Shanghai Secrets

by Sulari Gentill

  “I take it they were less than forthcoming.”

  “They were positively standoffish, sir.”

  “What on earth did you say to them?” Edna asked.

  “I asked if any of them had anything to do with the murder of Alexandra Romanova.”

  “That was possibly a little too direct, Mr. Wing.”

  “I didn’t have much time—Mr. Van Hagen had seen me. I believe I must have offended them.”

  “I expect you’re right.” Rowland frowned. “Still, attacking you was unnecessary. I think I might call on them myself tomorrow.”

  “Are you all right, Mr. Wing?” Edna asked. “Perhaps we should send for a doctor?”

  Wing shook his head. “I am perfectly well.” He squinted his good eye at Rowland, and then Milton and Clyde. “Did you go see the band too?”

  They recounted what had happened when they called on Sergei Romanov. Harjeet, who’d been bringing in yet another dish, turned on her brother. “What were you doing when this was happening, Ranjit? Why did you not help?”

  “I did not know.” Singh held up his hands. “Or else I would certainly have done something.”

  It was Wing’s turn to snort.

  “We were on the landing above the street.” Edna came to Singh’s defence, exaggerating the truth a little to protect him from Harjeet’s ire. “Mr. Singh was parked miles away.”

  “What use is a driver who parks the car miles from where you must be?” Harjeet shook her head.

  But Singh refused to be offended by his sister’s barbs. “Next time you must call me,” he told Edna. “I will make sure no harm comes to any of you. I am good for more than driving the getaway vehicle.”

  Edna smiled. “Sergei was just mad with grief, Mr. Singh. He’s quite sweet really…just terribly sad.”

  “May I remind you he clocked Rowly with a flaming violin!” Clyde insisted.

  Edna’s brow furrowed as she thought of the Russian. “I forgot about the violin—I expect he won’t be able to work without it.”

  Clyde’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Bit odd that he would be so reckless with his only means of employment.”

  “I don’t believe he was thinking clearly at the time,” Rowland said.

  Still, Clyde was uneasy. “I dunno know, mate. You’ve been drunk before. You’ve never hit anyone with one of your paintings.”

  Rowland shrugged. “I don’t generally open the door with a canvas in my hands. I may well have otherwise. In fact, I have a few landscapes that would be better weapons than they are paintings.”

  “A painting wouldn’t really be the best thing for that purpose.” Milton helped himself to more rice. “Not unless it was framed. You’d be much better belting someone with your easel.”

  “Or a paintbrush.” Rowland launched an imaginary dart in the poet’s direction. “A well-aimed paintbrush could do some damage.”

  Clyde gave up. Clearly the conversation was going nowhere sensible. Instead he raised their meeting with Andrew Petty and the ball which would be hosted by the Japanese wool buyers.

  “A ball?” Edna looked up. “Would you like me to come with you, Rowly?”

  “I was rather hoping you would. It might be easier to avoid talking business if I have someone with whom to dance.”

  Edna smiled. “How could I turn down such a gallant invitation?”

  Rowland laughed. “I’d rather dance with you than do anything in the world, Miss Higgins, and I’d be honoured, not to mention eternally grateful, if you’d allow me to escort you to this party. If you consent I have no doubt I shall be the envy of every man in the room.”

  Edna rolled her eyes. “Now you’re being silly.”

  “Not as much as you think.”

  “Mr. Wing?” Edna noticed a change in Wing’s demeanour. His shoulders were tense and his face rigid. “Is there something the matter?”

  “I am Chinese. I do not trust the soldiers of the sun.” He turned to Rowland. “You must not deal with Japanese, Mr. Sinclair!”

  Singh’s brow rose. “Who are you to tell Mr. Sinclair who he may deal with?”

  “Who are you to speak to me like that?” Wing demanded.

  “I am an employee who knows his place!”

  Clyde glanced at Rowland and attempted to placate Wing before he retaliated. “These are businessmen, Mr. Wing, not soldiers.”

  Wing glared at Ranjit Singh. “Every Japanese is a soldier, whether or not he wears a uniform.”

  Singh rolled his eyes.

  “My mother’s family was from Changtu in Manchuria,” Wing continued angrily. “Most of them were murdered when the Japanese invaded.”

  Edna’s face softened. “Oh Mr. Wing, how horrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “The sun soldiers conducted an illegal war, created without cause or honour. They bombed civilians and fired on survivors.” Wing’s jaw hardened as he recounted the destruction that had been visited upon his cousins, his uncles, and grandparents. “My ancestors are interred in Changtu, and they cannot rest with the feet of the sun soldiers on their necks,” he said bitterly. “The Japanese are not finished. They will not be satisfied with Manchuria.”

  “Do you believe they want more of China?” Rowland asked.

  “I believe they want more of the world, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Did She Escape?

  Did the Princess Anastasia, the youngest daughter of the late Czar of Russia, escape assassination at the hands of the murderers of her father, mother, sisters, and brother? Did she, disguised as a peasant, manage to work her way through the country to Germany? These are questions being asked in Berlin, in connection with a certain young and attractive woman who has been accepted by the former Crown Princess Cecile of Prussia, who was on very intimate terms with the old Russian Court.

  Some time ago the young woman referred to visited Berlin and gained audience of Princess Cecile, to whom she unfolded a wonderful story, circumstantial in every detail. She drew graphic word pictures of that dread morning when, in company with her mother and sisters, she helped carry the invalid Tsarevitch down the narrow stone steps into the cellar which was to become the death chamber of the Romanovs. Then she went on to tell how the bodies were bundled into a cart and taken to a spot in some forest far away, where they were to be destroyed, and how she alone of the entire family was not dead and was taken away by a sympathetic peasant.

  —Mercury, 31 December 1925

  * * *

  Rowland noticed the gleaming black Cadillac limousine parked in the street outside the house when he first entered the drawing room to work on the painting he’d started late the evening before. After the mayhem of the past few days, it had been a relief to lose himself in line and shape, to tackle problems that he actually knew how to resolve.

  He’d set his easel up by the window in anticipation of catching the morning light, and so he noticed the motorcar immediately. Of course there were many vehicles parked on Kiangse Road, even at that early hour, and he did not initially think anything of it, concentrating instead on bringing life to his portrait of Alexandra Romanova. He painted her dancing—the way he saw her when he could force the image of her corpse from his mind. It was how he wanted to remember her.

  He’d been working for an hour or so, when he noticed that though the Cadillac had not moved, its chauffeur was outside the car, leaning on the bonnet with his eyes fixed on Victor Sassoon’s house. Rowland wiped his hands on a rag and looked more closely. He recognised the man in the chauffeur’s cap.

  Rowland grabbed his jacket from the back of an armchair and slipped it on as he opened the front door.

  The chauffeur straightened.

  Rowland wove through oncoming traffic and crossed the road to where the Cadillac was parked.

  Kruznetsov extended his hand. “Rowly.”

  Rowl
and accepted the handshake. “What are you doing here, Nicky?”

  Kruznetsov smiled awkwardly. “I was hoping to see Edna.”

  “Why didn’t you just knock on the door?”

  “It’s only seven o’clock. I did not wish to wake your household.”

  “Then why did you come this early?”

  The Russian shrugged. “I was excited.”

  Rowland frowned. “Did Du Yuesheng send you?” he asked bluntly.

  “No. I work for Master Du in the evenings. During the day I drive for an American lady.”

  Rowland glanced at the Cadillac. “Where is she?”

  “I am to collect her from the hotel at nine o’clock. I took the motor out early in the hope of seeing Edna first. I have been thinking of her every moment since fate brought us together.”

  “I see.”

  “You left the hotel, and they would not tell me where you had gone.”

  “How did you find us then?”

  “When you left Master Du’s house, I followed.” Kruznetsov shifted uncomfortably. “I could not talk with you at Master Du’s house—he would think I was working with you, perhaps against him. It would not have been good for you or me.” He drew Rowland’s attention to the bouquet of flowers on the front passenger seat. “I thought I would call on Miss Higgins this morning and explain that I cannot arrange for her to meet Warner Orland—I promised I would, you remember.”

  “I’m sure Ed will understand.”

  “You all must think me a fool,” Kruznetsov said.

  “Why would we think you a fool?”

  The Russian shook his head. “He played a joke, my cousin. We like the Charlie Chan films you see.” Kruznetsov spoke with confessional haste. “We heard that they were making a film called Charlie Chan in Shanghai, and my cousin Ivan he tells me he will drive Charlie Chan himself.”

  Rowland listened, bemused.

  “And I think, of course, if Warner Orland is in Shanghai filming, then Ivan could drive him, and the film is called Charlie Chan in Shanghai. But it is made in Hollywood on a set and Warner Orland has never been to China. And everybody knows this but Nickolai Kruznetsov!”

  Rowland smiled. “Actually we didn’t know either, Nicky. One would expect a film called Charlie Chan in Shanghai to be made in Shanghai.”

  “Ivan—he thinks he is a funny, funny man.”

  “Ed will understand, Nicky, and she will appreciate that you tried to keep your promise.”

  “I would like to take her dancing instead,” Kruznetsov said. He hesitated, studying Rowland. “If I could ask her father for permission to court her, I would do so, but in his absence I ask you.”

  Rowland laughed. “Why would you ask me?”

  “You are her patron, are you not?”

  “No.”

  The Russian’s face fell. “You do not consider me worthy. You refuse your blessing.”

  Rowland dragged a hand through his hair. This was uncomfortable for many reasons. “You’d better talk to Ed yourself, Nicky.” On the other side of the road, Harjeet Bal alighted from Singh’s taxi and let herself into the house. “Do you have time for breakfast?” Rowland asked Kruznetsov. “You could give Ed your flowers.”

  “Yes, yes, I will come.” Kruznetsov embraced him. “Thank you, my friend. You will not regret this.”

  “I rarely regret breakfast,” Rowland said, mildly alarmed by the intensity of Kruznetsov’s gratitude. “Before we go in, may I ask you a question?”

  “Anything, my friend.”

  “Did you know the young lady I danced with at the Jazz Club? She was beautiful. Her name was Alexandra Romanova.”

  The smile slipped from Kruznetsov’s face. “Her name is not Romanova!” he spat.

  “Is it not?”

  Kruznetsov took a silver case from his inside breast pocket. He offered Rowland a cigarette before lighting one himself and continuing. “Some years ago, here in Shanghai, a young woman claimed to have survived the Bolsheviks’ murder of our beloved tsar and his family. She claimed to be a Russian princess. She did, indeed, resemble the Grand Duchess Anastasia and spoke with knowledge of the Romanovs. Some believed her; they rejoiced and gave her everything they had…but in time it became clear she was an imposter.”

  “What exactly made it clear?” It was a question not a challenge. Rowland had no wish for Alexandra to be Anastasia Romanova. The taxi girl’s life had been wretched enough without adding to it the tragedy of the Romanovs…but perhaps that was why she was murdered.

  “She could not have been as old as she claimed. And there was a brother. A big man—strong. He could not have been the tsarevich—who was known to have been sickly and frail. She said, of course, with the cunning of a rat, that the man was not her brother but a loyalist who had helped her escape, that she called him brother out of gratitude only. There were many little things that were not right. Eventually, she was denounced as a fraud and discarded as such.”

  “But she still called herself Romanova.”

  Kruznetsov shrugged. “I recognised her at the Jazz Club, a taxi girl.” He shook his head in disgust. “But I never spoke with her so I know not what she called herself.”

  “You know that she’s dead? That she was murdered?” Rowland asked.

  “So, that was her? The woman in your suite?”

  Rowland was surprised. Kruznetsov obviously knew about the murder and its connection with them. And yet it did not seem to have given him pause. “Yes. That was why we were forced to leave the Cathay.”

  Kruznetsov’s lip curled. “Even in death, she causes trouble.”

  “You disliked her?”

  “My mother believed her. She gave the grand duchess her ruby brooch, proud that the last of the Romanovs would wear the only jewel she managed to bring with her from Russia.”

  “But when you recognised her, you said nothing?” Rowland asked sceptically.

  “What point was there? She was working as a taxi girl—clearly she no longer had the brooch or riches of any sort. In time I might have said something…but not that night.”

  Rowland paused. “That was the first night you saw her at the Jazz Club?”

  “I do not go dancing every night, my friend. But yes, I had not seen her before.”

  Edna was surprised but not displeased by Kruznetsov and his flowers. Wing, on the other hand, regarded him warily. Perhaps this circumspection was rooted in Kruznetsov’s association with Du Yuesheng and the bodyguard’s consequent knowledge of the debt from which Rowland had rescued his erstwhile butler.

  Kruznetsov joined them for breakfast and ate as heartily as he complimented Edna. The sculptress dealt graciously and lightly with his tributes. Eventually the count gathered enough courage to confess that he was unable to introduce her to Warner Orland. “I am sorry, Edna. I am a fool.”

  “Nonsense. It was a mean trick.” She smiled at him, and Rowland saw Kruznetsov’s posture buckle a little under the power of it.

  “The film, Charlie Chan in Shanghai, is showing at the theatre in Frenchtown next week. Will you do me the honour of being my guest, Edna? I will take you dancing afterwards.”

  Wing grabbed Rowland’s arm and whispered in his ear. “No, Mr. Sinclair. It is too dangerous. Do not allow it.”

  Edna had, by that time, accepted.

  Wing shook his head desperately at Rowland.

  Rowland grimaced. This was going to be awkward. “My nephew Ernest is a great fan of Charlie Chan. I don’t suppose you’d mind if I came too, Nicky? It would give me something interesting to fill my letters home.”

  Kruznetsov looked startled. So too did Clyde and Milton. As much as they were aware of Rowland’s torch for Edna, they had never known him to insinuate himself into her romantic trysts with other men before. Certainly not so clumsily, anyway.

  Edna seemed to find the notion
amusing. “Oh yes, it would not do for me to join you unchaperoned, Nicky. That would be most improper.”

  “Of course,” Kruznetsov replied finally. “You must join us, Rowly.”

  After breakfast, Edna walked her Russian count to the door and waved him on his way, before turning back to Rowland. “Tell me, has Ernie ever seen a Charlie Chan film?”

  “It’s quite possible that he has,” Rowland replied.

  “I told Mr. Sinclair that you should not go alone,” Wing volunteered.

  “Why? Do you know something about Count Kruznetsov that we don’t, Mr. Wing?” Edna was more curious than cross.

  Wing blinked nervously. “It’s more what we don’t know, Miss Higgins. Like whether he is really a count, whether his relative really drives for this film director, whether that’s where he intends to take you.”

  “Wing’s right,” Clyde agreed. “Considering that Miss Romanova’s murderer is still at large, we should be careful. For all we know, it could be Kruznetsov.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous,” Edna protested. “Nicky didn’t know Miss Romanova.”

  “Actually he did.” Rowland told them of his earlier conversation with Nickolai Kruznetsov.

  Milton whistled. “She was a charlatan?”

  “Either that or she really was the Grand Duchess Anastasia.”

  “And the good count had a reason to kill her,” Clyde said.

  “It sounds like many people did,” Milton observed. “In the Russian community at least. She used their loyalty to steal from them.”

  Edna folded her arms, turning away from the conversation.

  Rowland sensed her uneasiness. “Ed?”

  “Alexandra can’t defend herself!” Edna replied so fiercely that she startled them all, herself included. She took a breath and continued more evenly. “I’m not saying Nicky’s a liar, but she can’t defend herself. It seems wrong to decide she was a fraud and a thief.”

  “We’ll speak with her brother,” Rowland offered. Edna was right; it was wrong.

  Edna’s face lifted. “Yes. Sergei will know.”

  “He can at least tell us what happened,” Clyde added. “Not every victim is innocent, Ed.”