Read Online Jack of Spies by David Downing - Free Book Online Page A

was that, he thought once back outside—there was no need to think about
Ghadar
again until he reached San Francisco. He wasn’t sure whether he felt relieved at ducking a chore or annoyed that a possible payday had eluded him. A bit of both probably. At least he could concentrate on looking after his brother and finding Caitlin Hanley.
    But first there was the matter of his wardrobe. He walked back up past Trinity Cathedral to Nanking Road and took a tram heading west. The tailor’s shop he’d used on his last visit was at the eastern end of Bubbling Well Road, across from the Race Club, and seemed unchanged from five years earlier. Li Ch’ün was still standing over his cutting table, scissors in hand, pins lined up between his lips. He not only recognized McColl but even remembered his name.
    “I don’t think I’m any fatter,” McColl said as Li took his measurements with a tape labeled MADE IN BIRMINGHAM .
    “Half inch maybe,” Li Ch’ün decided. “Look fabrics,” he ordered.
    McColl chose two and saw no point in haggling over a few pennies. He arranged to pick up the suits in a couple of days and told Li Ch’ün to expect a visit from his younger brother, Jed.
    “I give good deal,” the Chinese man promised, helping McColl into his coat.
    A tram clanged to a halt as he reached the stop, and he climbed aboard, running the usual gauntlet of Chinese stares. The racing grounds slipped past on the right, and soon they were passing the town hall and back among the European shops on Nanking Road, where a posse of businessmen’s wives were window-shopping for jewelry. Where would she be staying? In one of the better Chinese hotels, as she had in Peking? There were so many more of them in Shanghai.
    He decided he would try the European establishments first, if only because their number was limited. The Kalee, the Burlington, and Bickerton’s were all within an easy walk, and then there was Astor House, the city’s most exclusive hotel, on the other side of Soochow Creek. Surely no self-respecting suffragette would stay there?
    There was also the Hotel des Colonies in the French concession, and probably others he hadn’t heard of. It might make more sense to hang around the Shanghai Club and ask any fellow Americans that he ran into.
    Four hotels and two hours later, he passed between the two Sikh doormen and entered the club, intent on lunch. The food was disappointing, and expensive by Shanghai standards; more to the point, no one had news of his quarry. Two of the Americans he approached were certain she was still in Peking, while one was convinced she’d already gone home.
    He left, walked south down the Bund, then turned inland along the canal that marked the border between the French and International concessions. The Hotel des Colonies was on the Rue du Consulat, but she wasn’t staying there either. He was back on the pavement, wondering where to start with the Chinese hotels, when he saw her across the street, in animated discussion with a rickshaw coolie.
    Though “discussion,” as McColl soon discovered, was something of a misnomer. She wanted a ride to an authentic Chinese teahouse, and either the man couldn’t understand her or he wassimply refusing to comply, on the not-unreasonable grounds that single European women did not visit such places.
    It turned out to be the former.
    “I didn’t know you spoke Chinese,” she said, almost indignantly.
    He seized his chance. “I know a teahouse not far from here. Will you let me buy you tea?”
    “A real one? One that the Chinese use?”
    “I promise,” he said. “If there are any other Europeans, we’ll leave immediately.”
    She smiled at that and allowed him to help her into the rickshaw. She was wearing a long, black coat over a crimson blouse and an ankle-length gray skirt, but no hat. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, stray wisps hanging over her ears.
    McColl told the bemused coolie where they were going—a teahouse he knew just