Shanghai Secrets

by Sulari Gentill

  She appeared suddenly from the darkness of the alley and attempted to push the man with the gun away from Rowland. “How dare you! Leave him alone—”

  It was hard to know what the zealous doormen might have done if two Rolls Royce limousines had not at that moment pulled into the alley, momentarily dazzling them all with their headlamps.

  Startled, the doormen stood back. The gun was holstered hastily.

  The doors of the first motorcar opened, and six burly European men climbed out and waited. A uniformed chauffeur alighted from the second vehicle and opened the rear door of the limousine. Du Yuesheng stepped out.

  Rowland looked up into Edna’s face. She was close to tears. “Rowly…”

  He sat up slowly, painfully. “Ed, thank God! How did you—?”

  “The waiter,” she whispered. “He took me out through the kitchen after they threw you out.”

  Rowland embraced her. “I’m so sorry. I should never have—”

  Du Yuesheng cleared his throat impatiently.

  Rowland rose gingerly to his feet.

  Du turned to his chauffeur and barked orders in Cantonese. The driver bowed and translated his master’s instructions into Pidgin for the benefit of Rowland and Edna. “Mister wanchee go home? Zongshi say my tek.”

  “I think he’s offering to have his driver take us home,” said Edna.

  Rowland hesitated. “Thank you,” he said to Du Yuesheng. As unlikely as it sounded, accepting a ride from a Shanghai gangster seemed the safest and most convenient course of action in the present moment.

  Du signalled, and one of the men who’d arrived in the first Rolls Royce opened the door and motioned Rowland into the back of the vehicle. Edna climbed in beside him.

  The chauffeur slid open the partition. “Where to?”

  “Cathay Hotel side,” Rowland replied slowly, attempting to reply with what pidgin he’d managed to pick up.

  “Rowly, are you sure—?” Edna began.

  Rowland took her hand and nodded. He did not want Du Yuesheng to know where they were staying, if he could help it. By the time they reached the Cathay Hotel he would have recovered his breath enough to walk the couple of blocks to Kiangse Road.

  Du Yuesheng’s chauffeur was talkative. He did not seem to mind that his passengers understood very little of what he was saying. Edna took the trouble to nod and smile into the rearview mirror from time to time; Rowland was preoccupied with the pounding in his head. Edna asked him for his handkerchief as she opened the inbuilt drinks cabinet. She moistened the cloth with the contents of one of the crystal decanters and then pressed it gently to his temple. It seemed the newly healed injury inflicted by Sergei Romanov’s violin had reopened.

  Rowland flinched. The alcohol with which Edna had dampened his handkerchief stung on contact. He wondered fleetingly if he had time to pour some into a glass instead.

  “Rowly—”

  “I’m all right, Ed,” he said quietly. “My pride’s more bruised than anything else.”

  “It’s not your pride that’s bleeding, Rowly.”

  “No,” he said. “That’s definitely my head.”

  She said nothing for a moment. “What do you suppose that place was?”

  “Some kind of nightclub. I expect there was a gaming room or an opium den up those stairs.” Rowland’s eyes clouded. “If anything had happened to you, Ed…”

  “Nothing did.” She pressed his hand. “They forgot about me the moment the fight started. I was terrified they were going to kill you.”

  Rowland smiled ruefully. “No, they weren’t that committed to the task.”

  The Rolls Royce pulled up in front of the Cathay, and they disembarked.

  “Yáyà nong.” Edna thanked the driver in Shanghainese, an effort which seemed to delight him. He waved and honked as he turned the motorcar around and headed back towards the Garden Bridge. They waited till he was out of sight.

  “We’d better go in,” Edna said.

  “Into the Cathay?” Rowland asked. “Why?”

  “We’ll ask Mr. Van Hagen to have one of the hotel cars take us to Kiangse Road.” She reached up and brushed back his hair to check if the cut on his brow has stopped bleeding. It had, but the area was bruised and bloody. “All things considered, it might not be wise to walk.”

  Rowland nodded. Kiangse Road was only a couple of blocks away, but his current state of dishevelment did make him somewhat conspicuous. They could also not be sure that they were not still being followed. Edna took his arm. She walked slowly, and accustomed to usual briskness of her step, he guessed she was still concerned about him. “Stop worrying, Ed. I was a boxer, remember? I know how to take a punch.”

  She looked at him critically. “Yes, I suppose you must.”

  He laughed. “Come on, let’s find Van Hagen. I should probably cash another cheque anyway.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  AID TO COURTING

  A Book Was Once Written

  ABOUT 70 years ago, according to a classic which was published then, The Art of Courtship, there was no such thing as equality of the sexes in the business of wooing and being wooed, which in those days was called, “Winning the fair object of his affections.”

  …“If the now hopeful suitor is invited to a party,” the book says, “at which the loved one will be present, he can take the bull by the horns, and send her some flowers with the written request that he hopes to have the unspeakable pleasure of seeing Miss X honor his unworthy self by wearing them in her corsage that evening.”

  —Sun, 5 November 1933

  * * *

  Milton opened the red door and regarded them with both relief and shock. “Bloody oath! He moved quickly to lend Rowland his shoulder as Edna stepped inside. “What the devil did you do to Rowly?”

  The sculptress ignored him.

  “Who’s here?” Rowland asked, having noticed the black Singer outside the house.

  “You have a visitor.”

  Rowland groaned. “Randolph?”

  Clyde limped out into the hallway. “Actually no.” He put his arm around Edna, relieved. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Ed—we thought… Good grief, Rowly, are you all right? What on earth happened?”

  “I’ll be fine. Who’s here?”

  Clyde stepped aside so Rowland could proceed into the drawing room. “You should probably see for yourself.”

  “Sinclair! Where the in the name of God have you been?” Alastair Blanshard stood as they came in. “Look at you! I thought I instructed you to go home!”

  “Good evening, Mr. Blanshard. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Sinclair, I’m not here for tea and tiddlywinks!”

  Rowland eased himself into a chair. He rubbed the back of his neck. “What can I do for you, Mr. Blanshard?” he asked wearily.

  Edna telephoned Dr. Rubenstein, ignoring Rowland’s protests.

  “Suppose you start by telling me why you look like you’ve been run over by a flaming rickshaw.” Blanshard said, rolling his eyes as Edna asked the physician to attend.

  Rowland recounted the fracas at the nightclub.

  Blanshard leant forward in his seat. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure of what?”

  “Sure that your present condition is the result of an altercation over Miss Higgins’s honour.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Kung—that chap who calls himself an abbot, was once Mr. Trebitsch-Lincoln, Member for Darlington in County Durham. He has at various times been wanted by His Majesty’s government for international espionage. Before his current incarnation as Buddhist holy man, he was working with Fascist sympathisers in Europe until he betrayed them too. I noticed you were speaking to him.”

  “He’s a spy?”

  “He likes to think so…but more o
f a mercenary whose allegiances are for sale.”

  Rowland told Blanshard the essence of their conversation with Kung and of the shadow he saw in the alley. “I was a little groggy, but I’m sure it was him.”

  “Who exactly was this fellow who propositioned Miss Higgins?”

  Rowland shrugged. “I think he was already in the restaurant when we arrived. I don’t know who the chap was—some drunken buffoon who thought he could take liberties.”

  “How big was he?” Milton asked, looking Rowland over.

  “He had friends.”

  Blanshard shook his head. “For pity’s sake, boy, was it truly necessary to start a brawl? This is Shanghai. You have to expect a certain lack of inhibition.”

  “It was his lack of manners to which I objected.”

  “Blast it, Sinclair, you can’t go about swinging first, particularly now! I would have thought what happened in Germany…”

  Edna returned to the drawing room with a tray of tea and one of Harjeet’s coffee cakes. She handed Rowland the compress she’d made up in the kitchen, and poured him the first cup of tea. “Couldn’t this wait till morning, Mr. Blanshard?”

  “No, unfortunately I don’t think it can. Time is our enemy.”

  Clyde’s groan was audible.

  “Where’s Wing?” Rowland asked, noticing his absence for the first time.

  “He took take the night off—visiting relatives or some such thing.”

  “He won’t be back till the morning, but he laid out your pyjamas and fresh suit before he went.” Clyde was obviously amused by Wing’s continuing efforts.

  “Who is this fellow Wing?” Blanshard demanded.

  “Rowly retained him as a translator and guide,” Milton replied. “As far as we can tell, he lays out Rowly’s clothes for his own entertainment.”

  “Wing? An Oriental, then? Where did you find him?”

  “He was the butler provided to us by the Cathay.”

  “Good of Sassoon to send him with you.” Blanshard scowled. “Though a security guard might have been more useful. Is he trustworthy?”

  “Yes,” Edna said definitely.

  Rowland agreed. Wing might be a Communist in hiding, but that probably made him more trustworthy than less.

  Milton moved the cup of tea Edna had made for Rowland aside, and set down a glass of gin instead.

  “What exactly are you doing in Shanghai, Mr. Blanshard?” Rowland winced as he reached for the glass of gin. Now that they’d stopped moving, the parts of his body that had taken the worst of it were beginning to ache. Nothing, however, that a good night’s rest would not address if he could just get Blanshard to leave.

  “I’m taking in the sights, Mr. Sinclair.” Blanshard regarded Rowland thoughtfully. “What made you turn down the Japanese? From what I understand, their offer was generous.”

  “You turned them down?” Clyde said, surprised. “I thought Wilfred said—”

  Rowland did not ask how Blanshard knew what the Japanese had offered. The man was a spy, after all. “The Japanese are working with the Nazis.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Rowland told him about the German diplomats who’d graced their table.

  “This is Shanghai,” Blanshard said carefully.

  “It was not a chance encounter,” Rowland replied. “Nor a mere public civility. The Germans were aware of the Japanese offer.”

  Blanshard sighed. “So I am to understand that you will not deal with anyone who has a sympathetic or friendly association with the Germans.”

  “With the Nazis,” Rowland corrected. “No, I will not.” He undid his bow tie and unfastened the button of his bloodied collar. “Look, Blanshard, the truth is I wasn’t authorised to accept the Japanese offer anyway. Wil wanted me to mark time until he has the chance to deal with the issue himself. I just got sick of playing games.”

  “Were you authorised to refuse the offer?”

  “Not specifically, but Wilfred will agree with my reasons,” he said, not really sure that would be the case.

  “I see.” Blanshard’s tone was sceptical. “Look, Rowland,” he continued more gently. “I know you have good reason to distrust the Germans, but business deals are not made in isolation. There were many other deals relying on the Sinclairs being willing to do business with the Japanese despite talk of an embargo…deals which may, in fact, have prevented the embargo ever being imposed. There are a great many people with substantial fortunes at risk.”

  “Are you suggesting I accept the Japanese offer?”

  “No. That matter is ultimately between you and Wilfred. However, I do need you to understand the danger in which you’ve put yourself and your companions. This is Shanghai. Business dealings here are not always polite. Coercion, extortion, and retribution are as commonplace as drinks before dinner.” Blanshard drained his tumbler of whisky. “It’s my recommendation that you all go home immediately.”

  Rowland glanced at his companions. “Regrettably, Mr. Blanshard, the murder of Alexandra Romanova means that I, at least, cannot leave.”

  “And I suppose Miss Higgins and the gentlemen won’t leave without you.”

  “That’s right,” Milton replied.

  Blanshard rubbed his chin and directed Milton to top up his whisky. “Tell me about this murdered taxi girl.”

  Rowland detailed what they knew about Alexandra.

  Blanshard stood and moved to the window. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He moved the curtain aside and peered out. “How did you get home?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you sent your driver home. How did you get from this restaurant in the alley to here? I expect you know that both taxis and rickshaws are dangerous for various reasons.”

  Edna told Alastair Blanshard about the timely arrival of Du Yuesheng. “He had his driver take us home.”

  Blanshard looked at Rowland aghast. “You told Shanghai’s preeminent gangster where you were staying?”

  “No. We had the chauffeur deliver us to the Cathay, for what it was worth. But considering you found us, I expect Master Du will be able to do so too.”

  “Right then!” Blanshard put down his glass, frustrated. “May I implore you to jolly well do whatever necessary to get out from whatever suspicion you’re under, and then leave Shanghai before you get yourselves killed!”

  * * *

  The first creak was loud enough to stir Rowland. He lay abed, unsure what exactly had woken him. It was still very dark, no hint of dawn, and his sleep had been exhausted without dreams to jolt him into consciousness. It had been midnight before Rubinstein left after inserting a precautionary stitch and reassuring Edna that Rowland was not seriously hurt. It was still too dark to make out the face of his watch, but Rowland doubted that he had been asleep long. Certainly not long enough. A second creak and he was out of bed, wincing as he was reminded sharply of the battering his body had taken a few hours before. Even so, he didn’t pause, stepping into the hallway to investigate the noise.

  Edna jumped, clamping her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. A candle wobbled precariously in the holder she held in the other.

  “Ed.” He whispered in case Clyde and Milton had not already woken. “What are you doing?”

  “I heard a sound downstairs.” She peered down the stairwell. “I was going to look before I woke any of you—to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.”

  Rowland shook his head. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go down and check.”

  “I’m not letting you go alone—”

  “You need to stay here and wake Clyde and Milt if it happens that there is an intruder,” he said quietly but firmly.

  “Rowly—”

  “It’s probably nothing,” he said, aware of the familiar scent of her rose perfume. “That fool Blanshard’s just made yo
u a bit jittery with his dire warnings.”

  Reluctantly, she handed him the candle. He made his way down the stairs and tested the back door first. It was secure. The kitchen seemed undisturbed, the dining room too. Rowland walked through the ground floor checking every room. There was nothing. It was as he was about to check the front door that he heard something. It took him a couple of seconds to realise it came from outside the door. He relaxed—probably a stray dog…or a cat. There seemed an inordinate number of cats in Shanghai. He released the bolts on the red door and swung it open. Kiangse Road was not silent, even at this time. A few rickshaws, two or three parked cars, a group of men gathered about a lit brazier in the space between the buildings directly across the road, but there was no dog or cat. There was, however, something on the doorstep.

  Rowland picked up the bouquet, scanning for any sign of who might have left it. No one.

  He frowned, bringing the flowers in and re-bolting the door. Edna had, by then, come down.

  “Rowly, Ed…is that you?” Clyde peered down from the top of the stairs.

  “Yes.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Ed thought she heard something.”

  Clyde grunted drowsily. “Bloody Blanshard!”

  “Go back to bed, Clyde,” Edna said. “It was nothing.”

  Another grunt and Clyde did as she suggested.

  “What’s that?” Edna asked Rowland.

  “Flowers, orchids I believe.” He handed them to her.

  “Who are they for?”

  “You, I expect. People don’t generally leave flowers for men—even in China.”

  “There’s no card,” she said, almost to herself.

  “It’s probably Kruznetsov getting overexcited again.”

  Edna bit her lip. “Maybe.” She didn’t sound at all certain.

  “Should we put these in water?”

  “No.” She placed the bouquet onto the hall table. “I’ll throw them out in the morning.”

  Rowland was a little surprised by the vehemence of her reply. “Are you all right, Ed?”

  “Yes. I just don’t think they’re from Nicky.”

  “Why?”