Three
In daytime hours, the Hongkew Wharf would have been a bustling hub of activity; in the pre-dawn half-light, it was shuttered and deserted. The Inspector gazed out over the muddy waters of the Whangpo; the gloom had lifted just enough for him to make out the Pootung airfield and the bulk of
L'Ardeche, the French dirigible hired by the Red Cross to deliver humanitarian supplies to the Manchurian warzone. It had been painted a brilliant white to denote its neutral status; though given the reports of the increasingly savage struggle taking place among the ruins of Mukden, it was an open question as to whether it would make it that far north without attack. The rain had petered off to a desultory drizzle now at least, but this was little comfort; if the sky cleared, the Japanese bombers would take the opportunity to start hitting the other side of the river again.
Finally, collecting himself, he turned to his little raiding party. He’d wanted the Reserve Unit, with their heavy weaponry and specialist skills, but they were tied up dealing with a bank job in Tsau-Nai-Pang; instead, he’d had to scrape up the few men he could find at the station. They were a motley bunch, Sergeant Williams, a few Chinese, a Sikh and an Indian, all strapped into the bulky bullet-proof vests recently issued to the force. Williams hefted a Jimmy gun in one beefy hand, and a large fire-axe in the other; meeting the Inspector’s gaze, the Welshman shrugged. “Not standard, but it’s helped before”, he remarked.
The warehouse was just like literally thousands of others on both sides of the river; a squat thing, constructed of filthy crumbling brick, nondescript in every way save the badly painted, soot-stained sign that adorned the office entrance;
Goldeneye Shipping Company Ltd.
“Are you sure about this?” Peng Te-huai asked; the Chinese policeman had refused all offers of equipment, content with the little Luger he used in regular service.
The Inspector nodded. “It’s the only candidate”, he rasped, lighting a new cigarette, “and do you have any other leads?”
It hadn’t taken them long to find the place once they knew what they were looking for. The Goldeneye Shipping Company had been registered in the name of a man with known triad connections a few months earlier, around the same time as Fleming’s arrival in Shanghai; a bewildered informant had been roused from a drunken stupor to relate that the place saw no activity at all, save a single weekly delivery, taking place at night. The last one of these had taken place three days earlier.
The Inspector approached the door, pulling his Colt from its holster. “Ready?” he growled; the others nodded. He tried the handle, finding it unlocked, to his surprise. “We may have occupation,” he hissed, “So we’ll go in quiet.”
The door opened, mercifully without squeaking hinges, into a low hallway. Pointing, the Inspector sent Williams and some of his men up the stairs to the office; he and Peng moved forward into the main storage area. It was mostly empty, save for stack of boxes in the centre. The two men moved to examine them more closely; they were wooden, sturdily built, quite large but entirely featureless with no clue as to their contents.
“Coffins?” Peng asked. The Inspector sucked on his cigarette.
“They’d certainly fit a man. Shall we open one?”
A slightly slurred voice came from behind them. “If you do, you’ll be causing a serious diplomatic incident.”
The two policemen whirled round; Fleming was standing in the doorway pointing a pistol- a Walther, the Inspector noticed- at them. He was flushed and swaying slightly, but the gun never wavered.
“You can drop the guns too, by the way.”
The two men carefully placed their pistols on the floor. “Fleming? How are you still standing?”
The Englishman ignored the question, jerking his gun to the left. “You will get away from those boxes immediately.” He giggled. “In fact, I expect a full apology, Inspector, in writing; you’re tampering with the Diplomatic Bag. If you’re lucky, the Commissioner might let you keep your job.”
He paused, looking at Peng. “I know him, but who are you?” he demanded. Peng returned the gaze, contemptuously.
“Inspector Peng Te-huai, Jiangsu Police, Commander Fleming. I’ve been pursuing your friend Lao Ché.”
Fleming cocked his head. “What a stroke of luck! Lao’s been after you for a while. You do realise what indignities he would inflict on you, were he to catch you?”
Peng laughed. “It’s over, Fleming. Do you expect me to be intimidated?”
Fleming shrugged. “No, I expect you to die.”
He fired, once; Peng jerked backwards, gasping, clutching his chest. Fleming barked a laugh that turned halfway into a hiccup, dropped his gun to the floor and casually raised his hands. “Now that’s done I surrender, old cock,” he said, swaying slightly.
The Inspector scrabbled for his gun and raised it, checking Peng’s pulse with his other hand. He cursed and stood, looking the other man in the eye. Suddenly the empty warehouse was full of shouting as the other members of the raiding team streamed in, drawn by the shot. It didn't matter now; he knew that the time for fighting was over.
“Commander Fleming, I'm arresting you on two counts of murder.”
The Englishman sniggered. “What, the chink? There's a war on. That’s military action, not murder. Who’s the other?”
The Inspector’s hand tightened on his pistol. “You damn well know the other. The Belgian boy who discovered the scam you were running. I bet, when we dig the bullets out of him, that they’ll come from a Walther like yours.” He indicated the boxes. “He found out about the drugs, didn’t he?”
Fleming pursed his lips. “Foolish lad. You can’t blame me there; I offered him a truly extortionate amount of cash to keep quiet, but he wouldn’t take it. Bloody do-gooder.”
The Inspector grimaced, trying to keep his eyes on the Englishman and not glance down at the corpse beside him. “I bet there’s enough opium in there to supply half of the Yangtze basin.”
“Opium?” Fleming began to laugh. “This is the 1930s Inspector, not the 1830s! Do I look like an East Indiaman? The principle is the same I’ll grant you, but the methods have moved on. No, far more efficient to provide Lao Ché with the concentrated stuff- every chest contains 66 pounds of pure heroin. A bargain at the price.”
The remark brought a bitter laugh. “A pretty low price, Fleming; but I suppose a man’s got to cover his gambling debts somehow. You might have pull in Shanghai, but your Foreign Office won't view you as kindly.”
To the Inspector’s surprise, the Englishman began to laugh- not mockingly, but in genuine, bewildered astonishment.
“I’m not a freelancer, you bloody idiot,” he said, once recovered, “what the hell do you take me for? This is an official operation! The drugs come in from Singapore in the diplomatic bag; we grow tonnes of the stuff in Bengal and Bihar to help the war effort. Lao Ché doesn’t give me a penny! The price isn’t cash; it’s warm bodies.”
He studied the Inspector’s surprised expression. “Don’t you see? There’s a war on! The Tongs practically run the internment camps; for every chest of heroin that goes in, we get a prisoner of war smuggled out. It’s an underground railroad, inspector, and I’m just the middleman; although,” he thrust his chest out, preening, “I did come up with the idea. Operation Goldeneye has been a great success; and it'll take more than your meddling to put it out of commission.”
The Inspector struggled to contain his anger. “It doesn’t matter, Fleming.
I don’t care. You’ve goddamn blood on your hands. You’re going down for this. I’ll make sure of it.”
Fleming shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere, Inspector. What do you have? Your testimony? That’s it. The boxes are consular property and so inadmissible, and Commissioner Dawson is formerly of the Metropolitan Police. His priorities are in line with my own. And even if I do get prosecuted, over the wishes of the Commissioner, what then? Who cares about some chink policeman? You bloody Yanks might be neutral, but we’re at war with them, remember? This is Shanghai, and I have extraterritorial rights. I’ll be tried by a Consular Court, and my own people aren’t going to convict me, are they? I’m more likely to get a medal for eliminating the only threat to the Chinese side of the operation.”
He grinned again, smugly. “Seems to me that the worst outcome would be me having a nice furlough in Singapore or Calcutta until the whole mess dies down. I doubt even that- I’ll have plenty more opportunities to play cards in the Blue Lotus yet.”
Fleming knelt to pick up his pistol. Nobody moved to stop him. “I’ll be going then. You can let yourself out.” He turned and called over his shoulder as he walked; “And I meant it about the apology letter, Inspector. On my desk by Midday please.”
The Inspector watched the Englishman go, then glanced down at the body of Peng. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he raised his pistol at Fleming’s back; then sighing, he lowered it again. “Goddamn, spies” he breathed, and turned away, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.
The brawny arm of Sergeant Williams clasped him on the shoulder, offering comfort. “Forget it Bogey,” the Welshman said kindly, “It’s Shanghai."