by Tom Bradby
Mrs. Schmidt exchanged glances with her husband. “They came in a car . . . there was a nun. I do not know her name. In Shanghai they are all the same.”
“Did he want to come here?” Caprisi asked.
“How could we?”
“We are old,” Hans said. “We are old!”
“It was Otto. He should never have had . . . She was no good for him. Afterwards he could not bear to see the boy.”
“The boy . . . Alexei was his?”
“No!” She shook her head vigorously. “Of course not. My Otto is not like this. He is an honorable man, but the boy reminded him of his love for her and the family they could have had. He could not shake her from his silly head, even before she died.” Mrs. Schmidt looked at her husband, then back at Caprisi. “She was pleasant to us, always friendly. I must say that. But she was—”
“I know.”
“How could our boy be interested in a woman like that?”
“Of course.”
“It was a foolish thing. He had forgotten her, but then . . .”
“Yes.” Caprisi nodded.
She sighed heavily.
“Did Natalya ever . . . entertain . . . people at home?” Caprisi asked.
“Sometimes. Not often, because of the boy. She would go to . . . it is not work. Prostitution is not work.”
“No.” Caprisi cleared his throat. “But men would sometimes come here?”
“Sometimes.”
“During the day? At night?”
“When the boy was at school. Sometimes at night.”
“Was there anyone in particular the last few months before her death?”
Mrs. Schmidt turned to her husband again, seeking his approval. He nodded. “The last month—no, more, two months—there was a change.”
“In her, or the pattern of her behavior?”
“In both. In the day there were no more visitors, but at night I think one man came.”
“You think?”
“She would let him in the side gate, to the yard.”
“Did you see him?”
She shook her head. “From here, we could not see.”
“Never heard his voice?”
“It is too far away.” She clicked her tongue to indicate her frustration.
“And did she talk about him?”
“Yes,” she said, punching the air with her forefinger. “Yes. She was happy, she said, things would get better. She had met a man, a rich man, powerful, and she would be able to get away with Alexei, start again, somewhere new . . . Europe. She asked us where she should go if she were to visit Germany, and what kind of country it was, and if we had ever been to France and England.” She looked at them, suddenly suspicious. “Otto was upset, but it was not serious. He would have got over it, and I said, Liebchen, she is . . . you know. Leave her to her powerful man.”
“So you never saw this man?”
“No.”
“And you never heard his voice or found out his name?”
“Nein, nein.”
“Was he Chinese?”
Mrs. Schmidt shrugged extravagantly. “How could I know? It is possible, likely, given her . . . type. It would be like her type to go with a Chinese.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“So you have no idea who he was?”
“Rich. Powerful. So she said. Good. He makes her happy. Good. Ja. She finds a man willing to consort with her . . . type. He gives the boy presents, so—”
“What kind of presents?” Field asked.
She shrugged again. “A model airplane. Wooden. Nothing special.”
As her good-neighbor act fell away, Field was beginning to find this woman vexatious in the extreme.
“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 anxiou
sly 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 all 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—”