Twenty-Eight
Roma had chosen a seat at the back of the performance room, at a long table that saw visitors to Great World coming and going every few seconds. They would gulp down their drink, slam it down, then be swept back into the audience of the show going on at the front. They were fast, and ferocious, and denitely bursting with a dozen dierent drugs in their system.
In contrast, Roma must have appeared downright leaden while he sipped from his glass and waited. His hat was pulled low over his face, preventing those around him from looking too closely. If they recognized him, they would start whispering about sighting Roma Montagov watching the singsong girls who high-kicked on the stage with dresses slit to their armpits, and heaven knew how his father would react to that. He had warned Roma against Great World since Roma was a child, warned that places like these—places that teemed with life, pieces of entertainment slotted together with Chinese ingenuity—would corrupt the mind faster than opium. Here, visitors squandered their wages and traded food for forgetting. As much as Great World was looked down upon, it was still a marker of success. Those who worked in the factories out in Nanshi were not making enough in a day’s wages for a mere admission ticket.
Roma sighed, setting his drink down. With his face shielded, the only person who would be able to nd him among the drunken masses and screaming
visitors knew exactly how to look.
“Hey, stranger.”
Juliette slid into the diagonal seat, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face, melding it back into her curls. She did not mind being identied here, in
Great World. She only needed to mind being seen with the heir of the White Flowers.
Roma kept his gaze on the stage. They were setting up the tightrope now. He wondered how many bones had been broken in this building.
“Have a drink,” he said, pushing his mostly full cup in her direction.
“Is it poisoned?”
At that, Roma jerked his eyes to her, horried. “No.”
“Missed opportunity, Montagov.” Juliette brought it to her reddened lips.
She took a sip. “Stop looking at me.”
Roma looked away. “Did you nd anything?” he asked.
“Yet to be determined, but”—she checked a pocket watch; Roma wasn’t sure where she had pulled it out from, seeing as her dress did not give the appearance of pockets—“I may have something in a few minutes more. You go rst.”
Roma was too exhausted to argue. If the gangsters in this city were constantly as tired as he was, the blood feud would come to a complete halt within the hour.
“They’re one and the same,” Roma said. “The monster. The madness. If we nd the monster, we stop the madness.”
He told her all that had been seen. All that had been deduced.
“That is as good as conrmation,” Juliette exclaimed. Noting the volume her voice had taken, she looked around, then said in a hiss, “We must act—”
“It has only been seen leaving his apartment,” Roma said. “No one has seen Zhang Gutai himself ordering it around.”
“If the monster was seen where Zhang Gutai lives, he must be controlling it.”
Juliette would not allow for argument against this. She stabbed a nger down on the table. “Roma, think about it. Think about everything else. This madness keeps growing in waves, and in each wave, it’s always a large group who die first before the insects disperse out into the city. The gangsters by the ports. The White Flowers on the ship. The Frenchmen taking dinner. The businessmen outside the Bund.”
Roma couldn’t deny this. He said, “It seems it’s always gangsters or merchants who are the initial targets.”
“And who else would want these specic groups dead?” Juliette went on.
“Who else would take down the capitalists like this? If Zhang Gutai is responsible, if he has the answers to stopping this all, then why would we waste
time on other avenues—”
“But it’s useless if he won’t talk—”
“We make him talk,” Juliette exclaimed. “We hold a damn knife to his throat.
We torture him for answers. We have not exhausted every avenue with him yet —”
“He’s a Communist.” It was becoming increasingly hard not to turn to Juliette while they argued back and forth. There was something instinctual about turning toward her, like the way all living things shift their attention when there is a loud sound. “He has been trained to keep secrets and take them to the grave. Do you think he is afraid of death?”
What was a threat if you didn’t mean to carry through? If they wanted him to give them the monster, give them a way to stop the havoc he was causing with the madness, then killing Zhang Gutai did nothing save destroy any chance of the city’s salvation. How could they convincingly threaten to kill him if they did not truly wish to?
“If he is the only one who can lead us to the monster,” Roma went on, “I won’t risk us endangering such information. He may prefer to kill himself than to talk. I won’t risk Alisa’s life on such a bet.”
Juliette thinned her lips. She was unhappy, he could tell. She would have continued protesting too, had a Scarlet not approached her at that moment, whispering in her ear.
Roma stiened, looking away and pulling his hat lower. It was impossible to hear what the Scarlet was saying over the noise in the expansive room, over the hoots from the audience, over the clinking of glasses and the popping of mini reworks exploding on the stage. From the corner of his eye, he watched the Scarlet hand over a large beige-colored le and a smaller note. With a nod from Juliette, the Scarlet left, leaving her to scan the note. Satised, she reached into the le, shaking out the papers within. If Roma was reading the text along the side correctly, it said: SHANGHAI MUNICIPAL POLICE—ARREST FILE—ARCHIBALD WELCH.
“We still have alternate options,” Roma said, when it seemed safe to continue their conversation. “The Larkspur may tell us exactly what we wish to know, may oer the cure we seek. If he does not, only then should we resort to torturing Zhang Gutai on how to stop his monster. Agreed?”
Juliette sighed. “Fine. It is my turn to divulge my ndings, then.” She slid the le across the table. It moved fast, sliding smoothly across the at surface toward Roma until he slammed his hand down on it.
“Archibald Welch,” Roma read aloud, conrming what he thought he had sighted. A mugshot stared up at him: a black-and-white clipping of a man who was staring ahead blankly and had a vicious scar marring a line from his brow to the corner of his lip. “Who is that?”
Juliette stood from her seat and gestured for them to take their leave. “The only deliveryman who has the Larkspur’s address. And if his history of arrests is any indication, he frequents the most dangerous place in Shanghai every Thursday.”
Roma quirked a brow. “Today is Thursday.”
“Precisely.”
Despite his eorts, Benedikt ended up sitting on a rooftop across from Zhang Gutai’s apartment, entering the third hour of their stakeout.
It was growing cold. He had accidentally stepped in a puddle on his way up too, so he was doing his job while hovering in a strange half crouch, wanting to rest but not wanting to spread the damp stain on his pants any further.
Marshall had laughed himself out with how ridiculous Benedikt looked.
Benedikt thought he would never stop. But at least laughter was preferable to silence. At least Marshall’s mirth upon Benedikt’s misfortune was a signal that they should forget the strangeness that had bloomed between them in the alleyway.
“Hey,” Marshall warned suddenly, pulling Benedikt out of his daze.
“Someone’s coming in.”
Straightening from his ridiculous crouch, Benedikt hurried close to the roof’s edge. There he joined Marshall, eyes narrowed.
“It’s another foreigner,” Benedikt remarked, leaning back with a sigh. From the location they had chosen, they had a perfect view into the sliding doors that separated Zhang Gutai’s living room from his mini balcony. The balcony itself was barely big enough to t two pots of owers, but the glass doors were wide enough to allow Benedikt and Marshall a full view of foreigners coming and going on the hour. It was a mystery. Zhang Gutai wasn’t even home. Yet foreigners continued arriving at his front door, ushered into the living room by a man who bordered middle-aged onto elderly—Qi Ren, his assistant, if Roma’s debrief was correct—to sip tea for a few minutes and leave soon after. The buildings in this district were built closely enough that when the wind didn’t howl too heavily, Benedikt could strain his ear and pick up bits and pieces of the conversation ongoing inside the living room.
Qi Ren’s English was not great. Every two words, he would lapse into Chinese, then start muttering about how much his back hurt. The foreigners— some American, some British—would try to discuss politics or Shanghai’s state of aairs, but since none of them managed to get anywhere, it was no surprise they would leave so soon.
Why would Zhang Gutai assign his assistant to take these meetings? They all sounded like they wanted something from the Communist Party. Qi Ren sounded like he hardly cared what they were talking about. He wasn’t taking notes or anything of the like to pass on to Zhang Gutai.
By now the foreigner who had walked in was already standing, preparing to leave when Qi Ren started to doze, midsentence. With a roll of his eyes, the white man strolled out the door, disappearing into the rest of the building to make his way down the winding staircases.
“Did you catch that?” Marshall asked.
Benedikt turned to him. He didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “Catch what?”
“Honestly, Ben, you’re here looking so pensive and I’m paying more attention than you are,” Marshall pretended to chide. Jutting his chin in the direction of the building, he said, “He introduced himself as a designated ocial of the French Concession. Scarlet-assigned. This is White Flower territory. Do we rough him up?”
It wasn’t a serious question; they didn’t have time to be stirring trouble in the streets. But it did give Benedikt an idea to gure out exactly what they had been
witnessing all afternoon.
“Stay here,” he told Marshall.
“Wait. Are you really going to rough him up?” Marshall called after him, eyes wide. “Ben!”
“Just stay here!” he replied over his shoulder.
Benedikt moved fast, afraid that he would lose the English-speaking Frenchman. Fortunately, when he rounded the corner to come to the front of Zhang Gutai’s apartment complex, the Frenchman was just coming out, busying himself with the buttons on his vest.
Benedikt grabbed the man and hauled him into the nearby alleyway.
“Ey!”
“Be quiet,” Benedikt snapped. “What is your business on White Flower land?”
“Why, I’ll be…,” the man hissed. “Get your hands o me.”
Briey, Benedikt wondered if the people coming and going from the apartment had anything to do with the monster business. What if they were all keepers of the creature, giving reports disguised in code to Qi Ren? But he took one look at this Frenchman and brushed it o. Men this brusque could not pull together such an intricate scheme.
Benedikt retrieved a knife from the waistband of his pants and pointed it. “I asked a question.”
“My business with Zhang Gutai is none of yours,” the man replied sharply.
He wasn’t as scared as he ought to be. Something was changing in this city.
“You stand on White Flower territory. Zhang Gutai cannot save you here.”
The Frenchman laughed coarsely. It was like he hadn’t even noticed the blade aimed to his chest. To him, his neatly pressed suit was as good as a suit of armor.
“We could invade this entire city if we wished,” he spat. “We could have this country sign another treaty, hand over all this land. We only refrain because—”
“Hey!” A policeman blew his whistle from the other end of the alleyway.
“What’s happening over there?”
Benedikt withdrew his knife. He jerked his chin at the Frenchman. “Shoo.”
The Frenchman harrumphed and marched o. Satised that there would be no altercation needing intervention, the policeman walked o too. Benedikt was left in the alleyway, bristling in his quiet anger. This would never have happened a few months ago. The settlement ocials, the merchants, the foreigners alike— they only grew mighty now because the gangs were weakening. Because the madness was taking their people in droves, collapsing their chains and drilling holes in their structure.
They were vultures, all of them—the British and the French and every other newcomer. Circling above the city and awaiting the carnage so they could gorge themselves until they were full. The Russians had arrived in this country and merged inward, wishing to learn the way of things and do better. These foreigners had sailed in and grinned at the crime. They looked upon the slowly fracturing pieces before them and knew they only needed to wait for the madness to take its victims, wait for the political factions to split this city just enough until it was time to swoop in. They did not even have to make their own kill.… They only had to wait.
Benedikt shook his head and hurried out of the alleyway.
“Learn anything interesting?” Marshall asked when Benedikt returned.
Benedikt shook his head. He dusted o his damp pants and dropped to a crouch. “See anything interesting?”
“Well,” Marshall remarked, “no monster sightings. But in my dreadful boredom with your absence, I did notice…” He pointed forward, letting
Benedikt see for himself.
“What am I looking at?”
Marshall tutted, then reached out to physically turn Benedikt’s head, changing the direction of his gaze. “There, by the lower-left corner of the
balcony.”
Benedikt hissed inward.
“You see it?”
“Yes.”
There, by the lower-left corner of the balcony: a series of angry claw marks, trailing down the little ledge.
