There was sufficient light to make out the fresh clothes hung neatly on the teak rack near the door. Rowland made a note to remind Wing that he did not need help dressing, but at this hour it was convenient not to have to rummage through the trunks. He bathed and dressed quickly, managing to do so without waking his roommate, who apparently slept very soundly indeed.
He was descending the stairs before he noticed the aroma of frying bacon and the sound of activity. Clyde was cracking eggs into a frypan when Rowland entered the kitchen. He grinned. “Morning, Rowly.”
“What are you doing?”
“I was too hungry to sleep any longer,” Clyde replied. “I figured I was probably the only one of us who knew how to cook anything, so I started on breakfast.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t look so surprised. I didn’t always live with you and your cooks and maids and footmen—”
“Footmen?”
Clyde waved a spatula. “Of course, I can’t do much other than eggs and bacon.” He handed Rowland a knife and pointed to a loaf of bread which sat on the middle of the kitchen table. “Cut us a couple slices… you do know how to cut bread, don’t you?”
“I’m sure I can work it out.” Rowland was suddenly ravenous himself.
“Is it just the two of us up?” Clyde asked.
“I believe so.”
Clyde instructed Rowland to search for cutlery, whilst he piled eggs and bacon and thick slices of bread onto two plates which he carried through to the dining room.
Rowland slipped the knives and forks into his pocket so he could carry the pot of coffee and a couple of cups as well. They ate silently and with singular purpose for the first few minutes.
“So, Rowly old mate,” Clyde began, once their most urgent pangs of hunger had been addressed. “What are we going to do?”
Rowland swallowed. “I’ll go see Wil’s chum, Carmel, today. Fortunately he’s a lawyer.”
“This is hardly a wool contract.”
“No.” Rowland poured coffee. “But any port.”
“What about our Mr. Wing?”
Rowland shrugged. “His creditors are less likely to find him here, so that should buy us a little time. I’ll settle his debt and hopefully that’ll be the end of the matter.”
“You trust him?”
“Well, he slept in the next bed and didn’t murder me in the night, that’s got to count for something.”
Clyde laughed. “You have exceptionally low expectations of your friends, mate.”
“Fortunately, my friends keep exceeding them.” Rowland took up his fork and resumed the meal.
“I can put together a passable breakfast, Rowly, and I could do a damper in a pinch, but that’s it,” Clyde grumbled. “If Ed’s crazy parents hadn’t been so determined that she never marry, she might have been able to boil an egg!”
Rowland picked over his bacon, preoccupied. The events of the previous day were present and distracting. Who had murdered the beautiful taxi girl, Alexandra Romanova? Why had she been slain in the suite of a man she’d met only the night before? How had she got in? None of it made any sense.
Clyde watched him for a moment. “Are you all right, Rowly?”
“Yes, of course. I was just thinking about Miss Romanova.”
Clyde shook his head. “It’s a terrible business.”
“I just can’t imagine why anyone would—”
“You barely knew her. She may have been in some sort of trouble.”
“Perhaps.”
Clyde regarded him thoughtfully. “Have you asked Mr. Wing about her?”
“Wing?”
“She worked in the Jazz Club at the Cathay, there’s a chance he knew her.”
“I did.” Wing Zau stepped into the room through the open door.
“How long have you been standing there?” Rowland asked, startled.
“A short time, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Why didn’t you—”
“A good servant does not insert himself into the conversations of his masters.”
Rowland smiled faintly, reminded of his nephew’s valiant defence of eavesdropping. He’d promised to send Ernie a postcard. “I didn’t employ you as a butler, Mr. Wing.”
“Yes, pardon me, Mr. Sinclair.” Wing sighed. “I confess I’m a little uncertain as to the precise nature of my role. I hoped I would overhear something which might help me understand what you expect of me.”
“We need an interpreter and a guide, Mr. Wing.” Rowland glanced at Clyde. “And I may need you to ask a few questions for me…”
“Of course,” Clyde muttered. Rowland’s propensity to become involved in investigations was not something of which he wholly approved.
“What kind of questions… and of whom?” Wing nervously took the seat Rowland drew out for him.
“It’d be quite useful to know a bit more about Miss Romanova… perhaps one of the chambermaids noticed something.”
Wing tried to understand the request. “Are you a detective, Mr. Sinclair… in Australia?”
Clyde laughed.
“No,” Rowland admitted. “But she may have been coming to see me when she died. I found her. I feel I should do something.”
Wing nodded.
“Not to mention the fact that the police seem to believe you’re involved,” Clyde added, resigning himself to the fact that Rowland’s interest was inevitable. “You said just now that you knew her, Mr. Wing?”
“Not so well, but yes. I’d see her in the kitchens. Sometimes the chef would give her leftover food. The Russians are poor, you see. She talked of going back someday, and of ballet.” Wing’s eyes were sad and sombre. “She’d beg scraps for the stray dogs and feed them in the alley after she finished work. We’d take turns to accompany her, lest…” He stopped.
“Do you know where she lived?”
“Many Russians live in the French Concession, sir. The Cathay would know exactly where.”
“I’m not sure they would give us that information.”
Wing nodded. “I still have friends who work at the hotel. I shall find out. I would like to help you in this.”
Rowland sat back. “First we’re going to have to sort out this financial difficulty of yours. How much did you say you owe, Mr. Wing?”
“Twenty-five British pounds.”
“To whom?”
“Du Yuesheng. He’s a businessman.”
“Will he call off his thugs if you pay the debt?”
“I don’t know. He is angry.”
“If he’s a businessman, he’ll get over it to have the debt paid. Do you think you could arrange a meeting?”
“A meeting?” Wing paled.
“We’ll go with you,” Clyde said. “Just to make sure they don’t take the money and break your legs anyway.”
Wing swallowed. “You don’t understand. Du Yuesheng is a powerful man.”
“All the more reason to sort it out now, man to man,” Rowland replied. “They’ll find out where you are in time.”
Edna and Milton entered the dining room then, laughing over some thing or other. They were clearly delighted to find that Clyde was capable of making breakfast, and worked together to coax him back to the kitchen.
Clyde relented eventually. “I’ll fry some more eggs,” he said, rising. “Rowly, why don’t you and Mr. Wing get the fires going—it’s flaming cold in here. There’s wood stacked outside the back door. Milt, you clear away these plates and set new places. Ed, you might like to make another pot of coffee.”
Milton shook his head as Clyde disappeared into the kitchen. “He cooks one meal and he thinks he’s our mother.”
Milton went to answer a knock at the door as they were cleaning up after breakfast under Clyde’s direction. Edna had retrieved her camera to film the event, impishly delighted with the sight of Rowland Sinclair at domestic chores, and managing to avoid them herself in the process.
Rowland attempted to snatch the camera from her and she squealed, darting out of
his reach.
The hall door flew open and Edna screamed in earnest as Inspector Randolph and two officers barged in, their weapons drawn and ready to prevent another young woman from being murdered. The Australians stared at the invasion astounded. Rowland stepped in front of Edna. “What the devil—”
“Are you all right, Miss Higgins?” Randolph demanded.
“Yes, perfectly well.”
“We heard you scream—”
“Rowly and I were just being silly. Would you mind lowering your gun, Inspector?”
“I see.” Randolph returned his weapon to its holster. His colleagues did likewise.
“What can we do for you, Inspector?” Rowland put down the fire iron he’d being using to scrape out the hearth and took out a handkerchief to wipe the soot from his hands.
“Sir Victor informed me that you had left the Cathay Hotel. I called to verify your address.”
“You do understand that we decamped at Sir Victor’s insistence?” Rowland said cautiously.
“While this investigation is ongoing, Mr. Sinclair, we’d like to be regularly informed of your whereabouts, and immediately apprised of any change of residence.”
“Of course.” Rowland didn’t argue. “Have you made any progress with what happened to Miss Romanova, Inspector?”
“She was murdered, Mr. Sinclair.” Randolph was curt.
Rowland bristled but he replied calmly. “I beg your pardon, Inspector. I meant what happened that led to her being murdered.”
“I expect you’d know as much about that as any of us, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland’s eyes flashed but his face remained impassive. Randolph was clearly trying to goad him into some kind of outburst. “I have told you everything I know. I had hoped you might have discovered something more.”
“We will, Mr. Sinclair. Be assured of that.” The inspector signalled his officers and turned on his heel.
“Right,” Clyde said as the red door slammed. “You’d better see those lawyers now, Rowly.”
12
RIOTING IN SHANGHAI
Rickshaw ‘Blacklegs’ Wounded
SHANGHAI, August 10.
The 10,000 public hire rickshaws in Shanghai’s international settlement almost entirely disappeared from the streets today, to the accompaniment of riots and acts of sabotage. This was a climax to the prolonged dispute between the municipal council and the rickshaw owners, whereby the latter were ordered to improve the conditions of the pullers of the vehicles. The rickshaw pullers naturally are supporting the council, but the gangsters engaged by the owners and middlemen, who stand to lose most, are desperately endeavouring to maintain the services in their former conditions. The ‘blacklegs’ engaged for this purpose ruefully withdrew this afternoon, nursing wounds inflicted by the legitimate pullers. It is estimated that between 50,000 and 70,000 pullers and their dependants are involved. Hundreds were arrested, fined, and cautioned, but further and more serious trouble is expected.
Courier Mail, 11 August 1934
The offices of Carmel and Smith were in the International Concession, on the Bund a block or so from the North China Daily News Building. The firm was large and prestigious enough to boast three storeys behind a gothic façade featuring arches and gargoyles.
Gilbert Carmel was in a meeting when he received the message that Rowland Sinclair had requested to see him. Carmel checked the slip of paper. The lawyer had learned just the previous day that his old chum, Wilfred Sinclair, had not come to Shanghai as planned. The telegram had said only that he was unavoidably delayed, but that in his place he was sending this Rowland Sinclair who would take over his booking at the Cathay. The news had been a blow. Carmel had looked forward to seeing his old chum again—there were reminiscences to indulge and business opportunities to discuss. The Japanese were looking for wool and willing to pay a king’s ransom. With talk of a trade embargo afoot, they were anxious to secure supply now.
The lawyer brought his meeting to a hasty close, on the pretext of being called away by a matter of urgency.
And so it was merely minutes later that he welcomed Rowland into his office. “Mr. Sinclair.” Carmel looked for a resemblance to Wilfred in the young man who entered. He was too old to be Wilfred’s son, surely. But the eyes were strikingly familiar: dark blue, unusual in shade and intensity. “Sir, I must confess I am a little perplexed. I was expecting—”
“Wilfred,” Rowland finished for him. “I’m afraid my brother is unable to visit Shanghai right now. Private matters have waylaid him. He sent me in his stead.” Rowland offered Carmel his hand. “Rowland Sinclair. How d’you do, sir?”
“Well, well, Rowland Sinclair. A pleasure to meet you, dear fellow. I had been looking forward to seeing your brother again, but no matter. I’m sure you and I shall be firm friends soon. Indeed I am inclined to transfer all the warmth I feel for Wilfred directly to you, without dilution or restraint. I’m sure you’re on the level.”
Rowland hesitated, a little concerned that any response in the affirmative would see him expected at some Shanghai Lodge meeting as a visiting Brother. Still, denying his membership would possibly be taking Freemasonic Secrecy too far. “I am. Thank you, sir.”
“Now, Rowland, how can I help you? We—” Carmel gestured with flourish at the elaborate brass plate above the door, emblazoned with the name of Carmel and Smith—“are at your service, and that of your good family.”
Rowland smiled, already growing accustomed to the solicitor’s florid style. Gilbert Carmel was about Wilfred’s age, solid and broad. There was a faint, faded Scottish brogue to his accent. The lawyer favoured double-breasted suits and spats and, despite being completely bald, compulsively smoothed some ghost of the hair he might once have had. Rowland told him of the murder of Alexandra Romanova, of how he’d found her body in the drawing room of his suite at the Cathay Hotel and of the investigation which followed. All this Carmel recorded on a legal notepad, asking questions—small clarifications—from time to time.
“You must understand that we generally work with purely commercial matters,” he said when Rowland had finished.
“Yes, of course.”
“But we will represent you in this matter with our very best offices.” He looked over his notes. “I will be in touch with Inspector Randolph today.”
“Thank you.”
“Not at all, my boy, not at all.” Carmel sat back, beaming as he stroked his glossy scalp. “You just get about the business for which Wilfred despatched you and Carmel and Smith will manage the police. And of course, we’ll be at your service should you wish us to oversee any contractual arrangements arising from the meetings you will have in Shanghai.” They talked socially then for a few minutes. Rowland answered friendly enquiries about his brother’s health and growing family, particularly Wilfred’s youngest son Gilbert who was the lawyer’s namesake. Carmel spoke of serving with Wilfred Sinclair in the Great War and invited Rowland to attend the next meeting of the Northern Lodge of China. Eventually Rowland took his leave and rejoined the party waiting for him in the reception area.
“I’ve asked Mr. Carmel to arrange an appointment with Du Yuesheng, as soon as possible,” Rowland said as they left the building. “Once Mr. Wing’s debt is settled we’ll no longer need to worry about the gentleman’s thugs.”
“And in the meantime?” Clyde asked, glancing at Wing Zau.
“We carry on,” Rowland replied. “But we keep a weather eye out for debt collectors.”
Milton slung an arm about Wing’s shoulders. “Don’t you worry, comrade, they’ll have to get through us to lay a hand on you.”
They waved away his thanks, as they did his apologies for the trouble he had brought them. There was much to do to address their changed circumstances, which had raised unexpected inconveniences.
“Andrew Petty was meant to call for me at the Cathay this morning,” Rowland said, glancing at his watch. “It was only when Mr. Carmel reminded me why Wilfred had sent me to Shanghai that I rem
embered.”
“You have had rather a lot to distract you.” Edna entwined her arm in his. “It’s still morning—we might yet catch him.”
“Rowland! Hello—have you come to see me?” Emily Hahn emerged from the North China Daily News’ premises, waving. She was svelte and sophisticated in a black coat and a fur-trimmed red pillbox hat.
Rowland introduced his companions. “Miss Hahn and I met last night in Sir Victor’s penthouse.”
“Mickey,” she insisted. “British formality is considered quite odd and rude in China, so you simply must call me Mickey.” She turned to Rowland. “And how do you find Victor’s house on Kiangse Road?” She held up her hand before he could reply. “I’ll hear no complaints. It’s a thousand times better than my ugly little apartment and you cannot find the real China at the Cathay Hotel.”
Rowland smiled. “We’re perfectly happy in our new lodgings and though I’m afraid we’ve not yet had time to search for the real China, I’m sure it’s there somewhere. In fact, we were just on our way to the Cathay to thank Sir Victor personally.”
Emily Hahn extracted a cigarette from a silver and enamel case and waved it expectantly. Clyde provided the light.
“Would you care to join us, Mickey?” Edna asked, almost shyly.
“I may as well,” she replied, beaming. “I have an appointment to lunch with Victor in any case.”
And so the journalist strolled with them. Though it seemed she had not been long in Shanghai herself, Emily Hahn appeared to have an affinity with the city. She walked confidently, sidestepping rickshaws instinctively, all the time chatting gaily as she pointed out buildings of significance along the way, like a tour guide of sorts. The day was bright and sunny though the spring was not yet warm—to Australians anyway. The streets were busy and vibrant, a weaving parade of colour and diversity. With midday approaching, delivery men picked through the traffic on bicycles stacked precariously with tiffin tins. Rowland fell back a little, extracting the notebook from his breast pocket to sketch the strain and movement of the rickshaw men. When he looked up again he saw his companions had stopped, waiting for him.
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