by Tom Bradby
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 the
re 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, which 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?”
Field nodded, turning away, assuming it would be better to return to his own desk on the fourth floor to fill this out.
“And, Field . . .”
He stopped and turned back.
“Please get yourself a new suit. It’s painful to see you dressed like a polar bear in the desert.”
Field looked at his new partner. “The doorman was killed because he saw the murderer entering the apartment block.”
Caprisi nodded his head slowly. “Correct.”
“The murderer was Lu, or someone else who had received Lena as a ‘gift.’ ”
“Probably.”
“Or someone with whom she had made a private arrangement.”
“Lu looks after his goods, so she’s unlikely to have taken that risk.”
“A boyfriend, a . . . lover.”
“It cannot be ruled out, but, as I said, she’d have to have been a brave woman.”
Field turned around, got back into the lift, and went to his own office on the floor above. The only natural light up here was from a series of windows set high on the wall, all with frosted glass, as if the work of the department was best kept from prying eyes. Granger’s office was exactly the same as Macleod’s, though he’d resisted the temptation to engrave his name in the glass. There was no light on within, but as Field walked down past the bank of secretaries—all Chinese in his department—toward his tiny cubicle in the corner, Granger opened his door.
He was a huge man, even bigger than Field, six feet five or six, with a broken nose and a handsome, craggy face. His hair was unconventionally long and disheveled.
“What happened?” Granger still spoke with the thick accent of his native Cork.
Field stopped. “We saw the doorman of the building being bundled into a car and taken down into the Chinese city, so we followed and witnessed him being beheaded.”
Granger frowned. “Outside the Settlement?”
“Yes. They took him out.”
“Who?”
“Caprisi said it was Lu’s men.”
“Did you see them?”
Field shook his head. “Not really.”
“What did Macleod say?” Granger asked.
“About the doorman?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing. I haven’t seen him since we got back.”
“What about the woman?”
“It doesn’t look political. Maretsky said he thought it was sexual, but I’ll . . .”
Granger nodded, as if satisfied. “Stick with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And stop calling me ‘sir.’ ” Granger was looking distracted. “What did Macleod say about the woman?”
“Nothing . . .” Field had to struggle to prevent adding “sir” again. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Stick with it,” Granger said again. “It’s Caprisi?”
“Yes.”
“How did he handle himself?”
Field frowned.
“Forget it. Give me a shout if you have any trouble.”
Granger turned and shut the door quietly behind him.
Four
Field’s cubicle was as spartan as his life here. Apart from his telephone and Lena Orlov’s file, which he’d taken out of Registry earlier, there was a huge pile of papers and journals that he was required to “keep an eye on” with “a view to censo
rship,” as Granger had put it. Apart from the China Weekly Review and the Voice of China, Field was required to read Shopping News and the Law Journal. It was tedious work. Detective Sergeant Prokopieff, his neighbor here and in the housing complex, did most of the big newspapers and journals and all the ones that might conceivably be of any interest, leaving Field with the dross.
On top of the file was a letter that he’d written earlier to his sister and he decided to check through it before dropping it into the mail room on his way down to the registry and the fingerprint lab. He gazed into the middle distance for a moment, then shook his head and took out his fountain pen, ready to make corrections.
Dear Edith, he’d written, I’m so sorry it has taken me all this time to put pen to paper. I have penned a note to Mother, but don’t know whether she will have passed it on or if you’ll have had time to get up to see her.
In case you haven’t, I’ll give you as much of the story as I can manage. Apologies if I’m repeating myself.
I arrived here three months ago and went straight into basic instruction, which involves everything from weapons training (necessary) to the rudiments of the Chinese language (hard, but essential, as our pay is based, to a degree, on our proficiency) to the topography of the city and even the mysteries of street numbering.
I ought to tell you a bit about the journey out, but it was uneventful. I shared my cabin with an Indian and all his luggage(!) and I can’t say it was the most comfortable voyage, but it was good to see Colombo, Penang, and Hong Kong.
I’m now working in the Special Branch, the “intelligence” department. I’m surprised to be here, but I’ll come to that in a minute.
I want to tell you something of this city, but it is hard to know where to begin or what to say. It is like nowhere else I’ve ever been, a cross between the solid majesty of modern Europe or America and the worst kind of barbarism of the Middle Ages.
Field looked up, confronted again with an image of the doorman’s head rolling in the dirt. The doorman, Lena, his father . . .
