Death In Shanghai by M J Lee Page B
Authors: M J Lee
guilds. The Shantungese were big men, the armed robbers and street thugs for hire. When there was a fight, they were never far from the action.
Finally, there were the Shanghainese themselves, the organisers of all the mayhem that the Shanghai Municipal Police, like the Dutch boy and his dike, just about kept under control. For Shanghai was the big city. The magnet that attracted all the riff raff, scoundrels, bad eggs, ne’er-do-wells and thugs from all over China, drawn like moths to an illegal flame for its vice and its money.
Above all, for its money.
‘Looks like we’ve got a right one, here.’ Sergeant Wolfe pointed to the shuffling giant of a man before him, dressed in rags that had been repaired a thousand times with cloth that had come from half as many sources.
‘What do you want?’ the sergeant asked him in Shanghainese.
The Giant just smiled back and shifted his woollen hat from hand to hand as he shuffled his feet.
‘What do you want?’ the interpreter asked in Mandarin. The Giant smiled again and launched into a long speech, punctuated by actions and pointing.
‘Don’t know this dialect. It’s not Shantungese or Teochew. Or even Hakka.’ The interpreter leant over the desk and inspected the Giant from head to toe. ‘He’s a big one though. Wouldn’t like to meet him on dark night in a narrow alley.’
The interpreters covered most of the dialects that entered through the doors of the station, but occasionally even they were baffled by a minority language. That rare eventuality was covered by Sergeant Wolfe’s little black book, with its list of interpreters and their various specialisations. Only once had he been stumped. It was by an old lady from one of the mountain provinces in the south who only spoke a special women’s language. She had been arrested for selling some exotic herbs in the street the night before. Wolfe let her off with a caution. He used English. It was just as unintelligible to her as any other language.
‘From his clothes, he could be off one of the boats. See the feet.’
The sergeant looked down at the bare feet, shuffling on the floor of the police station. They were large, black with dirt, and had a slight webbing between the toes.
‘Could be from one of the boats on Lake Tai or in the rivers. Haven’t a clue about their dialect. Looks like he doesn’t speak anything else.’
Sergeant Wolfe sighed. Another bloody nuisance. Why couldn’t they just speak one language instead of hundreds of bloody dialects? At least the written language was the same. ‘See if he can read?’
The interpreter quickly wrote the characters for ‘What do you want?’
The Giant smiled, grabbed hold of the pen and wrote three shaky characters.
The interpreter picked up the paper. ‘It’s his name. Probably the only thing he knows how to write.’
Sergeant Wolfe sighed again. It was going to be one of those days. Picking up his little black book, he leafed through it, looking for somebody, anybody, who might speak the dialect from Lake Tai. He found a Mr Huang Shu Ren, who might fit the bill. He picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone. ‘Somebody plug the bloody phone back in.’
It was going to be one of those days.
***
‘Chief Inspector Boyle would like to see you, Inspector.’
‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish, I’ll see him presently.’
‘I think he meant as soon as you returned to the station.’
Danilov took off his hat and coat and hung them on the hat stand next to her desk.
‘The fingerprint report has come back. There is a positive match to a Mr Henry Sellars.’ She handed the report over to Danilov. ‘I thought the body in the creek was a woman.’
‘So did we all, Miss Cavendish.’
He glanced at the report. Positive match to Henry Sellars, aged 20. Three previous convictions, two for theft and one for importuning in a public place. He would check the files later. Meanwhile, Boyle was waiting.
He knocked on the door.
This time, the word
Finally, there were the Shanghainese themselves, the organisers of all the mayhem that the Shanghai Municipal Police, like the Dutch boy and his dike, just about kept under control. For Shanghai was the big city. The magnet that attracted all the riff raff, scoundrels, bad eggs, ne’er-do-wells and thugs from all over China, drawn like moths to an illegal flame for its vice and its money.
Above all, for its money.
‘Looks like we’ve got a right one, here.’ Sergeant Wolfe pointed to the shuffling giant of a man before him, dressed in rags that had been repaired a thousand times with cloth that had come from half as many sources.
‘What do you want?’ the sergeant asked him in Shanghainese.
The Giant just smiled back and shifted his woollen hat from hand to hand as he shuffled his feet.
‘What do you want?’ the interpreter asked in Mandarin. The Giant smiled again and launched into a long speech, punctuated by actions and pointing.
‘Don’t know this dialect. It’s not Shantungese or Teochew. Or even Hakka.’ The interpreter leant over the desk and inspected the Giant from head to toe. ‘He’s a big one though. Wouldn’t like to meet him on dark night in a narrow alley.’
The interpreters covered most of the dialects that entered through the doors of the station, but occasionally even they were baffled by a minority language. That rare eventuality was covered by Sergeant Wolfe’s little black book, with its list of interpreters and their various specialisations. Only once had he been stumped. It was by an old lady from one of the mountain provinces in the south who only spoke a special women’s language. She had been arrested for selling some exotic herbs in the street the night before. Wolfe let her off with a caution. He used English. It was just as unintelligible to her as any other language.
‘From his clothes, he could be off one of the boats. See the feet.’
The sergeant looked down at the bare feet, shuffling on the floor of the police station. They were large, black with dirt, and had a slight webbing between the toes.
‘Could be from one of the boats on Lake Tai or in the rivers. Haven’t a clue about their dialect. Looks like he doesn’t speak anything else.’
Sergeant Wolfe sighed. Another bloody nuisance. Why couldn’t they just speak one language instead of hundreds of bloody dialects? At least the written language was the same. ‘See if he can read?’
The interpreter quickly wrote the characters for ‘What do you want?’
The Giant smiled, grabbed hold of the pen and wrote three shaky characters.
The interpreter picked up the paper. ‘It’s his name. Probably the only thing he knows how to write.’
Sergeant Wolfe sighed again. It was going to be one of those days. Picking up his little black book, he leafed through it, looking for somebody, anybody, who might speak the dialect from Lake Tai. He found a Mr Huang Shu Ren, who might fit the bill. He picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone. ‘Somebody plug the bloody phone back in.’
It was going to be one of those days.
***
‘Chief Inspector Boyle would like to see you, Inspector.’
‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish, I’ll see him presently.’
‘I think he meant as soon as you returned to the station.’
Danilov took off his hat and coat and hung them on the hat stand next to her desk.
‘The fingerprint report has come back. There is a positive match to a Mr Henry Sellars.’ She handed the report over to Danilov. ‘I thought the body in the creek was a woman.’
‘So did we all, Miss Cavendish.’
He glanced at the report. Positive match to Henry Sellars, aged 20. Three previous convictions, two for theft and one for importuning in a public place. He would check the files later. Meanwhile, Boyle was waiting.
He knocked on the door.
This time, the word