Heart of Lies by M. L. Malcolm Page A

Mitchell, a perfect place to begin one’s life anew.
    The best asset a fugitive could bring to Shanghai to aid him in the metamorphosis from hunted and haunted to secure and wealthy was a sizeable bankroll. The second was a good supply of raw luck. Leo had arrived in Shanghai with both.
     
    Six months earlier the Shanghai weather had been in the throes of its opposite but equally uncomfortable extreme. Shanghai’s winters brought with them a damp, insidious cold that bore no resemblance to the invigorating briskness of a Hungarian winter. Dozens of beggars froze to death every night, their stiff bodies stretched alongside automobiles equipped with sable lap rugs to keep their affluent occupants cozy. The only decent thing about winter in Shanghai was that it did not last long.
    Despite the uninviting temperature, on the day of his arrival in Shanghai Leo had abandoned his small cabin just after sunrise. He found a little-used corner of the deck and waited, wanting to catch a glimpse of the land that might mean his salvation.
    For the five long weeks of the voyage, he’d kept to himself, engaging in civil conversation when necessary, but unwilling to risk making the acquaintance of any of his fellow passengers. He did not disembark at any of the ship’s ports of call, so that he did not have to show his passport to anyone other than the ship’s bursar. He wanted to make sure that no one would remember him, or be able to identify him: that no one could connect him with a murder in Paris. For the time being, he needed to be left alone.
    Given his desire for privacy, Leo was not pleased when he saw a cashmere-clad passenger saunter out into the cold air of early dawn. Before Leo could withdraw, the new arrival spotted him and headed his way, ready for a conversation.
    “Good morning, Cosgrove is the name. Lawrence Cosgrove.” The trim, middle-aged Englishman offered Leo his gloved hand. Leo shook it, barely meeting Cosgrove’s eyes as he did so.
    The Englishman paused, puzzling over the lack of a reaction on Leo’s part. “I say,” he said, with some hesitation, “you do speak English, don’t you?”
    Leo reconsidered his cool response. He did not want to insult anyone; he just wanted to be ignored. This man would not forget him if he behaved too rudely. A small smile of resignation skirted Leo’s mouth as he replied politely, but without enthusiasm.
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Ah, good. I thought so.” Cosgrove looked relieved. He went on.
    “I don’t speak anything but my mother tongue. Well, I can manage in a French restaurant, you know, but I’m not what you would call conversational. In French, that is. First time to Shanghai?”
    “Yes, it is.” This man Cosgrove seemed determined to chat. Leo would have to let him blather on for a bit before excusing himself.
    “Well, you’re about to get your first peek at Chinese soil,” the garrulous gentleman continued, inclining his head toward the blue-gray waves rocking the ship. “The sea water will change color soon.”
    This piqued Leo’s curiosity. “Really? Does the water become that shallow so far from shore?” He colored his normally perfect English accent with a trace of French, and a touch of German. He did not want to give away his origins.
    “No, my lad. It’s the mud of the Yangtze delta. Seeps out from the river and stains the ocean a sort of yellowy brown for miles out. Lets you know what you’re up against, in a way. Mud from the river stains the sea, stains the soul. Shanghai is that kind of place.”
    Leo smiled despite himself. “Are you a missionary, then?”
    “Good God, no. Although Shanghai attracts a veritable army of them, and for good reason. As one busy man of the cloth said, ‘If God lets Shanghai survive, then he owes an apology to Sodom and Gomorrah.’”
    Leo did not find this comforting. “Is it really that bad?”
    Cosgrove nodded. “Oh, yes. But it’s also an excellent place to make money. I’m an architectural