The passing of time became difficult to judge. It seemed like hours, it seemed like days. But, in truth, Rowland had no idea how long he’d been confined to the isolation cell when the door began to open again.
Whitely shone his torch directly into Rowland’s face. Rowland blanched, dazzled by the strong light. It was a moment before he could focus. The warder strode into the cell. He was followed in by four men—three Sikhs and another Occidental.
“Stand up!” Two men heaved Rowland to his feet. Whitely shoved a prison tunic into his hands. “Change your shirt, felon.”
“Why?” Rowland asked bewildered, unsteady.
Whitely’s hand moved to his baton.
Rowland backed away. He unbuttoned his shirt, fumbling, as his hands were stiff. He winced as the coarse fabric took dried blood with it. The new shirt was identical in all respects but for the letter “E” emblazoned where the breast pocket might have been. Rowland had no idea what Whitely and his thugs were playing at, but he was in no position to refuse.
Andrew Petty’s car was parked at the gates of the mansion on Avenue Joffre when the Buick pulled up. When the gates were opened the Rolls Royce followed them into the grounds.
“I’m afraid Rowly isn’t here, Mr. Petty,” Edna said as they all stepped out of the cars.
“Yes, I realise that.” Petty shook his head. “He’s been falsely accused and summarily incarcerated by Shanghai’s pitiful excuse for British justice.”
Edna glanced at Milton and Clyde, unsure how Andrew Petty knew.
Petty cleared his throat into the silence. “I know you’re busy so I’ll get straight to the point… I’ve good news.”
“We could certainly use some.”
“I’ve come to tell you that Mr. Yiragowa is willing to use his influence with the members of the Municipal Council to have Rowland released.”
“Really?” Edna’s face lifted. She glanced excitedly at her companions. “Can he do that?”
“This is Shanghai. The support of a business partner carries weight, and as you may be aware, the Japanese are increasing their influence on the Shanghai Municipal Council. Most of the other members are Britons so the thought of a white man in Ward Road Prison will not sit well. The Americans are—”
“But Rowly isn’t doing business with Mr. Yiragowa and his colleagues,” Edna interrupted.
“I am confident we can remedy that.” Petty smiled reassuringly. “I took the liberty of sending Wilfred Sinclair a telegram this morning. Given Mr. Yiragowa’s generous overture, I’m sure he’ll direct Rowland to do the right thing.”
Clyde snorted. “I don’t like your chances, Mr. Petty. Wilfred Sinclair is not likely to take extortion kindly.”
Petty inhaled sharply. “How dare you, sir! Mr. Yiragowa is making this offer as an act of kindness, in recognition of the friendship between Australia and Japan, and despite Rowland’s rash and offensive behaviour! Something he was goaded into by his unsavoury political associations no doubt.”
Edna folded her arms. “What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Petty?”
“It’s no secret the Communists are anti-Japanese. Neither is it a secret that Rowland Sinclair is keeping company with Communists.”
“How did you know to find us here, Mr. Petty?” Milton asked evenly.
For a moment Petty faltered. “My good man, one does not hide by renting a mansion.”
They did not invite Andrew Petty in, waiting till he’d climbed back into the Rolls Royce before they entered the house.
Alastair Blanshard looked up from his newspaper as they stepped into the drawing room.
Edna gasped. “Mr. Blanshard!”
“Did I startle you, Miss Higgins?” Blanshard stood. “Forgive me but I think you’ll agree that this is not the time to be waiting on niceties.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Blanshard.”
Blanshard shook hands with the gentlemen. “Well it seems Mr. Sinclair has got himself into a spot of bother.”
“Can you get him out?” Clyde cut straight to the point.
“What would you have me do, Mr. Jones? Storm the prison?”
“If that’s the only way.”
“Let’s hope that it’s not.” Blanshard waited till Edna had taken a seat and then sat down himself. “Rowland was, I believe, arrested for a murder unrelated to the taxi girl.”
Edna nodded. She told him about Bertram Middleton.
Blanshard frowned. “And you’re absolutely sure Sinclair didn’t take matters into his own hands?”
“Yes.” Milton replied emphatically. “We’ve all given our statements as to Rowly’s whereabouts the night Middleton was shot.”
Blanshard pressed his palms together, thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, your credibility as alibi witnesses is compromised by your friendship with Rowland. It would not be difficult to convince a jury that you would all happily perjure yourselves for him.”
“Yeah, we would,” Clyde agreed. “But what about Mr. Wing? He shared a room with Rowly that night.”
Blanshard regarded Wing for a moment. “Mr. Wing is both Rowland’s servant and Chinese.”
“Dear God, what are we going to do?” Edna was beginning to despair.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill this fellow Middleton?”
Edna shook her head. “No. He’d only been in Shanghai for a few days. He barely knew anyone.”
“Aside from Mr. Sinclair and yourself.”
“Aside from us, and the people he worked with at the newspaper I expect.”
Blanshard paused. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps the entire purpose of Middleton’s murder was to put Rowland Sinclair in the frame?”
“Why would anyone want to frame Rowly for murder?”
“I’m not sure.” Blanshard rubbed his palms together now. “But perhaps it’s a line of enquiry that will prove fruitful for Rowland’s lawyers.”
“If we could find the flamin’ lawyer!” Milton said, frustrated.
“What do you mean?”
Milton told Blanshard about Gilbert Carmel’s untimely absence.
“Do you know the name of the client he’s representing in Nanking?”
“No, why?”
Blanshard shrugged. “I wonder if the timing of his absence was not accidental.”
“You’re suggesting that whoever killed Middleton is a client of Carmel and Smith?”
“What better way to frame a man than to ensure his lawyer is out of town when he’s arrested?”
“But why would anyone want Rowly in prison?”
“As I told Rowland, there are many fortunes hanging off what the Sinclairs do.”
Dread lodged like a rock under Edna’s heart. She appealed directly and desperately to Blanshard. “Mr. Blanshard, you have to help us. Please.”
Blanshard leaned over and placed his large hand on her arm. “Now, now, my dear. Don’t upset yourself. Rowland is on remand—he is probably unhappy, but he is not for the time being, in imminent danger.” He stood. “In the meantime, I’ll make some calls to my associates in Nanking. I think it’s high time Mr. Carmel returned.”
33
SHANGHAI GANG WAR
CHICAGO METHODS USED POLITICAL CORRUPTION
(Special to ‘The Daily News’)
LONDON, June 18.
The most realistic representation of Chicago gang wars is occurring in Shanghai, where there is kidnapping, gun-running and opium-smuggling, to the accompaniment of a police motor pursuing desperadoes as a result of pistol battles in streets, says the ‘Manchester Guardian’s’ correspondent at Shanghai. The police declare the movies are a potential influence and the crime wave is sweeping even the international concession. The American Club, numbering special police among its members, and situated opposite the central police station, might be regarded as ultra-safe, yet the club’s rich Chinese steward, owner of a chain of food-shops, found a motor car at a side door and was invited to take a ride to an unknown destination. He disappeared for w
eeks, and only returned after the payment of a ransom of 10,000 dollars (£1000). He is now always accompanied by a bodyguard of two Russians, a number of whom are General Koltchak’s ex-soldiers licensed by the police for protection of Chinese merchants. The ex-soldiers find this profession a lucrative one. They live as members of the merchant’s family and accompany him in evening dress when he goes out to dine. There were rumours that the bodyguards were too intimate with the gangsters, but this theory was dissipated by the slaughter of three in daring kidnapping raids, one dying from the effort to save his employer’s daughter, who was murdered in broad daylight.
Shanghai is also copying Chicago’s political corruption, prominent gangsters controlling vice centres being powerful in politics.
Daily News, 19 June 1931
In the harsh electric light of the prison walkway, the clock showed ten minutes past two. Rowland wasn’t sure if it was night or day. In fact, he wasn’t sure what day it was. The corridors were deserted. Perhaps it was two in the morning. He assumed he was being taken back to the cell in the general block. Whitely led the way. A silent entourage of warders surrounded Rowland, shoving him along to keep pace. Three more men had joined them outside the isolation cell. It seemed an excessive number of guards to move a sole prisoner from one cell to another.
Whitely appeared in high spirits. He made jokes and talked of standing drinks when the shift was done. Rowland kept his eyes down.
Whitely stopped at a door which was no different from the others in the prison, aside from being marked with the letter E. He unlocked it and strode through the doorway. Rowland was pushed in after him. The light switch was pulled and Rowland found himself in a large, windowless room. A narrow stairwell in one corner led to a floor below. It took Rowland a moment to recognise the industrial structure on the other side of the room. A wooden scaffolding—gallows. Instinctively he recoiled.
“What am I doing here?”
Whitely smiled. “That’s between you and your God. We’ve come to hang you.”
“I’m on remand.” Rowland could feel cold sweat breaking on his brow. “I haven’t been convicted, let alone sentenced!”
“Well I’ll be buggered!” Whitely feigned surprise. He poked the E on Rowland’s shirt. “And yet you’re wearing an execution shirt. Terrible mistake, but understandable.”
“You’re mad! That’s murder!”
“Oh no, felon, it’s you who are the murderer. We are just administering justice.”
Rowland tried to break away but the warders converged to seize and hold him fast. They secured his hands behind his back, and dragged him up onto the scaffold. Rowland fought but it was useless. The naiks had obviously dealt with men in these circumstances before. Even so, it took four of them to restrain Rowland Sinclair and force him onto the trapdoor of the gallows.
“Once we cut your body down, you’ll fall through to the morgue,” Whitely said, grinning. “It’s a very modern and convenient design.”
Rowland swore at him. “You won’t get away with this, Whitely!”
Whitely held up his palms. “But I won’t even be here, felon. I’m going to leave you in the hands of the able gentlemen on the scaffold.” He cupped his hand behind his mouth and whispered loudly. “The darkies often make mistakes like this. I know we let them believe they’re British but one can only expect so much.” Whitely left via the stairs. Four of the warders followed him. The others remained at the gallows.
Rowland thought feverishly. Surely this could not be happening.
“Would you like a blindfold?” The naik’s question was almost casual.
Rowland shook his head. “I have not been sentenced to death,” he said clearly, trying to meet the man’s eye. “By God man, I haven’t even been tried.”
“Not by a court.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Hands gripped each shoulder to hold him in place. “If you accept it, it will soon be over. But if you struggle you’ll choke slowly.”
The noose was slipped around his neck from behind and adjusted so that the knot sat at the top of his spine. “If you want to pray, start now.”
“Go to hell!”
“Any last words?”
Rowland thought of Edna. But those were not words he could trust to a man about to kill him. Panic was taking hold now. He felt dizzy.
One of the warders moved to grip the long lever beside the gallows.
Rowland’s entire body was taut. His heart pounded and the blood roared in his ears.
The lever was pulled. The trapdoor released. And he dropped.
Ranjit Singh relayed the news his cousin had given him.
They were silent, shocked. It was a relief to hear of Rowland, to make this contact, however indirect and small, but hearing of him also somehow made their predicament and his situation more real.
“He’s in isolation?” Edna’s voice trembled.
“Yes, but he’s doing well,” Singh assured her. “Obviously he’s not afraid of the dark and Amrith believes he may be better off there.”
“Why?”
“He won’t come to the notice of the guards. Amrith will smuggle some food for him.”
“Why should he want to avoid the guards?” Milton asked sharply.
Ranjit elected not to tell them what the guards at Ward Road did to relieve boredom, what had already happened to Rowland Sinclair. There was no point distressing them more than they were already when nothing could be done. “The general prison population is rife with tuberculosis. He is less likely to get sick in isolation.”
“We have to get him out,” Milton said. Unlike Clyde and Edna, the poet had seen the inside of a prison. He guessed what Ranjit was leaving out.
For a moment, Rowland thought they’d succeeded and he’d fallen into hell. Dead men surrounded him, their faces twisted into grotesques, limbs stiff. And laughter, screeching scornful mirth. Hoots and cheers. Whitely’s laugh louder than the others. Then the realisation that he was not dead but that the men beneath him were. Rowland recoiled, bucking though his hands were still secured behind him. He rolled off the pallet of bodies onto the cement, where for a moment he lay gagging and retching. The noose was still around his neck, the rope never connected to the gallows.
One of the warders hauled him to his feet. Rowland’s knees buckled. In what may have been an unexpected act of kindness, the warder removed the cuffs so that Rowland could use a nearby rail to keep himself upright as his stomach heaved uncontrollably.
“Bloody oath!” Whitely slapped his thigh and wiped tears from his eyes. “The look on your face! That never gets old.”
Rowland stared at the corpses piled on the pallet. Executed by hanging or disease and neglect, and then in a final indignity used to break his fall in some cruel, schoolboy prank. God! He gripped the rail trying to catch his breath.
Only Whitely was still laughing now. “You really thought—” He slapped Rowland on the back like they were old friends.
Rowland ignited, turning and launching himself at the man. It was hard to know why exactly the other warders held back, why they allowed Rowland to break Whitely’s nose before they raised their batons and pulled him off.
Ranjit Singh’s Buick pulled up outside the house of Du Yuesheng. Milton and Wing Zau climbed out. The poet had elected to keep his plan from Clyde and Edna, but it had been necessary to bring Wing into his confidence. It had taken them over a day to be granted an audience with the zongshi. Rowland had now been in prison for three days and there was still no sign of Carmel.
“I’m sorry to drag you into this, comrade,” Milton said clapping his hand on Wing’s shoulder. “I know full well it’s dangerous, but I can’t talk to Mr. Du without you.”
Wing straightened, pushing out his chest. “I want to help. I am grateful to you for the opportunity to do so and for your trust…” He glanced back at the Buick and Singh. “But I’m not sure I understand why you haven’t confided in Miss Higgins and Mr. Jones.”
“I’m ab
out to ask a gangster for help, comrade. I assume his methods will be less than legal and, to be honest, I don’t care.”
“But Miss Higgins and Mr. Jones will?”
“They might… women and Catholics can both be awkwardly moral. I didn’t want to take the chance.”
“Zongshi will require something in return for his help.”
“Yes, I expect he will.” Milton glanced at Singh. “But we need to get Rowly out of Ward Road.”
Singh rested his elbow on the open driver’s-side window, and looked up at them. Since their near altercation, he had been less hostile towards Wing. “Yes. I think it is necessary. The City of the Doomed is no place for a man like Mr. Sinclair.”
“Right.” Milton adjusted his cravat. “Onward then. Men may come and men may go, we’ll go on forever.”
“Well said, Mr. Isaacs!” Wing fell in beside him.
Milton smiled wistfully. “Rowly would probably have wanted to give Tennyson the credit, you know.”
Of course, Milton could not know what Wing said to the various circles of security around Du Yuesheng, but whatever it was, it did gain them an audience. As he did the first time they met the tai-pan, Wing kowtowed. Milton watched, allowing Wing to observe whatever proprieties and pay whatever deference was necessary. For Rowland’s sake, the poet too would have happily dropped to his knees, but the kowtow was more complex than that and the risk of giving offense by doing it improperly, too great.
Milton spotted Kuznetsov among the security guards who maintained a circle around Du. Neither he nor the Russian gave any sign of recognition.
Du Yuesheng sat on a wide carved chair with scrolled arms and no back. He spoke before either Milton or Wing had uttered a word.
“Master Du wishes to know if you are here about Mr. Sinclair,” Wing translated.
“Could you ask him what he knows about Rowly’s situation?” Milton replied warily.
Wing obliged and the zongshi spoke again.
“He knows Mr. Sinclair is in Ward Road Prison. He knows he was arrested for the murder of another foreigner.”
All the Tears in China Page 28