Rowland regarded his translator anew. There was something about the way that Wing spoke… more for the Communists than of them.
“You’re right, Mr. Wing. I was talking about the Bolsheviks.”
“They are not the same thing, I expect.” Wing glanced at Kuznetsov. “I apologise, sir. I forgot my place.”
“I take it you do not like Count Kuznetsov?”
Wing paused. “I wish to repay your kindness to me by protecting you against men who do not deserve your trust. Shanghai is not a place in which you can simply trust the face of a man.”
“I appreciate your efforts, but you do not need to protect me, Mr. Wing,” Rowland said carefully.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Are you also trying to protect me from Mr. Singh?” Rowland ventured.
Wing took a deep breath. “What do you really know about him, sir? He insinuated himself into your employ and now his sister is running your household. I believe you should be more careful.” He straightened his tie nervously. “I do not trust him.”
Rowland smiled. The similarity between Wing’s concerns and Singh’s was not lost on him. “That much is clear.”
Wing regarded Rowland silently for a moment. “Are the Nazis a problem in Australia?”
“Not particularly, but I fear that if they are not stopped they will become a problem for Australia… and the rest of the world.”
Wing smiled. “The West perhaps. It is not all the world, Mr. Sinclair.”
“You’re right, Mr. Wing. It is not, but it seems the Nazis are here too.”
Wing shook his head. “China has more to fear from the Japanese.” He frowned, choosing his words carefully. “Every government oppresses some part of its people, Mr. Sinclair. The KMT persecutes the Communists, the Americans their Negroes, even your Australia legislates against the Chinese and disenfranchises its Aboriginal people. Why is it that the Nazis disturb you more than any other capitalist government?”
Rowland was caught off guard. He faltered. “I don’t know.”
Wing said nothing, giving him time to consider the question.
Rowland rubbed his face. Wing Zau seemed very familiar with world affairs and nothing he said was untrue. “I can’t tell you, Wing. I don’t really know why this became my fight more than any other.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, Mr. Sinclair,” Wing ventured, “your dislike of the Nazis seems… personal.”
Rowland shrugged. “Perhaps it is.” He tried to explain—to himself as much as Wing. “We were in Germany a couple of years ago—Munich. I came to the notice of the Brownshirts and… well… it all ended rather badly I’m afraid.” Rowland frowned, uncomfortable with the thought. “My brother believes I’ve become obsessed with the Nazis as a result.”
“Is he correct?”
“Perhaps.”
Wing nodded. “You must forgive my curiosity, Mr. Sinclair. I have an interest in what makes a man stand for one thing and sit quietly for others.”
Rowland blanched. “I don’t know, Mr. Wing. I never meant to do one or the other.”
“I am not critical, Mr. Sinclair, just curious.”
“What exactly did you study at MIT, Mr. Wing?”
“Philosophy.”
Rowland paused. “You know, Wing, it would not bother me in the least if you were a Communist.”
Wing nodded. “There are no Communists in Shanghai, Mr. Sinclair.”
24
PARIS OF THE EAST THROUGH MICHAEL’S EYES.
Sophistication in China.
SHANGHAI, June 27.
THE GAMBLING SPIRIT
Greyhound racing is a very popular sport with the wealthier Chinese, and very popular is the new Canidrome Garden cabaret, which is run in conjunction with the racing as an open-air show. Polo, too, has been enjoying a wave of popularity, partly due to the fact that Winston Guest, America’s No. 2 player, stopped off here for long enough to have a few chukkas with the local lads…
They race native ponies up here, gentleman riders and all that sort of thing. Sir Victor Sassoon’s stable ran away with the “Champions,” which is Shanghai’s equivalent to the Derby. The ponies are so small that one loses sight of them on the far stretches of the course, and has time for a little sleep before they come into view again. But one certainly doesn’t lose sight of the dressing at these comic little “meets.” One stunning dress I saw was a tunic, cut absolutely straight—another touch of the Chinese influence—pulling on over the head, with a spotted scarf knotted round the neck and showing through a slot somewhere down on the chest and tied in a bow. The frock was a kind of soft watermelon pink crepe pongee, and the scarf a hazy kind of blue spotted in white. (I hope my masculine descriptions are adequate.)
Huge cartwheel hats are all the rage here, and are seen everywhere worn on all occasions. Very shallow as to crown, the shallower the better (echoes of Princess Marina even in Shanghai).
—Michael.
Sydney Morning Herald, 25 July 1935
Rowland handed three letters to Harjeet Bal for posting. One each to his mother and his nephew, full of gentle news, observations about China and quick drawings of rickshaws and pagodas. The third letter, addressed to Wilfred Sinclair, was thicker. Rowland had spent most of the morning writing the detailed account of all that had happened since they arrived in Shanghai. Of course it would be weeks before the letter actually reached Wilfred. But it would at least explain more fully the intermittent telegrams that both he and Gilbert Carmel had sent thus far. He could only imagine what Wilfred was thinking, probably shouting, on the other side of the world.
The process of corresponding everything to his brother did make him wonder exactly what act had set him on this path. Was it that he had danced with Alexandra Romanova? Would none of this have happened if he had not gone to the Jazz Club that evening, or if he had not agreed to purchase her services on the floor? Or was it because he had asked her to take tea with him the following day? If he had not done one or any of these things, would she still be alive, or would she simply have died somewhere other than his suite?
It had been a couple of days since the excursion to Fengjing. The time had been one of frustration in which their attempts to find Sergei Romanov had led nowhere. Indeed they had been unable to establish with any certainty whether the Russian was dead or alive. The Jazz Club band had apparently left Shanghai to play at a private event so they could not follow up on Wing’s thoroughly unsuccessful attempt to question them.
Rowland had wanted to go to Randolph about the possibility that Edna was the intended victim, but Gilbert Carmel had been adamant that he should not speak with authorities. “Going to the police with theories only serves to make you seem suspicious, my boy. Allow me to deal with Inspector Randolph.”
Rowland returned to the sanctuary and sanity of his easel and the painting of Alexandra. It was an unusual composition. Alexandra’s face dominated the close foreground, her gaze fixed slightly upwards, her eyes bright with life. Behind her, couples dancing.
In the other room Wing Zau was singing “Stormy Weather”, which Ethel Waters had made a hit a couple of years before. It helped somehow to bring back details of that night at the Jazz Club.
Clyde hobbled up behind him, leaning heavily on the cane which Milton had found in one of the umbrella stands. “Bloody hell, Rowly! Blowed if I know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Remember. It’s been over a week since the night you danced with her. I can’t paint my mother from memory.”
Rowland handed Clyde his notebook. “I made a few sketches that evening after we’d returned from the Jazz Club.”
Clyde flicked through the pages. “You were taken with her then?”
“Yes, I was,” he admitted. “I liked her, Clyde. I felt sorry for her.”
Clyde nodded. Rowland had often fallen victim to his own gallantry. Clyde handed the notebook back and leaned against the back of the couch. “Something Ed said the other night got me thinking. Do you rem
ember when she pointed out that perhaps this wasn’t all about you?”
Rowland grimaced. “Yes. I do.”
“Well, I was thinking, what if Alexandra didn’t die in our suite?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“We’d only just checked in at the Cathay. What if her death was connected with bloke who had the suite before us?”
“I see.” Rowland frowned. “My God, you’re right! Perhaps the killer didn’t realise the last resident had checked out.”
Clyde agreed. “We need to find out who took the suite before us.”
Rowland checked his watch. “I’ll drop into the Cathay and call on Sassoon.”
“But would Sassoon know something like that?” Clyde was sceptical.
Rowland shrugged. “The suites aren’t generally taken by your standard guest. Whoever it was may have come to Sir Victor’s attention.”
“Like we did?”
“Hopefully not quite in the way we did.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you rest that leg. I’ll take Milt.”
Rowland directed Ranjit Singh to the Canidrome in Frenchtown as he climbed into the Buick.
“Very good, sir.”
“I thought we were going to see Sassoon.” Milton leaned forward from the back seat.
“He’s having drinks with Mickey at the Canidrome Club. She happened to mention the other night that they do so every Tuesday.”
The greyhound racing stadium in the French Concession was vast. Located on the Rue Lafayette, the stadium could seat some fifty thousand spectators. Its façade was modern—a monolithic building with a central deco tower which housed the members’ club. Singh dropped them off at the portico before moving on to find a place to park and wait.
“I don’t suppose you’ve actually thought about how we’re going to get in?” Milton whispered as they approached the entrance. A sign declaring “Members Only” was mounted prominently on a stand beside a vigilant doorman.
Rowland smiled. “I say, my good man,” he said addressing the doorman. “I’m afraid we’re frightfully late. Rowland Sinclair and Milton Isaacs—we’re joining Miss Hahn and Sir Victor.”
“Sir Victor did not mention—”
Rowland looked nonplussed. “Possibly he was preoccupied with Miss Hahn.”
The doorman nodded, but still he hesitated.
“I understand.” Rowland produced a gilt-edged calling card from his pocket. “Would you mind giving Sir Victor my card? Just so he knows we tried to keep our appointment, despite our tardiness.”
“No, no, sir. That will not be necessary. Sir Victor and Miss Hahn are in the bar.” He flagged someone to replace him at the door. “I’ll take you myself.”
The Canidrome members’ bar was a modern space. Large picture windows overlooking the stadium ensured that members missed none of the action on the track whilst they partook of cocktails in the comfort of club lounges. The bar itself was an elaborate geometric affair of mirrors and ebony in classic deco style. Framed photographs of champion greyhounds made Rowland think briefly of Lenin—not that his dog had ever been a champion. Indeed Lenin was barely a greyhound, but Rowland did miss him. The air in the club was manually circulated by servants who stood along the room’s perimeter and operated fans made of cheesecloth stretched taut over bamboo frames.
Victor Sassoon and Mickey Hahn were not alone. The tycoon and the journalist stood in a cluster of feathered hats and cigarettes in long holders, a gay gathering of elegant people. The doorman approached Sassoon and pointed out the Australians. For a moment Rowland feared Sassoon would deny any appointment with them.
“There you are, finally!” Mickey intervened.
Sassoon exhaled and then followed suit. Satisfied that they were guests of a member, as they had claimed, the cautious doorman left them to it.
“I apologise for this intrusion, Sir Victor,” Rowland said, keeping his voice down. “There is a matter about which I’d like to speak to you.”
“And this matter couldn’t wait?”
“I plan to see Chief Inspector Randolph later this afternoon.” Rowland watched Sassoon carefully. “I had hoped to clarify some details first.”
Sassoon drained his glass. “Well, since you have already told the concierge that you are doing so, you’d better join Mickey and me for a spot of luncheon.” He clicked his fingers and they were shown to a table by the window.
Sassoon ordered for them all, insisting that they try the beef Wellington, which was apparently the chef’s speciality. Mickey spoke dreamily of Xunmei.
Sassoon told her, perhaps a little churlishly, that the poet was married.
Rowland couldn’t tell if Mickey had known, or if she simply did not care.
It was not till the main course arrived that Rowland broached the subject of the suite’s previous occupant.
“Am I to understand that you believe that the previous guest had something to do with the taxi girl’s murder?” Sassoon asked.
“We had only just checked into that suite, Sir Victor. Perhaps the former guest had some connection with Miss Romanova?”
Sassoon’s eyes narrowed. “And you wish to give that information to the chief inspector?”
“Randolph could probably find the information himself,” Milton noted. “But yes, it would save time just to tell him.”
Sassoon shook his head. “The previous guest could not possibly have had anything to do with it. I suggest you gentlemen look elsewhere. I certainly advise against speaking to the police about such nonsense.”
Milton bristled, opening his mouth to retort. Rowland placed a cautionary hand on the poet’s arm. “Thank you for your advice, Sir Victor. But you see, the previous resident’s connection with Miss Romanova may not have been as her murderer but perhaps as the intended victim.”
Sassoon shook his head. “No. I assure you the person in question has no connection whatsoever to the incident!”
“How can you be sure, sir?” Rowland asked calmly.
“Because Victor’s rather well acquainted with her,” Mickey said languidly. “The person who had your suite before you was me.” She stifled a yawn. “Dear Victor was generous enough to upgrade Helen and me to a suite. I moved out into my little apartment on Kiangse Road just a couple of days before that poor girl died.”
Rowland wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Helen?” he asked in the end.
“My sister. It’s on her account that I’m in Shanghai at all. I was intent on returning to the Congo.”
“Where is she?”
“Oh, she sailed for home.”
“Could whoever killed Miss Romanova have mistaken her for you?” Milton asked.
“Perhaps, but I don’t see why anyone would want to kill me.”
“Mickey has no enemies in China,” Sassoon declared. “Not a one! Why she is the toast of Shanghai society!”
“But still…”
“Mr. Sinclair,” Sassoon began angrily. “Rest assured that if you do anything to embroil Miss Hahn in this unfortunate and sordid affair I shall be forced to withdraw the hospitality and generosity I have afforded you and your friends to date. I am not an enemy you wish to make.”
“Are you threatening me, Sir Victor?”
“Yes, I believe I am.”
“For goodness’ sake, Victor,” Mickey said impatiently. “Don’t be absurd!” She turned to Rowland and Milton. “You must forgive Victor, gentlemen. He’s very protective of me. And he’s right—there’s no one in China who would wish me harm. Whoever killed Miss Romanova did not do so believing she was me, or Helen for that matter.” She giggled. “Helen is even more inoffensive than I!”
“Is there anyone outside China who might wish you harm?” Rowland asked. “Someone who might have followed you here?”
A blink. A barely perceptible hesitation. “No.”
“Why did you come to Shanghai?” Milton asked.
“I’d say that’s none of your affair, Mr. Isaacs!” Sassoon
growled.
“I’ve already told Rowland,” Mickey replied wearily. “I’m convalescing after a broken heart. I was on my way to the Congo when I was seduced by China.”
“I think we’ve endured quite enough of your questions,” Sassoon said impatiently. “They are quite improper and my patience is exhausted.” Sassoon signalled the concierge. “I’m afraid the gentlemen will not be staying.”
Milton glanced at Rowland and hastily shoved as much of his remaining beef Wellington as he could into his mouth.
“Would you mind showing them out?” Sassoon said.
“Thank you for your time, Sir Victor.” Rowland stood. Milton grabbed one more mouthful before following suit.
“I hope we understand each other, Mr. Sinclair,” Sassoon huffed.
Rowland didn’t reply, taking his leave of Mickey instead. She smiled at him drowsily.
They were escorted out. It was an eviction, but a very civil one.
“Well, what do you think?” Milton asked as they waited for Singh to bring the Buick around.
“I don’t know.” Rowland frowned. “Sassoon made his feelings clear. Of course, he could be trying to protect Mickey, or something else entirely.”
“Though, if someone’s trying to kill Mickey Hahn, one wonders why they haven’t tried again.” Milton shaded his eyes against the midday sun. “She lives on her own, aside from that monkey.”
Rowland smiled. “She did say he bites.”
“So what are we going to tell Randolph, comrade?”
Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. He had no wish to drag Mickey into the investigation but there was a possibility she was in danger.
Singh pulled up and they climbed in.
“Where can I take you, sir?”
Rowland sighed. “Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Mr. Singh.”
25
DANCING IN THE EAST.
Steady Ascendency of Jazz.
That jazz was gradually superseding native dancing in China and Japan was the opinion of Mr. J. A. Andrew, who arrived at Melbourne aboard the steamer Kamo Maru yesterday after spending four years as dancing instructor at the Imperial Hotel, Tokyo; the Cathay Hotel, Shanghai; and the Hong Kong Hotel. Mr. Andrews, who is returning to England to act as manager for Miss Pat Sykes, undefeated ballroom dancing champion of Europe, said that the Chinese, particularly the young girls, were showing great aptitude towards the modern Western dances. Classes in the large hotels were attended by numbers of both sexes, many of whom had previously been exponents of native dancing. In spite of the swing towards modern dancing, concessions had been made to native ideas by adapting musical scores to the native instruments.
All the Tears in China Page 20
