egg with two slices of bacon this morning for breakfast. I had just one cup of coffee. You had an argument with your wife last night and this morning it continued. I live alone. And your house boy has left, as well. I prefer to do without servants. Your…’ he stopped here looking for the right word ‘…paramour…is also two-timing you with…’ he swivelled round and pointed at another detective, Robson, sitting to the left of Cartwright. ‘Such women, of course, do not interest me.’
‘Wha’ the fuck? How do you know…?’
But Cartwright was already talking to the back of Danilov as he walked out of the detectives’ office.
‘You’ll get your comeuppance one day, you mark my words. You may speak bloody English but you’ll never be an Englishman. Bloody Russian prick!’ Cartwright shouted to the closing door.
Danilov had already gone next door to see Miss Cavendish, the office secretary. She was an old maid who had been born in Shanghai and lived there all her life, but still didn’t speak a word of Chinese. ‘Well, there’s no need is there, they all speak English. Or at least the ones I have to speak to. Or they speak pidgin. And I’m frightfully good at pidgin. Second language to me it is.’
Danilov stood in front of her desk and coughed. She glanced up and he caught a waft of her scent. French and very floral. ‘Miss Cavendish, could I bother you for the file on the French Head of Detectives? A Mr Renard, I believe.’
‘Actually, it’s Major Renard, Inspector. I’ll have it on your desk in an hour.’ She leaned forward and whispered, ‘I couldn’t help but hear what you said about Cartwright, he will be upset.’
‘Cartwright can’t be upset, Miss Cavendish. That would indicate an ability to feel. He is either totally happy or totally drunk. Those are the limits of his emotions.’
‘Was it true?’
‘He has the same breakfast every morning because he can’t be bothered explaining to his cook he would like something different. He wasn’t wearing his normal pungent eau de cologne which only happens when his wife locks him out of the marital bedchamber after an argument. She was still unhappy with him, so he was unable to splash more on this morning. You may have noticed he is still wearing the same clothes as two days ago. Hence, the boy is no longer providing his services.’
‘But how did you know about his…’ she leaned forward and whispered ‘…paramour?’
‘That part was easy. I observed her with Robson on Nanking Road two nights ago. It seems she has switched her favours recently. And everything I said about myself was true.’
‘You are a proper Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you, Inspector Danilov?
‘I admire your famous detective, Miss Cavendish, but I always believed he missed the patterns in crime. The patterns are everything. Once we understand them, everything else falls into place.’
‘A bit like my knitting, without the pattern I’m lost.’
‘Precisely, Miss Cavendish. All criminals have patterns through which they reveal themselves. Our job is to discover the pattern. It was one of the first things they taught us at the Imperial Police Academy.’
Miss Cavendish was the ears of all gossip in Central. If he wanted to know anything about the station or its inhabitants, Chinese, English, Russian or Japanese, he just asked her. She was better than any stoolie on the street, and she was free, which was even more important.
‘I would look out for him if I were you.’ She indicated the closed door of the detectives’ room. ‘A bit of a bull in a china shop is our Inspector Cartwright. Or a bull in a China police station, I should say.’ Miss Cavendish giggled as she played with the pearls that encircled her neck. Danilov wondered if she were flirting with him.
She popped a sweet into her mouth from the packet that lay on her table. She offered one to him. For a moment he was tempted but then shook his head. His hands lay on her desk, the scars that creased the skin above his knuckles vivid red against the pale white, a legacy of the education his father had given him years before in Minsk. He quickly hid them behind his back.
‘Inspector Allen from Intelligence gave these to me.’ In her left hand, she waved her packet of purple sweets. ‘Haven’t had these French sweets since before the war. He’s such a nice man. He left this for you.’ Her right hand held a large brown internal envelope marked private and confidential.
He took it, ensuring his hands were palm upwards. Inside was a white sheet of expensive writing paper. ‘Too predictable, Allen.’
He took out a large fountain pen and wrote P X QKN below Allen’s last line. Folding the paper, he returned it to the internal envelope.
‘Secrets and secret notes, Inspector Danilov.’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a long time.
‘Ask away, Miss Cavendish, if I am able to satisfy your curiosity, I will be happy to oblige.’
‘How is it you speak such good English? For a Russian I mean.’
‘Two years at Scotland Yard, Miss Cavendish, looking for some Russian bombers. We never found them so it was a wasted time. It did give me a love for your language though. Such a less stoic tongue than my native Russian.’
‘Well, you are a card, I must say. Scotland Yard indeed. Who would have guessed?’
‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish. If you see Detective Stra-chan, please tell him to meet me at the morgue.’
‘Now, that’s an invitation nobody could refuse.’
Danilov stood there for a moment, nodded once and left. He would never understand the English sense of humour.
Elsie Everett strode across the classic wood-lined lobby and entered the Grand Ballroom. A resplendent peacock dominated the stage above the band, couples shuffled around the dance floor and waiters danced between the tables, carrying drinks and plates of snacks.
She couldn’t see Richard. Was he late again? There was Margery Leadbitter. She would have to sit with the viper. Richard was so annoying; if it wasn’t for his money, she would…well she didn’t know what she would do, but she would have to bring him under control quickly.
She dodged the dancing waiters and presented herself in front of Margery, leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks. She felt a slight stickiness from the woman’s skin and it gave her a frisson of disgust. ‘Where’s Richard?’
Margery picked at something that lay on her bottom lip and examined it closely. ‘I don’t know. He was supposed to have been here half an hour ago. Alfred’s late too.’
‘Typical men. What are you drinking?’
‘An Old-Fashioned. I can’t face anything bubbly today.’
Elsie caught the eye of one of the waiters. ‘Another Old-Fashioned, with a maraschino cherry and no lemon.’ She turned back to Margery. ‘How’s Alfred these days?’
‘I don’t see much of him any more. He always seems so busy. I was surprised he wanted
