14

CHINA WILL CALL WHITE MAN’S BLUFF

Western Civilisation Forced its Way in, and the Chinese Hope to Force it out

INSCRUTABLE ORIENTALS NO LONGER REGARD EUROPEANS AS KINGS OF THE EARTH

Though China is too busy squabbling with Japan at the moment to look for trouble elsewhere, there is no doubt that China is preparing to call the white man’s bluff. For years the Europeans have lorded it over the patient Orientals, but the Chinese have been biding their time. Were it not for the fact that they are so divided among themselves and have been always so distrustful of Japan, they would have swept the white man out long ago. The whites won by force most of what they hold in China and many who are watching the situation very closely are satisfied that it is by force that the white man will so out.

When the white man, in the early years of the century, burst upon the Chinese with all the evidences of invincible Western civilisation—moving pictures, chewing gum, telephones, Scotch whisky, machine guns, and other fascinating gadgets—he easily awed the modest Orientals by his superiority, his wealth, his prodigious brain. The white master slapped the cook for serving underdone breakfast bacon and delivered a kick to accelerate his rickshaw coolie’s speed. Glorified, the white man swaggered through China confident of his supremacy. But today the story is different. Every racial group in Asia, from the Japan Sea to the Indian Ocean, is endeavouring to

EXPEL ALL WESTERN INFLUENCES

which conflict with native tradition. China in particular seeks freedom from foreign control. However they may appear to have adopted Western manners, the Chinese will never permit themselves to be weaned from their own culture, tradition and habits…

—THOMAS STEEP, American newspaper correspondent.
Mirror, 28 December 1935

There had, it seemed, been no false modesty in Clyde’s declaration that he could only cook bacon and eggs. And so they finished the day with the same meal as that with which they started it. Ranjit Singh was warmly invited to join them for this festive, if makeshift meal.

The taxi driver accepted readily, in the mood to celebrate the emergence of his employers from the lair of the gangster. Indeed, he was decidedly pleased to have played a small part in the caper. Working for Rowland Sinclair was already proving an excellent diversion. Ranjit did not dislike driving his taxi, but at times during the fifteen years he had been doing so, he’d longed to participate in the intrigues of Shanghai, to move with businessmen and power brokers—the dazzling, clever, wealthy people who came east to play. Of course, he was a taxi driver, and that sort of life would only ever be the subject of daydreams whilst he was waiting for a fare.

Over the years, Ranjit had driven all manner of persons from all manner of places, but he found the Australians particularly intriguing. Sinclair had clearly always had money; there was a depth to his polish which eluded more recent millionaires. But his friends hadn’t. They were erudite enough, but there was a competency about them, a knowledge of everyday tasks like brewing coffee and lighting fires, that gave away humbler origins.

He had never before been invited to dine by a client, but neither had he been asked to drive a getaway vehicle. It was all rather thrilling. The only person about whom he wasn’t entirely sure was the Chinese butler. The man, it seemed, was a gambler and though the Australians appeared to have no issue with that particular failing, Singh did not entirely trust Wing Zau. He resolved to keep a close and wary eye on him.

As they gathered about the table, Milton filled their glasses from a random assortment of liquor bottles he’d gathered from the drinks cabinet while he recounted what exactly had transpired in the house of Du Yuesheng. “Tell you what, I thought we were done for when he started talking about penalties!” The poet shook his head. “But it turns out the crims here simply impose fines. It’s quite civilised really.”

“We were lucky,” Wing said. “I am lucky.”

Milton laughed. “If you were lucky, comrade, you wouldn’t have lost your shirt in the first place.”

Even so, Wing showed them how to raise a toast to his good fortune, Chinese style, turning over their glasses to show that they were drained after declaring “kanpai”. Then Clyde came in with a simply enormous platter. “This is the last of the eggs and bacon… we might have to restock the pantry or buy a few hens if we’re going to eat tomorrow.”

Milton helped himself. “Don’t worry, Mum, one of us will go to the market for you.”

“I suppose we might have to take all our meals out,” Rowland suggested. Whilst he quite liked bacon and eggs, he expected that they would tire of it eventually. And poor Clyde looked exhausted and harried by the exertion of frying.

“My sister is a most accomplished cook,” Ranjit said. “Women are better cooks, I think.”

“Not this one.” Edna buttered bread.

“Perhaps Harjeet could cook for you?” Ranjit ventured. “Her husband is away, so she is just at home.”

Rowland hesitated.

Ranjit withdrew. “What am I saying? If you wanted a cook there are any number of qualified chefs whose services you could hire.”

“It’s not that, Mr. Singh.” Rowland put down his knife and fork. “You see we left the Cathay under somewhat rushed and difficult circumstances.”

“Financial difficulties?”

“I’m afraid not. A young woman was found murdered in our suite.”

“The taxi girl in the papers? That was your suite?”

“Yes.”

“How—”

“We’ve no idea.” Rowland explained the situation as plainly as he could, as well as the fact that he was under suspicion. Singh deserved to know who exactly he was working for.

The driver took it all in, lips pursed thoughtfully.

“As you can understand, Mr. Singh, we seem to have found ourselves in the middle of something unsavoury.”

Singh frowned. “You wish to find out who murdered the girl? A private investigation?”

“We’re not detectives, Mr. Singh,” Edna said carefully. “But we need to know what she was doing in the suite, and how she came to be murdered there.”

“Why?”

“Because we care. And, of course, we need to make sure the police know it was nothing to do with Rowly.”

“Naturally, we’ll understand completely if you wish to end your agreement with us,” Rowland said. “I really should have told you at the outset.”

Singh shook his head. “No, no, no—I am happy to drive you, Mr. Sinclair. Sikhs have no fear of death, and even less of men. Perhaps I could help you in other ways too. We taxi drivers, we overhear many things.”

“Have you heard something?” Clyde made a sandwich of his eggs and bacon.

“Nothing, but I could let it be known that I’m interested in anything that may concern the young woman who died at the Cathay.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Many of Shanghai’s taxi drivers are my relatives one way or another.”

Milton nodded. “Could be useful, Rowly. Miss Romanova’s death is in all the papers, maybe one of the drivers heard something.”

Bolstered, Singh continued. “And perhaps my sister could come work for you, if you like—to cook and to clean. She’s a very good cook.”

“Would she want to work here, all things considered?” Rowland asked.

“Yes, yes. She would not be frightened. I could bring her every morning and take her home when she is done. If that would suit you, sir?”

Rowland glanced at his companions. “Yes, I believe that would suit us very well—if she agrees, of course.”

“If you’ll permit me, sir,” Wing ventured, “it is the butler’s duty to manage the household staff. I could receive the lady tomorrow morning and settle all the details.” Despite Rowland’s protests, Wing insisted upon leaving the table to make an inventory of the pantry immediately.

“Let him do this, Rowly,” Edna whispered.

“It’s really not necessary—”

“Even so. I know you paid this Mr. Du, but Mr. Wing still feels he’s in debt.”

Rowland left it. Edna understood people better than he did and she and Wing seemed to have a rapport. They could hear him singing now: “In the shadows when I come and sing to you…”

“Mr. Wing sings beautifully don’t you think?” Edna said as they all stopped to listen, amused.

They returned to their meal and before they were finished Wing had belted out a very commendable rendition of Bing Cosby’s “Shadow Waltz” and compiled a list of what needed doing to keep the household running to his satisfaction. Purpose, however small, seemed to have steadied him somewhat. They retired to the drawing room for coffee and brandy, and over these, Ranjit Singh told them stories from the streets of Shanghai, tales of the opium trade, warlords, and clashing tradition. The driver had come to Shanghai just after the end of the Great War.

“You were a soldier?” Edna asked.

“Yes. I fought in Turkey, at Gallipoli, and then in France. After it was all over I didn’t want to go home.”

“I lost a brother at Ypres,” Rowland said quietly.

Singh’s black eyes were sympathetic. “I remember the Australians. The British generals used them almost as badly as they did we coloured troops from the subcontinent.”

Rowland said nothing. He had heard it said before that the English commanders were careless with colonial lives. And he was not so naïve as to expect that there were not more levels to that lack of regard.

“I lost brothers too,” Singh said sadly. “We were not afraid of death.” Singh stood. “If you’ll excuse me, good people, I will say goodnight. My wife will be worried if I stay out much longer, and she will already be cross that I have no appetite for her curries this evening.”

“Of course. I’m terribly sorry if—”

“Do not be sorry, Mr. Sinclair. I have very much enjoyed this evening in your company. Rarely do I disembark on arrival—the lot of a driver, you know.”

Rowland walked Singh out to the Buick so that he could thank the driver again. Singh assured him that he had not been at all alarmed by his part in the excursion and was prepared to discharge more dangerous duties if the need arose.

Amused, Rowland waved Singh into the late-night congestion of Kiangse Road and returned to his friends. Wing Zau, who had been noticeably quiet in Singh’s presence, reanimated somewhat, and told them of Shanghai during the war, emptied of Englishmen and Europeans who had returned to fight for king and country on both sides of the conflict. He spoke of the Chinese labourers who had dug the allied trenches. “After the war, the Shandong Peninsula, Chinese land, was given to the Japanese. Many Chinese believe that our allies betrayed us.”

Rowland frowned. “They probably did. The spoils of war don’t often bring out the best in men.”

“No, no… I apologise Mr. Sinclair.” Wing shook his head. “A wise man does not allow past wrongs to poison the friendships he makes today.”

“An ancient Chinese saying?” Milton topped up Wing’s glass with Sassoon’s cognac.

Wing shrugged. “Perhaps. I read it on a restroom wall in Boston, but I’m sure my honourable ancestors would concur.”

Rowland laughed. “When were you in Boston, Mr. Wing?”

“I was a student at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in my youth, Mr. Sinclair. My dear father had a great deal of faith in western education.”

“Had? Did MIT disappoint him?”

“No, it’s not that. Father was arrested and executed in the purge of Communists from Shanghai.”

Edna gasped. “Oh, Mr. Wing.”

Clyde shook his head. “We’re truly sorry to hear that, Wing.”

Wing nodded sadly in the wake of their condolences. “They were difficult years. All the tears in China might have flooded the HuangPu. For my mother’s sake, I went to work for Sir Victor. There is a certain protection afforded to the Cathay.”

Rowland pondered this. Sassoon did seem to wield a great deal of power and influence in Shanghai, and he had gone to great lengths to distance the investigation of Alexandra Romanova’s death from the hotel itself.

“Shall we have some music?” Edna suggested before the conversation became too sombre. “Where do you suppose Sir Victor keeps the records? Perhaps he has some Fats Waller… Rowly, what’s wrong?”

He grimaced. “Nothing really.” He felt inside his pocket for the silver discs Van Hagen had given him that morning. “I just remembered that Mr. Van Hagen had given me these.”

Rowland placed the first disc on the gramophone’s turntable and they all stood around to listen, intrigued by the Cathay’s elaborate method of taking messages.

The voice that came out of the bell was scratchy, but it was that of Andrew Petty. He spoke smoothly and without awkwardness, but possibly he had left recorded messages at the Cathay Hotel before.

“I say, old boy, where on earth are you? I heard about this awful business in your suite, quite outrageous if you ask me. My condolences, old bean. A positively dreadful introduction to Shanghai. Now they tell me you’ve checked out—I don’t wonder! But the jumped up little demagogue behind the counter won’t tell me where your digs are now. So I shall have to leave that to you. Telephone me via the exchange and let me know where you’re staying. I don’t suppose you’ve had someone show you the sights yet. And there are, of course, matters of business aside from pleasure. Well then… Toodle-oo old boy.”

Rowland stifled a yawn. “I’ll call him in the morning.”

“Who made the other messages?” Edna asked, looking closely at the silver discs.

“Put them on and let’s see.”

Edna chose one and exchanged it with the one already on the turntable. She set the needle.

“Mr. Sinclair…”

Rowland stiffened, and stepped closer to the gramophone. The voice was Alexandra Romanova’s.

“Mr. Sinclair… is this working? Oh yes. Dear Mr. Sinclair, I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep our appointment for tea and cakes today. I hope you will forgive me and come find me at the Jazz Club this evening. I must talk to you, to explain, though I cannot come this afternoon… he will know. I think you are kind, Mr. Sinclair… Rowland, so I hope you will understand, that you will help me.”

The recording became faint—barely audible.

“May God protect you…”

The gramophone scratched silence.

Rowland lifted the needle and played it again.

“Oh, Rowly.” Edna grabbed his hand before he could play it a third time. “That poor girl.” The sculptress’ voice was unsteady. Even on the recording, there had been a palpable fear in Alexandra Romanova’s voice. And just hours later she would be dead.

Rowland nodded. “God, if we hadn’t stepped out…”

Edna pulled him down to sit beside her. “We don’t know that, darling. You would have helped her if you’d been given the chance.”

Milton cursed. “What the hell is going on here? Did she say anything to you, Rowly—that night at the Jazz Club?”

Rowland shook his head. “We talked about music, and books. She spoke of returning to Russia one day with her brother. She made sure I wasn’t married before she suggested I ask her to tea. She was charming and confident… there was nothing.”

“She made a beeline for Rowly,” Clyde said thoughtfully. “It was as if she had singled him out.”

Edna bit her lip. “That’s hindsight. She might just have found Rowly particularly handsome.”

“Perhaps,” Clyde conceded, “but considering what’s happened… She did say she wanted to explain, that she wanted him to understand. That sounds like she wanted to talk about more than standing him up for tea.”

Rowland nodded. “Clyde’s right. She’d already apologised for breaking the appointment. What could she have possibly wanted me to understand?”

“She used the recording like she was writing a letter,” Edna observed.

“Many people do.” Wing Zau poured another round of brandy. Despite the roaring fire, Alexandra’s voice had chilled them all. “Most people find leaving a spoken message quite awkward and uncomfortable at first. Some people shout, others giggle, and some speak as if they are dictating a letter or a telegram. Mr. Petty’s obviously left messages at the Cathay before, but I doubt Miss Romanova has.”

Milton rested his elbows on his knees, sitting forward and swirling the brandy in his glass. “We need to decide what we’re going to do with the recording.”

“What do you mean?”

“Randolph will use it against you, Rowly.”

“How could he?”

“He could well use it to allege that your relationship with Miss Romanova was much more than merely dancing with her the night before she was killed. You could read almost anything into what she said.”

Rowland exhaled. He could see Milton’s point. But still. “We can’t withhold it, Milt. It may be a clue to who killed Miss Romanova.”

“I agree,” the poet said carefully. “Or I would, if I thought Randolph was actually investigating who killed her. As far as I can tell, he’s already decided it was you. I say we don’t help him lock you up.”