Milton agreed. He too had noticed the police car parked rather blatantly outside the house. “We’ll just tell Singh to drive slowly so there’s no chance we lose them between here and this bloke Du’s pile.”
“This is probably not going to look good for you, Rowly,” Clyde warned quietly. “Meeting with a gang lord will probably promote you to the top of Inspector Randolph’s list of suspects.”
Rowland nodded. “It can’t be helped.”
Milton pulled a deck of cards from his breast pocket and proposed a hand of poker to pass the time.
“No!” Wing backed away as if the deck were on fire. “I cannot play.”
Milton smiled sympathetically. “Too soon? Come on, Wing—we’ll teach you how to play properly. Gambling’s only a problem if you lose.”
But Wing would not be moved, declaring that he would never play cards again, a decision the Australian men thought a trifle melodramatic.
“Leave Mr. Wing alone.” Edna fetched her camera from the shelf on which she’d left it that morning. “You can come for a walk with me, if you’d care to, Mr. Wing. I want to film Kiangse Road.”
“It might be best if you waited a day before you ventured out, Ed,” Rowland said carefully. “We don’t know that Mr. Du has called off his dogs.”
“Oh, I forgot. How very vexing!”
Wing stared at his feet. “I am so sorry, Miss Higgins. This is all trouble I have caused.”
Edna’s face softened. “It’s nothing at all, Mr. Wing. I’ll simply film out of the window in the garret. It’ll be a lovely perspective.”
Milton laughed as he dealt cards to Rowland and Clyde. “Just don’t slip—there’s no way Randolph will believe Rowly didn’t throw you out.”
* * *
Du Yuesheng’s house was situated on the waterfront of the French Concession. The building was new, constructed as a demonstration of its master’s power. It was not the opium baron’s only property, but it was probably the grandest and the one in which he housed his three wives, each on a separate floor. Its sprawling rendered façade, its colonnades and western styling spoke of a progressive sensibility despite the traditional Chinese details. The towering wings of the structure were connected by colonial verandahs which provided views of the water and the concession. Several cars, including three police cars, were waiting in the sweeping drive when Ranjit Singh’s taxi pulled up.
“The local police deliver Master Du’s opium,” Wing explained. He spoke urgently to Singh and Edna. “If help is required, seek it from the international police. There may be one or two of them not in Du’s pay.”
Singh nodded, his eyes bright and wide. The taxi driver had lived in Shanghai for many years. He understood the reach of Du Yuesheng. “Do not worry; I know where to go.”
“Good man.” Rowland grabbed Edna’s hand and kissed it. “I hope you won’t need to do anything. Give us half an hour.”
Edna checked her watch. “Not one minute more. Do you understand?” She looked to Clyde, who had always been the least reckless of the men she lived with.
He winked. “Don’t worry, Ed, I’ll scream ‘Run’ as soon as it gets hairy.”
They left Edna and Singh in the taxi, and walked up to the iron gates. Wing informed the gatekeeper of their business, and they were admitted. Two men leaned against the columns of the portico smoking. They said not a word, motioning them to the entrance with a flick of bored eyes.
The floor of the portico featured golden roundels emblazoned with five-claw dragons, a motif once reserved exclusively for the Imperial family. Rowland wasn’t sure whether Du could actually claim Imperial descent—perhaps the dragons simply attested to the new reign of the drug lords.
A servant answered the door and brought them into a foyer of white marble and gold gilt, so bright that it was, for a moment, dazzling. They waited, taking in the richly decorated walls, the fusion of Chinese design and modern art deco sensibility, whilst the servant disappeared into the dimly lit hallway.
Music and muffled chatter reached down the hallway to the foyer—there was a party in swing somewhere in the house. The servant returned and invited them to follow. They passed several darkened rooms in which men and women clustered in giggling groups or languished stupefied on chaise longues. Rowland recognised the paraphernalia of opium being passed among them. He wondered if Du Yuesheng was an opium addict.
Wing Zau walked before them, directly behind the servant. His back was straight and determined, but his forehead glistened with perspiration, and his normally immaculate hair was falling out of place. Milton caught up with him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
They proceeded up the wide staircase to the first floor. A set of double doors was opened, and Rowland Sinclair and his associates were announced into a large room. Mentally, Rowland sketched, making notes with the lines he might have drawn. A young woman plucked at what looked like a banjo and sang long, quavering notes for a man who reclined in a chair so ornate that it might have been a throne. The musician was beautiful, her attire traditional, her hair cut short in the latest style. The man, whom Rowland assumed was Du Yuesheng, was dressed in the white gown of a scholar. He was not old, but there were years on his face, a kind of ancient, formal civility. He had prominent ears, which had given rise to the moniker “Big-Eared Du.” But it was to the opium baron’s mouth that Rowland’s eye was drawn—Du’s lips were controlled, and in the set of them, the artist saw a ruthless intelligence.
There was a kind of perimeter guard stationed around Du. European men whose stances hinted that they were armed. They remained in the shadows of the room, watching. Six in total. Rowland recognised one: Count Nickolai Kruznetsov.
Rowland tensed. But Kruznetsov showed no sign that he recognised any of them.
Du waved his hand languidly, and the music stopped immediately. The woman lowered her head and retreated from the room, leaving the zongshi with his visitors.
Wing fell to his knees, bowing forward in a kowtow. The Australians remained standing as Wing introduced them, though they understood nothing of what he said save their own names.
Du began softly, but his words became progressively sharper and clipped. And he spoke for what seemed a long time.
Wing looked so pale, he was possibly safer on his knees.
“What did he say?” Rowland asked when the gangster finally drew breath. “Did you tell him that we are here to settle everything you owe?”
Wing nodded. “Master Du is displeased that I have caused him so much trouble. That I have involved strangers and that we have come as four men. He says it is unlucky and that I have brought bad luck to his door. For this he says we must pay a special penalty.”
“What kind of penalty?” Rowland asked calmly as he tried to identify their best chance of escape. He could see Milton and Clyde also sizing up the room and the Russian guards. The situation was somewhat bleak.
Du spoke again. His voice was cold.
“He says my debt is now forty pounds.”
Rowland struggled to keep the relief from his face. He was allowing the man’s reputation to get to him, imagining barbaric retribution for what was essentially a financial transaction. “If that’s what it must be, then I agree,” he said with a show of reluctance. He sensed that Du required his penalty to be felt to some degree.
Wing translated.
“He wants to know if you brought the money.”
Rowland smiled faintly. He was not some simpleton. “Please inform Mr. Du that I will write him a cheque on the Shanghai International Bank. I’ll telephone when we get back to ensure that they honour the amount without any fuss.”
Licking his lips nervously, Wing conveyed Rowland’s response.
Du’s eyes flashed, and then he too smiled. And so the deal was done.
“Mr. Wing, would you please ask Mr. Du if Alexandra Romanova owed him money?” Rowland
extracted a cheque book from his breast pocket and, moving over to the desk Du offered him, proceeded to fill in the requisite details. “Tell him I will pay her debt too.”
Wing swallowed. And then he asked.
Du looked closely at Rowland before he spoke.
“Master Du asks if she was the girl found dead at the Cathay.”
Rowland nodded. Clearly Du expected an equal exchange of information.
“Master Du says that if she owed him money, he would have been offended by her murderer. He is not offended.”
Du sat back in his chair and ventured another question.
“Master Du wishes to know if Miss Romanova was a—” Wing was already shaking his head—“a sing-song girl.”
Rowland bristled. He gathered that sing-song girls were prostitutes of some sort. “Tell him no.”
Perhaps Du noticed his ire, because he offered information next.
“Master Du has never heard of Alexandra Romanova. He does not believe she is a gambler or an opium addict. He would know her name otherwise.”
Rowland nodded. Then Du posed another question.
“Master Du wants to know if Victor Sassoon knew Miss Romanova.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Rowland said uneasily. The opium baron seemed to be plying him for gossip. “Would you thank Mr. Du and tell him we will not take up any more of his time?”
Wing did so.
Du nodded thoughtfully.
“Master Du says he will meet you again.”
Chapter Fourteen
CHINA WILL CALL WHITE MAN’S BLUFF
Western Civilisation Forced its Way in, and the Chinese Hope to Force it out
Inscrutable Orientals No Longer Regard Europeans as Kings of the Earth
Though China is too busy squabbling with Japan at the moment to look for trouble elsewhere, there is no doubt that China is preparing to call the white man’s bluff. For years the Europeans have lorded it over the patient Orientals, but the Chinese have been biding their time. Were it not for the fact that they are so divided among themselves and have been always so distrustful of Japan, they would have swept the white man out long ago. The whites won by force most of what they hold in China and many who are watching the situation very closely are satisfied that it is by force that the white man will so out.
When the white man in the early years of the century, burst upon the Chinese with all the evidence of invincible Western civilization—moving pictures, chewing gum, telephones, Scotch whisky, machine guns, and other fascinating gadgets—he easily awed the modest Orientals by his superiority, his wealth, his prodigious brain. The white master slapped the cook for serving underdone breakfast bacon and delivered a kick to accelerate his rickshaw coolie’s speed. Glorified, the white man swaggered through China confident of his supremacy. But today the story is different. Every racial group in Asia, from the Japan Sea to the Indian Ocean, is endeavouring to
EXPEL ALL WESTERN INFLUENCES
which conflict with native tradition. China in particular seeks freedom from foreign control. However they may appear to have adopted Western manners, the Chinese will never permit themselves to be weaned from their own culture, tradition, and habits…
—THOMAS STEEP, American newspaper correspondent
—Mirror, 28 December 1935
* * *
There had, it seemed, been no false modesty to Clyde’s declaration that he could only cook bacon and eggs. And so they finished the day with the same meal as that with which they started it. Ranjit Singh was warmly invited to join them for this festive, if makeshift meal.
The taxi driver accepted readily, in the mood to celebrate the emergence of his employers from the lair of the gangster. Indeed, he was decidedly pleased to have played a small part in the caper. Working for Rowland Sinclair was already proving an excellent diversion. Ranjit did not dislike driving his taxi, but at times during the fifteen years he had been doing so, he’d longed to participate in the intrigues of Shanghai, to move with businessmen and power brokers—the dazzling, clever wealthy people who came east to play. Of course, he was a taxi driver, and that sort of life would only ever be the subject of daydreams whilst he was waiting for a fare.
Over the years, Ranjit had driven all manner of person from all manner of place, but he found the Australians particularly intriguing. Sinclair had clearly always had money; there was a depth to his polish which eluded more recent millionaires. But his friends hadn’t. They were erudite enough, but there was a competency about them, a knowledge of everyday tasks like brewing coffee and lighting fires, that gave away humbler origins.
He had never before been invited to dine by a client, but neither had he been asked to drive a getaway vehicle. It was all rather thrilling. The only person about whom he wasn’t entirely sure was the Chinese butler. The man, it seemed, was a gambler, and though the Australians appeared to have no issue with that particular failing, Singh did not entirely trust Wing Zau. He resolved to keep a close and wary eye on him.
As they gathered about the table, Milton filled their glasses from a random assortment of liquor bottles he’d gathered from the drinks cabinet while he recounted what exactly had transpired in the house of Du Yuesheng. “Tell you what, I thought we were done for when he started talking about penalties!” The poet shook his head. “But it turns out the crims here simply impose fines. It’s quite civilised really.”
“We were lucky,” Wing said. “I am lucky.”
Milton laughed. “If you were lucky, comrade, you wouldn’t have lost your shirt in the first place.”
Even so, Wing showed them how to raise a toast to his good fortune, Chinese style, turning over their glasses to show that they were drained after declaring “kanpei,” then Clyde came in with a simply enormous platter. “This is the last of the eggs and bacon… We might have to restock the pantry or buy a few hens if we’re going to eat tomorrow.”
Milton helped himself. “Don’t worry, Mum; one of us will go to the market for you tomorrow.”
“I suppose we might have to take all our meals out,” Rowland suggested. Whilst he quite liked bacon and eggs, he expected that they would tire of it eventually. And poor Clyde looked exhausted and harried by the exertion of frying.
“My sister is a most accomplished cook,” Ranjit said. “Women are better cooks, I think.”
“Not this one.” Edna buttered bread.
“Perhaps Harjeet could cook for you?” Ranjit ventured. “Her husband is away, so she is just at home.”
Rowland hesitated.
Ranjit withdrew. “What am I saying? If you wanted a cook, there any number of qualified chefs whose services you could hire.”
“It’s not that, Mr. Singh.” Rowland put down his knife and fork. “You see we left the Cathay under somewhat rushed and difficult circumstances.”
“Financial difficulties?”
“I’m afraid not. A young woman was found murdered in our suite.”
“The taxi girl in the papers? That was your suite?”
“Yes.”
“How—”
“We’ve no idea.” Rowland explained the situation as plainly as he could, as well as the fact that he was under suspicion. Singh deserved to know who exactly he was working for.
The driver took it all in, lips pursed thoughtfully.
“As you can understand, Mr. Singh, we seem to have found ourselves in the middle of something unsavoury.”
Singh frowned. “You wish to find out who murdered the girl? A private investigation?”
“We’re not detectives, Mr Singh,” Edna said carefully. “But we need to know what she was doing in the suite, and how she came to be murdered there.”
“Why?”
“Because we care. And, of course, we need to make sure the police know it was nothing to do with Rowly.”
“Natu
rally, we’ll understand completely if you wish to end your agreement with us,” Rowland said. “I really should have told you at the outset.”
Singh shook his head. “No, no, no—I am happy to drive you, Mr. Sinclair. Sikhs have no fear of death, and even less of men. Perhaps I could help you in other ways too. We taxi drivers, we overhear many things.”
“Have you heard something?” Clyde made a sandwich of his eggs and bacon.
“Nothing, but I could let it be known that I’m interested in anything that may concern the young woman who died at the Cathay.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Many of Shanghai’s taxi drivers are my relatives one way or another.”
Milton nodded. “Could be useful, Rowly. Miss Romanova’s death is in all the papers; maybe one of the drivers heard something.”
Bolstered, Singh continued. “And perhaps my sister could come work for you, if you like—to cook and to clean. She’s a very good cook.”
“Would she want to work here, all things considered?” Rowland asked.
“Yes, yes. She would not be frightened. I could bring her every morning and take her home when she is done. If that would suit you, sir?”
Rowland glanced at his companions. “Yes, I believe that would suit us very well—if she agrees, of course.”
“If you’ll permit me, sir,” Wing ventured, “it is the butler’s duty to manage the household staff. I could receive the lady tomorrow morning and settle all the details.” Despite Rowland’s protests, Wing insisted upon leaving the table to make an inventory of the pantry immediately.
“Let him do this, Rowly,” Edna whispered.
“It’s really not necessary—”
“Even so. I know you paid this Mr. Du, but Mr. Wing still feels he’s in debt.”
Rowland left it. Edna understood people better than he did, and she and Wing seemed to have a rapport. They could hear him singing now: “In the shadows when I come and sing to you…”
Shanghai Secrets Page 11
