Shanghai Secrets

by Sulari Gentill

  “No, but nobody deserves to die the way Alexandra did. I don’t care if she tried to sell them the Sydney Harbour Bridge, she didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  Rowland placed his arm around the sculptress’s shoulders. “We’ll call on Sergei this morning.”

  “And after that we speak to Inspector Randolph,” Clyde said firmly. “Tell him what Kruznetsov said. Even if it isn’t true, it shows that someone might have had reason to kill her. It might point at someone other than Rowly.”

  “What’s in heaven’s name is going on?” Edna asked, craning her head out of the taxi window as the Buick approached the butchery above which Sergei Romanov lived. The street was more congested than normal and at a standstill in front of the butchery. People ran in all directions shouting. “Quiming a! Sa fla!”

  “There’s a fire,” Wing said as they climbed out. The translation proved unnecessary. Smoke billowed from the windows above the shop as people ran out of the butchery. There was no fire service in sight.

  Rowland caught the arm of an aproned man who had just run out of the shop. “Mr. Wing, please ask him if the tenant upstairs got out?”

  Wing complied. “He says he does not know. He has not seen him.”

  Rowland cursed.

  “We’d better see if we can force the door,” Clyde said, heading towards the iron stairs.

  “Would you stay with Ed?” Rowland called over his shoulder to Wing as he followed.

  The Australians took the steps two and three at a time to reach the landing outside the burning building. They could hear the oncoming bells of Shanghai fire trucks in the distance. The smoke was thick and acrid, but the breeze took it out towards the street, and they were able to see and breathe well enough to make out the door.

  “Sergei? Are you in there? Sergei!”

  They put their shoulders to the door in an attempt to force it.

  The explosion was unexpected. It blew the door back and them with it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  EXILED GERMAN JEWS

  SEVERAL HUNDRED IN SHANGHAI.

  THREE FOREMOST MEDICAL MEN.

  Shanghai, Nov. 6.

  The first effect of the anti-Jewish policy of the Hitler Government is expected in Shanghai today, with the arrival of the first batch of several hundred German Jews, who were forced to leave their country following the persecutions. Twenty-six scientists, doctors and other highly skilled professional Germans arrived with their families for the purpose of making their home in China, stating that they would be followed by several hundred others…

  —Kalgoorlie Miner, 8 November 1933

  * * *

  Edna stifled a scream as flames surged out of the doorway. In the frenzy that followed, firemen manned hand pumps and hoses, and sent a deluge onto the landing. Others took to the stairs with buckets. Wing pulled the sculptress back. “No, Miss Higgins, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Can you see them?” Edna tried desperately to glimpse some sign of her friends through the smoke.

  Wing shook his head.

  Edna pulled away from him and jostled her way through the crowd towards the stairs.

  “Miss Higgins!” Wing pushed after her.

  “Ed!” Rowland and Milton hobbled down the stairs with Clyde supported between them. Battered and coughing, they were nevertheless upright.

  “The door protected us from the worst of it,” Rowland explained as Edna spluttered her relief. “Clyde seems to have done something to his leg though.”

  They moved out into the road away from the burning building.

  Wing waved for Singh and his taxi. “Mr. Watson Jones needs a doctor,” he shouted over the rising din. “I’ll stay and find out what happened.”

  Edna opened the back door of the Buick.

  “Will you and Ed be all right to get Clyde back to Kiangse Road?” Rowland asked Milton as they eased Clyde into the car.

  “I’m all right, Rowly, honest to goodness,” Clyde said through gritted teeth.

  Rowland pressed his friend’s shoulder. “We won’t be long. I’d better speak with the authorities—make sure someone knows to look for Sergei Romanov.”

  Edna reached up to touch Rowland’s face. “Rowly, are you sure you’re—”

  “I’m perfectly well, Ed,” he said, suppressing a fit of coughing. “Just a bit sooty.” He looked up at the building, which was fully ablaze now. “God, I hope he wasn’t in there.”

  “I’ll be back for you, sir,” Singh called out of the window as he pressed the car’s horn and inched the Buick through the milling crowd.

  Rowland and Wing joined a bucket line passing pails of water for a time and then watched as the Shanghainese firemen brought the fire under control. The upper storey was a smouldering ruin, but the fire had been defeated before the flames spread to neighbouring tenements. Wing found the fire captain and spoke to him of Sergei Romanov.

  “They have no idea whether he was in the building,” he said, returning to Rowland. “There was some kind of fuel stored in the apartment which caused the explosion that blew the door off its hinges, but he says it’s too early to tell anything else. They haven’t found any remains, but there may be some in the rubble.”

  “Do they know what caused the fire?”

  “Well that depends on whether they find any remains.”

  “Why.”

  “If they don’t, if the apartment was empty, they will conclude arson. If not, carelessness.”

  “I see.”

  By the time they’d left the necessary contact details with the fire captain, Singh had returned for them in the Buick.

  “How’s Clyde?” Rowland asked, getting in.

  “Doctor stitched his wound,” Singh replied. “He is not too bad. The doctor is waiting for me to return with you.”

  “Me?”

  “Miss Higgins insists.”

  * * *

  The physician was having a cup of tea when Rowland and Wing walked through the door. Edna introduced him as Dr. Rubenstein.

  “Rowland Sinclair. How’d you do, sir?”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Sinclair, and let me examine you.” The physician’s accent was thick. He spoke slowly to compensate.

  “It’s quite unnecessary, Dr. Rubenstein. I just need to clean up.”

  “Allow me to be the judge of that, Mr. Sinclair.” Rubenstein was already checking Rowland’s eyes. He took a stethoscope from his bag. “Would you mind removing your jacket and opening your shirt?”

  “Is that really necessary? I wasn’t hurt.”

  “Just let him examine you, Rowly,” Edna said.

  “I’d like to listen to your chest. Smoke inhalation can be dangerous.”

  Rowland did as he was asked, albeit reluctantly.

  Rubenstein stopped for just a moment longer than necessary before he placed the stethoscope on the swastika-shaped scar on Rowland’s chest. The physician was visibly tense. “You have been in Germany,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “And this scar? It is an insignia of some sort, a badge.”

  “It is a violence,” Edna said fiercely, protectively.

  Rowland reached out and took her hand. “It’s all right, Ed. I can assure you, Dr. Rubenstein, this scar does not represent my own views or politics in any way. The injury which left it was inflicted when I was unable to fight back.”

  “Are you, by any chance, Jewish, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Röhm’s objection to me was based on something else entirely.”

  Rubenstein’s eyes widened. “Ernst Röhm?”

  Rowland nodded, hoping Rubenstein would ask no more. He didn’t like talking about the night the Brownshirts had tried to kill him. Even after nearly two years, and though Röhm was now dead, it was a memory mired in pain and fear. The swastika Röhm had branded int
o his chest with lit cigarettes was still humiliating; it still burned.

  Rubenstein paused. “I am terribly sorry for what happened to you.”

  “Thank you. But I suspect there are many people who have suffered more than I have at the hands of the current German government.”

  “Yes. I expect there are. I expect there will be. Would you cough for me, please, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Rowland did so.

  Rubenstein checked his lungs, allowing the other scars on Rowland’s upper body to pass without comment. He examined and cleaned the minor lacerations and contusions sustained in the blast and then told Rowland he could redress. “You and Mr. Isaacs have come out of the incident very well.”

  “And Clyde?” Rowland asked, worried by the omission.

  “Mr. Watson Jones has a cut on his lower leg—shrapnel from the blast, I believe—which required cleaning and several stitches. As long as he keeps the wound clean and stays off the leg for three or four days, I expect him to make a complete recovery.”

  Rowland slung his tie back around his collar. “Thank you, sir.”

  Rubenstein’s face was thoughtful. “What is your business in Shanghai, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Wool, Dr. Rubenstein. I’m here to trade wool.”

  “You be careful, Mr. Sinclair. Shanghai is not entirely beyond the reach of the Third Reich.”

  They were interrupted by Milton, who came down the stairs that led to the second floor bedrooms. He went directly to the drinks cabinet and poured a large glass of scotch. “Clyde sent me down to fetch him a cup of tea… Not all that stoic, our Clyde.”

  “I’ll ask Harjeet—” Edna turned towards the kitchen.

  “No need. I’ve got it right here.” The poet held up the glass.

  “You can’t—”

  Rubenstein smiled. “A small medicinal drink will not do any harm and may alleviate discomfort.”

  Milton grinned triumphantly. “There you go, doctor’s orders! I don’t suppose you’d care for a medicinal scotch, yourself, Dr. Rubenstein?”

  Rubenstein glanced at his pocket watch. “I do believe I may have time—for just one.”

  Milton handed the glass he’d already poured to Edna. “Take this little pick-me-up to Clyde will you, old thing? You’re much better at dispensing sympathy than I am.”

  Edna rolled her eyes, but she took the glass, calling into the kitchen for a plate of Harjeet’s oil cakes before she ran up the stairs.

  Milton poured and distributed drinks. He lifted his glass in toast. “To that bloody door.”

  “Have you arrived recently in Shanghai?” Rowland asked Rubenstein as they took seats in the drawing room.

  The doctor nodded. “Yes. I had been trying to leave Germany with my family for a year, but the world does not want Jews. Shanghai is a free port.”

  “Well, comrade,” Milton said sombrely. “I expect you’ll be glad you left Germany when you did!”

  Rubenstein regarded the poet carefully. “They are presently many Jewish refugees in Shanghai. Of them, the greater number are fleeing the Bolsheviks, my young friend.”

  Milton faltered. He was not oblivious to the excesses of the Bolsheviks, the stories of life in Stalinist Russia as revolutionary idealism became a totalitarian regime. But he was not yet ready to abandon his ideals, his hope that it could be done better.

  Rubenstein redirected the conversation himself, asking politely about Australia. It seemed it was one of the countries that had declined his application to migrate. He was curious about the wool business, and thanks to Wilfred’s schooling on the matter, Rowland was able to answer most of his questions.

  Rubenstein finished his drink. He stood and replaced the stethoscope into his bag. “I shall return tomorrow to change the dressings on Mr. Watson Jones’s leg.”

  Rowland paid him for the house call and walked him out to Singh’s taxi. “Thank you, Dr. Rubenstein,” he said as he shook the physician’s hand.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Sinclair. I hope I did not upset Mr. Isaacs. Young men and their ideals. Sadly, age shows you how ideals may be repurposed by evil men.”

  Rowland smiled. “I wouldn’t worry, sir. Both Milt and his ideals are fairly robust.”

  Rubenstein’s eyes narrowed. “You do not share them?”

  “On the contrary. I’m not a Communist, but Milt and I believe in many of the same things.”

  “Yes, of course.” He handed Rowland a card. “Should you have need of me before tomorrow.”

  Rubenstein climbed into the waiting Buick, and Ranjit Singh closed the door after him. He hesitated. “Mr. Sinclair, may I have a brief word?”

  “Is something the matter, Mr. Singh?”

  “I want to ask you to be careful of Wing Zau, sir.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I do not trust him, sir. Gamblers are not so easily reformed, and you have simply taken him on his word. This is Shanghai—the truth is only one of many languages spoken here. He comes and goes…Who does he meet? And he sings. Are you sure about him, sir?”

  “Do you have any specific reason to distrust him, Mr. Singh?”

  “Beyond the fact that he is a gambler, that he was in league with gangsters…”

  “He was in debt rather than in league.” Rowland glanced at Rubenstein waiting in the car.

  Singh inhaled and set his lips. “I suspect that he’s a Communist, Mr. Sinclair. It is a terrible accusation I know, but I have been watching him—”

  Rowland interrupted. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Singh, and I assure you I will be careful, but to be honest, I rather like Mr. Wing.”

  Singh’s lips kneaded for a moment. “You will excuse me if I keep an eye on him, Mr. Sinclair? For my own comfort.”

  “If you must, Mr. Singh.”

  * * *

  Rowland stood for a minute watching as Singh’s Buick pulled out and drove off to return the doctor to his home. He wondered if he should do more about the animosity between his employees, but he couldn’t very well order Wing and Singh to get along. This was not something he’d had cause to deal with before—at Woodlands the staff was so ably managed by his housekeeper that he had no idea of their personal frictions. Milton was still in the drawing room brooding over his whisky when Rowland walked back into the house.

  “Are you all right, Milt?”

  “Me? Dandy. Just thinking about what Rubenstein said.” He paused thoughtfully. “The good doctor’s right, you know.”

  “About what exactly?”

  “As much as the Fascists are wrecking the world, my lot isn’t exactly covering itself in glory in Russia.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Milton shook his head. “The principles aren’t wrong… How could they be wrong?”

  Rowland sat opposite him. “Perhaps they’re not. Perhaps they’re just in the hands of the wrong people.”

  “Is that true of the Fascists as well?”

  Rowland paused and then shook his head. “As far as I can tell, Milt, there are no ideals behind the Nazis. Just the rantings of a madman.”

  “For all we know, Stalin may be just as mad, Rowly.” Milton spoke so quietly he was barely audible, and Rowland was aware of what the admission, the realisation, must have cost him. In many ways, Milton had always been the most certain of them, anchored by his beliefs.

  “Quite possibly.” Rowland rubbed his face. “Democracy has elevated lunatics and persecuted people before, too… Still, I’m not ready to abandon the idea.”

  Milton shook an accusing finger at him. “But you, Rowland Sinclair, are a hopeless romantic.”

  Rowland smiled. Perhaps he should have found the poet’s politics as offensive as he did the Fascists’, but he didn’t. There was nobility and compassion in Milton’s belief in the Communist cause—it just relied on an overestimation of hu
man nature. As much as his friend accused him of being a romantic, Rowland suspected that Milton and Clyde were the true idealists. “Where did you find Rubenstein?” he asked.

  “Ed telephoned the hotel’s switchboard—told them we needed a doctor. Victor Sassoon sent him.” Milton’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  “He was just very interested in what we were doing in Shanghai. It made me wonder.”

  “You suspect he’s an undercover policeman?”

  Rowland laughed. “No. Nothing like that. I just find it incredible that anyone could be that interested in the wool business.”

  Milton pulled at his goatee as he considered the physician’s manner. “Now you mention it, he was very inquisitive about what you were doing here. And he did ask Clyde and me rather a lot of questions too.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “How long we’d been in Shanghai, what business were we in, how long we planned to stay—that sort of thing.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I was your poet—that you always travelled with at least one.”

  “Naturally. Did he believe you?”

  “He wrote it down. I don’t suppose he’s reporting back to Sassoon.”

  Rowland exhaled. “It could simply be that he’s nosey,” he said in an attempt to be fair. “Perhaps it’s just his bedside manner. Talking of which—” Rowland stood. “I should check on our fallen comrade.”

  * * *

  Clyde was resting comfortably with his bandaged leg elevated on a pillow. Wing Zau had brought up a more conventional pot of tea, and he and Edna sat with the injured artist playing gin rummy.

  When Rowland came in, Wing put his hand down hastily.

  “I’ve no objections to cards, Mr. Wing. Just deal Milt and me into the next hand.”

  “We’re not playing for money, Mr. Sinclair,” Wing said guiltily.

  “Probably wise. Ed’s a ruthless creditor.”

  “Well she would be, if she ever won,” Milton added.

  Edna replied by taking the hand.

  “How are you feeling, Clyde?” Rowland asked, pulling up a chair beside the bed.

  “I’ll live. Did Romanov?”