The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory Read Online Free PDF Page A

delicate mantis that has fallen into strong Chinese wine and for a moment is stunned into stillness—stunned long enough for the diner to nab him with a set of chopsticks, dunk him in the sauce, and eat him whole. A fate that, at least metaphorically, awaited many of these sleeping men.
    There were the con men too. The ones who had enough English to approach white people did so. They all had some supposed family heirloom to sell or their services as guides to Shanghai’s many pleasures of the eye, the palate, or the groin. And there were the beggars, not many, not like Kwongjo, the Canton of old, but more than there used to be. The obscenity of his countrymen begging before foreigners always sent a special rush of anger through Fong.
    Stretched out on a bench, between himself and Wang Jun at the kiosk, was a clubfooted man. His filthy clothes were pulled up to reveal the stumps that were his feet. A tin soup bowl was near his deformed extremities. Spittle ran from his mouth and there was the unmistakable reek of human waste about him. For a moment Fong’s anger subsided as he looked at this poor specimen of humankind.
    “Are you in pain?”
    The clubfooted man’s eyes fluttered open and tried to focus.
    “Have you eaten today?”
    Slowly the man shook his head.
    “There’ll be help here in a minute, but you have to promise me that you won’t fight them. Is that a promise, do I have your promise?”
    The man nodded.
    “Good, I’ll be right back.” With that he made his way quickly through the thickening morning crowd and grabbed the phone from Wang Jun’s hand.
    “Hey—”
    But Fong had already punched in the phone number of special services.
    “Is it ringing?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Wang Jun took the phone, listened, and pressed SEND.
    “You should think of joining the twentieth century sometime before it’s over,” he said, handing the instrument back.
    Quickly Fong left orders for the clubfooted man to be picked up and brought to a shelter.
    “You’re a sentimentalist, Zhong Fong, a dangerous sentimentalist. And at your age, really.”
    “He’s sick, he’s hungry, our revolution meant something.”
    “Did it really,” snapped Wang Jun. He began to walk.
Fong moved with him. “So?”
    “Tell me about the newspapers and how they got the story, Fong.”
    “They got clearance.”
    “Bullshit. From whom? That kind of story has to have party approval before it sees the light of day. Surely that takes time. Or didn’t that cross your mind?”
    Fong resisted the taunt. “They got authorization to run the story and that’s that.”
    Wang Jun shook out a Marlboro and lit it. “I think the murderer was a pro.”
    “I agree.”
    “Anything on the wallet?”
    “A little blood that will no doubt match the dead man’s. If there are prints on the wallet or credit cards I’ll bet they’ll match Mr. Fallon’s as well.”
    “Why did he leave the wallet? A pro doesn’t make that kind of mistake.”
    “I don’t think it was a mistake. I think it was a message.”
    “If it was, then the sender’s pretty lucky that the papers got—” The older man stopped himself. Then he continued, “Pros don’t have luck, do they?”
    “No, they don’t, Wang Jun. There is nothing about luck involved here as far as I can see. Somebody wanted to send a pretty gory message and they used you and me to send it.”
    “You and me and Richard Fallon, member of the New Orleans police force. Let’s not forget that he did his part.”
    Unable to resist, Fong said, “Parts.”
    “Dim sum for giants.”
    Suddenly it stopped being funny. “Yeah, man-eating giants. Cannibals.”
    Wang Jun stared at his young friend. Fong met his gaze. “I’m not a boy, I’m not someone’s messenger boy. I want this lunatic found.”
    “Who was the message being sent to is the question, isn’t it?”
    “It’s a good question but let’s start with the killer. Find the street sweeper. I want her in my office as soon as you