by Tom Bradby
“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 apply 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.
“Field can arrange an audience with Charlie Lewis.” Macleo
d looked at him, then smiled for the first time. “Lighten up, man. I’m pulling your leg.”
Caprisi sipped his tea. “We should talk to Lewis.”
“We should find out where these women lived,” Field interjected.
They stared at him, frowning at the truculence in his voice.
“One step at a time, Field,” Caprisi said.
“We could send some plainclothes officers down to do door-to-door.”
“Avenue Joffre is at least three miles long. And you think the French won’t get wind of a door-to-door?” He shook his head. “One step at a time.”
Chen went ahead to get the car. Field walked to the toilet and confronted his bloodshot eyes and tired face in the mirror while he washed his hands.
Caprisi was waiting in the corridor outside, holding a large white box. He handed it to him. Field took off the top and pulled out the gray suit. He put the box down. The jacket was beautifully made and many times lighter than his current one. “My God.”
“My Chinese tailor.”
“Thank you.”
“Put it on. You’ll feel better.” Caprisi bent down and took out two shirts wrapped in tissue paper. “Thought you might need these.”
Field pulled back the wrapping and felt the quality of the cotton.
Caprisi bent down once more. “And a decent silk tie.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.”
“If we can go down to the bank, I can pay you straightaway. I’ve got money now and—”
“It’s on me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Caprisi shook his head. “It’s my pleasure.”
“I can’t allow—”
“Fortunately, you don’t know how much it cost.”
“But it’s too generous.”
“I can’t watch you melting in this heat anymore, polar bear.”
“But I have the money.”
Caprisi was shaking his head and waving his hand.
Field sighed. “Thanks, Caprisi.” He looked at him. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” The American smiled. “Isn’t that what you English say? Don’t mention it.”
Field smiled and looked down again at the jacket in his hand.
“Put it on, polar bear.”
Field went back into the toilet to get changed, and emerged transformed.
Caprisi whistled. “Wait till they see you down at the Majestic, kid.”
They got into the lift together. Field had begun to worry that the American would have got the wrong impression about the money. He suddenly wondered if it had been appallingly naive to imagine that any supplement could be legitimate and straightforward. “Who would put cash into my account without my knowledge? Is it—could it be an official thing?”
Caprisi shook his head. “Someone in the cabal.”
“It couldn’t be a special supplement unique to a department?”
Caprisi smiled. “Not that I’ve ever heard of.”
“What should I do about it?”
“Nothing until someone approaches you. Then it’s up to you. If you don’t want a part of it, then say so and offer to pay the money back if they ask for it, which they won’t.”
“Who will approach me?”
Caprisi shrugged. “Sorenson, Prokopieff, take your pick. It is hierarchical, as far as we can tell. Even if you joined, it would probably be years before anyone told you who was in charge, if they ever did.”
The lift jolted suddenly to a halt. They stepped out as a group of uniformed officers got in.
Inside the car, Field asked, “Who took the prints?”
“Someone in the cabal. It doesn’t matter who.”
“But Granger is the head?”
“That’s a matter of speculation, Field.”
“But—”
“I’ve told you what we think.” He smiled. “You can draw your own conclusions.”
Caprisi leaned toward the driver. “Rue Wagner, number 70.”
Through the window, Field watched a young boy aggressively trying to sell newspapers to the passing crowd while a beggar lay sprawled by his feet, apparently unconscious.
“Do you think Macleod will be the new commissioner?” he asked.
Caprisi turned and was about to say something, then thought better of it and shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s a difficult time for him.”
“He seemed distracted this morning.”
“Lu is already our central suspect. We’re going to see him this morning. If we upset him, then he will bend the ear of those council members who are indebted to him in some way, which probably means most of them.” Caprisi looked at Field. “Macleod will be held responsible for our actions, and therefore he must be careful. But on the other hand, he says there are council members who feel Lu is out of control, so if he could check him, or better still, bring him down, then that might stand in his favor.” Caprisi smiled again. “He wants to find a way to bring Lu down, but if he messes it up now, then he’s finished.”
Field had assumed they were going straight to see Lu, but had omitted to take into account the extent of interconcession bureaucracy. There were papers to be filled out, coffee to be drunk, and, since they were in the gendarmerie, croissants to be eaten.
The headquarters in Rue Wagner was an old colonial villa with an extension on the back only a few hundred yards from Lu’s house. It had the same relaxed atmosphere as the station in Little Russia. The inspector sat behind his desk, long boots resting on a footstool. Above his head was a photograph of a café in Paris and another, alongside it, of a house that looked as if it was somewhere in Indochina.
The inspector had a thin, hawkish face, but a disarmingly genial manner. He’d already explained to them that he had come to Shanghai only after ten years in French Indochina, first in Saigon and then Hanoi. There was something weary about him, Field decided, not so much cynical as plain tired, as if the heat had finally got to him.
He couldn’t imagine the heat not getting to everyone, in the end. Not even his new lightweight suit was enough to prevent him from sweating.
The inspector spoke English with a heavy French accent and moved his hand in slow circular motions as he talked, pausing as a Vietnamese officer came in to refresh their coffee.
“The girl,” he said. “A prostitute.”
Caprisi edged himself forward in his seat, cradling his cup. “Not Blood Alley.”
“Classy.”
“Well . . .”
“A Russian.” The inspector waved his hand again, as if this were sufficient explanation. “I know.” He put his feet down and looked at the paper on his desk, then returned to his previous position. “Lu . . .” He shrugged. “It’s not his style, no?”
“The girl lived in his flat.”
“She was his? He has so many.”
“Yes. She was one of his women.”
“He is greedy. Like a Chinese.” He cleared his throat and looked briefly at Chen. “So you think that he . . . you know? She was stabbed. Many times . . . In the vagina you say?” He grimaced.
“Yes.”
“And it was Lu, you think?”
“We certainly believe he knows who it was.”
Caprisi had not touched his croissant, so Field pulled over his plate and began eating. He was suddenly ravenously hungry.
“There are no other cases . . . there has been nothing similar here?” Caprisi asked.
“Here?” The inspector shrugged, as if to say such things could not possibly happen on French territory. “No.” He thought about it some more, head tilted to one side, before shaking his head. “No.”
Twenty-five
They pulled up outside a three-story house with an open balcony on the first floor, hidden behind ornate balustrades: number 3, Rue Wagner. Caprisi leaned forward and looked up at it. His expression reflected the nervousness Field felt. “Know how many men Lu has at his beck and call?” the American asked.
> “Twenty thousand.”
“Right. An army. A fucking army. What do you think, Chen? Leave our guns in the car?”
The Chinese detective turned around, his mouth tight. “Let them disarm us.”
There was no one on the veranda, but as they climbed the stone steps to the entrance, one of the big wooden doors swung back to allow them to pass into a gloomy hallway with a black-and-white-checkered stone floor. At first, Field could not see who had opened the door, but as one man in a dark suit stepped forward, he saw another in the background, leaning against a glass-fronted gun cabinet that was well enough stocked for the outbreak of a war.