Rowland opened the window and looked out. It wasn’t impossible. He grabbed the chair as he moved to the door, and wedged it under the handle. “That might buy us a little time.”
“They just walked into the building,” Milton said.
“Right, Milt, you go first. Mr. Wing, follow him. I’ll be right behind you.”
Milton climbed out the window onto the ten-inch ledge, pressing himself against the outside wall as he sidled towards the drainpipe.
A knock on the door.
“Now, Mr. Wing!”
Wing clambered out, clinging to the side.
The knocking grew louder.
“Who is it?” Rowland called out, trying to stall.
The response was Shanghainese and shouted. A thud as someone ran at the door.
Rowland looked out the window. Wing had reached the drainpipe, Milton was on the ground.
“Milt!” Rowland dropped Wing’s bag to the poet. Milton missed the catch and the valise fell open as it hit the road. Rowland climbed out as Milton and now Wing retrieved its contents.
The door to the apartment crashed open as Rowland made the journey along the ledge. He could hear the angry confusion as the intruders found the place empty and searched the rooms. Then the cries as they spied the open window. Rowland reached for the drainpipe as a head poked out the window and spotted him. Wing’s creditors tore down the stairs as Rowland shimmied down the pipe. He reached the ground first, shouting for Wing and Milton to get into the taxi. Rowland sprinted after them. Someone grabbed his jacket from behind. He turned and swung in the same movement, connecting with a face and following with a second blow. But by then another man had caught up. The taxi, with its passenger door still open, cut across the road towards them in reverse. As it approached, the driver reached out the window, grabbing Rowland’s assailant and reefing the man to the ground with the momentum of the still moving cab. Rowland leapt in.
“Go!” he shouted before he was entirely on board. The obliging driver slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor.
10
WOMAN MINING ENGINEER.
A NEWCOMER to Australia, who proposes to exploit a new field of vocation for women, is Miss Emilie Hahn, a B.M.E. of Wisconsin, U.S.A., who has adopted mining engineering as a profession. She wishes to see what opening there is for her unique qualifications in the Australian mining fields. Most of her practical experience has been in the oil industry, a branch of mining upon which many Australian hopes are built.
Queenslander, 16 January 1930
Rowland allowed his head to fall back, as the taxi accelerated. “Bloody hell!” Milton peered through the rear window at the three diminishing men venting their frustration in the street.
“I’ll say,” Rowland muttered. He turned to the driver, who seemed entirely unperturbed by the evening’s activity. “May I ask your name, sir?”
“Ranjit Singh, sir.”
“You’ve been a tremendous help tonight, Mr. Singh. Thank you.”
“Very good, sir.”
“It’s become apparent to me that I will need a motorcar and a driver that I can trust while I’m in Shanghai. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in hiring out your taxi and your services to me for the next few weeks?”
As it turned out, Singh was very interested in the proposition. So the deal was struck, and Ranjit Singh and his taxi became Rowland Sinclair’s private driver and car.
Singh took them back to the hotel and, after making arrangements to return the following morning, left to finish his shift before joining Rowland Sinclair’s employ. The Australians walked with Wing into the hotel’s foyer and made their way to the lift. Despite the discreet presence of police officers, the Cathay maintained the refinement and decorum for which it was famous.
Van Hagen intercepted them.
“Mr. Sinclair,” he said pleasantly. “I didn’t realise you’d left the hotel.”
“An errand, Mr. Van Hagen. I hoped to convince Mr. Wing to rescind his resignation.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Wing’s position has already been filled, sir.”
Rowland nodded. “I expected as much. Which is why I’ve retained Mr. Wing personally as my… my private secretary.”
Van Hagen glared at Wing, who shrugged and smiled.
“Of course.” Van Hagen turned back to Rowland. “Mr. Sinclair, could I trouble you for a private word?” He motioned to the door behind the reception desk. “We could step into my office for a few minutes.”
“Certainly, Mr. Van Hagen.”
“We’ll wait here for you,” Milton said uneasily.
Rowland shook his head. “Head up to the suite before Clyde and Ed start to worry.”
“I promise you, gentlemen,” Van Hagen spoke to Milton’s reluctance, “I will not detain Mr. Sinclair for long.”
As Milton and Wing Zau made their way to the elevator, Van Hagen ushered Rowland into his office. Like the rest of the hotel it was decorated in the style of a British gentlemen’s club—wood panelling, studded leather and restrained opulence.
Van Hagen directed Rowland to a chair and picked up the telephone.
“Van Hagen. Penthouse, please. Thank you.”
Rowland waited.
“Sir Victor… yes, he’s with me now. Right away, sir.” Van Hagen returned the receiver to its cradle and turned back to Rowland. “Mr. Sinclair, if you’d follow me?”
“Where?”
“Sir Victor Sassoon has invited you to join him in the penthouse for a few minutes.”
“Who is Sir Victor Sassoon?”
“Sir Victor owns the hotel. He’d like to speak to you himself.”
“I see.” Rowland shrugged. “Very well, Mr. Van Hagen. Lead on.”
They took a private elevator from reception to the penthouse, which occupied the entire tenth floor of the Cathay. They were admitted into a drawing room that was as elegant as it was modern. Every piece of furniture was of itself beautiful, and complemented every other piece. The lines of the club lounge were echoed in the inlaid patterns on the wall panels. The design of the rugs mirrored the elaborate plasterwork of the recessed celling. The woman reclining on the chaise, smoking a cigar, was young—well, no older than Rowland—dark featured, and strikingly beautiful. Rowland’s gaze might have lingered longer there had it not been drawn by the unexpected presence of a monkey—a gibbon—sitting in the armchair. It wore some kind of napkin, and a little red jacket.
“Victor’s just placing a telephone call.” The woman’s accent was American. “He won’t be a moment.” She coiled and then unfurled off the longue, standing as she switched the cigar to her left hand and offered Rowland her right. “Emily Hahn. How d’you do, Mr…?”
“Sinclair. Rowland Sinclair.”
“This is Mr. Mills,” she said as the gibbon scurried into the position she’d just abandoned on the chaise. “He’s a monkey,” she added as if Rowland might have overlooked the fact.
Rowland nodded politely at the creature, who smiled… or bared its teeth—he couldn’t quite tell.
“Can I fix you a drink, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Gin, if it’s not too much trouble, Miss Hahn.” Rowland watched as Emily Hahn dragged on her cigar and sent a perfect ring of smoke into the air between them.
“Mickey, you must call me Mickey—everybody does,” she said firmly. It was a direction rather than an invitation. “You’re Australian?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I visited your country about five years ago now, en route to Africa.”
“I trust you enjoyed your stay.”
“Such as it was. I had hoped to find employment in the Antipodes. I was a mining engineer then.”
“And you’re not anymore?”
“I suppose one doesn’t stop being qualified… but I’m a journalist now. I’m with the North China Daily News.”
“I see,” Rowland said carefully.
“Don’t look so alarmed, Rowland. I’m not here to cover your little… incident. Victor a
nd I are friends. I was here modelling for him when all hell broke loose.”
“Modelling?”
“Victor likes to take photographs. I’d show you, but they are somewhat intimate in nature and we are barely acquainted.”
Rowland wasn’t entirely sure how to respond, so he sipped his drink instead.
Emily’s smile was mischievous, and Rowland wondered if she’d hoped to shock him.
“Mr. Sinclair, please forgive me for making you wait.” The gentleman who entered the room with his hand outstretched wore a dinner suit. His hair was receding and slicked back, his moustache thin and waxed. A monocle was held in place by a distinguished brow and his smile was broad. “I trust Mickey’s company has been ample in my absence.”
Rowland shook Sir Victor Sassoon’s hand. “It has.”
“Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Sinclair.” Sassoon motioned towards an armchair which was promptly occupied by the gibbon.
Rowland hesitated, unsure how exactly to urge the monkey to give up the seat.
Emily Hahn intervened. “Mr. Mills, come and sit with me, darling.” She patted the chaise beside her.
The monkey’s head tilted, its black eyes bright, as it considered the invitation. Eventually it accepted, leaving the armchair for a position on Emily Hahn’s shoulder from which it observed the proceedings.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Sinclair, that the incident earlier this evening leaves us with something of a quandary.”
“How so, sir?”
“It’s something of a delicate matter.” Sassoon adjusted his monocle. “I must, you see, be able to guarantee the safety of my guests.”
“I appreciate your concern, sir, but I assure you that I was never in any danger.”
“Oh it’s not your safety about which I am concerned, Mr. Sinclair. Though the Cathay is genuinely happy that you are unhurt.”
“I’m not sure I follow, Sir Victor.”
Sassoon sighed. “This is a little awkward.” He took a deep breath. “Your residency at the Cathay you see… our other guests may be concerned—”
Emily Hahn interrupted. “What Victor is trying to say, Mr. Sinclair, is that he can’t allow a man who might be a murderer to be a guest of his hotel. It’s not good for business.”
“I see,” Rowland said evenly. “I assure you, Sir Victor, I had nothing to do with what happened to Miss Romanova. I don’t know how she came to be in my suite.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Sinclair, the Cathay’s guests expect a certain standard of personal safety within our walls. Until you are cleared of suspicion—and perhaps not even then—they will be uncomfortable sharing these premises with you and your party. And, as you can understand, the comfort of our guests is paramount.”
Rowland’s eyes flashed angrily. “Are you asking me to move to another hotel?”
“I’m afraid you’ll find it difficult to book into another hotel given the circumstances.”
“Fortunately, I have a booking at this hotel,” Rowland replied coldly.
“Calm down, Mr. Sinclair.” Emily took the olive from her drink and handed it to the monkey on her shoulder. “Victor isn’t proposing to throw you out onto the streets.”
“Then what exactly are you proposing, Sir Victor?”
“I have a house in Kiangse Road which is presently vacant. It is not as luxurious as your current suite, nor is it in the most salubrious of districts, but I am sure you and your companions will find it adequate.”
“And if I refuse?”
Sassoon shook his head. “I am trying to help you, Mr. Sinclair. In all fairness you cannot expect me to allow you to stay on here. For one thing, your suite is a crime scene and the Cathay is fully booked.”
Rowland’s eyes narrowed. “What about the suite we’re currently—”
“It is reserved for the French Ambassador who was delayed in Singapore. We expect him to arrive tomorrow morning.”
“Kiangse Road is not so bad, Mr. Sinclair.” Emily sucked on her cigar as she curled her legs up onto the chaise. “In actual fact, I have an apartment there myself.”
Rowland groaned. He didn’t have much of a choice but to accept. They were unlikely to be accepted by another hotel.
“Allow me to extend the Cathay’s apologies for the inconvenience,” Sassoon said. “I’ll arrange for your trunks to be packed and taken to the house this evening.”
“This evening?”
“Mr. Van Hagen informs me that you have retained Wing Zau personally. I’m afraid, in the circumstances, I cannot send any of the Cathay’s chambermaids with you but perhaps you’ll be able to employ—”
Rowland glowered at him. “Thank you. We’ll make our own arrangements.”
“I’m sure that in time you’ll come to see that I’m being more than reasonable, given the situation.”
Rowland exhaled. “Perhaps.” He smiled faintly. “In time.”
Sassoon laughed. “For what it’s worth, Mr. Sinclair, I have come to the conclusion that you had nothing to do with what happened to Alexandra Romanova.”
For a moment Rowland wondered why Sassoon had come to that conclusion, but he decided that he was not in a position to challenge the reasoning of allies. He placed his glass of gin on the coffee table. “What do you know about Miss Romanova, Sir Victor?”
Sassoon looked surprised. “My dear Mr. Sinclair, I do not personally hire the taxi girls.”
11
BUTTLING IS AN ART
The Super Gentleman’s Gentleman
The secret of the Perfect Butler is to be found in the pads of his feet, writes a special correspondent of the London ‘Daily Mirror’. I learned this secret when I went to Bretson, superman’s man, late butler to Lord Bethell and the Marquis of Headfort, for a lesson on How to Buttle.
Bretson gave up buttling to open a school—the only one of its kind—where he could train raw youths in the art of manservantry.
He estimates that he has trained more than 500 valets and butlers, who have been taught that the only path to success in buttling has to be trodden on the pads of his feet. They are now successfully padding their way up and down the corridors of England’s stately homes. Bretson’s first look when I presented myself was at my feet. “The pads of your feet are the most important things about buttling,” Bretson began. “Once your arches fall the days of your stewardship are numbered.”
Chronicle, 26 November 1936
Sassoon’s terrace on Kiangse Road was just a couple of blocks from the Cathay Hotel. The area was congested and vaguely seedy, boasting many sing-song houses and opium dens among noodle shops and apartment buildings. Merchants wearing traditional garb and long pigtails smoked and bartered on the street corners with modern Chinese and Shanghailanders from various nations in double-breasted suits or saris or turbans. Human voices, motors and livestock conglomerated into a background din. The air hung with spice and smoke and human sweat. It was a cacophony for all the senses. The terrace itself was distinctly French in style. It was in good order, though not luxurious and, in comparison to their vast suite at the Cathay, relatively small. On the ground floor was a drawing room, dining room, and kitchen with a large fireplace and hearth; a narrow staircase led to bedrooms and bathrooms on the floors above. The furniture was traditional and a little worn.
Amongst the luggage that was moved from the Cathay was the trunk which contained Mrs. Dong. There had, of course, been a little initial excitement when the human remains were found, but Clyde’s explanation had apparently been deemed acceptable. The remains were, after all, by no means fresh and it seemed it was not unusual for Chinese who’d died abroad to be returned to rest in the country of their birth. The authorities had, however, retained the Australian men’s razors. Despite the time, Wing Zau had procured replacements so that they would be able to shave the next morning. And so it was in the early hours of the morning that they walked through the bright red door. They were greeted by hothouse flowers in every room, courtesy of their host, and a well-stocked pantry
and drinks cabinet. Edna claimed the tiny converted garret, captivated by the view of the road afforded through its round window. Clyde, Milton and the remains of Mrs. Dong shared one bedroom on the second floor. Rowland directed the Cathay porters to put Wing Zau’s bags and his own trunks in the second large bedroom. There were, at least, enough beds to accommodate them all separately.
Wing protested the allocation. “I am your servant, Mr. Sinclair.”
“I’m afraid there appears to be no other sleeping quarters, Mr. Wing,” Rowland replied. “And until we can sort out your financial difficulties you can’t return to your apartment.”
“But it’s not done, sir, not in Shanghai. It is an unacceptable imposition on you.”
“I suspect it would be a great deal less acceptable for either you or me to share a bedroom with Miss Higgins,” Rowland said, mildly amused by Wing’s horror. “I do regret the inconvenience, but with any luck we’ll be able to move back to the Cathay in a short while.”
Wing hung his head. “All this is my fault. I do not understand why you are being so kind.”
“Did you kill Alexandra Romanova, then?” Milton asked blithely.
“No, sir.” Wing stepped back, shocked. “I didn’t, I swear I didn’t!”
“I believe Milt is trying to point out that whoever killed Miss Romanova is responsible for our current difficulties, not you,” Edna said gently. “We know you didn’t kill her, Mr. Wing.”
Milton grinned. “Well, to be honest, we don’t know, but despite rumours to the contrary, it’s never the butler.”
Wing seemed confused.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to Milt’s sense of humour.” Edna sighed.
Clyde nodded. “It makes him easier to ignore.” He yawned. “Right now, I’ll take any bed I can get.” He looked at Rowland. “Chin up, mate. This might seem less of a mess in the daylight.”
Rowland grimaced. “I somehow doubt it.”
Rowland slipped out of bed just before sunrise. Sleep had been elusive and, when found, troubled. Dreams of the sparkling girl with whom he’d danced, twisted by images of her body in death, had broken every fitful rest. He was careful not to disturb Wing Zau who lay face down on the other bed.
All the Tears in China Page 8
