the matter?' he asked sarcastically after Denton had declined everything on the first two ships. 'Don't you have any vices? Not even one?'
'I don't smoke or drink really,' Denton apologised uncomfortably, afraid of exposing himself to Mason's mockery, and simultaneously ashamed of his fear. It was true, he didn't smoke or drink (he'd signed the pledge at the Band of Hope when he was seventeen), but he was also thinking of the regulation he'd studied in the third, tan, pamphlet Mr Brown had given him, in which the acceptance of gifts of any description from persons dealing directly or indirectly with the Customs Service was expressly forbidden. On the third ship, a British India Steam Navigation tramp steamer, its hull dented and rusty, Mason seemed to divine this thought of Denton's. 'Well if you don't smoke yourself, you could at least take a cigar or two for your pals,' he muttered peevishly as the agent, a slight, young Chinese in a dark blue gown, with swift, shining eyes, offered them three cigars each. 'Or is it the rules that are stopping you? You needn't worry about them, nobody gives a tinker's cuss about a few cigars, you know!' He sniffed one of the cigars he'd taken himself, but said nothing, merely raising his brows in derisive amazement, when Denton again refused the cigars offered to him.
It was on that ship that Denton first saw opium. Mason carelessly ordered the opium consignment opened and took some of the dense-packed brown stuff in his fingers to smell it. 'Here, have a sniff.' He held it out to Denton. 'Best quality Indian. Worth a packet, even after tax.'
Denton's nose wrinkled at the rich, greasy smell, which he realised then he'd already encountered in faint whiffs on the waterfront and in some of the streets he'd passed along. Mason suddenly reached forward to tuck a few shreds under the flap of Denton's pocket. 'There you are,' he laughed, one eye on the agent. 'Smuggle some ashore.'
The agent chuckled obsequiously, his dark eyes glistening, while Mason went back into the saloon to compute the tax.
When they'd finished with all the ships berthed at the quays, they boarded a waiting Customs launch flying the Imperial Chinese pennant. 'Alexander the First,' Mason ordered the coxswain, a tubby Chinese with a rolling double chin that gave him a comfortable, jolly look. 'Number four buoy.' Mason held four fingers up in front of the coxswain's nose to ram the number home. 'Number four, all right?'
They went forward as the clanking engine started, dark smoke spurting up from the single grimy funnel. The sun was just setting over the skyline, a collection of long roofs and chimneys, black and sharp-edged against the great disc that sank further with every second, like a slowly-winking angry eye.
'That's the French Concession over there,' Mason nodded.
Denton gazed at the buildings, lower, older and shabbier than the merchant palaces along the International Settlement's Bund. 'Is it interesting?' he asked.
'Depends what you're looking for,' Mason glanced enigmatically at him from under slyly lowered lids.
Denton didn't speak again until the closing eye of the sun had vanished behind the buildings in the west. The sky still smouldered, reflecting its glow upon the smooth brownish waters of the river. He glanced back at the International Settlement, growing a dusky mauve and blurred already behind them. 'I wonder where the nearest church is?' he said unguardedly, half-aloud.
'What?' Mason turned to look at him as though he though he must have misheard. 'What church?'
'Well, the Church of England.'
'God knows.' He guffawed suddenly at his unintended witticism, and then repeated it to ensure Denton appreciated it too. 'God knows. And if He doesn't, who would, eh? There are dozens of 'em. Why? Thinking of getting married?'
'I'll ... I'll need to know for Sunday,' Denton muttered as if grudgingly confessing to some embarrassing frailty.
'Will you now?' Mason glanced at him, then looked down at the water. 'Personally I'd rather do something enjoyable on Sundays,' he said at last, drily, brushing the ends of his moustache lightly upwards with the back of his knuckle. Then he took out one of the cigars he'd been given and turned away from the wind to light it, smoking in silence as they drew nearer to the Russian liner.
Denton watched a blue sack-like thing floating in the water just ahead, wallowing almost below the surface. It slowly turned, rose, and sank as though it were being gently rolled and tugged from below. Mason had seen it too, and was leaning forward on the rail.
'It looks like a body,' Denton said.
'It is a body,' Mason answered coolly. He called out to the coxswain and the launch slackened speed.
Mason was right. It was a body, floating face down, its trousers and shirt darkened by the water and glistening slightly as it broke the surface. The queue, still neatly plaited, snaked away from the head like a piece of sodden black rope.
Denton's pulse quickened and he found himself holding his breath while he gazed at the submerged face, as if he himself were under the water. The coxswain fetched a boat hook and tried to hook the corpse's shirt with it. But the hook caught in the putrid flesh beneath and a piece flaked off like sodden pastry. A dark thick liquid oozed out.
'Phew!' Mason threw his cigar away. It landed with a little hiss in the water a few feet from the body. 'Can bring on board? Bring topside?'
'No can do.' The tubby coxswain laughed almost gaily, except that at the same time his eyes were mournful. 'He go open, open.' He closed his hands then flapped them open several times to express how the body would disintegrate if they touched it.
'Let him go then,' Mason said, waving dismissively. 'Or her. Can't tell, can you?'
The coxswain gave an obedient little shove to the corpse, pushing it under. It sank slowly, rolling on its side, then slowly rose again, rolling back, so that its greenish, eyeless face gaped at them for a moment, the flesh half gone. It was like a last silent scream for help.
The coxswain walked back to the wheelhouse, trailing the boat hook in the water to clean it. The engine clanked clamorously and they steamed on.
'That's one the slops didn't find,' Mason said, his nose still wrinkled above his ginger moustache. 'They pick up the corpses by the docks every morning. That one must've floated out. Been in a few days too, by the look of it, although they do rot pretty fast in this weather. Enough to put you off your grub, isn't it?'
Denton swallowed a little sour tide of nausea that was rising up his throat. 'What d'you think happened?' he asked.
Mason shrugged. 'There are usually a hundred or so bumping along the quays every morning. The slops have a special boat with nets to catch 'em with. Like trawling for fish.'
'A hundred?'
'About that, yes. Hunger, disease, gang-fights, ordinary murders and robberies - they all end up in the river. Nice and convenient. Some of our informers end up there too.'
'Informers?'
'How d'you think we nab the smugglers then?' He laughed shortly. 'We'd never get 'em, the likes of you and me. The Chinks are too crafty for us. It takes a Chink to see through a Chink. We have to buy tips. They'd sell their best friend for fifty dollars, too. That's how we do it.'
Soon they came alongside the gleaming white hull of the Alexander the First. The gangway trembled and swayed under Mason's weight as he clambered heavily up the steps. The agent was waiting for them at the top, an older man this time, dressed in a long silk gown with full sleeves and wearing a little round hat on his head. 'Good evening, Mista' May-song,' he smiled, affably rather than deferentially, giving a ceremonious bow that seemed almost mocking as he held out the cargo manifest courteously in both hands. The little fingernail of his left hand was long and curving, like some bird's talon.
'Evening, Mr Ching.' Mason replied with a grudging surly politeness himself. 'My assistant, Mr Denton.'
The agent bowed with the same mocking ceremony. 'Good evening, Mr Den-tong, how are you do?' His voice was high and loud, with none of the deference of the other agents.
Denton nodded and smiled awkwardly. He noticed how pale the man's skin was, as though it had never been in the sun, and wondered