by Tom Bradby
“It’s just a question.”
Caprisi sighed. He shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Jesus Christ, Field.”
Field held his stare.
The American gestured with his glass, his dark eyes again intense. “I tell you what. I’m going to make a conscious effort not to be insulted by this, my friend, and, as an act of sentimental generosity, I’m going to put it down to the fact that you’re new to all this.”
Field shifted uneasily in his seat.
“You were making an accusation?”
Field closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted. “No.”
“Just a sense of disillusionment?”
“Yes.”
“It comes to us all.” There was a long silence. Caprisi put his glass down. “You asked about Al Capone.”
“Yes.”
“Everybody knows about Capone, but he started as the lieutenant to someone else.”
Field shook his head.
“John Torrio. After Prohibition, he began bootlegging in Chicago when Big Bill Thompson was mayor. He was clever. Sophisticated and diplomatic, not a thug like Capone. He believed in total control. All officers got bribed according to their rank. All elections were rigged.” Caprisi paused. “They didn’t throw you out if you weren’t on the take, but you couldn’t get anything done, and everyone thought you kind of strange. Prohibition was the enemy. Everyone in the city thought it was crazy, everyone drank. But you know what? That let the genie out of the bottle, and now it’s out, no one will ever get it back in.” Caprisi picked up a forkful of food. “John Torrio retired to Italy last year. Know how much he had in the bank?”
Field shook his head again.
“Thirty million U.S. dollars. Thirty million in five years. No one in organized crime ever made that much money before.”
“Did you know Capone?”
Caprisi shook his head.
“Then why are you telling me about it?”
“I’m trying to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“You don’t understand the nature of this city. Every man who comes to serve here comes to escape or to enrich himself. No one belongs here, so I guess that makes it worse than Chicago. Men come out to make something for themselves and the choice is simple. They can be honest, save a little, go home with a pension and live a modest life. Or they can get rich in a way they never imagined, by turning a blind eye . . . turning their eyes toward home and dreaming of the house and the green fields they’ll own.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“What I’m saying is that the disease has already spread. Macleod has something that is priceless in this city. He’s chosen to be honest when he could be rich. Don’t ask me why he is the way he is, but he pathologically hates corruption.” Caprisi pushed his food away. “He is the last chance—the last, Field—and we have no choice but to stand behind him and to trust each other.”
Thirty-four
Charlie Lewis was not at the factory on Yuen-Ming Road at three o’clock.
Macleod had skipped his meeting and joined them, with the promise that the questioning would be left to Caprisi. Field was in the middle car, Caprisi in the front, and a total of seven armed officers stepped out inside the factory gate. This time, however, the factory was full, the machines in noisy operation.
An anxious security guard showed them up to the glass box above the workshop floor, where they were greeted by the Scottish factory manager. Field could see immediately that he was nervous. “A snifter?” the man asked.
Caprisi and Field shook their heads as he poured himself one. Field looked down at the police officers standing guard by the door. Macleod scowled at the man.
“Gordon Braine. I’ve not introduced myself.”
Caprisi ignored his outstretched hand. Braine had a long nose with hairs poking out of it and hollow cheeks. He looked ill.
“What happened last night?” Caprisi asked.
“I’m sorry, dreadful thing to happen. Glad no one . . . you know . . .” He sat, taking a sip of his whiskey.
“No one except a driver whose family won’t be quite as relaxed as you are today,” Caprisi said. “What time do you normally shut up?”
“Seven. Normally seven. But, of course . . .”
“Go on.”
“Last night our head of security received a call, saying that we should close early.”
“And what was the reason?”
“No reason was given, but . . .”
“But what?”
Braine avoided their eyes. “These are difficult times, Detective. Our workforce is Chinese. Strikes, protests. I said we shouldn’t give in and I didn’t see why—but this is a man whom we trust to be in touch with . . . you know.”
“The underworld.”
“Yes. And with whatever intelligence there is—the Bolsheviks, the protests. Some factories have been damaged, of course, burned even, when they are the subject of intimidation and they—”
“So you were being brave?”
Braine took another sip of whiskey. “Our man was insistent that we must vacate the floor immediately and go home. I did not understand it, but as I said, he was sufficiently alarmed to make me feel there was no choice but to comply.”
“You didn’t think to tell the police?”
“I thought it would blow over—just one of those things that happen here, from time to time.” He took another sip and gained confidence. “Doing business here—it’s a far cry from Scotland.”
Macleod fiddled with the cross around his neck. Field was glad that he had chosen to come along. Out of the office, he exuded a quiet confidence and strength.
“Where is this man?” Caprisi asked.
Braine looked confused.
“The head of security, where is he?”
“Oh, he is . . .” The confidence disappeared. “He is ill today, I believe.”
“Ill?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“How convenient.”
“I’m sorry. I understand it must be frustrating and I can quite appreciate—”
“Where does he live?”
“I’m not sure we actually have an address. You see—”
“You employ a man as your head of security and you don’t know where he lives?”
“In the Chinese city, I know that, but . . . He was employed before my time, and he is always here, in place when I arrive and still here when I go. I never thought to ask. He really controls the shop floor. He would have details of the employees, and he ensures—”
“He will be in tomorrow?”
Braine was embarrassed now. Field did not think that he was carrying this off at all well. He was coming to the conclusion—as he could see Caprisi was—that the man was frightened. “I do not think he will be in tomorrow. He said he was quite ill.”
“You will contact us when he reports back to work?”
“Of course.”
“There is a consignment of sewing machines to be shipped?”
“Yes,” he said, eager to please. “They go on Saturday at midnight.”
“From here at midnight?”
“N-no,” Braine stammered, realizing he might have said something he shouldn’t. “No. The ship sails at midnight.”
“Why do you know what time the ship sails?”
There was silence. Braine was not a clever man, and Field could see he was trying hard to work out the direction of Caprisi’s questioning.
“What time will it be loaded up?”
“I do not understand.”
“What time will the goods be taken from here to the ship?”
“To the ship?”
“To the ship, yes. During the day or at night?”
“Before it sails, I suppose.”
Caprisi took a step toward Braine, his expression quietly menacing. “Mr. Braine, I think we are in danger of misunderstanding each other here. You have just told me that your shipment—a major shipment of you
r factory’s goods—leaves Shanghai at midnight on Saturday. You are the manager. There is a reason you know the exact time of the ship’s departure, and I’m sure you will be wanting to see the goods get off from the factory in proper order, so you’re now going to tell me when they will be taken from here. During the day or at night?”
“In the evening.”
“After nightfall?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t know. In the evening, that is what I’ve been told.”
“And is there something untoward about this shipment?”
“No.” He said it convincingly, then made the mistake of repeating his denial. “No, absolutely not.”
“Just sewing machines?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Being loaded under the cover of night.”
“No.” Panic crossed his face at the realization of the extent of his mistake. “Not—I mean, in the evening, that’s all.”
“Just a coincidence that they’re loaded a few hours before the ship sails.”
“No. I mean, yes, it is not—”
“Is that when cargo is usually loaded?”
“Yes. It depends.”
“I would have thought it more logical to load during the day, when you can see what you are doing.”
They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a languid whistle. Charlie Lewis appeared, dressed in a white linen suit and white Panama hat. “Good day, chaps . . . Dickie?” He threw his hat onto one of the chairs and ran a hand over his slicked-back hair. “Macleod.”
Field was embarrassed. “This is Detective Caprisi.”
“Pleased to meet you, Caprisi.” He offered his hand and the American shook it, his eyes wary. Lewis shook hands with Macleod with a formal nod, though Field could tell there was no warmth between the two men.
“Sorry I’m late. Bit of a long meeting, which I should be grateful to you boys for freeing me from.” He turned around and looked down at the factory floor. “Never been here before,” he said, offering his hand to Gordon Braine as an afterthought. “You must be the manager. Charles Lewis.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“What have you chaps been up to, then? Sorry about last night. Dreadful business. The commissioner called me this morning and I’m glad this Chinese lad is on the mend.”
“The driver is not.”
Lewis was not unsettled. “No, well, sorry to hear that.” He sat down and looked at Field. “I think you’re right, old boy. Whatever the hell is going on, this chap Lu needs a lesson.” He grinned at Field. “By the way, gather you’re to sample Mrs. Granger’s legendary home cooking. Got a call asking if I wished to join the merry throng on Friday.”
Field smiled thinly, acutely aware that Caprisi and Macleod were staring at him.
“I think Penelope and Geoffrey will be coming along.”
Field knew his face was reddening.
Lewis turned toward Caprisi and Macleod. “What can I do for you? Sorted it out with Brandon here?”
“Braine,” the American corrected him.
“Braine, yes.”
“Did you know the factory had been evacuated last night?”
“No.”
“No one informed you?”
Lewis picked up his hat and began to turn it in his hand. “Fraser’s is a pretty big company, as you know.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I’m not informed of every last—not of much, actually, on this kind of level. The taipan’s role is really strategic. It would be the same with all companies of this size. As I said, I’ve never been here before, let alone met the good Mr. Brandon.”
“Braine.”
“Quite.”
“So you know nothing of the shipment this Saturday night?”
“Shipment?”
“A consignment of sewing machines is leaving this Saturday, and they are, Mr. Braine here has informed us, being loaded at night, which is highly unusual.”
“Are they? Is it?”
“You’re not aware of anything untoward about the shipment?”
Lewis was showing signs of annoyance. “Untoward?”
“It’s just sewing machines?”
“I’ve no idea.” He turned to Braine. “Is it sewing machines?”
“Mostly, sir. There are a few other electrical goods, but it is mostly sewing machines.”
Lewis turned back. “There you are.”
Field could see that Caprisi was trying to control his temper. “Perhaps we could check the inventory?”
Braine did not hesitate, was almost nodding with enthusiasm. Field knew, before they left the office, that they would find nothing of interest.
The consignment to be shipped was being kept in a storage area to the rear, the machines themselves stacked in rows, close to a wall of wooden crates that stretched almost to the ceiling.
“Fortunate they’ve not been packed yet,” Lewis said.
Caprisi crouched beside one of the machines.
“Could we get someone to take it apart?” Macleod asked.
“Take it apart?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.” Lewis looked bewildered, as if not understanding why they could possibly wish to do this.
Braine went back through to the shop floor and returned with an assistant carrying a toolbox.
They all watched in silence as the man started to take apart the machine next to Caprisi.
Field wondered if Lewis enjoyed putting on a performance for his social inferiors.
When it lay in pieces, Lewis looked at his watch. “Have you chaps got anything else?”
“No,” Caprisi said curtly.
“Good. Then, if you don’t mind, I shall leave you in the capable hands of . . . my colleague here.”
“Good of you to come,” Macleod said.
Lewis said, “It’s been my pleasure. Always happy to help the force, as you know. Richard, do you have a moment?”
Field followed Lewis out through the factory floor, into the sunshine. He watched a flock of seagulls circling a chimney on the opposite side of the road.
“Word of warning, Richard, as a friend.”
Field looked at him. Lewis’s face was serious, his eyes apparently sincere.
“Be careful of Natasha Medvedev.”
Field didn’t respond.
“She’s a great ride and a woman of skill.”
Field’s anger was like a storm, instantly whipped up; the image of she and Lewis lying together crashed through his mind.
“Don’t go down with a sinking ship, or imagine to do so is a painful romantic tragedy.”
“I think I’ve heard enough.”
“Natasha has turned deceit into an art form.” Lewis’s face was almost earnest now; there was no sign of the indolent playboy leer Field had grown used to. “I’ve been here a long time, and I’m trying, again, to help. I saw your face the other night—”
“Perhaps you’ve been here too long.”
“Perhaps.”
“And I don’t need any help.”
“That’s up to you, but set aside romantic notions for a moment and consider the possibility that Natasha is not the victim you imagine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lu is a powerful man. Through him, she wields power. Believe me. All the more so once rivals are eliminated. She’s a woman of ambition.”
Field thought of the way Natasha had sat, straight-backed, close to Lu in the nightclub—a possession.
“Perhaps they deserve each other,” Lewis said.
“How do you know about—”
“Fraser’s is the biggest company in Shanghai, Richard.” His look was hard now. “It’s my job to know.”
“So . . .”
“You are playing with fire, and you will be burned.”
“So I keep being advised.”
“Then you have friends who know the city and care about you.” Lewis shook his head. “It’s part of being a policeman, I know. It’s not a job
for a man of breeding, and I’d like to bring you on board, but I can’t do that if you’re not going to exercise good judgment.”
“I don’t want to be on board.”
Lewis put his hat back on. “That’s your choice, Richard. But as things stand, I don’t give much for your chances of staying afloat.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your uncle’s a good man, Field. But there is only so much I’ll do for him.” He lowered his voice. “For a man in his position, old Lu shows restraint on occasions, but not for much longer, I wouldn’t think.”
Thirty-five
The three of them waited in the middle car outside the factory. Macleod was beside the driver, Caprisi and Field in the back. The American had suggested they go on to see if the captain of the ship had returned from Blood Alley, but Macleod remained silent. It was hot, so Field wound down his window.
He knew what his colleagues were thinking.
“Does it go all the way to the top?” Caprisi asked. “Does Lewis know what is going on here?”
“It would fit,” Macleod said. “Lewis in business with Lu on the shipments, a highly profitable arrangement. Lu gives Lewis the girls as a bit of entertainment. It gets a little rough, but Lu cleans up behind him.”
Field watched a group of Chinese and Eurasian schoolgirls walking along the sidewalk. He turned back and took out his cigarettes. “Lewis must be the richest man in Shanghai. He doesn’t need the money.”
“Greed,” Macleod said. “The rich can be greedy, too.” He shook his head as Field offered him a cigarette. “But if the murders are down to Lewis, we will have to tread even more carefully.”
Field saw his own puzzlement reflected in Caprisi’s expression.
“He’s the taipan of Fraser’s, for Christ’s sake,” Macleod said.
“A few days ago,” Field said, “Lewis took me to a club—a brothel.”
“Which one?” Macleod asked.
“Delancey’s.” Field cleared his throat. “I extricated myself, but as I left I passed his room.”
“He was fucking someone.”
“There was a girl. A Chinese girl. She was handcuffed to the bed. She was screaming.”
“We’ll need more than that.” Macleod opened his door. “I’ll take the last car back to the office.” He slammed it shut and stalked off. Caprisi tapped the driver on the shoulder. “The wharf.”
