All the Tears in China

by Sulari Gentill

  “I was under the impression that the poor chap had perished in a fire,” Carmel said when Rowland asked him to do what he could to find Sergei Romanov.

  “No. It seems he either got out or he was not there when the fire started.”

  “I see. Yes, of course. I’ll do whatever I can.” A pause. “Now suppose you tell me about what happened at the Paramount. I understand there was a disagreement.”

  “Who—”

  “This is Shanghai, my dear boy. Word gets about quite quickly.”

  Rowland gave the solicitor his account of what had transpired during the meeting with the Japanese.

  A sigh. “I’ve always advised against informal meetings. It’s so easy for misunderstandings to occur when people are socialising as well as conducting business.”

  “There was no misunderstanding,” Rowland said. “There were too many Nazis in the company of the gentlemen from Japan for my comfort.”

  “There is no trade embargo against Germany, Rowland.”

  “Even so.” Rowland was tempted to confess that he’d never been authorised to enter into a contract with the Japanese. But there was no point now.

  “On reflection, Rowland, could you have perhaps been a little rash? Wilfred might not agree—”

  “Wilfred won’t countermand my decision.” Rowland spoke with more confidence than he felt.

  Carmel tried to reason with him. “The proposed embargo is to do with the Japanese invasion of Manchuria. It has absolutely nothing to do with the Germans. I really think—”

  “It’s done now.”

  “I’m sure if you were to—”

  “I won’t.”

  Carmel exhaled. “Very well. But will you allow me to intercede with the Japanese to see what I can do to minimise any offence that might have been taken?”

  “Please do,” Rowland replied wearily. “To be honest, Mr. Carmel, I am much more interested in finding Sergei Romanov than whether I hurt the feelings of some wool buyers.”

  As a precaution, Rowland told the lawyer about Bertram Middleton and his flowers, as well as what had transpired that morning at the North China Daily News. “I don’t want him coming near Miss Higgins again.”

  “Well, there may be more prudent means of achieving that than threatening to kill him, Rowland,” Carmel replied. “But no matter. That’s why you employ me. I shall be ready to fend off any allegations of assault from that quarter.”

  “I’m not particularly concerned about what he may allege, Mr. Carmel. Can you do anything to keep him away from Ed?”

  “Can you prove he sent the flowers?”

  “No.”

  The lawyer sighed. “I’ll see what I can do but we haven’t got any basis for a formal complaint.”

  There was someone banging on the red door when Rowland hung up.

  “Sinclair. Sinclair! Open up!” Andrew Petty’s voice.

  Rowland opened the door. Petty was still in his dinner suit though it was noticeably dishevelled now. He reeked of whisky and sweat. “I demand an explanation!”

  Rowland grimaced. “Come in, Andrew.”

  “Oh… hello, Mr. Petty,” Edna said as Rowland brought the broker in.

  “I’ve come to talk to—nay to plead with you, Sinclair.”

  “Perhaps you should have some coffee first.”

  “Do you know how many months I’ve been working on this deal with the Japanese!” Petty shouted.

  Rowland said nothing. His friends retreated discreetly to the kitchen.

  “Wilfred would have recognised the benefits and accepted the offer!”

  “Look, Andrew,” Rowland said. “You seem… tired. Perhaps we should have this conversation later.”

  Petty’s voice became conciliatory. “Rowland, you’re not the first young man to say something impulsively under pressure. Mr. Yiragowa will understand. He has a son your age; he knows what young men can do in the heat of the moment.”

  Rowland shook his head. He was aware that he could not retreat from “no” to the neutral position his brother had directed him to maintain. God, he wished he could speak with Wilfred, and restore the manoeuvring and intrigues of trade to his keeping. “I’m sorry if you had other expectations, Andrew. But changing my mind is out of the question.”

  Petty exploded into a lament about betrayal and prejudice and economics. He called Rowland a few names and wept. Rowland assumed, hoped, the man had been drinking and so allowed him to rant without reaction. In the end, he and Clyde helped Andrew Petty into the Buick and asked Singh to deliver him home. There were other telephone calls that morning, from the members of the Japan– Australia Society and a few other businessmen that Rowland had not met, all talking about the importance of trade between Japan and Australia and the potential ramifications of Rowland’s “misstep”.

  Victor Sassoon also telephoned. It seemed that Chief Inspector Randolph had questioned Mickey Hahn that morning and the tycoon was displeased.

  Consequently when someone knocked on the red door again, Rowland was wary. It was Wing, for the first time since Rowland had known him not attired in Western style, but in traditional Chinese robes. He seemed in high spirits.

  “Good morning, sir. How was…” He trailed off as he noticed the bruises and abrasions on Rowland’s face. “… the ball?”

  “Decidedly awkward.”

  “Is there anything I can do, sir?”

  “Actually, yes. We’ll be leaving in the next day or so.”

  Wing looked puzzled and then his face brightened. “You are no longer a suspect in the murder of Miss Romanova?”

  “I’m afraid I am,” Rowland replied. “I don’t propose to leave Shanghai. Just to take another house.”

  Edna looked sharply at him. “This isn’t because of Bertie, is it? I told you, I’m—”

  “Not at all,” Rowland replied. “I’m afraid Victor Sassoon is withdrawing his hospitality.”

  Milton pulled a face. “Old Victor’s rather protective of Mickey Hahn, all things considered.”

  “What has this got to do with Mickey?” Edna asked.

  Milton told them about the discovery that Mickey had occupied the Chinese Suite at the Cathay before them, and Sassoon’s insistence that they keep the information to themselves.

  “You don’t believe Mickey killed Alexandra?”

  “Why not?” Milton shrugged. “She was there, and she probably has access to Sassoon’s master key…”

  “But why would she?”

  “Maybe there’s more to her relationship with Sassoon than they’re letting on. She could have been jealous… Sassoon’s eye may have wandered in Alexandra’s direction… or maybe she and Sassoon were in it togeth—”

  “It’s possible that Alexandra was murdered by someone who mistook her for Mickey,” Rowland interrupted Milton’s run of speculation, “in which case, Mickey could still be in danger, which is why we mentioned it to Randolph.”

  “In direct contravention of Lord Victor’s orders,” Milton growled.

  “I’ve asked Mr. Carmel to find us another house,” Rowland said. “Or a hotel that isn’t owned by Victor Sassoon.”

  It took Gilbert Carmel only hours to find the mansion on Avenue Joffre in a district known as Little Russia, though technically it was in the French Concession. They were, by the next day, able to move in. The grand colonial building had been built by a Parsi merchant who’d obviously done well with the China dream. Also on the block were three smaller houses, designed for each of the merchant’s sons, which were connected to the main house by covered walkways. The grounds had clearly once been a showpiece of sweeping lawns and flower beds—indeed the bones were still there—but the lack of a full-time gardener was apparent. The estate was, of course, far too large for the immediate needs of the Australians, but it had been available on short notice.

  “What happened to the family that lived here?” Edna asked the caretaker who let them in.

  “The family has moved to Hong Kong, Madam,” he said. “They
intend to return some day.”

  Milton inspected the massive sitting room with its parquetry floors. It was furnished, but sparsely so for its size. “We could have a game of cricket in here, Rowly.”

  Rowland laughed. They had often used the ballroom at Woodlands House for that purpose.

  “There are dozens of cricket clubs in Shanghai, if you would like to attend a match, Mr. Isaacs,” Wing suggested helpfully.

  “Wouldn’t be a challenge without chandeliers to avoid.” Milton bowled an imaginary ball.

  Harjeet was already stocking the kitchen pantry, which she declared was much better appointed than the one on Kiangse Road. There were enough bedrooms to make sharing unnecessary, and the entire property was surrounded by a high iron fence. The house also came with three servants: an old woman and her two daughters, who had kept house and worked as amahs for the previous owners, and who occupied the adjoining servants’ quarters.

  Discovering who killed Alexandra Romanova was more urgent now. It seemed that doing so was the only way to convince Randolph to relinquish Rowland as prime suspect, the only way he could leave Shanghai as anything but a fugitive. And, regardless, Rowland still wanted justice for the taxi girl. Finding Sergei Romanov was, Rowland believed, the first step to any hope of that.

  “We’re in Little Russia,” Edna suggested. “Perhaps we should try asking at the restaurants and businesses here. Surely he would go to his own community for help.”

  “Maybe.” Rowland frowned. “Except that it was members of the Russian community that were defrauded by Alexandra.”

  “What about this chap that she was seen with?” Milton said. “The one the band at the Cathay bashed our friend Wing for asking about. Perhaps we should try and track him down… surely the band will be back by now.”

  Rowland nodded. “Ed and I will call in at the Cathay now. You chaps see if any of the merchants in Little Russia remember Sergei.” He extracted his pocketbook and gave the poet several banknotes. “In case their memories require inducement.”

  “Check if anyone’s been to the Cathay asking after us,” Clyde said, scowling. Danny Dong’s cousins had not yet found them and he was becoming a little concerned that the old lady’s remains would not be claimed. The chest, which was her current place of rest, had once again been stowed under Clyde’s bed, which was compromising his own rest somewhat.

  Wing grabbed his hat and made to follow Rowland.

  “You’d better go with Milt and Clyde, Mr. Wing. They’re more likely to need a translator, and the gentlemen in the band might not be entirely happy to see you again.”

  30

  CHINESE JUNK ON STAMP

  An interesting stamp I have seen is the 10 cents stamps of the Republic of China, in it is shown the picture of an old Chinese junk, which is a symbol of ancient China. In the background is seen a railroad bridge over which is passing a train. This is evidently intended to show the desire of the newly formed republic for progress.

  —William Parkinson (11)

  Sun, 15 October 1922

  The band members were at rehearsal in the Jazz Club. The venue was closed to patrons until the afternoon. Fortunately Van Hagen was not at the reception desk and Edna was able to gain them access by claiming she’d left her wrap in the club the previous evening and wished to retrieve it. The young man in Van Hagen’s seat seemed flustered by the burdens of the position and the various calls on his attention. After confirming that no one had called looking for them or Mrs. Dong, he let them into the Jazz Club and then excused himself to attend to the complaints and demands of other guests.

  Rowland and Edna took seats in front of the stage without interrupting the musicians. The band seemed to enjoy having an audience, however small. When the ragtime number finished, the Australians stood and clapped. The musicians bowed and accepted the applause in good humour.

  “What are you folks doing here?” the band leader asked. “This here is just a rehearsal. Y’all come back tonight for a real show.”

  “We were hoping we might speak with you,” Edna said.

  “Well, well, we got ourselves the prettiest autograph hound in Shanghai!”

  Edna laughed. “Oh no, I’m not collecting autographs.”

  The saxophonist put down his instrument and grinned. “Then what can we do for you, ma’am?”

  Rowland leaned back against a table. He saw no reason to interrupt. Clearly the musicians were more interested in speaking with Edna.

  The double bass player asked Edna whether she cared to step out with him for a drink. The saxophonist protested that he had been about to issue an invitation himself.

  “Actually we wanted to speak to you about a friend who may have stepped out with one of you. Miss Alexandra Romanova.”

  The saxophonist tensed. “You weren’t no friend of Alex’s, I would have noticed you.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Edna admitted, “but Rowly was.”

  The band gave Rowland their attention for the first time.

  “Rowland Sinclair. How d’you do?”

  “You and Alex were cutting a rug the night before she died.” The pianist swivelled on his stool to face Rowland.

  “Yes.”

  “You sent that uppity Chinaman?” the trumpet player accused.

  “No, I didn’t. But Mr. Wing is a friend of mine,” Rowland replied evenly.

  “I’m sure Mr. Wing didn’t mean to offend you,” Edna said.

  The double bass player laughed and waved his thumb at the saxophonist. “Virgil here put him in his place, good and proper.”

  Edna placed her hands on her hips and scowled. “Yes, well that was uncalled for. Poor Mr. Wing was simply trying to find out what had happened to Alexandra!”

  Rowland felt a surge of love for the loyal sculptress, though he braced for the confrontation to escalate in the face of her admonishment. But Virgil seemed abashed.

  “I reckon I did overreact,” he said. “Things here were awful tense with the police asking questions and everybody talking about a murderer in the Cathay. I might have been a bit jumpy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Mr. Sinclair, I am a black man. And Shanghai ain’t quite that different from everywhere else.”

  Rowland nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”

  “But you did know Alexandra?” Edna pressed.

  “Sure. We knew her.”

  “Were any of you in love with her?”

  Rowland was, of course, unfazed by the blunt manner in which Edna made inquiries, but the Americans were caught off guard. They vacillated amongst themselves and then Virgil spoke. “We all liked Alex—she was a terrific gal—but none of us were sweet on her.”

  “We used to keep an eye on the taxi girls. Sometimes a wiseguy would think buying a dance ticket entitled him to take certain liberties, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you remember any wiseguy approaching Alexandra in particular?” Rowland asked.

  The saxophonist shrugged. “There was an Englishman I told to clear off. High and mighty type.”

  Rowland groaned inwardly. There were thousands of Englishmen in Shanghai. “High and mighty” didn’t really narrow the field. “Did Miss Romanova borrow money from any of you?”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t mind. Poor kid didn’t have a brass razoo. We slipped her a few dollars every now and then.”

  “Did she ever say why she needed money?”

  “We can’t all afford to stay at the Cathay, Mr. Sinclair. She probably needed to eat.”

  Edna shook her head, ignoring the dig at Rowland. “She was trying to borrow money from a number of people—it had to be for more than groceries.”

  The musician shrugged.

  “I don’t suppose any of you gentlemen have any idea about who might have wanted to kill Miss Romanova?” Rowland asked.

  The musicians glanced at each other and then the band leader shook his head. “Some of the taxi girls lived life dangerously, but not Alex. She always remembered where she came from.”
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  “Did you know she once claimed to be a Russian princess?” Edna ventured.

  “Maybe she was,” Virgil said. “She sure didn’t look like no ordinary dame. And she had all the airs and graces you could want.”

  The double bass player looked Rowland up and down. “They found Alex in your suite?”

  “Yes. I found her.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  Rowland met his eye. “No. I have no idea what she was doing there.”

  The musicians glanced at each other once again. “Alex loved looking around the premier suites,” Virgil confessed. “Sometimes she’d get one of the room boys to let her in just so she could see how people like you lived. She said it made her feel at home. She never took anything or did any harm. Just looked.”

  The Public Garden on the northern end of the Bund was bordered by the Huangpu. European in style, the garden had originally been reserved for the foreign community but the restriction had been lifted several years before, opening the park to all comers. Tight buds hinted at colour in flowerbeds set in verdant lawns.

  Edna hooked her arm through Rowland’s. He hadn’t said a great deal since they’d left the Cathay. “A penny for your thoughts, Rowly.”

  He shook his head. “Alexandra only had to ask me if she wanted to see the suite,” he said. “I would have shown her through and made sure she wasn’t killed in the process.”

  Edna leaned into him. “I wonder why she didn’t just ask.”

  “Hotel rules perhaps,” Rowland mused. He wondered if the taxi girl had, for some reason, wanted to see his suite before she met him for tea. Perhaps it was the appointment itself that had made her curious about the Chinese Suite on that particular day.

  “We don’t know for certain she was there simply to see your romos,” Edna said.

  Rowland nodded. “That’s true, but it’s the first possible reason we’ve found for her presence in our suite.” He paused. “If she was there by chance, then perhaps she wasn’t the murderer’s target.”

  Edna could feel the tension in his arm. “If someone was trying to kill me, Rowly, they haven’t tried again.”