Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  “Help you?” His voice was higher-pitched than Field had expected, and “help” sounded more like “hep.”

  Caprisi looked at him as though he were a piece of excrement. “Detective Caprisi,” he said. “And this is Detective Field from Special Branch.”

  The man looked even more frightened than his secretary.

  “Charles Lewis is one of your clients.”

  The man looked nervously from Caprisi to Field and back again.

  “I’d like to speak to some of your girls.” Caprisi walked toward the door and out onto the stage.

  The manager was rooted to the spot for a moment, but then fluttered around Caprisi like an anxious bird. “You cannot,” he kept saying, but Caprisi ignored him.

  The American came down the stage and stood in front of two girls. If this club exuded a certain seedy glamour at night, it now appeared merely sad. The girls looked dirty and tired.

  “You both know Charles Lewis.” Caprisi spoke in English. Field knew it was for his benefit.

  The girls gave no sign of any acknowledgment. Field did not recognize their faces.

  “Have either of you been with him?”

  They stared at the floor.

  “We are investigating a series of murders of young women, and we need to know whether Mr. Lewis has ever shown violence to any of you.” Caprisi repeated himself in Shanghainese. “We know he likes to tie girls up. To use handcuffs. We know he likes to beat girls.”

  “You canno, must no,” the manager repeated in English, the ts at the end of the words lost.

  “Mr. Field,” Caprisi said.

  Field took a pace forward. “I’m afraid we believe that this establishment has been employed for the purpose of distributing Bolshevik propaganda.” Field repeated the last part of this sentence in halting Shanghainese. Caprisi corrected him. Field took out his revolver. “You will be handed over to the Chinese authorities; they are waiting for you.”

  Field stepped to the side and pushed the manager roughly toward the door. Caprisi tugged the two girls to their feet by the neck of their dresses. It took a moment for the message to sink in, and then both girls screamed. The manager shook his head but was unable to utter a word. “Taipan,” he managed to say. “Taipan.”

  Field pointed the revolver at his chest. “Have any of the girls here disappeared?” Caprisi asked. “Or has he ever met any of them outside of this club?”

  The manager shook his head so violently Field thought it might fall off. He looked at the girls, but they didn’t add anything.

  “He likes to handcuff the girls?”

  The manager nodded. Both the girls looked down.

  “Sometimes he hits them?”

  The manager nodded again.

  “Always,” the girl on the right said.

  Caprisi turned to her. “What does he do exactly?”

  “He uses handcuffs to the bed,” she said in Shanghainese, clearly enough for Field to understand. “Then he likes to hurt.”

  “Does he require you to wear certain clothes?”

  “He likes underclothes.” She lifted her dress to reveal a stained stocking.

  “What form does the violence take?”

  She didn’t understand this question and looked at the other girl, who indicated, with the flat of her hand against her face, that he liked to slap them.

  “But he has never taken it further than that? He has never asked to meet any of the girls outside of the club?”

  She shook her head.

  “There have been no unexplained disappearances?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Have any of the girls died this year in any circumstances?”

  “No,” she said.

  “How much violence does he like to inflict?”

  The girl looked down again and Caprisi glanced over toward Field, shaking his head.

  The Fraser’s headquarters was on the Bund. A uniformed security guard took them from the reception desk, across the wide marble lobby, to the lifts.

  Lewis’s office on the top floor reminded Field of the private room at the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, except that the windows were bigger here, affording a still more panoramic view of the bend in the river. Lewis’s desk faced the water and he sat in a leather chair, invisible save for his feet on the desk.

  Field looked out beyond him at a line of junks on the far side of the river that appeared to be sailing tied together. They bobbed up and down violently, their patchwork sails tilting to and fro like fans. A thick plume of smoke from another steamer cut a jagged line through the sky. Field could see the passengers on deck and sticking their heads through dirty portholes. New arrivals, he thought, feeling that his own seemed like years, rather than months, ago.

  When Lewis finally replaced the receiver, he swung round, dropping his legs to the floor. He stood and walked over to the sideboard. He was in a vest and shirtsleeves, and he moved aggressively. “This had better be good. Drink, gentlemen?”

  “No,” Caprisi said. “Thank you.”

  “Never drink on duty?”

  “Something like that. The shipments go the day after tomorrow. Will you be monitoring them?”

  Lewis looked at Caprisi, and then at Field, as if they were insane. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “We have a witness,” Caprisi said. He looked as if he were going to step forward and thump him. “A witness who saw you entering Natalya Simonov’s house on the night of her murder.”

  Lewis poured himself a whiskey. A muscle in his cheek was twitching, and he scratched the end of his long nose with an elegantly manicured fingernail. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You claim you’ve never heard of a Natalya Simonov?” Caprisi pulled out his notebook.

  Lewis was still being icily polite. “If you would care to explain, Officer, then perhaps I could help you.”

  “I’m sure you know that Natayla Simonov was the Orlov killer’s previous victim. We know you were seeing her, and have an eyewitness account of you going into her apartment on the night of her murder.”

  “Should I call a lawyer?”

  “It is your prerogative.”

  “That was a joke, Officer.” Lewis took out his cigarettes, lit one, and then threw the case to Field. “I’m afraid I have no idea who your Natalya is.”

  “She’s Natasha Medvedev’s sister,” Field said, without having intended to.

  “Poor old her.”

  “So you knew her?” Caprisi asked.

  “No.”

  “But you know Natasha Medvedev?”

  Lewis smiled. “There are a lot of fish in the sea, Officer.”

  Caprisi turned toward the wall. Like all the others, it was covered in pictures of previous taipans of the company.

  “Do you have family here?” Caprisi asked.

  “If you’re asking if I’m married, then the answer is no.”

  “Other family?”

  “Why is that relevant?”

  “I’d be grateful if you would answer the question, sir.”

  “Well, Officer, my father is, of course, dead, which is why I am taipan. My mother chose to return to Scotland. My first cousin Hamish and his wife are therefore my only close family here, though I have a number of other cousins involved at different levels of the company.”

  “Did you know Lena Orlov?”

  “As I have previously said, we may have met a couple of times at the Majestic.”

  “But you never went to her apartment?”

  “No.” Lewis had his arm draped over the leather chair. His eyes were steady as they moved between the two of them.

  “You’ve never been to the Happy Times block?”

  “I didn’t say that, Officer.”

  Field felt his face reddening.

  “You’ve been to Miss Medvedev’s apartment?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Only once or twice?”

  “Generally speaking, Officer, I like to avoid assoc
iating with Russians. They’re too much trouble.”

  Caprisi moved toward the window. “Lena Orlov kept detailed notes about illegal shipments from one of your factories. We understand from Delancey’s that you have certain proclivities that would fit the profile of this case.”

  Lewis looked at Field, unperturbed. “Really, Officer.”

  “Lena Orlov believed she was going to escape Shanghai. She told friends that she’d been promised a passport and passage to a new life in Europe. She kept the details of these shipments as an insurance policy.”

  “Influential as I am, Officer, even I don’t have the right, I’m afraid, to hand out passports on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government.”

  The more Caprisi said, Field thought, the more languid and arrogant Lewis appeared to become. If, at first, he’d been irritated, he was now laughing at them. “Is there anything else?” he asked.

  “We have a witness who saw you going into Natalya Simonov’s apartment on the night of her murder. When we approached your factory on the first occasion, your men attempted to kill us.”

  “So what do you want from me, Officer, exactly?”

  “An explanation, before we move to bring charges.”

  “I keep thinking to myself that this must be April Fools’ Day.”

  “You can think what you like, Mr. Lewis.”

  “Gentlemen, I could go on all day. Really, I could. It’s been most amusing, but I have work to do.” His expression hardened. “I’m afraid to say that running the biggest company in Shanghai doesn’t give me much time for listening to this kind of fanciful nonsense.”

  “Very well.”

  “If you wish to bring charges, then please be my guest. But I suggest you run your so-called evidence past your superiors before you do so. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if you don’t.” He narrowed his eyes. “I may say that I’ve always been a great supporter of the work of our police force, but I am beginning to wonder why.” He looked from one to the other. “I’m sure you can show yourselves out. Do give my regards to Mr. Macleod.”

  Forty-four

  Outside, the sun was still shimmering on the choppy waters of the river, but it had begun to lose some of its heat.

  They watched as a steamer tied up on the wharf, belching black smoke from its funnel. It hooted twice and was greeted by a cheer from a crowd of people waiting on the dock.

  Field leaned against the car.

  “You didn’t tell me the two women were sisters,” Caprisi said.

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Field turned around and looked up toward the top floor of the Fraser’s building. “Natalya Simonov was Natasha Medvedev’s older sister. She changed her name once she started work as a prostitute, but their father found out anyway and shot himself. He’d been a general of the tsar and couldn’t cope.”

  “So Natalya was also one of Lu’s girls?”

  “I think so, yes.” Field realized that he had never asked Natasha.

  “Why doesn’t the boy go live with his aunt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He kidnaps the boy so that he has a hold over Natasha.”

  Field thought of his last exchange with her.

  “Can she help us find him?”

  “She seems to have gone to ground. I can’t find her. I—I thought she might have gone to Lu, or perhaps been taken by him. I’ve tried her apartment, her friends. Where could someone like Natasha hide in this city?”

  “Perhaps she is not hiding.”

  Field frowned.

  “I hope she is, Dickie, and that she turns up alive. For your sake, I hope so.”

  Field walked the short distance to the Majestic. He climbed the stairs and scanned the stage and the dance floor. They were almost deserted this early in the evening.

  He made his way to Mrs. Orlov’s office and knocked once before he heard her sharp command to enter. She was still sitting at her desk, as though she’d not moved since his last visit.

  Examining her more closely, he thought she seemed older, more tired and frayed. She looked weary and cynical, her eyes hooded. Field wondered if this was just a reflection of his own disillusionment.

  “I’m looking for Natasha Medvedev.”

  Mrs. Orlov shook her head.

  “Will she be in later?”

  The woman maintained her studied disinterest. “I haven’t seen her—not for at least the last few nights.”

  “Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  “You know where she lives.”

  “She’s not there.”

  “You know where she might be found.”

  Field felt his face reddening. He took a step back, into the doorway. “Do you know of any associates or friends she has in the city?”

  Mrs. Orlov shook her head, her manner still frosty.

  “Did Natalya Simonov ever dance here?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Natalya Medvedev?”

  Her frown deepened.

  “Irina Ignatiev?”

  “I do not know these girls.”

  Field looked at her for a moment. “Thank you.” He moved to close the door.

  “Would you like me to give her a message?”

  “No.”

  “Shall I say you called?”

  “No, it’s . . . No.”

  Field ran down the steps, the old anger starting to burn within him.

  At Crane Road, Penelope opened the door. “Soldier,” she said as she stepped back, very slightly unsteady on her feet. “How nice.”

  Penelope gently coaxed him over the threshold, leading him through to the drawing room, an arm draped over his. She pushed him onto the long sofa in front of the Chinese dresser. It was uncomfortable and, like the room as a whole, felt unlived in. “Geoffrey is out at meetings, but you must relax. You look like you’ve been working too hard.”

  Field had told himself he’d come to see Geoffrey and he was therefore, he assured himself, disappointed.

  The Chinese servant came in carrying a silver tray with two empty glasses. “This will do,” she said. She took a full bottle of whiskey from the sideboard and poured two drinks.

  Penelope was wearing a low-cut silver dress, a long string of pearls hanging around her neck. She looked as if she was about to go out.

  She handed him a glass before collapsing onto the sofa next to him. “Chin up.”

  Penelope knocked back her drink in one and Field found himself doing the same. It burned his stomach and he groaned quietly, then leaned his head back.

  “Tired soldier,” Penelope said.

  She moved to her knees in front of him and tugged at the laces on his shoes.

  “No, I’m . . .”

  “Come on,” she said. “Don’t be silly. It’s about time you relaxed. That’s why you came here, isn’t it? The comfort of family.” She took off both shoes, then whipped off his socks, tickling the bottom of his right foot as he withdrew it.

  Penelope refilled the glass and handed it back to him. “Geoffrey is just like this. Doesn’t like to talk about things.”

  Field took the glass, looked at it for a moment, then downed it in one again. Penelope followed suit, smiling at him. She held up the empty glass. “To the comfort of family,” she said. “Look at your shoulders.” She put her glass down and moved around behind the sofa. She massaged his neck and back expertly.

  “You’re hurt.” She came around to the front. “What happened to you, Richard? Your girl let you down?”

  Field didn’t answer. “Do you know Charles Lewis well?” he asked.

  “Charlie?”

  “Yes.”

  “One knows him.”

  “Would you say he is the most powerful man in Shanghai?”

  There was a mirror opposite, and Field watched Penelope tilt her head to one side, frowning slightly. “I suppose so. I’ve never really thought about it.”