Shanghai

By Michael Sandusky

After surviving a Pan Am Clipper crash Michelangelo Barrier and his Sikh friend Raj find themselves caught up in the Japan-China war in 1939. Michelangelo is joined by a mysterious French-Chinese woman in search of a priceless ring developed by her late husband and a German scientist 16 years earlier. The lost ring contains a secret that promises to bring peace to a world at war. Interrupting the search, however, is their incarceration in a Japanese prison camp. They need to escape or die. They need to find the ring or the world will destroy itself in war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796073881

Michael Sandusky

Michael Sandusky is the quintessential story-telling romantic. His fifty years of writing novels, short stories, poetry, self-help books and newspaper columns have been read and enjoyed the world over. He loves deep-sea fishing, traveling to exotic locales, cooking and public speaking relating thrilling, funny and poignant stories about his adventures, narrow escapes and interpersonal relationships. He still believes that the best stories cannot be made up, but come from actual human experience. He can be reached at [e-mail]

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Copyright © 2019 by Michael Sandusky.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-7960-7389-8

                eBook            978-1-7960-7388-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/06/2019

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Acknowledgements

For K

athy

INTRODUCTION

I HAVE NOT BEEN a writer all of my life. Only since the age of 12 when I wrote my first novel on my blue Tom Thumb typewriter. I can remember typing with two index fingers a magnificent and moving novel of one and a half pages. However, it was single-spaced! Unfortunately, its title and story have been lost somewhere in the finiteness of my mind. The paper version was probably long since discarded on the trash heaps close to Tulsa Oklahoma. No, I haven’t spent my life writing, but I have been a reader since the age of six when I found myself captivated by Dick, Jane Sally and Spot.

My mother liked mystery novels so we spent a good amount of time in libraries. Her fondness for that genre became mine as well when I began reading Hardy Boy Mysteries. I tried a few Nancy Drew’s, but the boys seemed to resonate better with me. I would lay in my upper bunk and read, even under a flashlight at times. That bunk was mine, since my little brother liked to fall out of it so much. He was relegated to the lower bunk, so my parents could get a full night’s sleep. The accusations that I had caused him to tumble down those five feet ceased after that. I can’t remember actually doing such a despicable act, but I know that I did tease him a lot. I apologized in later years for such behavior.

Around the age of 30, I started a business that evolved out of my antique cars. It’s a long and fascinating adventure that I won’t spend any time on here except to say that we dressed up in period clothing and ran around in cars built in the 1920’s and 1930’s. I was intrigued by this time so I started buying magazines. I didn’t buy just one at a time, but hundreds, even thousands dating from the 1800s up through the 1970s. Soon I had so many magazines that I had to sell them to support my hobby. The collection had grown to over one million magazines. This is where your mouth pops open and you think that I’m nuts and pity the poor woman who married me.

Not only did I collect these, but also I actually read them. Well, OK, I didn’t read all one million magazines. I only read the interesting ones. Take Life magazine for instance. I had all the issues from beginning to end 1936-1972. I read them in order. I did the same for Time magazine 1923 to 1980. I even read the women’s magazines. I was able to see how our world and life on this earth rose with the sun and reclined with the moon. One day I realized something. Yes, I noticed something.

The world seemed to be stumbling along on a faster path to hell around 1936.

Many Americans consider our part in World War II as having begun at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, but realize that the conflict was preceded by the European war that began with Hitler’s invasion of Poland on September 1, 1939. What is forgotten and even maybe unknown is the Japanese conquest of China, which had been grinding along since the mid 1930’s. War was very real to both of those nations long before we were even thinking about any conflict that might involve us on this continent.

America, for the most part, was finished with its expansion by 1904, but Japan was beginning to show its muscle even against Russia by that time. Its victory at Port Arthur and eyes upon Manchuria were the conversations not only in Washington D.C. but also throughout the world. Even though World War I and its horror tried to be forgotten and in a way caused a malaise in the 1920’s and early 1930’s, Japan was thinking otherwise.

As a student of history and a writer of romance-adventure, I could not resist tossing our hero Michelangelo Barrier into such a conflict, albeit little known or perhaps forgotten by you, my dedicated readers and the reading public.

Michelangelo, of course, is the grand uncle of Mike Barrier on his father’s side. You might remember Mike’s exploits in my previous novels I Rode the Wings of the Dawn to the Farthest Oceans, Hilary’s Secret and Out of Time. He is not to be confused with my Uncle Gene who so generously gifted me with a number of million dollars and a yacht after his death. He was my mother’s brother.

I introduced you to Michelangelo in the first volume of this trilogy Lost. He and his sidekick Raj go down in the seas off the Philippines in 1936. Their Pan Am Clipper crashes with only seven survivors. Raj is a Sikh, one of those noble and heroic warriors who were used so mightily by the British not only when they were subduing India, but also in their other conquests throughout the world and up through World War II. I have always been enamored with this community of admirable people even going quite thoroughly into their lives in I Rode the Wings of the Dawn to the Farthest Oceans. They are often mistakenly confused with the Moslem and Hindu communities, but will be adamant in proclaiming their disconnection from those two groups.

I was so intent upon actually meeting a Sikh that I attended a New Year’s Eve party with a thousand other Indians one year. I loved the Indian food, conversation, new friends and entertainment and yes, I did meet a Sikh. He was handling the entertainment for the venue. It was that meeting that night that began to illumine my mind not only about Sikhs and Hindus, but also about Moslems. The next Sunday I made a point to engage my convenience store owners and staff in dialogue. I had stopped there for months buying my coffee on the way to church. Since then, this Christian has come to know these Moslems quite well. It is coincidence, though, that a son who works there is named Raj. Michelangelo’s friend Raj was well into the work before I met this son whose name means son of a king. Since his father owns the store, I call him King at times. It is still debatable as to whether he should call me Saint as in Saint Michael.

In any case, we are friends.

We still need to find Raj’s (Michelangelo’s friend) family emerald that was stolen in the first volume. The group of survivors stumbled onto a Japanese secret there. Since Mike (as he insists upon being called) seems to have a knack for this kind of thing in these romance-adventures, we are introduced to Mademoiselle Vale Elkins. She has a secret too and you will be quite surprised as well as intrigued by her as you read on through the volume. You would be even more surprised if you actually saw her in person.

Yes, she is a real person.

Therefore, that being said please settle back and enjoy this saga of the Barrier family who just can’t seem to avoid the romance and adventure of life itself.

CHAPTER ONE

I T WAS NOT Juan Trippe’s American dollar generosity towards those of us who had survived the crash of his new Pan Am Clipper in the turbulent seas of the Philippines that kept me in Shanghai in 1937. Once I had proved that I was indeed alive and not taking the bank in a wide-eyed desperate heist, I could afford to live on my own funds. The others who had also survived the crash accepted the restitution as a small repayment towards their time and perhaps their sanity.

It probably meant nothing to Agnes Stoutheart with all of her Boston money and in fact, she may not have even accepted it. However, Jane, our movie star, albeit B movie star welcomed it as did John Nevis, the reporter for the Los Angeles Hearst-Tribune. Bea Bettencourt may have accepted it also, but I can’t vouch for that. She went back to the States under a cloud of intrigue as far as I was concerned. One night several weeks after she had sailed away I finally connected her last name with my relentless inquiring mind and remembered that her family had been involved in a murder-for-hire plot that involved her well-to-do father and another woman. Actually, it was with two other women because one of them wanted the other dead and probably him as well. I assumed that Bea had left the country and lost herself in Africa as a huntress in order to escape the attention.

My friend Rajmund Naowarat Gobind Singh also accepted the payment. It was because of him and his pitiful plight that we were both now in this teeming cosmopolitan city. Well, Juan Trippe and his plane had something to do with it also. It is because of Raj’s valued friendship that I’ve hired a rickshaw to get to this dusty Jewish pawnshop in Hongkew, a dismal section of tenements and storefronts behind the port area of Shanghai. Jewish refugees from all over the world have made this their own international community. It’s such a gloomy day. A black ceiling of clouds has descended upon us and envelops the city in a pocket of dark, dead and dank air.

Shanghai was unwillingly susceptible to the intrusions of others who desired her for her riches. The Nationalist Army under Chiang Kai-Shek moved around and throughout espousing the guise of protection. Many in the city doubted that motive. The Communist Army under Mao Tse Tung wanted the city for its riches and seaport - the biggest and busiest in the world. Their strategy was verbal, but also physical at times. Then there was the Japanese Army and air force. They wanted the city for the same reasons; however, there was a mountainous amount of greed mixed with their objectives. In spite of these annoying fly-like nuisances, the city as a whole rested in its security that it was too big and complex for anyone to do any serious damage.

In any case, the International community was beginning a slow process of evacuating. Perhaps they are smarter than Raj and me, but at least at this moment I’m not very concerned. I’m here because someone in their haste to get out has pawned something that I want. At least I heard that it was here. All right, I was eavesdropping to a conversation in an American bar two days ago.

I listen to the proprietor talk to a customer as I peruse the jumble of discarded items. The man’s name is Albert Deeks. I’m aware of that because of the plaque on the wall behind the counter. He’s thin and bald, wearing spectacles with gold wire rims. I wonder if he’s been here since the Boxer Rebellion. His shop certainly has the appearance of age.

I know Albert and his kind. I, or I should say my firm, represented poor unsuspecting clients at least three times in the early thirties. They had succumbed, as a dreaded last resort, to the need for funds by pawning their valuables during the economic downturn. Each time I had proved that the pawnbroker was unscrupulous. I doubt that Albert is any exception. I can look at him and tell that he is lonely and looks at the world through a jeweler’s glass. His kind used to watch the stock ticker and make obscene amounts of silver certificates. Now he is obsessed with the hunt, looking for that acquisition that can be bought cheap and sold for a great deal more. He is obsessed with his need to best everyone who opens the door and rings the little brass bell over it. It is his way of keeping score. One could enter clothed in rags…even holding a baby in a dirty blanket. Who knows? He might even buy the child if he can make some money. I’m getting carried away here with my disdain for the creature. I need to remain focused on my objective and in this case, his jeweler’s glass is needed.

The customer at the counter turns and makes her way past me, clearly glum over the results of her visit as she stuffs British pounds sterling into her purse.

How may I help you?

Oh…I was just looking for something to do on this dark day and your shop looked interesting.

Now he’s lost interest in me. I’m a looker with no intentions of redeeming, buying or pawning anything. I’m prepared for this gesture, though, as I look down on his display case at the curved Gruen watches, diamond earrings, assorted ruby brooches and gold finger rings. I place my right hand upon the glass top as I stare down at its contents. Now I’ve caught his attention. Out comes the jeweler’s glass.

That’s an attractive ring, he commented.

This? Well, I like things like this. Actually, I purchased it here in Shanghai in the French sector. Someone, an actress from what I am told, apparently pawned it and returned to the Ile de France. They must feel safer there. I think that they were concerned that China was gong to find itself in a war. Stories like that intrigue me. I like to know the background of the jewelry that I buy.

May I look closer at it? I removed it and handed it to him where he scrutinized the gems through his right-eye jeweler’s glass. I had told him the truth. I just hoped that he had not seen or heard of it previously. This breed of being congregates together. They know each other and boast of their victories and their wealth. He examined the rubies and diamonds that studded the ring. He was good at his act of hiding his amazement. He turned the ring this way and that before he pulled the light bulb down from some contraption above the counter obviously designed for the purpose of closer inspection. When he looked at the inscription inside the band, I thought that I noticed his eyebrow lift, just slightly. I hoped my ruse was working.

Did you want to pawn this?

As I said, I’m just looking. I like jewelry though. Especially colorful things…the bigger the better.

He returned the ring and I replaced it upon the third finger of my right hand. I could tell that he was studying me as I continued to look down into the case.

Do you live here? What is your occupation?

I couldn’t tell him that I was an attorney. That and any law enforcement would scare him off. So would a private investigator. I hoped I could conceal my newfound purpose.

Actually I am on holiday, making my way around the world. In times like these, only the wealthy could afford to do such things. It was obvious to him now that I had money.

Do you see anything here that interests you?

No, not really. It has to really jump out at me, you know. Well, I should be going. Who knows what’s down the street? I smiled and turned towards the door. I didn’t reach it in time to ring the bell.

I might have something in which you might be interested.

I returned to the glass case and watched as he slipped into the back room through the dark gray curtains. They were parted enough for me to see him place a gun into the back of his belt. He disappeared from view and then reappeared suddenly, even startling me.

Come back here. I will show you something.

I made my way around the corner of the case and followed him into the dark confines at the rear of the shop. He beckoned me to be seated at a small Chinese table, gilt in gold. A Handel table lamp brightly illuminated the surface. He reached into a safe and pulled out an object covered in black velvet. He placed it upon the table in front of me. The man turned to look out into the shop before carefully undoing the red ribbon that enclosed the ebony material.

This is probably the biggest emerald that you have ever seen.

Yes, it was the biggest emerald that I had ever seen. However I had seen it before, tucked into the turban of my friend Raj.

CHAPTER TWO

I LEARNED OVER THE years to hide my surprise when something unexpected happened in a court of law. I had also developed an act when surprise needed to be expressed to those in attendance. I hoped that my surprise had not lifted my eyebrow as did Albert Deeks’ when he had noticed the inscription inside my ring.

I pulled the lamp down and looked closely at the gem.

May I examine it by holding it?

Yes, but be careful.

I don’t know why I should be careful. It may not be as hard as a coal-pressed diamond, but it’s certainly not going to crumble in my hands.

Yes, the carved leopard’s face was clearly visible. It was the size of an American twenty-five cent piece. Raj had been silent about it when I inquired of it that time that he had shown me the gem. He had only mentioned that it was the family treasure and needed to be returned to India since he deemed himself such a failure. I’m sure it was the emerald that had been taken from him when he was beat up and left for dead on that Indonesian island. I doubt that someone was stamping leopard’s faces on huge emeralds somewhere in the world.

Do you know the story behind this?

"It came in a few days ago. Undoubtedly from the safe of a rich…maybe even nouveau riche person here in the International community. They were probably disposing of valuables before evacuating the city."

Were they British?

I think that they were American. I don’t inquire, really, about circumstances or reasons for pawning or selling things. None of my business, you know. I’m sure it was the most valuable of their possessions. It’s priceless you know.

If it was priceless, why was he showing it to me? It was his way of raising the price. I wasn’t born yesterday in a court of law, you know.

It’s nice, but I don’t think that I could afford it.

Well, it is rather expensive. Fifty thousand pounds sterling.

Whew I whistled and handed the priceless green treasure back to him. I’m sure that the asking price was inflated. That’s the way these people do business. They have an invisible, but large hat-pin that that they plunge into one’s heart like a voodoo doll when they’re looking for a kill.

I…uh…I could perhaps take your ring in trade towards the purchase. I like the way the diamonds and rubies are placed.

It wasn’t that. He had similarly studded rings in his showcase. No, it was the inscription inside that had intrigued him. I knew it would.

I purposely showed temptation. Well it does seem to be an exquisite piece.

I…uh…could offer ten thousand towards the ring in trade.

Hot Dog! I had only paid a thousand for the ring! I could be rich doing things like this. Maybe I could become a pawnbroker? I banished the ill thought from my mind. I felt dirty enough just being in the presence of this Eden serpent. I imagine he had quadrupled the price above what he had paid for it.

I could give ten thousand for the gem. I like its cut.

You insult me! He recoiled as though I had leprosy. I was used to insulting. We hadn’t taken drama and acting at Princeton just as elective courses. It was required to supplement our courtroom dramatics.

Obviously overlooking my naïve knowledge of gems, he came back with forgiveness.

My friend, I will overlook the fact that you have little knowledge about these kinds of things. This is priceless. I will take twenty thousand and your ring. I may regret it since who knows what’s going to happen here in Shanghai in the next few weeks?

Even though he had finally spoken some truth about the future of the city and its inhabitants, I didn’t like being called his friend.

Fifteen thousand and no ring.

He put on an act. Maybe pawnbrokers went to drama classes as well. He looked as though his mother had died…if he ever had a mother.

"I am such a bad businessman, but your ring is eye-catching and I think that I could sell it, even if it was at a bargain-basement price. If the Communists or Japanese take over the city I would need to dispose of it quickly. Er…ten thousand and the ring."

No thank you. We’re too far apart. I should be going. I turned towards the curtain. I was going to pay what ever price he wanted, but I was also going to play the game.

Just the ring then and may my mother on the cold shores of the Isle of Man turn over in her grave!

Now, the ring was worth fifty thousand pounds Sterling. I knew something of the inscription, but obviously he knew more than I did. However, the money was not important to me. Raj’s emerald and his self-esteem issues were what was really at stake here. I would complete my objective in coming to this dirty shop in the first place, rid myself of this man and his friendship, carefully clean the gem of the residue of the man’s hands and thank God that the ordeal was over.

That sounds fair. I will take you up on your generous offer.

Perhaps you could add a thousand for my trouble?

I scowled with a disapproving look. Nice try. He continued to wrap the gem. The little bell above the door gave its signal. I prepared to remove the ring from my finger as I heard the door close with a creak. Deeks continued to wrap the gem.

I will be with you in a moment! Just look around!

The customer not only looked around, but parted the curtains and entered the inner sanctum. However this was no customer. Customers don’t come into stores with bandanas wrapped around the lower part of their face and pointing a pistol.

You’re not allowed in….

Hand it over!

Deeks quickly pulled the wrapped treasure behind his back.

No, this has no value. Take something else! There is nicer jewelry in the case up front, even Sterling and dollars in the safe!

Don’t be a fool. Your life is not worth the risk. Now hand it over!

It is this man’s…he just purchased it. He turned to give the emerald to me, but instead of handing it over, pulled the gun from his belt. That was a poor decision. The intruder shot him squarely in the chest and then just as quickly pointed the gun at me. Deeks slumped to the ground as I raised my hands into the air. The man stooped down to pick up Raj’s emerald while continuing to look at me and holding me at bay with his gun. He stuffed it into his overcoat and then rose to address me.

Why do you want this emerald?

His eyes were a piercing red as though placed with a laugh into his eye-sockets by the devil himself. His skin was white with only a red tattoo upon his forehead.

I thought is was pretty.

Don’t lie to me! Do you take me for a moron?

We both turned towards the curtain when the little bell sounded again. That’s when he hit me with the butt of his gun.

CHAPTER THREE

M ANY THINGS QUICKLY passed through my mind as I re-entered a conscious state. Was this Sikh heaven with all these turbaned men gathered around me? Was this a British angel who was attending to my head? Do British angels wear blue skirts? Did I really survive a plane crash, cannibals and Japanese mayhem only to wake up, nearly dead, in a dusty shop…of horrors?

My head ached so I reached up to feel it, but the nurse pulled my hand down.

Mustn’t touch for a while. I’ve bandaged it well, but some blood may soak through. The bloke that hit you had a lot of punch.

I looked over at Deeks’ body, lying in a pool of blood. I hoped they weren’t going to accuse me of murder. What was I thinking? I have the mind of an attorney. I could argue myself out of any jam, be it British or American. How could I shoot the man and then hit myself so hard as to knock myself out?

Avez vous une passport francais?

Hmm…I guess I could put up an argument in a French court.

Do I look French? Do I look French? Why would you think that I’m French? Am I wearing a beret and have a pencil-thin mustache? My impetuousness was being spurred on by my headache.

You have no identification. His French disappeared and his British regained the throne in his voice quicker than Marie Antoinette had disappeared through her bedroom escape doors at the sound of revolt. You are wearing a ring with a setting that is similar to French settings.

The ring! Yes, the ring was still on my finger!

Did you shoot this man?

No, he did not shoot him. My inquisitor backed away as another Sikh entered into the room. He was dressed in a blue business suit and red tie. Are you able to sit up? Pull that chair over here and help the man.

Two of the bearded police officers lifted me up and helped me to the chair. The man pulled another chair hanging from a wire up above and placed it in front of