13

FASCIST TERROR RAGES FROM WEST TO FAR EAST

Appalling Slaughter

BY NAZI HEADSMEN CHINESE EXECUTIONERS & BRITISH BOMBERS

The Communist International Executive Committee, at the conclusion of its thirteenth Plenum in Moscow last month, issued the following manifesto:—PROLETARIANS! WORKERS OF THE WHOLE WORLD! COMMUNISTS! The blood of the best sons of the working class is being shed in all capitalist countries.

…Chiang Kai-shek, who has called into his service German, British and American generals and Social-Democratic police presidents of the Grzeszinski stamp, is chopping off the heads of Chinese revolutionary workers and peasants by the thousand. In Shanghai in the autumn of last year, workers at an anti-war meeting were arrested. All were shot on the spot. In the summer of 1933 the Kuomintang hangmen arrested 150 participators in the Anti-Fascist Congress, shipped them to Nanking, and wreaked their bloody vengeance on them. In Japan, the ruling Fascist clique during the past two years has thrown 15,000 revolutionary workers, peasants and soldiers into its dungeons. Dozens of Japanese Communists have been killed. In Manchuria, Korea and Formosa, tens of thousands of people have been tortured for resistance to Japanese imperialist violence…

Workers’ Weekly, 2 March 1934

The telephone affixed to the hallway wall rang as Rowland unlocked the red door and held it open for Edna. She stepped in and ran to seize the Bakelite receiver in time. She handed it to Rowland.

Rowland spoke to the solicitor Gilbert Carmel briefly before returning the receiver to its cradle. “Mr. Du Yuesheng will meet with us this evening.”

Wing looked quite ill.

“Take heart, comrade.” Milton braced his shoulder. “You said yourself, they will not kill you while there is a chance you will pay… Rowly is that chance.”

Wing hung his head. “I don’t know how to thank you—”

“You already have. I’d rather you stopped.” Rowland tossed his overcoat at the stand by the door. He smiled, both surprised and triumphant when it caught on the hook.

Edna laughed. “When you come to know Rowly a little better, Mr. Wing, you’ll learn that he really doesn’t like to dwell on things like that.”

“Why?”

“I expect it’s because our dear Rowly has never been completely comfortable with his unearned, capitalist wealth,” Milton said gravely. “His blood may be blue but his heart is red through and through!”

Rowland ignored the poet, opening a copy of the North China Daily News as he settled into an armchair.

Clyde reached over and clipped Milton across the head. “You’re an idiot.” He turned to Wing. “Don’t look so alarmed, Mr. Wing. Rowly’s not a Communist.”

Wing sat down. “The Communists have not fared well in Shanghai,” he said, looking directly at Milton. “When I was a younger man, there were many Communists in the city but they have since fled or been found.”

“Found? By whom?”

“The Municipal Police. Some were imprisoned, others executed.”

“Without trial?”

“Yes.”

Milton sat forward. “And this is what’s happened to all the Communists in China? I was wondering where the blazes they’d gone.”

Wing paused. “I have heard that the army and the tai-pans have the Communists on the run in the north. They are all but defeated.”

Milton and Clyde both winced in sympathy for their Chinese comrades.

“So the Communists are hated here?” Edna perched on the arm of Rowland’s chair, concerned for Milton and Clyde, who were not always discreet about their philosophic convictions.

“Shanghailanders consider them subversives. Dangerous.”

“To whom?”

“To business. Shanghai is all about business.”

“What about the Chinese people? Do they hate Communists too?”

“The Communists have strength in the rural areas, amongst the poor. There are many poor. But the tai-pans and the rich fear them.”

“As they do in Australia,” Milton murmured.

Wing frowned. “You must understand, Mr. Isaacs, Du Yuesheng is not an ordinary businessman. He is a friend of Chairman Chiang Kai-shek.”

Milton sat back in his chair, unperturbed. “So he’s a well-connected businessman.”

Wing shook his head. “Du Yuesheng won this friendship, this allegiance, for his help in the purge of Communists from Shanghai.”

Rowland lowered his paper. He’d still been in England when news of the Shanghai massacre had broken. The counter-revolutionary coup had seen Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist Party, the KMT, conduct a ruthless purge of thousands of Chinese Communists. Of course, the fact that the victims had been both Chinese and Communist had dampened outrage in the West. Indeed, some had applauded the firm action taken to stem the red tide. “Fortunately we are calling on Mr. Du to settle a debt, not to discuss politics.”

Wing swallowed. “You do not understand. Du Yuesheng is the zongshi—the grand master.”

Milton grinned. “That’s all right then. Rowly here is a Freemason too.” He glanced at Rowland, stuck out his right hand, wiggled his fingers and added a series of claps and a wink. “Rowly’ll give him the secret handshake and they’ll be the best of mates.”

“Of what exactly is Mr. Du the grand master?” Rowland said, trying not to laugh. He gathered by Wing’s bewilderment that they were not talking about membership of the Lodge.

“Qīng Bīng—the Green Gang. It is a secret society.”

“Like the Freemasons?” Clyde asked hopefully.

Wing shrugged. “The Green Gang controls the opium trade in Shanghai, as well as gambling and many…” He glanced at Edna embarrassed. “Sing-song houses.”

Rowland frowned. It seemed they were about to call upon some kind of criminal gang lord. Considering the reason for which they were doing so, it was probably not surprising. Still, in his experience, even gangsters didn’t kill people trying to give them money.

Edna turned to Rowland uneasily. “Don’t go, Rowly—it’s too dangerous.”

“The martial courage of the day is vain,” Milton murmured.

“Wordsworth,” Rowland replied.

Edna persisted. “Just have the lawyers send Mr. Du his money and be done with it.”

Rowland pressed her hand gently. “I suspect it’s too late for that, Ed.”

Wing nodded despondently. “Master Du does not tolerate disrespect. We must keep the appointment.”

“Ed should stay here,” Clyde said suddenly. “Just in case—”

“I’m not sure about leaving her alone,” Milton interrupted before Edna could protest. “Not after everything that’s happened.”

Rowland nodded. They could not be sure that Alexandra Romanova’s murder had nothing to do with them beyond the scene of the crime. “You chaps stay here with Ed.” He folded his newspaper. “Mr. Wing and I will keep the appointment.”

The voices of dissent were immediate in reply.

“Not a good idea, Rowly.” Clyde folded his arms across his chest. “We need a show of force at least.”

“What about Ed? We can’t—”

“Of course we can’t,” Milton agreed. “We just have to figure out where we’re going to stow her.”

“Stow?” Edna stood. “I’m not a stick of old furniture.”

“Du Yuesheng is a traditional man, and superstitious.” Wing looked at the sculptress apologetically. “He may be offended if you bring a lady to a business meeting.”

“What if Ed stays in the taxi with Singh?” Clyde suggested.

Rowland turned to the sculptress. “What do you think, Ed?”

Edna rolled her eyes. “I suppose I’ll be able to do something if you don’t return.”

“Yes,” Wing said. “That may be required.”

“What exactly do you propose to do?” Milton regarded the sculptress suspiciously. “You can’t march in there and—”

“Don’t be absurd. I’ll go directly to the police, and if they don’t do anything, I’ll go see Victor Sassoon.”

The answer satisfied the men. Edna instinctively resisted all attempts to protect her, but she was not a fool.

“You will just pay the man and leave, won’t you?” she said. It was more an order than a question.

Wing groaned and Rowland sensed that the erstwhile butler was gripped as much with guilt as fear. “If it makes you feel any better, the police will be on hand to rescue us rather smartly, should that be required. They’ve been following us since we left the Cathay.”

Milton agreed. He too had noticed the police car parked rather blatantly outside the house. “We’ll just tell Singh to drive slowly so there’s no chance we lose them between here and this bloke Du’s pile.”

“This is probably not going to look good for you, Rowly,” Clyde warned under his breath. “Meeting with a gang lord will probably promote you to the top of Inspector Randolph’s list of suspects.”

Rowland nodded. “It can’t be helped.”

Milton pulled a deck of cards from his breast pocket and proposed a hand of poker to pass the time.

“No!” Wing backed away as if the deck were on fire. “I cannot play.”

Milton smiled sympathetically. “Too soon? Come on, Wing—we’ll teach you how to play properly. Gambling’s only a problem if you lose.”

But Wing would not be moved, declaring that he would never play cards again, a decision the Australian men thought a trifle melodramatic.

“Leave Mr. Wing alone.” Edna fetched her film camera from the shelf on which she’d left it that morning. “You can come for a walk with me, if you’d care to, Mr. Wing. I want to film Kiangse Road.”

“It might be best if you waited a day before you ventured out, Ed,” Rowland said carefully. “We don’t know that Mr. Du has called off his dogs.”

“Oh I forgot. How very vexing!”

Wing stared at his feet. “I am so sorry, Miss Higgins. This is all trouble I have caused.”

Edna’s face softened. “It’s nothing at all, Mr. Wing. I’ll simply film out of the window in the garret. It’ll be a lovely perspective.”

Milton laughed as he dealt cards to Rowland and Clyde. “Just don’t slip—there’s no way Randolph will believe Rowly didn’t throw you out.”

Du Yuesheng’s house was situated on the waterfront of the French Concession. The building was new, constructed as a demonstration of its master’s power. It was not the opium baron’s only property, but it was probably the grandest and the one in which he housed his three wives, each on a separate floor. Its sprawling rendered façade, its colonnades and western styling, spoke of a progressive sensibility despite the traditional Chinese details. The towering wings of the structure were connected by colonial verandahs which provided views of the water and the concession. Several cars, including three police vehicles, were waiting in the sweeping drive when Ranjit Singh’s taxi pulled up.

“The local police deliver Master Du’s opium,” Wing explained. He spoke urgently to Singh and Edna. “If help is required seek it from the international police. There may be one or two of them not in Du’s pay.”

Singh nodded, his eyes bright and wide. The taxi driver had lived in Shanghai for many years. He understood the reach of Du Yuesheng. “Do not worry, I know where to go.”

“Good man.” Rowland grabbed Edna’s hand and kissed it. “Hopefully you won’t need to do anything. Give us half an hour.”

Edna checked her watch. “Not one minute more. Do you understand?” She looked to Clyde who had always been the least reckless of the men she lived with.

He winked. “Don’t worry, Ed, I’ll scream ‘run’ as soon as it gets hairy.”

They left Edna and Singh in the taxi, and walked up to the iron gates. Wing informed the gatekeeper of their business and they were admitted. Two men leaned against the columns of the portico smoking. They said not a word, motioning them to the entrance with a flick of bored eyes.

The floor of the portico featured golden roundels emblazoned with five-claw dragons, a motif once reserved exclusively for the Imperial family. Rowland wasn’t sure whether Du could actually claim Imperial descent—perhaps the dragons simply attested to the new reign of the drug lords.

A servant answered the door and brought them into a foyer of white marble and gold gilt, so bright that it was, for a moment, dazzling. They waited, taking in the richly decorated walls, the fusion of Chinese design and modern art deco sensibility, whilst the servant disappeared into the dimly lit hallway.

Music and muffled chatter reached down the hallway to the foyer—there was a party in swing somewhere in the house. The servant returned and invited them to follow. They passed several darkened rooms in which men and women clustered in giggling groups or languished stupefied on chaise longues. Rowland recognised the paraphernalia of opium being passed among them. He wondered if Du Yuesheng was an opium addict.

Wing Zau walked before them directly behind the servant. His back was straight and determined, but his forehead glistened with perspiration and his normally immaculate hair was falling out of place. Milton caught up with him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

They proceeded up the wide staircase to the first floor. A set of double doors was opened and Rowland Sinclair and his associates were announced into a large room. Mentally, Rowland sketched, making notes with the lines he might have drawn. A young woman plucked at what looked like a banjo and sang long quavering notes for a man who reclined in a chair so ornate that it might have been a throne. The musician was beautiful, her attire traditional, her hair cut short in the latest style. The man, whom Rowland assumed was Du Yuesheng, was dressed in the white gown of a scholar. He was not old but there were years on his face, a kind of ancient, formal civility. He had prominent ears which had given rise to the moniker Big-eared Du. But it was to the opium baron’s mouth that Rowland’s eye was drawn—Du’s lips were controlled, and in the set of them the artist saw a ruthless intelligence.

There was a kind of perimeter guard stationed around Du. European men whose stances hinted that they were armed. They remained in the shadows of the room, watching. Six in total. Rowland recognised one: Count Nickolai Kuznetsov.

Rowland tensed. But Kuznetsov showed no sign that he recognised any of them.

Du waved his hand languidly and the music stopped immediately. The woman lowered her head and retreated from the room, leaving the zongshi with his visitors.

Wing fell to his knees, bowing forward in a kowtow. The Australians remained standing as Wing introduced them, though they understood nothing of what he said save their own names.

Du began softly but his words became progressively sharper and clipped. And he spoke for what seemed a long time.

Wing looked so pale he was possibly safer on his knees.

“What did he say?” Rowland asked when the gangster finally drew breath. “Did you tell him that we are here to settle everything you owe?”

Wing nodded. “Master Du is displeased that I have caused him so much trouble. That I have involved strangers and that we have come as four men. He says it is unlucky and that I have brought bad luck to his door. For this he says we must pay a special penalty.”

“What kind of penalty?” Rowland asked calmly as he tried to identify their best chance of escape. He could see Milton and Clyde also sizing up the room and the Russian guards. The situation was somewhat bleak.

Du spoke again. His voice was cold.

“He says my debt is now forty pounds,” Wing stammered.

Rowland struggled to keep the relief from his face. He was allowing the man’s reputation to get to him, imagining barbaric retribution for what was essentially a financial transaction. “If that’s what it must be, then I agree,” he said with a show of reluctance. He sensed that Du required his penalty to be felt to some degree.

Wing translated.

“He wants to know if you brought the money.”

Rowland smiled faintly. He was not some simpleton. “Please inform Mr. Du that I will write him a cheque on the Shanghai International Bank. I’ll telephone when we get back to ensure that they honour the amount without any fuss.”

Licking his lips nervously, Wing conveyed Rowland’s response.

Du’s eyes flashed, and then he too smiled. And so the deal was done.

“Mr. Wing, would you please ask Mr. Du if Alexandra Romanova owed him money?” Rowland extracted a cheque book from his breast pocket and, moving over to the desk Du offered him, proceeded to fill in the requisite details. “Tell him I will pay her debt too.”

Wing swallowed. And then he asked.

Du looked closely at Rowland before he spoke.

“Master Du asks if she was the girl found dead at the Cathay.”

Rowland nodded. Clearly Du expected an equal exchange of information.

“Master Du says that if she owed him money he would have been offended by her murderer. He is not offended.”

Du sat back in his chair, and ventured another question.

“Master Du wishes to know if Miss Romanova was a—” Wing was already shaking his head, “a sing-song girl.”

Rowland bristled. He gathered that sing-song girls were prostitutes of some sort. “Tell him no.”

Perhaps Du noticed his ire, because he offered information next.

“Master Du has never heard of Alexandra Romanova. He does not believe she is a gambler or an opium addict. He would know her name otherwise.”

Rowland nodded. Then Du posed another question.

“Master Du wants to know if Victor Sassoon knew Miss Romanova.”

“I don’t know, I don’t think so,” Rowland said uneasily. The opium baron seemed to be plying him for gossip. “Would you thank Mr. Du and tell him we will not take up any more of his time.”

Wing did so.

Du nodded thoughtfully.

“Master Du says he will meet you again.”