by Tom Bradby
“Otto has given her a silk scarf, but she does not like it. She does not like it! She asks him if she can take it back to the shop!”
Somehow Field knew it had not been Otto who had picked out the scarf.
“Do you think he murdered her?” Caprisi asked.
For a moment Mrs. Schmidt’s face went white, until she realized that Caprisi was referring to the mysterious nocturnal visitor and not her son, whereupon she looked as if she would faint with relief.
“Ja,” she said. “We do not know.”
“It is possible,” her husband added. “It is possible.”
“Coming like a thief,” she went on, getting into her stride, “in the middle of the night.” She shook her head, as if desperate now to clear her son beyond doubt. “Otto is not here, of course. The whore drove him away. He has gone to Manila and we have not heard from him. Not a letter . . . With this new man, the thief in the night . . .”
Caprisi stood abruptly, as if unable to contain himself any longer. He thanked them unconvincingly and strode out into the hallway.
Outside, they squinted in the glare of the sun.
In deference to their position in the French Concession, they had left their pistols and holsters beneath the seat of the car and so they were just in shirts and ties. Field rolled up his sleeves. Caprisi had moved along to the end of the wrought-iron fence, to the gate into the yard, and looked through the bars. Field could see that he was checking whether or not it was possible to see the gate from the Schmidts’ house. He shook his head.
“He wanted to get in and out without being seen,” Field said.
“Yes.” The American detective turned on his heel.
“Why?”
“A rich and powerful man.”
“Lewis?”
“It certainly sounds like a big fish.”
“The boy,” Field said.
Caprisi straightened. “Yes, perhaps the boy saw him. The present may have been given in person.” Field caught sight of a black Buick parked opposite, its engine running. “Prokopieff and Sorenson,” Caprisi said. “They’ve been with us since we left the station this morning.”
They watched the car. It didn’t move off.
“They’re in the back?” Field asked.
“You’re the Special Branch expert.”
Field turned. “You saw them coming out of the lobby, or they were already in the car?”
“They were leaning against it.”
“So they were happy to be seen?”
“I think they thought they were out of sight.”
“So they knew we were coming out this morning?”
Caprisi shrugged. “Do you think the boy is still alive?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Which orphanage would they have taken him to?”
Field shook his head, though he had a fairly good idea he knew the answer.
Field waited until he was sure that Sorenson and Prokopieff had chosen to follow the American. Then he headed back to the International Settlement and the Happy Times block.
He took the stairs three at a time and was covered in sweat when he reached the top floor. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and then knocked once, hard.
There was no answer. He looked at his watch.
Field stepped back to press the button for the lift, then knocked once more.
He waited. He cursed, stepped into the lift, and pulled the iron cage violently across.
He hailed a rickshaw and gave the man Katya’s address. He knocked on the back door and waited.
Katya opened it, but only enough to catch sight of his face. “She’s not here,” she said before Field had had a chance to speak.
Katya tried to shut the door again, but Field jammed his foot in it.
“Please, Katya.”
“She’s not here.”
“Then tell me where she is.”
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
“I know the boy was Natalya’s.”
Katya faltered, easing the pressure on Field’s foot.
Ivan said something in Russian behind her. Katya opened the door further, without answering.
“Can I come in?”
“Not here,” Ivan said. He sounded nervous and frail, and his eyes anxiously scanned the garden over Field’s shoulder.
“The boy,” Field said. “She and the boy are in danger. The boy can probably identify Natalya’s killer. The . . .” Field sighed in frustration. Their English wasn’t up to an explanation of the threat posed by the police investigation. If Lu felt they were close to identifying the killer, he wouldn’t hesitate to liquidate the boy. “They are in danger. I have to find them. I have to take them to a safe place.”
They both looked at him with pained disbelief.
“Does she know what happens in that orphanage?” Field cleared his throat, thinking of the picture of the handsome little boy inside. “Boys are taken for Lu to abuse, and then they’re disposed of.”
“Not here,” Ivan said. Field didn’t know if he’d understood any of it.
“Please go,” Katya pleaded.
“I must see her.”
“Not here,” Ivan said, more firmly this time.
“Please get a message to her.”
“She left here,” Katya said, “and told us she would be back to see us soon. We do not know where she is.”
“Is she inside?”
“No,” they said in unison. “No,” Katya added for emphasis.
“She said that she would come here if she was ever in trouble,” Field lied.
“We do not know where she is. Please leave us.”
Field hesitated, then turned away and walked slowly down the path toward the gate, willing them to call him back.
He stepped out into the street, leaned against the railings, and then sat down, his head in his hands, trying to think.
He pushed himself to his feet again and dusted himself down. He lit a cigarette, threw the rest of the pack to a beggar, along with his matches, and strode down toward Avenue Joffre, where he hailed another rickshaw.
He allowed himself to look back once, but there was no one at the gate.
Forty-one
Sergei Stanislevich wasn’t in his apartment, but Field found him in the café opposite. He pulled up a chair. The Russian was reading a copy of the New Shanghai Life.
“Coffee,” Field told the waiter. “White, no sugar.”
“Black,” Sergei said.
The man retreated behind the bar.
“Well, well,” Sergei said, blowing cigarette smoke into the air, “this is becoming one of your favorite places.” He smiled to himself. “I saw you here only yesterday, I think.”
“I need to find Natasha.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Field stared at him.
“Everyone is looking for Natasha.” He sighed theatrically, well aware of the impact of his words. “So beautiful, so dangerous.”
The waiter brought their coffee and waited, notepad poised, to see if they would order anything else. Field shook his head as Sergei lit another cigarette from the stub of his first.
“Yes, everyone longs for Natasha,” Sergei continued. “Everyone is in love with her. That is her skill. But only the richest can afford her.”
“Natasha is not for sale.”
Sergei leaned back in his chair and laughed, harshly and without mirth. “If you say so, Detective. Have you seen her apartment? Of course you have. I’m sure she will be content with a life of poverty, an honest cop by her side.”
“We need to know where she is, Sergei.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Is there anywhere—”
“How can I know?” He raised his hands, palms up. “These girls . . . they . . .” He breathed out smoke. “Sometimes they like a Russian man inside them again—I told you—maybe just to hear the language and feel their betrayal, so I do them.” He smirked. “Lena—sometimes Natasha—they a
ll want to be done.” Sergei ground out his cigarette and leaned forward, conspiratorially. “They want to be done, so I make them pay. I make them scream!”
“You’ve slept with Natasha Medvedev?”
“Only when she begs me to.”
Field had grabbed the Russian by the collar of his jacket before he had even thought to control himself. The table careered into the side of the bar, their coffee cups smashing on the stone floor.
Field had the Russian up against the window, his feet off the ground and flailing vainly, then kicked his upturned chair to one side and dragged him by the scruff of his neck past the astonished owner and into the street. He waited for a tram to pass, then crossed over to and climbed the narrow set of stairs beside the Siberian Fur Shop. Sergei no longer struggled or made a sound.
When they got to Sergei’s rooms, Field kicked the door down, then picked the Russian up by his collar again and hurled him onto the unmade bed.
“Now,” he breathed in deeply. “Sit up!”
Field heard the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and turned. He drew his revolver, only to see Caprisi appear in the doorway. They looked at each other for a moment and then Field replaced his gun and turned back to face Sergei.
He reached for a spindly wooden chair and sat down in it. He took out a cigarette, but neglected to offer one to the pathetic figure who now perched on the edge of the bed, his head bent. Caprisi didn’t move from the doorway.
“Now, let’s start again,” Field said. “Where would I find Natasha Medvedev?”
Sergei shook his head, his face twisted in contempt. “How should I know?”
Field stood and took a step forward, his fist raised.
“All right.” Sergei recoiled. “What do you want?”
Field was aware of Caprisi’s eyes on him but could not stop himself.
“Who are her friends?”
“I only saw her at the Majestic and with Lena.”
“Did you see her with anyone else?”
“No.”
“You’ve never seen her outside the Majestic?”
Sergei hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so, or definitely not?”
Sergei shook his head again. “I don’t really know her,” he said plaintively.
Field took a deep breath and rubbed his hand across his chin. He sat down again, not looking at Caprisi. “Who was Lena Orlov seeing during the two months before she died?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s try again, Sergei. Who was—”
“I don’t know!”
“I thought you were her boyfriend?”
“I told you, only sometimes. It’s what I said. Sometimes she wanted a Russian boy.” He looked up. “Lena,” he added warily, “that’s what she said—to hear her own language.”
“So who was the other man?”
He shook his head again. “She wouldn’t say. English. Wealthy. Powerful.” For the first time, he managed a look of something approaching sincerity. “That’s why she was happy at the end.”
Field straightened. “He was English?”
“Yes.”
“The man who came to see her?”
“Yes.”
“He was certainly English?”
“That’s what I said, yes.”
“He wasn’t Chinese? There was no way she could have been covering up for—”
“Why should she cover up that? Everyone knew Lu owned her. Owned her apartment, her clothes, her—”
“So it wasn’t Lu?”
“You’re not listening. Englishman.”
“There is no chance that you are mistaken?”
“She was drunk, I not so much. She did not intend to tell me and knew, once she had done so, that she should not have. But she did not worry. She trusted me.”
“Did she give any clue as to this man’s identity? Did she mention the company he worked for? Did she mention Fraser’s?”
He shook his head. “No. Rich, powerful. Decent. That’s what she said. He had promised her a new life. A passport—a British passport—money, a new life somewhere outside Shanghai.” Sergei looked at Field soberly. “She believed him. She wrote to her sister in Harbin, to get her—”
“That’s what Lu had on Lena?”
Sergei looked puzzled.
“Anything Lena did wrong would be taken out on the sister?”
Sergei nodded slowly. “She sent the girl to Harbin, but she knew Lu could find her if he wanted. She said he believed in insurance policies.”
“The Englishman,” Field said. “He was a businessman, a taipan?”
“I should think so. Even when she was drunk, she would not say.”
“Tell me about the shipments.”
“What shipments?” Sergei began to get up.
“Sit down.”
“I want some water.”
“In a minute.” Field stood. “Hidden in Lena’s apartment was a list of shipments—consignments of sewing machines bound for various European cities. There’s one leaving this weekend. The Saratoga.”
Sergei’s eyes darted left and right. “I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.”
“I know nothing about them.”
The Russian was looking down at the floor again, and Field moved swiftly, taking a pace toward him and smacking him across the side of the face before Sergei had had a chance to protect himself.
He lay whimpering on the bed, curled up in a ball. Caprisi still didn’t move.
“Jesus . . . Jesus . . . ,” Sergei groaned.
“Quickly.”
“I don’t know.” Sergei was crying now. “Drugs. That’s what she said. The best opium.”
Field pulled him upright. “We’ve worked that out, but what’s the deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what’s the deal, Sergei? How does it work?”
“It’s a syndicate. It’s about connections. Lu provides the opium and then they stack it into the machines and import huge quantities of it into Europe. The authorities here, the police . . .”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. She just said it was cast iron, that they knew they would never be caught, because they had everyone at every level tied down, all the way through to the destinations.”
“Why was Lena making these notes?”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said, Sergei. Why was Lena taking notes? How was she finding this stuff out, and why was she keeping a note of it?”
The Russian was shaking now. “I don’t know. Her lover told her, or she overheard. I don’t know. It was her attempt at an insurance policy. She would go to the press, she said, if they didn’t give her what she wanted, but I said . . . you know, I told her, these people are dangerous, maybe they even control the press.”
Field heard the siren of a French police car in the distance, getting rapidly closer. “Fuck,” he said, feeling for his holster and checking that he still had his revolver.
“That’s the—”
“Shut up,” Field said. “Is there a back way out?”
Sergei shook his head.
“A window?”
“From the bathroom you can jump onto the roof of the store below.”
“Did Lena say that she’d seen some records of these shipments?”
Sergei looked frightened.
“Did she ever say that she’d seen a record of it in Lu’s house? Is that how she was making the notes?”
Sergei started to shake again.
Field walked to the window overlooking the street. A green Citroën sedan pulled up outside the café. He turned back to Sergei. “We did not give you our names, and you do not know who we were.”
Sergei nodded. He looked utterly wretched.
Field went into the bathroom, opened the window, and dropped down onto the flat roof. Caprisi came down behind him. He did not look at the American until they had clambered down to the street and walked clear
.
Field stopped to light himself a cigarette. “So now you’re following me, too.”
“I don’t trust you on your own, polar bear.”
“Cut the polar bear crap,” Field said.
“You’re going down and I don’t want to see it.”
“Well then, close your eyes.” Caprisi was looking at him with concern, possibly even affection, but Field couldn’t tell which. He felt he’d lost the ability to distinguish between what was real and what was imagined. “I’m a grown man, Caprisi, and I’d be grateful if you could refrain from following me. I don’t want to shoot you by mistake.”
Caprisi’s eyes were steady, his face hardening. “I can’t force you to help yourself, Richard, but we had an understanding—that we needed to exercise extreme caution—and you’re breaking the rules.”
“Whose rules are they?”
“You’re supposed to be running the girl, remember? Using her for us. How long do you think you can go on flailing around like this before her owner discovers what is going on?”
“I’ve discovered there are no rules.”
“You’re behaving like this is a game.”
“I can assure you, it’s not a game to me.”
“You were the one who wanted to take him on, Field. We are trying to catch a killer, and in the process bring down the man who protects him.”
“I thought Macleod wanted to clean up the city.”
“Macleod knows what he is dealing with.”
Field sighed. “And so do we. A powerful Englishman. The most powerful in the city.”
Caprisi looked at him. “I hope that is what your mind is on, polar bear. I really do.”
“Charles Lewis?”
“It fits. It more than fits. Lena talked about a powerful English taipan. She finds out and makes notes about drug shipments that are being moved through one of his factories. Lu cleans up after him in order to keep the syndicate operating. It must be Lewis. It all points to him.”
“But . . .” Field’s brow furrowed. “I mean, he’s an arrogant bastard, and I know he likes to hurt women, but why would he risk everything?”
“Rich people don’t like to kill anyone?”
Field pictured the Chinese girl at the club, handcuffed and whimpering. Then he thought of Natasha and Lewis. “I’ve got to go.”
