Shanghai Secrets

by Sulari Gentill

  “So you reacted violently because the gentleman wished to dance with Miss Higgins? Are you usually so volatile when Miss Higgins is involved?”

  “He did not ask her to dance. Whatever he asked, she refused.”

  “Hmmm.” Randolph made some notes.

  Rowland checked his wristwatch. Where the hell was Gilbert Carmel?

  * * *

  Edna telephoned the offices of Carmel and Smith for the third time.

  “As I told you previously, Miss Higgins”—the secretary’s voice was weary—“Mr. Carmel is in Nanking. We are trying to contact him, and we will endeavour to send another solicitor to assist Mr. Sinclair.”

  Edna replaced the receiver, frustrated, and gave up the public telephone to the next person in the long line waiting to use it.

  She made her way back to Clyde and Milton. The modern waiting room of the International Police Headquarters was large and well appointed. Indeed, if not for the presence of uniformed constabulary, one might have been forgiven for mistaking it for a hotel foyer. Even so, the space was tainted with tension, with worry and panic, as people waited to give statements or to ask after friends and family who had come to the attention of the Shanghai Police.

  The Australians and Wing Zau had come to give statements to alibi Rowland Sinclair. They were received politely, if a little indifferently, and directed to wait while the prisoner was being interrogated. After five hours their patience began to wear.

  Edna took a seat beside Clyde. Milton paced.

  “Are you sure they arrested him, Ed?” Clyde asked for the umpteenth time. “Surely they just brought him in for questioning?”

  Edna shook her head. “No. They definitely arrested him. He was in restraints.”

  “But they haven’t even—”

  “We’re not in Sydney, Clyde. God knows how they do things here.”

  Clyde rubbed his face. “Carmel picked a bloody wonderful time to leave town! How the hell are we supposed to help Rowly without him?”

  Milton stopped mid-pace in front of Edna. “We’ve got to do something. What did they tell you about Middleton?”

  The sculptress swallowed. “That he’s dead… Someone murdered him apparently.”

  “Who found him? Where? Was there—”

  “I don’t know, Milt.” Edna began to break down. “I don’t know.”

  Clyde put his arm around the sculptress and cast a warning glance in Milton’s direction. “We need help,” he said. “No one’s going to talk to us.”

  “Where exactly is Carmel?” Milton demanded.

  “His office says he’s attending to a client in Nanking,” Edna said wanly. “They said they’ll send someone as soon as they can.”

  Milton cast his eyes up to the clock on the station wall. “Perhaps we should go to Nanking and find him…”

  Clyde shook his head. “Oh, mate, you’re not talking about a one-horse town in the outback. I expect tracking down one man in Nanking might take months.”

  “What do you think they’re doing to Rowly?” Edna asked distractedly.

  Clyde glanced at Milton. “They’ll just be questioning him, Ed. This isn’t Germany.”

  The poet’s patience reached its end. He stalked over to the reception window and demanded an audience with Chief Inspector Randolph.

  The constable who peered back through the opening seemed surprised. “I’m afraid the chief inspector went home a couple of hours ago, sir.”

  “Went home?”

  “It’s nearly midnight, sir.”

  “But we’ve been waiting to give our statements—”

  “I am sorry, sir. Someone should have told you to come back tomorrow. I’m afraid there’s no one available to take your statement.”

  “But what about Rowly—Mr. Rowland Sinclair? He was falsely arrested—”

  The officer stifled a yawn. “Mr. Sinclair has been remanded to custody pending trial.”

  * * *

  Rowland removed his wristwatch, tiepin, and cufflinks and placed them onto the tray with the contents of his pockets, including his notebook. He was allocated a prison uniform and instructed to strip and put it on. All this was done under the eyes of stone-faced warders. They placed his suit in a paper bag with his other effects, and marked the bag with the number 6419, which appeared on the left breast of his prison tunic.

  Rowland maintained a determined outward calm as he donned the coarse convict attire. Randolph would realise soon that he had arrested the wrong man. Carmel and Smith would sort it out and, hopefully, keep Rowland’s companions from trying to break him out.

  There were four other men being processed—all Chinese. The warders were predominantly naiks—Indians Sikhs who appeared to answer to the handful of British guards. A sallow Englishman with more hair beneath his nose than on his scalp, watched too closely. “Well, well,” he said as he caught sight of the swastika-shaped scar on Rowland’s chest. He commanded Rowland to stop so he could inspect it more closely. Rowland’s skin crawled, but he did as he was instructed.

  “What is that, felon?”

  “An old injury.” Rowland buttoned the prison shirt. He heard a snigger, but by the time he looked up, the warders were sober and expressionless, and he could not tell which of them had laughed.

  The other warders addressed the Englishman as “Mr. Whitely, sir!”

  It was Whitely who read out the rules of Ward Road Prison, who showed Rowland the long baton that his men would use against any prisoner who approached them without permission, who made it clear that Rowland Sinclair was now an animal in his zoo. It was not a conversation because prisoners were required to maintain absolute silence. Any transgression of the rules would be punished severely. Rowland said nothing, but he met the warder’s eye, and that, it seemed, was enough to enrage the man, who gave him a taste of the baton for his insolence.

  The blow cracked across his shoulders. Rowland staggered forward only momentarily. Instinct told him it would be dangerous to fall in this place, at the mercy of these men, and so he righted himself immediately. He moved his gaze down, casting his fury away from Whitely. But not before he noticed the smug satisfaction in the warder’s face.

  They were taken to the cell blocks then. Whitely led the way, turning occasionally to make some comment about criminal bloodlines, to the obedient titters of the naiks. Rowland had heard taunts about Australia’s convict heritage before—he had, after all, attended boarding school in England. He realised that Whitely was trying to provoke him into doing something for which retribution would be swift; and so he kept his own temper in check. This was part of the orientation, no doubt, a demonstration of power and powerlessness.

  The prison blocks were multi-storey. Dull eyes watched them from the cells along the walkway as they passed, raising hackles on the back of Rowland’s neck. There was a pervading stench of men and fear and despair, and aside from the sound of their steps, it was silent. Still, Rowland did not give way to panic. He was on remand—Carmel would ensure he was released soon.

  The cells were small—cages designed for a single man. A glazed and barred window was located on the wall at a height above most heads, and the floor was bare, cold cement. A spittoon and a latrine bucket were consigned to one corner. Each cell was used to confine up to three men in a six by eight foot space.

  Whitely stopped and banged on the bars of a cell with his baton. Two prisoners moved to the back of the cage. Only then did Whitely unlock it.

  “Welcome to your new home, felon,” Whitely sneered. “Prisoner 3782 thoughtfully hanged himself in the isolation cells last week to make way for you.” He brought his face close to Rowland’s, his breath foetid. “The bastards on death row are often a bit eager to meet their maker after a while in here…the yellow ones mainly. Occidentals are made of sterner stuff generally, but we’ll see.” He used the baton to push Rowland into the
cell and locked it after him. “There you go. Right cosy. I’d be careful of 4566 though—tuberculosis. Might finish him off before we can hang him.”

  * * *

  “Ward Road Gaol—they call it the City of the Doomed. It is not a good place.” Wing Zau’s voice was grave.

  “Well it would hardly do to call a prison Buckingham Palace,” Clyde said in an attempt to keep everyone calm. “Let’s not lose our heads.”

  They had returned home to regroup. Ranjit Singh had driven them back from the police headquarters and showed no signs of abandoning them for sleep. “I have a cousin who works in the prison as an assistant warder. I will speak to him and explain that Mr. Sinclair’s incarceration has been a dreadful mistake!”

  Clyde nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Singh. It will be a comfort to have someone who can check on Rowly.” He placed his palms on the table. “In the meantime, we’ll have to do what we can. We’ll call on Carmel and Smith first thing tomorrow. Insist they find Carmel and get Rowly released or bailed or deported. And we’ll send a telegram to Wilfred.”

  “It will take Wilfred weeks to get here,” Edna said desperately. “We can’t wait—”

  “Carmel and Petty may not be Wilfred’s only contacts in Shanghai. He might know someone else who can help us.”

  “Blanshard!” Milton exclaimed. “Surely Blanshard can help us.”

  “We don’t know how to reach him,” Edna said. “Rowly had his details.”

  “Did he write them down anywhere?”

  “In his notebook perhaps, but he has that with him.”

  “With any luck Blanshard will contact us,” Clyde said. “The man’s a spy after all—he probably already knows what happened.”

  “You’ve not given me a task, Mr. Jones,” Wing said. “I would like to help. What can I do?”

  “I can well imagine,” Singh muttered.

  Wing snapped. “What do you mean by that, you odious, self-righteous fool?”

  “I followed you the night you went to your family function! They did not look like family, the men you met!”

  “You followed me?” Wing grabbed the chauffeur’s lapel. “How dare you!”

  Singh pulled back his own fist.

  Clyde grabbed Singh; Milton, Wing. Suspicion from the first and simmering dislike unleashed, and it was all the Australians could do to keep them apart.

  “Stop it! Both of you!” Edna demanded, standing between them. “What are you talking about, Mr. Singh?”

  “I knew he was up to something.” Ranjit Singh pointed at Wing. “I have been keeping an eye on him, following him when I could. Last night he meets a European at a bar in the French Concession, and then this night Mr. Sinclair is arrested!”

  Edna turned to Wing. “Who was this man you met, Mr. Wing?”

  Wing said nothing for a moment. And then, quietly, “A comrade.”

  “You’re a Communist?” Milton said, releasing his grip on Wing.

  “I was,” he said carefully. “But there are no longer any Communists in Shanghai.”

  “And this man?”

  “A Russian. A red Russian. I asked him if he knew of Alexandra Romanova…if his people were responsible for what happened to her.”

  “A likely story!” Singh scoffed. “Why would you do this in secret?”

  “Because I wanted the truth.”

  “What did he say?” Edna asked.

  “That people like Miss Romanova—fraudsters—only helped the Communist cause.”

  “You didn’t mention anything…”

  “I had already told Mr. Sinclair that the Communists in China did not care about Miss Romanova. I met my comrade only to be sure…and he made me sure.”

  There was silence as they considered Wing’s story. Even Singh said nothing. Milton spoke first. “I believe him. It makes sense.”

  Clyde nodded. “As much as we still need to sort out what happened to Miss Romanova, Rowly’s been arrested for Middleton’s murder now. That should be our priority.”

  “I will do anything,” Wing said immediately.

  “You need to get to police headquarters at first light. Stay there and make a fuss until they take your statement.” Milton pointed a finger at Wing. “You shared a room with Rowly last night at Kiangse Road, he’s wearing the suit you laid out for him—that, comrade, is what we call an alibi.”

  A knock on the door and Edna ran to answer it. Perhaps the mistake had been realised, and it was Rowland returned to them. She opened the door.

  “Mickey…”

  Sassoon’s Rolls Royce and chauffeur were waiting in the driveway. Mr. Mills tugged on the gold leash which attached him to his mistress.

  “Oh, Edna, I’m so glad you’re home. I wanted to come and offer my condolences.” Mickey Hahn walked in, releasing Mr. Mills to explore.

  “Your condolences?”

  “For Mr. Sinclair’s arrest. For what happened. I can’t believe it, can you? He was so handsome and charming.”

  “I find it hard to believe he was arrested,” Edna said uncertainly. She invited Mickey into the sitting room where the others were gathered.

  Mickey took a seat. Clyde lit her cigarette. None of them were really sure what she was doing there.

  “You must all be so devastated. Of course you never suspected…I never suspected—”

  “Miss Hahn,” Clyde interrupted. “Rowly didn’t kill anyone. His arrest is a travesty.”

  “Oh.” She looked around at each of them, seeing no doubt in any of their faces. “I’m here as a friend, of course, but if you’d like to talk on record—”

  “No, we wouldn’t.”

  Mickey sighed. “Victor told me I shouldn’t come, but I feel responsible. I told Rowland about poor Mr. Middleton. I had no idea that—”

  “How did Bertie get a job with the North China Daily News?” Edna asked.

  “The same way I did. He walked in and asked.” She beckoned Mr. Mills to her lap. “I ran into him outside the Cathay. Actually he was asking questions about the murder of Miss Romanova. Mr. Van Hagen was giving him short shrift as you may imagine. I guessed he was a fellow journalist on the trail of a story. He bought me a drink and told me he’d just arrived from Sydney, Australia. He was hoping to write a story on the taxi girl to sell to local paper and land a job. I told him he didn’t need to write a story first and took him to the North China Daily News with me.”

  “And they took him on your recommendation?”

  “More Victor’s.”

  “Why would Victor Sassoon recommend him?”

  “To stop him investigating Miss Romanova’s murder—it’s bad for the hotel. Bert had letters of recommendation from Australia too…the usual sort of thing.” She studied Edna. “So you knew Bertie. You didn’t mention it when I told you about him.”

  “Mr. Middleton and I were no longer friends. I was surprised that he would come to China.”

  “Was he looking for you?”

  “Yes, I believe he was.”

  “Can you think of anyone here who would want to kill Bertram Middleton, Mickey?” Milton asked.

  Mickey paused. “No. No one that I’m aware of. Bert was a little serious, but he seemed to rub along with everybody quite well.” They could almost hear her thinking, aside from Rowland Sinclair.

  Edna appealed to the journalist. “Rowly didn’t kill anyone, Mickey. Could you talk to Sir Victor…see if he’ll help Rowly?”

  Mickey’s face softened. “I’m sorry darling, I don’t think Victor would help.”

  “Why not?”

  “If Mr. Sinclair did not kill Miss Romanova, then everybody in the Cathay that night is still suspect. That’s not good for business.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT

  SHANGHAI

  Shanghai—“In one of the countle
ss night dancing halls an American sailor slaps a Japanese dancing girl. She dashes a glass of water in his face, then cringes in a comer. Men interfere.

  “INFURIATED the sailor yells: “I’m three times seven and white—see? No yella woman in all Asia can do that to me!

  “A marine policeman enters the scene Cheerfully and vigorously he belts the sailor over the head with his club. Afterwards he drinks glass of beer and remarks: ‘Aw, I don’t beat ‘em any more’n I’d expect to be beat up if I was them.’

  “From the prison in the French Concession the news percolates through that four working men have died under torture.

  “And from the Chinese military court in the Chinese city comes the news that a girl student, arrested by the British police in the Y.W.C.A. as a Communist, has died under torture.

  “One of her hands was burned off, but still she would tell no names of her comrades.”

  If you feel romantic about China. If you don’t want your romance shattered, don’t read Agnes Smedley’s “Chinese Destinies.” But if you can face stark truth, vividly reported, if you want to know the life of the Chinese people—not the polished upper classes and intelligentsia, but the people—here it is.

  —Daily Standard, 26 December 1934

  * * *

  Prisoner 4566 coughed again, a rattling, hacking cough that ended in a splutter into the spittoon. Aware that Whitely had stationed a warder outside the cell to ensure the new prisoner observed the rules, Rowland suppressed an instinct to ask if the man was all right. Instead he watched as the emaciated Chinaman stumbled back to a thin blanket on the cement floor. Almost as soon as he lay down 4566 heaved and coughed yet again.

  Unable to do nothing, Rowland leaned over and covered the sick prisoner with his own blanket. The man looked weakly at him in wordless surprise and gratitude. The third inhabitant of the cell watched, drawing his blanket more tightly around his shoulders.

  Rowland sat with his back against the brick wall. It was cold and he now had nothing at all to soften the cement. But he was in good health, and he reasoned, unlike his wretched cellmates, he would not be there long. He expected Carmel was already unleashing legal fury against Randolph.