The Winter Station Page 8

  “Do you believe it?” Messonier sipped his tea.

  “I believe something is happening. I told you about the body outside Churin’s store. And two bodies found at Central Station.”

  “Unusual number of homicides, even for Kharbin.”

  “Homicides? I’m not certain.” The Baron fixed his gaze on the bookshelf behind Messonier. “Why wasn’t I notified about the bodies? Is there a secret about the identities of the dead men? Cause of death? Some clue left with the bodies? There must be a common thread.”

  “Did you hear two dead men were found in Manchouli and Chalainor at the train stations? Deaths were also reported in Hailar and Puhudu. A friend at the Mukden hospital told me.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard. Manchouli is north of us, several days away by train, near the border of Outer Mongolia and Russia. How did they die?”

  Messonier shrugged. “Under investigation.”

  The Baron’s eyes widened. He ticked off names on his fingers. “Manchouli, Chalainor, Hailar, Puhudu. The angel of death moved from town to town along the railroad. Then the angel brought death to us in Kharbin.”

  Messonier cupped his hands around the teapot as if to anchor himself. “But what is the angel? Or who is the angel?”

  “Someone hid the evidence from us.”

  “From you. You’re the only one that noticed a pattern. It couldn’t be coincidence.” His voice trailed off. “You’re the chief medical officer. But someone isolated you from information. Perhaps someone from the CER or a government official made a decision without fully considering the implications. Or without consulting General Khorvat.”

  “Or perhaps in consultation with Khorvat.”

  “What next?”

  “We try to stop the angel.”

  * * *

  “She was dressed in a pink kimono, lying on a tatami on planks in the main room. All the servants and guests at the inn had left.” The dwarf Chang sat across from the Baron in his office, waiting for tea, chair angled to catch the warmth from the corner stove. In another two hours, their breath would be visible in the large room after the balls of clay and compressed wood that burned to provide heat had cooled. “My source said the dead woman was an innkeeper on Koreyskaya Street. A Japanese woman.”

  “Who’s your source? Who told you about this woman?”

  “The cook. He entered the inn at number five Koreyskaya Street through the kitchen door. No one noticed him.” Chang paused to dramatize his account of the story.

  “Then?”

  “Then he watched from the kitchen and saw the men huddle around the woman’s body. Four men.”

  “Russian or Chinese?”

  “He couldn’t see their faces. They didn’t speak Chinese.”

  “Maybe they spoke dialect. Or a code.”

  Chang laughed. “The cook wouldn’t have the wit to notice a code. He was too frightened.” He struggled to shape his next sentence.

  The Baron waited, affected by the other man’s unease.

  “After the men left the inn, the cook crept out and looked at the woman. They had cut her open. Made a slit down the front of her body and then sewn her up.”

  The Baron bent forward as if released by a spring.

  “Then three strangers came in dragging a wooden coffin. The cook ran back into the kitchen. The men knew what to do, went straight to her body. They dropped the dead woman in the coffin and threw the bloody mat on top of her.”

  The Baron’s gulp of tea was automatic. A warmth in his mouth without taste. “I heard what you said but don’t understand it.” The mutilation of a corpse wasn’t innocent. “You don’t know how the woman died?”

  “No. But if she had been Russian, not Japanese, there would be an inquiry.”

  “That’s certain. Did the men take anything from the inn?”

  “The cook didn’t mention anything had been stolen. But he wasn’t the best witness. He’s afraid the woman’s ghost, her gui, will come back and haunt him.”

  “You trust what he said?”

  “I’ve watched expressions all my life. Who means to harm me. Who would mock me. No face is neutral. I say this not from complaint but because I’m a skilled observer.”

  “Can I speak with the cook?”

  “Vanished. Probably working at another inn.”

  “So he won’t be found.” Another sip of tea. “Fortunately, whoever ordered the body cut up is unaware they’ve been discovered. We hold an advantage.” Although he focused on the dwarf’s face, his mind held the terrible image of a dead woman in a pink kimono.

  “You have my silence.” The dwarf’s pledge was conditional, as it was likely he’d later embellish the story. “Maybe the dead woman was the mistress of a prominent man? A woman with secrets, murdered by order of an important official? Maybe the shame of pregnancy?”

  The Baron made a decision. “The woman was dissected by someone trained in anatomy. A center vertical cut that opens a body takes skill. Bones protect the heart.” He drank again, slowly, to stimulate thought. “The body was mutilated in secret because what they did was wrong. Disrespectful. Chinese tradition forbids opening a body. Once their work was done, it was easy to get rid of the corpse.”

  “Put a corpse outside and it will stay frozen until May.”

  “Snow aids those with something to hide. But the body was dissected at the inn, so there were no witnesses, which wouldn’t be the case if it was performed at the hospital. The question is, who ordered servants and guests away from the inn? Someone knew to empty the place of witnesses.”

  The dwarf hunched down in his chair. The room had grown slightly less warm. “The cook told me others had vanished from the inn before the woman died. A kitchen boy. A guest who paid for a week in advance then disappeared after two days. Without collecting a refund. Then the lady innkeeper. People on the street say Russians will kill all the Chinese in Kharbin by infecting them with a secret sickness. Or poison. They say many deaths have been hidden. The Chinese feel threatened.”

  The Baron’s hand tensed around the teacup. His immediate impulse was to argue against these claims, but there would be time and information later.

  He pictured a diagram of the situation. A large circle contained everyone who knew about the dead woman. A second, inner circle contained those who mutilated the woman’s body, placed it in a coffin, disposed of it. In the center circle was the organizer, the string puller, trap setter. Likely a Russian.

  * * *

  Early morning, an overcast sky, the Baron entered the inn at 5 Koreyskaya Street. Unlocked, the door opened into a dim central space. The lanterns were unlit. He sensed the room was large, judging by the temperature. He walked back and propped open the door with a chair so there was more light but there was no discernible change in temperature with the sweep of cold air into the room. The large unrecognizable shapes on the floor became overturned benches and a table shoved at an angle against the far wall. Dishes were scattered on the packed-earth floor. A scene of previous violence. The Japanese innkeeper’s body would have been situated here, in sight of the kitchen, directly under his feet in the center of the room. Blood would have soaked into the floor. What evidence did he imagine would be discovered? Perhaps a witness? He cursed his optimism.

  He called a greeting in Chinese. No answer.

  He entered the corridor cautiously and moved toward the first room, curtained with heavy fabric. It folded into stiff angles as he slowly pulled it aside and ducked into the room. A small altar, a stack of bowls and mats against one wall. He knelt to examine the altar, the edge of the curtain brushing his shoulder. A rustle behind him in the corridor and a man blocked the doorway.

  “Are you the cook? A guest here?” The Baron stood up very slowly, keeping a distance between them, snugging the hood of his coat around his neck as protection.

  The man’s breath heaved and his arms flailed as if he were drowning inside his body. He gripped the curtain to steady himself against the wall. Even in the faint light, his f
ace was visibly flushed, a dark liquid smeared over his chin. The Baron edged toward the door to get past him, avoid being trapped in the room. The stranger coughed repeatedly and gasped, clawing at the Baron’s coat. He twisted free, covering his nose and mouth, and blindly shoved the stranger into the wall, flimsy as a bundle of cloth.

  * * *

  Wind had stripped and tattered the cloth flags in front of shops along Novotorgovaya Street but sturdy signboards had been hammered into storefronts, the walls of buildings, fences, wagons, and secured with rope around newspaper kiosks and lampposts, all of them advertising fortune-telling, fu-ji divination, I-Ching readings, magic charms, cures for fever, chills, aches, coughs, ailments. The messages were like holes made by weapons, proof of battle.

  The Baron and Li Ju walked down four streets and she counted thirty-five signs. They stopped to read a large wooden board, its painted letters legible behind the snow that streaked across it. “A woman recently arrived from Tashinchiao has remedies for lung problems.” The next sign promised a healer from Tientsin would cure all ill health. Fortunes told by a lady from Dairen. Fortunes told by a doctor, teacher, astronomer, scholar, priest.

  She turned to him in fury. “Why didn’t you tell me about these signs?”

  Several people on the street stopped and stared, shocked that a woman would speak to a man in that tone of voice.

  “I didn’t wish to make you unhappy.”

  “Something is wrong. Did you think I’d never see the signs myself? I can read. I’m not a child.”

  He was silent to temper his reply. Not to meet anger with anger. In winter, conversation was fractional. Breathing in was a stab of cold air followed by a freezing rim around the lips as the voice was pushed out. Condensed moisture circled the nostrils, froze the inside of the nose. Ice formed on the eyelashes and eyebrows. He angled his head so Li Ju couldn’t see his face behind the fur hood of his jacket. He’d give her the thinnest reply. “Superstitious fools. Trying to stir up business for themselves.”

  Li Ju answered with an exhale, an angry steam of breath.

  Later, at home, their discarded boots wet on the tile floor, the troubling signs on the street were still between them.

  “Explain the signs to me. They all offer help. Explain what I read.” Li Ju’s face solidified into a patient expression. “You know something. Or have suspicions.” She’d detected his unease.

  “The healers and fortune-tellers are making money from ignorance. The signs are just signs. One sign creates another. Like bubbles.” His words were simple Chinese. When he was under stress, his command of the language faded; he grasped at words, forgetting the inflections at the end that could completely alter their meaning.

  “People are frightened. I’ve heard talk in the market. They say the Russians kill people and steal their lungs, stomach, the guts from the dead, to make medicine. Is this true? Tell me. I’m not afraid.” She could provoke him into a response or confession with a threat of independence.

  The servants were shadows outside the room, listening, waiting to take their coats, mop the wet floor. He lowered his voice. “A group of doctors and nurses from St. Petersburg and hospitals in China will soon arrive.”

  “So they’re here because of what the Russians have done?”

  “General Khorvat isn’t obligated to announce the new medical workers’ roles. The hospital staff will expand but it isn’t clear why this is necessary.” A kind of shame, a lack of confidence, made the skin around his eyes wrinkle. “I was told another doctor has been appointed to the Russian hospital here. A Chinese, Dr. Wu. Educated in England. With his background, this new doctor could be a peacemaker between the Chinese and Russians. The fighting cats and dogs. I just observe for now, since their plans work around me. I don’t know where in the circle I stand.”

  “Will you lose your position with the hospital?”

  His eyes dropped. “Everything will pass.” The gesture of his open hands was typically Russian, a silent code for her to decipher.

  She helped him remove his coat, pulling off the stubborn sleeves one at a time. The bulky, wet fur coat weighed down her arms. “What if the signs are true and there is something to fear?”

  He swung around to face her. “Five bodies have been found in Kharbin. Chinese, and possibly one dead Russian. One of the servants, a kitchen worker at the Railway Club, was taken ill and found dead in the snow after you left the reception.” He was surprised that he’d just described the man as ill rather than murdered. Was this a diagnosis? “Recently, a woman’s body was found in Fuchiatien. She was Japanese, an innkeeper. Her corpse was brutally examined. I don’t know how she died. But I’ll find the answer.” Distress in his voice.

  Li Ju’s eyes widened. “Who will help you?”

  He ignored her indirect reference to his age, which was certainly unintentional. “Messonier has good counsel. We’ve speculated that all the deaths may somehow be linked. But we’re only guessing.” He deliberately didn’t mention his conversation with Messonier about the deaths in Manchouli, Chalainor, and the other train stations.

  The servants came in and bundled their boots and coats away, their faces impassive, although they must have overheard their conversation.

  She closed her eyes, considered this for a moment. “You’re concerned about bodies but not the dead. Because the five unfortunates weren’t buried in their ancestral graves, they’ll have no peace in the afterlife. They are cursed to wander forever as ghosts.”

  “Gospodi-pomiluy,” he whispered. “God have mercy.”

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  “I have work to do at my desk.” He kissed her, then left her alone with news of the woman’s strange death.

  Very late that night, the Baron assembled the tools for calligraphy in his study. He daubed the brush on the inkstone. Waited to relax his shoulders, steady his hand. He was overwhelmed by a formless sensation, almost vertigo, and his hand trembled. The brush fell from his fingers and rolled across the paper, trailing black ink like a violent slash. He stared at the black spoiling the white.

  Anxiety was familiar, like a vine inside his body, holding him upright. He wanted to quit, set the brush aside, as he’d once wished to leave during a lesson when unfairly criticized by his father, but he stubbornly remained at his desk to hide his unhappiness.

  Fate had taken the lives of four men and one woman but they didn’t fall randomly as leaves. It wasn’t coincidence. It was a warning. Their deaths might never be solved. Perhaps it suited the individuals who controlled or monitored the situation.

  After a moment, he picked up the brush, cleaned it, let it slide from his fingers. He stared at the black water, dissolved ink from his brush in the rinse jar. Opaque, deep as a well.

  * * *

  Andreev was his companion at Central Station, the two men dressed identically as the crowd around them in bulky sheepskin coats, their faces half hidden by immense fox-fur hats. Andreev had confirmed the shipment would arrive on the afternoon train from Mukden and the Baron was eager to collect medical supplies ordered months ago. They had spent over an hour in the train station, watching the crowd, drinking tea, their damp coats steaming in the heat from the immense blue-and-white-tile stove in the corner. The Baron resented waiting for the perpetually late trains but Andreev wouldn’t risk the goods being pilfered and then resurfacing later at the market at a higher price. He broke off a chunk of bubliki, a hard roll, and offered it to the Baron.

  “The bread is firm enough to reset your jaw after breaking your teeth. To your health.”

  He waved away Andreev’s offer of bread with a glum expression.

  “Have you made peace with the new corpse?”

  The Baron stared back at him.

  “The corpse at the Railway Club reception. In the snow.”

  “Hardly peace. May God have mercy. Gospodi-pomiluy.” Of course Andreev would know about the death. He was a hovering tiny eye, a fly, a shadow present during secret situations. “I’m prepared for
the investigation promised by General Khorvat.”

  “Any progress with his promise?” By the tone of Andreev’s voice, it was obvious he was aware nothing had happened.

  “There is always another official who lost the paperwork or didn’t receive the paperwork.”

  “We should just get on the next train and leave Kharbin. I doubt the situation will improve.” Andreev dodged a woman dragging a heavy pigskin suitcase. He made no offer of assistance.

  The Baron encouraged this change of subject and asked Andreev if he’d traveled in Manchuria. He’d once mentioned visiting the remote northern territory, the ancestral home of the Manchu.

  “Yes. I made an expedition with a guide. We encountered the Buryat, Oroqen nomads, and the salmon-skin tribe, who wore clothing made from the cured skin of giant river fish. The kaluga sturgeon were enormous. They said some were twice as long as a man. But the worst terror was blackflies. Black clouds that swarmed with a terrible noise like a machine. Our faces were covered with cotton masks, we put thin silk over the eye- and mouth holes, but the flies still got in. We barely uncovered our mouths to eat. The stinging flies drove the horses crazy. It was a wilderness. No place to leave our mark.” Andreev had been focused somewhere else but now his attention locked on the Baron. “Northern Manchuria is no refuge from Kharbin.”

  “Are you considering another expedition?”

  “Only if desperate.”

  The Baron sensed his evasion clearly as if he’d made an about-face. “Now I’m curious.”

  Andreev tossed his head, stirring the feathery thick fur on his hat. “My contacts told me Russian officials have ordered a great quantity of barbed wire.”

  Andreev’s words stuck like tacks in his skin.

  A whistle blast simultaneously brought a low vibration under their feet as the train shook its way onto the tracks behind the station. The crowd immediately swept toward the huge double doors, a force of movement linking the entire room. A wedge of cold entered when the station doors were flung open by a uniformed soldier.