All the Tears in China

by Sulari Gentill

  “Entschuldigung sie.” Someone tapped his shoulder from behind.

  He might have turned if Edna had not screamed. As it was, the butt of the gun glanced off his shoulder, rather than knocking him unconscious, and he was in a position to resist the assault that followed. There were half a dozen of them, solid men in dark, double-breasted suits. They said nothing as they grabbed Rowland and tried to force a hood over his head.

  “Ed! Run!”

  The sculptress did so, but towards him, shouting for help at the same time.

  “Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Clyde’s voice. He dragged two men off Rowland and smacked their heads together.

  Rowland struggled to free himself from the others. Milton joined the fray. They were outnumbered, but assisted by the fact that resistance had not been anticipated.

  A black Buick screeched to a halt beside the skirmish, and its doors were flung open. Rowland’s attackers scrambled for the idling motorcar. More help arrived now—security guards from the buildings on the Bund, the Indian traffic policeman and the chestnut vendor. Rowland attempted to hold onto one of his assailants, but the man twisted and kicked and leapt into the waiting vehicle. The Buick’s wheels squealed as it sped away.

  Clyde straightened, panting. “Well, that warmed us up.”

  Rowland picked up Edna’s handbag, which had been dropped in the scuffle, and returned it to her. “Are you all right, Ed?”

  She nodded. “It’s jolly lucky that Milt and Clyde turned up.”

  “Bit of a problem checking in without Rowly,” Milton said, dusting off his hat. “They eventually sent another car but it returned without you.”

  “We figured you’d given up and taken shanks’s pony,” Clyde added. “So we left our trunks with the porter and came out to find you.”

  “Damn. Of course.” Rowland grimaced. The reservation was under Sinclair—he should have realised before he’d sent them on ahead.

  “As Ed said, it was lucky.” Clyde shook his head. “Were they trying to rob you, Rowly?”

  “Kidnappers, sir,” the traffic policeman interrupted. “There have been several incidents in the past weeks. Targeting Europeans generally.”

  “Oh, I see.” Rowland thanked him and the other men who had come to their aid, a little unsure as to what to do next.

  Edna pulled the chestnut vendor aside and purchased hot chestnuts in paper cones for all. The security guards thanked her in Russian and returned to their posts while the policeman advised Rowland to report the incident to the relevant authorities, for what it was worth, from the comfort of Cathay. “You should proceed there as soon as possible, sir. The Bund can be a dangerous place to stroll.”

  They were met at the hotel entrance by the concierge—a sleek fat man in a tailcoat who introduced himself as Mr. Van Hagen. He gave sharp instructions in Mandarin and pidgin, sending the young Chinese porters scurrying to see to the luggage, and apologised profusely for having refused Milton and Clyde earlier.

  “Not at all, Mr. Van Hagen,” Rowland said as he signed the guestbook. “It was my mistake.”

  Van Hagen took the Australians up to the ninth floor himself, to one of the hotel’s apartements de-luxe on the side of the building which overlooked the Bund.

  “Oh my, how beautiful.” Edna peered through the doorway into the drawing room of the “Chinese Suite”. Designed for visiting aristocracy, the apartment included servants’ quarters to accommodate ladies’ maids and gentlemen’s valets. Of course the party from Sydney had neither.

  “Shall we go in, Ed?” Rowland said, amused by the manner in which she lingered on the threshold.

  Edna laughed. “It’s so grand, and exotic, Rowly. I forgot for a moment that we weren’t just sightseeing.”

  Rowland Sinclair was accustomed to first class travel and accommodation. Indeed, in his company, his friends, too, had become so. But they, unlike Rowland, had at least a memory of humbler circumstances.

  “After you,” he said, enjoying the sculptress’ undisguised delight.

  Edna stepped into the drawing room, her face lifted towards the oxblood red ceiling and the lanterns which hung therefrom. A chaise longue upholstered in pale gold brocade rested along one wall, a picture window overlooking the Bund on the opposite. Through a semicircular moon gate was the formal dining room—silk panelled walls, a round table surrounded by chairs of lacquered blackwood. Intricately carved jade lions guarded the partition.

  Milton’s gaze was more utilitarian, directed at locating the drinks cabinet rather than admiring the furniture. Rowland spoke to the concierge about reporting the attempted abduction.

  Van Hagen nodded gravely. “Yes, of course, Mr. Sinclair. I shall call the police immediately.” He cleared his throat. “And as you are travelling without servants on this occasion, sir, I shall send up some chambermaids to see to your unpacking.”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Van Hagen. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  “It’ll be no trouble, sir. This is the Cathay. We pride ourselves on the fact that our guests are not required to manage.”

  5

  ABDUCTED!

  Shanghai Doctor

  ARMED BANDITS SHANGHAI.

  The foreign community here was rocked to its foundations yesterday afternoon, when Dr. Cecil Robertson, President of the Shanghai Medical Society, was abducted by a gang of armed kidnappers in broad day light… a wheelbarrow was trundled in front of Dr. Robertson’s car, and was immediately followed by the appearance of four armed men. These ejected the Chinese chauffeur, took the wheel and menaced the doctor, with pistols. They then raced at breakneck speed through the city. The doctor, who was taking the Chinese child to the hospital, had a desperate struggle with the kidnappers, one of whom fired three shots, one of which penetrated the white man’s arm. Even this failed to prevent the doctor from resisting. On the outskirts of the city, the robbers attempted to take Dr. Robertson’s gold watch and 250 dollars, but he made a last desperate effort and wrenched open the door. Gathering the child in his arms, he leaped for safety. The police are baffled as to the motive of the crime, which is the most desperate attempt to kidnap a foreigner ever made here.

  Maitland Daily Mercury, 1 February 1934

  When the concierge left to call the police and organise refreshments and chambermaids, Rowland and his companions explored the suite properly, uninhibited now with their excitement and awe. Each room seemed more exquisite than the one before.

  “It’s immensely kind of Wilfred to book this for us,” Edna murmured as she looked around one of the vast bedrooms. “Clearly he’s not cross with you anymore, Rowly.”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far.” Rowland surveyed the congested Huangpu from the window. The Bund was busier now as the commercial day began. “Wil made the reservation for himself, Kate and the boys. I expect they would have come across with the boys’ nannies, if Kate’s father hadn’t passed away.”

  Edna tested the carved bed in the room, bouncing gently on the mattress. “Poor Kate. The time away might have done her the world of good. It’s such a shame they had to cancel their trip.”

  “Old Mr. Baird’s estate is in a bit of mess, from what Wil tells me,” Rowland replied. “Kate’s brother died in the war and so there are no male heirs to take over the farm. It’s resulted in something of a brawl.”

  “Oh, dear.” Edna blanched. They had all met the hot-blooded Bairds a couple of years before.

  “At least the proletariat can die quietly without a family scrap over their worldly goods,” Milton observed. “Believe you me, no one’s going to fight over the Isaacs family heirlooms, such as they are.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Clyde inspected the craftsmanship on the elaborately carved bedposts. “When my grandmother passed away, there was one helluva battle over who got the old lady’s collection of preserving jars. Aunt Bessie still won’t speak to us.”

  Edna smiled. “Well, even if Wil hasn’t forgiven you completely, Rowly, h
e trusts you enough to take his place here.”

  “Yes.” Rowland elected not to disillusion her by pointing out that he was there merely to bear the Sinclair name into meetings. If it was confidence, it was of the barest kind.

  Edna lay back, staring up at the serpentine dragons carved into the top of the headboard. “May I have this bedroom?”

  “Are you asking us to leave?” Milton settled into the lion-footed armchair to demonstrate that he had no intention of doing so.

  “Not at all. I just like this bed, and the room’s only got one window.” Edna sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “If we took down that painting, we’d have a beautiful blank wall.”

  Rowland laughed. “I see.”

  “You’ve created a monster, Rowly,” Clyde grumbled. “She thinks she’s DeMille.”

  Edna had brought a projector, as well as the Bell and Howell, to Shanghai. As they expected the sojourn to extend for some months, the sculptress was determined to use the time, as well as the inspiration of the exotic trading port, to best effect. Already she could feel dragons evolving from clay beneath her fingers, towering hybrids of modern commercial ferocity and ancient ritual, creatures of many and varied faces… Perhaps she would cast them in bronze, then, in time, her dragons would develop a green patina like the pyramidal roof of the Cathay. But sculpting would have to wait until they returned to Sydney. She would in the meantime capture the detail and movement of this city of dragons on film.

  A knock at the door to the suite interrupted them. Rowland made his way out and duly admitted a uniformed officer, who introduced himself as Constable Bethell of the Foreign Branch of the Shanghai Municipal Police.

  Between the four of them, they gave the policeman an account of what had happened. Rowland did his best to describe his attackers. “They might have been German,” he said. “They spoke German at least.”

  Bethell made notes, but it was clear that he did not anticipate that there was any personal nature to the crime nor hold out much hope of apprehending the culprits.

  “I’m afraid attempts to abduct Europeans are far from unusual in Shanghai,” he informed them. “They are usually entirely opportunistic. You say you arrived in Shanghai only this morning, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who knew of your arrival?”

  “Any number of people I suppose. The hotel was told to expect us, I have a meeting later today and many people would have seen us arrive though they wouldn’t have known our names.”

  “And you walked from the port?”

  “It’s barely any distance.”

  “It’s enough, Mr. Sinclair. Kidnappers in Shanghai are organised and systematic. They probably had a lookout watching the liners who noticed you and Miss Higgins leave the port on foot and somehow signalled the others. Of course, they wouldn’t have anticipated the arrival of Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Watson Jones.”

  “But how would they have known Rowly and Ed were worth kidnapping?” Clyde asked.

  Bethell glanced around the elegant drawing room. “Can I assume you were disembarked with the first class passengers, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Rowland grimaced. “I see.” Put like that it seemed they’d been almost inviting abduction.

  The policeman took his leave, promising to notify Rowland of any developments. “You’ll find the Bund is quite safe during the day,” he said in parting. “Villains don’t seem to keep ordinary business hours. In any case, sirs, madam, welcome to Shanghai.”

  Waiters arrived as Bethell left, with the trays of tea and cakes Van Hagen had ordered on their behalf, and a sheaf of correspondence. Most of the letters and telegrams were for Rowland, with one for Edna.

  “It seems kidnapping here is as ordinary as fish on Friday,” Clyde said as they sat to partake of the mid-morning repast.

  “We’re on the other side of the world, I suppose,” Edna said, frowning as she looked at the envelope in her hand.

  “We’ll have to remember to be more careful.” Rowland helped himself to a pastry.

  Edna curled up on the couch beside Rowland as she opened her letter. “I wonder what kind of ransom they would have demanded for us?” she said distractedly.

  “There’s probably a going rate,” Rowland murmured.

  “They only grabbed Rowly,” Milton pointed out, grinning wickedly. “Clearly they didn’t think you were worth the trouble.”

  Edna called the poet an idiot as Clyde chuckled. Rowland, too, smiled, though he did wonder if there was anything to Milton’s observation. Perhaps the gang in question only targeted men. It seemed unlikely that they could have been after him particularly. He’d not been in Shanghai long enough to have enemies.

  Edna had fallen silent beside him. Rowland sensed a disquiet in her manner and asked her gently for its cause.

  She folded the letter she’d been reading. “It’s from Bertie.”

  “Good lord, that’s a bit keen. He must have posted it before we even left!”

  “How did he know where we’d be staying?” Clyde asked.

  “Perhaps he guessed.” Milton helped himself to a cucumber sandwich and pointed it at Rowland. “It wouldn’t be too wild a supposition to assume that a Sinclair would stay at the best hotel in Shanghai. What does he say?”

  Edna handed him the page and the poet read quickly. He drew back in surprise. “Blimey Charlie, Middleton thinks the two of you are going to settle down when you return from Shanghai.” He laughed loudly. “The poor bloody fool.”

  Edna took the page back and folded it into its envelope.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sending it back.”

  “Perhaps you should tell him you don’t intend to marry him.” Milton regarded her disapprovingly. “After what he did to Rowly last year, I’m surprised you’re even speaking to the mongrel!”

  “Steady on, Milt.” Rowland came instinctively to Edna’s defence. “Middleton’s a buffoon but it’s not like he tried to kill me.”

  “You very nearly ended up married!”

  “They were desperate times,” Clyde agreed.

  “You need to tell the bloke to sod off, Ed!” the poet warned. “Stop leading him on.”

  Edna bit her lip. “Oh Milt—I have, many times. But it’s like he can’t hear it.”

  Milton’s face softened as he heard the hint of despair in her voice, and he continued more kindly. “Well, he has time now to get over his deafness,” he said. “If he’s still carrying on when we get back, Rowly, Clyde and I will sort him out.”

  Edna smiled wistfully. “It’s just a letter, sent weeks ago. He will have seen reason by now.”

  Rowland left his opinion of the journalist unspoken. But perhaps the sculptress’ optimism was sound. If Middleton’s current insanity was induced by passion, a couple of months away from the object of it might see him return to reason.

  The chambermaids and room boys Van Hagen had insisted upon arrived, escorted to the suite by a man in a morning suit which bore the crest of the Cathay Hotel. His black hair was parted and slicked back from a round boyish face that dimpled when he smiled; his collar was starched and folded crisply over a grey cravat held in place by a gold pin. He introduced himself as Wing Zau, and explained that he had been assigned to the suite and Rowland Sinclair, with Mr. Van Hagen’s compliments.

  “Please thank Mr. Van Hagen, Mr. Wing, but I don’t think—”

  “Rowly,” Milton pulled him aside before he could finish. “I think we should keep him.”

  “He’s a gentleman’s valet, not a stray puppy,” Rowland whispered. “I don’t need someone to hold my cufflinks.”

  “I know that, comrade, but he looks like a local. It could be handy.”

  “I know Shanghai very well, sir, and I’m fluent in Cantonese, Mandarin, Shanghainese, pidgin and Old Norse,” Wing offered hopefully. He spoke slowly but clearly, with an accent that was carefully British.

  “Really?” Edna was intrigued. “Old Norse?”

  Wing Zau nodde
d. “Alas, I have not had as much call to practise my Old Norse as I would have liked, but should a Viking take a room at the Cathay I shall be ready to converse with him.”

  Rowland’s brow rose. Wing seemed very unlike the professionally reserved manservants he’d encountered from time to time.

  “Come on, Rowly,” Milton whispered. “You’ll offend him if you refuse.”

  Rowland wavered. Having someone on hand who could speak the languages he couldn’t might indeed prove useful. But the thought of engaging a butler seemed ridiculous.

  Wing spoke up. “I understand, Mr. Sinclair. I only hope that Mr. Van Hagen will not be too disappointed with my inability to please you—or angry, he’s often angry.” He sighed, his shoulders slumping despondently.

  “Good Lord!” Clyde blurted. “Don’t forget to tell him about your sick mother, mate.”

  Edna giggled, delighted with the transparent appeal to Rowland’s sense of compassion.

  Regardless of Wing’s lack of subtly, Rowland relented, turning back to the valet. “Thank you, Mr. Wing. We’d be very pleased to have your help.”

  Wing bowed. “Excellent, sir.” He began immediately, enthusiastically directing the maids and boys, who spoke only Shanghainese, in the task of unpacking. Clyde jumped up to ensure that the contents of Danny Dong’s chest did not get caught up in Wing’s efficiency. After enquiring after their plans, the valet arranged for luncheon to be delivered to the suite and saw that the gentlemen’s dinner suits were pressed for the evening meal. As he did so, he advised them of Shanghai’s sights, and places of interest further afield.

  “Why thank you, Mr. Wing,” Edna said, touched that in addition to everything else, he’d found time to set out her hairbrush and perfume on the dresser in the bedroom she’d chosen. “That was very thoughtful.”

  “Gratitude is kindest when it is unnecessary, Miss Higgins. I merely do my duty,” Wing replied. “I am, after all, here to anticipate and accommodate your every want.”

  “In that case, do you know anything about the abduction of Europeans in Shanghai, Mr. Wing?”