by Tom Bradby
“So what does that mean?”
“Is it what she liked?” Maretsky asked, glancing at the photographs on the bookshelf. “The handcuffs, I mean. And the underwear. Or is it a man’s sexual fantasy? A man whom she is in love with, or serves in some way.”
“They had an argument, lovers’ quarrel?” Caprisi asked. “He ties her up, then they have a fight?”
“No.” Maretsky shook his head emphatically. “This must be about a much deeper, more virulent rage. Look at the body. We are probably seeing rage against women in general, not Lena Orlov in particular.”
Field thought of the woman lying on the bed and the disconcerting appearance of pleasure that death had left playing on her lips. He found himself imagining the terror on her face as the knife was plunged into her, again and again.
“Chen says,” Caprisi went on, “that this flat and the one next door belong to Pockmark Lu. And therefore, presumably, the women in it.”
Maretsky said, “She was obviously a . . . you know, high-class.”
“She was his woman?”
“I’m sure he would have had her, but she may have had other uses.”
“Hiring her out?”
Maretsky shrugged. “A gift, perhaps.”
Field was struggling, and failing, to accept the idea of Natasha Medvedev submitting herself to a man against her will.
“It’s certainly vicious,” Maretsky said, almost to himself.
No one answered.
Maretsky was carrying a small leather briefcase—almost like a lady’s handbag—and he tucked it under his arm and moved toward the door. “We’ll talk later,” he said.
“Has there been anything similar?” Caprisi asked.
Maretsky shook his head. “Nothing that springs to mind. I’ll check with the French police.”
For a few moments after Maretsky’s departure, they stood in silence, Field reflecting on how quiet it was here—a far cry from his own quarters with the endless grunting and bellowing that went on at all times of the day and night.
He could not imagine what kind of man could have done this.
“Check this room,” Caprisi said. “I’ll do the others.”
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“Use your head.”
Caprisi went through to the kitchen and Field heard him opening and shutting the cupboards. He looked about before moving the Gramophone and opening the Chinese chest beneath. It was empty. He stared out of the window, running his finger through the condensation that had gathered on the glass since their arrival. The panes were small, the narrow metal bars between them painted white. The building must have been completed recently, because the humidity and heat of the summer frayed the paintwork of most buildings very quickly.
He turned to the bookcase and pulled out a tall, thin, dark leather photograph album.
The pictures were similar to the ones in the frames—a testament not just to a lost era but to a vanquished world. This was the chronicle of Lena Orlov’s life before the revolution had forced her from Russia, and Field could see immediately, much more vividly than from a thousand books or newspaper articles, how painful the loss of this past had been.
The photographs seemed to recall a pastoral idyll: a large country house, a lake, a summerhouse, a magnificent wooden yacht, a father who looked severe and a mother who smiled in every picture. Field had read that most of the Russian aristocrats with money had fled to Europe, but the Orlovs, too, had clearly been wealthy.
There was a photograph of a little girl whom Field assumed to be Lena, with a dog and a woman he thought must have been her nanny. It was the last picture in the book, taken by a sledge in the snow, in front of the house, a number of suitcases visible on the shaded, iron-framed veranda in the background. Had this been the end, the departure?
He closed the album and put it back, wondering what had become of the brothers and sister who would be called upon at a time like this to come around and sort through her effects.
He thought how hard it would be for any sibling to accept that their sister had died like this. Or were they dead, too?
There was a large leather-bound volume that looked like a Bible next to the photograph album, and thinking of his father, the religious fanatic, Field took it down and opened it, only to discover that a large hole had been carved inside, creating enough space to hide a small notebook.
Lena Orlov—he assumed it was Lena—had written in a neat, flowing hand, in ink, and each line contained a date, the name of a ship (he assumed), and a destination. The last entry was: 26th June. SS Saratoga—Liverpool.
That was in just over a week’s time.
Not all of the destinations were in the United Kingdom. Some of the ships had been bound for Amsterdam, Bordeaux, Antwerp, Calais, and Kiel. It did not say what they had been carrying, nor was there any indication as to why they had been listed.
At the bottom of the page, Lena had written: All payments in ledger two.
Caprisi came back in and Field handed him the leather volume and the notebook. He glanced down the list. “Where did you find this?”
“On the bookshelf.”
“Shipments,” Caprisi said.
“Yes, but of what?”
The American shrugged.
“Something to do with Lu?”
“She must have had a reason for hiding the notes. What is this . . . ‘payments in ledger two’?”
Field heard the sound of someone running on the stairs. A second later Chen burst into the room. “The doorman—he’s been taken.”
Three
Caprisi didn’t hesitate, and Field followed as they crashed down the stairs, not certain what Chen had meant. The door at the bottom slammed so hard against the wall that one of the panes of glass shattered. They ran through the lobby and out into a burst of sunshine. Caprisi pushed Field into the back of the Buick, and Chen resumed his position on the running board, this time without the machine gun, which lay on the floor in front of them. Caprisi picked it up and put it on the seat, then pulled out his own pistol. Field did the same and found that his hand was shaking.
Chen shouted at the driver in Chinese, gesticulating at the black car in front. “Follow it,” Field heard him say. They drove fast down Foochow Road in the direction of the Central Police Station. The driver swerved to the right in front of an oncoming tram, the heavy car tilting violently. Field found himself inches away from an advertisement on the front of the tram extolling the virtues of the Majestic Café at 254 Bubbling Well Road—The largest cabaret in Shanghai.
They were almost up on a sidewalk as they passed the police station, then once again returned to the center of the street, missing a dog that yelped and darted into the crowd and an old man carrying vegetables in baskets suspended at either end of a long pole.
Just before they reached the pale stone grandeur of the Municipal Building, the driver turned right into Kiangsi Road, pushing the Buick as fast as it would go and honking as he crossed Avenue Edward VII into the wider, quieter boulevards of the French Concession. The distinctive towers of the Russian church were visible in the distance.
The car’s suspension was not all its makers promised, and Field struggled to get a clear view of who or what they were following. As they reached Boulevard des Deux Républiques and the boundary of the old Chinese city, the rising tide of oncoming humanity forced them to slow dramatically, until it was clear that they’d make better progress on foot.
“All right,” Caprisi shouted, hammering the door, before clambering out, the Thompson in one hand, his pistol in the other. “Chen!” He held up the machine gun as the Chinese disappeared into the crowd.
There were hundreds of rickshaws, plowing through a milling, whirling throng, jostling and pushing toward the marketplace. Occasionally, Field would see a fedora or catch a glimpse of a long tunic and bright white shoes—the garb of the dandy—but he was trying not to lose Caprisi, who was concentrating on Chen.
The streets were narrow,
the distinctive curved roofs blocking out the light, the lanterns hung beneath them below the level of their heads, so that they were forced now and then to weave and duck.
Field realized, to his surprise, that he was still clutching the gun. He put it by his side and tried to relax, but it was impossible to make easy headway, and he could feel his own aggression increasing, along with that of those around him.
He tripped over a dog and knocked into a woman who was carrying a basket of vegetables on her shoulder, and she cursed him until he swung around and she saw the barrel of his Smith & Wesson revolver.
For a moment he stared at her old, wizened, hostile face and the goods that were now all over the dusty road. He turned, feeling a moment of rising panic as he failed to locate Caprisi. Then he spotted the American detective’s head bobbing from side to side ahead of him.
Field tried to speed up, losing Caprisi again as they entered a narrow, dark alley and then almost bumping into him and Chen as they emerged at the edge of a square. Field’s height allowed him to get a clear view of what was happening ahead.
There was a crowd of hundreds, drawn back to the edges of the marketplace, watching as a man drew a long metal sword and put his foot on the neck of the doorman, who had been stripped, his red and gold tunic lying in the dust. Even above the hubbub, Field could hear his whimper and feel his fear. His own heart was pumping; sweat was stinging his eyes.
He wiped it away with his sleeve again, his hand still shaking. Caprisi lunged forward, but Chen stopped him, a strong hand on the American’s shoulder. He was shaking his head.
There was a hush in the crowd now, the blade bright as it was raised above the man cowering in the dust.
And then, before Field could credit that any of this was happening, it swung down, and the images before him seemed suddenly disjointed and unreal. He heard the thud as the head hit the ground and rolled, sending a puff of dust into the air.
There was an animal grunt, full of suppressed rage, and it took Field a few moments to become aware that Chen was wrestling with Caprisi. Voices were raised in anger as they thrashed into others in the crowd.
Chen lunged and caught the American off guard, pushing him into a nearby alley. The American swung wildly, but Chen was bigger and stronger and had Caprisi pinned up against a mud wall.
“Not now,” Chen said through gritted teeth. “Not now.”
“It’s never—”
“Leave it.”
They held each other, highlighted by thin rays of sunshine that shone through the dust hanging in the air. Field stood a few feet away, the smell of human feces from a honey cart catching in his nostrils.
Chen released his colleague. Caprisi dusted himself down. “Welcome to Shanghai, Dick,” he said.
“You’re not in England now,” Caprisi said as they got into the lift.
Field had no idea what he was talking about.
“Take your jacket off. You won’t be impressing Granger.”
Field would have removed his jacket if his shirt hadn’t been soaked in sweat. His tongue felt like rough stone and his head was pounding from exertion, heat, and shock.
“Your place or mine?” Caprisi hit the button for the third floor and leaned back against the side as the lift lurched into action. He’d barely broken sweat. “You might as well come up to Crime,” he went on. “Or is it down to Crime?” He shrugged when it was clear he wasn’t going to get a reaction. “You can take the prints to the bureau.”
Field was trying to forget about the way the doorman’s head had rolled forward through the dirt, blood from the severed artery in his neck spurting out into the crowd. “What are we going to do?”
“About what?”
“About what we just saw.”
Caprisi frowned at him. They reached the third floor, but there was no one in evidence ahead and Caprisi made no move to leave, his hand pressed flat against the edge of the door. “What do you mean, what are we going to do?”
“The man was murdered.”
“Was he, Field?”
“Of course he was.”
“He was a communist.”
“Why do you say that?”
The American smiled. “You don’t have records on him?”
“We don’t even know his name.”
“But there’s a war going on.”
“A war?”
“Against the red tide. I thought that was your department.”
“The suppression of—”
“He was taken by Lu’s men. Tell me you understand.” Field didn’t respond and Caprisi looked tired of the game. “They will have melted away into the Chinese city or the hinterland. In the unlikely event that we had managed to find one of them and persuaded him to testify, Lu, or whoever gave the orders, would say that the murdered man was a communist and that he was dealt with in the Chinese way. In the climate of the times, his claim would be met by understanding and sympathy.”
“So we let him get away with it? We stand back and let—”
“Don’t they teach you anything in training?”
“About what?”
Caprisi looked exasperated.
Field felt the flush in his cheeks. “The doorman was hardly a communist.”
“But threats to the grand capitalist hegemony are everywhere.”
“You’re sounding like a Bolshevik yourself now.”
“Is that an accusation?”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid.”
Caprisi looked at him, his hostility not assuaged. “What do you want to do, Field? Maybe we should apply to the French authorities and go down to Lu’s house in Rue Wagner and arrest him, just like that. Arrest the most powerful man in the city, a guy who makes Al Capone look like a social worker. “You think anyone is going to testify against him?”
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it for you.”
“I was sent to help.”
“And help you have.”
“So, case closed. The woman, too.” Field looked at his watch. “An hour of our time and that’s it. No immediate answers, so . . .”
“It’s a C.1 matter, Field.”
“So that’s it? That’s how C.1 works?”
“For you, that is it.”
“You were angry back there.”
“No I wasn’t, Field.”
“Chen had to—”
“Of course, I was fucking angry.”
“Then why—”
“Do me a favor.” Caprisi was pointing at him. “Don’t be so naive, all right?”
“So we bow to a gangster? They’re Lu’s apartments, so we just leave it?”
“Couldn’t have the empire doing that.”
“It’s not about—”
“I know you’ve been bragging about your connections.”
Field stared at him.
“Geoffrey Donaldson’s your uncle, is he? Municipal secretary, member of the Shanghai Club, drinking right at the head of the bar, mixing with the taipans . . .”
“For Christ’s sake.” Field tried to control his annoyance.
Their voices had become loud and heated, and they both found themselves glancing around to see who might have heard, but only Macleod’s secretary was looking at them and she now turned away.
Caprisi appeared suddenly chastened. “I’m sorry,” he said, touching Field’s arm. “I’m tired . . . you know?” He took his hands from his pockets and led Field down to his desk, which was pushed into a corner beneath one of the big windows at the far end of the room. He picked up a white form from the basket ahead of him. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Have you done much crime work?”
Field shook his head.
“Okay, trust me, the doorman is an incidental, relevant only in that he was part of a cleanup operation. The girl . . .” He shrugged. “The prints will be in the lab. They’ll look to see if there is any match on file. Even if the handcuffs are clean, other prints might tell us who has been to the apartment over the past few days, w
hich is better than nothing. But you’ve got to fill this out and take it to the lab before they’ll release the results. They’ll bring them to my desk when they’re ready, tomorrow or the next day, and stick them in the tray. You may have to keep on their back because they’re always complaining about their workload. If they have a match, they’ll do a memo and you go to Maretsky and he’ll brief you about who the guy is. But if they’ve got a match, I’ll come and see Maretsky with you, okay?”
