"It appears, gentlemen, that we are expected," I responded, letting the rice paper fall before them. The others' eyes followed it, and one by one they each realized what this meant, and the danger we were all in.
"Great," Francis murmured. "He knows where we are. If we attend, we could be ambushed or poisoned. If we don't, he'll send his cronies after us regardless."
"We have no choice, we must attend," Muuzaji responded ruefully, and the others agreed grimly. We had to attend the dinner party. But first, we had a few minor errands to take into account - namely, we had to check up on McChum at the Stumbling Tiger, and we had agreed earlier to stake out the docks for presence of the Dark Mistress in the harbor.
The Stumbling Tiger is not far from the Jade Garden or from my workplace, so we endeavored to start there first. Unfortunately, getting there proved to be rather difficult, considering that apparently a fair amount of policemen were combing the area by the time we got to it, and a large crowd had begun to gather outside its doors in order to see what the commotion was. Undaunted, we pressed through, only to be stopped at the door by one of the officers. He looked to me and spoke in soft, polite, and infuriatingly blunt Cantonese.
"I am sorry, madame," he apologized, bowing slightly. "There has been a terrible accident. The owner has died."
"What?" My eyes widened in shock. "What happened to him? Was he murdered?"
Indeed, he was, as the officer related and I translated for the others. McChum's body had been found floating in the Yangtze beneath a dock at around 3:30 AM last night. He was missing his limbs, and had curious characters gouged into his back, as if made by some sort of bladed weapon. He had been dead less than 24 hours, and when they traced it back to the Stumbling Tiger the officials realized a planned attack had been launched on him. They found neither his arms nor any trace of who had attacked, but they had a good idea that it may have been ritualistic in nature - a cult killing. Mahmoud, using his army credentials, managed to pull some strings and convince the officer we were supposed to have a closer look. He relented, after explaining there was little left to see, and turned away to leave.
"And the markings?" I asked as he walked off. "The carvings, what did they say?"
He paused, looked to me, lit a cigarette and took a drag to steady his nerves.
"They read 'Black Fan Goddess Order'," He replied, and I turned to the others to translate his words as he vanished into the crowd.
"So, the Order truly is on to us," was Francis' muttered response. "Probably have been since the gardens. We really don't have a choice, do we?"
I shook my head, and entered the bar. True to the officer's word, all had been picked clean. Everywhere, tables and bar stools had been overturned. The scent of beer came from a broken and leaky tap, and underneath that was the smell of blood from spattered stains on the walls. All was deathly silent, save for the plaintive Cantonese crooning of a Jazz singer from the radio that had never been turned off for the night.
I ran my fingers over a gouge mark on the wall, long and deeply carved by what I assumed to be a cult sickle. What had McChum's final moments been like? Had he given in and told them whatever they wanted to hear, or had he refused and gone down fighting? Had he given them as many wounds as they gave him? Had they slaughtered him here, or by the river? Was it mercifully quick, or agonizing for him?
How long had it taken him to die?
There was nothing left for us here, and no answers as to what terrible thing had transpired, so we took our leave. The docks were waiting, and we had reason to suspect the Dark Mistress would be moored there. Imagine our surprise, then, when we instead discovered the Luxuriant Goddess, Ho Fong's private yacht, gearing up at the docks for what appeared to be a rather long trip! Her crew looked surly and froggish, eyes wide and lips fleshy. There were at least three of them, plus one very irritable-looking captain at the helm giving orders.
"They look like they're doing something. I say we go speak to them," Laurent suggested, and we looked at him like he had grown another head.
"Are you crazy?" Mahmoud's eyes grew wide. "They clearly work for Ho Fong. They will know we are on to him if we just walk right up to them!"
"I'll go with him, then," Francis volunteered. "No offense, Dr. Gauthier, but you're an academic, not a brawler. I don't think you'd be able to take on those three galoots."
"I will stay watch over the ladies," said Mahmoud. "We will keep watch in case things go wrong..."
And with that, we watched as Francis and Laurent walked up to the crewmen to speak. It clearly did not go well - the crewmen certainly looked irritated by their presence, and didn't seem to speak much if at all. I have no idea what they told the crewmen, but it must have been enough to keep them safe, because they came back unscathed. Unfortunately, they learned nothing we did not already know - that was indeed Ho Fong's yacht, and they were apparently gearing up for some sort of pleasure cruise. They wouldn't explain anything else.
"Just as well," said Francis as we left the docks, "I don't think even all five of us could've beat them in a fight."
The day wore on, and all that was left was to prepare for the dinner party. I had clothing of my own to wear, but from what I understand the others required suits. Muuzaji fortunately knew a man in the underground of Shanghai who was able to acquire such fine clothing for cheap, but I would rather not contemplate how her friend obtained them, though I have my suspicions. Besides, a lady never reveals another lady's secrets, and I am nothing if not good at keeping secrets.
It was close to sundown when the sleek black Rolls-Royce, an uncommon enough sight in Shanghai, pulled up to the tea house. We could not see the driver, something which made us all intensely nervous, but the valets assured us he was one of Ho Fong's personal drivers. With little choice in the matter, we got in, and enjoyed a pleasant (if tense) drive to Ho Fong's manor in the old imperial part of Shanghai. Sleekly the car glided through the huge, gilt mahogany gates, past rich images of dragons and lions intertwined in battle and lush gardens with a pond of Koi fish and lotus blossoms, and eventually we were let out before a guard house. Giving our names, we soon were brought to a waiting room with plush cushions, luxurious silks, and the heady warm scents of tobacco and fine tea, the latter two vended by servants who merely bowed politely at our entrance. Inside, there were several other guests, enjoying the atmosphere and each other's company. Muuzaji, however, was not nearly as comfortable, and we could all sense it.
"Something is not right," was all she said when asked. "I feel eyes upon us..."
And then, we all felt it. Eyes upon us, hidden from our view, precise and calculating... Were we being watched? Or was paranoia getting to us?
We had little time to consider this before the mouthwatering smells of good food came from the hallway, and the guide returned to usher us all into the dining room. Such decadent glamour for one room! The crystal chandelier above, the fine china plates, the silver goblets and intricately detailed teapot, the art on the walls and true Ming vases on the pedestals... and the spread of food. It was a magnificent feast - roast duck, peppered squid, plates of noodle and rice dishes, vast tureens of sauces and soups, and steamer upon steamer of dim sum. And at the head of the glorious mahogany table where all this food lay was Ho Fong, presiding over the entire thing and entertaining other guests in idle conversation.
It was a dazzling feast for the senses, and it momentarily blind-sided us. Perhaps we should have been more careful, but we let the opulence get the best of us. We should have known better. We should have been cautious. But when we saw others feasting, we discounted the danger. When we saw others drinking tea and eating dessert, we followed suit. And when the others left, and we had one final cup of tea with Ho Fong, we were oblivious, convinced that nothing could go wrong here and that he was offering us an olive branch.
It wasn't until I felt dizzy that I realized Muuzaji had been right to worry. The others, I saw them dimly, one by one, collapse. And as I felt consciousness slip from me, a servant came to me and whispered in my own tongue, ever so seductively gently, "You should not have crossed paths with the Order."
We should have known better.
-- Xu Mei-Lin, Writing From Captivity (28 May, 1928)