“My children and grandchildren were born here, Mr. Sinclair. I have tremendous sympathy for the Chinese people.”
“Do you consider yourself Chinese, Herr Rabe?” Edna asked.
Rabe shook his head emphatically. “I am German in heart and mind. My first allegiance is to the Fatherland.”
Edna’s hand touched Rowland’s arm under the table.
Rowland took a chance. “And the Nazis?” he asked in German. “Do they have your allegiance too?”
The interpreters murmured, confused. Clearly none of them understood German.
Rabe watched Rowland carefully and replied in German. “But of course. I am an organiser of the party in Shanghai. Like all loyal Germans, I love the Führer. If only the Chinese were blessed with a government like the Third Reich.”
Petty looked flustered. “I say, chaps, I don’t know if you realise the interpreters don’t understand German…nor I, for that matter.”
Rowland noticed a few couples on the dance floor and saw his chance. He stood and held his hand out to Edna. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I might dance with Miss Higgins before the next course is served.”
“I say,” Petty said, surprised, “is that—”
Edna took Rowland’s hand and stood. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Sinclair.”
The Harlem Boys were playing a Lindy Hop when Rowland and Edna stepped out. The dance was not particularly well known in Australia, but they had picked up the steps while abroad a couple of years before. It took only a couple of tentative beats to find their rhythm on the spring-form dance floor, which suited the energy of movement. Conversation was, of course, constrained by the demands of the dance and the volume of the music so close to the stage.
It seemed the Hop was popular in Shanghai because by its end there were several more couples on the floor. And so Rowland and Edna settled into a slow jazz waltz within the privacy of a crowd.
Edna looked up at Rowland and smiled. “That’s better,” she said. “I was worried the conversation at the table was getting too serious.”
Rowland grimaced. “The Japanese seem fairly intent on buying our wool,” he said. “Perhaps I should just tell them that all business decisions are made by Wil.”
“I’m not sure I understand why they are so determined to do business with the Sinclairs.” Edna leaned back as Rowland led her into a series of turns.
“I suspect it’s the influence of the Sinclair name they want. Petty seems to think the other brokers are waiting to see if Wil is willing to sell to the Japanese.”
“Do you think he is?”
“I’m afraid my brother’s business machinations are a mystery to me.”
Edna’s brow furrowed, her eyes fixed on his. “Herr Rabe. He’s a Nazi.”
“Yes.”
“That bothers you.”
Rowland sighed. “I suspect you can’t be a German businessman nowadays without being a member. Rabe is probably like every other politically convenient, opportunistic businessman. If Germany was Communist, he’d be singing ‘The Red Flag’ with gusto.”
“So you’re not…you know?” Edna asked quietly.
Rowland looked down. The sculptress’s cheek was rested against his lapel. He understood why she was worried. For months after their time in Germany, he had been unable to work or sleep. But he had learned to deal with those memories now. He was no longer crippled by it. “I’m perfectly all right,” he said.
“Who do you suppose all these people are?” Edna asked.
“What do you mean?”
Edna glanced around at the hundreds of people in the hall, at tables, in alcoves, on the dance floor, and leaning over the balcony. “Are the Japanese hoping to do business with them all?”
“Many of them, I expect,” Rowland replied. “Apparently there’s serious talk of a trade embargo against Japan. I suppose they’re trying to make sure they have what they need before it’s imposed.”
“So all these people have something they want?”
Rowland cast his eyes about the hall. “I suspect some of them are just people that go to dances,” he said. “I saw Bernadine just now, and that chap Chao Kung—the Buddhist abbot. I wouldn’t have thought either would have anything of interest to the Japanese.”
Edna craned her neck in an attempt to glimpse Chao Kung. Rowland assisted her by lowering her into a dip so she could see the unusual holy man, albeit upside-down.
“Thank you,” she laughed, as he pulled her up and finished the movement with a turn. “We probably should resume our seats before poor Mr. Petty explodes.”
Rowland looked back at their table. All eyes were on them. He sighed. “One more number. The more time we spend here, the less time I’ll have to spend trying to avoid committing Wil to anything.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
TREBÏTSCH LINCOLN.
Return to Shanghai.
SHANGHAI—Refused permission to reside in Great Britain, America, Japan and European countries, the Abbot Chao Kung, better known in the western world as Trebitsch Lincoln who, in the course of a chequered career was a member of the British Parliament and later a wartime spy, returned to Shanghai last night accompanied by six Buddhist priests and one nun.
He is thoroughly embittered at his treatment at the hands of western nations, among whom he intended to spread the Buddhist faith. Refusing to see pressmen, he handed out a printed slip declaring that after years of experience with journalists, he was finally forced to the decision to refuse to see any of them in the future. “I am not interested in publicity,” he added. “My work is to help suffering humanity through the doctrine of Buddha. You cannot help me and you certainly shall not hinder me.”
He announced his intention of organising Buddhist propaganda for distribution in European countries, using China as a base.
—Western Mail, 28 June 1934
* * *
As Rowland and Edna returned to their seats, the next course was being served.
“You’re an excellent dancer, Mr. Sinclair,” Violet said glancing resentfully at Petty.
“You and Miss Higgins make a very graceful couple,” Rabe agreed. “The modern dances are too exuberant for me, I’m afraid. Mrs. Rabe must content herself with the occasional waltz.”
Andrew Petty endeavoured to resurrect negotiations for the Sinclair clip. “Well done, Sinclair,” he whispered. “Your feigned indifference is making them nervous. Bloody clever strategy. I suspect Yiragowa may be ready to raise their offer.”
“It might be best to be indifferent for a while longer then.”
“I don’t think…” Petty trailed off as three European men approached and then stopped at their table. They were obviously known to their hosts, who stood and greeted them warmly without the aid of the interpreters. But it was Rabe’s greeting that caught Rowland’s attention.
The businessman stood. “Heil Hitler.” Rabe clicked his heels and flapped his hand in a casual Fascist salute. The response was in kind, and the conversation which ensued, collegial, this time in German. Playful comments about what Mrs. Rabe would say if she knew he was dining with two such beautiful women. And then an enquiry about whether the Japanese had concluded their business.
Rabe cleared his throat and introduced Rowland Sinclair and the ladies. The Germans were presented as diplomats, representatives of the Third Reich, a fact which Rabe clearly felt recommended them. Rowland’s reserve was marked but not beyond the explanation of a natural disposition. Only Edna was aware of the tension in his body. The Germans stayed a while longer, making jokes, being generally pleasant. They wished the Japanese wool buyers a good outcome before they departed for their own table.
For a while talk of wool was set aside as they ate. Eventually Petty returned the conversation to the Sinclair stockpile.
Yiragowa took up the negotiation declaring that he was willing to offe
r twice the market rate.
“Well that is a most generous offer—” Petty began.
“No,” Rowland said.
Petty’s head snapped round. “I beg your pardon, I thought you said—”
“I said no,” Rowland’s voice was calm and clear.
Petty whispered urgently into his ear. “Look, Rowland, I assure you that this is an excellent offer. I doubt they’ll go much higher.”
“It wouldn’t matter if they did,” Rowland replied. “The answer would still be no.”
Lloyd-Jones scowled. “What exactly are you playing at, Sinclair?”
Masey stared at Rowland aghast. “Why?”
The Japanese wool buyers were talking amongst themselves—no interpreters were needed to translate their displeasure.
Petty was apoplectic. “For God’s sake, man! What the hell are you trying to do?”
“I’m sorry, Andrew—I’ve decided not to sell the stockpile at this point.”
“Sorry? We had an understanding!”
“No, I don’t believe we did.”
Yiragowa and Akhito were shouting now. The Germans, having noticed the commotion, were making their way back. Rabe stood and stepped away from the table to speak with them.
Edna grabbed Rowland’s hand. “Perhaps we should go, Rowly.”
Rowland nodded. He stood and thanked their hosts for what it was worth. The interpreter who translated, did so while cringing. Akhito barked a reply while Petty almost begged Rowland to reconsider.
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Petty.”
Petty exploded, grabbing Rowland’s shoulder angrily. “If you think I’m going to allow you to leave—”
“I wasn’t asking your permission,” Rowland said coldly.
“Let the boy go, Andrew.”
Rowland turned. Alastair Blanshard. “Hello, Rowland.”
“Do you know what this bloody fool has done?” Petty spat. “You’ll regret this, Sinclair. I’ll see that you do.”
“Settle down, Andrew. There are ladies present.” Blanshard smiled at Edna. “Good evening, Miss Higgins.”
“Mr. Blanshard—hello. What on earth are you doing here?”
“That, my dear, is a story for another day. I believe you and Rowland were leaving. Don’t let us delay you.”
Rowland caught the advice in his tone, and whilst he did not entirely trust Alastair Blanshard, he took heed. He and Edna made their way to the foyer and waited briefly while one of the footmen fetched their coats.
“Mr. Sinclair!” Chao Kung pulled off his Tibetan skullcap as he approached and wrung it as he spoke. “I don’t suppose you’d remember me. We were introduced at the soiree of Mrs. Bernadine Szold-Fritz.”
“Good evening, sir.” Rowland placed Edna’s cape over her shoulders. “I’m afraid we were just leaving.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear that you have fallen out with the Japanese.” Kung did not seem inclined to let them pass.
For a moment Rowland said nothing. “I see.”
“I wondered perhaps if I might offer my services.”
“And what services are they, Mr. Kung?”
Kung preened. “As a man of the cloth, I have connections of trust with the children of the sun, as well as the British and Germans. Perhaps I could assist you to sort out any misunderstanding.”
Rowland smiled faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Kung, but I really don’t think so.”
“Allow me to assure you, Mr. Sinclair, I am a man of considerable influence. Surely it would be better to return to your brother having successfully concluded the business for which he sent you?”
Rowland’s eyes narrowed. How on earth did Kung know what Wilfred had sent him to China to do? “No, I don’t think it would, but thank you for your concern. We really must be getting on our way.”
Kung gripped Rowland’s arm. “Don’t do something you’ll regret, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland looked down at Kung’s hand. “I would caution you likewise, sir.”
The abbot released his grasp. “Perhaps I could offer you a lift back to your residence in my motorcar. Where are you staying?”
“Thank you, but we have our own car,” Rowland said coolly. He took Edna’s hand. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Kung?”
For a moment Kung hesitated, and then he pressed his palms together and bowed.
They slipped past him and through the door, stepping out onto Bubbling Well Road.
“What now?” Edna whispered.
“We disappear into the crowd,” Rowland said quietly, “in case someone tries following us.” Rowland adjusted Edna’s cape, glancing back over her shoulder as he did so. “That chap Kung seemed rather too interested in where we were staying.”
They weaved their way through a group of people clapping and laughing around a man with performing monkeys, as the creatures cavorted and begged for coins. Chao Kung scurried into the crowd after them, the monk’s attire serving to clear the respectful from its path. It was not until Rowland and Edna joined a large group of Englishmen on the way to dinner that their attire and Rowland’s height became less conspicuous, and the abbot fell behind and out of sight. The Englishmen and their ladies had obviously been taking pre-dinner drinks somewhere, and so they didn’t seem to notice the Australians who’d insinuated themselves into their party.
After a couple of blocks, gaily traversed with the inebriated revellers, they found themselves entering a restaurant in one of the vibrant side alleys. The doorman waved in the group on the credentials of the gentleman at its head.
“We’ll see about finding a telephone,” Rowland said quietly as they were bustled in.
The restaurant was lit by candles and oil lamps. It was large enough to accommodate a band and dance floor, but with the number of people within it, there was barely room to move. The party had clearly been going for some time before their arrival. The clientele was mainly Western, though there were a few Orientals in the mix. Rowland could make out phrases of French and Russian and a little Italian in the multilingual babble. Waiters managed to negotiate the press of people with champagne and spirits. On the dance floor, couples moved together in a way that would have been a scandal in other establishments: entwined, enraptured, oblivious. It was warm in the restaurant, and perhaps for this reason, many patrons seemed to be in various forms of undress. Every now and then there were squeals and cheers as one of the guests removed some part of their attire. Rowland kept a firm grip on Edna’s hand. It was not that they had never been to wild parties before, but that they had come to this one uninvited with no idea as to who else was there.
A young woman, naked to the waist, grabbed Rowland’s lapel and made to kiss him. Surprised and apparently offended when he resisted, she demanded an explanation in inebriated indignation. “Don’t you like me? Why are you being like that?”
Rowland declined her advances as courteously as he could, but it seemed the would-be seductress was taking his lack of interest somewhat personally. Her anger became tearful and loud. He made a futile attempt to calm her. Then Edna reached up and kissed Rowland herself. He responded without reserve, without any thought of defence. When the sculptress finally pulled away, the spurned stranger had vanished.
Edna laughed, rubbing the lipstick off his lip with her thumb. “I’m sorry, Rowly. I thought she might go if she thought you were spoken for.”
Rowland stared at her, having in that moment forgotten completely about the naked girl.
“Rowly?”
“Yes…of course. Thank you. We should get out of here before someone notices we’re not actually on the guest list.”
Rowland asked a passing waiter about using a telephone, but making himself understood over the din of celebration was a challenge. Eventually the man gestured that he should wait and headed towards a small set of stairs in the corner.
“My
God! You’re a doll!” The accent was American. A gentleman who’d lost his jacket and whose tie hung loose about his neck. “You wanna come upstairs with me, sweetheart?”
“No, thank you,” Edna said calmly.
“Oh, come on!” The American moved to seize Edna around the waist.
Rowland stepped in between them. “The lady said no.”
“Gentleman’s choice, buddy. It’s the rules. We share and share alike.” He grabbed for Edna. Rowland caught his arm. The American swung with the other.
The dispute exploded more than escalated, and it seemed the American had friends. They came quickly to the fray. The fight was brief and intense, and Rowland lost quite decisively. He was thrown out into the alley.
As he struggled to his knees, his first thought, his only thought, was Edna. Where the hell was she?
The alley was deserted.
Rowland closed his eyes, trying to steady a spinning word, attempting to recall exactly what had happened. He remembered being pulled away from Edna and slammed up against a wall while three men laid into him. She’d called his name, but in the crowded darkness he could not see her. They’d dragged him out and thrown him into the side street.
Light from the establishment’s shopfront spilled into the head of the alley, allowing the shadow to be cast. A man in robes. The figure moved as Rowland looked up. “Kung!”
Rowland staggered back to the restaurant’s entrance. The doormen barred his way.
“I’m afraid this is strictly an invitation-only event, sir.”
Rowland tried to explain. The doormen refused to hear him. Frustrated and beginning to panic now, Rowland charged the door. And then he was on the ground again. One of the doormen produced a gun and pressed the muzzle against Rowland’s chest.
“You’d best move on, sir,” he growled. “Your young lady probably has.”
Recklessly, furiously, Rowland refused. Somewhere a woman screamed.
“Rowly!” Edna’s voice.
Shanghai Secrets Page 22