The premises of C.J. Dawtry lay in a row of five shophouses on Jessfield Road, in front of the junction with Kinnear Road. Through his binoculars, Chief Inspector Rock could see the undertaker’s occupied three of the shophouses in the centre with the two at either end still vacant.
‘No Chinese merchant would ever open a business close to a place where bodies were kept. Bad joss, sir.’ Cartwright was standing right beside him, with Meaker at his side.
‘Thank you for the information,’ Rock said quietly. ‘Are the men ready?’
‘Yes, sir. Fairbairn and his men will come in the back, with myself and Meaker going in the front.’
‘I will come with you, Cartwright. I must see these operations for myself.’
Cartwright realised it was useless arguing with the Chief Inspector. ‘As you wish, sir, but…’
‘No buts, Inspector.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It seems quiet. We’ll go in at 6.30.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Rock checked his watch again. Two minutes to go.
‘Like going over the top again, sir.’
‘I don’t know, Meaker, is it?’
‘You never went over top?’
Rock recognised the sneer in Meaker’s voice. ‘No, Military Police. I guarded the training camps at Étaples.’
Meaker looked across at Cartwright. ‘Where the mutiny was?’
‘There was no mutiny, Inspector Meaker. A few men had too much to drink and there was a spot of bother, that’s all.’
‘Not what I heard.’
Rock turned to Meaker angrily. ‘What did you hear, Inspector?’
‘Me? I only…’
Cartwright tapped his watch. ‘It’s 6.30, sir.’
‘We’ll talk about this later, Inspector Meaker.’ Rock drew his Webley, attached with a lanyard to his jacket.
Cartwright and Meaker drew their Colt specials.
‘Not standard issue, Inspector.’
‘But more reliable in a catfight, Chief Inspector, and begging your pardon, sir, but when my life is at stake, I don’t give a toss about standards,’ said Meaker.
‘Something else we need to discuss afterwards,’ Rock said as he crossed over the road.
A constable with a battering ram ran after him, followed by Meaker and Cartwright.
‘What the hell are you doing, Charlie?’ whispered Cartwright under his breath.
‘Just winding the little twat up, George; he’s beginning to get on my nerves.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
Meaker chuckled. ‘No more than usual.’
Rock stood in front of the door, banging on the glass with his fist. Etched into the glass were the words C.J. Dawtry, Undertakers in a flowing script. He knocked again, louder this time.
Cartwright pulled him to one side roughly, and pushed him against the wall. ‘The criminals of Shanghai have a habit of shooting through locked doors, sir.’ He reached out around the edge of the casement and banged on the door again, shouting, ‘Police, open up.’
Silence.
‘As dead as a graveyard,’ said Meaker, chuckling.
Cartwright nodded at the constable, who jumped up and swung the battering ram at the glass. It shattered into a thousand pieces. The constable swung it again, this time at the lock itself. The door sprung open and the constable jumped back.
Cartwright and Meaker rushed in, one going low and the other high. They were in a small room with a reception desk in front of the far wall and a display casket on the right. Behind the desk, a large sign in black block capitals announced proudly, C.J. DAWTRY, UNDERTAKERS.
A man was sleeping peacefully in the casket, hands crossed in front of him, holding rosary beads.
Meaker prodded the man with the barrel of his Colt.
No reaction.
He reached out and touched the skin. A cold, waxy sensation on the end of his fingers. Had he been embalmed?
Cartwright joined him. ‘It’s a dummy, stupid.’
Meaker brought the butt of his gun down on to the face. The nose cracked off, revealing a texture like semolina pudding beneath the skin.
Rock finally came in, Webley extended in front of him.
‘Can you smell it, Chief Inspector?’ said Cartwright.
Rock inhaled, his nostrils flaring. ‘Formaldehyde, a strong smell.’
‘God, I hate undertakers. Can you imagine working with dead people all your life?’
Cartwright stared at Meaker. ‘Yes, I can, Charlie.’
‘The laying-out rooms are usually in the rear,’ said the Chief Inspector. He stepped around the reception desk.
Behind the wall with the sign for C.J. Dawtry was a wooden door. Rock called the constable with the battering ram to come forward. Cartwright waved him away. He took hold of the knob and turned it. The door swung open.
‘Nobody is going to lock an internal door, sir.’
Meaker joined Cartwright, pistol drawn and cocked. He kicked the door open with his foot and stormed into the room.
The room was pitch black except for a slight green glow off to the left. Rock switched on the light.
In the brightness of the bulb, the stench of formaldehyde seemed stronger, almost unbearable. Cartwright and Rock covered their mouths. ‘Open a window, for God’s sake,’ shouted Cartwright.
Coffins lay on trestles along the length of the back wall. Meaker looked in vain for a window to open.
‘Well, keep the bloody door open. And put the cork back in those jars.’
Two glass flagons of a clear spirit were open in the middle of the room. Each one had the maker’s name stencilled on it. The Dodge Company of Boston. Meaker rushed over and jammed the corks into the necks of the bottles.
Almost instantly, the strength of the stench eased. Rock took his hand away from his mouth. ‘Search the room.’
Meaker looked in all of the coffins, empty save for a cream silk lining. He noticed another door at the back of the room, behind an upright coffin.
Two constables came forward and lifted the coffin out of the way.
Rock turned the handle of the door. It swung open slowly. He looked into the room.
‘Oh my God.’