The Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

“That is true.”

  “And if a Russian, a noncitizen, changes his address, he is supposed to inform you?”

  “In theory, yes.”

  “And most do?”

  She shrugged. “There is no reason not to. The majority do.”

  “Okay, I have two names and I urgently need an address for both of them.”

  The woman put on her glasses and looked at his notebook.

  “Do you know in what month of what year the women originally came here?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t know what year?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t be sure.”

  She sighed. “It will take two to three days, Mr. Field.”

  “Three days?”

  “Do you know how many people arrive here every year?”

  “Thousands.”

  “Sometimes more than a hundred thousand.” She looked down at the names again. “I can assume they arrived after 1918?”

  “Yes. Probably after 1920, but 1918 to be on the safe side.”

  “May I take this page?” She ripped it out. “Please give me your telephone number.”

  Field wrote it down. “You can’t do it sooner? These two women have both been murdered and their cases are a crucial part of a bigger picture.”

  “I will do my best. But it will still be two to three days.”

  Outside, Field gripped the wooden banister of the staircase and placed his forehead against the window, gazing down at the traffic moving slowly along the Bund, far below. He felt the anger and frustration swelling within him.

  It found its expression twenty minutes later, back on Avenue Joffre, when Sergei Stanislevich opened the door a fraction and then, upon seeing Field’s face, tried to close it again.

  Field thumped it with both hands, sending Sergei tumbling back into his bed, the towel around his waist falling down. There was a squeal as a small, naked Chinese girl leaped off the bed and tried to cover herself. Field thought she could not be more than fourteen or fifteen.

  He turned away instinctively and did not turn back until they had both hastily dressed themselves. The Chinese girl fled down the stairs.

  “Right, Sergei,” Field said, shutting the door behind her. “I’m going to ask you some more questions, and if I don’t think you’re telling me the truth, you’re going to regret it. Is that clear?”

  The Russian nodded, his Adam’s apple moving violently as he swallowed. Field picked up a violin and put it carefully on the floor before seating himself on the arm of the sofa and crossing his legs. There was a tray beside him, a syringe and two long metal spikes alongside a simple opium pipe.

  Field sighed. “Irina Ignatiev and Natalya Simonov.”

  Sergei clearly recognized the names.

  “Who are they?” Field stood.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “You do.”

  “No . . . no.”

  Field took a step toward him.

  “Natalya . . . the second one, no, but Irina . . .”

  “You knew her?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Lena mentioned her once.”

  Sergei had pushed himself back to the far side of the bed and leaned over to take out a cigarette.

  “In what context?” Field asked.

  “In what—”

  “How did the conversation go?”

  Sergei looked confused.

  “Why did Lena mention her?”

  “She was another of Lu’s girls.”

  “Irina?”

  “Yes.”

  “Irina Ignatiev?”

  “Yes.”

  Field thought about this. “What did Lena say about her?”

  “She’d heard he had another Russian girl over here in the French Concession. She wanted to know what the girl was like, whether I had met her.”

  “And had you?”

  “No.”

  “Where did Irina live?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d never heard of her before.”

  “What else did Lena say about her?”

  “That was it. She wanted information from me, but I’d never heard of her.”

  “She lived somewhere on this street. Which house?”

  He shook his head so vigorously Field thought it might fall off.

  “Lu has other Russian girls?”

  “Probably.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Natasha Medvedev?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know her.”

  “Only through Lena.”

  “And from the Majestic.”

  He shrugged. “Yes.”

  “Did Lena mention any others?”

  His head shook as he sucked heavily on his cigarette.

  “So you know only about Irina and Lena and Natasha. You’ve never heard of Natalya Simonov?”

  Sergei shook his head, and this time Field thought he was telling the truth.

  “Lena and Irina have been killed, but not Natasha.”

  Sergei smirked. “She fucks better.”

  Field stood, his fists bunched, then, watching the puzzled reaction in Sergei’s face, he fought to bring himself under control. “What do you know about Natasha?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “You must know something.”

  “She thinks she is superior.” He snorted.

  Field hesitated. “Lena is dead, so is Irina. Let’s say Natalya Simonov was also one of Lu’s girls. Who else does he keep, apart from Natasha?”

  Sergei was recovering his self-confidence fast. “How should I know?”

  “Think.”

  “I only knew through Lena and, like I said before, we didn’t talk about it.”

  “You’ve never talked about it with Natasha?”

  Sergei crossed his legs. He examined his feet carefully, smoke from his cigarette spiraling slowly toward the ceiling.

  “You’ve seen Lu at the Majestic.”

  Sergei looked up. “Of course.”

  “Apart from Natasha, whom else have you seen him with?”

  “I’ve seen you with Natasha.”

  Field stared at him. “Whom else have you seen Lu with?”

  The Russian shrugged.

  “No one, or too many to list?”

  “Natasha usually sits close to him.”

  “Why is that?”

  Sergei looked at him. Eventually, he said with a leer, “You’ve seen it.”

  There was a long silence.

  Field felt a burning need to get out of this room. He put his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be back, Sergei,” he said.

  Field returned to his quarters in Carter Road.

  The common room was empty, so he went to the phone and dialed the exchange, asking to be put through to Maretsky. It rang and rang, and he was just about to cut the connection when Maretsky picked up the receiver.

  “It’s Field.”

  The Russian was out of breath.

  “I need your help.”

  Maretsky still did not answer.

  “Another Russian girl was murdered on May 1, and a third at the end of March. Both women lived on Avenue Joffre.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Irina Ignatiev and Natalya Simonov. I think they were both Lu’s girls.”

  “I really don’t have time.”

  “Maretsky.” Field breathed out heavily, his heart still beating fast. “Come on, give me a break. It’s like fighting with a blanket over your head. Caprisi says you have a contact in the gendarmerie. All I need is an address for both women, so we can establish a pattern.”

  “Caprisi is familiar with the procedures for applying for information from the gendarmerie.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Irina Ignatiev was murdered at the end of March, Natalya Simonov on May 1, Lena Orlov three nights ago. As you said, there is a pattern.”

  “Thank you for k
eeping me informed, Detective.”

  “Someone is going to be his next victim.”

  “Someone will be, yes.”

  “And that fact leaves you cold? It was you who predicted that there would be more victims.”

  Maretsky sighed. “What is fueling this, Field? An admirable philanthropic concern for Russian women in general, or for one in particular?”

  “Maretsky . . .”

  “I ran into Caprisi today.”

  Field was silent.

  “I hope she hasn’t been foolish enough to give you any encouragement.”

  “I don’t know who you are—”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “I want to prevent it happening again,” Field said.

  “Before it happens to her.”

  “Please, Maretsky.”

  “I really do hope Natasha hasn’t given you any encouragement, Field, because if she has, she’s a fool and so are you. And if she hasn’t, then you’re just victim to an unjustifiable obsession and you should develop a sense of reality before you lead a lot of other people into trouble.”

  “I wish you could hear yourself.”

  “I’ve seen it before, Field, and it never ends well.”

  “I just need your help.”

  “I have to survive, Field, and so does she. And so, probably, do you. So follow the advice of those around you and desist.”

  There was a note from Caprisi in his room: Where the fuck are you? French agree to interview with Lu, scheduled tomorrow. Be in my office nine sharp.

  Field tore the note up and put it in the bin, then lay down on his narrow bed, but couldn’t sleep. He was haunted by the image of Natasha, twisting desperately to avoid the slashing of the knife.

  Twenty-four

  Field finally slept for a couple of hours but was still at his desk long before nine. He pulled over the tray that had contained the fingerprint results, then looked at the pile of journals to be censored.

  He pushed his chair back and took the stairs down to the registry. His still-damp soles slapped loudly on the stone steps as he moved through the pools of light cast by the narrow window slits. The place was open, but Danny did not smile at him and there was none of the usual banter.

  “Everything all right, Danny?” Field asked as the Irish American went to check whether or not there was a file on Irina Ignatiev or Natalya Simonov.

  “Sure. Early morning.”

  After a few minutes Danny came back with a single buff-colored folder. “Only Ignatiev,” he said quietly. He examined Field’s paperwork with exaggerated care before handing the folder over.

  Field leaned against the wall outside and opened the file. It contained a single sheet, which read: Irina Ignatiev has been seen attending a meeting at the New Shanghai Life. She is a native of Kazan on the Volga and arrived here via Vladivostok. She resides in the French Concession.

  Field sighed, flipped the folder shut, and went to return it. “Have we got any surveillance reports on Lu?”

  “Surveillance reports?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe not.”

  “We’ve never mounted any kind of operation against him?”

  Danny cleared his throat.

  “What about around the time of his takeover of the Green Gang? We must have kept a watch on him then. Will you look, please?”

  Field waited until Danny had disappeared behind one of the iron cabinets, then stepped past the counter and followed him.

  Danny was startled. Field could see that he knew exactly where the file was. He handed it over reluctantly.

  Field returned to the front desk. He pulled over a form and filled it out. He signed his name at the bottom. Danny did not catch his eye.

  This time Field walked into the stairwell before opening the file. He turned so that a thin stream of light from one of the windows fell directly upon it. There were two sheets tied together in the corner by a piece of string. The file had been written up by D.S. Prokopieff and was dated December 12, 1923:

  Routine like clockwork. Business conducted primarily from house at Rue Wagner. No bodyguards visible from street, but three to four always in hall, plus others in servants’ quarters at back. Fifteen to twenty bodyguards in total, operating in shifts.

  Each day, leaves the house at one exactly. Just before one, car pulls up. Driver remains inside. Door of house opens and four bodyguards come swiftly down steps. Armed with Thompsons. Surround car and complete visual surveillance of street. Chief bodyguard, Ivan Grigoriev, always closest to door. When Grigoriev satisfied, he returns inside and one minute later escorts Lu down to car. Lu walks slowly. Drive off in direction of Nantao.

  Go to Willow tearooms in Yaofeng Road, where Lu worked as kitchen hand when first came to Shanghai. Further business conducted, visitors searched by two bodyguards at door. A further two at end of corridor by entrance to room. Grigoriev stays inside, but emerges about forty minutes later to complete visual surveillance of street once more. At two exactly, Lu leaves tearooms. Car door no more than ten feet from entrance.

  Return to house is between five minutes and ten minutes past two. Lu goes in and stays until evening, when he leaves the house three to four times a week. He goes to the Majestic or another nightclub. Or one of his private clubs or residences. He usually returns between three and four in the morning.

  Field folded the report and slipped it into his pocket.

  “It’s the social butterfly,” Caprisi said easily as Field went into the Crime Branch. “You’ve been spotted leaving the race club with the wife of the municipal secretary.”

  “She’s my aunt.”

  “Of course she is.”

  Macleod smiled indulgently, fiddling with the chain around his neck. Field heard a rustle behind him and turned. Chen stood there, his hands in his raincoat pockets, wearing an expression that could have indicated anything from warmth to outright hostility.

  “The prints are missing,” Field said.

  Caprisi’s brow furrowed.

  “I told you that the results were up, and when I returned here after the game, they were still on my desk, but I went to the toilet and when I came back—”

  “They were gone,” Caprisi finished.

  All three men stared at Field.

  “The originals have disappeared from the lab, and Ellis has gone on holiday to San Francisco until the autumn.”

  “You couldn’t have mislaid them?” Macleod asked.

  “No.”

  “No one left a note saying they’d taken them?”

  “No.”

  Caprisi and Macleod stared at the floor. Their silence was, Field thought, imbued with suspicion. A new wave of resentment prevented him from offering any further explanation.

  An old woman came in, bent low, an apron around her waist. She stopped in front of Chen and asked him, in English, whether anyone wanted tea. Field and Caprisi nodded. The other two shook their heads.

  “What did you find out yesterday?” Caprisi asked.

  Field took out his cigarettes, lit one, and offered them around. They all refused. Field recalled Caprisi telling him that all physical evidence should be given to him and kept outside the precinct and felt stupid again for not having acted upon this advice.

  “There are two other similar cases,” Field said. “Natalya Simonov on May 1 and Irina Ignatiev at the end of March. Both women lived on Avenue Joffre, but I cannot find a house number for either. Irina was definitely one of Lu’s girls, and Natalya may also have been. I looked for the report card on Natalya Simonov, but it was missing. I know one was filed, because the numbers skipped. So I checked the incident book and found it there. I worked backwards, until I found the Ignatiev case, but the book didn’t go any further back than March.”

  There was a long silence.

  “If we apply to the French, is there any chance they will share information on the latest murder, at least?”

  Caprisi shook his head. “They’ll say it was a domestic. And if we app
ly formally, we show our hand.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We’ve arranged to see Lu this morning and the manager of the Fraser’s factory this afternoon.”

  “There is clearly a pattern,” Field said. “If we can find out where these other girls lived, there may be evidence from their neighbors that would prove more conclusive.”

  “Lu is challenging us,” Macleod said. “Whether he has intended it or not, this is a head-on confrontation. We all know the French police are entirely in his pocket, but the Orlov murder is a challenge to us. If he did not murder the girl himself, he is certainly protecting whoever did, and if we let him get away with it, we might as well hang up our boots and go home.”

  They were silent again as they contemplated Macleod’s wisdom. To Field, it had seemed like a speech to a larger audience. Macleod was even more withdrawn today, and Field wondered if ambition, and the proximity of the decision on the new commissioner, were beginning to take their toll.

  The Chinese woman brought in the mugs of tea on a battered metal tray. Field thought briefly of the fine, polished silver of the country club and the Donaldsons’ house in Crane Road. Although it was too hot to drink comfortably, the smell of the tea alone made him feel a little better.

  “It is Monday,” Caprisi said. “The shipment mentioned in Lena’s notes is on Saturday.”

  “And?” Macleod asked.

  “We know Lena had a reason to make a note of this shipment, but after that’s gone . . .” He shrugged. “The lead will then be lost.”

  The American looked at Field again.

  “Sewing machines?” Macleod asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I still don’t see the bloody relevance.”

  “We can’t see any, either.” Chen took Field’s cigarette, leaned over to the cubicle beside Caprisi’s, and stubbed it out, half closing his eyes as the smoke twisted up into his face. “The captain of the ship is still lost down Blood Alley. The machines are made by an electrical company. I could see nothing unusual about them. They’re just . . . sewing machines.” He put his hands back in his pockets.

  “The manager is British?” Macleod asked.

  “Scottish.”

  Macleod scowled, not certain if this was a joke. “It’s a Fraser’s company?”

  “Yes,” Caprisi said.