‘I was wondering when you’d show up, Inspector Danilov.’
The old man sat in front of the Chartered Bank building on the corner of Nanking Road and the Bund, opposite the Cathay Hotel. Beside him, on the left, a young puppy lay sleeping, occasionally opening one eye to check out the possibility of food from passers-by. On his right, leaning against the wall, was his staff of office: three long willow rods bound together with rope that opened out at the top to form a circle. From this circle an assortment of feathers, trinkets, leather straps and brightly coloured pieces of glass slowly turned in the breeze off the river.
‘Business must be quiet if you have time to spend wondering.’
The King of Beggars chortled. ‘Always got time. It’s money I’m lacking.’ He held out his tanned hand, creased palm upwards.
‘Not what I’ve heard. You’re one of the richest men in Shanghai, my sources tell me.’
‘Your sources are as wrong as the Big Ching over on the Bund.’ He pointed to the clock tower on the opposite side of the road. ‘Information always costs money. I have twenty-seven children and four wives to feed.’
‘How do you keep count?’
‘The children are easy, the wives come and go. This week it is four, last week it was five. Tomorrow, it will be six. And you?’
‘One wife is more than enough.’
The old man looked up for the first time at the inspector standing over him. The bright blue eyes shone against the dark wrinkled skin. They were a startling contrast to his moon-like Chinese face, betraying his Mongolian heritage. ‘Children?’ he asked.
Danilov hesitated before answering. ‘Only one.’
‘You should spend more time with your wife and less time with this.’ He pointed at Strachan.
The detective sergeant frowned.
‘I’m afraid Shanghai always provides work for the police, now more than ever.’
‘Not a good time. Business is slow, even for beggars. Too many refugees, too many soldiers. When war comes, beggars run.’
‘War will come?’
The King of Beggars nodded slowly. ‘My beggars have eyes. They see the ships in the river. They see the soldiers in blue landing every day at the wharves. They see their guns and their bullets and their swords. They see the people crossing the bridge. Old people who can’t walk, young people who can’t speak. They are all flowing across like a spring tide. The bandy-legged bandits are preparing to attack; only the blind and the politicians can’t see the truth.’
‘Talking about the blind, there was a beggar standing at the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue Cardinal Mercier. Is he one of yours?’
The gnarled hand came out again, its skin as tanned as the darkest leather. ‘No money, no talk.’
Danilov dug deep into his pockets, pulling out a silver dollar and laying it on the man’s palm.
The King of Beggars looked at it closely before putting it in his mouth and biting down with the only two yellow teeth that remained. ‘I love the taste of silver,’ he said finally, after placing the coin in one of his many pockets. ‘Red Cap Ching is one of my men. That’s a good pitch; used to put the amputees there, but Ah Ching plays the blind man well and works it better.’
‘He’s not blind then?’ asked Strachan.
‘Is the emperor a woman? Does the sun rise in the west? Why does your assistant ask silly questions, Inspector?’
‘Please forgive him, he’s young.’
‘Youth is not an excuse, Inspector. You have to teach him better.’
The King of Beggars unfolded his legs from under him, stretched and began to stand up. The dog next to him woke up, instantly alert and ready to go.
Danilov offered his hand to help the aged man, but it was waved away: ‘I’m not so old I can’t stand on my own two feet.’ As he stood up, his ancient clothes – a patchwork of leather, old silk and rough hessian – seemed to drape around him, creating the effect and look of a nomad’s tent.
He grabbed his staff of office and whistled though his grey-tinged lips. Instantly a man hobbled forward on a pair of crutches, left leg missing at the knee. ‘Ah Song will look after the pitch while we talk with Red Cap Ching. Can’t let a good pitch stand idle, not with visitors coming in and out of the hotel all the time.’
‘How did he lose his leg?’ asked Strachan.
The King of Beggars looked down his nose at the young detective sergeant. ‘He didn’t lose it all. His family were hungry during the winter of ’24; fresh meat was nowhere to be found. The mother knew he would always find work with me.’ He patted the man on the back of the head. ‘One of my best earners, is Ah Song. Already on the council of beggars, could be king one day.’
The man mumbled something in the King of Beggars’ ear in a language neither Danilov nor Strachan recognised. The old man chuckled to himself.
‘What did he say?’ asked Strachan.
‘He asked if you were as stupid as you look. I told him you weren’t. You were more stupid. Come on, Inspector, the blind man is waiting for you.’