“As far as we’re aware,” he added.
“Should we go and see Inspector Randolph?” she asked. “Tell him why Alexandra Romanova might have been in our suite?”
Rowland thought for a moment. “Let’s wait until we’ve spoken with Milt and Clyde. They may have unearthed something worthwhile.”
Edna grabbed his hand and looked at his watch. It was still early. She pulled him towards the pleasure boats and junks moored at a nearby jetty. “Come on then. Milt and Clyde won’t be finished asking after Sergei for hours and you need to take your mind off murder for just a little while.”
Rowland glanced dubiously at the ramshackle craft, but he had never been able to refuse the sculptress anything. Edna selected the junk, lamenting the absence of her camera.
“Where to, Missy?” The junk’s captain directed his question at Edna as Rowland stepped on board.
“Anywhere and back again.” Edna took Rowland’s hand and jumped onto the deck.
The captain bowed and nodded and then cast off, sailing them down the Huangpu, past the great buildings of the Bund. They did not have the river to themselves, of course, and the captain worked the rudder from the vessel’s stern to manoeuvre through the large ships and fishing craft, while he pointed at various landmarks along the way. Rowland removed his jacket and placed it on Edna’s shoulders as the wind whipped up across the river waves. He was reminded of the morning they arrived in Shanghai and had beheld the city in all its glory from the water.
For a while they forgot about Alexandra’s death and the trouble that had besieged them since their arrival in the Far East, talking instead as artists about the lines and shapes of Shanghai—Chinese lettering echoed in the upswept curve in the pagodas, the contrast of moon gates against geometric fretwork, the red and black and gold of dragons and buildings and fabric. They ate fish and rice cooked on deck by the crew, they struggled with chopsticks and pidgin, laughing and being laughed at. Edna charmed the sailors with warmth and interest, despite her lack of local language, and Rowland sketched. It was nearly twilight when the junk returned to the Public Garden.
“Yáyà nong,” Edna thanked the captain and the small crew in halting Shanghainese as Rowland paid the man twice what he asked.
The captain laughed at Edna’s pronunciation and bowed. “Xiá yà nong. Bye bye, Missy.”
The Australians disembarked and headed back towards the Cathay in no particular hurry to end the afternoon’s reprieve. The shadows lengthened and the first lights of evening life in Shanghai were lit. Workers spilled out of office buildings and the Bund became congested. Rowland waved away spruiking rickshaw drivers—they would call Ranjit Singh to collect them from the hotel.
They became aware of the police presence at the Cathay before they entered the hotel foyer.
“I wonder what the devil’s going on,” Rowland murmured as they stepped through the rotating doors.
Van Hagen was at the reception desk. Visibly nervous, he cleared his throat as they approached. Amongst the people awaiting service at the desk, a saffron-robed priest caught Rowland’s eye. “Kung!” He moved towards him.
“Stop right there, Mr. Sinclair.” A young policeman placed himself between Rowland and the reception.
“Officer.” Rowland nodded politely. “What can I do for you?”
The doors to Victor Sassoon’s private lift opened to reveal the man himself with Mickey Hahn on his arm. Neither moved, watching the proceedings from within the lift.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, sir.” The constable stepped towards Rowland.
“What? Now?”
“Yes, sir.” Two more constables flanked the first.
Rowland glanced at Edna. “Where exactly would we be going, gentlemen?”
“Police headquarters, sir.”
“And can you tell me why you wish me to accompany you?”
The constable licked his lips. “My orders are to bring you in for questioning.”
Rowland frowned, irritated. What could Randolph want to ask him that he hadn’t already?
The constable read into Rowland’s silence, squaring his shoulders and lowering his voice. “If you refuse, my orders are to arrest you for the murder of a Mr. Bertram Charles Middleton.”
Edna gasped.
Rowland placed his arm around her shoulders. The movement ignited the policemen into action, batons drawn. They dragged him away from Edna and restrained him.
Rowland tried to tell them that he was not refusing to accompany them, that they’d not known that Bertram Middleton was dead. The policemen were unmoved and remained determined to keep him away from Edna to whom they seemed to believe he posed a danger.
“Are you all right, Miss?” the constable asked. “Did he hurt you?”
“Of course not!” Edna tried to reach Rowland. “Let him go!”
“It’s all right, Ed,” Rowland said, afraid the overzealous policemen may decide to arrest her too. “Telephone Gilbert Carmel. Let him know what’s happened. He’ll sort it out.”
31
LARGEST IN WORLD
Ward Road Gaol In Shanghai
A gaol to house 8000 criminals must be huge, and inside the walls of Ward Road Gaol are buildings that would look large even in one of Melbourne’s main streets. Walking through courtyards, along lines of cells, and through the workshops with Captain Wall, the prison governor, our party took three hours to make its tour—and then we saw only a part of the gaol.
Most of the prisoners are Chinese, dressed in wide, shapeless trousers and straight jacket, blue, white or khaki, according to the length of sentence, and marked with bright colored badges to show the type of crime that brought them there.
A few are White Russians, who have sunk to the economic level of the poorer Chinese. White Russians, too, are the tall guards who march along the walls or stand guard on the central watch-tower.
Barrier Miner, 15 January 1938
Chief Inspector Randolph strode into the interrogation room. “Sit down, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland did so. The inspector assumed the opposite seat. A junior policeman sat to his right with a notebook and pencil poised. “Can I ask where you were last night, Mr. Sinclair?”
Rowland gave the address of the house at Kiangse Road.
Randolph’s eyes narrowed. “We have been informed that you no longer reside at Sir Victor Sassoon’s house on Kiangse Road.”
“I did until this morning, Inspector. You asked me about last night.”
Randolph extracted a briar pipe from the pocket of his jacket and took his time filling and lighting it.
“Very good, then. I believe you and Mr. Middleton were involved in something of an altercation yesterday.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it an altercation.”
The chief inspector opened the file before him and glanced over it. “Several witnesses report that you seized Mr. Middleton, threatened to kill him and then threw him to the ground.”
“I didn’t throw him to the ground. He fell when I let go of him.”
“So you admit to seizing and threatening him?”
“Yes, I did that.” Rowland tried again. “How was Middleton killed, Chief Inspector?”
“How did you know that he had been killed?” Randolph’s eyes gleamed triumphantly.
“I was arrested for his murder—it seems a reasonable conclusion.”
The constable smiled faintly as he took notes.
Randolph carried on, his face darkening with his mood. “Mr. Middleton was shot as you well know, Sinclair. You put two bullets into his skull!”
“No. I didn’t.” The detail of the accusation was startling. Middleton had been executed. “I don’t even own a gun.”
“A gun is easy enough to procure. Perhaps your friend Du Yuesheng provided the weapon.” Randolph all but shouted touché. “A dozen people heard you threaten to kill Mr. Middleton.”
“I was angry. But that was the last I saw of him and, I assure yo
u, he was very much alive.”
Randolph opened another folder. The exercise was theatrical for it was clear he knew what was written in the copious notes on the pages within it. “Would it surprise you to know, Mr. Sinclair, that the deceased came to see me two days ago? That he provided the International Police with certain information pertaining to you?”
“And what information would that be, Chief Inspector?”
“You have quite the chequered history with the law, Mr. Sinclair. I believe you were arrested for the murder of your own father the year before last, December 1933 to be precise.”
“Those charges were withdrawn, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“But no other person was subsequently charged?”
“That’s correct.”
Randolph’s brow rose. Rowland pulled back a surge of irritation. He knew the chief inspector was attempting to goad him.
“You haven’t asked why Mr. Middleton brought this information to our attention.”
Rowland shrugged. He could guess.
Randolph continued. “Mr. Middleton was concerned for the safety of his erstwhile fiancée, a Miss Edna Higgins. He believed you to be a dangerous man.”
“Miss Higgins was never his fiancée!” Rowland stopped himself. Sharing his opinion of Middleton would not help matters now.
There was a faint triumphant smile on Randolph’s face. “But you know all this, don’t you, Sinclair? That’s why you murdered Bertram Middleton—to silence him.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Perhaps you had some other reason for shooting Mr. Middleton?”
“I didn’t shoot him.”
“What happened to your face, Mr. Sinclair?”
Rowland had forgotten about the bruises on his face. He answered honestly though he knew that the story of the brawl would do him no favours.
“So you reacted violently because the gentleman wished to dance with Miss Higgins? Are you usually so volatile when Miss Higgins is involved?”
“He did not ask her to dance. Whatever he asked, she refused.”
“Hmmm.” Randolph made some notes.
Rowland checked his wristwatch. Where the hell was Gilbert Carmel?
Edna telephoned the offices of Carmel and Smith for the third time.
“As I told you previously, Miss Higgins,”—the secretary’s voice was weary—“Mr. Carmel is in Nanking. We are trying to contact him and we will endeavour to send another solicitor to assist Mr. Sinclair.”
Frustrated, Edna replaced the receiver and gave up the public telephone to the next person in the long line waiting to use it.
She made her way back to Clyde and Milton. The modern waiting room of the International Police Headquarters was large and well appointed. Indeed, if not for the presence of uniformed constabulary, one might have been forgiven for mistaking it for a hotel foyer. Even so, the space was tainted with tension, with worry and panic, as people waited to give statements or to ask after friends and family who had come to the attention of the Shanghai Police.
The Australians and Wing Zau had come to give statements to alibi Rowland Sinclair. They were received politely, if a little indifferently, and directed to wait while the prisoner was being interrogated. After five hours their patience began to wear.
Edna took a seat beside Clyde. Milton paced.
“Are you sure they arrested him, Ed?” Clyde asked for the umpteenth time. “Surely they just brought him in for questioning?”
Edna shook her head. “No. They definitely arrested him. He was in restraints.”
“But they haven’t even—”
“We’re not in Sydney, Clyde. God knows how they do things here.”
Clyde rubbed his face. “Carmel picked a bloody wonderful time to leave town! How the hell are we supposed to help Rowly without him?”
Milton stopped mid-pace in front of Edna. “We’ve got to do something. What did they tell you about Middleton?”
The sculptress swallowed. “That he’s dead… someone murdered him apparently.”
“Who found him? Where? Was there—”
“I don’t know, Milt.” Edna began to break down. “I don’t know.”
Clyde put his arm around her and cast a warning glance in Milton’s direction. “We need help,” he said. “No one’s going to talk to us.”
“Where exactly is Carmel?” Milton demanded.
“His office says he’s attending to a client in Nanking,” Edna said wanly. “They said they’ll send someone as soon as they can.”
Milton cast his eyes up to the clock on the station wall. “Perhaps we should go to Nanking and find him…”
Clyde shook his head. “Oh mate, you’re not talking about a one-horse town in the outback. I expect tracking down one man in Nanking might take months.”
“What do you think they’re doing to Rowly?” Edna asked distractedly.
Clyde glanced at Milton. “They’ll just be questioning him, Ed. This isn’t Germany.”
The poet’s patience reached its end. He stalked over to the reception window and demanded an audience with Chief Inspector Randolph.
The constable who peered back through the opening seemed surprised. “I’m afraid the chief inspector went home a couple of hours ago, sir.”
“Went home?”
“It’s nearly midnight, sir.”
“But we’ve been waiting to give our statements—”
“I am sorry, sir. Someone should have told you to come back tomorrow. I’m afraid there’s no one available to take your statement.”
“But what about Rowly—Mr. Rowland Sinclair? He was falsely arrested—”
The officer stifled a yawn. “Mr. Sinclair has been remanded to custody pending trial.”
Rowland removed his wristwatch, tiepin and cufflinks and placed them onto the tray with the contents of his pockets, including his notebook. He was allocated a prison uniform and instructed to strip and put it on. All this was done under the eyes of stone-faced warders. They placed his suit in a paper bag with his other effects, and marked the bag with the number 6419 which appeared on the left breast of his prison tunic.
Rowland maintained a determined outward calm as he donned the coarse convict attire. Randolph would realise soon that he had arrested the wrong man. Carmel and Smith would sort it out and, hopefully, keep Rowland’s companions from trying to break him out.
There were four other men being processed—all Chinese. The warders were predominantly naiks—Indians Sikhs who appeared to answer to the handful of British guards. A sallow Englishman with more hair beneath his nose than on his scalp, watched too closely. “Well, well,” he said as he caught sight of the swastika-shaped scar on Rowland’s chest. He commanded Rowland to stop so he could inspect it more closely. Rowland’s skin crawled, but he did as he was instructed.
“What is that, felon?”
“An old injury.” Rowland buttoned the prison shirt. He heard a snigger but by the time he looked up the warders were sober and expressionless and he could not tell which of them had laughed.
The other warders addressed the Englishman as “Mr. Whitely, sir!”
It was Whitely who read out the rules of Ward Road Prison, who showed Rowland the long baton that his men would use against any prisoner who approached them without permission, who made it clear that Rowland Sinclair was now an animal in his zoo. It was not a conversation because prisoners were required to maintain absolute silence. Any transgression of the rules would be met with punishment, swift and severe. Rowland said nothing, but he met the warder’s eye and that, it seemed, was enough to enrage the man, who gave him a taste of the baton for his insolence.
The blow cracked across his shoulders. Rowland staggered forward only momentarily. Instinct told him it would be dangerous to fall in this place, at the mercy of these men, and so he righted himself immediately. He moved his gaze down, casting his fury away from Whitely. But not before he noticed the smug satisfaction in the warder’s face.
They were
taken to the cell blocks then. Whitely led the way, turning occasionally to make some comment about criminal bloodlines, to the obedient titters of the naiks. Rowland had heard taunts about Australia’s convict heritage before—he had, after all, attended boarding school in England. He realised that Whitely was trying to provoke him into doing something for which retribution would be delivered with more relish than duty; and so he kept his own temper in check. This was part of the orientation, no doubt, a demonstration of power and powerlessness.
The prison blocks were multi-storey. Dull eyes watched them from the cells along the walkway as they passed, raising hackles on the back of Rowland’s neck. There was a pervading stench of men and fear and despair, and aside from the sound of their steps, it was silent. Still, Rowland did not give way to panic. He was on remand—Carmel would ensure he was released soon.
The cells were small—cages designed for a single man. A glazed and barred window was located on the wall at a height above most heads, and the floor was bare, cold cement. A spittoon and a latrine bucket were consigned to one corner. Each cell was used to confine up to three men in a six-by-eight-foot space.
Whitely stopped and banged on the bars of a cell with his baton. Two prisoners moved to the back of the cage. Only then did Whitely unlock it.
“Welcome to your new home, felon.” Whitely sneered. “Prisoner 3782 thoughtfully hanged himself in the isolation cells last week to make way for you.” He brought his face close to Rowland’s, his breath foetid. “The bastards on death row are often a bit eager to meet their maker after a while in here… the yellow ones mainly. Occidentals are made of sterner stuff generally, but we’ll see.” He used the baton to push Rowland into the cell and locked it after him. “There you go. Right cosy. I’d be careful of 4566 though—tuberculosis. Might finish him off before we can hang him.”
“Ward Road Gaol—they call it the ‘City of the Doomed’. It is not a good place.” Wing Zau’s voice was grave.
“Well it would hardly do to call a prison Buckingham Palace.” Clyde attempted to keep everyone calm. “Let’s not lose our heads.”
All the Tears in China Page 26
