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“Hey, stranger.”
Juliette slid into the diagonal seat, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face, melding it back into her curls. She did not mind being identified here, in Great World. She only needed to mind being seen with the heir of the White Flowers.
Roma kept his gaze on the stage. They were setting up the tightrope now. He wondered how many bones had been broken in this building.
“Have a drink,” he said, pushing his mostly full cup in her direction.
“Is it poisoned?”
At that, Roma jerked his eyes to her, horrified. “No.”
“Missed opportunity, Montagov.” Juliette brought it to her reddened lips. She took a sip. “Stop looking at me.”
Roma looked away. “Did you find anything?” he asked.
“Yet to be determined, but”—she checked a pocket watch; Roma wasn’t sure where she had pulled it out from, seeing as her dress did not give the appearance of pockets—“I may have something in a few minutes more. You go first.”
Roma was too exhausted to argue. If the gangsters in this city were constantly as tired as he was, the blood feud would come to a complete halt within the hour.
“They’re one and the same,” Roma said. “The monster. The madness. If we find the monster, we stop the madness.”
He told her all that had been seen. All that had been deduced.
“That is as good as confirmation,” Juliette exclaimed. Noting the volume her voice had taken, she looked around, then said in a hiss, “We must act—”
“It has only been seen leaving his apartment,” Roma said. “No one has seen Zhang Gutai himself ordering it around.”
“If the monster was seen where Zhang Gutai lives, he must be controlling it.” Juliette would not allow for argument against this. She stabbed a finger down on the table. “Roma, think about it. Think about everything else. This madness keeps growing in waves, and in each wave, it’s always a large group who die first before the insects disperse out into the city. The gangsters by the ports. The White Flowers on the ship. The Frenchmen taking dinner. The businessmen outside the Bund.”
Roma couldn’t deny this. He said, “It seems it’s always gangsters or merchants who are the initial targets.”
“And who else would want these specific groups dead?” Juliette went on. “Who else would take down the capitalists like this? If Zhang Gutai is responsible, if he has the answers to stopping this all, then why would we waste time on other avenues—”
“But it’s useless if he won’t talk—”
“We make him talk,” Juliette exclaimed. “We hold a damn knife to his throat. We torture him for answers. We have not exhausted every avenue with him yet—”
“He’s a Communist.” It was becoming increasingly hard not to turn to Juliette while they argued back and forth. There was something instinctual about turning toward her, like the way all living things shift their attention when there is a loud sound. “He has been trained to keep secrets and take them to the grave. Do you think he is afraid of death?”
What was a threat if you didn’t mean to carry through? If they wanted him to give them the monster, give them a way to stop the havoc he was causing with the madness, then killing Zhang Gutai did nothing save destroy any chance of the city’s salvation. How could they convincingly threaten to kill him if they did not truly wish to?
“If he is the only one who can lead us to the monster,” Roma went on, “I won’t risk us endangering such information. He may prefer to kill himself than to talk. I won’t risk Alisa’s life on such a bet.”
Juliette thinned her lips. She was unhappy, he could tell. She would have continued protesting too, had a Scarlet not approached her at that moment, whispering in her ear.
Roma stiffened, looking away and pulling his hat lower. It was impossible to hear what the Scarlet was saying over the noise in the expansive room, over the hoots from the audience, over the clinking of glasses and the popping of mini fireworks exploding on the stage. From the corner of his eye, he watched the Scarlet hand over a large beige-colored file and a smaller note. With a nod from Juliette, the Scarlet left, leaving her to scan the note. Satisfied, she reached into the file, shaking out the papers within. If Roma was reading the text along the side correctly, it said: SHANGHAI MUNICIPAL POLICE—ARREST FILE—ARCHIBALD WELCH.
“We still have alternate options,” Roma said, when it seemed safe to continue their conversation. “The Larkspur may tell us exactly what we wish to know, may offer the cure we seek. If he does not, only then should we resort to torturing Zhang Gutai on how to stop his monster. Agreed?”
Juliette sighed. “Fine. It is my turn to divulge my findings, then.” She slid the file across the table. It moved fast, sliding smoothly across the flat surface toward Roma until he slammed his hand down on it.
“Archibald Welch,” Roma read aloud, confirming what he thought he had sighted. A mugshot stared up at him: a black-and-white clipping of a man who was staring ahead blankly and had a vicious scar marring a line from his brow to the corner of his lip. “Who is that?”
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sp; Juliette stood from her seat and gestured for them to take their leave. “The only deliveryman who has the Larkspur’s address. And if his history of arrests is any indication, he frequents the most dangerous place in Shanghai every Thursday.”
Roma quirked a brow. “Today is Thursday.”
