He took the lighter and lit the spirit lamp on the tray. The flame spluttered briefly before glowing brightly, throwing a shadow on the wall of the bedroom. He picked up the pin and rolled the pea-sized ball of opium in the flame, heating it all over. He watched the shadow changing shape on the wall as the opium ball reacted with the flame.
The first breath of the opium filled his lungs. Immediately, a soft wave of ease, like being caressed by an eel, flowed across his body. He exhaled, smelling the sweet, ashy fragrance of the opium freshen the stale room.
Another mouthful of smoke, seeing the little ball of opium flare briefly before going out and returning to black ash. The smoke again filled his lungs and a renewed sense of ease filled his body. Less intense this time, but still there, still flowing into every cell and dancing around, relaxing every fibre of his being.
He placed the pipe next to the chess set and lay back on the bed. Images of his wife and children flashed through his mind.
A white dress, cinched at the waist, sun setting behind his wife’s shoulder, silhouetting her hair.
A dance, music playing, her body held at arm’s length, her head back, laughing.
A child sitting on a table in the kitchen, jumping down and running to greet him, nothing but joy on her face.
Waving goodbye at the station, her tears, his children shouting, him leaving to go to Moscow.
How he missed them. Their hugs, their joy, their love. Would he ever see them again?
The fleeting images softened. Filtered light through the leaves of birch and needles of pine. He was at home again, running through the forest, discovering a natural pool, diving deep within in it, feeling the chilling warmth of the water. Then the wriggling energy of his son beside him, just learning how to swim and moving with all the grace of a hippopotamus. His beaming smile wondrous at defying the attempts of the water to keep him in its embraces. Afterwards, teeth chattering like the heels of a Spanish dancer, they smelt the sweet aroma of hot chocolate beside a pine-scented fire, and devoured the warm soup of piroshki.
Home.
Softness.
Sleep.
No more worries.
No more nightmares.
Not tonight.
***
In the dark basement of a building not far from the life and bustle of the Bund, Elsie Everett screamed her lungs out for most of the night.
Nobody heard her.
February 23rd 1928. The 32nd day of the Year of the Earth Dragon.
Chapter 5
Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Strachan stopped in front of the ornate stone building on Avenue Stanislaus Chevalier. They could have been in front of any building in any department of France. Two Doric columns soared to a heavy tiled roof, punctured by three mansard windows. Two sitting lions guarded each side of the elegant entrance. The whole place had the aroma of suburban France; cooking chicken, red wine, rosemary and garlic.
It was only the presence of Annamese constables, flowing in and out of the tall oak doors, that destroyed the image of rural France.
They walked up the granite steps and approached a gendarme sitting behind a bleached walnut desk. ‘We have an appointment with Major Renard.’ said Danilov.
‘And who shall I say is calling?’ replied the gendarme in fluent, if accented, English.
‘Inspector Danilov of the Shanghai Municipal Police and Detective Constable Stra-chan.’
Strachan winced visibly as he heard his name pronounced by Danilov.
‘Certainly, Inspector, this fonctionnaire will take you to the office. Please follow him.’
The fonctionnaire was Annamese, dressed in an eighteenth-century costume of brightly coloured satin waistcoat and trousers, accessorised with a white powdered wig. Following closely behind him, they walked up sweeping marble stairs. On either side, pastoral scenes of an idyllic France, with pretty shepherdesses guarding placid sheep, decorated the walls. They passed under a low arch etched with ‘Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite’ in strident gold letters. A long corridor stretched before them.
‘A bit different from our HQ,’ whispered Strachan.
‘The French always have a hint of the baroque in their public buildings. It’s meant to intimidate the masses,’ said Danilov.
‘It’s certainly working.’
They passed heavy wooden doors on either side of the corridor. All of them were closed with no sounds coming from within. The silence of the building was interrupted by the echoes of their boots on the marble floor and the soft shuffle of the slippers of the fonctionnaire, a slipping, sliding sound that slithered off the walls.
Danilov tried to make less noise as he walked, but he couldn’t. The nails embedded in the heels of his boots clattered against the floor with every step.
Eventually, they reached the end of the corridor. The fonctionnaire knocked softly on a double door that stretched all the way to the ceiling.
‘Entrez.’
The fonctionnaire opened one side and stepped back, allowing them to enter first.
In front of them, two immense sash windows filled the room with light. Behind an ornate desk sat a young Frenchman in what appeared to be a military uniform. He got up, walked around his desk and approached them with his hand stretched out.
‘Inspector Danilov, I presume?’
‘It’s good to meet you, Major Renard.’
The officer laughed. ‘I’m not Major Renard, I’m his assistant, Lieutenant Masset.’ They shook hands and he indicated a pair of chairs, placed against the wall. ‘Major Renard will see you in a moment, Inspector. He’s a very busy man. Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Thank you but no. We’ve drunk enough coffee to float the Ile de France this morning.’ Danilov took his seat against the wall and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette. The Lieutenant returned to his chair behind the desk and continued with his paperwork. Behind him, a large ormolu clock, with two naked cherubs holding up the face, ticked loudly.
As he rolled his cigarette, Danilov looked around the room. The furnishings were decorated in the style of fin de siecle France. As if they had been purchased thirty years ago and remained in this room ever since. The ceiling was at least fifteen feet high, and had a rounded corbel that was peculiarly French. Another painting of rural France dominated one wall, while the other had a large, faded tapestry of a hunting dog surrounded by autumn foliage.
The clock behind the Lieutenant ticked remorselessly on.
Lieutenant Masset abruptly stood up. ‘Major Renard will see you now.’ Danilov checked his watch. Twelve minutes since the time they had entered. A pre-arranged time to keep guests waiting, he thought. How typically French; just like the headmaster of a school, keeping the errant pupils waiting for their punishment.
The Lieutenant walked to another pair of double doors that stretched up to the ceiling, opening both of them to reveal a room three times larger than the antechamber. At the end, a small French gentleman sat behind an immense oak desk.
The Lieutenant guided them across a thick oriental carpet and past cabinets containing exquisite Sevres porcelain. They were directed to sit in two wooden chairs placed in front of the desk. Major Renard did not get up.
‘I presume you do not speak French, Inspector. Major Renard does not speak English so I will translate. Forgive me if I make any errors.’
Major Renard stared at both of them. He was small with an elegant goatee, combed and manicured into a silvery point. His white hair was brushed back to reveal a high forehead. His eyes were perched above a long, beak-like nose that dominated his face. When he spoke, Danilov was surprised to hear a high, excitable squeak rather than the deep voice he was expecting. The contrast was very disconcerting, like discovering the bull one had hired to service a field of cows was only interested in other bulls.