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 face 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.