Sassoon ordered for them all, insisting that they try the beef Wellington, which was apparently the chef’s speciality. Mickey spoke dreamily of Xunmei.
Sassoon told her, perhaps a little churlishly, that the poet was married.
Rowland couldn’t tell if Mickey had known, or if she simply did not care.
It was not till the main course arrived that Rowland broached the subject of the suite’s previous occupant.
“Am I to understand that you believe that the previous guest had something to do with the taxi girl’s murder?” Sassoon asked.
“We had only just checked into that suite, Sir Victor. Perhaps the former guest had some connection with Miss Romanova?”
Sassoon’s eyes narrowed. “And you wish to give that information to the chief inspector?”
“Randolph could probably find the information himself,” Milton noted. “But yes, it would save time to just tell him.”
Sassoon shook his head. “The previous guest could not possibly have had anything to do with it. I suggest you gentlemen look elsewhere. I certainly advise against speaking to the police about such nonsense.”
Milton bristled, opening his mouth to retort. Rowland placed a cautionary hand on the poet’s arm. “Thank you for your advice, Sir Victor. But you see, the previous resident’s connection with Miss Romanova may not have been as her murderer but perhaps as the intended victim.”
Sassoon shook his head. “No. I assure you the person in question has no connection whatsoever to the incident!”
“How can you be sure, sir?” Rowland asked calmly.
“Because Victor’s rather well acquainted with her,” Mickey said languidly. “The person who had your suite before you was me.” She stifled a yawn. “Dear Victor was generous enough to upgrade Helen and me to a suite. I moved out into my little apartment on Kiangse Street just a couple of days before that poor girl died.”
Rowland wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Helen?” he asked in the end.
“My sister. It’s on her account that I’m in Shanghai at all. I was intent on returning to the Congo.”
“Where is she?”
“Oh, she sailed for home.”
“Could whoever killed Miss Romanova have mistaken her for you?” Milton asked.
“Perhaps, but I don’t see why anyone would want to kill me.”
“Mickey has no enemies in China,” Sassoon declared. “Not a one! Why she is the toast of Shanghai society!”
“But still…”
“Mr. Sinclair,” Sassoon began angrily. “Rest assured that if you do anything to embroil Miss Hahn in this unfortunate and sordid affair, I shall be forced to withdraw the hospitality and generosity I have afforded you and your friends to date. I am not an enemy you wish to make.”
“Are you threatening me, Sir Victor?”
“Yes, I believe I am.”
“For goodness sake, Victor,” Mickey said impatiently. “Don’t be absurd!” She turned to Rowland and Milton. “You must forgive Victor, gentlemen. He’s very protective of me. And he’s right—there’s no one in China who would wish me harm. Whoever killed Miss Romanova did not do so believing she was me, or Helen for that matter.” She giggled. “Helen is even more inoffensive than I!”
“Is there anyone outside China who might wish you harm?” Rowland asked. “Someone who might have followed you here?”
A blink. A barely perceptible hesitation. “No.”
“Why did you come to Shanghai?” Milton asked.
“I’d say that’s none of your affair, Mr. Isaacs!” Sassoon growled.
“I’ve already told Rowland,” Mickey replied wearily. “I’m convalescing after a broken heart. I was on my way to the Congo when I was seduced by China.”
“I think we’ve endured quite enough of your questions,” Sassoon said impatiently. “They are quite improper, and my patience is exhausted.” Sassoon signalled the concierge. “I’m afraid the gentlemen will not be staying.”
Milton glanced at Rowland and hastily shoved as much of his remaining beef Wellington as he could into his mouth.
“Would you mind showing them out?” Sassoon said.
“Thank you for your time, Sir Victor.” Rowland stood. Milton grabbed one more mouthful before following suit.
“I hope we understand each other, Mr. Sinclair,” Sassoon huffed.
Rowland didn’t reply, taking his leave of Mickey instead. She smiled at him drowsily.
They were escorted out. It was an eviction, but a very civil one.
“Well, what do you think?” Milton asked as they waited for Singh to bring the Buick around.
“I don’t know.” Rowland frowned. “Sassoon made his feelings clear. Of course, he could be trying to protect Mickey, or something else entirely.”
“Though, if someone’s trying to kill Mickey Hahn, one wonders why they haven’t tried again.” Milton shaded his eyes against the midday sun. “She lives on her own, aside from that monkey.”
Rowland smiled. “She did say he bites.”
“So what are we going to tell Randolph, comrade?”
Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. He had no wish to drag Mickey into the investigation, but there was a possibility she was in danger.
Singh pulled up and they climbed in.
“Where can I take you, sir?”
Rowland sighed. “Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Mr. Singh.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
DANCING IN THE EAST
Steady Ascendency of Jazz
That jazz was gradually superseding native dancing in China and Japan was the opinion of Mr. J. A. Andrew, who arrived at Melbourne aboard the steamer Kamo Maru yesterday after spending four years as dancing instructor at the Imperial Hotel, Tokyo; the Cathays Hotel, Shanghai; and the Hong Kong Hotel. Mr. Andrews, who is returning to England to act as manager for Miss Pat Sykes, undefeated ballroom dancing champion of Europe, said that the Chinese, particularly the young girls, were showing great aptitude towards the modern Western dances. Classes in the large hotels were attended by numbers of both sexes, many of whom had previously been exponents of native dancing.
In spite of the swing towards modern dancing, concessions had been made to native ideas by adapting musical scores to the native instruments.
—The Age, 19 May 1936
* * *
When Rowland Sinclair and Milton Isaacs arrived and requested an audience with the chief inspector, Randolph had no other engagements or pressing duties. Regardless, he insisted the Australians wait in the anteroom outside his office for forty minutes. It would, he thought, reiterate that he was not to be mistaken for a servant at their beck and call. In Randolph’s experience, the Cathay’s guests often needed to be reminded of that fact.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Isaacs?”
Rowland took one of the seats in front of the inspector’s vast pedestal desk, Milton the other. “We’ve come across some information which we hoped might assist you in finding Miss Romanova’s killer.”
“What do you mean when you say you came across this information?”
“It is information we uncovered through our own investigations,” Milton said impatiently.
“Your own investigations?” Randolph’s voice rose. “On what authority do you gentlemen conduct an investigation in the International Concession?”
“We weren’t conducting an investigation as such.” Rowland intervened before the man could lose his temper. “We were merely alert to any facts that might relate to Miss Romanova’s death.”
Milton rolled his eyes.
“Why?”
Rowland’s jaw tensed. “I discovered her body, Chief Inspector. That might be an ordinary occurrence in your particular line of work, but I find myself unable to not care about who killed the poor woman.”
“Might I remind you, Mr. Sinclair, that you remain a suspect in Alexandra Romanova’s murder?”
“All the more reason for me to care about establishing who really killed her, I should think.”
Randolph stared at him. Finally he took up a pen and dipped it in the inkwell. “Very well then. What is it you wish to say?”
Rowland ventured the possibility that the taxi girl was killed by mistake.
“What exactly do you mean, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Perhaps the murderer intended to kill someone else.”
“Are you saying you believe you were the intended victim?”
“Me? No. But perhaps Miss Higgins or Miss Hahn, or her sister for that matter.”
“Miss Hahn?”
Rowland informed Randolph about the suite’s previous occupants.
“What makes you believe Miss Hahn or her sister is connected with the murder?”
“I don’t necessarily believe either is. I’m looking for any reason that a young woman might be brutally killed in my suite.”
“Or perhaps you’re trying to move the attention of the police from yourself.”
“I’m not,” Rowland said simply.
“That’s all right then,” Randolph sneered. “I’ll just ignore the fact that the victim was found in your suite and that you were covered in her blood!”
Milton stood. “Look you—”
“Steady on, Milt.” Rowland stopped the poet before he could erupt, then met Randolph’s eye and held it. “I don’t expect you to ignore it, Inspector. But neither do I expect you to ignore other lines of enquiry which might, in fact, bring Miss Romanova’s murderer to justice.”
“I applaud your determination to secure justice for a taxi girl. Exactly what was the nature of your relationship with the deceased?”
Rowland exhaled as he reminded himself to keep his temper. “I danced with her and I found her body. I presume if you could prove I had done anything else, I would have been arrested by now.”
“I wouldn’t be in a hurry to presume anything if I were you, sir.”
* * *
Rowland cursed furiously as they left the station. He nearly turned back to have a more frank word with the chief inspector. It was, unusually, Milton who advised restraint and caution. “He’s just looking for a reason to throw you in gaol, comrade.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“Because cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face.”
“Blake,” Rowland growled.
“Believe me,” Milton persisted. “I know his type only too well.”
“What flaming type?”
“The jumped-up little dictator type. Don’t push him, Rowly. He probably doesn’t have enough to convict you, but he might be able to lock you up for a while and…” Milton hesitated. “Wilfred isn’t here.”
Rowland’s face clouded further, but he could not deny that his brother’s influence might make matters easier now, even in Shanghai. He pushed a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’re right. I probably shouldn’t get myself arrested.”
Milton placed a hand on Rowland’s shoulder. “Come on, mate. You’ve told him what we know, it’s all you can do.”
“For the moment.”
“Yes, for the moment.” Milton glanced at his watch. “Don’t you and Ed have to go to this fancy party tonight?”
Rowland nodded unenthusiastically.
“Then we’ll see if we can find Sergei Romanov tomorrow.”
“We probably have time now if we hurry—”
Milton shook his head. “You’ll be cutting it too fine, Rowly. Go do what Wilfred sent you here to do—Sergei will keep.”
Rowland’s laugh was wry. “Wilfred sent me here to do nothing. He made that very clear.”
“Well, you should be able to do an excellent job then.” Milton signalled Singh and the Buick. “We’d better head back so you can change. I believe your lot prefers to wear dinner suits while they do nothing.”
* * *
The Paramount Ballroom was on Bubbling Well Road, just outside the French Concession. As it was in actuality a number of dance halls, the complex occupied a substantial part of the block.
“Andrew Petty promised to drop us home,” Rowland told Ranjit Singh as the Buick picked its way through the congestion.
“I can wait, sir.”
“This might take hours, Mr. Singh, and I don’t see anywhere for you to park the car.”
Edna agreed. “We’ll go back to Kiangse Road with Mr. Petty. You go home to your wife, Mr. Singh.”
Singh frowned. He wagged his finger at them. “Promise me you won’t be tempted to take a rickshaw. The drivers all take opium—it’s very dangerous.”
Solemnly, Edna made the promise.
Rowland climbed out of the Buick and walked around to hold the door open for Edna. She took his hand and stepped out, the split of her cheongsam parting to give Rowland a glimpse of her thigh. She laughed as she noticed his gaze. “I’ve posed for you a hundred times, Rowly—you’ve seen my leg before. It’s hardly cause for alarm.”
Rowland nodded. “I assure you I’m not alarmed.”
Edna entwined her arm in his. “Shall we make an entrance then?”
They walked into the building and were ushered by a doorman to the main ballroom on the ground floor. The massive hall embodied all the glamour and sleek style of contemporary fashion with a decadent flair of the previous decade. The Harlem Boys—an American jazz band—played in the ornate shell which formed the back of the stage. Round tables had been laid with white linen and silver for a banquet of many courses. A mezzanine level provided a surrounding balcony which overlooked the lower hall, and from which guests might watch the dancing or retreat to private conversations. Strings of flowers attached to the mezzanine hung over the tables, forming suspended centrepieces. The lighting was dim, the atmosphere charged, but not quite celebratory.
“Oh it’s beautiful,” Edna murmured, reaching out to touch a string of flowers. It seemed they were among the last guests to arrive.
Andrew Petty spotted them and approached with outstretched congeniality. “Sinclair! You’re here at last. How are you, old man?”
Rowland shook Petty’s hand and introduced Edna.
Petty took her hand and raised it to his lips. “We’re going to be frightful bores and talk business from time to time, so do allow me to apologise in advance, Miss Higgins…though I suspect a young lady as enchanting as yourself will not be short of company if Sinclair is obliged to neglect you occasionally.”
“Exactly the reason I’ll be doing no such thing,” Rowland replied pleasantly.
Petty faltered, and then he laughed. “Oh, I see. Very good, Sinclair, very good. But you may have to, I’m afraid. The Japanese chaps are determined to make a deal tonight.” He showed them to their seats at one of the banquet tables. Despite Petty’s insistence that Rowland would need a partner for the event, the other men at their table were unaccompanied.
Petty introduced Rowland to a number of Japanese businessmen, including Messrs. Akhito and Yiragowa, to whom the others seemed to defer. Standing dutifully behind each of their Japanese hosts was an interpreter—young men barely out of their teens, who were not introduced and who spoke only when translating words into and from English. The businessmen shared a military stiffness to their carriage and a slow formality to their speech.
Also at the table were Messrs. Masey and Lloyd-Jones of the Japan-Australia Society. Masey was young, no older than Rowland, and a representative of Johnson and Johnson. Rowland was already vaguely acquainted with Lloyd-Jones, who resided in Woollahra.
The table’s numbers were completed by Herr Rabe of Siemens and Miss Violet Rutherford, who had come with Andrew Petty.
Rowland shook all the necessary hands and returned the bows of the Japanes
e gentlemen; Edna accepted introductory compliments with modesty and grace.
John Rabe, who was seated beside Edna, spoke English and so was able to engage the sculptress without the stilted conduit of translators. Rowland sketched him mentally. The German businessman had no particularly striking features. His forehead stretched to the crown of his head, and his upper lip bore the tidy, unremarkable moustache that was currently popular among men his age. His eyes were intelligent, assessing. The director of the local subsidiary of Siemens, a European company which dealt in industrial manufacture, Rabe and the Japanese seemed on familiar terms. Rowland pushed in Edna’s chair as an army of waiters emerged in formation to serve the first course and keep glasses refreshed.
“Yiragowa has been charged by the Japanese government and a consortium of respected manufacturers to purchase wool on their behalf—the others all answer to him,” Petty whispered into Rowland’s ear. “They are keen to come to an understanding.”
Rowland nodded, awkwardly aware that he’d been instructed to do anything but come to an understanding. Despite his best efforts to linger in social small talk, the conversation launched into business almost immediately. Fortunately, the need to use interpreters slowed the pace. Rowland said as little as possible whilst Andrew Petty waxed lyrical about the superior quality of Australian wool and the Australian businessmen spoke equally effusively about the friendship between Australia and Japan.
“You will not find a better price for your wool than that which we can offer, Mr. Sinclair,” Yiragowa’s interpreter said impassively.
“I have no doubt.” Rowland glanced at Yiragowa. There was a hint of pride and expectation in the tilt of his head as the interpreter relayed the words. Regardless, Rowland offered no more. There was an exchange of Japanese which the interpreters did not convey.
In an effort to avoid direct questioning on the subject, Rowland invited Herr Rabe into the conversation, asking him about business in China.
Rabe spoke enthusiastically about the opportunities China could offer. In the background, the interpreters translated the conversation into Japanese.
“And how do you think the Chinese feel about the focus of the business world on their country?” Rowland asked, knowing the topic was probably not strictly appropriate for polite conversation, but hoping politics might waylay further talk of wool.
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