Free Shanghai Shadows by Lois Ruby Page B

Moishe jumped down from his perch atop the trash boxes. He meowed and curled his tail around my leg and turned gooey eyes toward me. So, he hated the real me but fancied the telegram-boy me. Too bad he was still the same cat.
    I did not fool Liu. As usual, he tagged along behind me all the way to the Bund. He was wearing a newish, red-and-white-striped shirt that hung below his knees. I wondered what dead body he’d stripped it from. Somebody a lot larger than he, that was clear. I waved him away, and he hung back a few paces.
    If I’d fooled Moishe, maybe I’d fool the angry-looking navy guard who blocked the giant front door of the Shanghai Club. REACT had learned that Admiral Imura conducted a lot of navy business at the club, with a glass of vodka balanced on his rolling belly.
    I fluttered a manila envelope under the guard’s nose and struck a deep boy’s voice: “The Swiss consulate sent this for Admiral Imura. Extremely important.”
    My heart skipped a few beats and wild doubts raced through my head, mostly on the theme of just possibly I wasn’t cut out for sabotage . But I tapped my foot and rolled my eyes to suggest that the fate of the Japanese navy, even the whole war, maybe the world as we knew it, hung on whether this particular guard allowed the message to get through to the admiral promptly.
    He studied the envelope with his face pulled together like a drawstring pouch, and then it dawned on me that the man was faking. He couldn’t read the German. He probably didn’t even read Japanese. As Mother often said, “Such guards are selected for qualities other than their literary proficiency.” Finally he waved me in.
    â€œ Arigato , thank you,” I said, bowing low. He bowed, I bowed, he bowed, and I slipped past him into the Shanghai Club.
    I couldn’t pause to admire the beautiful blackstone foyer, because of those mean sentries, stiff as department store dummies, every few paces along the wall. I was dying to get a glimpse of that hundred-foot-long bar we’d heard about. I wanted to knock everything off and slide across the smooth, polished wood in my socks. But this was war; no time for trivialities. No, I had to hurry to the toilets.
    A guard’s eyes followed me, without his head moving, as I scampered into the men’s room. I glanced at the urinals. How could men be so immodest? Well, as Erich said, men had outdoor plumbing, so no one cared.
    Disappointing to count only six stalls—not enough toilets to stop the Japanese march through China, but I’d do my part. Rolling up my sleeves, I set to work in the first stall. The copper float was green and coated with some sort of scum. It was slippery and hard as steel. I couldn’t bend it a millimeter. Dismal failure on my first attempt. The best I could do was unhook the float and move on to the next stall. That toilet was more accommodating because the float was corroded and easier to snap. The third ball cock cracked in my palm like a raw egg. By the last one I was the underground’s expert on dismantling plumbing, and I was feeling quite smug, when someone came into the men’s room.
    I climbed onto the toilet, crouching so nothing of me would show under or above the divider. Shiny boots appeared two stalls away, then trousers draped over the boots, suspended above the floor by thick fingers. Assuming he was alone, the venerable officer of the Japanese navy began singing.
    And then came the moment a saboteur lives for. The officer tried to flush the toilet. The handle jiggled feebly, followed by a string of Japanese curses. Success! I heard him open the door of his stall. Changing his mind, he threw the lock on the door and crawled out under it, so no one would stumble into that stall and discover his shame. An officer of the Japanese navy who didn’t flush? Unthinkable!
    Water furiously splashed in a basin, the linen towel loop was yanked, and the officer stomped out of