The thin file on Alvin Arthur Beazley indicated no specialty and, for that matter, no particular talent. It was the sad portrait of a loser as inept at his dreamings as at life. He had been stationed in the Philippine Islands as a corporal in the Quartermaster Corps from which he was dishonorably discharged in 1922 after serving ninety days in the stockade for misappropriation of government supplies. Big dreams. Petty theft.
His dreams of making it big led him to Shanghai, where no passports were required and no questions were asked. He got a job as a warehouse superintendent for an American export company. His quartermaster experience brought him a raise. He began to dream of bigger and better jobs. The dreams continued, but the job ended abruptly when his employers discovered that he knew more about boats with false bottoms than an honest employee should. Big dreams. Petty theft.
“And where,” David inquired of the room, “is the chance path this loser found that led him to bars of gold and the muddy Whangpoo?”
For at the end of this path was a canvas vest containing sixty-three Shanghai gold bars, each weighing ten Chauping taels. These three-and-a-half-inch standard bars were a half inch thick and nearly an inch wide. Such bars were recently quoted at $238.19 on the Shanghai Gold Stock Exchange. David was about to assay a few guesses just as Gordon returned from Madame Wu’s.
He was smartly dressed for an evening on the town. There was a trace of lipstick on his left cheek. A yellow Texas rose sprouted from the buttonhole of his lapel.
“You certainly look the better for wear, Gordon. Shall I put the flower in some fresh water?”
Gordon took off his coat and sat down. “It is altogether obvious, Mr. Feng, that you are a young and unpolished heathen.” He helped himself to a cup of tea. “If it weren’t for the fact that I have spent my life performing good works among the less fortunate such as yourself, I would bounce this teapot off your benighted skull.” He freed himself from a dark blue tie and unbuttoned his collar. “The evening was a fruitful one. I shall now report to you on it — omitting only those things a true gentleman never discusses.
“According to Virginia — Madame Wu to you — our Mr. Beazley had been a frequent visitor. He was known for a loose mouth and a tight wallet. Up until a few weeks ago he was a Friday-night regular. No one in the place — I checked with the bartender and a few others — saw him again until last Wednesday night. They remember it well because he actually bought a round of drinks and tipped the bartender.”
Gordon paused and raised a finger. “Now here’s the interesting part. That same evening he shared a bottle of house champagne with Madame Wu. Between bouts of the bubbly he hinted that his ship was about to come in.
“In a jocular sort of way Madame Wu asked him if he meant his ship of fortune. To this, Beazley replied, ‘If that’s what you call a Ningpo junk then the answer might be...’ ” Gordon’s voice trailed off as he shrugged.
“Go on,” David urged. “Might be what?”
“That’s as far as he got. Some drunk wandered over from the bar and Beazley clammed up. A few minutes later he got up and left. Poof! Never seen again.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” David mused. “I imagine Madame Wu attached no more value to this hollow pretense of great expectations than it deserved at the time. He had probably bored his acquaintances with similar stories of impending great wealth until no one took him seriously.” He told Gordon what he had learned from Professor Linwood and then added, “I talked to Captain Huang Liu of the Harbor Police. He questioned people in the area where Beazley’s body was found and learned nothing. Not surprising. Beazley could have been killed anywhere ashore and his body dumped in the river.”
“Or killed on a boat,” added Gordon. “They could have quietly slipped him into the Whangpoo River without a ripple or witness.”
“True enough. Now to the question of motive. It would appear that Beazley was killed for the gold bars, although there may be something beyond that.”
“What brought that to mind? There is more than enough motive in the gold bars.”
“On the surface, Gordon, I have to agree. But why gold? Beazley could have just as easily withdrawn the money in paper currency — it would certainly have weighed a lot less. No, I have a feeling that the form of this sudden wealth was no less important than the wealth itself. The Shanghai Gold Stock Exchange on Kiukiang Road is the largest trading center dealing in these gold bars. There are others, including the Chartered Stock and Produce Exchange. Standard bar gold is a common unit of exchange in banking and international finance. In many cases it is better than money in China.”
Gordon took a few thoughtful puffs at his unlit pipe. “That would imply that Beazley had indeed hit on something big. Maybe too big. Where does that leave us?”
“I don’t know.”
Gordon stood up and draped his coat over his arm. “Maybe Ketty will remember something that might help. We’re having breakfast at the Cathay tomorrow. Care to join us?”
David shook his head. “I missed Lao Erh today. If I leave early enough in the morning, I can probably catch him before he sets out upriver. Ask Mr. Ketty if we could meet for dinner tonight.”
An early-morning fog muffled the sights and sounds along the Whangpoo River. Shop banners hung limply in the gray light filtering down through the mists. An occasional sound came from ships anchored on a darker grayness, where sailors waited for the sun and an idling wind to set them free. Only a few carts moved on the street outside the entrance to the Inn of the Eight Immortals. Here the dank airs of the river yielded at the door to the warmer air and richer smells of charcoal fires and simmering food.
David gave these an appreciative sniff. When his stomach voted one to nothing, he entered and seated himself at a back bench near the open doorway that led from the eating area to the inn rooms in the rear courtyard. He was about to reach inside his quilted jacket for the narrow ebony case containing his chopsticks when he heard the pause of straw-sandaled feet behind him. He looked up into the smiling face of Lao Erh.
“Have you had your morning rice, Da-wei?”
David motioned to the bench. “Not yet, old friend. And you?”
Lao Erh sat down and beckoned to a waiter. “I have come to take food to the boat. Little Orchid and I do not feel like cooking this morning. My wife is visiting relatives ashore. But I will share tea with you.”
The waiter placed two steaming bowls of tea on the bench and left with their orders. “How is Little Orchid this morning?” David asked.
Lao Erh took a partially smoked Rose Blossom cigarette from his pocket and lit it from a hanging lamp. He exhaled the smoke and sadly shook his head. “The water sprite still possesses her. She offers sacrifice to the River God and talks of a strange man with the sun in his belly. I’m glad her mother is not here to see this. She has burned incense enough before our Lady Kuan Yin.”
“And how is business? Good, I hope,” said David, changing to a less painful subject.
Lao Erh brightened. “At least some of our prayers are heard. Ling Fu, a man from Shansi, has hired my boat to take some cases of tools upriver. He has paid me in silver.”
Lao Erh looked about to see if anyone could hear him. Then in a lower tone he said, “He has paid me twice the amount I would have asked and brings three men with him to replace my crew. When I protested this, he offered to pay my crew’s wages while they sit idle ashore. He is blasphemous and curses the gods. I think he has the evil eye. He is not the man I would choose for a journey, but I will need a new sail before winter and who am I to turn away good silver?”