It was, in fact, another two hours before the chief inspector finished questioning Rowland Sinclair. He conducted the interrogation on site rather than taking the Australian into the station. It was more a convenience than a courtesy. If the murder weapon had been discovered in the suite, he may have arrested him. There were razors of course, as one would expect with three men in residence, but each was clean and stowed neatly in the bathroom beside the shaving mirror. Sinclair might have cleaned his implement—true—but a man cold enough to calmly wash the murder weapon and return it to its place would surely think to also change his bloody clothes. Randolph was a cautious man. One did not arrest a man wealthy enough to take a suite at the Cathay over the death of a penniless taxi girl unless one was very sure.
The concierge, Van Hagen, hastily arranged another suite for the use of the Sinclair entourage that evening. It was not as lavish, but neither was it a crime scene. Rowland showered and changed while he waited for his friends to return. By the time each of them had given statements, it was quite late in the evening.
“Rowly!” Edna opened the door of the new suite just as Rowland was pulling on a fresh shirt.
“Just a minute, Ed, I’m—”
Edna burst into the bedroom. “Rowly, are you all right?” She scrutinised him for signs of injury. Clyde and Milton were behind her. “We saw them take you out, you were covered in blood, they wouldn’t tell us—”
Rowland grabbed her hand to slow her down. “I’m perfectly all right, Ed. It wasn’t my blood.”
She looked into his face and embraced him impulsively. “God, Rowly. We thought—”
“Didn’t Inspector Randolph tell you?”
“No,” Milton replied. “He’s an officious sort of chap, isn’t he?”
“All he’d say was that you were involved in an incident in the suite.” Clyde shook his head. “Wanted to know about your movements, mostly.”
“What the hell’s happened, Rowly?” Milton asked.
Clyde nodded. “Unhand him, Ed. Let the man tell us what’s going on.”
Milton studied Rowland for a moment, before he walked out of the bedroom beckoning them all to follow. “Rowly looks like he could use a drink.” The poet located the appropriate cabinet in the sitting room and decanted generous glasses of Scotch for himself and Clyde. He poured gin for Rowland, and enquired of Edna what she fancied.
“Sherry.” The sculptress slipped off her shoes and curled up on the couch beside Rowland. “What happened, Rowly? Who was hurt?”
“Alexandra Romanova.”
“The girl you were meeting?”
“Yes, I’m afraid she’s dead.”
Edna reached up and turned Rowland’s face towards her own. “Start from the beginning, Rowly. What happened to her?”
Rowland shook his head. “To be honest, I don’t really know.” He told them how he’d come to find the body on the chaise longue. “I had hoped she was just asleep or unconscious… until I saw the blood.” He bit back a curse. “Someone had cut the poor woman’s throat.”
“Oh Rowly.” Edna grasped his hand. “How simply ghastly!”
“It was. It took me a while to realise there was absolutely nothing I could do for her.” Rowland stopped, remembering the moment too clearly. “I called the reception desk, and once they’d sent someone to establish I wasn’t drunk, or playing some kind of lunatic prank, they sent for the police.”
“How did you not notice her immediately?” Clyde asked incredulously.
“It was getting dark and I was… watching the sunset… God.” Rowland groaned as he recognised how absurd it sounded.
“I wonder what she was doing in the suite.” Milton topped up Rowland’s glass.
“Someone must have let her in,” Clyde said. “Perhaps one of the staff.”
“Where’s Mr. Wing?” Edna asked suddenly.
“I don’t know.” Rowland frowned. They had told the valet that they’d be back after dinner, and whilst they had no particular need of him, it seemed odd, given his earlier declarations of commitment to duty, that he was not there.
“Perhaps he let Miss Romanova in and—” Milton stopped short of accusing the valet.
Edna followed the poet’s train of thought to a different place. “Perhaps whoever killed Miss Romanova abducted Mr. Wing. We should tell the police—he may be in danger.”
Rowland stood. “First, we’d better make sure Mr. Wing’s not simply late,” he said, picking up the telephone. Ringing down to the reception desk, he noted wryly the new note of trepidation with which his call was received, as if he might be ringing to report another body. He inquired instead after Wing Zau. There was an embarrassed delay as the hotel manager was duly consulted. It was Van Hagen who took the call in the end.
“I’m afraid Mr. Wing has left us, Mr. Sinclair. Of course, a replacement valet will be assigned to you immediately.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Van Hagen. It was Mr. Wing with whom I wished to speak. What exactly do you mean that he’s left you?”
“Mr. Wing is no longer in the employ of the Cathay.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Wing was unable to continue with us for personal reasons. He tendered his resignation this morning. We do, of course, apologise for any inconvenience.”
Rowland probed further, but Van Hagen would not elucidate.
“Do you, by any chance, have a forwarding address at which I might write to Mr. Wing? There is a matter about which I must consult with him rather urgently.”
“Is it something with which we might assist, sir?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Rowland clamped the receiver to his ear with his shoulder, and extracted the notebook he kept in his breast pocket. He scribbled the address details below a sketch of a rickshaw and its driver.
“You’re going to write to Wing?” Milton asked sceptically once Rowland had hung up.
“Of course not. But I didn’t think they’d give me the address for anything less benign than correspondence.” Rowland sat down again and recounted the conversation he’d just had with the concierge. “It appears Wing resigned suddenly.”
“He didn’t seem unhappy this morning,” Edna said, frowning. “I do hope we haven’t offended him somehow.”
“It may not have been anything to do with us,” Rowland said. “Perhaps some family emergency required his attention.”
“Or perhaps our man Wing is on the run.” Milton poured himself another drink.
“Have the police spoken to him?” Clyde asked cautiously.
Rowland shrugged. “I’m not sure. Randolph didn’t mention the servants.”
“Should we tell him?” Milton asked. “Wing could very well be involved in Miss Romanova’s murder.”
Rowland considered their options. “Perhaps we should talk to him first? I don’t really want to set Randolph on him unnecessarily.”
Edna sighed. “I miss Detective Delaney.”
Rowland nodded. It had, in the past, been convenient to have an ally in the police force. But this was Shanghai, and they had no friends among the authorities in the treaty port. He looked again at the address jotted into his notebook. Huoshan Road, Hongkew District.
“Shall we go find Wing, then?” Milton stood and grabbed his hat, taking a moment to adjust the feather just so.
“Now?” Clyde asked, startled. “It’s ten o’clock.”
“No time like the present.”
Rowland offered a compromise. “Why don’t you and Ed stay here to make sure our trunks are brought down from the other suite, after the police have finished going through them—”
“Going through them?” Clyde jumped to his feet. “They’re going through our trunks? All of them?”
“I expect it’s just routine, Clyde. They’re still looking for a murder weapon I believe.”
Clyde collapsed back into his chair and buried his face in his hands. He groaned.
“Whatever’s the matter, Clyde?” Edna asked, c
oncerned for him now.
“The trunk I brought over for Danny.” Clyde looked up at Rowland. “I tried to tell you.”
Rowland picked up on Clyde’s panic now. “What was in it?”
“Old Mrs. Dong.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mrs. Dong. Danny’s grandmother, her remains anyway. She wanted to be buried in China so Danny had her exhumed and… she is in that trunk.”
Milton and Edna stared at Clyde incredulously. Rowland blinked. “I see.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Clyde was grey. “They’re going to find human remains in our suite and they’ll think… God knows what they’ll think but it won’t be good. What if they take her as evidence? What am I going to tell Danny?”
“Steady on, mate.” Rowland tried to stem his friend’s agitation. “I presume Mrs. Dong didn’t die recently so we’re just talking about bones.”
“Yes, but—”
“When they ask, we’ll explain. Did Danny give you any paperwork?”
“Yes, yes he did.” Clyde was beginning to calm down. “There are some letters to his cousins with the trunk in my room.”
“Well then.” Rowland braced Clyde’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’ll probably be a little awkward to explain, given the circumstances, but there is a perfectly legal reason.”
Edna moved to sit with Clyde. “You two go find Mr. Wing,” she said. “Clyde and I will stay here and wait for them to find Mrs. Dong. It’s probably better if you know nothing about it, Rowly.”
Rowland hesitated.
“Come on, Rowly.” Milton handed him his hat. “Let’s go talk to the butler before he disappears entirely.”
9
TROUBLE BREWING
Japanese In Shanghai
(“SUN” SPECIAL)
SHANGHAI, Sunday.
THE turbulence of Japanese gangs is causing some anxiety and two disquieting incidents occurred today.
Mr. A. Thompson, a British subject, was seated on a bench, together with some Japanese marines, in Quinsan Gardens, a small park in Hongkew. He pushed a marine’s knee aside and an altercation arose. Thompson was carried off by a Japanese naval patrol, but was subsequently rescued by the international police. Later, believing that a Russian, who reached for his handkerchief was really getting out a pistol, the Japanese gave chase. The Russian sought refuge in a local journalist’s motor car, whereupon the Japanese wrecked the electrical gear and assaulted the journalist, who, however, was saved from serious injury by the arrival of patrols. Japanese crowds and “toughs” are turbulent throughout the district, seeking British or foreign victims, but the situation seems well in hand.
The Sun, 2 July 1934
The air outside the hotel was bracing and damp. Despite the late hour, the ground floor of the Cathay was busy as patrons arrived in their furs and silks to drink and dance at the Jazz Bar. A Buddhist monk monopolised Van Hagen’s attention at the reception desk. It made it easy for Rowland and Milton to slip out unnoticed, despite the police presence. Electing not to take a hotel car, they risked a motor-taxi instead. They climbed into a gleaming Buick, judging the good faith of the Sikh driver by the immaculate presentation of his vehicle. It was probably not scientific but they did not have the time to be more rigorous.
Milton took the seat behind the driver, Rowland, the one beside.
Hongkew was in the northern part of Shanghai, an older precinct of the International Concession. Boasting a significant Japanese population, the area had been at the centre of the most recent escalation in Sino–Japanese tensions. The taxi pulled up outside a dilapidated tenement plastered with Chinese Communist propaganda posters bearing sinister depictions of Japanese invaders. As powland paid the fare, he asked the driver to wait.
“We might be a little while,” he said peeling off a number of additional notes. “But we will return.”
The driver pulled a newspaper and a torch from under his seat. “Do not be worried, sir. I will wait.”
The building on Huoshan Road might once have been a better address. Its fittings, though old, were fine. The doorman wore no uniform. Indeed, the ancient man may not have actually been employed to open the door, but he did do so, informing them in creaking, stilted English that the elevator no longer worked. Rowland thanked him with a gratuity which was accepted with a bow.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door of number 303.
There was no answer.
Rowland banged harder until Milton gripped his shoulder. “I heard something.”
The poet held out his hand. “Give me your pocketknife, Rowly.”
It took Milton about two minutes to breach the lock. They could hear scrambling and a series of clatters as the door swung open. They entered the darkened apartment warily. The corridor was narrow and finished in a quite tiny sitting room.
“Bú yào guòlai!” It was Wing Zau’s voice.
Rowland turned. Milton found a light cord and pulled it. The electric bulb flickered momentarily before coming on. Rowland ducked as something flew past his head. The blade embedded in the wall with a thud.
Wing Zau stood in the galley which adjoined the sitting room with a knife in one hand, scrabbling for a kitchen cleaver with the other. He looked confused and quite terrified.
“Wing, it’s us—Rowland Sinclair and Milton Isaacs. You brought us breakfast this morning.” Rowland tried to calm the man, and to remain calm himself.
“What are you doing here?” Wing demanded, the knife still poised though his hand shook.
“Miss Higgins was concerned about you. The Cathay said you’d tendered your resignation—”
“I did not resign!”
“Come on, Wing.” Milton closed the apartment door. “We mean you no harm, you can put down the knives.”
“Can’t we discuss this like gentlemen?” Rowland suggested, stepping back into the living room. “If you didn’t resign, perhaps we can help sort this out.”
Slowly, Wing put down his weapons. “I apologise, gentlemen.”
“No harm done.” Rowland nodded encouragingly. “So, you didn’t resign?”
“The Cathay sacked me. I was not at my post.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Wing sighed. “I was your valet, Mr. Sinclair, assigned to your suite. That was my post.”
“Even when we weren’t there?” “It seems someone broke into your suite while I was out. The police were questioning you when I returned. Mr. Van Hagen was furious. If I hadn’t left my post I would have been present to prevent the murder, or at the very least to prevent it taking place in the Cathay and compromising the hotel’s reputation.”
“So you didn’t let Miss Romanova in?”
Wing shook his head. “No. I wasn’t even in the hotel.”
“Why the knives, Mr. Wing?” Milton asked. “What are you afraid of?”
“I owe money. My creditors are insistent.” He rubbed his face wearily. “And now I don’t have a job.”
“Cards or horses?” Milton prodded.
“Cards.” Wing looked at Rowland. “I’m sorry I threw a knife at you, sir. I thought it was them.”
Rowland shrugged. “Considering you missed, I’m inclined to overlook it.”
“Who, other than you, would have been able to let Miss Romanova into the suite?” Milton pulled the knife out of the wall.
Wing frowned. “The chambermaids, the room boys, the concierge, the manager. There are many people involved in looking after guests of the Cathay, particularly those in the better suites.”
Rowland glanced out the window. He could see the taxi still on the street below, but he did not know how much longer they could expect the driver to wait. “We should get back.”
Wing nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“We can’t leave him here,” Milton protested. “Not with some loan shark looking to break his legs.”
“No, we cannot,” Rowland agreed. He turned back to Wing. “How much do you owe, Mr. Wing?”
“With interest… Twenty-five pounds.”
“Right—you’d better come back with us tonight. We’ll sort out your debts tomorrow.”
“The Cathay has dispensed of my services, sir. I can’t go back.”
“You won’t be working for the Cathay, you’ll be working for me.”
“You still want me to be your valet?”
“I never wanted you to be my valet, but I could use someone who speaks the languages I don’t, someone who knows and understands Shanghai. Especially now.”
For a moment Wing said nothing, and then he nodded. “Yes, thank you. I will serve you to the best of my ability, Mr. Sinclair.”
They waited in the small living room as Wing packed a bag. Milton kept a wary eye on their taxi through the window lest the driver forget his promise. Rowland leaned against the one chair. Wing Zau’s apartment was sparsely furnished. In the corner was a shrine of sorts. Rowland’s eyes lingered on the framed photograph of a Chinese woman in a traditional silk cheongsam, before which burned two sticks of incense.
Wing emerged from the bedroom with a battered valise. “My mother,” he said sadly, noticing the direction of Rowland’s gaze. “She died a few months ago.”
The Australians offered their sympathies.
“My mother was a very moral lady.” Wing took the picture from its place and reverently wrapped it in cloth before slipping it into the suitcase. “She would be deeply distressed to know what I have done, and ashamed.”
“We all make mistakes, comrade,” Milton said sympathetically. “In my experience mothers are the most likely to forgive them.” He frowned suddenly, his attention still fixed out the window. He beckoned Rowland and Wing over. Three men in suits walked past the taxi and stopped before the building. “Are those fellows by any chance your creditors, Wing?”
Wing was ashen. “You must get out of here, it’s me they want.”
Milton glanced at Rowland.
“They’ll have to come up the stairs.” Rowland turned to Wing. “Is there another way down? A fire escape?”
Wing shook his head.
“Rowly, there’s a ledge below the window and a drainpipe about ten yards to the left.” Milton pointed.
All the Tears in China Page 7
