Broken Meats: A Harry Stubbs Adventure (10 page)

Chapter Nine: The Death of Mr. Yang

The hotel lounge was a comfortable place to hang around. I read the
morning paper and back issues of
Punch
as well as talking to the clerk,
Walker. He filled me in on Arthur’s counterintelligence operation keeping tabs
on Yang.

“He burns
things in his room,” said Walker. “The bellboy got excited, thinking it was
opium, but it’s only joss sticks. Lord knows how we’ll get the smell out.”

“Is it
worse than tobacco?”

“People
don’t mind cigarettes. And there’s that cat. I don’t know what we’re going to
charge him when he leaves, but it’ll be a pretty penny. Won’t mean anything to
a man like that, of course. He must be rich as Croesus.”

We were
continuing in this vein when Reg walked in, looking cheerful but business-like.

“Oh, here
you are, Harry,” he said. “I was worried something had happened to you.”

“To me?
Why?”

“The police
down the East End found a Chinese man lying an alley, wearing a very nice
suit.”

“Was
he—?”

“Dead as a
doornail. There were two wooden dowels stuck into his eye sockets,” Reg said
with relish.

“I don’t
understand,” I said. “Yang’s still in his room.”

“No he
ain’t,” said Reg. “They left his wallet on the body so people would know it
wasn’t a robbery, along with his papers. It was Yang -- he gave you the slip.
His Daimler was parked in the next street. That’s why I thought you must have
been with him.”

Walker and
I hurried up to Yang’s room with Reg lumbering behind. The clerk knocked
several times and called Yang’s name. There was no reply, and after a minute,
he opened the door with a passkey.

Of course,
the room was empty. I remembered what Yang had said about discovering secrets
of life and death and wondered if he had anticipated something like this.

It looked
as though Yang had been getting ready to go back to China, with everything
packed away and his luggage stacked up neatly. Just a few personal items
remained: a set of tortoiseshell brushes on the dresser, a scarf tossed over
the back of a chair. There was a cushion on the floor and a saucer but no sign
of the cat. The window was shut, but the catch was open.

“Think Yang
slipped out the window?” asked Reg.

“Must have
done,” says Walker. “He couldn’t have got out of the building the back way. He
would have been seen.”

“I suppose
he might have shinnied down the drainpipe,” I said. It was hard to imagine
Yang, in his spotless suit, engaged in anything so grubby. “I thought there
were people keeping an eye out.”

“Don’t
worry about it,” said Reg, flipping open the top suitcase. Inside was a pile of
neatly folded shirts. “Arthur won’t mind. Yang’s out of it now, and that’s all
he cared about.”

Reg took a
framed silver photograph of a pretty girl with bobbed hair out of a pocket in
the suitcase. At first I thought she was an American movie starlet, until I saw
that she was an Oriental. There was a tabby cat in her arms; even in black and
white I recognised the animal with its piercing eyes.

Reg put the
picture back and started opening other pockets in the suitcase, looking for
valuables.

“You can’t
go rummaging through a hotel guest’s property,” said Walker. “Even a Chinese
guest.”

“What’s it
matter? He’s dead now.”

I shut the
suitcase so quickly that Reg had to snatch his hands away.

He looked
at me reproachfully. “Fill your pockets while you can, Stubbs. You’re out of a
job now.”

“How did
you find out so quickly about Yang being killed?”

“I tipped
the constabulary off about Yang a few days ago just as a precautionary
measure.”

“Did you
tell Arthur about that?” I asked.

“What
Arthur doesn’t know won’t hurt him. As soon as Yang’s name came up, the police
contacted me first thing. As a matter of fact, they asked me to officially
identify the body.”

“You?”

“Always
happy to help the boys in blue.” Reg smirked and pulled out a silver cigarette
case with an Oriental design. “And pick up a keepsake.”

“Did you
get his watch, too?”

“It was
only a cheap watch. Then I thought I’d come over here and have a look around
before the police did.”

“You’ve had
your look around,” said Walker. “Let’s get back to reception before they show
up.”

We went
back down, where Reg expounded his theory that Yang had arranged a rendezvous
and the Triads had ambushed him.

“They got
him good and proper. No torture. I reckon one man held him and the other
one—fttt!” Reg made a gesture of sticking two fingers into my eyes. “The
Triads cut up the body when they want to humiliate the victim—‘lingchee,’
that is—but that takes time…”

We were
interrupted by the arrival of a pair of police constables. I recognised the PC
who had attended the shooting incident, and he recognised me. He sent his
colleague up with Walker to look at the room and addressed me politely.

“Am I
correct in saying that you are a Mr Stubbs, lately employed to assist a Chinese
gentleman?” There was no point in denying it. “Would you be so good as to
accompany me to the station? I believe that you may be able to help us with our
enquiries concerning the late Mr Yang.”

I spent a
few hours answering questions and making my statement. I described the
encounter with the other Chinese as an argument rather than a fight, and
omitted some other details such as Arthur’s involvement, but gave them a
broadly accurate outline. Not that the police were so very interested. Yang’s
murder did not cause much of a ripple anywhere. The detail of having his eyes
poked out with wooden skewers was the one outstanding feature of the crime, but
having played on that for what it was worth in terms of Oriental barbarism, the
newspapers had nothing else to say on the matter. The prevailing view was that
Yang was a gangster who was seeking to expand his gang’s influence in the
Chinese community in London and had fallen foul of the existing interests.

Or, if you
believed the one anonymous Chinese shopkeeper the papers quoted, a group of
right-thinking vigilantes had taken the law into their own hands and executed
justice to keep the scourge of crime away from Limehouse.

The body
was packed up and shipped out posthaste. The Chinese always send their dead
back home for burial, wherever they die. Yang’s baggage was whisked away,
unmolested I trust, by some efficient agent.

Perhaps I
was the only one in London to mourn him. I had become used to his odd ways, and
I was ready to count Yang as a friend. As for his final encounter, I rather
thought he deliberately slipped away so I would have no part in what he must
have suspected would be a terminal matter. I took it as a favour and not a
slight.

I thought
occasionally of the girl with bobbed hair waiting for him in Shanghai,
 
and whether I should write. Would Yang’s
employers inform her of his death, or would she still be waiting for him to
return? Not that I had an address to write to, but I did think of her.

The police
investigation was cursory. Having pegged it as a matter between Chinese, they
felt no great need to explore further.
 
An inspector from the Metropolitan Police made some remarks in the
papers about the difficulties about investigating that sort of case. The
Chinese legation said that the event was regrettable but showed no inclination
to raise a hue and cry. The legation represented the new revolutionary
Kuomintang government in Peking, while Shanghai was still under the sway of the
old government of the Republic of China. They would not wish to draw attention
to the incident and the rise of gangsterism in a city that they claimed but did
not control.

“All’s well
that ends well,” was Arthur’s view.

The only
loser was Reg, who had fallen from Arthur’s favour. Looting from the dead was
not respectful; talking to the police without getting leave doubly so.

“No wonder
he has trouble sleeping at night,” said Arthur. “Though I gather it was
something you told him.”

“What was?”

“He keeps
getting nightmares about a Chinese strangler and wakes up choking.” He tapped
his temple. “Power of the mind. A guilty conscience is a dangerous thing, as I
always say.”

“We still
have the question of Roslyn D’Onston,” I said. “The purpose of Yang’s visit was
to establish if D’Onston was alive. I tend to the conclusion that the answer is
in the affirmative.”

Arthur has a mind like a steel trap and an eye for the angle that
everyone else has missed. Powell’s sudden death and Howard’s wild claims might
not amount to much. But Arthur has his own sources of information.

“That’s a
stretch,” he said at last. “But people have some funny notions. If your Mrs
Lavinia psychic does think she is Roslyn D’Onston, there might be some
undesirable possibilities arising. We can’t have her setting about our local
ladies of the night with a straight razor, collecting ingredients for her
witch’s brew. Also… Yang’s mob will want to do something about his being bumped
off. Reg may be wide of the mark on some points, but he’s right when he says they
never forget a grudge.”

“I’ll talk
to her,” I said impulsively. “Either she’s just an innocent old woman, or there
is something in what Howard was saying and… well, I’ll talk to her.”

“You’re
forgetting something, aren’t you, Stubbsy? Suppose Lavinia really is a Medusa
who can kill you with a look.” He gave a light snort. “You’d be struck as dead
as Powell.”

I had not
really thought out the matter as far as that. “You think there’s something in
this evil-eye business?”

“Power of
the mind,” he said. “Some men die just because they think their number’s up.
You go talk to her, Stubbsy, but you take some protection from the evil eye.”

“What, like
a crucifix or something?”

“No
Stubbsy, not like a ruddy crucifix. I respect the church as much as any man,
but this is not in their line. This is more your white magic versus black magic
sort of affair.”

It occurred to me to mention my ring with the green star-stone, though I
doubted it was the right sort of thing. And Arthur was well ahead of me.

“As luck
would have it, I know a man who makes protective amulets for just that
contingency.” He placed a small object, wrapped in a scrap of cotton, on the
table.

“What’s
this?”

“Open it.”
Arthur looked amused at my perplexity. “A little talisman from your friend and
mine, Mr Whatley. Whatley’s charms can do a sick man more good than three
months in Baden-Baden. This one is guaranteed against the witch’s curse, or
your money back.”

It was a
blue stone the size and shape of a bean. There was a flaw or carving in it too
small for me to see properly. Arthur’s tone was bantering, but there was
something behind it. He knew more than he was letting on. “Hold it in your hand
when you talk to her, and you’ll come to no harm. Mind you, Whatley reckons
you’ve got no chance. He says her kind can hide in places ordinary people can’t
go.”

“He helped
you?”

He shrugged
modestly. “You know me—I do business with all sorts.”

Chapter Ten: The Breaking of the Circle

I had the back-door key to Maycot in my pocket. I could have entered
like a thief, but there was really no need for subterfuge. I knocked on the
front door like any respectable visitor. The curtains were drawn, leading me to
wonder if a séance was in progress even though there was no meeting
listed on the notice board.

I knocked
again and listened. I heard no reply and no sound from within, nor was there
any response to a third knock, which echoed throughout the house.

If there
was nobody home, I would not have an interview with Lavinia. But since I had
the means of entry, it might give me an opportunity to look around a little for
clues. It was not quite the honest thing to do, but my role in the field of
collections was sharpened by an understanding of the legal considerations:
since I had a key, I was not breaking or forcing an entry or damaging property,
and since I had no intention of removing anything from the premises, I could
not be charged with burglary.

The back
door led into the pantry, which in turn led into the kitchen. A cupboard door
lay open, revealing shelves loaded with pots of flour, bottles of pickling
vinegar, and jars of dried fruit. I skirted the open door and edged into the
hallway. I opened each door as quietly as possible and stood listening. Perhaps
the sitters at a séance would not be at liberty to come and answer the
door even if they heard my knocking. There was not the slightest sound.

The
Theosophy Circle’s office was a side room off the drawing room. I opened the
drawing room door with infinite caution and peered into the darkness beyond.

You know
when something is not right the moment you get into a house, even if you don’t
know how you know. My instincts whispered that something was not right here.
The table was laid out as if for a séance, the candlestick holder was in
the centre, and there was something white on the dark tablecloth. But there
were no people present, or so I thought when I entered the room.

“You.”

I jumped at
the voice, quiet as it was, coming from behind me. It took me a few moments to
make out Lavinia. She was sitting back in an armchair as though exhausted. It
was too dark to see her face, but I looked away anyway and clutched the blue
pebble in my fist.

“I did
knock on the door,” I said.

“Oh,” she
said faintly. Then, after a pause, she said, “Could I trouble you for a glass
of water? I’m afraid I’m not very well.”

“May I turn
the light on?”

“Certainly.”

Lavinia was
deathly pale, her skin contrasting all the more with a green velvet dress. She
looked smaller and older. I had to help her with the glass. Her hand with the
broken fingers was still bandaged, and she was terribly feeble. When she looked
up, I looked away, wary of danger from those watery blue eyes.

On the
dining table, in addition to the candelabra, was what looked like the skull of
a goat and a sort of silver dagger. Thick lines of salt marked out a pentacle
on the table.

“I’m afraid
every time you see me I need medical attention,” she said at last. “But don’t
call anyone just yet. Give me a minute.”

“What
happened here?”

“I made a
terrible, terrible mistake.” Her light manner dissolved suddenly, and she
started sobbing quietly. Fat tears left trails down her powdered face.
Eventually, she pulled herself together and gestured towards the drinks
cabinet. “Please, a little sherry if you could.”

It was
locked, but under the circumstances, I felt justified in wrenching the door
open. Such locks are decorative items to keep the servants out. Inside were two
filled decanters and some delicate cut-glass sherry glasses. Careful not to
turn my back or look directly at her, I filled one with the paler sherry and
passed it to her. She sipped it eagerly and seemed to draw some strength.

“Victor,”
she started and stopped. “Victor is…”

I waited,
but she did not continue.

“It was
Howard,” I said.

“Yes. No…
the man who calls himself Howard now—he’s gone mad. Utterly mad… no, that
won’t do. You know, don’t you, about Roslyn D’Onston?”

“I know
something about him,” I said carefully.

“May I have
another glass? Thank you. Please, take a seat, and I’ll tell you the whole
thing—whether you believe it or not. I’m done anyway.” I refilled her
glass. She took a long sip and then started up in a stronger voice.

“Howard, as
you may know, joined us at the Theosophy Circle about a year ago. On the same
day, the maid discovered a letter stuck between the floorboards addressed to
‘One Who Shall Come After.’ It was in code but signed by D’Onston. Victor
couldn’t make anything of it. Against my better judgement, I let Howard have
it.

“Howard
became utterly fascinated with the man. Read all of his dreadful works. You
see, D’Onston was everything Howard wasn’t. D’Onston was such a dashing fellow.
A cavalry officer who had fought in wars. A man who had travelled the world
when Howard only travelled through books. D’Onston had thrown himself into the
practical side of the occult, he had been to Africa and India, seen miracles,
and studied at the feet of masters. Howard tinkered about in his laboratory
with test tubes.

“It
impressed him also that D’Onston was very successful with women. Howard couldn’t
talk to one his own age without blushing and stammering. He decoded the letter,
and he was convinced it was meant for him. He even hinted that D’Onston must
have been his real father. He was besotted. Tried to copy his mannerisms.”

“Even
though D’Onston may have been Jack the Ripper?”

Lavinia
sighed sadly. “That just added to his lure. Before the letter, Howard had been
very much the dilettante, toying with his experiments, but he started working
like a demon—in his cellar laboratory at all hours of day and night. He
spent a fortune on old manuscripts and original copies of obscure
works—not to mention chemicals and equipment. It’s nice for a man to have
an interest that keeps him occupied, but he had become secretive.

“Of course,
we knew he was up to something. Victor put the fear of God into one of Howard’s
servants, and the man told us that two men had brought a coffin one night and
carried it down to the laboratory. It was supposed to be secret, but you can’t
keep anything from servants…

“Howard was
attempting Palingenesis on a human being. He reduced the body to its essential
salts and used the art to call up a life-sized phantom inside a giant glass
jar.”

“Good God,”
I said.

“At first
he was using a charcoal burner to apply heat, but he could only get the phantom
to form for a few seconds at a time. But that was where Howard was cleverer
than the ancients. He mixed in radium salts that provided a steady heat,
distributed evenly—and he stabilized the phantom so it could survive hours
at a time in its glass prison.

“We had to
put a stop to it. Victor and I confronted him. He caved in and promised to end
it, and we thought he had. We should not have taken his word…

“Howard
disappeared for a few days, and when we saw him again, he was different. That
was just before you came. He was more secretive but lively. He hardly said
anything, but he had a sparkle in his eye and seemed to be… laughing at us.
Howard was not the laughing sort.”

“As though
his personality had altered,” I said.

“Then this
Mr Yang turned up -- Victor was so frightened of him! Because of the opium
business.”

“What
business?”

“Victor’s
province is one of the ones where they still grow opium for the China trade.
When he heard Yang was from Shanghai, he expected some unpleasantness... he was
in such a tizzy. And there was that terrible séance, and Elizabeth being
so ill… we were all so busy with everything, and Howard disappeared for good.
His servants say he just packed up one night and left with one case. He’d been
spending more and more time out of the house… somewhere. Victor went to the
laboratory, but it had been stripped. Could I possibly have another glass?”

I refilled
it silently.

“Howard
came back today. Now he is convinced he is Roslyn D’Onston. He was terribly elated
that Yang was dead. He said the Chinese had come for him, and he’d fooled them
into murdering each other. He wants to complete his work…”

The sherry,
combined with the aftermath of her ordeal, was beginning to have an effect. She
trailed off, and I had to prompt her to go on. “His work?”

“Palingenesis.
From phantom to flesh, shadow to substance. Give it a little blood, and it
survives longer. Well, we’ve always known that from Hartmann’s work on
vampires. Howard has weaned it from blood to solid meat—following
Paracelsus’ theory, I suspect—and it doesn’t fade at all. He’s as happy
as a boy with how it’s grown, except for one thing. Animal flesh is not enough.
It warps; the Palingenesis needs human flesh. A special flesh, like in the old
days—the sacred sacrifice. That’s why he came back.”

She looked
me in the face, and this time I did not turn away.

“He thought
that Victor and I had some book or teaching that we wouldn’t share with him. I
tried to tell him that Theosophy is a purely scientific discipline; we have no
secrets… it’s funny, really, because before, Howard was adamant in his
scientism. Now he’s full of mumbo jumbo. We argued, and he… attacked me. When I
came round, I heard them in the office.” She nodded at the door to the little
side room. “He was trying to get Victor to talk. Torturing him.”

I started
up, but she gestured weakly for me to sit down. “Don’t go in there. I’m quite
sure Victor was dead by the time Howard left. You can’t help him. I saw… please
don’t go in there.”

I looked
anxiously at the door.

“Victor
couldn’t tell him anything because he had nothing to tell… but it went on and
on. I prayed for it to be over. The oddest thing was before he left, Howard
laid out those things on the table, those… black-magic stage props.”

I suspected
there would be an anonymous letter to the newspaper explaining how the
Theosophy Circle had descended to Satanism and explaining it all. That was the
killer’s modus operandi, as the police call it.

“And you
don’t know where he’s gone?”

“I’m afraid
not.”

“I’ll
telephone for a doctor,” I said. “But I do have to look in the other room.”

“Please…
all I ever wanted was for Victor to be happy. That’s why I took up this whole
Theosophy thing… I just wanted a garden…” She broke down into sobbing again.

I opened
the door. I did not know what I was expecting. Perhaps the wooden skewers that
Yang had suffered made me unconsciously expect that Victor would be a human
pincushion.

It had not
occurred to me that D’Onston was a completely cold-blooded individual for whom
the Whitechapel killings were simple medical procedures. Nor had I appreciated
that not all the stories of his magic powers over the human body were
exaggerations.

I would
never have recognised Victor but for the mouth. The mouth had been left intact
so that his torturer could extract information. Enough of him was left that he
must have retained his power of speech until the end. When we talk of someone
being torn apart or ripped to shreds, it is a figure of speech. In this case,
the description was approximately correct.

The only
thing I will note about that scene, and which still haunts me, was something
lying on the desk on top of some papers, next to an inkstand and an ashtray. It
was a pale thing that might at first sight have been a discarded cuff. It took
me a moment to recognise it.

It was one
of Victor’s hands.

There was
no blood; it had been detached easily as one unscrews a fitting. As I gazed in
horrified fascination, the hand gave a single twitch, like a spider with a
broken back, and was still again.

I left,
shutting the door, shutting the image out of my mind—and trying not to
think of what soft thing I had trodden on when I entered.