CHIEF INSPECTOR MACKLIN COMES ABOARD
That the murder of Richard Trenchard had had serious repercussions in Shanghai was attested by the swift, gray-painted police boat which intercepted the Kiangsu off the Woosung Forts. Like an urgent messenger of alarm it came churning out from behind that point where the Whangpoo drains its garbage-littered waters into the turgid Yangtze, and the great white harbor gulls take up their tireless quest for offal from passing ships.
“Look at that!” Captain Carstairs grunted to North, who stood at his elbow on the river steamer’s spotlessly clean bridge, “the wind must be up for fair. Know the chap in the gray topee?”
North put down the glasses through which he had studied the police boat and nodded. Already the still dim storm clouds were gathering to blow no one knew what winds of misfortune.
“That’s Inspector Macklin, Chief Inspector of the International Settlement Police,” Captain Carstairs was saying as at the same time he jammed down the bridge telegraph to cause a wild threshing of the Kiangsu’s screws which promptly checked her progress.
Leaning far over the canvas bridge guard, North peered down at a bobbing motorboat on the bow of which a stocky English sailor stood poised with a rope. As he had expected, he promptly made out the long, deceptively awkward figure of Major Bruce Kilgour.
Once the two Englishmen were safely aboard, engine bells jangled again, and the Kiangsu resumed her progress up the tortuous Whangpoo which, even at this early hour, was already teeming with traffic. Junks of all sizes waddled past, and a rust-streaked Norwegian tramp now plowed by with her screw kicking up a splatter of dirty brown foam under her stern. A lean gray destroyer came knifing the yellow water with the rising sun standard of Nippon whipping at her jackstaff, and again an ungainly lorcha (*composite sailing ship with European hull propelled by Chinese batten sails) appeared tacking down towards the distant sea.
Chief Inspector Macklin of the Settlement Police appeared and lost no time going into action. Short and snappy as a terrier, he marched straight into Captain Carstairs’s cabin and with a grave air engaged that anxious and embarrassed individual in an inaudible conversation.
The meeting of North and Kilgour, still on the bridge outside, was very typical.
“Hello, Hugh. Can’t seem to stay very far from trouble, what?”
The American held out his hand. “Dammit, no! Trouble went out of its way to find me. But I’ve had four good weeks away from the old grind. Try the river above Ichang sometime.” He checked himself at reading the tension evident beneath the Englishman’s mechanically impassive expression. Kilgour’s first question was deeply significant.
“Er—did you find anything on Trenchard? A bit of paper in cipher?”
“Nothing—but I haven’t searched his cabin really thoroughly. Left that for you—it’s your show.”
Kilgour’s rasping laugh rang out. “My show? It’s jolly well yours too.”
“What’s up?” North countered. “You look scared to death.”
“I am—so are the Municipal Council and all the consuls and everybody who was born with enough brains to tell time,” was Kilgour’s frank admission. “You’ll be, too, when you hear. Oh, there’s been a lot of ugly work going on since you left Shanghai, and,” he frowned a little, “there’s going to be a lot more, unless we’re all crazy. This is the last and hardest blow.”
“Young Trenchard, you mean?”
“Yes. Surely you’ve had some inkling that he is—er—was—an important person?”
The Englishman’s alert blue eyes seemed to be asking more than his lips, but North chose to remain uncommunicative beyond a noncommittal: “He was with Ruby Braunfeld—that in itself was a distinction, wasn’t it?”
He had better have a talk with the consul general before he unbent too much. One never could tell which way the elusive feline of international intrigue might jump. When he had joyfully quitted Shanghai a month back, John Bull and Uncle Samuel were standing eye to eye on the questions of Chinese policy, but in China complete reversals of attitude were so common as to be almost de rigueur.
“What about Trenchard’s case?”
“There was a clumsy attempt to make his murder look like a suicide.”
Kilgour’s features contracted a little. “Get anywhere?”
“Made just a beginning, Bruce. There’s too much background to this case. I don’t even know who’s who, yet. What did Trenchard have that you and Macklin should get so worried?”
“Information regarding a certain illegal arms shipment. He was sent especially to get it. You didn’t find anything of the sort on him?”
It worried North to see Kilgour so anxious. The long-jawed Englishman had never been one to become unduly or easily alarmed at trifles.
“No. I didn’t know what to look for, so I was handicapped. What you want may still be there.”
“Hope so—but I doubt it,” was the Englishman’s gloomy reply. “How did you learn he was my man?”
“Carstairs showed me Trenchard’s wireless to you, after he’d been murdered. Before that I hadn’t an inkling. He was a good actor—even fooled me with his lovesick puppy act.”
“Poor chap. He was one of the very best. Oh, by the bye,” Kilgour held out an envelope sealed with a bright red wax seal, “consular messenger gave this to me for you.”
Unpleasant premonitions invaded North as he accepted the crisp square envelope and read its contents while Kilgour studied a passing fishing sampan with tactful absorption. Fixedly he gazed at its weather-beaten matting sails and the row of frowsy-looking cormorants lining its rail.
To Captain Hugh North, D. C. I., Shanghai, China.
Subject: Assignment to Duty.
Pursuant to orders issued by John K. Coughlin, General Commanding Section G—2 General Staff, Captain Hugh North is herewith reassigned to duty vice Captain Luther Conroy in the Eastern Division with headquarters in Shanghai, in the Province of Kiangsu in the Republic of China. He is to assume command of that division at once and all officers in that division are herewith directed to obey him as such.
Fox-Simmons, Adjutant General.
A smothered groan burst from North’s lips as the half-expected blow fell. “Oh, God! And I thought I was going home!”
Kilgour cast him a sympathetic look. “Hard lines, old chap, especially with this mess on the fire.”
Abruptly North checked himself. “What happened to Conroy?”
“Some swine murdered him a week or so ago—very queer story. The Consul will tell you about it.” The Englishman nodded to the envelope yet crushed between North’s supple brown fingers. “There’s a note in there from Mr. Brunton—better read it.”
Feeling very old and discouraged, North plucked out a second sheet and read:
Dear Captain North:
Captain Carstairs’s wire has just come in. Trenchard’s mission equally vital to us. Washington cables orders for complete cooperation with British in the matter. Please report at once.
Hastily,
J. Brunton, Consul General.
So the Consulate was awaiting him and the Atlas load of responsibility was back on his shoulders.
For a moment North gazed fixedly at the Kiangsu’s fore deck, where the deck passengers, a squirming patch-work of blue and gray cotton, jabbered excitedly and craned their necks at the rows of oil refineries, storage tanks, and pipe piers lining the shore. Then he turned to Kilgour, his bronzed face alert and composed once more.
“Well,” he demanded, “what about Macklin?”
Kilgour glanced swiftly over his shoulder. “An honest copper, that’s all. Isn’t interested in anything but the murder angle, though I’ve given him a general idea of what’s back of the case.”
“Will he try to run things?”
But before Kilgour could answer, a heavy tread heralded the appearance of Inspector Macklin. Pink, ponderous, and phlegmatic, he came striding across from the chart-room door. “Better come into Captain Carstairs’ cabin,” he advised, and cast a meaning glance at a buck-toothed Chinese quartermaster who, with broad bare toes hooked in the wheel gratings, spun the big brass and mahogany wheel. “Can’t be too careful in a case of this sort.
“I wish to thank you, Captain North,” he said when the Kiangsu’s master had carefully closed the door, “for conducting this preliminary investigation.”
“Not having any real jurisdiction,” North stated, “there wasn’t much I could do. And I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed when I tell you that I’ve found out very little.”
“Please, Captain, let’s hear the whole story,” rumbled Inspector Macklin. “We’ll be getting in before long, so I would be obliged if you will tell us just what happened, as nearly as you can tell, that is; and what your impressions are.”
While the black-painted river steamer groped up a river that became increasingly choked with a tangle of anchored steamers, warships, schooners, junks, and dashing sampans, North concisely retailed the situation leading up to the discovery of Trenchard’s body.
“When I searched him, I found these.” North drew out the bill fold, fountain pen, bunch of keys, and the cash which he had found in the dead man’s pocket. Beside them he laid the pistol found by the body, but for reasons of his own, he kept the dagger in his pocket.
Very hard and somber became Kilgour’s eyes when the American laid that dully gleaming bit of metal, with the square hole cut in the center, on the green blotter beside the other items. He demanded sharply, “You found this cash in Trenchard’s pocket?”
“Yes. I wondered at the time, because it wasn’t much worn, and, as we all know, a new cash is a damned rare article.”
“Is that all you found?” queried Macklin.
“As I’ve said, there were a few silver coins in Trenchard’s pockets, but,” the American smiled apologetically, “I carelessly put them in a pocket with some change of my own. Here’s the lot of them.”
With quick deftness North exposed a collection of coins such as might be unintentionally collected in no other country than China. The miscellany included a couple of Yuan Shih K’ai dollars with dragon reverses, a badly worn Charles IV Spanish dollar with Latin inscription and its eighteenth-century date still readable, and three broad silver dollars bearing the snake and eagle emblem of the Mexican Republic. There were in addition several smaller coins, including an English shilling and a very old American half dollar (*the Mexican dollar was introduced to China by Yankee sea captains. The Mexican dollar having a lower silver content than the American, they thus profited by touching at a Mexican port and converting their specie).
All three examined the coins, piece by piece, while Captain Carstairs looked on in honest bewilderment. Methodical and uninspired in every movement, Inspector Macklin commenced to drop the dead man’s property into a huge brown manila envelope. “Since the coins are mostly yours, Captain,” said he, “you may as well keep the lot. Now, what about your impressions?”
The Intelligence Captain paused to glance out over the river where, around a bend, and through a tangle of junk masts, the opulent and incongruous Bund of Shanghai began to loom into sight, then he said: “Haven’t formed any definite theories yet, Inspector, beyond the fact that Richard Trenchard did not commit suicide. Heretofore, my interest has been purely perfunctory, but now—” He glanced at Bruce Kilgour standing to one side and carefully scanning Trenchard’s pocketbook—“I’d like to conduct a brief inquiry before we dock. Four people ought to be questioned—though I’m not at all sure that the killer is among them.” He bent a quizzical glance on the phlegmatic S.M.P. (Shanghai Municipal Police) man. “Did you ever realize, Inspector, that a steamer is very nearly an ideal place to commit a murder?”
“Hadn’t thought of it.” Inspector Macklin shook his head a little. “And now, what’s in the paper bag?”
“The pistol that was found beside Trenchard’s body.” Inspector Macklin stirred with fresh interest. Here was firm and familiar ground. “Ah, things begin to look more hopeful, Captain. I see fingerprints on that gun.”
“Yes—but they may not mean anything,” North ventured, his brow wrinkled in doubt. “Somehow—”
“Nonsense. I’m sure those prints will prove valuable,” Macklin grumbled. “Under normal conditions I’ll grant that a clever criminal would hardly be so careless, but here on a steamer he might not think it necessary to be so cautious.”
“We can tell fairly quickly,” suggested North, holding up a little hand mirror. “On this I have registered Trenchard’s fingerprints. They are very clear and sharp—just as distinct as those prints on the pistol. I suggest that you compare them, Inspector.”
“Have you a reading glass, Captain?” A bit pompously Macklin made the request, and when Carstairs produced one of large size he fell to work while the others looked on. Loop by loop and whorl by whorl he guided a pencil point over corresponding areas.
“Too bad,” Macklin announced with an exasperated grunt. “Captain North is quite right: they all look like Trenchard’s.”
Up crept one of North’s hands to stroke a square but not stubborn jaw. “Just a minute, Inspector. Perhaps we’re not being quite exact. What do you think of this?” With the point of a pencil he indicated a blur located perhaps halfway down the short casing of the automatic’s barrel.
“It looks like an indistinct fingerprint,” Kilgour averred on peering through the reading glass, “and it looks like a different type from Trenchard’s.”
“You can’t tell anything from that,” Macklin objected testily. “It’s so badly blurred, the whorls are incomplete. A positive identification is impossible.”
“That’s not the point, Inspector. It’s the location and direction of that print which are important,” North persisted patiently. “Do you see where that print is—parallel to the barrel?”
Light sprang into Kilgour’s wide-set blue eyes. “By Jove, that is a bit of a clue. What are you going to do with it?”
“There isn’t a great deal we can do just yet,” North replied briskly. “Our evidence is still too flimsy to hold even Mrs. Braunfeld.”
Inspector Macklin looked peevish. “Then you think she knows all about it?”
“She knows a great deal,” was the Intelligence Captain’s noncommittal reply, “but we can’t prove it.”
Kilgour looked about a little wildly. “But, great God, North, I—we’ve got to get that message back! It must be somewhere on this boat!”
“I’m afraid, Bruce, that you are ‘gilding the lily of obviousness,’ as Chao Ku, my boy, used to say.” North included all of the serious faces across the table in his glance. “Our job is, first, to locate Trenchard’s murderer. Once he—or she—is caught, we’ll be well on towards the more important goal. Last night—I—er—couldn’t sleep very well, so I did a bit of thinking and decided on a series of tests.”
“And what are they?” eagerly demanded the British Agent.
“I’m going to call up to this cabin four men—all of whom seem to be definitely involved in the case—which doesn’t mean that one of them necessarily committed the murder.”
He turned to Inspector Macklin, who was beginning to look a little rebellious. “While they’re up here, Inspector, I wish you would search their baggage—and search it as you’ve never searched anything before. I particularly want you to hunt for three things—one,” he held up a long brown forefinger, “any sort of cipher message that might have been stolen from Mr. Trenchard; two, a brass cash like this one.” Kilgour looked startled when North’s pencil indicated the little bronze disk with the square hole in its center. “And last, but far from least, Inspector, cartridges or anything pertaining to a .38/.44 caliber automatic pistol.”
“.38/.44?” Macklin broke in, while Kilgour remained lost in thought. “I say, that is a bit of luck: .38/.44 calibers aren’t at all common.”
“I believe so,” North agreed without enthusiasm. “You will please locate and then send the men up here in this order: General Steel, Michael Smith—”
Kilgour looked up. “Michael Smith, the tea dealer?”
“I don’t know whether he’s the one you mean, but this Michael Smith says he deals in tea. What about him?”
“An interesting chap,” Kilgour remarked while he fingered the cash with deep interest. “Used to have a big business up at Kiaochow, the old German treaty port, until the late lamented disturbance in 1914 ruined it. Then he came down here and started in all over again. I fancy he’s found it pretty hard to compete with the already established English and American firms. How about him, Macklin?”
The inspector sighed and replied shortly: “Don’t get the wind up over him. He’s doing very well, and everybody in the Settlement likes him. What next, Captain?”
“After Smith, I want to talk to Mr. Chang Ya-chang; and last of all we’ll interview a Frenchman who calls himself Fournier.”
“What about the Braunfeld woman?” Macklin demanded with a clearly implied suggestion. “Don’t you want to talk to her?”
“No, I already have; and now, sir,” he turned to Carstairs, who had just come in from the bridge, “I want you to find me three clean table knives. Right away, please.”
“Table knives?” repeated that worthy as if he had never heard of such things.
“Yes, Captain, table knives as new and bright as possible.”
“Very well, sir,” Captain Carstairs said, looking at North as if he might be slightly mad, “I’ll send some in directly—you’ll excuse me—we’re getting in, so you had better be brisk. The Kiangsu docks in half an hour.”
“We won’t take long,” North promised. “I’m only going to ask each man a few questions.”
Followed by the heavy-treading S.M.P. inspector, Captain Carstairs stepped out onto the early morning sunlight gilding the bridge, and Macklin vanished below.
Once the three table knives had been delivered, North wiped them clean with his handkerchief, then, leaving one on the green baize table, hid the other two in a drawer. Kilgour knew enough not to ask questions.
Aware that much depended on the next twenty minutes the two Intelligence officers solemnly faced each other across the table and both braced themselves as for a physical effort.
“You’ll do the talking, Hugh?”
“It’d be better, perhaps. But if I overlook any points, speak up.”
“I will, old lad. This affair is too damned serious to be sensitive on etiquette. Remember, that document is the first consideration.”
It was significant that both men covertly eased their automatics into convenient side pockets and then seated themselves not too solidly in their chairs when a singularly noiseless tread sounded outside. Knuckles rapped on the door panels.
“Come in,” North called, and, an instant later, Marshal Wu Feng-pei’s lieutenant general stepped in, resplendent as to glittering gold buttons and wearing a new uniform which, with its glistening Sam Browne belt and gold-starred red shoulder straps, was very effective indeed.
With one swift look General Steel swept the cabin, much as a wolf might eye a thicket possibly concealing a deadfall. By daylight, North decided, the soldier of fortune looked tougher and browner than ever, and his broken nose seemed even more violently askew.
“Hello, Cap,” he greeted. “I suppose this is Dr. Watson?”
“Mr. Kilgour, General Steel.”
Dispassionately Sam Steel surveyed the equally unimpressed Englishman and then turned to North.
“Some flatfoot downstairs said you wanted to see me.” Truculently, the adventurer pushed his visored green cap to the back of his head.
“That’s right.”
“Well, what is it? More about that Trenchard guy, I suppose?”
“Yes; this is a police inquiry. I’m asking the questions for Mr. Kilgour,” North explained. How big and rangy the fellow was—he’d hate to have Sam Steel tangle with him in a free-for-all. “We are going to ask you a few questions which I expect you to answer truthfully. Your cabin is only four doors from the one in which Trenchard died, isn’t it?”
“Yep, I’m in 12. Same side of the hall.” For all the adventurer’s easy bearing, North guessed that, beneath the surface, Steel was alert to every inference and ready to go into action on very short notice. “What of it?”
“Please think back. Did you hear anyone run down the corridor after that shot rang out?”
“Sure,” the mercenary drawled, fixing his pale bloodshot eyes on North. “I was reachin’ for my gat when I heard him. Sounded kind of like a big man runnin’ quick and soft. He couldn’t have gone far, though.”
“Why?” demanded Kilgour.
“Because, Doc, I heard a door shut just as I jumped to open mine.”
“Whose cabin is next to you on the left?”
“Old lady Chatfield and that goo-goo-eyed kid of hers. And say, ain’t she easy on the eyes? The kid, I mean.”
“Yes, yes, I know. And on the other side?”
“Well, there’s a guy named Smith in 13, I think. Beyond him was a soft-soap Chink called Chang.”
“Please tell us what you did at the time of the murder,” Kilgour put in.
“Well, like I told Cap here last night, I just opened my door and there was a crowd rushing towards Babe Braunfeld’s cabin.”
“You are very sure you heard the footsteps of a fairly heavy man leaving Ruby’s cabin?”
The scarred brown features looked doubtful—and then uneasy. “I wouldn’t swear it was her cabin they left, but they sure came from that direction. And say,” Steel rasped suddenly, “you tell your trained seal downstairs if he busts anything poking through my duffle I’ll bat his fat ears down to his shoulders.”
“Inspector Macklin will do as he’s ordered,” stated North, quite unimpressed.
Steel glared. “Okay, but I’m tellin’ you to go easy. What else do you want?”
“Have you ever seen that pistol before?” The Intelligence Captain indicated the .38/.44.
“No.”
North’s next words seemed to arouse deep curiosity in both Kilgour and the warlike figure in green.
“Have you ever seen that knife before?” North indicated the bright new knife. Steel picked it up and turned it over before tossing it ringing back on the green baize.
“How do I know? Looks like a million others, ’cept for the company’s mark. What of it?”
“Nothing,” North replied blandly. “Now, one more thing—I see you’re wearing your pistol. Please take aim at that gold ball on the flagpole.”
Sullen and suspicious, Steel silently obeyed, and North did not fail to note how very snugly the long-snouted Luger seemed to fit the adventurer’s hand once his index finger had crept around the trigger.
“Thanks,” North said. “That’s all.”
“What the hell?” While holstering his weapon Steel feigned a deep grief. “Ain’t I going to get the third degree? Jeeze, Cap, you don’t give me no service at all.”
“That will do, Steel. You can go, but you must register at the Police Headquarters as soon as you’ve got your room.”
“Sure thing.” Steel bent a derisive grin on Kilgour. “S’long, Watson—better slip Sherlock a needle—seems like he’s slowin’ down.” So saying, Steel turned and, bending slightly, vanished through the cabin door.
“So that’s the famous General Steel! I’ve always wondered what he was like,” Kilgour commented thoughtfully. He eyed North with fresh concern. “His being involved complicates this business a lot. You know about his having saved Wang from Yuan?”
“Yes. Also, I’m pretty sure he came aboard looking for Trenchard.”
Kilgour’s head snapped up. “The deuce you say! Do you think he did the job?”
“Can’t say yet, Bruce, but I know he did do one thing that’s significant.”
“What was that?”
“He ransacked Trenchard’s room about half an hour before the poor devil was killed.”
Kilgour drew a slow, deep breath. “How do you know it was Steel?”
“Pretty good circumstantial evidence proves it. When Steel came aboard at Tingchow I noticed that there was some bright red clay caked on the chain straps of his spurs. I later found pieces of that same clay in Trenchard’s room. And another thing, one of his spurs—they have little rowels in them—cut a groove in the varnish of a dresser in Trenchard’s cabin. I compared them to a scratch he left on the leg of a chair in my room—they coincided perfectly.”
Kilgour sat a little straighter. “Looks rather bad for Steel.”
“Doesn’t it?” said North and, emitting a preoccupied sigh, slid the table knife into a second drawer before selecting another from his reserve supply.