Free Death In Shanghai by M J Lee Page B

‘I think we’ve seen enough.’ He turned to go and stopped. ‘Lieutenant Masset, do you still have the lid of the barrel?’
    ‘It’s somewhere around here, I think.’ He scanned the ground at his feet. The lid was propped up against the lion’s head. Masset picked it up and handed it to Danilov.
    It looked like a normal lid, around twenty inches across. At the edges a thick layer of pitch or tar had created a black ring that stuck to the top and side.
    ‘The pitch would have made the seal airtight. She must have used up all the air that remained in the barrel before gradually sinking into the pig’s blood,’ said Masset. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat
boudin noir
again.’
    Danilov turned the lid of the barrel over to look at the underside. He could see traces of red staining the wood where the blood had lapped against the lid. He walked over to the centre of the room, avoiding the evidence from the countless other cases strewn on the floor. He examined the underneath of the lid, tilting it left and right under the harsh light.
    There was something, Scratches, faint marks against the grain of the wood. ‘Stra-chan, come here. Your eyes are better than mine. Look at that.’
    Strachan rushed over and took the lid, holding it up to the light. ‘There seems to be something scratched on the lid, sir. Two words, I think.’ He tilted the lid so that the light shot obliquely across it. ‘The first letter is an “H”, sir. Then, there’s an “A”.’ He brought the lid closer and then moved it away, squinting with his eyes as he did so. ‘Then there seems to be a “T” and an “E”. Spells HATE.’
    ‘Thank you, Stra-chan, even I can work that one out.’
    ‘The next line is not so clear. An “A”, I think. Then an “L” and maybe another “L”. But the last letter is very faint, sir. It’s hard to see down here, sir.’
    ‘“HATE ALL” That is interesting,’ said Danilov.
    ‘A message from the killer, sir?’
    ‘It looks like it, doesn’t it, Stra-chan? Lieutenant Masset, you didn’t notice these scratches?’
    The Lieutenant shrugged his shoulders once more. ‘We thought they were marks from the makers. Not important.’
    ‘I think you were wrong.’ Danilov put his hat back on his head. ‘Let’s get out of here. I need the fresh air of a smoke.’

Chapter 7
    ‘Come, Stra-chan, we’re close to Moscow cafe.’
    They walked down the crowded streets of the French Concession. Despite the cold, both sides of the road were a hive of activity. Hawkers sang the praises of their wares. Gamblers, wrapped up in jackets and mufflers, surrounded the mahjong tables on the pavement, watching and understanding every nuance of the play. Shoppers dawdled at shop windows, admiring the latest trinkets imported from France. Chauffeurs chatted, sharing a smoke as their idling cars pumped exhaust into the street.
    ‘We need to examine the lid of the barrel more closely, Stra-chan.’
    ‘Lieutenant Masset said he would send it over just as soon as he had cleared it with Major Renard.’
    Danilov threw his cigarette into the gutter. ‘Bureaucrats. They have nothing better to do than to give themselves permission to do nothing. Why can’t they just leave me to get on with the investigation?’
    Strachan kept silent. They crossed the street opposite a Russian Orthodox church, its golden dome glistening in the haze of the morning sunshine. Danilov turned down one of the lanes off the main road and entered a narrow
lilong
on the right, past a watchman in front of his grate, snoring loudly. He pushed through a glass door and stepped into the warm fug of a cafe.
    The room was small, no more than six tables. On their left, two chess players lifted their heads, annoyed at the interruption. Ahead of them, a large copper samovar hissed a jet of steam and hot water.
    A small, elf-like woman approached them. She had fine, almost porcelain features and moved with the elegance of a dancer from the