgar Bailitis
• Release date: May 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301246304

Book preview

PART ONE

City on the Mud Flats

Chapter 1

At a new set of traffic lights on Shanghai's Nanking Road, the irate, red-turbaned Sikh turned everybody's head.

Employed by the Municipal Police to control traffic flow, the Sikh had left his island post to beat the crap out of a coolie with his standard issue black and white baton. Coolies have no money to pay fines, so most of the time all that a Sikh officer could hope for was to get the wandering hordes of barrow pushers, rickshaw pullers and Chinese pedestrians who routinely ignore traffic lights to obey them after a beating.

It was a minor, temporary distraction. No big deal. I was more preoccupied with a persistent rickshaw puller who'd been following me on my way towards police headquarters from the get-go, repeatedly shouting for my fare for longer than the pullers here normally do. Apart from getting under my skin, there was something about him that had ignited my obsessive side of curious. I just couldn't quite put my finger on and it bugged me.

When the niggling puller shouted yet again, and I was about to turn to tell him to fuck off for a second time, the bitter cold accentuated a sharp, piercing pain from a blow to my left leg that ran all the way up my body.

What the f......! I yelped, barely managing to get the words out.

The coolie lying in the middle of the roadway squirmed and squealed like a wounded pig as the Sikh delivered three more blows, as I also hit the ground.

The instant I landed on my back half out onto the muddy roadway, the Chinaman who'd slammed into me ripped off my fedora as he tumbled awkwardly across my body. He almost ended up beneath a car beside the rickshaw puller who'd been tailing me.

On the face of it, you could say it was just a random accident. That's what bystanders would've made of it anyway. I was inclined to think it was more of a coincidence waiting to happen rather than mere chance due to the screaming, pallid-faced little girl lying on top of me. As far as I could make out, she'd collided into me along with the Chinaman.

Only a few inches away from my own, the girl's panic-stricken eyes darted from side to side telegraphing a fear and consternation that instantly reminded me why I was in China; reviving a memory I'd been struggling for months to suppress.

She was no more than maybe seven or even ten years old, it's hard to tell with Chinese kids. Coal-black pigtails stuck out like branches from the sides of her head underscoring piercing sea-blue eyes that were like almonds with kernels of blue as clear as a fall day.

It was the first time I'd come across a Chinese person with blue eyes, let alone heard of one.

Grimacing, she briefly craned her neck to catch a glimpse behind her. I followed her gaze. Another Chinaman was struggling to get off the ground, snarling at the person he'd also sent sprawling.

The girl turned back to look me intently in the eyes as she struggled to get off of me. Tears began to swell, maybe as much from the shock of touching the foreign devil she saw me to be as from her obvious trepidation.

Her cherub lips quivered as she murmured what sounded like, 'jew ming! jew ming!'. I didn't have a clue what it meant.

She then looked up and gazed right past me.

A shiver ran through her frail body. I turned my head. The Chinaman who'd knocked me over was almost back on his feet. The girl suddenly sprang upright and before I could fix a hold on her she swiftly scampered off, weaving deftly in-between unflustered pedestrians.

In a flash, the Chinaman took off in pursuit as a ragged street urchin with earrings and long strands of hair hanging from his shaved head snuck over, grabbed my now crushed hat, and bolted.

Dammit! You little shit, I yelled at the kid. Get back here! A padlock around the kid's neck, hooked to a silver band or chain, jerked from side to side with each stride he took as he melted into the passing crowd.

I was about to haul myself up when I noticed the second Chinaman, now back on his feet, glancing back and forth frantically; until he fixed his gaze in the direction of the little girl. He then took off after her, leaping over my legs.

As he leaped I hooked my left foot in front of his left ankle then swung my right foot behind his knee. At that instant I rolled my body to my left and onto my stomach. Mud squished out from under me as the man went down on his belly with a pounding thud.

I continued to roll until I was on my back again with the Chinaman in a wrestling leg-hold that I'd learned at the police academy, which with luck, had paid off.

The Chinaman silently winced as I held him in a leg hold that can be painful when applied properly; reminding me you never know when you might need what you've learned.

I glanced towards the first Chinaman. He'd knocked down several other pedestrians to gain ground on the girl while those lucky to be left standing simply gazed at them dispassionately.

Stranded on the ground with the second Chinaman in my leg grip, I instinctively dragged out my Colt 45 revolver from under my greatcoat and pointed it towards the running Chinaman. It was a trained reaction; a useless reaction in another life I'd come to rue.

I wanted to fire off a shot but too many people were milling around, I rationalized. I would've fired if I'd had a clear shot, I convinced myself. I hadn't once before, ending up in a place I couldn't wait to leave.

I squeezed the trigger but nothing happened. I tried squeezing the trigger again but my finger froze; my mind was frozen too, yet it raced, working overtime, back in time; weighing up whether or not the little girl would be worse off kidnapped and alive rather than possibly dead if I pulled the trigger; or maybe dead anyway if I didn't.

She was just a kid Puccini, just a kid. We had no idea who took her or where she was. The ransom came two days later but the coroner is convinced she was dead the day after she was taken. You could've saved her. What the fuck do you think you were doing?

I was torn between the past and the present, locked in an impotent deja vecu moment.

All I could do was watch despondently as the Chinaman scooped up the little girl seconds before a 1928, black Packard limousine pulled over on the wrong side of the road. He shoved her into the clutches of a man seated in the back before jumping on the running board of the car.

As the car accelerated back into traffic it clipped the back of a rickshaw catapulting the puller into the air as he was lifted by the handles jerking up under his armpits, slamming him into the copper kettle of a tea seller.

Movement brought my attention back to the Chinaman in my leg grip. He was fumbling beneath his padded jacket.

The instant I noticed the metallic gleam of a Mauser pistol, I lifted my torso as if doing sit-ups and yelled at him, Asshole! It's illegal to carry a weapon, you dumb shit! I whacked him hard twice behind his ear with my Colt 45, lashing out more from frustration and emotional pain than from the pain in my leg. Blood trickled down the side of his neck as he slumped with a groan.

Waylaying me while she could, an old hunchback sluggishly hobbled over to shove a handful of lottery tickets in my face. She babbled on in Chinese between flashing smiles that creased up her wizen, prune-like face; insensible to everything but the need for her own survival.

Be putting down weapon, Sahib! a booming voice called out from behind me, diverting my attention from the old woman and the limp Chinaman.

I craned my head towards the sound of familiar English. The irate Sikh who'd belted the crap out of the coolie was heading my way in-between cars starting to back up; his revolver out, and it was pointing in my direction.

Please, Sahib! the Sikh shouted loudly. Be putting down weapon! He repeated his demands several times with steamy breath that chugged out of his mouth with every word like a steam train picking up momentum. He looked as nervous as he did imposing, his gun hand quivering.

Pedestrians around me scattered like squawking blackbirds when they spotted the ferocious looking bearded Sikh with a gun closing in on them. The old hunchback laboriously staggered off, seemingly unperturbed.

I am not wanting shooting, Sahib, the Sikh shouted. The closer he came, the more his head wobbled. The more it wobbled, the more it looked as if it might topple off. Be putting down gun...slowly!

Hey, take it easy pal, I yelled back. Take it easy.

Now Sahib! the Sikh barked again.

I gently placed my gun on the ground, releasing my leg grip on the Chinaman. Just take it easy, ok, I repeated loudly but calmly. Relax! I'm a police officer! It's alright. It's over!

The Sikh hovered above me waving his gun about, like he was doing something useful, yet seemed unsure as to what else he should do. I gingerly heaved myself up off the ground, stretched my leg, moved it around and rubbed the spot where I was struck. There didn't seem to be any serious damage. It just hurt like hell.

I also noticed my greatcoat was covered in mud. Great! Just fucking great!

I carefully reached inside my soiled coat, withdrew my Chicago Police Force badge and flashed it to the Sikh. I didn't bother with my temporary Shanghai Municipal Police Force warrant card. A badge has more impact than a piece of cardboard. While I explained to him who I was, the Sikh examined the badge and gradually lowered his gun as he relaxed, wobbling his head a little as if signaling satisfaction with who I said I was.

The moment the Sikh turned to hurry back to his post, a different yet familiar voice shouted, "Rlicksha, Masta?"

I turned to the stocky Chinese rickshaw puller who'd been tracking me. He was smiling broadly which made the eyes on his bulbous faced look like narrow slits.

What struck me which hadn't clicked before was that apart from looking relatively young, he also appeared to be better fed, and his well-padded jacket offered him more protection from the chill than most others pullers had. To my mind, it was out of whack.

A felt shooting cap some foreigners wore sat on his head. A few Chinese here do wear western style hats, however, not nearly enough of them to solve Shanghai's great mystery of petty crimes; the rampant theft of hats from foreigners. Nobody on the force seems to know why this happens or where all the hats end up.

Anyway, before I could take my pent up frustration out on the stocky puller, several other pullers pounced from nowhere, frantically jostling each other to snare my fare, as if for one of them it was a done deal.

"Rlicksha, Masta, they shouted in near unison in Pidgin English, Wantchee rlicksha?" The sheer number of pullers in Shanghai at least guaranteed anyone with a coin or two needn't walk here.

"Small cash, Masta! Valley small cash," one of the pullers pleaded. His imploring smile flashed tinted teeth the color of his skin, as if to sway me that I was the only one standing between him and total starvation and that I should do something about it.

It wasn't that far off the mark. String tied his ragged blue pants and cloth-bound feet, and typically, the flimsy old tarnished coat flung over his emaciated yet seemingly robust body gave him only slight protection from the razor-edge sting of a lingering icy breeze.

When one of the pullers was about to pick up a metal canister near the dazed Chinaman, I swiftly scooped up my gun, pulled back the hammer and held it inches from his eyes.

Still a little pumped and wound up, I glared at him and firmly said, Touch it asshole and you'll be pulling Confucius in Chinese heaven. I didn't expect him to understand but was confident he'd appreciate the connection between the tone of my voice and the weapon.

He backed off.

I picked up the canister to briefly look at it. It felt heavy, and was probably what struck my leg. I placed it on the seat of the stocky puller's rickshaw before dragging the dazed Chinaman to his feet by his jacket. I pocketed his Mauser, slammed him against the rickshaw and handcuffed him to the back of it.

Pointing towards the general direction of police headquarters, otherwise known as Central, in my poor excuse for Pidgin I said to the puller, Number one policee housee, chop-chop! Savvy, no savvy?

Still grinning, the stocky puller rapidly nodded his head with understanding.

As I tagged along behind the rickshaw dragging my stumbling prisoner towards Central, I took out my notebook and jotted down the license plate number of the black Packard.

I also jotted down, as best as I could, what sounded like words the little blue-eyed Chinese girl had muttered before I forgot them.

Chapter 2

The handful of desperate rickshaw pullers who'd pounced on me to no avail quickly scurried off in search of fresh walking prey whilst they could. After weeks of intermittent sleet and drizzle, which kept most people indoors, the wet spell had finally taken a break. Even the sun's heartening rays occasionally broke through a veil of sashaying clouds to perform some of their desired uplifting magic.

When I landed here beneath uplifting magic almost six months back I briefly used rickshaws to make my way to Central where I was ensconced, as taxis here were as rare as a sincere man. It was a novelty at first, but it turned out to be more of a hassle than it was worth even if it was dirt cheap. More often than not, either the pullers didn't understand me, or they tried taking me to a brothel, a nightclub or a gambling den which I figured they'd come to understand were places most foreigners wanted to go.

I eventually abandoned rickshaws in favor of the trolley car from the busy Nanking and Thibet Road intersection not far from where I stay. But that didn't last long either. Sporadic power cuts frequently left the tram abandoned in mid traffic, so most days I walked to Central.

Over time, I adjusted to the frantic pullers without reacting to their persistent onslaughts. Lately though, their daily stalking, babbling and hollering turned my thoughts more and more towards the day when I'd be relieved to be on the States Steamship Co steamer heading home. I'm only here because at the time it seemed to be the best of no real option. Now I, Jacob Puccini, Jake to most, yet disgraced to a few, but still an incumbent Chicago homicide detective, count the few remaining days left before I get out of here.

Yours truly, along with four other Chicago police officers, ended up here as part of a six-month exchange program that some desk jockey from the Shanghai Municipal Council had organized between the Chicago Police Force and the Shanghai Municipal Police. Each of us had been assigned to different police stations for the duration of our tenure and I never saw the others again.

As it turned out, the other four Chicago officers had left after a month or two. The whisper around Central is that they cut their stay in Shanghai short as they got sick of drawing their weapons more times in a month than they did back home in a year.

Then again, the overriding reason the other cops could leave was that, unlike me, they were volunteers.

She was the goddamn Mayor's fucking daughter for Chris' sake. The Mayor wants blood, Puccini, and someone's gotta pay. Looks like you're it. You're suspended until we decide what to do with you.

My daily morning walk to Central became the exercise I avoided back home, which also warmed me up in the chilly weather that Henry the number one Chinese houseboy where I stay calls a 'four-coats' winter. For more than a week Henry's been sniggering around the house, griping about how winter is shrinking his lychees. It took me a couple of days to figure out he was joking about his testicles.

Still, he had a fair point, as breathing outdoors was like sucking on an invisible ice cube. The thermometer reading for yesterday, 9 January 1930, only reached 6.7 degrees. It was such a milestone reading that it made yawning front-page news in the English language morning newspapers as the lowest recorded temperature in Shanghai in thirty-seven years; which coincidentally, also happened to be my birthday.

A birthday coinciding with such a trifling newsworthy temperature reading was an equally trifling coincidence. Nonetheless, superstitious comedian houseboy and self-styled-seer Henry made a trying song and dance about it, as an omen for me to be wary. As it turned out he wasn't off beam.

My daily route to Central is down Nanking Road, Shanghai's main drag, where the bulk of rickshaw pullers lurk, loitering at all times of the day and night. Red and yellow banners and billboards, saturated with Chinese scrawl, extend along here as far as the eye can see with the endemic whiff of urine hanging in the air above an ingrained Oriental tang. Wafts of fried stinky tofu, over which I no longer dry retch, intermittently overpowered the urine stench. It's definitely not a coin toss as to which is the worst.

Amid the lingering odor, the sidewalk becomes an endless twenty-four hour gauntlet of human clutter; both local and foreign strollers, hookers, lottery ticket sellers and hawkers, wailing seamstresses, whining mendicants and hucksters, all taking turns at spitting or spraying the sidewalk with their snotty noses. Impoverished, sore infested indigent Chinese beggars hug building walls everywhere; their eyes dead, waiting for the rest of their body to catch up. Those that had survived the cold wintry night had ripped off the rags which their perished neighbors no longer needed.

Shanghai's winter corpses continue to daily compound the still-breathing, walking street-obstruction; less worthy of consideration than a temperature reading, as not a snippet about them has found its way into the press. We all live in denial to a degree, but in this place denial may as well be just a river in Egypt.

Anyway, white or yellow, hardly anybody seemed to give a fuck about the destitute, other than to get rid of them, dead or alive. These undetermined street deaths merely end up on an 'Exposed Corpses' list, which for some unknown reason is posted up at Central every three months; more than five thousand of them last year, I read somewhere. They're big on statistics here, but at least they're keeping tabs on things; like it's worthwhile just to know the facts.

The Benevolent Society van already was out on its daily round, collecting the night fatalities to free up downtown's clogged pavement. But this barely seemed to put a dent in the congestion. According to the papers, the nine square miles of Shanghai's foreign controlled piece of China that some have dubbed a misnomer, 'exotic London', is otherwise known as the International Settlement; and almost twice as crowded as the real London due to a constant daily stream of Chinese crossing over the boundary from China's hinterland.

As I do each day, I pulled some coins from my pocket and randomly flipped cash to no beggar in particular. It made me feel a Samaritan, for whatever reason, even if it makes no difference in the bigger scheme of things.

Much of what we do daily is futile if you get right down to it, and while most of it appears as if we're doing it for somebody else, deep down we're actually doing it for ourselves; like my instant hankering to find that little girl the moment she disappeared into that Packard.

When the chance to unpack festering past baggage comes along it pales everything else into insignificance; even the 'Calling Card' multiple murder case I'm investigation.

It hadn't been going anywhere anyway.

Chapter 3

Shanghai Municipal Police headquarters at 239 Hangkou Road was a formidable five-storied Art Deco sandstone edifice; austere and gloomy but obviously built to last. It abuts the similarly styled Municipal Council building next door. Together, they took up an entire block.

A large white flag sporting the Municipal Council crest at the center of a thick, red diagonal cross billowed in the breeze on top of each structure. They were flanked by an assortment of smaller flags of various nations aptly flickering in unison.

Although designated as Police Headquarters, Central was also a fully functioning police station; one of fourteen stations within the boundary of the International Settlement manned by a smattering of Irish, English and Scottish personnel that officiate over the rank and file Chinese officers. The Municipal Police made no bones about the fact that the sole purpose of these stations was to preserve the interests of a small minority of foreign nationals in Shanghai; in reality, an unwritten license for them to treat more than a million Chinese locals like shit.

On the street out the front, a handful of Chinese police officers bickered with resisting and screeching Chinese women they were loading into the back of several parked meat wagons. Oblivious to a crowd of amused onlookers, the women struggled, kicked and spat as the Chinese officers slapped, shoved and manhandled them as roughly as they could to get them into the vans.

Slightly back from the commotion, I released my prisoner from the rickshaw and flipped a coin to the stocky puller. He nimbly snatched the coin in midair and briefly looked at it, like it was the first coin he'd ever seen.

He then unexpectedly flipped it back.

I let the coin bounce off my chest as the puller leaned back against his rickshaw, folded his arms and then broadly smiled at me as he did earlier.

His incongruous reaction baffled me, which only served to compound my earlier curiosity about him.

However, I shrugged it off for now, grabbed my prisoner by his handcuffs and dragged him ungraciously through the entrance of the police building guarded by two Sikhs with rifles.

Each morning the police headquarters charge-room was as chaotic as Shanghai Railway Station on a Chinese festive holiday, filling up with chattering and whining prostitutes released in clusters from their cells. Most of them had seen better days compared to the dozen or so fresh-faced pubescent Chinese girls among the pack.

Huddling around their Amahs and warily eyeing each other off as if bewildered as to why they were here, the young rosy-cheeked girls couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. Dressed in almost identical padded, decorated silk jackets, with the same green colored skirts down to their ankles and wearing multi-colored oversized caps, similar to a yarmulke, the girls looked as if they were in uniform designed for a school. It made me wonder whether they actually had hooker schools here.

As it is back at home, prostitution here is illegal, and like back home it flourishes by the grace of those who wish to deny it while contributing to its survival; as if hypocrisy is an innate, universal affliction.

A police patrol unit, whose main job was to head out in mufti late at night with the sole purpose of being propositioned, had arrested the women and girls. They were now being processed before transported to the Mixed Court set up by the powers that be to exclusively deal with Chinese felons within the Settlement according to Chinese law, as opposed to laws and courts reserved for each foreign nationality. They would be fined a pointless pittance by a British appointed Chinese Magistrate and then set free.

The whole procedure was dragged out and time consuming, as if the whole tedious effort and time involved was meant to discourage them from pursuing a livelihood.

I recognized the faces of a couple of jaded looking older women who I'm certain would be here again tomorrow, like cogs in a judicial clock. Not that it was much different from back home, but the law here was a law of convenience; an invisible, movable line that kept most of the Chinese needy and divided from the sanguine foreigners.

A couple of the older women were abusing Bobby O'Keefe the desk Sergeant and any other police officer in their invective sight. Bobby was acting like he was fazed by it all, struggling to do his best to appear in charge, barking back abuse to no one in particular.

I knew otherwise; it was an act. He wasn't fazed, nor was he doing all that much, as I know he doesn't most of the time; and loudly too. But to be fair, when you're half-shickered, doing a great deal of obscure nothing does require an abstruse kind of effort.

Bobby grinned broadly when he spotted me trying to make my way over to him. About time you got here, Jake, he bellowed. You're not one of them fucking Chinagos, ya know.

When in Rome, Bobby, I called back without much enthusiasm, when in Rome! My voice was barely audible above the din.

I squeezed my way closer towards him dragging my prisoner through the vocal pack of women, and children. As I passed by each one of them I impulsively inspected their eyes. There was, as I suspected, not a blue one to be found.

When I reached Bobby I placed the iron canister and the felon's Mauser pistol on top of his slightly raised front teak desk. The pistol had a red design on the handle in the shape of a dragon. I'd seen similar designs here before on these high-powered semiautomatic weapons that the Chinese find so irresistible, but I couldn't recall what it meant. Just about everything here has some kind of scrawl or design on it.

Bobby ignored the canister and weapon and shoved a slip of paper in my face. There's been another one of them killings, Jake, he said in his indomitable manner, slurring, and them two useless Chinago detectives with you on the fucking case is waiting for you to get your ass down there.

He eyed me firmly until I took the piece of paper. I looked at the address, it was in English as well as Chinese, and shoved it in my pocket.

That's the address where the latest killing's at, he said. I got a car outside ready to take you. Give it to the driver when you go. Those detectives you work with said the killing looks the same as all the others.

I returned Bobby's fixed gaze, looking directly into his watery eyes. Don't tell me you're pissed already, I said.

Bobby chortled. Not already, still! he replied. Been out all night, haven't I.

Like every other night, I reminded him. When do you ever sleep for fuck's sake?

When I'm not working.

Then why aren't you asleep? I quipped.

Bobby was a hulk of an Irishman whose well-worn yet youthful face belied his senior years. He had to be well into his sixties or even seventies I'd say, but he's not saying. He swears alcohol, his 'medicine' as he calls it, keeps him preserved, and in this place, sane.

As he tells it, he went to sea with the British East India Company after they took over the Suez Canal from the French, but jumped ship in Hong Kong and then made his way to Shanghai. Not long after he joined the Shanghai police force and he's been here ever since.

Bobby handled our induction after we Chicago cops arrived, and I'll always remember his welcome speech telling us he was born with nothing, but as he's a frugal man he still has most of it. Maybe his sardonic humor was why we hit it off right away. We sealed our friendship not long after during a drinking session when we agreed under alcohol influenced mindlessness that the only thing standing in the way of humanity is people.

We continue to share at least one night a week at a nightclub, which often makes me wonder if shared cynicism and alcohol is what keeps our friendship alive. On the plus side, on top of reading some books about China on the boat on the way over here, most of what I now know about Shanghai I learned from Bobby.

Bobby hauled himself up from his seat to look me up and down, and frowned. What the fuck happened to you? You look like a tramp.

A girl dumped me, I flatly replied. It was half true.

Bobby's face broke into a leer as he made a big sweeping motion with his arm. Plenty more out there, me boy, he said. Take your pick. I ain't met a woman yet who ain't a whore anyway, which is probably why it's the oldest profession.

I raised my eyebrows. Are you telling me Eve was a whore?

Bobby's amusement evaporated and he crossed himself as if that would grant him some sort of immunity. I told you a hundred times, Jake, keep your blaspheming mouth to yourself. I don't want to hear it.

I knew that would irk him, which is why I said it, but I was surprised by his touchiness this morning. Anyway, as a staunch Catholic Bobby sees his own habitual sinning as confirmation of his unyielding faith. 'Otherwise what's the point of religion', he once argued. I'm still uncertain if that made perfect sense or it was just Irish logic.

Bobby nodded his head towards my doughy prisoner. Who's your handsome Chinago friend?

I briefed him about my minor mishap with the little girl without mentioning her blue eyes. He then turned and motioned for two uniformed Chinese police officers behind him to collect my prisoner who they would search, charge and fingerprint. After a roughing up and verbal browbeating to satisfy police procedure, an indelible number would be painted on his forehead to classify him.

A couple of other Chinese officers in mufti sat next to Bobby. One of them was a general interpreter, and the other known as the 'official' interpreter was a native of Shanghai who doesn't understand other Chinese dialects. He deals with all cases brought to the station that can't be interpreted by the other one.

Further back sat a uniformed telephone clerk who receives and sends out hourly general messages and anything urgent to all the other police stations. He also receives calls from police telephone boxes attached to telegraph poles located at intervals along the streets of the Settlement.

After the two Chinese cops took away my prisoner Bobby leaned underneath his desk and retrieved two more Mausers. According to Bobby, these weapons have flooded the streets since the Chinese began to manufacture them. He placed the two pistols next to the one from my prisoner making the red design on its handle stand out. The pistols in Bobby's grip also highlighted his immense and powerful hands.

He winked. He'll be out after only six months for illegal possession of one weapon, he said with a sly grin. Three guns make it arms trafficking. And together with your charge of attempted kidnapping that'll send a few shivers down his fucking spine.

I slowly shook my head feigning disbelief, wondering if law enforcement here as, 'standard police procedure, modified to suit local conditions', as we'd been briefed, meant fitting up felons. Not that it doesn't happen back home, mind you. It was no petty fit-up either. Arms trafficking here is a death penalty offense along with kidnapping and armed robbery. As a Chinese national my prisoner faced execution by shooting according to Chinese law. For murder, execution is by slow strangulation.

Despite his inclination to fit up felons from time to time, or the occasional derogatory word, Bobby doesn't actually dislike the Chinese, and he likes the way they give him the respect that his size demands. In any case he has lots of Chinese friends, or so he says, and he's been talking about marrying a Chinese woman he sees, but is in two minds about it not just because of his age. The thing is he'll be sent packing back home if he does marry her, or at least he'd have to resign.

The unofficial yet understood rule here among British nationals in either public service or businesses about fraternizing with local women is, you can fuck them but don't even think about marrying them. It was no different with the blacks back home.

Bobby glanced from side to side and then dragged out two glasses and a whisky bottle. He poured a fat finger in each glass, shoved one towards me and sat back down. You look like a bum, he said, so you may as well smell like one.

I shook my head again slightly, looked at the glass and then back up at him. You're heading for a serious illness, Bobby, I said, with the amount you put away.

Don't see the point in dying healthy, Jake, he threw back the words before throwing back his drink.

It was too early in the day for me, and just an excuse for Bobby to indulge, but I downed the whisky anyway. After I did that, Bobby pointed to the canister wanting to know what he should do with it. I asked him to mind it for me until later.

As he put it where he had dug out the pistols and whisky I took out my notebook. By the way, I said as I glanced at my notes, do you happen to know what 'jew ming, jew ming' means in English, or something sounding like that?

Although he says he struggles with it, Bobby's spoken Chinese seemed reasonable from what I could tell. All permanent serving officers have to learn as much of the local language as they can and he's been here longer than most. Still, he leaned over to one of the interpreters dwarfed by his intimidating stature and exchanged some words with him.

When he looked back up at me he had a big grin on his face. He cupped his hands to his mouth like a megaphone, called out loudly, It means, 'fuck-the-Jews, fuck-the-Jews', and then cracked up in hysterics.

I didn't see that one coming. Bobby is the only one here who knows I'm Jewish, as far as I know. Some women around me started laughing as well because they probably thought they should.

I gave him my best glare, said, Very funny, Mr. Vaudeville! and waited until he had had his moment.

It's not local dialect, he said when he regained composure, but it means, 'shave me', I mean 'save me' or 'save my life'. Why do you ask?

It's what that little girl said before she was snatched. Even so, all that your pathetic wisecrack did was to earn me a couple of favors.

I tore out the slip of paper from my notebook with the license plate number on it and handed it to him. That's the number plate of the car that took off with the girl. It's a black 1928 Packard 443 Limousine. I'm going to do whatever it takes to find her before I leave this place, and like it or not, you're going to be my helper, sober or otherwise. I would probably need a lot more help than just his in the short time I have left but at this point the car as well as my prisoner was all I had.

How soon do you think you could come up with something on it?

Bobby looked at me like he'd just heard of an unexpected death in the family.

Don't give me any grief, Bobby, I said. It's urgent and the clock's ticking.

Bobby looked at the piece of paper with a contorted face and heaved a sigh. He glanced back up. Aaargh, geez Jake, he moaned. She's fucking long gone. We both know that. It's a big shit pile out there to wade through. Whatever you think you can do is just going to be a fucking waste of time, just like all those unsolved killings have been.

Nothing is a waste of time Bobby, unless you get right down to it and philosophize; then everything is. Although, I quickly added to deliberately fluster him further, for some people time is here to be wasted, as you would know.

He eyeballed me with half a smirk. You're a smart-aleck, disrespecting heathen Jake, have I told you that? Bobby loves to banter. It must be an Irish thing, or a defense mechanism to keep a depressive predisposition from teetering.

Every other day, I replied. And if there's enough time between drinks, I added, see what you can find on that Chinaman I brought in as well.

One of these days your mouth will be your biggest undoing Jake, before you get to hell. I got no doubts about that.

I was about to turn and go for a quick clean up before heading over to the latest crime scene when Bobby cursed and scratched his balding head with a fretful look. Shit! Hang on a minute Jake, he said. Not so fast. Your smart-ass, blaspheming mouth almost made me forget.

He spluttered a cough, hawked and then said as soberly as he could, Gibbons wants to see you. Forthwith. The Commissioner's word, not mine.

You mean right now?

What else does forthwith mean?

It means he remembers I exist for one, I said, feeling more annoyed than mystified. What's he want this early anyway, or shouldn't I ask.

The fuck should I know.

I'll see him when I get back, I said.

Bobby shook his head. Uh-uh! He's waiting upstairs for you this very minute, Jake. He's been on my back about you non-stop all morning.

The commotion in the charge room had risen steadily and it started to overwhelm our conversation. Bobby stood up and screamed loudly, Shurrrt-the-fuck-up!

The prattle quickly died to a murmur and Booby sat back down. He nodded towards the women. Don't know why we bother with them day in and day out like we do. It makes no sense. The law sure works in mysterious ways.

Must be the real God, I said. Bobby ignored that one.

Anyways, Gibbons said I was to make sure you go straight up as soon as you put your foot in the fucking door, which is what I'm doing now, ok. He made it very clear, not even a crapper stop. He stressed, 'of the utmost urgency'. I'm just saying what he said, and from what I can tell, he ain't a happy man. Bobby gave me an accusing look. What the fuck have you gone and done now?

I stared at him briefly with a scrutinizing look and then smiled as if I knew something he didn't. You know what, Bobby; every time we open our mouths more often than not we're actually saying something about ourselves!

Bobby's disappointment was palpable. I turned and headed for the stairs. The power was still on but nobody around here uses the lift anymore in case they get stuck if it cuts out.

Behind me I heard Bobby call out. Don't forget tonight, Jake! The Velvet Palace, eight o'clock, if I don't see you before. There's a new show on I heard, and on your last Saturday night too. We'll have to make it a good one.

How could I forget my last Saturday night in a place I can't wait to leave where everyone celebrates Saturday night every night?

I turned around and yelled back. The number plate, Bobby! The number plate! I gave him an incentive. Get a result by the time I get back, all drinks are on me; if you haven't passed out by then.

The last thing I saw before disappearing from Bobby's view was him giving me an Italian forearm salute.

As I traipsed up the stairwell the slight ache in my leg was still there, but so was this niggling feeling in my gut. I wondered how much of it had to do with my slight mishap with that little girl so soon after hearing Henry's superstitious portent.

It also made me wonder if this mud splattered Jew cop, hailed a smart-alecky heathen, couldn't voluntarily close his ears as he could his eyes because it was a creation oversight or a pointer to the possible preordained nature of all things.

Chapter 4

The only time I'd spoken to Commissioner Patrick Gibbons was almost six months back when he took a moment to welcome us Chicago cops to Shanghai; although from time to time I've caught glimpses of him strutting through the building. I wondered what could be so urgent so early, and why me?

When I found his name-embossed, frosted plate-glass door I knocked and entered without waiting to be asked in, to quickly get this out of the way. Apart from a crime scene waiting as a matter of course, I wanted to get on with trying to find that little girl before the precious little time I have left runs out.

Gibbons' office was spacious, comfortably furnished, with a lived-in feel. Largish windows across two walls lightened up the room in stark contrast to the dinginess downstairs. The standard, almost obligatory photographs superiors have in their offices decorated wall space, as though they were meant to be convincing reminders to whoever comes in here as to how important he thought he was, or wanted to be. The collection of photographs mostly showed Gibbons shaking hands with probable bigwigs, none of whom I recognized except for Douglas Fairbanks.

A corner dining table was scattered with used crockery awaiting collection, and a few items of clothing lay flung across a chair next to a closet; most of what he needs. It made me wonder whether Gibbons spends more time in here than he should because he has no other life.

The man himself was standing over by one of the windows with his hands clasped behind his back scanning the street below.

I've been told you want to see me, sir, I said, announcing myself.

Gibbons turned around and looked at me dourly. Thank you for coming without delay Detective, he said.

I wasn't sure if he was annoyed that I wasn't here sooner but did I give a shekel? I also wondered how he knew who I was. Nobody knows you until they want you, I guess.

Gibbons was a tall, broad shouldered man dressed in a dapper pinstriped, double-breasted dark-blue suit. He appeared to be well into his fifties with flaming red thinning hair brushed back from a high forehead. His ruddy cheeks and full jowls applauded indulgence.

He extended a hand towards a large leather sofa. Take a seat, Detective. Make yourself comfortable.

Comfortable? I wondered if he had the right person here, or was it to be comfort before a fall. I didn't bother taking off my coat even though it was much warmer in here than it was downstairs. I expected whatever he wanted wouldn't take long.

When I sat on the sofa with my dirty coat he gave me a quick once over with a slightly raised eyebrow. Well, he did say sit!

I take it there's an entirely adequate explanation for the appalling condition of your clothing, Detective.

I told Gibbons about my earlier run in with the two Chinamen and the kidnapping of the little girl, again, without mentioning her eyes. I was about to clean up when the desk sergeant told me I should come up straight away.

Gibbons turned back to look out the window again. Unfortunately kidnapping is becoming almost a daily occurrence here with too few resolutions, he mumbled. Little hope of catching them now, I dare say. That unfortunate girl could be hidden anywhere around here by now, probably in any one of a number of illegal brothels, or well into neighboring Frenchtown. Or perhaps even dead, so forget it.

If he knew me he'd know that's not what he should have said. The little girl and I had touched. It's personal now.

After a long silent pause that gave a lie to any notion of urgency, Gibbons spoke slowly as he peered out the window. We built this place, Detective, he began, this great city of ours. We built it all from nothing, you know. When we arrived here almost one hundred years ago the place was only a small far-flung village on the bank of a curved river, and all around was mud flats. Muddy and flat. But we saw the potential of the location, and the potential this country had for commerce, for the benefit of both ourselves and the Chinese.

Funny he should mention mud, as I looked over my dirty coat. It may have prompted his little spiel. My coat was going to take some cleaning but I was confident Henry could manage it.

The foundations of all these magnificent buildings we built here had to go deeper because of the mud, you understand. But they stand their ground, just as we do. An empire is only as sound as its foundations, to use an analogy. Did you know Shanghai is now one of the largest cities in the world? Even bigger than your own Chicago I would imagine. We are quite proud of this achievement, and it is an achievement we intend to hang on to by any means. Everyone is now tripping over himself to come here. Did you know we now have more than forty nationalities among us?

Didn't know, don't want to know, don't care. I wondered how long this was going to take, and what the urgency was.

The French also saw the potential benefits, Gibbons continued. Unfortunately they wanted their own territory so they succeeded in carving out their own Frenchtown next to us. The French always seem to want what we have. At least you Americans with your knack for taking advantage of other people's gains saw fit to remain with us as part of the International Settlement. Gibbons turned around to look at me. No disrespect intended of course.

I wondered if it was a worthy, apologetic afterthought. None taken, I answered.

I couldn't help myself. Need someone to teach us the ropes I guess. We're new to all this empire building business.

Gibbons eyeballed me for several seconds without responding before turning back to the window.

Our Settlement and Frenchtown are essentially still Chinese owned territory of course, he said. "We merely have a perpetual lease on the land with an extraterritoriality clause that ensures we and most other foreign nationals here are immune from Chinese Law whilst inside our territory. The Chinese authorities are under obligation not to set foot here, or in Frenchtown, to throw their own legal weight around without our permission.

"Of course Chinese Law still applies to all the Chinese citizens living under our jurisdiction as well as for anyone else who hasn't any officially recognized nationality. As you should know by now, when necessary we do our best to adjudicate fairly on Chinese lawbreakers on behalf of the Chinese Government, according to Chinese Law, most of the time at any rate.

Admittedly, we used devious means like opium and guns to force our way in here. Not that we didn't attempt to negotiate with them first. But mind you, the Chinese were stubborn, resistant and behind the times with no foresight. In the long run everyone will see the advantages.

Should I care about any of this?

On the other hand, Gibbons went on, we are capable of recognizing our mistakes, Detective, and we try and do what we can to rectify them; such as banning opium some time ago. Unfortunately those Frenchies persist in allowing that vice to carry on, in order to benefit from it by being in bed with the gangsters who continue to deal in the stuff. Did you know that Detective?

There have been rumors, I said.

It's more than just rumors. We know this to be a fact. And what's more, the gangsters are in bed with the Chinese Nationalist Government, and vice versa, which really means that, in reality, the French are in bed with the Chinese Nationalist Government.

I only know about the bed of politics here from what Bobby has told me and from what I occasionally bother to read in the newspapers, which I take with a grain of salt anyway for its establishment serving bias.

Gibbons apparently decided he'd said enough and slowly moved over to a neatly arranged, oversized oak desk with three telephones, scattered files and a stack of newspapers on it. His noticeable backward lean when he walked underlined his portly yet not oversized belly. He reminded me of a giant red kidney bean.

He leaned over his desk, shuffled through some files, selected one and sank into his cozy chair which looked more suited for snoozing than working.

On the wall behind him a large detailed map of the Greater Shanghai Municipality stared me in the face. It outlined the two foreign enclaves here surrounded by Chinese controlled territory. Next to it was a detailed map of the whole country, labeled 'Cathay' dotted with red, yellow, and blue colored pin heads. The yellow pin heads clustered mostly on the north-eastern coastline and I momentarily wondered what it all meant.

I assume you found your brief stay with us to be interesting, Gibbons said, if not a worthwhile experience.

It was a hoot! Different to what I expected.

Gibbons opened a thin looking folder and scanned it briefly. He then made a show of the folder by lifting it slightly in the air and back down again,