Shanghai Secrets

by Sulari Gentill

  Edna returned from giving her statement, ignoring the young policeman who tried to direct her to wait in another room. She went immediately to Rowland’s side. “Haven’t they seen you yet?” she asked, placing a hand on his forehead. “Rowly, you’re running hot. You should be in bed.”

  He looked at her throat. “Did he—”

  “Just the tiniest scratch, Rowly.”

  “God, Ed, I’m sorry. If I thought he’d let you go, I would have signed over everything I own.”

  “Oh, I know that. You did the right thing.” She took his hand in hers. “Mr. Carmel would have killed me the moment you stepped out of the room. He couldn’t very well allow either of us to live.”

  Clyde and Milton sat down opposite Rowland.

  “So Carmel was behind it all?” Clyde handed him a glass of water. “Why?”

  “Money, I suppose. I expect he always knew the Sinclairs were unlikely to preempt the embargo.” Rowland swallowed painfully and drained the glass before he went on. “But he’d promised his clients that we would, so he hired Alexandra to compromise Wil.”

  “To blackmail him.”

  Rowland nodded.

  “But then you turned up, so he decided to kill her instead?”

  Edna pushed the hair gently back from Rowland’s face. “Alexandra wanted to tell Rowly the truth. She might have told him she wanted out of the scheme, or Le Fevre might have told him about the message he overheard her making for Rowly. Mr. Carmel couldn’t allow that.”

  “Bloody hell, the poor girl… What about Middleton?”

  Rowland rubbed his face. “That’s my fault,” he blurted. “I told Carmel about Middleton in case someone from the North China Daily News made a complaint. If I hadn’t—”

  “Don’t you dare feel guilty about Bertie,” Edna said fiercely. “He got caught up in this because he followed us here! Because he was trying to…” Her lip trembled. She wiped her eyes, furious that after everything that had happened that day she would be reduced to tears over Bertram Middleton.

  Rowland wrapped his arms around her. “I’m so sorry, Ed.”

  She broke down then. Rowland held her as she sobbed into his chest. Clyde and Milton waited, without a word, for Edna’s tears to expend. They were shocked, but it was not a loss that they could grieve. Though he was sorry for his part in Middleton’s end, Rowland could feel only sadness for the wastage of a life. He had never liked Middleton particularly, and his recent treatment of Edna had transformed years of studied neutrality into open hostility. Even so, Middleton had been murdered. Callously and brutally. And it seemed right that at least Edna, who had loved him occasionally, should weep, that there should be tears, however confused.

  A throat was cleared pointedly. Rowland looked up.

  Chief Inspector Randolph nodded brusquely. “Would you care to come with me, Mr. Sinclair? If we take your statement now, we can release you to see a doctor as soon as possible. I understand you are unwell.”

  Rowland was surprised by the new conciliation in Randolph’s manner. Nevertheless, he hesitated, reluctant to leave the sculptress.

  It was Edna who drew away. “You go, Rowly.”

  Clyde and Milton agreed. “We’ll keep an eye on Ed, mate. You tell them what Carmel’s been doing.”

  Rowland took the handkerchief from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Edna. “It’s clean. I always carry two of these.”

  She laughed through her tears. “It’s just as well.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  WOMAN’S INTERESTS

  (By “ALETHEA”)

  Influenza Convalescents

  One of the worst features of influenza is its weakening effect after recovery. Careful attention to diet, early bedtime, and freedom from overexertion are obvious rules for the convalescent, but sometimes more than that is required to build up the strength which has ebbed since the illness.

  Those who have no great faith in the ordinary tonic will often take a homemade cordial, especially when it is based on eggs—the lightest, most nourishing, and most easily digested of foods. The following egg tonic is recommended: Take 6 eggs, which should be straight from the nest, and not more than two days old. Wipe them thoroughly, and put them in an earthenware basin. Pour the juice of seven lemons over them, and let them stand for 18 hours until all the shells are dissolved. Turn them over occasionally, and take care that the eggs are covered with the juice of the lemons. Then when the eggs have absorbed all the juice, beat them up well, strain the mixture, and add a quarter of a pound of Demerara sugar, half a bottle of Jamaica rum, shake well, and bottle. The cordial is ready for use in a day or two. One liqueur-glassful should be taken in the middle of the morning with a biscuit.

  An egg cordial which needs less preparation is made as follows: Take the yolk of an egg, beat it well with three spoonfuls of castor sugar, and add a spoonful of port wine.

  —Mercury, 11 October 1934

  * * *

  “How are you feeling, comrade?” Milton walked into Rowland’s bedroom wearing a jacket of red and gold silk brocade he’d bought in a Chinese boutique.

  Rowland winced. The jacket hurt his eyes, which until then had been the only part of his body which didn’t ache.

  Milton frowned. “You look like death warmed up.”

  “Then I look better than I feel.”

  “O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb…”

  Rowland closed his eyes. “Clearly Shelley understood.”

  From the armchair by his bed, where she’d spent much of the time he’d been ill, Edna rolled her eyes. “You were much more stoic when you had tuberculosis.”

  “I never had tuberculosis.”

  “Well, you complained less when I shot you.”

  “That was just a bullet,” Rowland replied, smiling weakly.

  “Yes,” Milton agreed, leaning on the scrolled foot of Rowland’s bed. “For pity’s sake, Ed, the man has a cold!”

  Edna laughed. Now that she was sure Rowland wasn’t dying, she was determined not to give him unwarranted sympathy. “Come on, Rowly, get dressed. There are a legion of people who want to talk to you about wool.”

  Rowland groaned. He was still congested and his body ached, though nearly three days of bed rest had improved him greatly. Dr. Rubenstein, who had taken over his care, such as it was, from Le Fevre, was confident that he did not have tuberculosis. “A severe chest infection,” he confirmed. “More uncomfortable because you are beaten and bruised—which is why there is pain when you cough. It will subside with time and rest.” And substantially, it had, though Rowland seemed uncharacteristically content to lie abed. His reluctance to claim recovery was probably not unconnected to the commercial furore that had arisen in the wake of the revelations about Gilbert Carmel, and the expectation that Rowland be involved in its resolution. The venerable members of the Japan–Australia Society had already enquired several times after his health, assuming that Gilbert Carmel’s criminal activities had rendered his refusal to contract with the Japanese null and void.

  Chao Kung had offered his services in resurrecting relations between Rowland Sinclair and the Japanese wool buyers. It was only the man’s status as a cleric that had prevented Clyde from throwing him out. Milton, as always less influenced by the considerations offered to religion, escorted Kung from the premises, explaining exactly what the abbot could expect should they ever see him again.

  Sir Victor Sassoon had also called personally to extend his apologies and that of the Cathay, and to invite them to return to either the hotel or his house on Kiangse Road. They declined though they bore Sassoon no ill will.

  Clyde strode in, scowling. He had just been to the Cathay once again in the hope of finding that Danny Dong’s cousins had called, but there had been no message or enquiry. He was beginning to worry that he would have to take the old lady’s
bones back to Australia. He handed a telegram to Rowland. “Wilfred,” he said. As they had sent most of their previous telegrams to Wilfred through Carmel and Smith, it seemed none but the first, sent through the Cathay, had actually been despatched. And Wilfred’s telegrams demanding to know why Rowland had not reported as instructed had also not been passed on.

  “I wired Wilfred through the Cathay yesterday.” Clyde grimaced. “He might have quite a lot to say.”

  “No doubt.” Rowland read through the telegram with one eye closed, flinching every now and then. He placed the page on the bedside table. “I told him I was the wrong person to send.”

  “Well, I expect you showed him.” Milton grinned.

  Clyde sat down and pulled the chair up to Rowland’s bed. “What now, Rowly?”

  Rowland shrugged. “Wil wants me to sell the Sinclair stockpile to the British. Their offer isn’t nearly as generous, but he thinks it might be to the only way to”—he picked up the telegram and read from it—“put the uncertainty I’ve generated in the market to rest.”

  “That’s so unfair!” Edna protested. “This is hardly your fault. Gilbert Carmel is Wilfred’s old friend!”

  Rowland nodded. “Make sure you include that in your next telegram, Clyde.”

  Clyde snorted. “That’d be poking a brown snake. I feel a bit sorry for Wilfred, to be honest.”

  “For Wil?”

  “Carmel was his mate; they served together. Apparently he saved the blaggard’s life and named his son after him. Carmel planned to entrap Wilfred so he could blackmail him, until you turned up in his place. One helluva betrayal.”

  Rowland nodded thoughtfully. Clyde was right. Knowing how much Wilfred cherished his family, Carmel’s plans seemed chillingly personal and cruel. Rowland had trusted Carmel without question because he knew Wilfred did. He glanced at the telegram, wondering now if there was more pain than anger in the missive.

  Wing Zau entered bearing a tray of green tea. Sassoon had offered to reinstate him at Cathay once he’d finished his employ with Rowland Sinclair. Wing had declined, having decided to hang out a shingle as a private investigator. Indeed he and Ranjit Singh, reconciled now, intended to embark on the endeavour in partnership.

  Clyde had tried to talk them out of it. Milton had recommended the “very instructive” works of Conan Doyle. And Rowland had invested financially in the venture.

  Rowland drank the tea while Wing showed Edna the camera he’d purchased for surveillance. Between Harjeet and Wing, he’d been plied with every cold and influenza remedy ever concocted. Wing had obtained various powders and herbs from a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine, most of which Harjeet had thrown out. Still, there were some that had met her approval and which she added to her own remedies and potions. Rowland learned that it was easier to imbibe without resistance and just trust that he wasn’t being poisoned. The occasional tonic was so laced with brandy or rum that he didn’t care what else was in it. Not green tea of course, it tasted like hot water.

  Harjeet came to the door now. “There’s a gentleman to see you, Mr. Sinclair—shall I tell him you are not receiving visitors?”

  Rowland groaned. Another member of the Australia–Japan Friendship Society no doubt.

  “Rowly’s very ill.” Edna didn’t look up from her book. “Why, with the sniffles and everything, it’s amazing he’s survived this long.”

  “You’re an unfeeling harpy, Edna Higgins,” Milton declared.

  Harjeet clicked her tongue. “I will ask the gentleman to come back tomorrow.”

  Rowland thanked her. Tomorrow was early enough to deal with untangling the mess Carmel had left in his wake.

  But the reprieve was short-lived.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, woman, there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with the boy!” Alastair Blanshard barged past Harjeet and strode into the room. “Good Lord, man, have you got some dreadful disease after all?”

  Rowland sighed. “No, I’m just malingering. Good morning, Blanshard. What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me why that turbaned fool who drives for you is following me around?”

  Rowland glanced at Wing. “Mr. Singh is following you?”

  “Yes, he’s been traipsing after me all morning. About as subtle as a bloody brick in the back of the head! Suppose you tell me why.”

  “I have no idea. Did you ask him?”

  “He said it was a coincidental encounter.”

  “Perhaps it was.”

  “Nonsense. Now you tell me what he’s doing, or I’m going assume he’s an assassin and shoot him!”

  Wing’s head snapped up. “Allow me to apologise, Mr. Blanshard. Mr. Singh is not an assassin… He was simply—”

  “Doing his job,” Milton finished.

  “What part of his job involves following me about?”

  Milton shrugged. “I retained the gentlemen of Wing and Singh to find out what you were doing in Shanghai.”

  Blanshard was outraged. “You were spying on me?”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Milton was unrepentant.

  “It’s my fault, Mr. Blanshard.” Edna smiled sweetly as she confessed. “You see, Milt and I wondered what you were doing here, and since Mr. Wing and Mr. Singh were establishing an investigation agency, I suggested they look into it…as practice.”

  “And what did they report?” Blanshard demanded indignantly.

  “Oh we didn’t report to Miss Higgins!” Wing declared. “We couldn’t tell a lady where you’d been!”

  Milton started to laugh. Edna nodded. “As you can imagine, Mr. Blanshard, it was quite vexing.”

  Rowland smiled. “Good Lord, Blanshard, what on earth have you been doing?”

  Blanshard glared at Wing. “I was making enquiries on behalf of His Majesty’s government.”

  “In sing-song houses?” Milton was clearly less concerned about protecting Edna than Wing had been. “Lots of sing-song houses. Too many for a single, lonely man.” The poet winked. “Have the princes been up to no good again, then?”

  For a moment Blanshard said nothing, his hand flexing at his side. Milton stepped out of reach as a precaution. “My enquiries do not concern the king’s sons,” he said finally.

  Milton’s horror was contrived. “The king? Who would have thought—”

  Blanshard eyed them all coldly. “Mrs. Simpson,” he corrected. “It appears she spent some time in the Far East.”

  Rowland’s brow rose. They had come across rumours when they were in England about the king’s eldest son and the American divorcée. Clearly the liaison was now causing enough concern to send secret service to China to investigate her past.

  “Speak of this again, and I will arrange to have each and every one of you shot.”

  Accustomed to Blanshard’s regular threats to shoot people, they did not react particularly. They did drop the subject, but only because they were not especially interested in the reputation of Prince Edward’s latest paramour. Blanshard spent some minutes railing about the temerity, the impudence and incompetence of Wing and Singh’s attempted investigation.

  Milton made some sort of amends by pouring the disgruntled spy a drink.

  Rowland used the lull in Blanshard’s fury to thank him for his help. “Lord knows how long we would have been held if you’d not had a word with Randolph.”

  Clyde nodded. “I still don’t know how you managed to convince the chief inspector to despatch his men out to the sanatorium in the middle of the night.”

  Blanshard smiled. “I told him Rowland Sinclair had kidnapped Miss Higgins. He was so keen to rearrest you that he called out every available man. Of course I set him straight once the scene was secured.”

  “Wasn’t he angry?” Edna asked.

  Blanshard’s smile broadened. “Oh yes.”

  “I’m in your debt, Mr. Blansh
ard,” Rowland said quite sincerely.

  Blanshard studied his whisky for a moment. “I have always felt bad about leaving you in Munich—that terrible business with the Brownshirts. I’m glad I was able to assist this time. But”—he looked up and met Rowland’s eye—“you may not always have a king’s man conveniently on hand. It may pay you in the future not to be so bloody minded when it comes to the Nazis. As much as I detest everything they stand for, it does look like they’re here for a while. You may need to learn to deal with them.”

  Rowland lay back with his hands behind his head. “Not for all the tea in China.”

  Epilogue

  OUTED BY BMA EX-CONVICT

  IS NOW QUACK

  SAYS SOUND MAN HAS T.B.

  Diagnoses Tuberculosis of Throat from

  Drop of Blood taken from Earlobe

  ABRAMS’ APOSTLE—HANDS OUT DISEASES

  SUPERVISION of the public health, which, in the last analysis, is the greatest asset of any community, is evidently very fox in Sydney town. A case in point is that of George Frederick Hewer, ex-gaol-bird, ex-B.M.A member, who is raking in a fat living at ‘Adyar House,’ in Bligh-street, with the aid of an American electric system, which, after having been investigated by high medical authorities from all parts of the world during the last ten years, has finally been pronounced 99 percent quackery. ‘Dr.’ Hewer diagnoses at great expense to his clients all sorts of complaints, and that some of them don’t exist within the patient’s body is evidenced by the fact that two of Truth’s investigators, during the past fortnight, have been along to the doctor’s sanctuary at Adyar House and have been diagnosed as suffering from physical ills which existed only in his imagination…

  After his release from prison—early in 1924—the doctor was struck off the list of members of the British Medical Association, and, faced with this serious handicap, evidently he decided to do what nearly all discredited members of any profession have done since the world first knew professions.