“I don’t know. If he was in the apartment, he didn’t escape, but we can’t be sure he was in there at all.”
Wing recounted his conversation with the fire captain.
“So someone may have tried to kill him?” Edna said, moving from the end of Clyde’s bed to the arm of Rowland’s chair.
“I’m afraid someone might have succeeded,” Rowland replied.
“Oh…no.”
Rowland rubbed her hand. “All I mean is that we don’t know yet, Ed. With any luck he was out when the fire started, however it started.”
“If the fire was started to kill Sergei Romanov.” Milton lay back on his own bed. “Then that puts what happened to Alexandra in a different light.”
“What do you mean?” Clyde asked.
“Well, surely it shows that these murders are something to do with the Romanovs…their past or current activities; that Alexandra’s death was nothing to do with Rowly.”
“Yes, but we always knew it was nothing to do with Rowly,” Clyde said.
“We always knew that Rowly didn’t kill her, but Rowly’s acquired some powerful enemies. It may have been that Alexandra’s murderer was waiting for him,” Milton said thoughtfully. “But,” he added before anyone could protest, “this attempt on Sergei, whether or not it was successful, does indicate that Alexandra wasn’t just some poor girl in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Harjeet appeared at the open door with a tray bearing a larger teapot and several cups. The uninjured gentlemen rose to relieve her of the tray. Harjeet handed the tray to Wing and turned to Rowland. “There was a telephone call, just now, Mr. Sinclair. An Inspector Randolph. He did not wish to speak to you, sir, only to ask whether you were in.”
“I expect he intends to call,” Rowland said.
Edna looked him up and down, wrinkling her nose. “You and Milt better clean up,” she said. “I’ll call Mr. Carmel now, and Mr. Wing and I will keep the inspector occupied until you both look less like you started a fire.”
Chapter Twenty
MIRACLES ARE CHEAP TO-DAY
Home Movies for Tenpence
THE name for cheap stores in America is the Five and Ten, meaning five and ten cents, though many articles are sold in them costing twenty cents, or tenpence in English money.
The very latest of those is a real kinematograph projector, which gives moving pictures on a safety film by its own electric light. A new lamp costs twopence halfpenny! Remarkably good little moving pictures can be displayed with these projectors, and their invention is of very real interest. The two new films which enable amateur photographers to take home moving pictures in natural colours have given a tremendous stimulus to domestic kinematography, and the little tenpenny marvels are just one more step toward an age in which the film will reign supreme in the fields of both entertainment and education.
—Telegraph, 24 October 1935
* * *
Rowland washed the soot from his hair and body, and changed quickly. There was little he could do however to disguise the dark bruise to his left temple left by Sergei Romanov’s violin. He made his way down the staircase. He could hear Edna in conversation with Chief Inspector Randolph as he approached the drawing room.
“Are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea, Inspector? I’m sure Rowly won’t be a minute.”
“Miss Higgins, I must ask you again, is Mr. Sinclair on the premises?”
“And I tell you again, Inspector, he is upstairs. Harjeet has told him you’re here, and he’ll be down directly.”
“Inspector.” Rowland stepped into the room and offered Randolph his hand. He nodded to the four constables who stood behind the chief inspector. “I do apologise for the delay,” he said without giving any reason for it.
Randolph accepted the handshake coolly.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“We have received, via your solicitors, a certain phonographic disc containing a voice recording by the late Miss Romanova.” Randolph returned his hands to their customary position behind his back. “Can I ask you, Mr. Sinclair, why you didn’t turn that particular evidence into the police immediately?”
“I didn’t receive the disc until the day after Miss Romanova died, and I didn’t think to listen to it till later,” Rowland said carefully. “I took it to my solicitors the following morning.”
“And the reason you didn’t bring it to us directly?”
“That was on my advice.” Milton entered the room in an immaculate cream linen suit and emerald cravat. The poet’s long black hair glistened, still wet. “The recording corroborated Mr. Sinclair’s statement that Miss Romanova did not keep her appointment with him. I thought it prudent that Mr. Sinclair’s solicitors were made aware of the recording and had a chance to listen to it, before it was surrendered to the police.”
Randolph’s moustache bristled. “I see.” He took a breath. “Can I ask what happened to your head, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Sergei Romanov took a swing at me with his violin,” Rowland said evenly.
“Why?”
“He was upset about his sister’s death and under the impression I had something to do with it. An impression you seem to have given him.”
Randolph’s face registered nothing in the way of chagrin. “And what did you do when he hit you with his violin?”
“As you might expect, Inspector, I tried to defend myself. Fortunately, Messrs. Isaacs and Watson Jones were present to restrain Mr. Romanov. Once he’d calmed down, he seemed to accept that I had not murdered his sister.”
“Why would he accept that?”
Milton intervened. “Perhaps because he knew that there were other people who actually had a reason to want his sister dead.”
“What people?”
Milton recounted what Kruznetsov had told them. “According to the good count, there were several people who were swindled by Alexandra when she was claiming to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia.”
Randolph frowned, but for a moment he seemed less hostile. “If this is true, then Sergei Romanov had as much to fear for his part.”
“I expect he did.”
Randolph turned back to Rowland. “Are you aware, Mr. Sinclair, that there was a fire at Mr. Romanov’s residence this morning?”
“Yes, I am. We called on Mr. Romanov this morning. The building was on fire when we got there.”
The thaw in Randolph’s manner disappeared. Rowland continued regardless. “We tried to force the door in case he was still inside, but there was an explosion of some sort.”
Randolph looked from Rowland to Milton. “You both look very well for men who’ve survived not only a fire but an explosion.”
“The explosion was strong enough to blow the door off its hinges on top of us. It seems to have shielded Mr. Isaacs and me. Mr. Watson Jones was less lucky.”
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs. The doctor ordered bed rest.”
Randolph despatched one of his constables to verify that was the case.
“Inspector Randolph,” Edna said calmly, “I’m sure if you spoke to the firemen who responded to the blaze, they will be able to confirm what Rowly’s told you. There was a crowd of people outside the butchery who saw Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Watson Jones, and Mr. Isaacs trying to break down the door.”
“Be assured that we will be doing just that.”
A pounding on the front door announced the arrival of Gilbert Carmel, who discreetly adopted the pretext that he was there to speak to Rowland on an unrelated business matter. Indeed he’d brought a sheaf of papers “for execution” and expressed surprise at finding Chief Inspector Randolph there.
“Miss Romanova’s residence has burned down,” Rowland said. “Her brother is missing, feared dead.”
“And the inspector came to let you know—how very thoughtful!” Carmel turne
d to Randolph. “Naturally, you know that my client is very eager to see the young lady’s killer brought to account and is willing to do—nay, has done—everything within his power to assist.”
“What has he done to assist?” Randolph almost snarled.
“Why, he had me deliver that phonographic disc your men had failed to discover in your investigations at the Cathay Hotel. The recording, as you know, corroborates my client’s statement that he did not see Miss Romanova that afternoon and is also evidence that there was another man with her that day.” Carmel smiled again. “That’s a fair bit of assistance, I’d say!”
For several moments there was silence as Carmel and Randolph locked eyes. Rowland glanced at Milton, unsure if he should say something himself. The poet grimaced.
“As much as I appreciate your client’s assistance,” Randolph said finally, “I ask you, Mr. Carmel, to advise him of the dangers of interfering with an ongoing investigation by the local constabulary.”
“Thank you for the suggestion, Inspector. I shall of course do so at the first available opportunity.”
Randolph and his men departed shortly thereafter. Carmel took a seat and perched a pair of spectacles on his nose. “Well then, gentleman and lady, perhaps you should tell me precisely what’s happened since last we met.”
“In that case, Mr. Carmel,” Edna said, “you should stay to luncheon. We have rather a lot to tell you.”
Carmel took the watch from his fob pocket and studied it. “As it happens, it’s just gone tiffin time, and far be it from me to allow my clients to go hungry.”
So Gilbert Carmel joined them for lunch, during the course of which they told him of what they had learned through Count Kruznetsov and Sergei Romanov. The solicitor took notes, posed the occasional question, and complimented Harjeet on the piquancy of her roast duck.
“Well,” he said in the end. “Your introduction to Shanghai has certainly been less than ideal. Please allow me to extend my apologies on behalf of this great city. Chief Inspector Randolph is not the easiest man with whom to have dealings, but I have not yet abandoned hope of winning him over.”
Rowland also mentioned his meeting with Andrew Petty and the invitation to the banquet hosted by the Japanese wool brokers.
Carmel nodded. “That is how business is done here. I’m surprised no one has banqueted you already. The Japanese will be especially keen to secure your wool stocks.”
“Why?” Rowland asked. He gathered it was well known in wool trading circles that the Sinclairs had a substantial quantity of wool stockpiled, but they weren’t the only producers in Australia.
“Your brother is an influential man, Rowland. I expect the Japanese wool buyers feel that dealing directly with him would see other Australian producers follow suit, allowing them to procure enough wool to withstand any possible trade embargo which might be imposed by the League of Nations.”
Rowland glanced at Wing. “I see.”
“But I presume Wilfred has already briefed you on his intentions in that respect,” Carmel said without giving away whether or not he knew what those intentions were.
“Yes.”
“And Carmel and Smith remains at your service.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carmel.”
Carmel tapped his head thoughtfully. “As a precaution, avoid speaking with the inspector unless I’m present. I’ll notify my secretary that your calls are to be taken immediately and at all times.” He smiled. “Just in case Inspector Randolph proves inured to our obvious charms.”
* * *
With Clyde immobilised, they stayed in that afternoon. Edna set up a film set in the drawing room, and Rowland and Milton helped Clyde down the stairs into the dining room so that they could play cards in between takes.
“What exactly is this film about?” Clyde grumbled. Edna seemed to be filming a series of unrelated scenes calling on each of them to play villains, heroes, ghosts, servants, conspirators, drunks, and even romantic leads. “It doesn’t seem to have any kind of plot.”
“It doesn’t, not yet—I’m filming as many interesting scenes as I can think of, first,” the sculptress replied. “And then I’ll patch them together into a story…like a collage.”
“That’s very avant-garde, Ed.” Rowland sat up from the floor after the fistfight Edna had just had him and Milton simulate. They’d flipped a coin to decide which of them would lose.
Edna handed the camera to Wing Zau, instructing him to film while she fainted into Rowland’s arms.
“Why does Rowly get to catch you?” Milton asked.
“Because he will catch me.” Edna directed Rowland into position.
“Won’t the uncertainty add a little something to your performance?” Milton grinned wickedly.
The sculptress ignored him. “Now, Rowly, look towards the door…no, the window—that’ll work better. Try to look frightened.”
“Frightened? By something at the window?”
“Well, at least alarmed—no, you can’t just raise an eyebrow. There’s something monstrous at the window. Ready, Mr. Wing? Right. Action!”
As it turned out, Rowland did not struggle to feign an expression of alarm—that came naturally when Edna screamed. He was, in fact, so startled that he nearly forgot to catch her as she fell backwards into his arms and it was the relief on his face when she did so and he realised the scream was part of the pretence, that compromised the take.
Milton roared with laughter. “I reckon a ‘thank God she’s finally shut up’ expression is entirely appropriate, Ed.”
“Sorry, Ed,” Rowland said. “I had no idea what you were doing.”
“I was acting,” Edna declared, exasperated.
“We can try it again.”
“I think we’d better.” Edna moved them both back into position. “Ready, Mr. Wing? Action.”
This time Edna’s scream was more a gasp of surprise and a gleeful squeal.
Rowland wasn’t sure what to do—was she still planning to faint?
“I could swear I saw a monkey,” Edna said as she ran to the window.
“Is this part of the scene?”
“No. I really saw a monkey.”
A knock on the red door.
“That’ll be the police again, wanting to know why Ed’s screaming,” Clyde muttered.
Rowland answered the door.
“Rowland! Hello…I’m finally keeping my promise to visit.” Mickey Hahn stood on the doorstep in poised splendour. The deep indigo of her long, tailored skirt was offset by an orange bolero jacket and cloche. A kid-gloved hand held a thin gold chain on the end of which was Mr. Mills attired in a matching indigo jacket and orange fez.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mickey.”
She accepted his invitation to come in, proceeding into the drawing room and taking a seat. The monkey, too, found himself an armchair. Mickey introduced Mr. Mills as if he were an old acquaintance with whom she’d stepped out that day.
Edna was delighted. She had been, if truth be told, disappointed that at their last meeting, Emily Hahn had been sans monkey.
Milton offered the journalist a drink and, since it would have been rude to allow her to partake alone, mixed cocktails for them all.
“What on earth are you all up to?” Mickey noted the film camera and the furniture cleared to make room.
“Ed’s making a film.” Rowland and Milton returned the couch to its original place while Wing helped Clyde into the drawing room.
“Gracious! What happened to Clyde?”
For a moment there was silence as they all waited for Rowland to take the lead.
“Are you enquiring as a journalist?” he asked carefully.
“Oooh…is it something that would interest a journalist?” Her eyes glistened.
Rowland said nothing.
Mickey sighed. “Oh, very well
then. Off the record. What happened?”
They told her.
“Have you heard any mutterings about people impersonating members of the Russian royal family in Shanghai, Mickey?” Edna asked, reaching out gently towards Mr. Mills.
“Be careful—he bites,” Mickey warned. “I’ve not been in Shanghai much longer than you. I’ll ask at the News…maybe someone covered the story. Victor will be appalled to learn there was a fraudster working in his hotel.”
“We don’t know that she was,” Rowland said.
“A fraudster or the Grand Duchess Anastasia?” Mickey’s tone was sharp. She regarded him curiously.
“Either… We only have Count Kruznetsov’s word that she was the same girl who defrauded his mother. He might very well have been mistaken.”
“Could she have possibly been telling the truth?” Clyde asked. “About being a princess?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Mickey mused. “Anastasia would have been in her thirties now. Did Alexandra look that old?”
Rowland shrugged. “There is Sergei. He said she was his little sister. The grand duchess didn’t have an older brother, only a younger one.”
“You’re right,” Mickey said. “If she was as innocent as you seem to want to believe she was, it is more likely that this chap—the count—is mistaken or lying.” She frowned. “Still, what a story—even without the murder! The sole surviving heir to the Russian throne working as a taxi girl in Shanghai!”
“You wouldn’t—”
“I said it was off the record, didn’t I?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Anyway, I’ve come with a purpose.” Mickey dug into her bag and fished out an envelope, which she handed to Edna. “My dear friend Bernadine would like the four of you to attend her salon. You must come; they are simply the most fabulous occasions in Shanghai.”
“But we haven’t even been introduced.”
“Bernadine finds such social conventions tiresome. I’ve told her all about my new Australian friends, and she is simply desperate that you accept her invitation. Do say you’ll come!”
Edna opened the envelope and extracted an exquisitely illuminated card. “Oh, it’s for this evening.” She handed the invitation to Milton, who glanced at it and passed it on to Clyde. He studied the summons to an evening of culture and poetry, and the look on his face possibly reminded Rowland that his friend was not well.
Shanghai Secrets Page 17