None of the men jumped to answer her. Perhaps the Bolshevik’s speech onstage was far too captivating. Perhaps they were simply scared.
“You claim to be heralds of equality.” Kathleen tapped her foot on a discarded flyer lying upon the ground. The big, bold text was bleeding ink, soaked with droplets of someone’s spilled tea. “Live up to your claim. Allow me to expose Zhang Gutai for the false scoundrel he is. No one needs to know that the information came from you. I don’t even know your names. You are anonymous soldiers for justice.”
A beat passed. These men were itching to tell her. She could see it in the glint of their eyes, the frenzy of the high that came when one thought they were doing good in th
e world. The Bolshevik onstage took a bow. The hall erupted in a wave of applause.
Kathleen waited.
“You want to write a study on his power?” The man closest to her leaned in. “Understand this: Zhang Gutai is not powerful. He has a monster doing his bidding.”
A cold draft wafted into the room. With the applause dying, the audience grew quiet once more.
“What?”
“We saw it,” the second one said firmly. “We saw it leave his apartment. He sends it out like a leashed demon to kill those who upset him.”
“The whole Party knows,” the third man added, “but no one speaks against dishonor while the tide rushes forward in our preferred direction. Who would dare?”
Under the technicolor shadows of the stained windows, the whole audience seemed to shift forward, awaiting the next speaker while the stage remained empty. Kathleen might have been the only one turned in another direction.
These men think sightings of the monster cause madness, she realized. They thought the monster to be an assassin on Zhang Gutai’s instruction, killing those who looked upon it. But then how did the insects play into the equation? Why had Juliette been muttering on about lice-like creatures spreading madness instead?
“That sounds like power to me,” Kathleen remarked.
“Power is something achievable by few.” A shrug. “Anyone can be the master to a monster should their heart be wicked enough.”
The room suddenly roared with havoc, jostling chairs and screeching sounds echoing into the sonorous space. Suddenly Kathleen remembered hearing the faraway sirens and brushing them off, but indeed, they had been sirens, bringing with them enforcement that did not enforce law at all, only the way that things were. This was White Flower territory. They paid the garde municipale here a mighty amount to keep the gangsters in power, which included storming the meetings of Communists, storming every attempt this party made in their progress toward igniting revolution and eradicating gangster rule.
“Halt immediately and put your hands up,” one of the officers boomed.
The activity only erupted further as people streamed out the doors and dove under tables. Dimly, Kathleen considered doing the same, but an officer was already marching right for her, his expression set on harassment.
“Venez avec moi,” the officer demanded. “Ne bougez pas.”
Kathleen made a contemplative noise. “Non, monsieur, j’ai un rendezvous avec quelqu’un.”
The officer jumped in surprise. He hadn’t expected the Parisian accent. He himself did not have the features of the white French commonly seen in the Concession. Like so many other officers in the garde municipale, he was only a product of French rule, shipped up for his labor from Annam or any one of the various countries south of China that had not managed to keep the foreigners out of its government.
“Maintenant, s’il vous plaît,” the officer snapped, his hackles visibly rising with Kathleen’s insolence. All around them, Communists were being pushed to the ground and rounded up. Those who had not run off fast enough would be processed and placed on a list, names to watch should the Party grow any bigger and need culling.
“Ah, leave her be.”
Kathleen whipped around, her frown heavy. Marshall was waving the officer off, waving a hand adorned with a ring that quite clearly belonged within the collection of Montagov heirlooms. The ring glinted in the light and the officer’s irate expression dulled. He cleared his throat and left to hassle the next nearest victim.
“Why did you do that?” Kathleen asked. “Why do you offer your help when it has not been requested?”
Marshall shrugged. From out of nowhere, he seemed to have conjured a glistening red apple. “They step on us enough. I wish to aid.” He took a bite out of his apple.
Kathleen tugged at her jacket. If she pulled any harder, the fabric would permanently have a wrinkle to it.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked coldly. “The garde municipale is on your side. They will never step on you.”
“Of course they do.” Marshall smiled, but this time it did not reach his eyes. “They all do. They cannot wait to polish their shoes and stomp down with finality. People like us are dying every day.”
Kathleen did not move.
Marshall took no notice of her discomfort. He went on, gesturing around with his apple.