The Shanghai P.I. and the Big White Ape

Michael Panush

I was sitting in my office watching the traffic move outside the window and not moving myself. I cleaned my guns a dozen times, got a bottle of gin down to the halfway mark, smoked a pack of luckies and then a pack more and wondered what I had done in a former to deserve this. There’s this friend of mine, you see, a Buddhist fellow, and he believes that we all come back from former lives to replay the same sad drama again and again, like reruns of a radio show everyone’s heard before and they’re only playing cause they ain’t got nothing else. I figure I must have done some bad things, but then I thought about my time in the war and I realized that I’ve been enough in this current life to deserve a lot worse than what I was getting. That helped my feelings not a bit, but it made time pass.

Just as I was thinking of heading down to the Imperial Club to see what trouble I could stir up, this world-class rube with his ten-year-old kid in tow walks into my office. He looked across the small expanse of my desk and its countless cigarette butts, half empty shot glasses, crumpled sheets of paper and the other detritus of a hard-working man. “Excuse me, Mr. Flynn,” he said, his voice a little nervous. “I was just wondering if you did bodyguard work?”

“What do you needing guarding?” I said. I leaned back and put my feet on the table as I eyeballed the rube. He was a thin youngish man, with curly brown hair under his bowler hat and a neat vest, tie, and suit. He wore thick glasses and clasped his hands while he talked. I looked at his kid and noted the resemblance. He wore a vest and thin tie under his jacket, had the same curly brown hair and thick glasses as his old man, though his face was freckled and he wore a fisherman’s cap instead of a porkpie. I pointed a lit cigarette at his kid. “I don’t do baby-sitting.”

“I’m not asking you too.” The thin fellow held out his hand. “My name is Charles Green. I’m a freelance journalist.”

I shook his hand and offered his boy and him a seat and a drink. They took the seats. “Well, Mr. Green. I’d say we’re in the same business. Other people’s.”

Charles Green laughed at that. “Could be, Mr. Flynn. I work in occult and paranormal, as well as social and economic issues. Currently I write for the Weekly Worker.”

“Weekly Worker?” I took another drag on my cigarette and downed the drink I’d offered myself. “Ain’t that a commie rag?”

“We are not connected to the Communist Party, not after 1920,” Green said firmly. “I was in Russia during the revolution, as an assistant to Jack Reed. The things I saw carried out against the common people in the name of the revolution was an insult to Marx and humanity. I’m no Bolshevik, Mr. Flynn.”

“I wasn’t saying you were. But I do know folks like you, who piss off the Stalins, Hitlers and J. Edgars of the world, always are an need of bodyguards. Problem is, they don’t have the means to pay for them.” I raised an eyebrow. “I may live cheaply, but I don’t come that way.” Just by looking at my face Green could tell what sort of a man I am. I’ve got the scars of a lifetime around my tired eyes, close-cropped brown hair and a crushed nose. I wear a worn trench coat and bent fedora, a loose tie and dirty shirt. I look like trouble, which is what I cause.

“I have the means to pay you.” He named a sum that was music to my ears. “My family controls the Winston’s Dry Goods chain. I’m not a businessman, and I’ve turned over my company to those that are, but I still receive more than enough money to provide a comfortable life for my family while following my career as a journalist.” He put a hand on the small boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Oswald. He’s been asking to accompany me on one of my travels for a long time, and I think this trip will be good for him. His mother agreed, finally, but she wants him to be safe, and so do I.”

“I don’t do baby-sitting,” I repeated.

“I’m eleven years old, sir,” Oswald Green offered. His voice was soft and quivering, but it still rang with defiance. “I’m not really a baby.”

Charles smiled and patted his son’s shoulder. “It’s for both of us. I’m not a man of violence, and I fear violence will follow me.”

“Do you carry a rod?” I asked.

“No. I refuse to.” Charles placed his hands in his empty pockets. “I’ve seen quite a lot of violence during my youth and I will not cause it.” He folded his hands. “Do you think that makes me weak?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “Frankly, I think you’re a world-class rube. Dragging your kid to a town like this without bringing a heater along, stirring up trouble with your muckraking and hiring a heavy-handed mug like me to watch your back. But then again, you got a lot of cash, and that makes the world go round.” I held out my hand. “I’m yours, Mr. Green.”

“Thank you,” Charles Green shook my hand and stood up. He pulled a watch from his coat and checked it. “Now, if you don’t have anything else to do, I’d like you to accompany me and my boy to a press conference at the German embassy.”

I looked at my desk. “Gee. My schedule’s packed.” I pulled open a drawer to reveal a pair of colt .45 automatics and slid them into the twin shoulder holsters under my trench coat. Oswald’s eyes stared at the shiny silver guns. I pulled one out, pointed it at the floor and pulled the trigger. He jumped as the gun clicked.

“Are those real?” Oswald whispered, his eyes wide.

“Nah. But the wounds they make are.” I slid it back into its holsters.

“Mr. Flynn.” Charles Green didn’t look amused. “I’m not paying you to frighten my son.”

“That’s comes free of charge.” I grinned at my joke and opened the door to my office. “After you,” I offered.

Together we walked down the stairs of office building, skipping the busted elevator and hitting the street with no hassle. Charles Green shielded his eyes from the sun as Oswald looked utterly amazed at the numbers and variety of humanity strewn before him. “You don’t think this town is really that tough, do you?” Charles asked as I flagged a rickshaw down.

I looked out at the streets of Shanghai. Towering skyscrapers in the latest art deco style stood next to packed slums and bamboo huts. The streets were a riot of automobiles, rickshaws, wagons, wandering domestic animals and screeching pedestrians of every nationality. Palm trees and other plants sprouted wild, just like the shadowy figures lurking in every alley. British, Americans, French, Germans, and every other type of westerner strode down the streets like they were personally insulting the failed Boxer Rebellion. Indians, Japanese, and Russians were there in equal number. Hell, there was even in the occasional Chinaman in western or traditional dress. “Let me tell you, Mr. Green,” I said as our rickshaw’s runner pounded his sandaled feet on the pavement. “For a detective like me, there ain’t no burg tougher.”

As we headed to the German Consulate, we entered the kraut section of town. The Nazis owned a sizeable portion of Shanghai, but they chose to have their consulate in the Bund along with the International Settlement and most of the other foreign joints. This was the classy part of town, and if a Chinaman wanted to show his face, it had better be a handsome one in a Western suit with the pockets full of cash. I looked at all the well-dressed ambassadors, tourists, other upper crust Shanghailanders in their resplendent suits and swank dresses, and realized I could relate.

“So,” I ventured. “What do the Germans got that the readers of the Weekly Worker want to know about? I didn’t think you Reds get along well with the Goose-Steppers.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Charles Green said. “An expedition of the Ahnenerbe Society, the Reich’s archaeologists and worse, recently returned from a well-financed expedition to the Himalayas. Apparently, they found what they were looking for.” Green stared at me over his glasses. “I was able to meet some of the Sherpas who worked on the expedition earlier today. They told me some very interesting things.” He left it at that and so did I.

“Dad, do you really think there’s going to be trouble?” little Oswald asked.

“There could be.” Charles comforted his son. “But Mr. Flynn is with us and he will keep us safe.”

“That’s what I do,” I agreed. “I’ve been a sailor, a soldier, a boxer, and more. But in every career, including this one, my fists and trigger fingers never got time to rest.” I grinned. “Don’t worry, kid.”

The Rickshaw driver stopped in front of the German Consulate, an imposing joint coated in swastika-emblazoned flags and similar symbols. A whole platoon of uniformed soldiers stood outside, their rifles held high.

I nodded to them as we walked in through the front door. A press conference had been set up right in the front room, a large chamber done in excellent imperial style with only the red and black of the flags for variety’s sake and I looked over the large crowd seating itself. They were staring expectantly at the stage. A balding heavyset man covered in enough runic medals to make him sink looked over the crowd from a podium like he owned them.

“Karl Maria Wilgut,” Charles Green whispered to me and Oswald, sounding angry. “Himmler’s Rasputin, they call him. He’s traveled across the world after occult artifacts and knowledge, slaughtering anything in his way.”

“Sounds like a fun guy,” I offered. I looked at Charles and then at his son. “Say, are you boys Jews?” Before he could answer, Wilgut cleared his throat and the press conference was on. We all sat down and Charles produced a notepad and pen from his coat pocket. Oswald kept on staring at the soldiers, in their black leather trench coat, swastika armbands and stahlhelms. Those jackbooted killers, SS from the lightning bolts on their collars and the Death’s Heads on their officer’s peaked caps, would be scary enough for anybody, but they were nightmares in the flesh for Jews. Charles Green was either very brave or very stupid.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Wilgut announced and the crowd fell silent. He voice had a thick German accent and a raspy lilt. “I have come before as one who has made a great discovery! Recently, I led an expedition to the impassable Himalayas! Through Aryan Might, we persevered and accomplished our goal-that of locating the legendary proto-Aryan.”

Wilgut nodded as hands shot up. He called a blonde bearded Frenchman in the front row. “Bernard Heuvelmans, cryptozoologist,” the Frenchman said. “If you’ll pardon my skepticism, Herr Wilgut, how do we know you are not lying. After all, your kind are not averse to using treachery to further their goals, as I’m sure the people of Austria and the SA found out to their detriment.”

At first, I thought Wilgut was gonna pull the luger from his holster and let answer Heuvelmans in bullets, but instead he cracked a smile. “There is no hoax, I assure you. In fact, I asked you all here so that the world will know the superiority of the German Race. We have captured the Proto-Aryan and will reveal the flawless Teutonic lineage in its savage form!”

Heuvelmans nodded. “I apologize, Herr Wilgut but I cannot decipher the terms you’re using. What exactly is a Proto-Aryan?”

I was wondering the same thing myself, so I was a bit relieved when Wilgut clapped his hands and a large cage covered with a large cloth was wheeled out from behind the stage. Then I saw the men pulling it and more important things filled my mind. The first was a weasel-like man with a thin goatee, dressed in the black trench coat. I didn’t know him from Adam, but the fellow next to him I knew from the devil himself, and it wasn’t a favorable comparison. He had a thick Kaiser Bill Moustache and wore full uniform, a pair of mauser pistols at his belt as well as a large saber.

I guess the recognition appeared on my face because Charles Green turned to me. “Do you know him?” he asked.

“Bruse,” I whispered. “Yeah, I know him. We met up during the Great War. I still got the scars, and I know he does.”

“Baron Von Bruse, head of Wilgut’s private SS guard,” Green explained to Oswald. “Don’t worry, Mr. Flynn. We have no need to fight him.”

“He might not see it that way.” My attention went back to the stage. Wilgut was introducing his two pals.

“Baron Von Bruse, my military assistant and a proud specimen of Teutonic breeding,” Wilgut said reverently. “And Dr. Klaus Stenstaul, expert of zoology and subhuman studies at the Berlin. Also, Hitler’s personal podiatrist.” Wilgut circled the cage, ratcheting up the drama. “The Proto-Aryan is known, to the majority of the world, as the mi-go, the abominable snowman, the Yeti.” The audience gasped. “It was thought to be superstition of the mountain peoples, until now. Ladies and gentlemen, the Reich brings you-the Yeti!”

With a flourish, Karl Wilgut pulled aside the cloth and let us look into the cage. I eyeballed the beasts inside and even though I’ve seen it all enough times to make me sick, I was impressed. There were two of the big guys in there, one a head taller than the other, and both of them head, shoulders, and chest above even a tall person. They had thick snow white hair, large yellowish teeth, and claws like curved switchblades set in a row. Soon as the cloth was gone, the big white apes hurled themselves against the steel bars of their prison. They were either trying to smash their way out or beat themselves to death, I couldn’t be sure. Stenstaul shouted orders in German, and several soldiers stepped up with cattle prods. A few bursts of electricity and the Yetis were calmed.

I looked over at Oswald and found him shivering slightly at the cruelty the Nazis were dishing out. The son of a rich, liberal reporter like him hadn’t been around the block enough times to see much wrong with the world, and I guess this was a rude awakening. Charles Green merely looked angry, his lip set in a firm line.

“Herr Wilgut!” he announced, raising his hand. “Charles Green, Weekly Worker. Is it true that you continually harassed these animals, used murder and intimidation against your native bearers and slaughtered an entire monastery of Tibetan monks to steal their sacred creatures?”

Wilgut frowned as the crowd started murmuring. The Nazis had no problem making themselves up like barbarians, but Green had pointed it out for everyone. “The Weekly Worker?” Wilgut finally asked. “That is a series of communist lies and nothing more!” He pounded his fist on the podium. “You are no more than a wretched Jew, attempting to sabotage the glorious achievements of the Aryan people!” I guess he got himself worked enough to want us worked over. “Remove him from my sight!” he shouted.

Several SS guards stepped up, their rifles trained on Charles Green. He stood up and raised his hands. “Please,” he said. “There’s no need. I’ll go peacefully. Come on, Oswald.” His boy sat there like a statue, stunned by all the rifle muzzles waiting to receive him. Together, Green and I helped Oswald up and then we walked outside. The SS boys followed us, sliding their rifles back on their shoulders and talking amongst themselves in German. I knew there was gonna be trouble.

It came sooner than I thought. Just as we got outside, one of the Nazis stepped up and blocked our way to the bustling sidewalk. He had bright blue eyes radiating hatred. “Jew.” He said it like he was getting ready to spit. “Rotten Jew.”

Oswald turned pale and shivered like a feather in the wind. His father grimly stared at his feet and refused to meet the SS thug’s eyes. “Please get out of my way,” he said. “I’m leaving peacefully, there’s no reason to assault me and my son.”

The SS trooper spat in Charles Green’s face and drew his luger. He placed it against Oswald’s pale forehead and grinned wider. “Jew,” he taunted.

“Dad…” Oswald whispered.

At this point I decided to start earning my pay. I pushed myself between the gun and the boy, blocking the luger with my own body. “You got a lovely smile, kraut,” I said. “Shame if my knuckles got caught in it.”

He snarled and shouted something in German to his buddies. They surrounded me, six of the bruisers backing him up. None of them had roscoes drawn except the bum in front of me, but they were spoiling for a fight. Too bad I was gonna spoil their fun.

“Shame,” I said, looking at the kraut’s snarl. “I liked your smile better.” My fist shot out and rammed into his face. Teeth flew through the air like confetti as I grabbed his gun hand and pushed it downward. He fired impulsively and shot one of his toes off. As he hopped away in pain I shoved my elbow back and crushed a nose, ducked a gloved fist and responded with a head butt to the chest that sent my assault down. I kicked a groin, kneed a forehead, and twisted an arm around until something important inside snapped. By the time I was finished a semi-circle of Germans lay in front of me, all of them howling out their misery for all of Shanghai to hear.

But I heard something else- a dozen bolt-action rifles preparing to fire. I turned around and raised my hands. “Easy boys,” I said. “Just passing time.”

“Gottverdammter Amerikaner.” I turned and found the blue-eyed kraut next to me, his luger aimed at my chest. “I will kill you!”

“You lost your smile and your toe,” I said. “Your life’s next.”

He didn’t listen. I knew I would have to act fast and I did. I ducked low and reached a hand into my coat. I heard little Oswald gasp the second before two gunshots split through the noise of the Bund. My hat flipped off and fell to the ground, a bullet hole in the brim. The blue-eyed SS Man toppled over backwards, a slug in his brain.

I turned around to the rifleman. “Anyone else?”

“I’ll volunteer.” It was Baron Von Bruse. He had come to join his men and had me covered with twin mausers. I noticed each one was gold-plated. The Baron had done okay for himself since the Great War. “Hello, Herr Flynn.”

“Guten Tag, Bruse,” I said. “What’s the rumpus?”

“You’ve killed a German national.”

“Self-defense.” I holstered my automatic. “Me, Mr. Green, and Master Green were just leaving. Maybe you should do the same.”

Bruse met my eyes for a second and my victory-induced bravado left me like rats leaving a sinking ship. They didn’t come tougher then Baron Von Bruse, and I had already bitten off more than I could chew. “Leave,” he said. He didn’t have to ask twice.