8

THE LITTLE THINGS

Nearly every man will tell you that if he had in hand all the time he has spent in waiting for unpunctual ladies, he might conquer the world. And he will complain that it is precisely the unpunctual ladies who are transformed into dangerous furies if they themselves are kept waiting for the tenth of a second; for they astoundingly assume that the other partner or partners to the rendezvous will stand already booted and spurred in advance until the moment of their glorious appearance. Unpunctuality (by no means the monopoly of women) has the air of being a trifle; but it is possibly more prolific than anything else in social friction, and social friction is the arch enemy of happiness.

Advocate, 26 April 1934

When Alexandra Romanova failed to keep her appointment with Rowland Sinclair, he was a little disappointed, but not unduly concerned. He had, after all, only met the young lady the previous evening, and perhaps in the sober light of day she had simply reconsidered pursuing their acquaintance.

He’d left his companions exploring the French Concession, where they’d all spent the afternoon at the Russian Theatre, returning alone to the Cathay. At five o’clock he concluded that Alexandra was more than just late, and gave up. Doubting that he would be able to find his companions in order to rejoin them for the evening, he decided he would spend the time attending to correspondence, including two telegrams received from Oaklea. He had yet to report back to Wilfred about his meeting with Petty and Blanshard, and he had promised his mother and his nephew that he would write when he reached Shanghai. He stopped in the gift shop to purchase postcards and proceeded up to the suite.

Rowland let himself in. They’d told Wing Zau not to expect them back till after dinner and so he anticipated he would have the suite to himself.

He removed his coat, hanging it with his hat on the rack in the marble vestibule. It was not yet completely dark. The suite’s expansive windows allowed in enough twilight to make the room navigable. Rowland might have searched for a light switch had he not been intrigued by the view of the Huangpu in half light. The water seemed purple and the junks glowed softly as they came into shore. He loosened his tie as he crossed the room to the window. The sky was streaked with crimson—Rowland presumed the sun was setting on the other side of the building. He looked down at the play of shadow and life spread out below him. One seemed always to look west at sunset, and yet there was a less spectacular but equal beauty on the eastern horizon where darkness began. He gazed out of the window for several minutes wondering if perhaps he should try to paint landscapes again. It was an idle wondering; Rowland Sinclair had never painted landscapes well.

When finally he was able to drag himself away from the view, it had become almost completely dark. He fumbled for the switch on the standard lamp by the secretaire.

It was only then, in that limited light, he noticed the figure lying on the chaise longue at the back of the room. A figure stretched out gracefully in slumber.

Rowland knew immediately that she was too still. Even so, he called her name before seizing her wrist to check for a pulse. There was none. He tried to revive her regardless, loosening the scarf around her neck. His hands came away sticky with blood. “Miss Romanova, Alexandra.” Nothing. She was cold. With the scarf pulled away, her throat gaped open, slashed almost to the bone.

Rowland moved back, horrified. He comprehended that the taxi girl was dead but nothing else seemed to make any sense. Pulling himself together, he picked up the telephone and rang the reception desk.

“Yes, hello… I’m afraid… look, a young woman’s been killed in my suite. Would you mind calling the police?”

“I do beg your pardon, sir?”

Rowland repeated himself, realising even as he did so that he must sound mad or drunk or both. Right then, he wanted to be drunk.

“Please, send someone up immediately.”

Within minutes the Cathay’s manager arrived at the suite to ascertain the precise nature of the problem—he clearly expected it was alcohol or some kind of prank. Wealthy men often had juvenile senses of humour. He walked in, looked from Rowland to the body and then backed slowly out of the suite.

Rowland sat down to wait. There was nothing else he could do. He thought about trying to wipe the blood from his hands, but it seemed an indecent thing to do in the presence of Alexandra Romanova’s body. Her eyes were open, China blue, and seemed fixed in death upon him. The scarf he’d removed from her throat was on the floor. Without thinking he picked it up. The silk was soaked in blood and the stylised lions of the Cathay’s crest embroidered upon it seemed stained a darker red.

The police did not take long to arrive. It was only when he heard the scrabble and click of the key in the lock that Rowland realised the manager had locked him in.

The members of the Shanghai Municipal Police Force who attended the incident at the Cathay were officers of the Foreign Branch. Chief Inspector Randolph took charge of the scene, directing his men to secure it immediately.

“Am I to understand you discovered the young lady’s body, Mr. Sinclair?” Randolph clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke in a fashion that was distinctly military.

“Yes.”

Randolph’s eyes dropped to Rowland’s hands, the blood-stained cuffs of his shirt, the soaked scarf still in his grasp. He signalled a man to take the scarf as evidence.

“I wasn’t certain she was dead at first,” Rowland said. “I thought…” He shook his head.

“Was the deceased known to you, sir?”

“Her name is Alexandra Romanova. I met her for the first time last night.”

“Where?”

“The Jazz Club downstairs.”

“And the nature of your relationship?”

“We danced.”

“I see.” Randolph rocked back on his heels. “I assume you were hopeful of becoming better acquainted and so you brought her up to your suite.”

Rowland stared at him. “Absolutely not. I left Miss Romanova at The Jazz Club.”

“So you found her disagreeable?”

“I found her charming. I invited her to have tea with me this afternoon but she didn’t keep the appointment.”

“I imagine you were offended and very angry that she didn’t arrive as agreed?”

“Not at all. It was tea not the altar.”

“Can you tell me what she’s doing in your suite, Mr. Sinclair?”

Rowland shook his head. “Perhaps she misunderstood where we were to meet… I really don’t know.”

“Did you let her in, Mr. Sinclair?”

“No.”

“Was there anyone else in the suite when you discovered Miss Romanova’s body?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Chief Inspector,” a young policeman interrupted. “There are two gentlemen and a young lady outside who insist this is their suite.”

Rowland nodded. “Miss Higgins and Messrs Isaacs and Watson Jones.”

“Detain them, but do not let them in. I’ll speak to them in a few minutes—I have a few questions for Mr. Sinclair first.”

“Would you please let them know I’m all right?” Rowland asked the constable, or whatever it was the lower ranks were called in the Shanghai Police Force.

“Why would your friends believe otherwise, Mr. Sinclair?” Randolph’s eyes narrowed.

Rowland sighed. “I don’t know that they would, Chief Inspector. I just don’t want them to worry.”

Randolph glanced at Alexandra Romanova’s lifeless body on the chaise. “Clearly it is not you they should worry about.”

It was, in fact, another two hours before the chief inspector finished questioning Rowland Sinclair. He conducted the interrogation on site rather than taking the Australian into the station. It was more a convenience than a courtesy. If the murder weapon had been discovered in the suite, he may have arrested him. There were razors of course, as one would expect with three men in residence, but each was clean and stowed neatly in the bathroom beside the shaving mirror. Sinclair might have cleaned his implement—true—but a man cold enough to calmly wash the murder weapon and return it to its place would surely think to also change his bloody clothes. Randolph was a cautious man. One did not arrest a man wealthy enough to take a suite at the Cathay over the death of a penniless taxi girl unless one was very sure.

The concierge, Van Hagen, hastily arranged another suite for the use of the Sinclair entourage that evening. It was not as lavish, but neither was it a crime scene. Rowland showered and changed while he waited for his friends to return. By the time each of them had given statements, it was quite late in the evening.

“Rowly!” Edna opened the door of the new suite just as Rowland was pulling on a fresh shirt.

“Just a minute, Ed, I’m—”

Edna burst into the bedroom. “Rowly, are you all right?” She scrutinised him for signs of injury. Clyde and Milton were behind her. “We saw them take you out, you were covered in blood, they wouldn’t tell us—”

Rowland grabbed her hand to slow her down. “I’m perfectly all right, Ed. It wasn’t my blood.”

She looked into his face and embraced him impulsively. “God, Rowly. We thought—”

“Didn’t Inspector Randolph tell you?”

“No,” Milton replied. “He’s an officious sort of chap, isn’t he?”

“All he’d say was that you were involved in an incident in the suite.” Clyde shook his head. “Wanted to know about your movements, mostly.”

“What the hell’s happened, Rowly?” Milton asked.

Clyde nodded. “Unhand him, Ed. Let the man tell us what’s going on.”

Milton studied Rowland for a moment, before he walked out of the bedroom beckoning them all to follow. “Rowly looks like he could use a drink.” The poet located the appropriate cabinet in the sitting room and decanted generous glasses of Scotch for himself and Clyde. He poured gin for Rowland, and enquired of Edna what she fancied.

“Sherry.” The sculptress slipped off her shoes and curled up on the couch beside Rowland. “What happened, Rowly? Who was hurt?”

“Alexandra Romanova.”

“The girl you were meeting?”

“Yes, I’m afraid she’s dead.”

Edna reached up and turned Rowland’s face towards her own. “Start from the beginning, Rowly. What happened to her?”

Rowland shook his head. “To be honest, I don’t really know.” He told them how he’d come to find the body on the chaise longue. “I had hoped she was just asleep or unconscious… until I saw the blood.” He bit back a curse. “Someone had cut the poor woman’s throat.”

“Oh Rowly.” Edna grasped his hand. “How simply ghastly!”

“It was. It took me a while to realise there was absolutely nothing I could do for her.” Rowland stopped, remembering the moment too clearly. “I called the reception desk, and once they’d sent someone to establish I wasn’t drunk, or playing some kind of lunatic prank, they sent for the police.”

“How did you not notice her immediately?” Clyde asked incredulously.

“It was getting dark and I was… watching the sunset… God.” Rowland groaned as he recognised how absurd it sounded.

“I wonder what she was doing in the suite.” Milton topped up Rowland’s glass.

“Someone must have let her in,” Clyde said. “Perhaps one of the staff.”

“Where’s Mr. Wing?” Edna asked suddenly.

“I don’t know.” Rowland frowned. They had told the valet that they’d be back after dinner, and whilst they had no particular need of him, it seemed odd, given his earlier declarations of commitment to duty, that he was not there.

“Perhaps he let Miss Romanova in and—” Milton stopped short of accusing the valet.

Edna followed the poet’s train of thought to a different place. “Perhaps whoever killed Miss Romanova abducted Mr. Wing. We should tell the police—he may be in danger.”

Rowland stood. “First, we’d better make sure Mr. Wing’s not simply late,” he said, picking up the telephone. Ringing down to the reception desk, he noted wryly the new note of trepidation with which his call was received, as if he might be ringing to report another body. He inquired instead after Wing Zau. There was an embarrassed delay as the hotel manager was duly consulted. It was Van Hagen who took the call in the end.

“I’m afraid Mr. Wing has left us, Mr. Sinclair. Of course, a replacement valet will be assigned to you immediately.”

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Van Hagen. It was Mr. Wing with whom I wished to speak. What exactly do you mean that he’s left you?”

“Mr. Wing is no longer in the employ of the Cathay.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Wing was unable to continue with us for personal reasons. He tendered his resignation this morning. We do, of course, apologise for any inconvenience.”

Rowland probed further, but Van Hagen would not elucidate.

“Do you, by any chance, have a forwarding address at which I might write to Mr. Wing? There is a matter about which I must consult with him rather urgently.”

“Is it something with which we might assist, sir?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Rowland clamped the receiver to his ear with his shoulder, and extracted the notebook he kept in his breast pocket. He scribbled the address details below a sketch of a rickshaw and its driver.

“You’re going to write to Wing?” Milton asked sceptically once Rowland had hung up.

“Of course not. But I didn’t think they’d give me the address for anything less benign than correspondence.” Rowland sat down again and recounted the conversation he’d just had with the concierge. “It appears Wing resigned suddenly.”

“He didn’t seem unhappy this morning,” Edna said, frowning. “I do hope we haven’t offended him somehow.”

“It may not have been anything to do with us,” Rowland said. “Perhaps some family emergency required his attention.”

“Or perhaps our man Wing is on the run.” Milton poured himself another drink.

“Have the police spoken to him?” Clyde asked cautiously.

Rowland shrugged. “I’m not sure. Randolph didn’t mention the servants.”

“Should we tell him?” Milton asked. “Wing could very well be involved in Miss Romanova’s murder.”

Rowland considered their options. “Perhaps we should talk to him first? I don’t really want to set Randolph on him unnecessarily.”

Edna sighed. “I miss Detective Delaney.”

Rowland nodded. It had, in the past, been convenient to have an ally in the police force. But this was Shanghai, and they had no friends among the authorities in the treaty port. He looked again at the address jotted into his notebook. Huoshan Road, Hongkew District.

“Shall we go find Wing, then?” Milton stood and grabbed his hat, taking a moment to adjust the feather just so.

“Now?” Clyde asked, startled. “It’s ten o’clock.”

“No time like the present.”

Rowland offered a compromise. “Why don’t you and Ed stay here to make sure our trunks are brought down from the other suite, after the police have finished going through them—”

“Going through them?” Clyde jumped to his feet. “They’re going through our trunks? All of them?”

“I expect it’s just routine, Clyde. They’re still looking for a murder weapon I believe.”

Clyde collapsed back into his chair and buried his face in his hands. He groaned.

“Whatever’s the matter, Clyde?” Edna asked, concerned for him now.

“The trunk I brought over for Danny.” Clyde looked up at Rowland. “I tried to tell you.”

Rowland picked up on Clyde’s panic now. “What was in it?”

“Old Mrs. Dong.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Dong. Danny’s grandmother, her remains anyway. She wanted to be buried in China so Danny had her exhumed and… she is in that trunk.”

Milton and Edna stared at Clyde incredulously. Rowland blinked. “I see.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Clyde was grey. “They’re going to find human remains in our suite and they’ll think… God knows what they’ll think but it won’t be good. What if they take her as evidence? What am I going to tell Danny?”

“Steady on, mate.” Rowland tried to stem his friend’s agitation. “I presume Mrs. Dong didn’t die recently so we’re just talking about bones.”

“Yes, but—”

“When they ask, we’ll explain. Did Danny give you any paperwork?”

“Yes, yes he did.” Clyde was beginning to calm down. “There are some letters to his cousins with the trunk in my room.”

“Well then.” Rowland braced Clyde’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’ll probably be a little awkward to explain, given the circumstances, but there is a perfectly legal reason.”

Edna moved to sit with Clyde. “You two go find Mr. Wing,” she said. “Clyde and I will stay here and wait for them to find Mrs. Dong. It’s probably better if you know nothing about it, Rowly.”

Rowland hesitated.

“Come on, Rowly.” Milton handed him his hat. “Let’s go talk to the butler before he disappears entirely.”