They had returned home to regroup. Ranjit Singh had driven them back from 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 placed herself 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 released his grip on the butler.
“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, liberating 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 a 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.”
32
CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT.
SHANGHAI.
Shanghai—“In one of the countless night dancing halls an American sailor slaps a Japanese dancing girl. She dashes a glass of water in his face, then cringes in a corner. 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 tortu
re.
“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 supressed 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.
The night passed slowly, silent hours broken only by strangled coughing and the painful wheeze of a man fighting for every breath. Rowland played over in his mind the crime of which he had been accused. He wondered who’d want to shoot Middleton—other than himself and his companions, of course. From what Rowland had been able to glean from the chief inspector, Middleton had been shot at close range, executed. But surely Middleton hadn’t been in Shanghai sufficient time to make such mortal enemies.
He worried about his friends; concerned the accusation could be extended to them.
At some point, when exhaustion finally overcame all else, Rowland dozed briefly against the wall. He was startled awake when the cage was unlocked. Whitely stood over him. “Where’s the blanket you were assigned, felon?”
Rowland looked across at his cellmate. His voice was a little hoarse after not speaking for so long. “I gave it to him. Though I expect he needs a doctor more than a blanket.”
“There will be no trading or commerce in provisions,” Whitely snarled.
“There was no trade or commerce—I simply gave it to him. The poor chap’s dreadfully unwell.”
Whitely poked the sick man with his baton. “So you persuaded the white man to give you his blanket, did you, yellow dog?”
“He said nothing!” Rowland intervened angrily. “I gave him the blanket, he was too weak to refuse.”
“I see.” Whitely studied Rowland for a moment and then walked out of the cell. He sent two naiks in to drag Rowland out into the walkway. “No prisoner is to have anything not allocated to him by the prison authorities.”
“For pity’s sake, the man needs urgent medical attention! He’s coughing blood.”
“You need to learn who’s in charge, felon.”
Rowland flared. “Look, you sadistic bastard—”
Whitely struck him with the back of his hand. “In here, I am your keeper.” He signalled his men. The warders forced Rowland onto his knees, facing the cell, and ordered him to grab hold of the bars.
Whitely leaned down and whispered into Rowland’s ear. “You are a beast in my zoo. An animal who will take what he is given.” He straightened and stepped back. “Ten,” he said.
Rowland never saw which of the warders delivered the blows. Ten times, the long baton fell upon his back as the other prisoners watched in silence. Ten stripes for daring to show humanity in the City of the Doomed.
When it was done, Rowland was gasping and incoherent, his knuckles white on the bars. But Whitely was not yet finished. “Isolation cell,” he said.
The naiks dragged Rowland to his feet and to a rubber-lined cell. They left him there in the darkness.
“I’m afraid Mr. Carmel has been unavoidably detained in Nanking.” The solicitor’s secretary was apologetic but firm. “We have wired him and we trust that he will be back in a few days.”
“A few days!” Edna said horrified. “As an interim measure, we’ve sent Mr. Murray to represent Mr. Sinclair.”
“Who’s Mr. Murray?”
“One of our most promising new solicitors.”
“With all due respect to young Mr. Murray, we need someone with a bit more than promise,” Milton said. “What’s Mr. Smith doing?”
“Mr. Smith?”
“Of Carmel and Smith.”
“Mr. Jerimiah Smith, our founding partner, has been dead for more than a decade.”
Edna tried. “Mr. Sinclair is in Ward Road Gaol, Miss Stevens. While we’re waiting for Mr. Carmel to return, Rowly is in prison. We just want someone to help us get him out now, please.”
“I’ll have Mr. Murray telephone you as soon as he gets in,” she said primly. “May I tell him that you’ll be home to receive it?”
“There will be someone home,” Clyde said coldly as he handed her the message to be wired to Wilfred Sinclair. It seemed woefully inadequate to explain the extent of the trouble in which they found themselves. He wished he could clarify more, tell Wilfred how events had managed to spiral so out of control but, in truth, he didn’t know. As far as he could tell, none of them had done anything extraordinary or reckless. And yet, here they were. Clyde could only imagine how Wilfred would react to the news that Rowland had been arrested for the murder of one of Edna Higgins’ suitors.
They walked out of Carmel and Smith’s chambers disappointed, frustrated and more than a little panicked. Clyde cursed. “What is that idiot doing in Nanking?”
“To be fair,” Edna said, “Mr. Carmel was not to know that Rowland would be arrested. And Carmel and Smith are not criminal lawyers.”
“Well perhaps we should find Rowly some criminal lawyers,” Milton said sullenly. “’Cause as far as I can tell, Carmel and Smith are doing precious little to get him out of prison.”
Clyde nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. Wing might be able to help us find a lawyer who knows how things work over here.”
They made their way to Foochow Road and the Central Police Station. Wing Zau was having his statement taken when they arrived.
“Oh thank goodness,” Edna said. Surely Rowland would be released as soon as the alibis were given.
She and Clyde and Milton lined up to do the same, for what it was worth. The desk sergeant, a Scotsman, took their affidavits.
“So you’ll release Mr. Sinclair?” Edna pressed once their statements were complete. “There’re no grounds on which to hold him now.”
“That’s not entirely true, Miss Higgins,” the policeman said calmly. “Your statements will certainly be considered, as will all the other evidence, in determining Mr. Sinclair’s guilt. Alibi evidence, while certainly probative, is just one part of the evidence.”
“But surely you could bail him, pending trial?” Milton asked.
“Mr. Sinclair was determined a flight risk. He was denied bail.” The sergeant smiled comfortingly at Edna. “You’ve done everything you can, Miss. You may as well go home and let the law run its course.”
Rowland sat up slowly. He wasn’t sure if he’d passed out or simply fallen asleep in the black quiet of the isolation cell. The rubber lining was softer than the cement floor of the cell in which he’d spent the previous night. The penalty for giving away his blanket had been brutal but this part of it was not so terrible. He felt for the wall and leaned back against it, wincing as his back made contact with the rubber wallpaper. It was cold, and every part of his body seemed to ache, but he was relieved to be out of the crowded cage.
&n
bsp; After what seemed an age, the window on the door of the cell was opened. The shaft of light that fell on his face was harsh after the darkness. The door opened too now, and a naik walked in and shut the door behind him. Once again it was dark.
Rowland tensed.
The warder flicked on a torch. He squatted beside Rowland. “Mr. Sinclair?”
Startled by the use of his name, Rowland nodded.
“I am Amrith Singh. Ranjit and Harjeet are relatives of mine. Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You were punished?”
“Yes.”
“After punishment, prisoners are supposed to be taken to the infirmary.”
“I wasn’t, but I’ll be all right.”
“I will tell Ranjit. You’re shaking.”
Rowland looked at his hand under the torchlight—he hadn’t realised. “It’s the cold I expect.”
Amrith nodded. “It’s too risky to bring you a blanket.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a flask. “Try this—it may be warming.”
Rowland took a swig. The brandy was bracing, it’s effect immediate and soothing.
“I’d leave it with you,” Amrith said apologetically, “but it will be bad for both of us if Mr. Whitely finds it.”
Rowland drank again before he returned the flask. “Thank you, Mr. Singh. Can you tell me if my solicitor has arrived—Mr. Gilbert Carmel? Surely, even here, they must allow me to see my lawyer!”
Amrith shook his head. “Yes, they must. But Ranjit says there has been a problem locating your lawyer.”
Rowland cursed.
“Your friends wish you to know that they will find a way to get you released. I will tell Ranjit that I saw you.” Amrith stood and switched off his torch. “I will bring food next time I come.”
Rowland tried to find the least uncomfortable position he could. Perhaps it was the brandy but he felt calm. With any luck he would see out his time at Ward Road Gaol in isolation, away from the notice of Whitely and his thugs. The cell smelled damp, the air within it stale. Occasionally he heard scratching—rats perhaps, or the ghosts of desperate men who had been held in this cell over the years. The darkness pressed down on his face as if it wanted to get inside him.
All the Tears in China Page 27