“Can you see them?” Edna tried desperately to glimpse some sign of her friends through the smoke.
Wing shook his head.
Edna pulled away from him and jostled through the crowd towards the stairs.
“Miss Higgins!” Wing pushed after her.
“Ed!” Rowland and Milton hobbled down the stairs with Clyde supported between them. Battered and coughing, they were nevertheless upright.
“The door protected us from the worst of it,” Rowland explained as Edna spluttered her relief. “Clyde seems to have done something to his leg though.”
They moved out into the road away from the burning building.
Wing waved for Singh and his taxi. “Mr. Jones needs a doctor,” he shouted over the rising din. “I’ll stay and find out what happened.”
Edna opened the back door of the Buick.
“Will you and Ed be all right to get Clyde back to Kiangse Road?” Rowland asked Milton as they eased Clyde into the car.
“I’m all right, Rowly, honest to goodness,” Clyde said through gritted teeth.
Rowland pressed his friend’s shoulder. “We won’t be long. I’d better speak with the authorities—make sure someone knows to look for Sergei Romanov.”
Edna reached up to touch Rowland’s face. “Rowly, are you sure you’re—”
“I’m perfectly well, Ed,” he said, supressing a fit of coughing. “Just a bit sooty.” He looked up at the building, which was fully ablaze now. “God, I hope he wasn’t in there.”
“I’ll be back for you, sir,” Singh called out the window as he pressed the car’s horn and inched the Buick through the milling crowd.
Rowland and Wing joined a bucket line passing pails of water for a time and then watched as the Shanghainese firemen brought the fire under control. The upper storey was a smouldering ruin, but the fire had been defeated before the flames spread to neighbouring tenements. Wing found the fire captain and spoke to him of Sergei Romanov.
“They have no idea whether he was in the building,” he said, returning to Rowland. “There was some kind of fuel stored in the apartment which caused the explosion that blew the door off its hinges, but he says it’s too early to tell anything else. They haven’t found any remains, but there may be some in the rubble.”
“Do they know what caused the fire?”
“Well that depends on whether they find any remains.”
“Why?”
“If they don’t, if the apartment was empty, they will conclude arson. If not, carelessness.”
“I see.”
By the time they’d left the necessary contact details with the fire captain, Singh had returned for them in the Buick.
“How’s Clyde?” Rowland asked, getting in.
“Doctor stitched his wound,” Singh replied. “He is not too bad. The doctor is waiting for me to return with you.”
“Me?”
“Miss Higgins insists.”
The physician was having a cup of tea when Rowland and Wing walked through the door. Edna introduced him as Dr. Rubenstein.
“Rowland Sinclair. How’d you do, sir?”
“Please sit down, Mr. Sinclair, and let me examine you.” The physician’s accent was thick. He spoke slowly to compensate.
“It’s quite unnecessary, Dr. Rubenstein. I just need to clean up.”
“Allow me to be the judge of that, Mr. Sinclair.” Rubenstein was already checking Rowland’s eyes. He took a stethoscope from his bag. “Would you mind removing your jacket and opening your shirt?”
“Is that really necessary? I wasn’t hurt.”
“Just let him examine you, Rowly,” Edna said.
“I’d like to listen to your chest. Smoke inhalation can be dangerous.”
Rowland did as he was asked, albeit reluctantly.
Rubenstein stopped for just a moment longer than necessary before he placed the stethoscope on the swastika-shaped scar on Rowland’s chest. The physician was visibly tense. “You have been in Germany,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And this scar? It is an insignia of some sort, a badge.”
“It is a violence,” Edna answered for him fiercely, protectively.
Rowland reached out and took her hand. “It’s all right, Ed. I can assure you, Dr. Rubenstein, this scar does not represent my own views or politics in any way. The injury was inflicted when I was unable to fight back.”
“Are you, by any chance, Jewish, Mr. Sinclair?”
“No, sir. Mr. Röhm’s objection to me was based on something else entirely.”
Rubenstein’s eyes widened. “Ernst Röhm?”
Rowland nodded, hoping Rubenstein would ask no more. He didn’t like talking about the night the Brownshirts had tried to kill him. Even after nearly two years, and though Röhm was now dead, it was a memory mired in pain and fear. The swastika Röhm had branded into his chest with lit cigarettes was still humiliating; it still burned.
Rubenstein paused. “I am terribly sorry for what happened to you.”
“Thank you. But I suspect there are many people who have suffered more than I have at the hands of the current German government.”
“Yes. I expect there are. I expect there will be. Would you cough for me, please, Mr. Sinclair?”
Rowland did so.
Rubenstein checked his lungs, allowing the other scars on Rowland’s upper body to pass without comment. He examined and cleaned the minor lacerations and contusions sustained in the blast and then told Rowland he could redress. “You and Mr. Isaacs have come out of the incident very well.”
“And Clyde?” Rowland asked, worried by the omission.
“Mr. Watson Jones has a cut on his lower leg—shrapnel from the blast, I believe—which required cleaning and several stitches. As long as he keeps the wound clean and stays off the leg for three or four days, I expect him to make a complete recovery.”
Rowland slung his tie back around his collar. “Thank you, sir.”
Rubenstein’s face was thoughtful. “What is your business in Shanghai, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Wool, Dr. Rubenstein. I’m here to trade wool.”
“You be careful, Mr. Sinclair. Shanghai is not entirely beyond the reach of the Third Reich.”
They were interrupted by Milton, who came down the stairs that led to the second-floor bedrooms. He went directly to the drinks cabinet and poured a large glass of scotch. “Clyde sent me down to fetch him a cup of tea… not all that stoic, our Clyde.”
“I’ll ask Harjeet—” Edna turned towards the kitchen.
“No need. I’ve got it right here.” The poet held up the glass.
“You can’t—”
Rubenstein smiled. “A small medicinal drink will not do any harm and may alleviate discomfort.”
Milton grinned triumphantly. “There you go, doctor’s orders! I don’t suppose you’d care for a medicinal scotch, yourself, Dr. Rubenstein?”
Rubenstein glanced at his pocket watch. “I do believe I may have time—for just one.”
Milton handed the glass he’d already poured to Edna. “Take this little pick-me-up to Clyde will you, old thing? You’re much better at dispensing sympathy than I am.”
Edna’s gaze was withering but she took the glass, calling into the kitchen for a plate of Harjeet’s oil cakes before she ran up the stairs.
Milton poured and distributed drinks. He lifted his glass in toast. “To that bloody door.”
“Have you arrived recently in Shanghai?” Rowland asked Rubenstein as they took seats in the drawing room.
The doctor nodded. “Yes. I had been trying to leave Germany with my family for a year, but the world does not want Jews. Shanghai is a free port.”
“Well, comrade,” Milton said sombrely, “I expect you’ll be glad you left Germany when you did!”
Rubenstein regarded the poet carefully. “There are presently many Jewish refugees in Shanghai. Of them, the greater number are fleeing the Bolsheviks, my young friend.”
Mi
lton faltered. He was not oblivious to the excesses of the Bolsheviks, the stories of life in Stalinist Russia as revolutionary idealism became a totalitarian regime. But he was not yet ready to abandon his ideals, his hope that it could be done better.
Rubenstein redirected the conversation himself, asking politely about Australia. It seemed it was one of the countries that had declined his application to migrate. He was curious about the wool business and, thanks to Wilfred’s schooling on the matter, Rowland was able to answer most of his questions.
Rubenstein finished his drink. He stood and replaced the stethoscope into his bag. “I shall return tomorrow to change the dressings on Mr. Watson Jones’ leg.”
Rowland paid him for the house call and walked him out to Singh’s taxi. “Thank you, Dr. Rubenstein,” he said as he shook the physician’s hand.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Sinclair. I hope I did not upset Mr. Isaacs. Young men and their ideals. Sadly, age shows you how ideals may be repurposed by evil men.”
Rowland smiled. “I wouldn’t worry, sir. Both Milt and his ideals are fairly robust.”
Rubenstein’s eyes narrowed. “You do not share them?”
“On the contrary. I’m not a Communist, but Milt and I believe in many of the same things.”
“Yes, of course.” He handed Rowland a card. “Should you have need of me again.”
Rubenstein climbed into the waiting Buick and Ranjit Singh closed the door after him. He hesitated. “Mr. Sinclair, may I have a brief word?”
“Is something the matter, Mr. Singh?”
“I want to ask you to be careful of Wing Zau, sir.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I do not trust him, sir. Gamblers are not so easily reformed and you have simply taken him on his word. This is Shanghai—the truth is only one of many languages spoken here. He comes and goes… who does he meet? And he sings. Are you sure about him, sir?”
“Do you have any specific reason to distrust him, Mr. Singh?”
“Beyond the fact that he is a gambler, that he was in league with gangsters…”
“He was in debt rather than in league.” Rowland glanced at Rubenstein waiting in the car.
Singh inhaled and set his lips. “I suspect that he’s a Communist, Mr. Sinclair. It is a terrible accusation I know, but I have been watching him—”
Rowland interrupted. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Singh, and I assure you I will be careful, but to be honest, I rather like Mr. Wing.”
Singh’s lips kneaded for a moment. “You will excuse me if I keep an eye on him, Mr. Sinclair? For my own comfort.”
“If you must, Mr. Singh.”
Rowland stood for a minute, watching as Singh’s Buick pulled out and drove off to return the doctor to his home. He wondered if he should do more about the animosity between his employees, but he couldn’t very well order Wing and Singh to get along. This was not something he’d had cause to deal with before—at Woodlands the staff was so ably managed by his housekeeper that he had no idea of their personal frictions. Milton was still in the drawing room brooding over his whisky when Rowland walked back into the house.
“Are you all right, Milt?”
“Me? Dandy. Just thinking about what Rubenstein said.” He paused thoughtfully. “The good doctor’s right you know.”
“About what exactly?”
“As much as the Fascists are wrecking the world, my lot isn’t exactly covering itself in glory in Russia.”
“No, it’s not.”
Milton shook his head. “The principles aren’t wrong… how could they be wrong?”
Rowland sat opposite him. “Perhaps they’re not. Perhaps they’re just in the hands of the wrong people.”
“Is that true of the Fascists as well?”
Rowland paused and then shook his head. “As far as I can tell, Milt, there are no ideals behind the Nazis. Just the rantings of a madman.”
“For all we know, Stalin may be just as mad, Rowly.” Milton spoke so quietly he was barely audible, and Rowland was aware of what the admission, the realisation, must have cost him. In many ways, Milton had always been the most certain of them, anchored by his beliefs.
“Quite possibly.” Rowland rubbed his face. “Democracy has elevated lunatics, and persecuted people before too… still, I’m not ready to abandon the idea.”
Milton shook an accusing finger at him. “But you, Rowland Sinclair, are a hopeless romantic.”
Rowland smiled. Perhaps he should have found the poet’s politics as offensive as he did the Fascists’, but he didn’t. There was nobility and compassion in Milton’s belief in the Communist cause—it just relied on an over-estimation of human nature. As much as his friend accused him of being a romantic, Rowland suspected that Milton and Clyde were the true idealists. “Where did you find Rubenstein?” he asked.
“Ed telephoned the hotel’s switchboard—told them we needed a doctor. Victor Sassoon sent him.” Milton’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“He was just very interested in what we were doing in Shanghai. It made me wonder.”
“You suspect he’s an undercover policeman?”
Rowland laughed. “No. Nothing like that. I just find it incredible that anyone could be that interested in the wool business.”
Milton pulled at his goatee as he considered the physician’s manner. “Now you mention it, he was very inquisitive about what you were doing here. And he did ask Clyde and me rather a lot of questions too.”
“What kind of questions?”
“How long we’d been in Shanghai, what business we were in, how long we planned to stay—that sort of thing.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I was your poet—that you always travelled with at least one.”
“Naturally. Did he believe you?”
“He wrote it down. I don’t suppose he’s reporting back to Sassoon.”
Rowland exhaled. “It could simply be that he’s nosey,” he said in an attempt to be fair. “Perhaps it’s just his bedside manner. Speaking of which—” Rowland stood. “I should check on our fallen comrade.”
Clyde was resting comfortably with his bandaged leg elevated on a pillow. Wing Zau had brought up a more conventional pot of tea and he and Edna sat with the injured artist playing gin rummy.
When Rowland came in, Wing put his hand down hastily.
“I’ve no objections to cards, Mr. Wing. Just deal Milt and me into the next hand.”
“We’re not playing for money, Mr. Sinclair,” Wing said guiltily.
“Probably wise. Ed’s a ruthless creditor.”
“Well she would be, if she ever won,” Milton added.
Edna replied by taking the hand.
“How are you feeling, Clyde?” Rowland pulled up a chair beside the bed.
“I’ll live. Did Romanov?”
“I don’t know. If he was in the apartment he didn’t escape, but we can’t be sure he was in there at all.”
Wing recounted his conversation with the fire captain.
“So someone may have tried to kill him?” Edna said, moving from the end of Clyde’s bed to the arm of Rowland’s chair.
“I’m afraid someone might have succeeded,” Rowland replied.
“Oh… no.”
Rowland rubbed Edna’s hand. “All I mean is that we don’t know yet, Ed. With any luck he was out when the fire started, however it started.”
“If the fire was started to kill Sergei Romanov,” Milton lay back on his own bed, “then that puts what happened to Alexandra in a different light.”
“What do you mean?” Clyde asked.
“Well, surely it shows that these murders are something to do with the Romanovs… their past or current activities; that Alexandra’s death was nothing to do with Rowly.”
“Yes, but we always knew it was nothing to do with Rowly,” Clyde said.
“We always knew that Rowly didn’t kill her but Rowly’s acquired some powerful enemies. It may
have been that Alexandra’s murderer was waiting for him,” Milton said thoughtfully. “But,” he added before anyone could protest, “this attempt on Sergei, whether or not it was successful, does indicate that Alexandra wasn’t just some poor girl in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Harjeet appeared at the open door with a tray bearing a larger teapot and several cups. The uninjured gentlemen rose to relieve her of the tray. Harjeet handed the tray to Wing and turned to Rowland. “There was a telephone call, just now, Mr. Sinclair. An Inspector Randolph. He did not wish to speak to you, sir, only to ask whether you were in.”
“I expect he intends to call,” Rowland said.
Edna looked him up and down, wrinkling her nose. “You and Milt better clean up,” she said. “I’ll call Mr. Carmel now, and Mr. Wing and I will keep the inspector occupied until you both look less like you started a fire.”
20
MIRACLES ARE CHEAP TO-DAY
Home Movies for Tenpence
THE name for cheap stores in America is the Five and Ten, meaning five and ten cents, though many articles are sold in them costing twenty cents, or tenpence in English money.
The very latest of those is a real kinematograph projector, which gives moving pictures on a safety film by its own electric light. A new lamp costs twopence halfpenny! Remarkably good little moving pictures can be displayed with these projectors, and their invention is of very real interest. The two new films which enable amateur photographers to take home moving pictures in natural colours have given a tremendous stimulus to domestic kinematography, and the little tenpenny marvels are just one more step toward an age in which the film will reign supreme in the fields of both entertainment and education.
Telegraph, 24 October 1935
Rowland washed the soot from his hair and body, and changed quickly. There was little he could do, however, to disguise the dark bruise to his temple left by Sergei Romanov’s violin. He made his way down the staircase. He could hear Edna in conversation with Chief Inspector Randolph as he approached the drawing room.
“Are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea, Inspector? I’m sure Rowly won’t be a minute.”
“Miss Higgins, I must ask you again, is Mr. Sinclair on the premises?”
All the Tears in China Page 16
