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 for 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 said 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 leant 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’s 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 leant 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.
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, its 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. “Th
ank 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 been held in this cell over the years. The darkness pressed down on his face as if it wanted to get inside him.
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’t 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 upse
t 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.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
SHANGHAI GANG WAR
CHICAGO METHODS USED POLITICAL CORRUPTION
(Special to The Daily News)
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 weeks 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.
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