by Tom Bradby
The country club on Bubbling Well Road was similarly grand, a wide circular stone entrance giving way to an airy stone-floored lobby with plants in large silver pots. There was a reception area on the left, but Lewis led them straight through to a veranda that overlooked a small fountain and several acres of flat, well-tended lawn. A group dressed in white was playing bowls in the corner, close to the wall; another group, nearer, croquet.
It was growing dark. An Indian waiter in a starched white and gold uniform was hanging lanterns all along the terrace and placing joss sticks and spraying paraffin beneath each table to ward off mosquitoes.
Penelope Donaldson was waiting for them at the far end, one long leg crossed over the other, both resting on a wicker and glass coffee table. As she turned toward them, Field saw immediately that she was pretty, with bobbed, jet-black hair. Her skirt was short, her mouth small. She wore, Field thought, a lot of makeup.
“Charlie!” she said, standing and putting her arms around his neck, kissing him on the mouth. “What a treat.”
“Penelope,” Geoffrey said a little stiffly, “this is Richard Field, my—I suppose our—nephew.”
She stepped forward and offered a slender hand, her smile warmer and more engaging than Field was for some reason expecting. “We’ll get along fine,” she said, “just as long as you don’t call me ‘Auntie.’ ”
Field smiled back at her.
“The boy’s in the police force,” Lewis said.
“Good Lord,” she responded with the same mock admiration.
“Working on that Russian woman found handcuffed to the bed.”
“How exciting,” she said, ignoring Geoffrey’s frown. “It’s sexual?”
They were all looking at Field, who was wondering what the Evening Post had written about the story—sensational nonsense, probably—or from where they had received such detailed information. “In a sense, yes.”
“What do you mean?” Penelope asked.
Field wasn’t sure it was a good idea to get into this. “The consensus seems to be that it is a crime of a broadly sexual nature.”
“Perhaps he couldn’t find keys to the handcuffs,” Lewis said. Penelope laughed. Geoffrey looked embarrassed.
Lewis turned his hat in his hand as he contemplated Field. Field thought him the most supremely arrogant man he’d ever met. He was handsome, and he knew it, and was clearly totally comfortable at the apex of Shanghai society. Slowly, he turned away, toward Penelope. “You weren’t at the Claymores last night.”
Geoffrey interrupted by signaling for a waiter, another Indian, this time all in white, without any brocade. The three men opted for gin, Penelope for “a slow comfortable screw.”
She laughed as she said it, embarrassing her husband. Field could see from the menu in front of him that the cocktail was called simply “The Screw.”
“How are you finding Shanghai?” she asked him when the waiter had gone.
Field sat up straight. “Hot.”
“Got yourself a girl?”
“Penelope . . .”
“What?”
“Give the chap a break. He’s only been here five minutes.”
“I’m sure he has. Probably found a Russian already. They’re a bargain. Grateful, too, I gather, unlike us lot.”
The waiter arrived with a large silver tray, the drinks, and two bowls of peanuts. He set them down carefully, bowed once stiffly, and retreated.
“Come on, then, Richard . . . is that what we should call you?”
“Most people just know me as ‘Field.’ ”
“We can’t call you that! It’s far too impersonal.”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Lewis said.
“Richard,” Geoffrey instructed his wife.
“All right—Richard. You must have a girl. Handsome chap like you.”
Field blushed. She was smiling at him. She leaned forward, the strap of her black dress falling off her shoulder to reveal a small, firm breast and nipple, only just visible in the half-light. She followed the direction of his gaze but made no move to pick the strap up.
“It’s been all-consuming since I got here.”
“You’ve been training?”
“Yes.”
“With guns?”
“Amongst other things,” Field said.
“How very brave. I’m sure your mother told us you were a fighter. Didn’t she, Geoffrey?”
“Richard is an accomplished boxer.”
“And she said you have a temper . . .”
“Penelope,” Geoffrey said sternly.
“No, I like a bit of spirit,” she said.
“Better watch our step,” Charlie Lewis added.
“Have you learned Chinese?” Penelope went on.
“I wouldn’t claim to be fluent.”
“Neither would I, but then I don’t speak a word. Geoffrey and Charlie do, of course.”
“Ignorance,” Charles Lewis said languidly, “is the preserve of the taitai.”
Field was frowning.
“Consort of a taipan,” Geoffrey explained, “but in more general usage, expatriate lady.”
“So you’ve not sampled the exotic delights of the city?” Penelope asked again, raising her eyebrow but still not lifting the strap of her dress.
“Penelope.” Geoffrey was smiling benignly as he eased back in his chair, stretching out his false leg. “Do give the chap a break.”
“No, it’s a serious issue,” Lewis said. “A man, whatever his station, must live here.”
“Or a woman,” Penelope said. She took a sip of her cocktail, which was yellow in color, with a cut strawberry resting on top. “I think he should have a Russian.” She leaned forward again. “They’re so beautiful and sexy, don’t you think, Richard?”
Penelope smiled and touched his leg, the front of her dress dropping still further. “I’m sorry, we’re teasing you.” She sat back, taking a cigarette from the silver case on the table in front of her. “Everyone expects Shanghai to be decadent, so we like to give the impression of debauchery, but you’re too nice to be teased, and you’re family.”
Field had drunk both the first and now this gin and tonic quickly, and was beginning to feel the effects.
“Another one, Richard?” Geoffrey asked.
Field shook his head.
Geoffrey leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette in the silver ashtray. “I think we should go through to dinner.”
To Field’s dismay, Penelope Donaldson put her arm through his and led him along the veranda to the French doors, leaning against him a little, so the smell of Parisian perfume caught in his nostrils.
“How is your mother, Richard?” she asked.
“She’s fine.”
“I keep telling Geoffrey he should send money.”
“She won’t accept it.”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
Field had been trying not to look at her, but he turned and found himself flushing. Her brown eyes were soft, her gaze solemn now; only the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. He shrugged, not certain what he should say.
They had reached the dining room, which was again huge, the walls covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors, in between which hung dark paintings of English country landscapes.
There were only a few groups eating, and another Indian waiter led them to a table by the window. It looked out onto the veranda where they’d just been sitting and the lawns beyond.
As his chair was pulled back, Field glanced up at the giant chandelier and wondered if he should offer to pay for his own dinner. He suspected that it would be bad form, but did not want to be seen as another poor cousin intent on sponging off the wealthy branch of the family.
Geoffrey ordered a bottle of champagne and lit another cigarette, offering the case around the table, so that, as the waiters filled their glasses, they were all smoking.
Field had never had champagne and had often wondered whether he would like it. He took to it so quickly that it
was hard not to gulp it down.
“So who do you think is your man?” Geoffrey said when the waiter had placed the bottle in the silver wine bucket next to him.
“For the murder?” Field said, beginning to feel quite drunk.
“Yes.”
“We’ve hardly begun—”
“Initial theories. A Jack the Ripper?” He turned to Lewis. “An Eastern Jack the Ripper?”
“The woman’s flat belongs to Lu Huang.”
Both the men opposite him frowned. “He’s your suspect?” Geoffrey asked.
“Difficult to say at this stage. It’s just that it was his apartment, and my colleagues think it was his men who bundled the doorman down to the Chinese city and presided over his execution.”
“Doesn’t seem Lu’s style, stabbing a woman,” Geoffrey said.
“I get the impression he’s more or less above the law.”
Geoffrey Donaldson shook his head vigorously. “No, no. We’d love to get him for something if we could, but . . . you know.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “He has the French in his pocket and he’s careful what he does and doesn’t do in our jurisdiction, but . . .”
“Isn’t the abduction of the doorman a crime in our jurisdiction?” Field had begun to sound truculent, so he took another large sip of champagne. “As well as the murder of the girl, of course.”
“Yes, absolutely,” Geoffrey said, nodding. “If you boys could get him on this, it would be marvelous, send a signal . . . you know. Don’t you think, Charlie?”
“Absolutely,” Lewis said without enthusiasm.
“The municipal authorities keep open contacts with Lu,” Geoffrey said, “for reasons I’m sure you appreciate, but that doesn’t mean he’s above the law.” He took another drag of his cigarette. “Anything you can do to teach everyone in this city a lesson on that score would earn you a lot of plaudits.”
“That’s enough politics, boys,” Penelope said. “It’s only a Russian girl, after all . . . Let’s order, and then I want to know everything about Dickie’s life here.”
She looked down at her menu and then stood to excuse herself. As she passed her husband, she draped her arm over his shoulder affectionately and he placed a hand over her own. They both smiled.
By the time they’d finished dessert, Field was drunk and had said considerably more than he’d intended to. He’d talked about the rivalry between Macleod and Granger and told them about Prokopieff and his habit of leaping out of bed in the middle of the night and beating on the walls all the way down the corridor outside, shouting something incomprehensible in Russian.
They had smiled while he told this story, but Field thought he’d talked too much. Lewis’s eyes had begun to glaze over.
“I propose,” Lewis said, “that I take our boy here on a tour of the city’s ‘exotica.’ ” He stood, then they all did.
“Excellent idea. I’ll take Mrs. Donaldson home,” Geoffrey said.
“Now hang on a minute . . .” Penelope interjected.
Geoffrey cleared his throat noisily.
“Well,” Penelope said petulantly, “a girl knows when she’s not wanted.” She leaned over and kissed Field on the cheek, her skin warm and her hair soft. As she did so, she touched his hip with her hand, leaving it there as she pulled her head back, before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. “I hope you’ll be virtuous tonight.”
“Actually, I really ought to be getting home.”
“Nonsense,” Lewis said, adjusting his jacket and glancing at himself in the mirror.
Field’s face was reddening. “I’m not actually sure I can afford . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geoffrey said, looking at him with astonishment. “You’re a policeman. Fraser’s will pay.”
Penelope’s hand was still in his pocket and she scratched his side, then leaned forward to give him another kiss.
She picked up her shawl from the back of the chair and walked toward the door. Geoffrey edged around the table, smiling at him. “Good to see you, old chap.” He shook Field’s hand. “Let’s stay in touch.”
“I’d like that.”
“Let’s see to it, then.” He nodded at Charles, then set off after his wife, who’d already gone through the big wooden doors.
Seven
Lewis looked at Field. “You need a new dinner jacket, old man.”
“This one will be fine in the winter.”
Lewis smiled as he led the way out to the reception area and the stone steps beyond. Field had not realized how drunk he was and half wished that he’d had the good sense to say no to this excursion.
Charles Lewis leaned through the window when his chauffeur-driven Buick came to a halt. “Delancey’s,” he said before climbing into the back, Field following him. As they drove off, they saw Geoffrey and Penelope Donaldson getting into rickshaws. “He’s a good man, Geoffrey,” Lewis said. “One of the very best.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t even seem to mind about Penelope.”
“What do you mean?”
Lewis smiled at him, leaning back into the far corner of the rear seat. “You must have seen she’s a bit of a goer.”
Field frowned.
“You should give her a try. Goes like a belter. Geoffrey doesn’t mind.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Handsome chap like you could use a bit of experience.”
“Geoffrey is my uncle.”
“So what? She’s no blood relation, is she?”
Field’s moral dismay was only offset by the image of Penelope’s nipple that had somehow contrived to stay with him. “I’m sure she’s not at all like that.”
“He won the Victoria Cross in the war, you know,” Lewis went on.
“Yes, my mother is very proud of him.”
“And so she should be. He’s a bloody good sort.”
Field found that this reflection of his own judgment on his uncle made him warm to Lewis a little, but they were both silent until the car pulled up outside a dimly lit building that showed no sign of being anything other than a warehouse. He began to wonder if this was some sort of joke until he saw a bouncer standing a few feet away, hidden in the shadows. The door was opened immediately to reveal what looked like a seedier version of the club they’d just been to, with a bar to their left and tables in front of a stage bathed in red light. A Chinese waitress in a skimpy, figure-hugging cream dress led them through to a table at the front. On the stage, two women were kissing each other. One was naked, the other wore a garter belt and stockings.
The one who was naked had blond hair—both were Caucasian—and she broke off the embrace and began to run her tongue over the other girl’s nipples until they were erect and proud, the girl arching her back in feigned, or possibly, Field supposed, real pleasure, as the blonde sank lower, sitting her partner on a chair and raising her stockinged legs over each arm, parting the dark hair at the base of her belly and moving her tongue slowly toward the pink lips beneath. Field and Lewis were only about two yards from the seated woman as she moaned with pleasure, pushing her hips up and her head back.
The blonde pushed her buttocks back and her legs out.
Field was sweating. A glass of beer was placed in front of him by the waitress and he turned and looked first at her, then at Lewis, who was smiling at him. Lewis leaned forward. “For Christ’s sake, man, will you take off your jacket?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Field did so, swinging it over the back of the chair and immediately feeling better, even though he could smell the stale sweat.
“And the holster. Guns make the girls nervous.”
Field took off his leather holster, which he’d forgotten he was wearing, and hung it underneath his jacket. He took a large sip of the beer. A middle-aged man with a gray beard and glasses sitting by himself on the other side of the room was staring at him.
The women on the stage were a writhing, groaning mass now, the blond-haired one thrusting her butt
ocks out toward them, legs apart, while the woman in the chair had wrapped her own around her partner’s neck.
The Chinese waitress came back and, without any prompting, sat on Field’s lap. “Oh,” she said, laughing at him, moving to his knees and stroking his groin with her hand. Field took hold of her wrist to make her stop, but he did not push her away. She was pretty, with an oval face and dark eyes, her body slim and light. Her skirt was pulled up so that Field could see that she was not wearing any underwear. She reminded him of Yang, Granger’s secretary.
“You want another drink?” she asked in good English.
“No,” he said, his voice hoarse. He saw that another girl had gone to sit on Lewis’s lap. Beyond that, at the next table, a group of expat men seemed to have their wives with them, or girlfriends, and were just watching the show. The man with the beard was still staring in their direction.
“You want upstairs room?”
“No.” He shook his head.
“You have hotel. Fifty dollar, one night.”
Field could see that he had been brought to a place that catered to taipans, since fifty dollars was almost as much as he earned in a week.
Lewis got up and led his girl toward a set of stairs in the corner.
“Your friend go.”
“Yes.”
Field felt a sense of inexplicable drunken fury and wanted to leave, but was prevented from doing so, he knew, by his mother’s obsession with adhering to social protocol.
“Come on,” the girl said, reaching for his crotch once more, so quickly that Field was unable to get his hand on her wrist until she had taken a hold of him.
“Stop it,” he said.
“I show you happy time.”
“I don’t doubt it . . .”
“We go upstairs . . .”
“I have no money,” he said in exasperation.
She took her hand away, looking at him in amazement. “Your friend. On account.”
She stood, taking his hand gently now, and, despite every bone in his body screaming at him to remain where he was, Field found that he was following her, forgetting about his jacket and pistol and oblivious to everything but the swaying of her hips and buttocks as they moved inside her silk dress.
