All the Tears in China

by Sulari Gentill

  “On that we agree,” Milton replied.

  “I’ll go with him.” Edna entered the room now. “To the sanatorium.” Her eyes bore the signs of tears hastily brushed away. “It’s the best solution.”

  “That’s not—”

  “If I’m going to get sick, I will have already been infected by now, anyway,” the sculptress said resolutely. “I understand that it’s the fever speaking, but Rowly doesn’t trust either of you gentlemen. I can at least get him to cooperate with his own recovery. I will not let him think we are abandoning him, even if he thinks… whatever he thinks.”

  “My dear,” Carmel said softly. “Dr. Le Fevre has arranged the very best of care, but I’m not sure the facility will be able to accommodate a… visitor.”

  Clyde intervened now. “Actually, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea.” He turned to Carmel. “It’s a private hospital, you say? Surely they can be persuaded to let Ed stay with Rowly. In any case, we would not send Rowly anywhere that we can’t visit.”

  “But Miss Higgins will be putting herself in very great danger of infection!” Le Fevre threw his hands in the air. “Comment suis-je censé aider ces idiots?”

  Edna smiled. Clearly the physician did not realise she spoke French. “You just help Rowly, Dr. Le Fevre. And allow us to do the same.”

  35

  TUBERCULOSIS

  Sanatorium Treatment Best

  HEALTH DEPARTMENT’S ADVICE

  The medical officer of the Tuberculosis, Division of the Health Department (Dr. John Hughes) in a recent address emphasised the absolute necessity of rest in treating tuberculosis, pointing out that the only place where such rest can be obtained under suitable conditions is in a sanatorium.

  Outside a sanatorium a person is living in a community where his friends and relatives are living irregular hours, leading a life of pleasure, and the example set makes him envious, and he throws caution to the wind.

  Armidale Express and New England General Advertiser,

  1 August 1938

  The Denville Sanatorium seemed more like a grand villa than a hospital. It was on the very outskirts of Shanghai, in what seemed to be the countryside; where the fresh air would help Rowland’s lungs and the quiet would allow him to rest. The grounds were gated. The room to which Rowland was taken was on the third floor. It was large and furnished in Chinese style with a bathroom attached; the walls hung with long banners bearing paintings of village scenes and dragons. He was stretchered up to the room for fear the stairs would prove too strenuous in his current state. Le Fevre had given him a strong sedative in any case, to make the move easier.

  “The hospital only admits two or three patients at a time,” Le Fevre explained. “It allows each patient to be given the utmost round-the-clock care, and it means it can accommodate Mademoiselle Higgins in one of the spare rooms.”

  “A big place for two or three patients,” Clyde commented.

  “It is very expensive,” Le Fevre replied. “But it is the only facility which would allow Mademoiselle Higgins to remain.”

  “I’ll bet,” Clyde murmured. He suspected that Le Fevre was not above taking advantage of the situation to turn a healthy profit. But perhaps that was unfair. In any case, money was the least of their worries right now, or any time really.

  For a few hours the three of them and Gilbert Carmel sat in the room while Rowland slept fitfully under the effects of the sedative. The large windows were left open in deference to Le Fevre’s dire warnings. A Chinese orderly came in with a tray of tea and pound cake, and nurses and Le Fevre himself came in to check on Rowland, but otherwise the hospital was as quiet and restful as promised.

  To distract them all from worry, Carmel told them tales of old Shanghai, the rise of men like Sassoon, the intrigues and scandals of the city.

  “How long have you lived here, Mr. Carmel?” Edna asked, her eyes still on Rowland.

  “Since just after the war,” Carmel replied. “I can tell you it was not easy at first to do business with those I’d fought against in the trenches.” He followed Edna’s gaze to Rowland. “I understand Rowland’s suspicion of the Germans—I shared it once, but I realised years ago that it was time to move on, to let the wounds of war heal. It’s one of the great advantages of Shanghai… it’s a place where the old empires come together to build a new world indifferent to national prejudices.”

  “Rowly’s suspicion of the Germans is nothing to do with the Great War.” Milton took issue with the lawyer’s romantic vision. “And Shanghai is hardly indifferent to national prejudices. The servants are Chinese, the taxi girls Russian… I’ve not seen a white man pulling a rickshaw, only riding while some half-starved, barefoot native pulls him along the road!”

  Carmel nodded. “We are not perfect, Mr. Isaacs, but I find that in business all things are equal. Old enemies shake hands and make fortunes together.”

  “Yes, of course, fortunes.”

  “The free market is blind to race and class, Mr. Isaacs.”

  “The free market is blind to many things but not race or class, Mr. Carmel.”

  Carmel sighed. “Perhaps you are right.” He stood to leave. “As much as I would love to spend the afternoon defending Shanghai, my dear young friends, I must prepare Rowland’s defence and ensure that bloated chief inspector is not successful in having his bail revoked.” He took Edna’s hand and enclosed it in both of his. “You keep an eye on our boy, my dear, and I shall return this evening.”

  “Thank you so much for everything you’ve done, Mr. Carmel.”

  “I only hope it is enough,” the lawyer replied before he left them to it.

  “We should probably go too,” Clyde said eventually. He was not happy about leaving Rowland and Edna, but the hospital seemed secure.

  “Now?” Edna asked. “Why?”

  “We can’t leave Rowly’s fate to Carmel and the courts of Shanghai,” Milton replied. “And now we’ve got to work out who killed Bertram Middleton as well as Alexandra Romanova.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I wish I knew, Ed.” Clyde shook his head. “But we’ve got to do something. Rowly won’t survive Ward Road Gaol again.”

  “Surely Wilfred—”

  “We haven’t heard from him,” Milton replied, frowning. “It’s odd… but who knows what’s going on back home. Wilfred could well be busy overthrowing the soddin’ government again.”

  Clyde laughed. “The Lyons government are his lot, Milt. Wilfred doesn’t need to overthrow them.” He sobered. “Maybe there’s just nothing he can do this time.”

  “Mr. Kung, the Buddhist priest, was in the foyer of the Cathay when Rowly was arrested,” Edna said remembering. “In fact I’m sure I’ve seen him there before.”

  “Perhaps he’s staying there.” Clyde bit his lip thoughtfully. “We can try asking Van Hagen—see if it leads anywhere.”

  “We picked up Sergei Romanov’s scent just before Rowly got arrested and everything went to hell.” Milton took his hat from the post on the end of Rowland’s bed, where he’d hung it. “One of the restaurateurs in Little Russia thought he saw Sergei panhandling in some place called Blood Alley. We might start there.”

  “Blood Alley?”

  “Yes, these places never seem to be named High Street.”

  “Be careful, please.”

  They embraced the sculptress. “We’ll be fine. You just make sure Rowly follows the doctor’s orders.”

  “And don’t you get upset about anything he says,” Clyde added. Le Fevre had obviously told Clyde and Milton about Rowland’s accusations. “When my cousin Clarice contracted measles, she ran through Batlow naked, screaming that the water was poisoned.”

  Milton agreed. “Tell him not to worry. We’re not going to let him go back to gaol—whatever it takes.”

  Ranjit Singh drove Clyde and Milton to the Cathay, where they claimed to have an appointment with Chao Kung. Milton described the abbot for good measure. Van Hagen informed them curtly that
there was no guest of that name or indeed that description currently registered at the hotel. Milton slapped his forehead, lamenting that they had missed him and asked if Kung had left a forwarding address. Van Hagen checked his register and reported testily that there had not been a guest of that name at the Cathay that year.

  And so the Australians left with only the knowledge that whatever the reason for Kung’s presence in the Cathay’s foyer, it was not because he was staying there.

  Singh took them back to the house in Little Russia to pick up Wing Zau, before driving them all to Blood Alley, a short road just off the Bund. The street was within the border of the French Concession, between Rue du Consulat and Avenue Edward VII and was officially named the Rue Chu Pao-san. It was a precinct of low bars and dives, brothels and opium dens. There were many such districts in Shanghai, but Blood Alley was legendary as the most seedy of all. Early evening saw the short street move from a sinister languor to a kind of degenerate vibrancy. Sailors on shore leave, in search of comfort and vice, moved in uniformed packs for safety, though they leapt eagerly into the frequent brawls. Singh was not at all happy about their intent to seek Sergei Romanov in Blood Alley. “I should accompany you, but it would be foolhardy to leave the motorcar unguarded here.”

  Milton smiled. “Despite appearances, Mr. Singh, Clyde and I have not always been gentlemen of means,”

  “Indeed, we still have no means,” Clyde pointed out.

  “Blood Alley is not so different from Darlinghurst back home. You can rest assured we are perfectly accustomed to the business that goes on here.”

  “The chap we spoke to said he’d seen Sergei panhandling outside the Palais Cabaret,” Clyde said, pointing out the theatre across the street. “So we’ll begin there.” He glanced at Wing apologetically. “We may need to speak to some of the girls who work there. Milt and I can deal with the ones who speak English but you’ll need to sweet-talk the others, Wing old mate.”

  Wing Zau seemed uneasy but he nodded. “Of course. My words will be honey.”

  Milton patted his shoulder. “Attaboy!”

  The entrance to the Palais Cabaret was choked with American sailors in their bell-bottom whites trying to catch the next show. Some were distracted from their purpose by the painted women who called their wares from the corners and alcoves. The mood was festively salacious, loud American voices, laughter and swagger. Milton, Clyde and Wing checked the rows of hawkers and entertainers for Sergei but there was no sign of the Russian.

  They spoke to the girls who leaned against the wall with one knee bent. Milton and Clyde struggled with pidgin, compensating with gestures that were greeted with giggles and guffaws. Wing had more success speaking Shanghainese and then basic Russian to glean that a man of Sergei’s description had set up a game of chance outside Maxims Café.

  He signalled the Australians and they left the theatre for Maxims. There was again no sign of Sergei. They took a table inside so Wing could question the waitresses. Clyde and Milton watched on amused as he made jokes and paid compliments in a language they did not understand, but in a manner that made his meaning plain. Finally, after taking a flower from the vase on the table and handing it to one of the young women, he turned to the Australians triumphantly. “He’s at George’s Bar. Apparently that where he spends his winnings. She says he did well today so he’ll be there for a while.”

  “Well done, comrade!” Milton placed a generous gratuity on the table for the helpful waitress. “Tell her, thank you.”

  They made their way then to George’s Bar, pausing only by the Buick to inform Singh of their progress. George’s catered to a more subdued clientele than nearby Finnemore’s or the Silver Dollar. Its patrons were committed drinkers, uninterested in whores or dancing. The tall stools along the mahogany bar were already taken by the regulars, except for the couple on either side of a tall, unkempt Russian. As they got closer, they understood why. Sergei Romanov reeked.

  “Bloody hell,” Milton muttered, turning his head and taking a deep breath as if he intended to hold it from then on. He took the seat beside Romanov and signalled the bartender. “A bottle of your best vodka for my friend.”

  Romanov looked up slowly, started, and pulled back abruptly. By then Wing and Clyde had him surrounded.

  “Sergei,” Milton said calmly. “You have nothing to fear from us, mate. We’re here to help you.”

  Romanov’s eyes were wild with terror as he looked frantically about the bar. The barman glanced over. The other drinkers seemed to sink lower into their shoulders.

  Romanov tried to run. Clyde grabbed him. “Steady on, Sergei. Don’t you remember us?”

  “Where is she?” Romanov said. “The girl. Is she dead too?”

  “Who—Ed? Do you mean Ed?” Milton asked. “No, Sergei. She’s fine, safe… but,” he added thoughtfully, “if we’re going to keep her safe, we’ll need your help.”

  “No, no, I cannot help.”

  “You have to.” Clyde grimaced. “For pity’s sake, Sergei. You smell like you’ve been sleeping in a swamp.”

  The bartender put the bottle of vodka Milton had ordered on the bar. “You know this man?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” Milton replied, handing him several banknotes.

  “Then get him out of my establishment. He’s putting off the customers.”

  Clyde placed his hand firmly on Sergei’s shoulder. “That’s not a bad idea. You look like you could use a proper meal.”

  Milton held the bottle of vodka tantalisingly just out of Romanov’s reach. “How about it, Sergei? Will you help us? Will you let us help you?”

  “The other one,” Romanov said. “Sasha’s rich foreigner with blue eyes—is he dead?”

  “No.”

  “Then I come.”

  They flanked Romanov out of the bar in case he changed his mind and bolted, for the Russian still seemed anxious and wary.

  “Sorry about this, Mr. Singh,” Milton whispered as they bundled the pungent man into the back of the Buick. Wing took the front seat and the Australians sat in the back with their guest. Milton gave Romanov the bottle of vodka to keep him calm. Singh drove as fast as he could back to the grand house in Little Russia.

  Rowland opened his eyes. He swallowed. His throat was sore. He didn’t feel well, but he felt better than he had for a day or two. It took him a little while to recall where he was. He turned his head looking for Edna, the last thing he remembered.

  “Hello Rowland. So glad to see you awake.”

  “Mr. Carmel…” Rowland’s voice was strained but steady. “Where’s Ed?”

  Carmel smiled. “I asked the lovely Miss Higgins if I might talk to you alone for a moment. She was kind enough to oblige.” He took off his spectacles. “Rowland, I have some worrying news. The chief inspector is trying to have your bail revoked. Apparently you assaulted a warder occasioning actual bodily harm.”

  “I see.”

  “I understand that you were provoked. Making a man believe he’s being hanged is… well, just not British. And I’ll make that case but it’s unlikely we’ll be able to get any of the warders to corroborate your side. Dr. Le Fevre has serious concerns that, in your current condition, you will not survive re-incarceration.”

  Rowland’s brow furrowed but he said nothing.

  “I know young men are heedlessly brave and reckless with their own lives, but you must realise that if you are convicted your friends will be implicated. They may even be prosecuted.”

  Rowland eyes darkened. He moved to sit up.

  “I don’t want to distress you, my boy—not in your condition—but I do want you to really consider whether your vendetta against the Germans is worth alienating the only people who may be able to help you now. Randolph’s so-called evidence is circumstantial. With Mr. Yiragowa’s assistance, we can have these charges dropped, at least long enough for you to leave China.”

  Rowland pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as he tried to think clearly.

  Carm
el exhaled. “I don’t know if you are aware of this, but your dear brother Wilfred saved my life twice during the Great War. I consider it my duty and my privilege to save yours in return. Please… I beg you to allow me to do so.”

  Rowland looked up. The lawyer was emotional, fraught. Rowland shook his head. “Let me talk to my friends…”

  “I’m afraid there is no time for that. I really must urge you to act now. Please Rowland. I cannot tell Wilfred that I failed to protect you.”

  “You honestly believe selling the Sinclair wool to the Japanese will keep me out of gaol?”

  “I do. I think it’s the only way to proceed. For your sake, and that of your friends.”

  Rowland took a deep breath. He glanced at the clock on the wall opposite his bed. Nine in the evening. “Can you draw up a contract by morning?”

  Carmel leaned forward. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “Draw it up and I’ll sign tomorrow.”

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?” Alastair Blanshard was distinctly unhappy.

  “We could ask the same.” Milton was not going to be bullied.

  “Who in God’s name is that?” Blanshard said as a clearly inebriated Russian stumbled through the door with an empty vodka bottle in his hand. “And what is that unholy smell?”

  “The answer to both questions is Sergei Romanov,” Clyde said.

  “God! Has he been hiding in a cesspit?”

  “Perhaps.” Clyde took the empty bottle out of Romanov’s hand. “We’re not going to get anything sensible out of him right now.”

  “Allow me, Mr. Watson Jones.” Wing stepped forward to take Romanov’s arm from Clyde. “A gentleman’s gentleman is experienced in the art of treating excessive consumption and inducing sobriety. Come along, Mr. Romanov.”

  Wing pulled Romanov’s arm over his shoulders and tried to guide his stagger towards the stairs.

  “Allow me to assist you, Mr. Wing.” Singh rolled up his sleeves and took the Russian’s other arm. The stench brought tears to his eyes. “Perhaps we should start by putting him under a shower.”