Shanghai Secrets

by Sulari Gentill

  “It’s the German boys’ club, camping and outdoor activities. Singing too. It’s very popular with the Germans here.”

  “How long has there been a Hitler Youth in Shanghai?” Rowland could see the boys lined up in military formation. There were scores of them.

  “A year, maybe two. It is a very popular organisation. My little cousin wishes he were German so he too might sleep in a tent and play war games.”

  “War games?”

  “Yes, I’m told they teach the boys to shoot and skirmish. But what boy does not play soldier?”

  Rowland said nothing. He remembered playing war as a child, until his brother Aubrey had fallen in France. He’d stopped then.

  They arrived in Fengjing just before eleven. As Kruznetsov seemed to know little about the area but that it was “old” and a “water town,” Wing took over as guide. Canals, cut through and around Fengjing, formed streets of water. Ancient whitewashed buildings, which seemed to float on the water’s edge, were mirrored in a surface whose perfection was only occasionally disturbed by languid ripples. Locals sitting outside in the spring sunshine playing cards regarded the visitors without excessive curiosity. Wing led them through the town, pointing out the dynastic features in the architecture. Edna delighted in the wooden bridges that made the network of waterways navigable, running across and back like a child. Rowland stopped to sketch the reflected village, the children at play near the water, the boatmen on the canal with their wide-brimmed hats. At midday Wing took them to a restaurant that served the local delicacy of fried frogs’ legs along with many dishes which only he could identify. They ate outdoors, overlooking the water, trying unknown foods and speaking through Wing with locals.

  Rowland took out his notebook again to sketch the old men walking their songbirds by the water. Long lines: robes, beards, wiry limbs holding ornate cages. Edna and Kruznetsov played cards and drank tea while they watched a gentler, slower China.

  Rowland asked Kruznetsov how he came to be working for Du Yuesheng.

  Kruznetsov shrugged. “The Chinese are masters of hand-to-hand combat, but Russians know how to shoot.” He formed his fingers into a gun and fired an imaginary bullet. “The Green Gang has many enemies, both Chinese and foreign. So Zongshi takes care.”

  His bravado was possibly for Edna’s benefit. He did not know how much the sculptress loathed guns.

  “And what exactly is it you do for him, Nicky?” she asked.

  “Anything he wants.”

  Edna frowned. “Would you have killed Mr. Wing if Mr. Du had asked you to?”

  Rowland kept drawing. He was accustomed to Edna’s directness, but Kruznetsov was clearly caught off guard. Wing seemed both intrigued and uncomfortable.

  Kruznetsov squirmed. “I did not know Mr. Wing was your friend then.”

  “So that would have made a difference?” Edna persisted.

  “Well, no.” He paused. “Master Du does not ask me to do anything. He tells me.”

  “So if he told you to kill someone?”

  “I am a soldier, Edna.” Kruznetsov fingered his collar uneasily.

  “A dog cannot choose not to be dog,” Wing said coldly, “but he does choose his master.”

  “The wisdom of your honourable ancestors?” Kruznetsov’s annoyance was unmistakable.

  “No.” Wing shrugged. “Merely an observation.”

  Rowland looked up from his notebook. “Mr. Du said he did not know Alexandra Romanova, that she did not owe him money,” he said. “Would he lie?”

  “Oh yes. But about this, I don’t think he did.” Kruznetsov grabbed the opportunity to change the focus of the conversation from his own actions. “He is a ruthless man but not brutal. If Alexandra Romanova owed him money, he would have allowed her to pay off the debt in one of his sing-song houses. He would not have killed her.”

  “You told me that you knew she wasn’t the tsar’s daughter,” Rowland said thoughtfully. “Was that common knowledge?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did anybody still believe she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia?”

  “No one has believed that for a long time.”

  “So the Communists would not believe her a threat?”

  “The Communists are stupid, traitorous peasants! Who knows what they think?”

  “It was not the Communists who were taken in by a girl pretending to be a princess!” Wing snapped.

  “What are you saying, podonok?”

  “Steady on, fellows.” Rowland stepped in before the exchange could escalate. Edna met Rowland’s eye and stood, holding out her hand to the count. “Come on, Nicky. I want to have a closer look at the water before we head back.”

  Sullenly, Kruznetsov took her hand and walked with her down to the water’s edge.

  Rowland stopped Wing before he could follow, though his eyes remained on Edna as she bent to look more closely at something in the river. Kruznetsov placed his arm around her waist in case she should fall.

  Wing cleared his throat. “The Communists do not care, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland glanced back. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Chinese Communists do not care about the Russian royal family.”

  Rowland regarded his translator anew. There was something about the way that Wing spoke…more for the Communists than of them.

  “You’re right, Mr. Wing. I was talking about the Bolsheviks.”

  “They are not the same thing, I expect.” Wing glanced at Kruznetsov. “I apologise, sir. I forgot my place.”

  “I take it you do not like Count Kruznetsov?”

  Wing paused. “I wish to repay your kindness to me by protecting you against men who do not deserve your trust. Shanghai is not a place in which you can simply trust the face of a man.”

  “I appreciate your efforts, but you do not need to protect me, Mr. Wing,” Rowland said carefully.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you also trying to protect me from Mr. Singh?” Rowland ventured.

  Wing took a deep breath. “What do you really know about him, sir? He insinuated himself into your employ, and now his sister is running your household. I believe you should be more careful.” He straightened his tie nervously. “I do not trust him.”

  Rowland smiled. The similarity between Wing’s concerns and Singh’s was not lost on him. “That much is clear.”

  Wing regarded Rowland silently for a moment. “Are the Nazis a problem in Australia?”

  “Not particularly, but I fear that if they are not stopped they will become a problem for Australia…and the rest of the world.”

  Wing smiled. “The West perhaps. It is not all the world, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Wing. It is not, but it seems the Nazis are here too.”

  Wing shook his head. “China has more to fear from the Japanese.” He frowned, choosing his words carefully. “Every government oppresses some part of its people, Mr. Sinclair. The KMT persecutes the Communists, the Americans their Negroes, even your Australia legislates against the Chinese and disenfranchises its Aboriginal people. Why is it that the Nazis disturb you more than any other capitalist government?”

  Rowland was caught off guard. He faltered. “I don’t know.”

  Wing said nothing, giving him time to consider the question.

  Rowland rubbed his face. Wing Zau seemed very familiar with world affairs, and nothing he said was untrue. “I can’t tell you, Wing. I don’t really know why this became my fight more than any other.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying, Mr. Sinclair,” Wing ventured. “Your dislike of the Nazis seems…personal.”

  Rowland shrugged. “Perhaps it is.” He tried to explain—to himself as much as Wing. “We were in Germany a couple of years ago—Munich. I came to the notice of the Brownshirts and…well…it all ended rather
badly I’m afraid.” Rowland frowned, uncomfortable with the thought. “My brother believes I’ve become obsessed with the Nazis as a result.”

  “Is he correct?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Wing nodded. “You must forgive my curiosity, Mr. Sinclair. I have an interest in what makes a man stand for one thing and sit quietly for others.”

  Rowland blanched. “I don’t know, Mr. Wing. I never meant to do one or the other.”

  “I am not critical, Mr. Sinclair, just curious.”

  “What exactly did you study at MIT, Mr. Wing?”

  “Philosophy.”

  Rowland paused. “You know, Wing, it would not bother me in the least if you were a Communist.”

  Wing nodded. “There are no Communists in Shanghai, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Paris of the East Through Michael’s Eyes.

  Sophistication in China.

  The Gambling Spirit

  Greyhound racing is a very popular sport with the wealthier Chinese, and very popular is the new Canidrome Garden cabaret, which is run in conjunction with the racing as an open-air show. Polo, too, has been enjoying a wave of popularity, partly due to the fact that Winston Guest, America’s No. 2 player, stopped off here for long enough to have a few chukkas with the local lads…

  They race native ponies up here, gentleman riders and all that sort of thing. Sir Victor Sassoon’s stable ran away with the “Champions,” which is Shanghai’s equivalent to the Derby. The ponies are so small that one loses sight of them on the far stretches of the course, and has time for a little sleep before they come into view again. But one certainly doesn’t lose sight of the dressing these comic little “meets.” One stunning dress I saw was a tunic, cut absolutely straight another touch of the Chinese influence—pulling on over the head, with a spotted scarf knotted round the neck and showing through a slot somewhere down on the chest and tied in a bow. The frock was a kind of soft watermelon pink crepe pongee, and the scarf a hazy kind of blue spotted in white. (I hope my masculine descriptions are adequate.)

  Huge cartwheel hats are all the rage here, and are seen everywhere worn on all occasions. Very shallow as to crown, the shallower the better (echoes of Princess Marina even in Shanghai).

  —Michael.

  —Sydney Morning Herald, 25 July 1935

  * * *

  Rowland handed three letters to Harjeet Bal for posting. One each to his mother and his nephew, full of gentle news, observations about China, and quick drawings of rickshaws and pagodas. The third letter, addressed to Wilfred Sinclair, was thicker. Rowland had spent most of the morning writing the detailed account of all that had happened since they arrived in Shanghai. Of course it would be weeks before the letter actually reached Wilfred. But it would at least explain more fully the intermittent telegrams that both he and Gilbert Carmel had sent thus far. He could only imagine what Wilfred was thinking, probably shouting, on the other side of the world.

  The process of corresponding everything to his brother did make him wonder exactly what act had set him on this path. Was it that he had danced with Alexandra Romanova? Would none of this have happened if he had not gone to the Jazz Club that evening, or if he had not agreed to purchase her services on the floor? Or was it because he had asked her to take tea with him the following day? If he had not done one or any of these things, would she still be alive, or would she simply have died somewhere other than his suite?

  It had been couple of days since the excursion to Fengjing. The time had been one of frustration in which their attempts to find Sergei Romanov had led nowhere. Indeed they had been unable to establish with any certainty whether the Russian was dead or alive. The Jazz Club band had apparently left Shanghai to play at a private event so they could not follow up on Wing’s thoroughly unsuccessful attempt to question them.

  Rowland had wanted to go to Randolph about the possibility that Edna was the intended victim, but Gilbert Carmel had been adamant that he should not speak with authorities. “Going to the police with theories only serves to make you seem suspicious, my boy. Allow me to deal with Inspector Randolph.”

  Rowland returned to the sanctuary and sanity of his easel and the painting of Alexandra. It was an unusual composition. Alexandra’s face dominated the close foreground, her gaze fixed slightly upwards, her eyes bright with life. Behind her, couples dancing.

  In the other room, Wing Zau was singing “Stormy Weather,” which Ethel Waters had made a hit a couple of years before. It helped somehow to bring back details of that night at the Jazz Club.

  Clyde hobbled up behind him, leaning heavily on the cane which Milton had found in one of the umbrella stands. “Bloody hell, Rowly! Blowed if I know how you do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Remember. It’s been over a week since the night you danced with her. I can’t paint my mother from memory.”

  Rowland handed Clyde his notebook. “I’d made a few sketches that evening after we’d returned from the Jazz Club.”

  Clyde flicked through the pages. “You were taken with her then?”

  “Yes, I was,” he admitted. “I liked her, Clyde; I felt sorry for her.”

  Clyde nodded. Rowland had often fallen victim to his own gallantry. Clyde handed the notebook back and leant against the back of the couch. “Something Ed said the other night got me thinking. Do you remember when she pointed out that perhaps this wasn’t all about you?”

  Rowland grimaced. “Yes. I do.”

  “Well, I was thinking, what if Alexandra didn’t die in our suite?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “We’d only just checked in at the Cathay. What if her death was connected with the bloke who had the suite before us?”

  “I see.” Rowland frowned. “My God, you’re right! Perhaps the killer didn’t realise the last resident had checked out.”

  Clyde agreed. “We need to find out who took the suite before us.”

  Rowland checked his watch. “I’ll drop into the Cathay and call on Sassoon.”

  “But would Sassoon know something like that?” Clyde was sceptical.

  Rowland shrugged. “The suites aren’t generally taken by your standard guest. Whoever it was may have come to Sir Victor’s attention.”

  “Like we did?”

  “Hopefully not quite in the way we did.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you rest that leg. I’ll take Milt.”

  * * *

  Rowland directed Ranjit Singh to the Canidrome in Frenchtown as he climbed into the Buick.

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I thought we were going to see Sassoon.” Milton leaned forward from the back seat.

  “He’s having drinks with Mickey at the Canidrome Club. She happened to mention the other night that they do so every Tuesday.”

  The greyhound racing stadium in the French Concession was vast. Located on the rue Lafayette, the stadium could seat some fifty thousand spectators. Its façade was modern—a monolithic building with a central deco tower which housed the members’ club. Singh dropped them off at the portico before moving on to find a place to park and wait.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve actually thought about how we’re going to get in?” Milton whispered as they approached the entrance. A sign declaring “Members Only” was mounted prominently on a stand beside a vigilant doorman.

  Rowland smiled. “I say, my good man,” he said addressing the doorman. “I’m afraid we’re frightfully late. Rowland Sinclair and Milton Isaacs—we’re joining Miss Hahn and Sir Victor.”

  “Sir Victor did not mention—”

  Rowland smiled. “Possibly he was preoccupied with Miss Hahn.”

  The doorman nodded, but still he hesitated.

  “I understand.” Rowland produced a gilt-edged calling card from his pocket
. “Would you mind giving Sir Victor my card? Just so he knows we tried to keep our appointment, despite our tardiness.”

  “No, no, sir. That will not be necessary. Sir Victor and Miss Hahn are in the bar.” He flagged someone to replace him at the door. “I’ll take you myself.”

  The Canidrome members’ bar was a modern space. Large picture windows overlooking the stadium ensured that members missed none of the action on the track whilst they partook of cocktails in the comfort of club lounges. The bar itself was an elaborate geometric affair of mirrors and ebony in classic deco style. Framed photographs of champion greyhounds made Rowland think briefly of Lenin—not that his dog had ever been a champion. Indeed Lenin was barely a greyhound, but Rowland did miss him. The air in the club was manually circulated by servants who stood along the room’s perimeter and operated fans made of cheesecloth stretched taut over bamboo frames.

  Victor Sassoon and Mickey Hahn were not alone. The tycoon and the journalist stood in a cluster of feathered hats and cigarettes in long holders, a gay gathering of elegant people. The doorman approached Sassoon and pointed out the Australians. For a moment Rowland feared Sassoon would deny any appointment with them.

  “There you are, finally!” Mickey intervened.

  Sassoon exhaled and then followed suit. Satisfied then that they were guests of a member, as they had claimed, the cautious doorman left them to it.

  “I apologise for this intrusion, Sir Victor,” Rowland said quietly. “There is a matter about which I’d like to speak to you.”

  “And this matter couldn’t wait?”

  “I plan to see Chief Inspector Randolph later this afternoon.” Rowland watched Sassoon carefully. “I had hoped to clarify some details first.”

  Sassoon drained his glass. “Well, since you have already told the concierge that you are doing so, you’d better join Mickey and me for a spot of luncheon.” He clicked his fingers, and they were shown to a table by the window.