The Age, 19 May 1936
When Rowland Sinclair and Milton Isaacs arrived and requested an audience with the chief inspector, Randolph had no other engagements or pressing duties. Regardless, he insisted the Australians wait in the anteroom outside his office for forty minutes. It would, he thought, reiterate that he was not to be mistaken for a servant at their beck and call. In Randolph’s experience, the Cathay’s guests often needed to be reminded of that fact.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Isaacs?”
Rowland took one of the seats in front of the inspector’s vast pedestal desk, Milton the other. “We’ve come across some information which we hoped might assist you in finding Miss Romanova’s killer.”
“What do you mean when you say you came across this information?”
“It is information we uncovered through our own investigations,” Milton said impatiently.
“Your own investigations?” Randolph’s voice rose. “On what authority do you gentlemen conduct an investigation in the International Concession?”
“We weren’t conducting an investigation as such.” Rowland intervened before the man could lose his temper. “We were merely alert to any facts that might relate to Miss Romanova’s death.”
Milton rolled his eyes.
“Why?”
Rowland’s jaw tensed. “I discovered her body, Chief Inspector. That might be an ordinary occurrence in your particular line of work, but I find myself unable not to care about who killed the poor woman.”
“Might I remind you, Mr. Sinclair, that you remain a suspect in Alexandra Romanova’s murder?”
“All the more reason for me to care about establishing who really killed her, I should think.”
Randolph stared at him. Finally he took up a pen and dipped it in the inkwell. “Very well then. What is it you wish to say?”
Rowland ventured the possibility that the taxi girl was killed by mistake.
“What exactly do you mean, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Perhaps the murderer intended to kill someone else.”
“Are you saying you believe you were the intended victim?”
“Me? No. But perhaps Miss Higgins or Miss Hahn, or her sister for that matter.”
“Miss Hahn?”
Rowland informed Randolph about the suite’s previous occupants.
“What makes you believe Miss Hahn or her sister is connected with the murder?”
“I don’t necessarily believe either is. I’m looking for any reason that a young woman might be brutally killed in my suite.”
“Or perhaps you’re trying to move the attention of the police from yourself.”
“I’m not,” Rowland said simply.
“That’s all right then.” Randolph sneered. “I’ll just ignore the fact that the victim was found in your suite and that you were covered in her blood!”
Milton stood. “Look you—”
“Steady on, Milt.” Rowland stopped the poet before he could erupt, then met Randolph’s eye and held it. “I don’t expect you to ignore it, Inspector. But neither do I expect you to ignore other lines of enquiry which might, in fact, bring Miss Romanova’s murderer to justice.”
“I applaud your determination to secure justice for a taxi girl. Exactly what was the nature of your relationship with the deceased?”
Rowland exhaled as he reminded himself to keep his temper. “I danced with her and I found her body. I presume if you could prove I had done anything else I would have been arrested by now.”
“I wouldn’t be in a hurry to presume anything if I were you, sir.”
Rowland cursed furiously as they left the station. He nearly turned back to have a more frank word with the chief inspector. It was, unusually, Milton who advised restraint and caution. “He’s just looking for a reason to throw you in gaol, comrade.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“Because cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face.”
“Blake,” Rowland growled.
“Believe me,” Milton persisted. “I know his type only too well.”
“What flaming type?”
“The jumped-up little dictator type. Don’t push him, Rowly. He probably doesn’t have enough to convict you, but he might be able to lock you up for a while and…” Milton hesitated. “Wilfred isn’t here.”
Rowland’s face clouded further, but he could not deny that his brother’s influence might make matters easier now, even in Shanghai. He pushed a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’re right. I probably shouldn’t get myself arrested.”
Milton placed a hand on Rowland’s shoulder. “Come on, mate. You’ve told him what we know, it’s all you can do.”
“For the moment.”
“Yes, for the moment.” Milton glanced at his watch. “Don’t you and Ed have to go to this fancy party tonight?”
Rowland nodded unenthusiastically.
“Then we’ll see if we can find Sergei Romanov tomorrow.”
“We probably have time now if we hurry—”
Milton shook his head. “You’ll be cutting it too fine, Rowly. Go do what Wilfred sent you here to do—Sergei will keep.”
Rowland’s laugh was wry. “Wilfred sent me here to do nothing. He made that very clear.”
“Well, you should be able to do an excellent job then.” Milton signalled Singh and the Buick. “We’d better head back so you can change. I believe your lot prefer to wear dinner suits while they do nothing.”
The Paramount Ballroom was on Bubbling Well Road, just outside the French Concession. As it was in actuality a number of dance halls, the complex occupied a substantial part of the block.
“Andrew Petty promised to drop us home,” Rowland told Ranjit Singh as the Buick picked its way through the congestion.
“I can wait, sir.”
“This might take hours, Mr. Singh, and I don’t see anywhere for you to park the car.”
Edna agreed. “We’ll go back to Kiangse Road with Mr. Petty. You go home to your wife, Mr. Singh.”
Singh frowned. He wagged his finger at them. “Promise me you won’t be tempted to take a rickshaw. The drivers all take opium—it’s very dangerous.”
Solemnly, Edna made the promise.
Rowland climbed out of the Buick and walked around to hold the door open for Edna. She took his hand and stepped out, the split of her cheongsam parting to give Rowland a glimpse of her thigh. She laughed as she noticed his gaze. “I’ve posed for you a hundred times, Rowly—you’ve seen my leg before. It’s hardly cause for alarm.”
Rowland nodded. “I assure you I’m not alarmed.”
Edna entwined her arm in his. “Shall we make an entrance then?”
They walked into the building and were ushered by a doorman to the main ballroom on the ground floor. The massive hall embodied all the glamour and sleek style of contemporary fashion with the decadent flair of the previous decade. The Harlem Boys—an American jazz band—played in the ornate shell which formed the back of the stage. Round tables had been laid with white linen and silver for a banquet of many courses. A mezzanine level provided a surrounding balcony which overlooked the lower hall, and from which guests might watch the dancing or retreat to private conversations. Strings of flowers attached to the mezzanine hung over the tables forming suspended centrepieces. The lighting was dim, the atmosphere charged but not quite celebratory.
“Oh it’s beautiful,” Edna murmured reaching out to touch a string of flowers. It seemed they were among the last guests to arrive.
Andrew Petty spotted them and approached with outstretched congeniality. “Sinclair! You’re here at last. How are you, old man?”
Rowland shook Petty’s hand and introduced Edna.
Petty took her hand and raised it to his lips. “We’re going to be frightful bores and talk business from time to time, so do allow me to apologise in advance, Miss Higgins… though I suspect a young lady as enchanting as yourself will not be short of company if Sinclair
is obliged to neglect you occasionally.”
“Exactly the reason I’ll be doing no such thing,” Rowland replied pleasantly.
Petty faltered and then he laughed. “Oh, I see, very good, Sinclair, very good. But you may have to, I’m afraid. The Japanese chaps are determined to make a deal tonight.” He showed them to their seats at one of the banquet tables. Despite Petty’s insistence that Rowland would need a partner for the event, the other men at their table were unaccompanied.
Petty introduced Rowland to a number of Japanese businessmen including Messers Akhito and Yiragowa, to whom the others seemed to defer. Standing dutifully behind each of their Japanese hosts was an interpreter—young men barely out of their teens, who were not introduced and who spoke only when translating words into and from English. The businessmen shared a military stiffness to their carriage and a slow formality to their speech.
Also at the table were Messrs Masey and Lloyd-Jones of the Japan-Australia Society. Masey was young, no older than Rowland, and a representative of Johnson and Johnson. Rowland was already vaguely acquainted with Lloyd-Jones who resided in Woollahra.
The table’s numbers were completed by Herr Rabe of Siemens, and Miss Violet Rutherford, who had come with Andrew Petty.
Rowland shook all the necessary hands and returned the bows of the Japanese gentlemen; Edna accepted introductory compliments with modesty and grace.
John Rabe, who was seated beside Edna, spoke English and so was able to engage the sculptress without the stilted conduit of translators. Rowland sketched him mentally. The German businessman had no particularly striking features. His forehead stretched to the crown of his head, and his upper lip bore the tidy, unremarkable moustache that was currently popular among men his age. His eyes were intelligent, assessing. The director of the local subsidiary of Siemens, a European company which dealt in industrial manufacture, Rabe and the Japanese seemed on familiar terms. Rowland pushed in Edna’s chair as an army of waiters emerged in formation to serve the first course and keep glasses refreshed.
“Yiragowa has been charged by the Japanese government and a consortium of respected manufacturers to purchase wool on their behalf—the others all answer to him,” Petty whispered into Rowland’s ear. “They are keen to come to an understanding.”
Rowland nodded, awkwardly aware that he’d been instructed to do anything but come to an understanding. Despite his best efforts to linger in social small talk, the conversation launched into business almost immediately. Fortunately, the need to use interpreters slowed the pace. Rowland said as little as possible whilst Andrew Petty waxed lyrical about the superior quality of Australian wool and the gentlemen from the Japan-Australia society spoke equally effusively about the friendship between Australia and Japan.
“You will not find a better price for your wool than that which we can offer, Mr. Sinclair,” Yiragowa’s interpreter said impassively.
“I have no doubt.” Rowland glanced at Yiragowa, noting a hint of pride and expectation in the tilt of his head as the interpreter relayed the words. Regardless, Rowland offered no more. There was an exchange of Japanese which the interpreters did not convey.
In an effort to avoid direct questioning on the subject, Rowland invited Herr Rabe into the conversation, asking him about business in China.
Rabe spoke enthusiastically about the opportunities China could offer. In the background, the interpreters translated the conversation into Japanese.
“And how do you think the Chinese feel about the focus of the business world on their country?” Rowland asked, knowing the topic was probably not strictly appropriate for polite conversation, but hoping politics might waylay further talk of wool.
“My children and grandchildren were born here, Mr. Sinclair. I have tremendous sympathy for the Chinese people.”
“Do you consider yourself Chinese, Herr Rabe?” Edna asked.
Rabe shook his head emphatically. “I am German in heart and mind. My first allegiance is to the Fatherland.”
Edna’s hand touched Rowland’s arm under the table.
Rowland took a chance. “And the Nazis?” he asked in German. “Do they have your allegiance too?”
The interpreters murmured, confused. Clearly none of them understood German.
Rabe watched Rowland carefully and replied in German. “But of course. I am an organiser of the party in Shanghai. Like all loyal Germans I love the Führer. If only the Chinese were blessed with a government like the Third Reich.”
Petty looked flustered. “I say, chaps, I don’t know if you realise the interpreters don’t understand German… nor I, for that matter.”
Rowland noticed a few couples on the dance floor and saw his chance. He stood and held his hand out to Edna. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I might dance with Miss Higgins before the next course is served.”
“I say,” Petty said, surprised, “is that—”
Edna took Rowland’s hand. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Sinclair.”
The Harlem Boys were playing a Lindy Hop when Rowland and Edna stepped out. The dance was not particularly well known in Australia, but they had picked up the steps while abroad a couple of years before. It took only a couple of tentative beats to find their rhythm on the spring-form dance floor, which suited the energy of movement. Conversation was, of course, constrained by the demands of the dance and the volume of the music so close to the stage.
It seemed the Hop was popular in Shanghai because by its end there were several more couples on the floor. And so Rowland and Edna settled into a slow jazz waltz within the privacy of a crowd.
Edna looked up at Rowland and smiled. “That’s better,” she said. “I was worried the conversation at the table was getting too serious.”
Rowland grimaced. “The Japanese seem fairly intent on buying our wool,” he said. “Perhaps I should just tell them that all business decisions are made by Wil.”
“I’m not sure I understand why they are so determined to do business with the Sinclairs.” Edna leaned back as Rowland led her into a series of turns.
“I suspect it’s the influence of the Sinclair name they want. Petty seems to think the other brokers are waiting to see if Wil is willing to sell to the Japanese.”
“Do you think he is?”
“I’m afraid my brother’s business machinations are a mystery to me.”
Edna’s brow furrowed, her eyes fixed on his. “Herr Rabe. He’s a Nazi.”
“Yes.”
“That bothers you.”
Rowland sighed. “I suspect you can’t be a German businessman nowadays without being a member. Rabe is probably like every other politically convenient, opportunistic businessman. If Germany was Communist he’d be singing ‘The Red Flag’ with gusto.”
“So you’re not… you know?” Edna asked quietly.
Rowland looked down. The sculptress’ cheek rested against his lapel. He understood why she was worried. For months after their time in Germany he had been unable to work or sleep. But he had learned to deal with those memories now. He was no longer crippled by them. “I’m perfectly all right,” he said.
“Who do you suppose all these people are?” Edna asked.
“What do you mean?”
Edna glanced around at the hundreds of people in the hall, at tables, in alcoves, on the dance floor, and leaning over the balcony. “Are the Japanese hoping to do business with them all?”
“Many of them, I expect,” Rowland replied. “Apparently there’s serious talk of a trade embargo against Japan. I suppose they’re trying to make sure they have what they need before it’s imposed.”
“So all these people have something they want?”
Rowland cast his eyes about the hall. “I suspect some of them are just people who go to dances,” he said. “I saw Bernadine just now, and that chap Chao Kung—the Buddhist abbot. I wouldn’t have thought either would have anything of interest to the Japanese.”
Edna craned her neck in an attempt to glimpse Chao Kung. Rowlan
d assisted by lowering her into a dip so she could see the unusual holy man, albeit upside down.
“Thank you.” She laughed as he pulled her up and finished the movement with a turn. “We probably should resume our seats before poor Mr. Petty explodes.”
Rowland looked back at their table. All eyes were on them. He sighed. “One more number. The more time we spend here, the less time I’ll have to spend trying to avoid committing Wil to anything.”
26
TREBÏTSCH LINCOLN.
Return to Shanghai.
SHANGHAI.—Refused permission to reside in Great Britain, America, Japan and European countries, the Abbot Chao Kung, better known in the western world as Trebitsch Lincoln who, in the course of a chequered career was a member of the British Parliament and later a war-time spy, returned to Shanghai last night accompanied by six Buddhist priests and one nun.
He is thoroughly embittered at his treatment at the hands of western nations, among whom he intended to spread the Buddhist faith. Refusing to see pressmen, he handed out a printed slip declaring that after years of experience with journalists, he was finally forced to the decision to refuse to see any of them in the future. “I am not interested in publicity,” he added. “My work is to help suffering humanity through the doctrine of Buddha. You cannot help me and you certainly shall not hinder me.”
He announced his intention of organising Buddhist propaganda for distribution in European countries, using China as a base.
Western Mail, 28 June 1934
As Rowland and Edna returned to their seats, the next course was being served.
All the Tears in China Page 21
