9

TROUBLE BREWING

Japanese In Shanghai

(“SUN” SPECIAL)

SHANGHAI, Sunday.

THE turbulence of Japanese gangs is causing some anxiety and two disquieting incidents occurred today.

Mr. A. Thompson, a British subject, was seated on a bench, together with some Japanese marines, in Quinsan Gardens, a small park in Hongkew. He pushed a marine’s knee aside and an altercation arose. Thompson was carried off by a Japanese naval patrol, but was subsequently rescued by the international police. Later, believing that a Russian, who reached for his handkerchief was really getting out a pistol, the Japanese gave chase. The Russian sought refuge in a local journalist’s motor car, whereupon the Japanese wrecked the electrical gear and assaulted the journalist, who, however, was saved from serious injury by the arrival of patrols. Japanese crowds and “toughs” are turbulent throughout the district, seeking British or foreign victims, but the situation seems well in hand.

The Sun, 2 July 1934

The air outside the hotel was bracing and damp. Despite the late hour, the ground floor of the Cathay was busy as patrons arrived in their furs and silks to drink and dance at the Jazz Bar. A Buddhist monk monopolised Van Hagen’s attention at the reception desk. It made it easy for Rowland and Milton to slip out unnoticed, despite the police presence. Electing not to take a hotel car, they risked a motor-taxi instead. They climbed into a gleaming Buick, judging the good faith of the Sikh driver by the immaculate presentation of his vehicle. It was probably not scientific but they did not have the time to be more rigorous.

Milton took the seat behind the driver, Rowland, the one beside.

Hongkew was in the northern part of Shanghai, an older precinct of the International Concession. Boasting a significant Japanese population, the area had been at the centre of the most recent escalation in Sino–Japanese tensions. The taxi pulled up outside a dilapidated tenement plastered with Chinese Communist propaganda posters bearing sinister depictions of Japanese invaders. As powland paid the fare, he asked the driver to wait.

“We might be a little while,” he said peeling off a number of additional notes. “But we will return.”

The driver pulled a newspaper and a torch from under his seat. “Do not be worried, sir. I will wait.”

The building on Huoshan Road might once have been a better address. Its fittings, though old, were fine. The doorman wore no uniform. Indeed, the ancient man may not have actually been employed to open the door, but he did do so, informing them in creaking, stilted English that the elevator no longer worked. Rowland thanked him with a gratuity which was accepted with a bow.

They climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door of number 303.

There was no answer.

Rowland banged harder until Milton gripped his shoulder. “I heard something.”

The poet held out his hand. “Give me your pocketknife, Rowly.”

It took Milton about two minutes to breach the lock. They could hear scrambling and a series of clatters as the door swung open. They entered the darkened apartment warily. The corridor was narrow and finished in a quite tiny sitting room.

“Bú yào guòlai!” It was Wing Zau’s voice.

Rowland turned. Milton found a light cord and pulled it. The electric bulb flickered momentarily before coming on. Rowland ducked as something flew past his head. The blade embedded in the wall with a thud.

Wing Zau stood in the galley which adjoined the sitting room with a knife in one hand, scrabbling for a kitchen cleaver with the other. He looked confused and quite terrified.

“Wing, it’s us—Rowland Sinclair and Milton Isaacs. You brought us breakfast this morning.” Rowland tried to calm the man, and to remain calm himself.

“What are you doing here?” Wing demanded, the knife still poised though his hand shook.

“Miss Higgins was concerned about you. The Cathay said you’d tendered your resignation—”

“I did not resign!”

“Come on, Wing.” Milton closed the apartment door. “We mean you no harm, you can put down the knives.”

“Can’t we discuss this like gentlemen?” Rowland suggested, stepping back into the living room. “If you didn’t resign, perhaps we can help sort this out.”

Slowly, Wing put down his weapons. “I apologise, gentlemen.”

“No harm done.” Rowland nodded encouragingly. “So, you didn’t resign?”

“The Cathay sacked me. I was not at my post.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Wing sighed. “I was your valet, Mr. Sinclair, assigned to your suite. That was my post.”

“Even when we weren’t there?” “It seems someone broke into your suite while I was out. The police were questioning you when I returned. Mr. Van Hagen was furious. If I hadn’t left my post I would have been present to prevent the murder, or at the very least to prevent it taking place in the Cathay and compromising the hotel’s reputation.”

“So you didn’t let Miss Romanova in?”

Wing shook his head. “No. I wasn’t even in the hotel.”

“Why the knives, Mr. Wing?” Milton asked. “What are you afraid of?”

“I owe money. My creditors are insistent.” He rubbed his face wearily. “And now I don’t have a job.”

“Cards or horses?” Milton prodded.

“Cards.” Wing looked at Rowland. “I’m sorry I threw a knife at you, sir. I thought it was them.”

Rowland shrugged. “Considering you missed, I’m inclined to overlook it.”

“Who, other than you, would have been able to let Miss Romanova into the suite?” Milton pulled the knife out of the wall.

Wing frowned. “The chambermaids, the room boys, the concierge, the manager. There are many people involved in looking after guests of the Cathay, particularly those in the better suites.”

Rowland glanced out the window. He could see the taxi still on the street below, but he did not know how much longer they could expect the driver to wait. “We should get back.”

Wing nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“We can’t leave him here,” Milton protested. “Not with some loan shark looking to break his legs.”

“No, we cannot,” Rowland agreed. He turned back to Wing. “How much do you owe, Mr. Wing?”

“With interest… Twenty-five pounds.”

“Right—you’d better come back with us tonight. We’ll sort out your debts tomorrow.”

“The Cathay has dispensed of my services, sir. I can’t go back.”

“You won’t be working for the Cathay, you’ll be working for me.”

“You still want me to be your valet?”

“I never wanted you to be my valet, but I could use someone who speaks the languages I don’t, someone who knows and understands Shanghai. Especially now.”

For a moment Wing said nothing, and then he nodded. “Yes, thank you. I will serve you to the best of my ability, Mr. Sinclair.”

They waited in the small living room as Wing packed a bag. Milton kept a wary eye on their taxi through the window lest the driver forget his promise. Rowland leaned against the one chair. Wing Zau’s apartment was sparsely furnished. In the corner was a shrine of sorts. Rowland’s eyes lingered on the framed photograph of a Chinese woman in a traditional silk cheongsam, before which burned two sticks of incense.

Wing emerged from the bedroom with a battered valise. “My mother,” he said sadly, noticing the direction of Rowland’s gaze. “She died a few months ago.”

The Australians offered their sympathies.

“My mother was a very moral lady.” Wing took the picture from its place and reverently wrapped it in cloth before slipping it into the suitcase. “She would be deeply distressed to know what I have done, and ashamed.”

“We all make mistakes, comrade,” Milton said sympathetically. “In my experience mothers are the most likely to forgive them.” He frowned suddenly, his attention still fixed out the window. He beckoned Rowland and Wing over. Three men in suits walked past the taxi and stopped before the building. “Are those fellows by any chance your creditors, Wing?”

Wing was ashen. “You must get out of here, it’s me they want.”

Milton glanced at Rowland.

“They’ll have to come up the stairs.” Rowland turned to Wing. “Is there another way down? A fire escape?”

Wing shook his head.

“Rowly, there’s a ledge below the window and a drainpipe about ten yards to the left.” Milton pointed.

Rowland opened the window and looked out. It wasn’t impossible. He grabbed the chair as he moved to the door, and wedged it under the handle. “That might buy us a little time.”

“They just walked into the building,” Milton said.

“Right, Milt, you go first. Mr. Wing, follow him. I’ll be right behind you.”

Milton climbed out the window onto the ten-inch ledge, pressing himself against the outside wall as he sidled towards the drainpipe.

A knock on the door.

“Now, Mr. Wing!”

Wing clambered out, clinging to the side.

The knocking grew louder.

“Who is it?” Rowland called out, trying to stall.

The response was Shanghainese and shouted. A thud as someone ran at the door.

Rowland looked out the window. Wing had reached the drainpipe, Milton was on the ground.

“Milt!” Rowland dropped Wing’s bag to the poet. Milton missed the catch and the valise fell open as it hit the road. Rowland climbed out as Milton and now Wing retrieved its contents.

The door to the apartment crashed open as Rowland made the journey along the ledge. He could hear the angry confusion as the intruders found the place empty and searched the rooms. Then the cries as they spied the open window. Rowland reached for the drainpipe as a head poked out the window and spotted him. Wing’s creditors tore down the stairs as Rowland shimmied down the pipe. He reached the ground first, shouting for Wing and Milton to get into the taxi. Rowland sprinted after them. Someone grabbed his jacket from behind. He turned and swung in the same movement, connecting with a face and following with a second blow. But by then another man had caught up. The taxi, with its passenger door still open, cut across the road towards them in reverse. As it approached, the driver reached out the window, grabbing Rowland’s assailant and reefing the man to the ground with the momentum of the still moving cab. Rowland leapt in.

“Go!” he shouted before he was entirely on board. The obliging driver slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor.