He kept his ear to the door. “The moment they step into my room, we’ll make a break for it,” he whispered. He could see Edna’s eyes in the darkness. Large. Worried. “I’ll be all right,” he promised.
They waited.
Le Fevre’s voice was first. Brusque, annoyed. “I told you before, I had to sedate him, or the girl might have noticed he was improving… He might have realised.”
Now Carmel. “We’ll stick his head under a cold shower if we have to. The Japs are suspicious; they want to see him sign.”
“He might not cooperate.”
“Leave it to me. I’ll talk him round. Our friend Whitely did his job, and Rowland has already agreed to sign. The poor boy, bless him, is not particularly bright.”
“What about her? Sinclair’s tart.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”
The click of a latch being turned, and the voices stopped. This was their chance. Rowland counted to three and opened the door. He stepped out into the barrel of Le Fevre’s gun.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Hygiene
THE DAILY BATH.
The necessity of a daily bath from a health point of view is, I trust, too well understood to need any explanation from me on the subject, but many men do not realise that not one of the least benefits to be derived from a bath is the rubbing which should follow it.
Such an opportunity of promoting the circulation should not be lost, for it is only when the blood is healthy and circulates freely that all the organs of the body can do their work in a satisfactory manner.
The surface of the skin being freed from the perspiration and greasy deposit thrown off by the sebaceous glands is more susceptible to properly applied friction than at any other time. The skin should be thoroughly dried before it is rubbed; if left moist, evaporation will go on, and a certain amount of heat will be abstracted from the body. It adds greatly to the comfort of the bather to have a large Turkish sheet at hand, which will keep the body covered during the process of drying. The towel used for the purpose of friction should be fairly hard and quite dry.
A thermometer should be placed in the water before taking a bath, for it is impossible to test the temperature accurately by any other means.
—Queenslander, 12 March 1898
* * *
“Move back, Monsieur. Say not a word.”
Rowland did so. He kept Edna behind him.
“Gilbert,” Le Fevre called with just sufficient volume. “Step this way if you please.”
Le Fevre forced Rowland and Edna back. Carmel came in and closed the door behind him. He pulled the light switch.
“You must forgive the good doctor,” he said, frowning at Le Fevre, who lowered the gun. “He is a little fanatical about quarantine. Surely you weren’t planning to leave? It would be reckless in the extreme to do so while you are still gravely ill, not to mention contagious.”
“I haven’t got tuberculosis and you know it!” Rowland said angrily.
Carmel shook his head sadly. “My dear boy, that’s the fever speaking.” He turned to Edna. “Talk to him.”
Edna’s voice was calm. “Why are you back here, Mr. Carmel?”
Carmel swallowed and smiled broadly. “I bear good news, my dear young people. Mr. Yiragowa was delighted you’ve come around, Rowland. He was keen to deal with the formalities, and I thought that the sooner we could despatch his influence in your aid, the better. We cannot risk you being incarcerated again. The next time they hang you, it won’t be a hoax.”
Edna glanced sharply at Rowland, but she said nothing. This was not the time. Whatever went on in Ward Road, he would tell when he was ready.
“Am I to understand that you were going to take me to Mr. Yiragowa at gunpoint?” Rowland asked staring coldly at Le Fevre.
“Henri is a little overzealous when it comes to doctor’s orders I’m afraid.” Carmel’s laugh was hollow. “Since you’re up and dressed, what say we go down and do this deal, dear boy? We’ll all sleep a great deal easier knowing you won’t be dragged off to Ward Road.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll infect them?”
“It’s your welfare that concerns me, Rowland. And that of your friends. We talked about the danger in which you’re placing them by refusing help.”
Edna shook her head. “Rowly, don’t—”
Carmel sighed. The explosion of movement caught them by surprise. Le Fevre moved on Rowland. Carmel seized Edna, dragging her away. Rowland froze. A sharpened blade, a bayonet, was pressed against Edna’s throat.
“Don’t make a sound, dear girl,” Carmel said quietly.
“And don’t you try anything, Monsieur.” Le Fevre jabbed the revolver’s barrel into Rowland’s temple.
Carmel was sweating, his face suffused as he spoke to Rowland. “Don’t make me do this again, you spoiled little bastard.”
* * *
Clyde returned the telephone receiver to its cradle. The operator had not been able to raise anyone at Carmel and Smith. Clyde had called the Denville Sanatorium, but, so far outside visiting hours, he was told only that Rowland was resting quietly and Edna had long since retired.
The sound of a baritone from the upper floors reminded him about Sergei Romanov. “Let’s see what Romanov has to say for himself before we try to hunt down Petty,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time. Milton and Blanshard fell in behind him.
The Russian was still in the bath, singing an aria from Mozart’s Don Giovanni as if he was centrestage at the Royal Opera House. The Australians blanched as Romanov chose that moment to rise from the water in some dramatic flourish. He stood in all his naked glory like an ungainly Aphrodite emerging from the waves. Milton applauded. “Well done, Sergei. You don’t need a violin.”
Romanov bowed.
“For pity’s sake, give the man a towel,” Blanchard growled. “Cover your shame, man!”
Perhaps it was the effects of drink, but Romanov clearly felt no shame. Eventually, however, he was persuaded to don one of the embroidered silk dressing-gowns Edna had bought to take back for Rowland’s mother. It was possibly inadequate for the purpose, but a significant improvement on nothing.
With Clyde and Milton assisting Wing and Singh, Romanov was eventually out of the bath and covered to some level of modesty. They coaxed him downstairs to the kitchen where Harjeet had prepared chicken pies and black coffee. Once he had eaten, Romanov was a great deal more cooperative and conversant, and they began their questions.
“Where have you been, Sergei?”
“Here, there. I stay out of sight. It is hard for a bear.”
“Why, Sergei?”
“Because he tries to kill me. Because he burns my house.”
“Who?”
The Russian shook his head.
“Why does someone want to kill you?”
“Because I know Sasha was working for him. Much money he promised, but I know she displeased him.”
Milton sat down beside Romanov. “What was this man paying her to do, Sergei?”
Romanov wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She was to seduce a married man—that is all.” He swigged the coffee. “Married men are the most easy to seduce, she would say, but he was not married.”
“Who wasn’t married?”
“The man she must seduce…and then he seduces her.” He pounded his chest. “She began to think that perhaps this blue-eyed foreigner would be her prince.”
“Rowly? Do you mean she was employed to seduce Rowly?”
“But he was not married.”
Clyde threw his hands up in the air. “He’s still drunk! He’s not making any sense.”
Blanshard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Rowland replaced his brother, did he not?”
Milton could see where he was going. “And Wilfred is happily married.”
/>
Blanshard nodded. “Married men have the most to lose with an affair.” He took a seat at the scrubbed kitchen table. “Could Miss Romanova have been hired to seduce Wilfred Sinclair?” he asked.
Romanov began on another pie. “I don’t know names. I remember married man. I told her it was not right, but she said it would mean enough money to send her boy to school in America.”
“Her boy?”
“Mikhail…everything she does for Misha, to give him the life the Bolsheviks stole.”
“And where exactly is Mikhail?”
“Sasha sent him to school in Nanking, but that was not enough.” Romanov shrugged. “Misha must go to America, she say.”
Blanshard clicked his fingers in front of Romanov’s face to get his attention. “Who was this man who hired your sister to seduce a married man?”
“An Englishman. I saw him only once.”
“You saw him?” Milton said. “Then you’d recognise him.”
“Da.” Romanov scowled. “He knows I did not die in his fire. He comes looking for me. But Sasha’s clumsy bear is not stupid. He knows how to hide.”
“You say this man tried to kill you?” Blanshard asked.
“Da.” Romanov broke into a string of exclamatory Russian.
Clyde poured him more coffee. “What did this bloke look like, Sergei?”
“An ordinary man…smart, rich. And bald. Hairless on his head.”
Milton tensed. Petty had a full head of hair. “Bald? Are you sure?”
“Da. He touched his head like so.” Romanov patted his own thick mop. “Like there might be hair there somewhere. Lysyy durak!”
* * *
Milton stood. Clyde paled. “My God, that’s Gilbert Carmel.”
“Again?” Rowland stared at Carmel as he held the blade against Edna’s throat. And the realisation that this man had killed Alexandra Romanova surged cold in his veins. “Let her go—I’ll do whatever you want. Please.”
“Yes, you will.” Carmel’s voice shook. His head gleamed with perspiration. “You will go downstairs with Dr. Le Fevre, and you will smile and bow and sign whatever they put in front of you.”
“Fine—but she comes with me.”
“I think not.”
“I’m not leaving her with you.”
“If you sign the agreement, do your part, then I won’t be forced to hurt her.”
Rowland knew Carmel was lying. The lawyer couldn’t let them go now, no matter what Rowland signed. He played for time. “You weren’t forced to kill Alexandra Romanova, but you did anyway.”
Carmel exploded. “For pity’s sake, Sinclair, don’t be such a bloody fool!” He dropped the bayonet away from Edna’s throat, using it to remonstrate as he spoke. “The girl was working for me from the outset. She was a tart, hired to compromise your upstanding brother, but you turned up instead, and she got ideas. Fancied she might snare a wealthy husband instead of doing what she’d been hired to do. The little tramp went up to your suite to try it on for size, for God’s sake!”
“She liked to look at the first-class suites,” Rowland said. “She wasn’t—”
“Henri overheard her making that message for you. He took the disc from her, but the cunning little minx gave him a blank one. Oh yes…she intended to tell you, all right, to earn your love and gratitude by betraying me! I couldn’t allow that.”
“But Wilfred—”
“I might have misrepresented the facts a little there. He didn’t save my life; I saved his.” Carmel’s knuckles were white on the bayonet’s handle. “And how does he repay me for his miserable life, for the happiness and wife and children that came with it? I ask him to come to Shanghai, and he lets me down, sends his idiot Communist brother in his place.”
Rowland’s eyes darted back to Edna. She was rigid. He wanted desperately to snatch her away from Carmel, to protect her, but he could not risk her to a skirmish.
“Did you kill Bertram Middleton, Mr. Carmel?” Edna forced sound through terror.
“Yes.” Carmel laughed. “Rowland told me about the man himself. I couldn’t believe my luck. I telephoned and made an appointment to meet him that evening.” With his free hand, he pulled an imaginary trigger twice. “It was surprisingly simple, much easier than the Russian girl.”
Rowland felt sick. He’d as good as signed Middleton’s death warrant. Though he despised the man, this was different. “Why do you need me to sell wool to the Japanese?” Rowland asked.
“Because I advised some very dangerous men that the Sinclairs would sell to the Japanese. And they made investments accordingly. Your obstinacy, my boy, is set to ruin me. Now I suggest you go before Mr. Yiragowa becomes anxious.”
“Not unless Ed comes with me.” Rowland swallowed, aware of how dangerous the lawyer was. Their only chance, ironically, was with the Japanese businessmen. “I won’t leave her with you.”
“Would you rather watch me cut her throat, Rowland?”
Rowland’s mind worked furiously for some way of putting himself between Edna and Carmel’s blade. He tried to keep the lawyer’s attention on him. “If you do that, Mr. Carmel, then all this…the murder of two people, all your elaborate planning—it’s all wasted, because I will sign nothing.”
Carmel flicked the bayonet. Edna gasped as it nicked her throat. A bead of red trickled onto the blade. Le Fevre grabbed Rowland before he could lunge towards the lawyer. “Will you say that when she’s bleeding, Rowland?” Carmel demanded.
“Do not move, Monsieur,” Le Fevre whispered. “He will not hesitate.”
Rowland froze, and for a moment there was only fear and horror, eyes locked and breaths held. The screech of tyres startled them all. There were cars at the gate once more, a horn was sounded now, and for just a pounding heartbeat, Carmel turned. Rowland took the chance that Le Fevre would not shoot and lunged, seizing Carmel’s wrist and forcing it away from Edna’s throat. Rowland brought Carmel to the ground and pounded the lawyer’s hand against the wooden floor in an attempt to loosen his grasp on the bayonet. He shouted for Edna to run, but Carmel slammed his forehead into Rowland’s temple. Rowland weakened, dazed, and Carmel brought the blade up between them. Edna screamed.
Le Fevre opened the door and ran out into the hallway. Realising that Edna was still in the room, Rowland rallied, blocking Carmel’s arm before the blade could be plunged into his chest. Even so, Rowland knew he was fading, now coughing and battling to breathe.
“Rowly!” Milton’s voice from somewhere in the house.
Edna cried for help.
Still Carmel did not pull back, crazed, focused only on driving the bayonet home. Desperation more than strength was all Rowland had left.
Edna was trying to pull Carmel off when Milton burst into the room. He grabbed Carmel’s arm and forced it back, blade and all. Then Clyde threw himself into the fray. The bayonet skittered across the wooden floor. Rowland rolled away, gasping for air and coughing blood.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Etiquette of the Handkerchief
Mrs. Jefferson Davis is the “New York Journal’s” distinguished authority on etiquette. Recently she discoursed on the etiquette of legs, informing her lady readers that it was very bad form to sit with the legs crossed. Now the wearing and carrying of the pocket handkerchief claims her attention. She says:
“The handkerchief is one of the most necessary articles of the modern wardrobe. But etiquette demands that, in spite of its usefulness, it should be kept out of sight. The inconspicuous use of the handkerchief proves the refined man or woman. The misuse of the handkerchief indicates lack of breeding as much as faulty grammar or gaudy dress.
“The etiquette of the handkerchief for a man, although very important, is also very simple and direct.
“Don’t use a handkerchief as if signalling an enemy with a flag of truce. Don’t display a handker
chief in a breast pocket as if it were an advertisement. Don’t in full dress wear it tucked in the waistcoat as though its sole purpose was to protect the shirt front. Don’t on a hot day wear a handkerchief tucked inside a collar, like a bib. Gaudy handkerchiefs are considered as bad taste for men as women. It is no longer correct for a man to carry a large silk handkerchief. The proper handkerchief is fine white linen with a half-inch hem and a tiny embroidered initial in the comer. When necessary to use a handkerchief in public, always do so in the quietest, most unobtrusive manner. The fashionable multitudes have never become used to the bugle blast some people blow.”
—Yackandandah Times, 27 July 1900
* * *
Chief Inspector Randolph surveyed the sorry gathering before him, trying to ascertain what exactly had occurred from the babble of accounts. As a precaution, he had placed everyone, including Edna, under arrest, confining them to various rooms in the sanatorium, while he waited for more vehicles to transport the prisoners back to the International Police Headquarters.
The Japanese businessmen were furious, alternately demanding immediate release and the attendance of the consul and lawyers.
Rowland coughed again. The rally in his health had, once the immediate danger was over, subsided, and he felt wretched. He left it to Edna to explain to the police what had happened. From the guarded office, Gilbert Carmel was shouting with all the force and volume of the law, claiming that he was the victim of a deranged, homicidal client. Le Fevre was as yet unaccounted for.
Alastair Blanshard lit a cigarette. He introduced himself to Randolph. “Might I have a private word, Chief Inspector?”
For a moment it seemed Randolph might refuse, and then he relented.
Rowland watched the exchange. He wondered if Blanshard had pulled some sort of rank. Perhaps international spies outranked the local police. He realised that he had never ascertained what exactly Blanshard was doing in Shanghai.
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