Shanghai Secrets Read online

“Loved It”

  WE are indebted to a daily for publishing a letter from a Brisbane society girl holidaying in Shanghai, in the war zone. It reads like this, in part:

  ‘We were in the Cathay Hotel when the first Japanese bomb hit the city. We did not take the slightest notice, and when we came out the streets were full of armoured cars and Japanese soldiers, and a man was killed a few yards from where we were standing. It was awfully thrilling and I just loved every minute of it.’

  —Truth, 21 February 1932

  * * *

  The Jasmine Lounge on the ground floor of the Cathay Hotel was a tribute to its founder’s very British fondness for tea and prided itself on offering every blend of tisane known to man. A kaleidoscope of guests was seated at tables draped in crisp white linen. Westerners, Chinese, and Indians in their various styles of dress, an American woman in what looked like a modified sari, young Chinese men in boaters and spats, a European man in the robes and skullcap of a Chinese monk. Waiters took orders, and a sommelier advised patrons on the various fusions and brews.

  Rowland scanned the tables for the gentleman he was to meet here. Immediately he spotted Alastair Blanshard, whose imposing stature and bright red hair were as distinctive here as they had been in Munich eighteen months before. They’d last parted in distinctly tense circumstances. The man with Blanshard was greying at the temples and his sandy hair cut short in military style: Andrew Petty, of Highland Mercantile, according to the message which had been left at the reception desk. Petty was the wool consignor with whom Wilfred had been dealing. What Blanshard was doing in Shanghai, let alone why he joining them, Rowland had no idea. Both men were drinking cocktails rather than tea.

  Rowland made his way to the table. Petty looked up first.

  “Mr. Petty,” Rowland began, offering his hand.

  Petty looked bewildered. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Blanshard groaned. “This, old boy, is Rowland Sinclair.”

  Petty looked back at Rowland, clearly alarmed. “Rowland? Where the hell is Wilfred?”

  “My brother was unavoidably detained, gentlemen,” Rowland said evenly. “He’s sent me in his stead.”

  “For pity’s sake! We’re talking about international trade, high-level negotiations, not his spot in the local batting lineup.” Petty slammed down his cocktail and stood.

  “Clearly you underestimate how seriously Wilfred takes cricket,” Rowland said, smiling faintly.

  Petty stared at him.

  “Andrew…” Blanshard cautioned.

  Petty sighed. “Yes, very well. Sit down, Sinclair. What will you drink?”

  “Gin.”

  “So,” Blanshard began as they waited for the drink to arrive, “you’re looking well, Sinclair.”

  Petty’s eyes narrowed.

  “This particular Mr. Sinclair and I met in Munich,” Blanshard explained briefly. He turned to Rowland. “I believe you ran into a spot of trouble before you left Germany.”

  “You might say that,” Rowland replied.

  “All’s well that ends well, I suppose.”

  “I’m afraid we’re unlikely to see an end to it until Germany is no longer in the grip of the Nazis.”

  Startled, Petty glanced over his shoulder. “Mr. Sinclair, this is a treaty port. All the great trading nations are represented here. You would be well advised to be a little more circumspect with your political opinions.”

  “I didn’t realise you were in the wool business, Mr. Blanshard,” Rowland said carefully. When last they’d met, Alastair Blanshard had been a spy of sorts. They’d worked together to thwart Eric Campbell’s attempts to meet Adolf Hitler and bring European fascism to Australia. They’d succeeded, but the cost had been high, for Rowland at least.

  Blanshard smiled. “I’m not. I just happened to join Andrew for a drink.” He drained the last of his cocktail. “In fact, I think I might leave you chaps to it.” He stood and pushed in his chair. “Welcome to Shanghai, Sinclair. Don’t let Andrew here lead you astray.”

  They watched him leave the lounge. Then Petty cleared his throat. “Well then, it seems we’re in a bit of a pickle, Sinclair.”

  “How so, Mr. Petty?”

  Petty sat back. “Your being so woefully inexperienced in matters of commerce and diplomacy, not to mention the particular vagaries of Shanghai. The Sinclair seat at these meetings is one of great influence and import.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s jolly fortunate we have a few days before the first meeting. I’ll do what I can to school you, as it were.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but—”

  “Don’t look so appalled, Sinclair. I’m not proposing to teach you geometry—simply how things work over here. I daresay you’ll enjoy the experience.” He signalled a waiter and ordered another round of drinks. “I’m otherwise engaged tomorrow, but what say I collect you after breakfast the following day—Wednesday? About ten o’clock? We should start by introducing you to Shanghai.”

  “I’m travelling with a party,” Rowland said, unsure what it was that Petty felt he needed to teach him.

  “I’m sure they’ll be able to spare you. I’d like to make sure we understand each other, and that you understand how things are done here.”

  And so, while Rowland did not actually agree, he was herded into acquiescence. They finished their drinks as Petty spoke to Rowland about the wool market and the potential for Australian pastoralists to profit in the current climate. Rowland set his face in a show of attention. For a moment, he wondered if he should tell Petty that he would not be making any decisions on Wilfred’s behalf, but perhaps such a confession would undermine whatever value his presence would achieve. Wilfred had assured him that there would be nothing that he could not take on advisement. He was relying on that being the case.

  “Heil Hitler!”

  A sharp, loud Fascist salute caught Rowland’s attention a couple of tables away. A young man joining a table. More subdued greetings in return from those already seated, and the newcomer was hastily found a chair.

  Petty grimaced. “Gauche, isn’t it? The young like to bring attention to themselves. In my day we were taught the value of discretion.”

  Rowland’s eyes darkened as he bit back comment. The presence of Nazis outside Europe disturbed more than surprised him. Shanghai was a treaty port, to which each nation brought its own interests, culture, and politics. And Hitler’s was an expansionist regime.

  * * *

  Originally and officially named the Horse and Hound, the bar at the Cathay Hotel had been designed to have the character of an English pub. A mecca for touring jazz bands, it had taken on a different identity and was now called simply the Jazz Bar. On this night, the Jazz Bar was busy—an after-dinner crowd who’d come to drink and dance and revel. The clientele was racially diverse but uniform in its elegance. Europeans and Shanghainese in evening gowns and dinner suits, in cheongsam or Mandarin-collared jackets, sipped cocktails at tables around the dance floor. Reminiscent of the most exclusive private clubs, the venue currently boasted the talents of a touring jazz band from Chicago and featured the vocal talents of a Chinese artist. The music was a mix of American and Shanghai’s own brand of swing.

  Rowland sat at a table, drawing idly in the notebook he always carried. He sketched the dark-skinned band members in their white jackets in sparse lines that captured the energy and movement of each musician. The Chinese vocalist, in particular, drew the eye. Rowland was looking forward to unpacking the small trunk of paints and brushes that he and Clyde had brought with them. Wing Zau had already procured easels from somewhere; the valet seemed to have a talent for preempting their requirements.

  A waiter arrived bearing cocktails, which he set down on the low table. The drinks proved a clarion call for Milton, who detached himself from a conversation on the other side of the room
to claim his vodka martini.

  “Where’s Ed?” Clyde asked, removing a cherry from a concoction of gin and pineapple juice.

  Rowland motioned towards the dance floor. The sculptress was easy to spot, her black cheongsam striking against the cream of her skin. Her hair had been arranged into an elaborate twisted knot by Wing Zau, whose skills, it seemed, were many. Edna was at that moment in the arms of a fair-haired gentleman attired in what appeared to be a military dress uniform.

  “Who’s the bloke?” Clyde asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Rowland replied. “He cut in about a bracket ago.” He frowned. “Do you think Ed needs rescuing? Maybe I should—”

  “She doesn’t look unhappy, comrade.” Milton squinted over the rim of his glass. He pointed at the line of men gathered on the edge of the floor. “There are plenty of chaps waiting for the opportunity to cut in. Jump the queue, and you’ll probably start a fight.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” They stood hastily as a young woman in a deep red gown approached. Her hair was a silvery blonde, and her eyes wide and blue. She smiled. “I haven’t seen you gentlemen here before.”

  Rowland introduced himself and his companions. “We arrived in Shanghai this morning.”

  “I bid you welcome then, gentlemen. My name is Alexandra Romanova.”

  “Would you like to join us, Miss Romanova?” Milton asked.

  “I only came to ask if you would care to dance.”

  The Australians glanced at each other a little awkwardly. It was not so much that the young lady was issuing the invitation—they lived with Edna and were accustomed to the gentler sex dragging them onto the dance floor in a manner that might have been considered too forward in certain circles—it was that they were unsure to which of the three of them the invitation was directed. In the end, Milton sought clarification, in his fashion.

  “The one red leaf, the last of its clan, that dances as often as dance it can.”

  “Coleridge,” Rowland murmured. He smiled apologetically at Alexandra. “Mr. Isaacs is concerned that you might find it too much of an imposition to dance with all of us.”

  “Oh no.” She turned to look at a group of young ladies gathered near the stage. “I have friends if you all wish to have tickets.”

  “Tickets?”

  “Dance tickets.”

  “You have to buy tickets to dance?”

  “With a taxi girl, yes.”

  For a moment there was silence, as they individually contemplated what it was that a taxi girl did. Rowland broke it. “Why not? We’ll all have tickets.”

  “It’ll be one pound for each dance,” Alexandra said sweetly over her shoulder as she went to fetch two more girls.

  Clyde choked. “For God’s sake, Rowly, what are you doing?”

  “I seemed a bit rude to say we didn’t want to dance with them.”

  “Rowly, I hate dancing. You’re going to pay some girl an entire pound to torture me.”

  Milton laughed. “Money well spent, if you ask me.”

  “When they say dance, they do mean dance, don’t they, Rowly?” Clyde said uneasily.

  Rowland stopped. He hadn’t thought of that. He glanced at the three women making their way over. Undeniably attractive, they walked with a kind of high-heeled purpose. “I’m pretty sure they won’t be able to overpower us…”

  Milton laughed. “I may not put up much of a fight.”

  Chapter Seven

  RUSSIAN REFUGEES

  PATHETIC CIRCUMSTANCES

  Pathetic details of the flight of Russian refugee women in Shanghai are given in a report of the Nansen International Office for Refugees, issued in Geneva. After appealing to the League to supply funds for the relief of the Russian exiles, the Nansen Office presents the report of its Shanghai representative, who, referring to the large number of Russian women in disreputable houses, contends: “I cannot but add the general complicity, not only of residents, but often also of distinguished travellers.”

  —Singleton Argus, 2 November 1934

  * * *

  In the course of the first dance, Alexandra Romanova chatted gaily about music, the club, and her favourite drinks. At the end of the song, she politely informed Rowland that the next dance would cost him another pound. Somewhat relieved that the nature of the transaction was at least now clear, Rowland paid for another turn about the floor.

  “Were you born in Shanghai, Miss Romanova?”

  “No, we—my family—fled Russia during the revolution. I was a little girl.”

  “I see.”

  “Papa was a soldier, loyal to the tsar. They fought the Red Army, but, in the end, there was nothing left but to run. Now we must work in small jobs, as taxi girls and security guards, but one day, Mr. Sinclair, we will return and reclaim what was ours from the filthy Bolsheviks.”

  Rowland led into a turn. Milton and Clyde, both of whom were Communists, seemed to have quit the dance floor. He couldn’t see either. “Do you remember much of Russia?”

  Alexandra looked up at him, her sky-blue eyes moistening. “I remember a big house and servants. I had a pony called Mischa. My brother played violin, and I wanted to dance with the ballet.” She laughed bitterly. “Now we are without a country, Sergei teaches fat, tone-deaf children to play, and I dance here.”

  Rowland hesitated, unsure how to respond, guilty now for dancing with a girl who clearly resented having to do so. In the end he said simply, “I’m sorry.”

  “No, Mr. Sinclair,” she said hastily. “You dance beautifully! You don’t haggle about price! The Italians haggle—‘I have only two shillings,’ they say. You are polite and handsome, and you smell very nice.”

  Embarrassed now, Rowland laughed. Alexandra seemed to relax. She told him about the Russian theatre opening in the French Concession—that part of Shanghai which had been conceded for French settlement. “There are more Russians than French people living there now.”

  When the song finished, Rowland suggested a drink. They returned to the table, and found Milton and Clyde already there.

  “Did you not wish to dance again?” Alexandra looked for her friends. “Anya and Natalia are excellent partners and very pretty.”

  “Anya’s toes took a bit of a battering dancing with Clyde,” Milton replied. “Natalia’s card was booked, I think.”

  “Do you work here every day?” Rowland handed Alexandra a cocktail of champagne and cream.

  “In the evenings, yes.” She sipped the drink, and then accepted Rowland’s handkerchief to wipe the froth from her upper lip. “You did not say, Mr. Sinclair, why do you come here?”

  “We’re staying in the hotel,” Rowland replied. “The Jazz Club was recommended by the valet.”

  “No, no, I mean Shanghai. What brings you all to Shanghai?”

  “Rowly’s here on business,” Milton said. “We just tagged along.”

  Alexandra locked her eyes on Rowland’s. “Perhaps you will come back tomorrow.”

  Before Rowland could reply, a gentleman interrupted to present his ticket and claim the dance for which he’d paid. Alexandra reacted with professional courtesy, detaching herself immediately to attend to this new client.

  As the taxi girl disappeared into the crowd upon the dance floor, Edna returned—the man with whom she’d been dancing earlier in tow: a handsome, if slightly heavy man who looked to be about thirty-five. His hair was fair, parted cleanly, and slicked back, his attire evocative of the uniforms worn by the European military elite. She introduced him as Count Nickolai Kruznetsov. He nodded stiffly.

  Rowland offered the count his hand. For a moment Kruznetsov stood motionless, and then he accepted the handshake warmly. “Yes!” he said. “Let us do away with formalities. You must call me Nicky. I will call you…” He looked at Edna questioningly.

  “Rowly,” she said.

 
“Rowly! I will call you Rowly!”

  He shook Clyde and Milton’s hands in turn, and for a few minutes they exchanged the usual pleasantries. Kruznetsov was in flamboyantly high spirits, buying drinks with a generosity that was commensurate with his title.

  Even so, it seemed the count worked as a private security guard for a Shanghainese businessman.

  “Are you good gentlemen filmmakers?” he asked. “Shanghai is popular in Hollywood films now.”

  Milton shook his head. “I suppose Ed’s been telling you about her camera—it’s a bit of a stretch to call her a filmmaker.”

  “Oh no, Edna belongs in front of the camera. She is too beautiful to be otherwise.”

  Clyde groaned.

  “I do act, as it happens.” Edna smiled at Kruznetsov. “I even had a part in a film back home.”

  “You were sacked,” Milton reminded her.

  “The director and I had a difference of opinion.” Edna tossed her head indignantly. “He was entirely unreasonable.”

  “Clearly the man was a buffoon,” Kruznetsov declared. “My cousin Ivan drives for Warner Orland. I could arrange an introduction; perhaps he might find you a part in the film he is making here.”

  “Who’s Warner Orland?” Clyde asked.

  “He’s the actor who plays Charlie Chan, I think,” Rowland said.

  Kruznetsov nodded. “He is what they call a Hollywood star.”

  “That would be wonderful, Nicky,” Edna said enthusiastically. “I saw Charlie Chan in London at the cinema last year. I’d love to meet him.”

  Kruznetsov puffed a little. “I will speak to Ivan tomorrow. He will tell this Warner Orland that he must find a part for you.”

  Milton shook his head. “You know not what you do, comrade.”

  The count’s face clouded. His eyes flashed dangerously. “Do not call me comrade, sir! That is the title of red vermin traitors.”

  Milton shrugged. “Well, I could call you sweetheart,” he said airily, “but we hardly know each other.”

  Kruznetsov pulled back a clenched fist. Rowland stepped between the two. “Steady on there, Nicky.”