Shanghai Twilight Page 7

  “Your…foot?”

  “I mean, poppycock. Look, you don’t want Mayor Wu to accept your demands. Otherwise, you wouldn’t employ riff-raff like those coolies out there to manufacture ‘regrettable incidents.’”

  Fukuzaki sat in silence, his face placid. However, a tempest of anger raged in his narrow, hooded eyes. Upsetting the Commander might sabotage his plans to unmask the true spy, but the humiliations and threats from the last night burned deep inside Tom. He’d tell this Nipponese “gentleman” exactly how he, and the rest of China, felt about him.

  “If you boys are jealous of the Army’s success, then keep it between yourselves. In the States, they settle their differences with the Army-Navy game. Why don’t you boys try that? It’d be a lot simpler than invading countries to see who the Mikado likes better.”

  Fukuzaki raised an eyebrow. “The who?”

  “I mean, the Emperor. You’ve seen that Gilbert and Sullivan play, right?”

  “Oh yes,” the Commander said with a chuckle. “An enjoyable opera, but very inaccurate. I would prefer to keep His Imperial Majesty out of our conversation.”

  “That’s fine, I’m more interested in Ono-san anyway.”

  Despite the slights against his monarch, Commander Fukuzaki nodded thankfully, the very model of a polite Nipponese gentleman. After all, face was everything in Shanghai.

  “If you would Mr. Lai, please tell me what Tu Yueh-sheng said.”

  Everything rested upon the next few moments. If Fukuzaki was willing to trade, then he might just be able to satiate the Green Gang’s thirst for blood. But if the Commander felt that Ono was disposable...no, he couldn’t think about that now. Instead, Tom summoned all of the skills he’d learned over the years in poker and mahjong for one last bluff.

  “He says give us the name of Ono’s contact at Club Twilight or he’ll be executed. Tonight.”

  Commander Fukuzaki said nothing for a few moments but his hooded eyes looked Tom up and down.

  “If there is a spy operating out of your club, and I’m not admitting there is, why would I compromise their identity just to save an alleged spy who has failed?”

  “You would turn your back on a fellow Japanese to save a gaijin?”

  A smirk crept over Fukuzaki’s lips. “And how do you know it’s a gaijin you’re looking for?”

  It was a simple question but signified trouble ahead. Yes, how did Tom know they were looking for a gaijin, a white foreigner? He thought back to the letter Tu had given him.

  “We have evidence that Ono’s contact is an English speaker, maybe even someone who works at the US Consulate.”

  Fukuzaki gave a wry grin. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, only somebody who has connections with the American Government could obtain the information that we found on Ono.”

  “And what was that?”

  Tom was about to speak but caught himself.

  “Tut tut, Commander,” he said, wagging a finger. “Maybe we can throw those documents in as part of the deal. But for now, if you want Ono and what he knows, then you’re going to have to name his contact in Club Twilight.”

  Fukuzaki again retreated into silence and tented his white-gloved hands. Moments passed without a word spoken, but the Commander fixed Tom with such a penetrating stare that he involuntarily averted his eyes to the Trafalgar painting. The stillness was suffocating but he had to maintain his bluff. But a deep thirst for tobacco burned his throat.

  “Mind if I have a cigarette?”

  “Go ahead,” Fukuzaki said. His grin broadened into a triumphant smile, like a poker player laying down four aces. Tom pulled out his Luckies and lit up. Inhaling set him at ease but a sense of dread lingered. Commander Fukuzaki had met his bluff.

  “Let me be perfectly honest, Mr. Lai. I do not believe Ono-san is valuable to me any longer, even if he were still alive, which I am beginning to doubt.”

  Annoyance shook Tom’s frame but he steadied himself with a long drag. “So, what should I tell Tu Yueh-sheng? He’s not going to like this.”

  Fukuzaki’s triumphant smile grew even larger as he slid open the desk drawer. Before Tom could reach for his Browning, the Commander aimed an automatic pistol straight at his head.

  “You won’t tell him anything, Mr. Lai.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  All too late, Tom cursed himself for being so trusting. So much for Commander Fukuzaki being a gentleman. The Browning automatic pressed against his side, tauntingly out of reach. Tempting as it was, Tom leaned back in his chair and took another drag off his Lucky Strike. There was no way out now. That is, until Yan Ping arrived back with some help. For now, all Tom could do was stall for time.

  “So what now, Commander?”

  “Unfortunately, I will have to keep you ‘on ice’ as you Americans say.”

  Tom arched his eyebrows and blew out a trail of smoke. “So, you’re not going to shoot me?”

  “Not unless you force me to, Mr. Lai. I just need you out of the way until tensions subside in this city.”

  “Well, that’s mighty gentlemanly of you.”

  Commander Fukuzaki smirked. “Besides, I want to find out exactly what you know. I suspect that you haven’t been very forthcoming with me.”

  Tom took another puff. “Well, one has to retain some mystery in Shanghai.”

  Fukuzaki motioned with the gun to stand up. Tom tossed the cigarette on the ground, stomped it out, but commotion outside kept him seated. The door swung open and in marched Charles Whitfield, clad in a gray overcoat and homburg, his white face splotched with pink from the cold and anger. Yan Ping and Yoshida followed, and the ronin berated them both with a barrage of angry Japanese. Tom didn’t understand a word of it except repeated instances of ‘chankoro.’

  Yan gripped Yoshida’s collar and slammed a thick fist across the ronin’s face. Stumbling backward, Yoshida crumpled to the floor at Fukuzaki’s feet. After a moment of awkward silence, Tom and Yan shared a pleased look.

  Fukuzaki turned his attention to Whitfield with a gracious smile. “Ah, Mr. Whitfield! To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “The pleasure?” Whitfield pointed to Fukuzaki’s pistol. “Since when does a Japanese Navy officer have the right to brandish firearms at American citizens?”

  “But Mr. Whitfield, this quarrel is between myself and Mr. Lai.”

  Tom glanced between the two of them. Whitfield certainly looked angry enough, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a theatricality to it all. Still, Whitfield appeared to be his only salvation.

  “Lousy service in this place, Chuck,” Tom said. “I ask for a brown ale and get a gun in my face.”

  “Commander,” Whitfield said, “if you continue to threaten an American citizen, I will have no other choice but to file a complaint with my government. Japan doesn’t need any more enemies in Shanghai, does she?”

  The veiled threat of war seemed to concern Fukuzaki. After a few moments of considering the possibility of a conflict with America, the Commander frowned and placed the gun back inside the desk drawer.

  “My apologies…I was rash,” Fukuzaki said, bowing to Tom and then to Whitfield. “Please forgive my regrettable actions.”

  Ever the diplomat, Whitfield shot Tom a stern look, suggesting that he reciprocate. Tom shrugged and stood up.

  “Commander, I’m sorry too. Let’s bury the hatchet.”

  Fukuzaki gave a confused look. “Bury the what?”

  “Means to forgive and forget,” Tom said.

  Fukuzaki nodded then turned to Whitfield. “And I hope this hasn’t colored our friendship, Mr. Whitfield.”

  The US Consulate man sighed, any remaining tension vanishing from his pink face. “Not at all, Commander. I understand everyone is on edge in this city. The last thing we need is another incident. Isn’t that right, Mr. Lai?”

  Fukuzaki and Whitfield confirmed the truce with a warm handshake and bright smiles. Was this all for his benefit? Just to lull him into a f
alse sense of trust? Regardless, all that mattered was getting out of the Golden Unicorn without a belly full of lead.

  “Of course,” Tom said. “No hard feelings.”

  After a friendly nod goodbye, Whitfield turned and left, followed by Yan Ping.

  “I’ll find your spy, Commander. With or without your help,” Tom whispered.

  Fukuzaki snorted. “I doubt that, Mr. Lai. Give my regards to the Green Gang and to Ono-san…if you haven’t killed him already.”

  Tom said nothing as he stepped over the prostrate Yoshida and left the office.

  *****

  Tom made his way out of the Golden Unicorn and found Yan Ping and Whitfield waiting near the Bentley. Chuck muttered a stream of curses with frosted breath, whereas Yan looked like a worried child whose parents were fighting.

  “Want a ride back to the Consulate?” Tom offered in English.

  “Confound it, Tom! What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Not here,” Tom dropped his voice to a whisper. “Hold your tongue lashing until we’re out of Little Tokyo.”

  A few passersby in kimonos and business suits fixed the trio with long stares, like lions sizing up gazelles. Maybe Fukuzaki had a few more ronin out today. Whitfield fell silent and nodded. Yan opened the door for them both and hopped into the driver’s seat. The Bentley sprang to life and zoomed down the street. Only after the Golden Unicorn shrank from view did Whitfield resume his tidal wave of anger.

  “I specifically told you not to go into Little Tokyo!”

  “I know, Chuck…”

  “Do you realize how much of a mess you could have caused? What if a Japanese military officer had shot an American citizen? For Chrissakes Tom, you could have started an international incident!”

  “International incident?” Tom spat out with a laugh. “Commander Fukuzaki already beat me to it!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that last night I saved two Japanese from being carved up like Thanksgiving turkeys by those three Chinese thugs. Come today, I learn that the same three scoundrels are in the employ of one Commander Jiro Fukuzaki.”

  “I see…”

  “Perhaps his thugs were the same ones who assaulted those Nipponese monks last week.”

  “You’re suggesting Fukuzaki was behind it?”

  “Or someone like him. The Japs are manufacturing incidents, Chuck. Just like they did in Manchuria. That’s all this is. Just one big contest between the Mikado’s Army and Navy to see whose samurai sword is bigger.”

  Whitfield sighed and stared out the window. “That may be true. There is considerable rivalry within their armed forces. But this anti-Japanese boycott is authentic and it’s killing Japan’s economy.”

  The words sounded almost accusatory. “What are the Chinese supposed to do, Chuck? Politely ask the Mikado to stop invading their country?”

  Whitfield turned around and snapped, “Goddamn it, Tom! Of course not! But this boycott is only agitating the Japs! For Chrissakes, am I the only person in this goddamn city who doesn’t want to see it bombed flat?”

  “Can a missionary’s son take the Lord’s name in vain?”

  “You smug SOB. You’re lucky Yan Ping came to my office. Otherwise, you’d be chained up in a Japanese dungeon right about now.”

  “Shi shi,” Tom said, thanking his bodyguard. It made sense that Yan would seek help from the only other American he knew.

  “Sure thing, boss,” Yan said as the Bentley hugged a corner.

  “Look Chuck, it’s not that I’m ungrateful, but…” Tom said, grasping at what to say next. Any decent man would thank a friend for pulling his fat out of the fryer but suspicions ran across Tom’s brain like spiders. Was Whitfield’s rescue a mere act? Last night’s horrors instilled him with such paranoia, he wondered how actual spies managed to keep their wits together.

  “But what?”

  “I was running an errand for the Green Gang,” Tom said with some truth.

  Whitfield raised a skeptical eyebrow as the Bentley slowed to a stop. At the intersection, a line of Japanese Marines paraded by, Arisaka rifles slung over their shoulders. A show of brute force before the shooting started. A brass band followed, banging out a military march. Tom recognized it as “The Brave Sailor,” a rousing ditty from when China and Japan first went to war back in 1894.

  The Manchu Dynasty thought it would easily defeat the dwarf bandits, but Nippon’s modernized military was victorious after only nine months of fighting. As a result, the island of Taiwan was absorbed into the Japanese Empire, which became the leading power in the Orient. But things were different now. The Nationalist Army had received its baptism of fire against the warlords and the Communists. They’d fight the Japanese tooth and nail to defend Shanghai. At least, Tom hoped so.

  He looked at his wristwatch. Almost noon. Time was running out. Beating around the bush was getting him nowhere. He’d confront Whitfield directly. But for that, Tom needed a drink to steady his nerves.

  “Look, let’s talk in your office. Alone.”

  Whitfield, sensing the looming conversation would be a troubling one, just nodded. A stifling silence filled the car, punctured only by the droning martial song outside.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Yan Ping parked the Bentley on North Yangtze Road, which hugged the Whangpoo River, cutting off Hongkew from the rest of the International Settlement. To the south, a flotilla of sampans, junks, and Japanese gunboats floated in the water while to the north, diplomatic buildings lined the street like a miniature League of Nations. Whitfield and Tom exited the car and gestured for Yan Ping to stay put.

  The American Consulate was a slim three-story structure, sandwiched in between the consulates of Germany and Japan, all of which buzzed with last minute preparations. Barbed wire and machine gun nests were mounted outside of the Nipponese Consulate, manned by grim-faced Marines in steel helmets, ready for whatever the 19th Route Army could throw at them. The German Consulate was less impressive. Neutered by the Versailles Treaty, a few sandbags and two sentries in feldgrau was all it could muster for protection.

  The American Consulate was a happy medium. A pair of green-uniformed US Marines with Springfield rifles guarded the front gate while a platoon drilled with bayonets in the main courtyard. Three officers in peaked caps surveyed the Whangpoo with binoculars on the rooftop. Even from the ground, Tom could see their dour expressions, perhaps realizing how hopeless their situation was if the Japanese decided to attack them too.

  As Tom and Whitfield approached the gate, a barrel-chested Marine sergeant greeted them.

  “Good morning Mr. Whitfield,” he said through the bars. “Who’s the chink?”

  “Hullo suh,” Tom said in his best drawl. “I’m jus’ a po’boy from Texas who lost mah passport.”

  It took the Sergeant a few moments. “Oh, you’re that Chinaman from Frisco. The one with the nightclub?”

  “The one and only. Stop by for a drink on the house.”

  The Sergeant frowned but Tom was half-serious. A few medals on his uniform indicated that he’d served in France, probably as one of the devil dogs at Belleau Wood. If vets didn’t look out for each other, who would? But most Americans in Shanghai rarely ventured outside of the International Settlement’s safety. To many white Shanghailanders, the Chinese section of the city was as uncharted as central Africa.

  The gate opened, allowing Tom and Whitfield to enter the courtyard. Thanking the Sergeant with a swift nod, he turned his attention to the platoon of Marines, stabbing the air with their bayonets. On the rooftop above, the officers were now looking west toward the Chapei district.

  “Seeing all of these uniforms reminds me of the war,” Tom remarked.

  “Me too,” Whitfield said, shaking his head. “Everyone is on high alert. It’s 1914 all over again.”

  The statement was less than reassuring. “You can’t be serious,” Tom said. A blank expression was Whitfield’s response. “Chuck, you said it yourself. Americans
don’t give a damn about China or Japan any more than they care about the South Pole.”

  “That may be true but what if bombs and artillery start landing in the International Settlement or Frenchtown? Nations have gone to war over less.”

  Tom grimaced and cast another look to the drilling Marines. Poor yokels from Kentucky and Oklahoma who’d probably joined up to see the world. Well, here they were in the exotic Orient, right before it blew up. He turned away as they entered the Consulate.

  The lobby was a carnival. Shrill telephone rings mingled with frantic shouts in English and half a dozen Chinese dialects. Secretaries darted down the halls, carrying files and paperwork for Yank businessmen and tourists, eager to get out before the shooting started. A few Chinese sat amongst them, all loudly claiming family in America but surprisingly unaware of the Exclusion Law. It was the type of panic one saw during a bank run or on a sinking ship, and yet, strangely controlled. Nobody pushed or shoved or even cursed as if – deep down – they knew Uncle Sam wouldn’t abandon them.

  They slipped past the throng and walked down a narrow hallway, before taking refuge in Whitfield’s office. Closing the door behind them, Whitfield expelled a relieved sigh and looked ready to collapse. Tom took in the room but found it more or less the same since he’d last visited. A desk centered the room and was flanked by a liquor cart, stuffed with everything from Beefeater Gin to Jack Daniel’s Whiskey. Officially, Prohibition was still in effect for all Americans but this was Shanghai after all. In a land of limitless whores, gambling, and opium, hooch was the safest thing you could indulge in.

  A small shelf held a dozen or so books, but only a few stood out – The Great Gatsby, All Quiet On the Western Front, and – like any good China missionary – Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth. Curiously, no copy of the Holy Bible, not even for show.

  Along with a portrait of President Hoover, other pictures were also mounted on the wall. Whitfield graduating from Harvard and a young Charles with his missionary parents, standing in front of the Temple of Heaven.