“Why cannot this someone meet you here in the International Concession?”
“It is not possible.”
The consulate had done its homework; it had been informed by wire from Washington just who was on her way to Shanghai. “Would this person be a Mr Joseph Cromb?” Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “We have a file on him,” the vice-consul explained. “Supplied by the Russians. He is a wanted man, an escapee from a Russian prison, where he was serving a life sentence for murder. They think he is in China. In fact, they think he is in Shanghai. If you know where he is, it is your duty to tell me.”
“That you may tell the Russian consul and have him re-arrested?”
“There is no Russian consul in Shanghai, Mrs Mann: Chiang Kai-Shek expelled all Russian consular officials from China some years ago. However, there are Russians here, and some of them are acting as agents for their government. It would be my duty to inform them of where Cromb can be found.”
“Listen to me, Mr Wedemeyer. In the first place, Joseph Cromb is an American citizen.”
“Who is guilty of...”
“He is guilty of absolutely nothing, save of being a member of my family. Of course the Russians want to get him back. They put him away without trial. They no doubt reckoned he’d die in that camp. But he didn’t. Now they know that if he can gain the West what he can tell about that bestial regime will cause a sensation. That’s why, after having made his way across half of Siberia and virtually all of China, he managed to get a letter to me instead of giving himself up to you. He is in Shanghai, he is penniless, he is starving. I intend to go in and get him out of there. And if you try to stop me, or if you tip off the Russians what I am doing, I am going to make a noise so loud you’ll still be hearing it when you are retired for incompetence and for failing to help an American citizen in distress.”
Wedemeyer had never encountered a woman quite so beautiful or quite so forceful. But then, he reflected, he had never encountered a Russian princess before, even if she was actually an American. “Can you prove he’s innocent?” he asked.
“Can you prove he’s guilty?” she challenged. “As I said, he was never tried and convicted. He was just spirited away.”
Wedemeyer considered. “You know, you’re right, Mrs Mann,” he said at last. “I’m going to get you your permission to go into the Chinese City.”
“And you’re not going to stop me taking Joseph Cromb on board my ship,” Priscilla said.
“If you can find him, you can take him wherever you choose.”
“And you’re not going to inform the Russians that I am in Shanghai.”
“They already know you’re in Shanghai, Mrs Mann. I imagine you have been followed since you left the ship.”
“Is there something we can do about that?”
He grinned. “You’ll go in tonight, after leaving here clandestinely. You’ll have to have an escort, of course, or we’ll find your dead body, suitably violated and no doubt mutilated, floating in the Whang-po tomorrow morning.”
“But if I have an escort,” Priscilla protested. “How do we know they’ll keep their mouths shut?”
“You’ll just have to trust your escort,” Wedemeyer said. “I’m going to be it. After all,” he added, as Priscilla raised her eyebrows, “Mr Cromb, as you have just reminded me, is an American citizen.”
He took her out for lunch, and that afternoon they went to the races. “This ought to put the Russkies off the scent,” he told her. “Beautiful American lady arrives in Shanghai, American vice-consul squires her. Nothing could be more innocent, in a manner of speaking.” Priscilla reckoned he was enjoying his work. Well, she was enjoying his company. She would have enjoyed it more but for the growing tension over the night. It had to be this night, because the Tarawa sailed at dawn the following morning.
After the races they had supper together. Wedemeyer wanted her to talk about her past, and she was willing to do so, selectively. “Considering a life like yours, Mrs Mann, one begins to wonder what the rest of us are doing with our dull little existences.”
“Is that why you’re so keen on getting involved in the action?” she asked. He grinned. He had already secured the necessary permits, and after the meal they drove to where a change of cars awaited them. “Does this fellow know anything of what we’re doing?” Priscilla whispered.
“No. I imagine he thinks I am taking you somewhere private for bedding purposes.” Wendemeyer glanced at her. “Would you slap my face if I said I wish I were?”
“No, I will not slap your face, Mr Wedemeyer. But I’m not in the mood.”
“Story of my life.” They got into the hire car and drove out of the International Concession. There were Japanese guards on the gate, and Wedemeyer had to present both his consular pass and Priscilla’s permit before they were allowed out. Then there was a drive of a few miles to the city. “You have the address?” Wedemeyer asked.
Priscilla gave it to him. “Can you find it?”
“Sure. I know the city fairly well.” Another gate, another posse of armed guards, this time scrutinising the Chinese characters which adorned their permits. Then they were through and driving down some surprisingly wide and interesting thoroughfares crowded with humanity and their animals, with street stalls and street vendors to either side, all shouting their wares and services, which might include anything from dentistry to spectacles fitted while you wait.
There were only a handful of other cars, and Wedemeyer’s American automobile attracted a lot of attention, which increased as he turned off the main thoroughfare and down a much narrower side street. Now they were driving very slowly, accompanied by a pack of young boys and dogs. They negotiated more of these streets before Wedemeyer braked. “We’ll have to go on foot from here; the auto won’t fit into the next street.”
“You don’t think it’ll be looted by the time we come back?”
“Hopefully not.” He got out and addressed the boys in Chinese. They responded well, with laughter rather than frowns or threats. Then their interest was reawakened as Priscilla got out of the other door; she was still dressed for dinner, in a gown, and wore a fur jacket, while her hair was loose.
“What are you telling them?” she asked.
“That I will pay them a dollar each if they mind the auto for me till we come back.”
Priscilla did a hasty head count. “That’s thirty-three dollars.”
“I’ll put it on the bill,” he assured her.
He held her arm and they walked down an unsalubrious alley; apart from the smells they disturbed several cats. There was no light down here, save for the odd glow behind windows to left and right. “You know something, Wedemeyer,” Priscilla remarked. “I’m glad you’re along.”
“So am I. This is it.”
As they paused outside of the house the door opened and two Chinese men came out, laughing and talking together. They gave the white people no more than a glance. “Wedemeyer,” Priscilla said. “This is a brothel.”
“Afraid so, Mrs Mann. But a lot of these people also rent rooms on a semi-permanent basis. What name did you say he’s using?”
“Fine. That was the name of his father. His real father.”
“Then it’s his real name. He’s taking a bit of a chance.” Wedemeyer opened the door and showed her in. The hallway was brightly lit with lanterns, and they were surrounded by a variety of sounds and aromas, not all of them unpleasant. The woman who greeted them in a well-furnished lobby was middle-aged but still handsome, with a wealth of black hair and a bright gown. She smiled at Wedemeyer but looked at Priscilla in astonishment, obviously unable to fathom why any man with someone like that on his arm needed to use a brothel.
Wedemeyer spoke to her in Chinese, and Priscilla caught the name Fine. Now the madame understood, and there was some vigorous head movement, both up and down and from side to side. “It’s a fifth-floor walk-up,” Wedemeyer said. “You game?”
“Yes,” Priscilla assured him.
He led
the way. On the first landing, Priscilla looked back down; the madame was looking up. Now she gave an encouraging smile, and hurried off. They climbed the remaining four floors, realising that the fifth-floor was the garret. Priscilla was quite out of breath by the time she got to the top. Wedemeyer knocked, and they listened to movement. “Who is there?” a voice asked.
“It’s Joe!” Priscilla said. “Joe!” she called.
The door opened. “Priscilla? Oh my God, Priscilla!”
She was in his arms before she could stop herself, only realised when she kissed him that he wore a shaggy beard, that he had not bathed for several days, at the least, and that his clothes were rags. “Joe!” She held him away to gaze at him. He was emaciated, and moved stiffly. But it was Joseph.
“Oh, Prissy,” he said. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Well, you said not to reply to your letter,” Priscilla pointed out. “But...what has happened to you all these years?”
Joseph was looking at Wedemeyer. “Vice-consul Tom Wedemeyer.” Wedemeyer introduced himself.
“You’d better come in,” Joseph stepped aside to allow them both in, then closed and locked the door.
“Actually, the sooner we’re back out of here the better,” Wedemeyer said.
“I’ve a cabin booked on a ship in the harbour,” Priscilla said. “We’ll be away at dawn tomorrow.”
Joseph licked his lips. “There are one or two things...”
“Money? You said in your letter that you owed money. If you owe that harpy downstairs, I’ll take care of it.
“I knew you would. But...” he sat on the bed.
Priscilla sat beside him. “Tell me. Tell me about it.”
“But make it snappy,” Wedemeyer recommended.
“I was in a prison camp,” Joseph said. “What they call a gulag.”
“And you escaped?” Wedemeyer was astounded. “I’ve heard of those gulags. They’re not easy to get out of.”
“I was helped to escape by the commandant. She got me out, and she travelled with me. It took us a year to reach Shanghai. I wouldn’t have made it without her.”
“Her,” Priscilla muttered. “What happened to her?”
“She’s here, now. She’s been keeping us alive. Just.”
“Now, here’s a problem,” Wedemeyer remarked.
As he spoke there came a knock on the door. “That will be Dagmar now,” Joseph said, and got up to unlock the door.
Priscilla gazed at her cousin-by-marriage in consternation. Although she had not seen Dagmar for nearly twenty years, since the unforgettable day when she had galloped away from Bolugayen House just before it had fallen to the maurauding Reds, she recognised her immediately. “My God!” she said.
Dagmar equally recognised her. “Princess Priscilla! What in the name of God...?”
“I wrote to her, asking for help,” Joseph explained. “And here I am.”
Dagmar looked at Wedemeyer. “I’m just the guard dog, Madame...?”
“Bolugayevska,” Dagmar said.
“Some family,” Wedemeyer remarked.
“Can you get us out of here? We owe a lot of money,” Dagmar said.
“I have a lot of money.”
“You’ll need passports to get into the States,” Wedemeyer pointed out.
“I have a passport, for Joe,” Priscilla said. “Can’t you arrange one for Madame Bolugayevska?”
“By dawn tomorrow? And she isn’t an American citizen!”
“Surely you can fix something? Give her a visa for entry into the States? We’ll take it from there.”
“Well...Shit!” There was a sudden commotion from downstairs, the sound of shattering wood and glass, and a chorus of screams as well as bellows of outrage. “Seems we were followed after all,” Wedemeyer admitted.
“By the Reds?” Dagmar seemed to coagulate.
Joseph was on his feet, running to the bureau to open a drawer and take out a revolver. “Only two bullets left. Get out of sight, Priscilla.”
“I came for you.”
“So have they. And they’re not taking me alive.”
They listened to feet on the stairs. “They are not meaning to take any of us alive, I suspect,” Wedemeyer said, and reached to the back of his belt to produce a revolver of his own. “I have six bullets.”
“You’ll lose your job,” Priscilla gasped.
“It’s not worth my life. Anyway, no one knows I’m here. Take cover.”
As he spoke the door crashed open from the impact of a heavy shoulder hurled against it. The man who staggered into the room was carrying a Thomson sub-machine gun, and he started firing even before he regained his balance. So did the man behind him. Priscilla hurled herself flat to the floor, looking up in horror as a bullet struck Joseph in the shoulder and spun him round. But he was firing as he fell and the first Russian took a bullet in the chest. Dagmar also gave a shriek as the second sub-machine-gun burst found her on the far side of the room and then swung on to Wedemeyer. He also fell but managed to hit the gunner as he did so. The Russian was not killed, however, and swung his weapon towards Priscilla. She had got back to her knees beside Joseph, who had dropped his gun. Priscilla picked it up. She had not fired a gun since that dreadful day in 1917 when she had attempted to defend Bolugayen House against the Reds, but she had not forgotten how. And now the emotions of that day were reborn, as she levelled the revolver and shot the Russian through the head.
There had been a third man behind the machine-gunners, and he was also armed with an automatic pistol, but when he saw Priscilla on her knees, levelling the revolver, he turned and ran back down the stairs; he had no idea the revolver was now empty. The room still seemed to echo with noise and violence. It was a shambles. Joseph had pushed himself into a sitting position, and was holding his shoulder; blood was dribbling down his arm. Wedemeyer was slumped on the far side of the room, against the wall, holding his ribs; blood was seeping through his fingers. Dagmar was on the floor beside the bed, gasping; blood was spreading away from her body. The two Russians were dead.
There was a great deal of noise from downstairs, but at least no one else was venturing up. “The police...”
“Aren’t likely to interfere in this neck of the woods,” Wedemeyer said.
Priscilla tore strips off her gown to bind up Joseph’s arm. “Listen,” he said. “Get the hell out of here.”
“Not without you. You think I have sailed six thousand miles to go home empty-handed?”
“You know,” he said. “I only kept alive by dreaming of you.”
“Now you’re waking up.” She left him and crossed the room to attend to Wedemeyer.
“He’s right,” Wedemeyer said. “You want to get out of here. Ouch!”
She had been feeling along his rib cage with her already blood-stained fingers. “We all go together,” she told him. “You’ve broken a rib.” She tore some more off her dress to pass a bandage round his waist. “Could be the bullet’s still in there. You need a doctor.”
“So does Cromb. There’s one in the Concession.”
Priscilla nodded, and turned to Dagmar. But Dagmar was dead.
They left her body with the Russians. “She was a cold-blooded murderess,” Joseph said. “But she saved my life.”
Priscilla was more concerned about getting the two wounded men out of the city. Downstairs was crowded with prostitutes and their clients, all shouting or screaming, but they made no effort to stop the white people, especially as Wedemeyer still had his gun. The car was still being guarded by the Chinese youths, and Priscilla distributed the promised rewards before herself driving them back to the Concession. The same Japanese guards were on the gate, and as they had only been out for little over an hour, made no comment; Wedemeyer and Joseph were shrouded in blankets, and although Priscilla knew they were both in considerable pain they made no sound. “Drop me here,” Wedemeyer said, when they regained his car.
“But I have to get you to a doctor,” Priscilla said.
“I can get myself to a doctor,” Wedemeyer said. “But there are going to be questions asked, and you and Cromb might have trouble. Drive this car to the dock and take Cromb on board. The ship’s surgeon can attend to him. The car is hired for twenty-four hours, so no one is going to bother if it is left parked on the dock, and in another six hours you’ll be on the high seas.”
“Those Russians...”
“As I said, they have no standing here in China. And they were behaving illegally. There’ll be no repercussions, once you get out of China.”
“And you?”
He winked. “I’ll sort things out here. May I say that meeting you, adventuring with you, Princess, however briefly, has been the experience of my life?” Priscilla kissed him.
Priscilla walked the deck as the Tarawa steamed out of the Whang-po into the tumbling waters of the Yangste. The sun was just rising out of the ocean to the east; it was a beautiful morning, in more ways than one. Dr Masters joined her. “Well?”
“We got the bullet out, Mrs Mann, and we’ve shot him full of drugs. I reckon he’s going to be all right.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Mind you, he’s in pretty poor physical shape. There are scars on his body...well, I wouldn’t care to guess how they got there.” He paused, hopefully, but Priscilla did not take the bait. “Anything you want done about it?” he asked. “I mean, about the shooting?”
Priscilla shook her head. “There wouldn’t be any point. We were attacked by Chinese bandits and managed to escape. As for Mr Cromb, he’s been exploring in the interior of China. He’s had a rough time. But now he’s going home. May I see him?”
“Of course, Mrs Mann.” The doctor decided against attempting to inquire into their relationship.
Priscilla sat beside Joseph’s bunk in the sickroom; there was no one else present. Now that his beard had been shaved and some of his hair clipped it was possible to see just how emaciated he was, and see the lines of suffering that were etched in his flesh. “I’ve been quite a trial to you,” he said.
“I’m the guilty one for abandoning you. But everyone said you were dead Gosykin.”
The Red Gods Page 29
