All the Tears in China

by Sulari Gentill

  “What exactly were you supposed to do with Mrs. Dong?” Rowland asked.

  “Danny wrote to his cousins to tell them to come to the Cathay, but since we’re no longer there…”

  “Perhaps we should give Mrs. Dong into Van Hagen’s keeping.”

  “We can’t just leave her there for collection like a lost hat. What if Van Hagen gives her to the wrong people?”

  “How many people will come to the Cathay asking for human remains?”

  “I don’t know, mate, but I promised Danny that I would look after the old girl.” Clyde sighed. “I was terrified of her when Danny and I were little tackers, but still…”

  Rowland smiled. “Of course. We’ll sort something out—I’m sure the Cathay can simply alert us when Danny’s cousins turn up.”

  “I hope they don’t take too long,” Clyde grumbled. “There’s only so long you can be expected to keep someone’s grandmother under the bed.”

  They made their way down Kiangse Road, towards the Bund, picking through the press of people, dodging the occasional erratic rickshaw.

  “One helluva job,” Rowland murmured as they watched a barefoot driver drag grown men in his rickshaw.

  “It’s opium, you know.”

  Rowland and Clyde turned to see Emily Hahn skipping to catch up with them. They stopped and she stepped between them, hooking her arms through theirs. “Most of the rickshaw drivers are opium addicts. Deadens the pain I expect.”

  “Good morning, Mickey,” Rowland said, moving his head to avoid being hit by the feathers in her hat.

  “I was just about to hail a rickshaw to work.”

  “You don’t mind that the drivers are opium addicts?” Clyde asked.

  She smiled up at him. “Opium is part of the real China, not to mention the muse of men like Coleridge and Cocteau. I’ve always wanted to be an opium addict myself.”

  “We’re on our way to the Bund.” Rowland decided to leave the declaration alone. “We’d be pleased to escort you if you have the time to walk.”

  “Well, thank you, I think I will.” She turned to look at Rowland, hitting Clyde in the face with the feathers in her hat. “Are you going to see your lawyers?”

  “How did you—?”

  “I’m a journalist, Rowland. I’m not covering the murder but, you know, old habits.”

  “I see.”

  “Her brother called by the Cathay looking for you, you know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yesterday evening. He seemed quite agitated. Victor and I had just come in from the boat. Of course, the staff have been instructed to tell no one where you are. Poor chap. Inspector Randolph intercepted him, took him for questioning there and then.”

  “Why did Randolph want to question him?”

  “Beats me.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “I don’t know. Victor and I went dancing.”

  The conversation fell into matters less consequential then. Emily told them a little of her time in the Congo where it appeared she had developed a love for primates.

  “What exactly brought you to Shanghai?” Rowland asked.

  “A broken heart. Shanghai’s the kind of place that helps you to forget.”

  “I see. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Victor advises against throwing sentiment away on self-pitying drunks.” She sighed. “He’s right, of course. He’s been very kind and attentive… but then Victor does have a soft spot for girls with broken hearts. And what about you gentlemen? I have bared my soul now you must do the same.”

  “Rowly is here on family business,” Clyde replied. “The rest of us just came along for the ride.”

  The feathers slapped Rowland’s chin now. “That’s hardly baring your soul. Try harder, Mr. Jones!”

  “Well, I’m afraid…”

  “That’s really all there is to it, Mickey.” Rowland came to Clyde’s rescue. “We’re utterly dull.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to do what we can to make you more interesting!”

  Rowland laughed. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “You can start by coming to Bernadine’s salon tomorrow evening.”

  “Bernadine?”

  “Mrs. Szold-Fritz. A dear friend from Chicago who’s settled here. Bernadine is one of nature’s catalysts, like manganese dioxide. She makes things happen!”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “I’ll arrange for invitations if you must hang on such formalities.”

  They had by then reached the steps of the North China Daily News where Emily Hahn bid them farewell.

  “Do you think she meant what she said about wanting to try opium?” Clyde whispered as they watched her walk up the steps.

  “I believe she said she wanted to be an opium addict.”

  “But do you think she meant it?”

  “Yes.”

  16

  “DETESTABLE.”

  English Pudding

  In 1658 Chevalier d’Arrieux wrote of the English Christmas pudding: Their pudding was detestable. It is a compound of scraped biscuits, as flour, suet, currants, salt, and pepper, which are made into a paste, wrapped in a cloth, and boiled in a pot of broth; it is then taken out of the cloth, and put in a plate, and some old cheese is grated over it, which gives it an unbearable smell. Leaving out the cheese, the thing itself is not so very bad.

  Daily Mercury, 19 December 1939

  Rowland and Clyde arrived at the Pudding Club in the International Concession a little before midday. The recording of Alexandra Romanova’s last message that they’d presented to Gilbert Carmel had caused the solicitor some mild concern, but he had agreed to take it to the authorities himself. He gave them an undertaking that he would see what he could find out about the murder of the taxi girl. The wool broker, Andrew Petty, met them as arranged at the door. He pumped Rowland’s hand.

  “Rowly, how perfectly wonderful to see you, old man! You’re looking well despite this dreadful business at the Cathay. You must tell me about it over a drink.”

  Rowland introduced Clyde.

  “Mr. Watson Jones? I say, you’re not perchance related to the Toorak Watson Joneses are you? They were in timber I believe.”

  “No, I’m not… in timber, or related.”

  “Well, come in. The boy will take your coats. Rather traditional establishment this, founded to uphold the English tradition of pudding in Shanghai I believe.”

  “Do the Chinese not have sweets?” Clyde asked.

  “Oh yes, they have those infernal mooncakes and the like but nothing like a jam roly-poly or a spotted dick—good British puddings. It’s that sort of harmless indulgence for which one finds oneself homesick more often than not.”

  He led them into the gentlemen’s club, a bastion of studded leather and oak panels. Aided by the smog of cigar and pipe smoke, the lighting was dim enough to evoke the gloominess of an English day. There was little evidence in the club’s décor of its location in Shanghai. It was thoroughly and intentionally British, with the exception of the Chinese waiting staff.

  Petty ushered them to seats and duly ordered drinks.

  “Now suppose you tell me about this dreadful business with the Russian girl.”

  Uncomfortable with Petty’s interest, Rowland told him as little as he could without being obviously evasive.

  “My giddy aunt! Your hotel room? Did you give the young lady your key?”

  “No.”

  “Good Lord! And now Sassoon’s stowed you at digs somewhere appalling I expect? Why that’s outrageous!”

  “I’m afraid our suite was designated a crime scene and no others were available.”

  “Still, it’s convenient for him.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Old Sassoon has quite the reputation, you know. A patient of Dr. Voronoff, I’m told.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Dr. Serge Voronoff who came to international attention for a certain surgical method.”r />
  Rowland, who had a vague idea of the procedure for which the Russian surgeon was notorious, did not ask further. Sadly Clyde had never heard of Voronoff, and did.

  Petty grinned gleefully. “Voronoff specialised in transplanting thin slices of baboon testicles into human scrotums.”

  “Whatever for?” Clyde asked weakly.

  “In the hope of rejuvenating the gentleman concerned.”

  Rowland flinched, Clyde looked decidedly pained. Petty carried on.

  “Sir Victor has quite a reputation for… voraciousness. If it wasn’t for the fact that the poor girl was found in your suite, I’ve no doubt that the police would be looking carefully at him.”

  Rowland’s face was unreadable. “Sir Victor has been very accommodating—a perfect gentleman and host.”

  “Well, I suppose you could say that. He’s given you somewhere to stay and, in doing so, conveniently severed your connection with his hotel. He’s wily, I’ll give him that.”

  “Are you saying you think Sir Victor killed Miss Romanova?” Clyde blurted.

  “Good Lord, no! I’m merely ruminating on the likelihood that Victor Sassoon would have a key to every nook and cranny within the hotel, including your suite.”

  Rowland refused to be drawn further on the subject. “I expect the police have it all in hand, Mr. Petty.”

  “No doubt.” He signalled the waiter to replenish their drinks. “You’ll be very pleased to know I’ve arranged for you to meet some influential gentlemen from Japan.”

  “I see.”

  “With all this talk of a pending trade embargo, the Japanese are eager to secure a reliable supply of wool and, what’s more, they are prepared to pay very handsomely for it. As you may be aware, your brother has been stockpiling a portion of the Sinclair clip for a number of seasons.”

  Details of the Sinclair wool stockpile, accrued since the early twenties, was not something of which Rowland would normally have been aware had it not been for the intensive briefing to which Wilfred has subjected him before they’d left Sydney. He was, as a result, able to look unsurprised.

  “This is an exciting opportunity, Rowland. You, old boy, have every chance of returning to Sydney having secured a very lucrative deal indeed.”

  Momentarily, Rowland considered confessing that he had been strictly directed to commit to nothing while in Shanghai, but decided against it. “I look forward to meeting these gentlemen.”

  “They’ve invited us to join them for a banquet at the Paramount Ballroom in Little Tokyo.” Petty glanced anxiously at Rowland. “It’s something of an elaborate affair, I believe. I could arrange a suitable young lady for you—”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Petty,” Rowland replied. “But I can make those arrangements myself.”

  “Yes, of course… a young man with your breeding and prospects—of course you can.”

  “I must say I was rather surprised to see Alastair Blanshard the other day. I don’t suppose you know what the old dog’s doing in Shanghai?”

  “Alastair? Goodness me! I believe he’s just taking in the sights… grand tour of the East or some such thing.”

  “So he’s not here on business?”

  “Not any of which I’m aware.”

  They finished their drinks then, over conversation about cricket and weather. Unaware that Rowland had no intention of making any deals, Petty did try to impart some wisdom on commercial negotiation. “Even if their proposition seems an excellent one, it is a better strategy to approach it with a blend of poise and reserve. We’re British after all. Under all circumstances, Rowly my boy, you must not allow excitement to win the day. Follow my lead—I’ll subtly signal you if the offer is good enough to accept.”

  Eventually they made their excuses and took their leave of Petty, setting out from the Pudding Club to return to the Cathay Hotel.

  “Your friend Petty doesn’t seem to have much time for Sassoon,” Clyde said as they made their way back towards the Bund.

  “I noticed.”

  “Even so, he may have a point.”

  “Why would Victor Sassoon kill a taxi girl?” There was more speculation than scepticism in Rowland’s question.

  “Perhaps he knew her, Rowly. Miss Hahn did say Sassoon had a yen for girls with broken hearts—it might have been a crime of passion.”

  “Possibly.” Rowland frowned. He didn’t know about a broken heart but there had been a wistful sadness about Alexandra. “Sassoon is putting us up.”

  “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t suspect him.”

  “No… but it does seem rather ungrateful.”

  Clyde grinned. “Not to mention impolite.”

  Rowland grimaced. He had just been thinking that accusing their host would be rude.

  It took them about half an hour to make their way back to the Cathay, but even so, they arrived at the hotel with twenty minutes to spare. Rowland spoke to Van Hagen, making him aware that they were holding a package for which the owners may call.

  “Do you wish me to give these men your new address, sir?” Van Hagen asked.

  “No,” Rowland said after a moment’s thought. “But perhaps if you could take their details and get in touch with us as soon as possible?”

  “Very good, sir.” The concierge returned to his duties.

  “Let’s have a closer look at these recording booths,” Rowland said, beckoning Clyde to follow.

  The booths were along one wall of the foyer, individual cubicles equipped with a phonograph. There was a glass window in the door of each booth which allowed one to ascertain if it was in use. Rowland let himself into an empty booth and closed the door. He was impressed by the silence within. The cubicle was well sealed for sound. The French-speaking man would have had to have come into the booth to have been caught on the recording. He beckoned to Clyde through the window. Clyde opened the door and stepped in. It was a tight fit with two grown men. Alexandra was smaller than him, of course, but Rowland was struck by the necessary proximity of anyone within the booth. Alexandra had sounded terrified. As it turned out, with good reason.

  A rapping on the glass and Milton’s face pressed against it. Clyde opened the door to find the poet and the sculptress outside.

  “Where’s Wing?” Clyde asked.

  “In the kitchens,” Edna replied. “He wanted to talk to the chef again. He’ll meet us back at Kiangse Road.”

  They found a table in the Jasmine Lounge in which to take tea and share reports of the day. Milton and Edna had spent the morning exploring the French Concession and had taken seats at a matinee show at the Cathay Theatre, which apparently was also owned by Victor Sassoon.

  Rowland recounted their meetings with Gilbert Carmel and Andrew Petty, being careful to keep his voice down as he repeated what Petty had told them about Sassoon.

  “Do you think it’s true?” Edna heaped sugar into the cup she’d filled with Russian Caravan tea.

  Rowland shrugged, taking a finger sandwich from the multi-tiered silver platter of savouries and cakes placed on the table between them. “I get the impression that Mr. Petty does not particularly like Sir Victor, so it might all be vindictive gossip.”

  “But the fact remains,” Clyde said quietly, “Sassoon could have killed Miss Romanova.”

  “Steady on, Clyde. We don’t even know if he knew her.”

  “She worked in his hotel. He’s bound to have run into her, seen her around… ”

  “Maybe.”

  “What was he doing when Miss Romanova was killed? Was he even in the hotel?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s asked him.” Rowland chose another sandwich.

  “Perhaps we should.”

  Rowland considered it. “Mickey—Miss Hahn—might know. She seems to spend rather a lot of time with him, and we could probably ask her less offensively.”

  “Why do you suppose Miss Romanova’s brother wishes to see you?” Clyde asked, reminded of what Emily Hahn had told them that morning.

  Rowland gr
imaced. “I presume the poor chap’s been told that she was found in our suite. He probably wants to know what she was doing there. I would.”

  Clyde nodded. “What are you going to do?”

  Rowland checked his wristwatch. “Thanks to Mr. Wing, we have Alexandra’s address. She lived with her brother, I believe. I’ll call on him this afternoon and offer my condolences.”

  Clyde and Milton exchanged a glance. “We’ll come with you, comrade,” the poet declared. “Clyde and I met her too.”

  “We’ll all go,” Edna added determinedly. “Perhaps there’s something we can do.”

  Alexandra Romanova had lived in one of the less fashionable districts of Shanghai. The European architecture gave way to humbler Chinese-style dwellings and rundown tenements. There were few cars here, the roads ruled by rickshaws.

  “Russians live here predominantly, and the Chinese,” Singh informed them as they waited for a rickshaw to give way. “A very poor area. A lot of crime.” He pulled his taxi up beside a butchery. “This is the address. I think she must have lived above the shop.” He pointed to the rusted iron stairs around the side. “Shall I wait for you all here, sir?”

  “I’m not sure how long we’ll be,” Rowland said apologetically.

  “Not at all, sir. I’ll do my meditation while I wait. It will be time well spent.”

  Though Milton was curious to witness Singh meditating in the taxi, they left him to it, and climbed the creaking iron stairs to a small landing outside a weathered door. They could hear music from within, a melancholy violin. Rowland knocked. At first it seemed the knock was unheard against the music, but when Rowland pounded more loudly, the violin stopped. A few moments later the door was thrown open by an enormous young man. Sergei Romanov was at least as tall as Rowland and about twice as wide. His hair was the same silvery blond as his sister’s had been, swept back from a broad, bearded face. The violin seemed small and toy-like in his large hands. He reeked of sorrow and alcohol, and swayed a little as he stood.

  “Sergei Romanov?”

  “Who asks?”

  “I’m Rowland Sinclair. We’ve come to—”

  Perhaps Rowland’s eyes were lowered as he prepared to offer condolences, for what came next caught him completely by surprise. He reeled as Romanov broke the violin against the side of his head. Divested of their burden, the Russian’s hands closed around Rowland’s throat. Clyde and Milton jumped in, trying to pull the man off, but lack of space aided the white-hot fury of Romanov who was trying to throw Rowland off the landing. Clyde managed to pry one of the Russian’s hands away from Rowland’s neck. Undeterred, Romanov used it to punch Rowland in the jaw instead, elbowing Milton in the face at the same time.