The Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  There was a momentary pause and then the applause was thunderous, almost everyone—perhaps three or four hundred people—getting to his feet. Geoffrey raised his hand modestly. “I’m afraid . . .” He waited for the noise to die down. “I’m afraid I was intending to take questions, but have inevitably run on and . . .” He waited again. “I’m sorry to say I have some council business to attend to upstairs, so if you’ll forgive me . . .”

  Geoffrey walked as swiftly as he could down the side of the room. Field found it almost painful to watch him. He followed him out of the room and into the lift. As he pulled the door shut, Geoffrey breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, a bit jingoistic, but got to fire up the audience, if you know what I mean.”

  Field looked at the leaflet. There was a picture of Geoffrey in uniform and details of his career: Cambridge, service in the trenches, his Victoria Cross and beyond.

  Geoffrey chuckled. “The Shanghai Volunteer Corps. Christ! Not a woman in there under forty . . .” The lift still hadn’t moved, so he hit the button for the sixth floor. “Don’t get Penelope started on that lot.”

  The lift jolted into action and Field leaned back against one of the wood panels. It was the only lift he could recall having been in that had a carpet on the floor.

  “I won’t be long,” Geoffrey said. “I’m sure the chaps won’t mind if you sit in.” He brushed a loose thread from the sleeve of his tailored gray suit. Field was already having second thoughts about his dinner jacket.

  The lift stopped and they stepped out into the bank’s dining room. It was not big, but it was at the corner of the building and the windows were tall, so that it afforded magnificent views of the river and the bright lights of the city.

  Geoffrey joined a group of men around a big oak table. A sideboard behind them was covered with silverware. Huge oil portraits adorned the walls. Field saw Lewis sitting at the far end in a round-backed leather chair with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. Commissioner Biers was next to him, and Patrick Granger stood behind them with his hands in his pockets.

  Geoffrey ran his hand through his hair, which was shot through with flecks of white. Field thought his face seemed older than it had the night before. “Some of you already know Richard, my nephew, new to the city. Just thought it would interest him to sit in, and since this is not a formal meeting of the council, I didn’t think you would have any objections.” A few of the men shook their heads. “Gin,” Geoffrey said, turning to a Sikh waiter in a red and gold tunic.

  Geoffrey sat forward in his chair. Field moved to one of the windows. “Right,” Geoffrey said. “I’ve just had the pleasure of addressing the Volunteer Corps of Shanghai, women’s division!” He lit up. “So forgive me if I’m a little incoherent.”

  “Never before you’ve had a drink, old boy,” Lewis said.

  All the men wore dark suits. Field could see immediately that Lewis and his uncle were the driving forces among the group.

  “I intend this to be a brief meeting,” Geoffrey said, “so that you all get an intelligence update and have the chance to give me some feedback. Patrick is here to fill us in.”

  Granger took his hands out of his pockets, crossed them over his chest, and stepped forward from the shadows. “As Richard here and some of the rest of you will know, Michael Borodin returned from the south last night. Our intelligence is that he will now focus his attentions again on trying to re-create the atmosphere of last summer, but with greater intensity. He has formed a core unit of activists, mostly Chinese students, operating in various premises around the city. But we have intelligence that Borodin and his colleagues at the Soviet consulate have received considerable new funds from Moscow. Some of the propaganda outlets, like the New Shanghai Life, have received further subsidies, but we believe most of the money is going into street activity—producing leaflets and posters, obviously, but most seriously, buying action.”

  “Buying action?” Lewis asked.

  Granger turned to him. “Last summer they were funding the strike committees. This time we believe they may have enough money to pay the strikers directly.”

  The room was silent.

  “Thank you, Patrick,” Geoffrey said. “My own view is that further funds may be needed to counter this new initiative.”

  A bearded man next to Lewis groaned.

  “You may not like it, Simon, but if the Soviets are pumping more money in, then so, too, must we. The Branch and Patrick are doing a fine job, but we can’t allow them to slip behind in any way.”

  “We should shoot a few more of them.”

  Geoffrey cleared his throat. “I was the first to propose resolute action last year, but pictures of piles of bodies on the front page of the New York Times would be counterproductive to say the least.” Geoffrey looked around the room, as if daring them to disagree.

  “Why don’t we just shut down rags like the New Shanghai Life?” Lewis asked. “Apart from anything else, it’s an interminable read.”

  “They are putting the positive case for the new Bolshevik government, which we cannot in all conscience prevent them doing, or at least not without the risk of creating the kind of headlines that would prompt a stream of anxious telegrams from Washington.”

  “Since he keeps feeding all this material back to New York, perhaps we should just shoot Stirling Blackman.”

  One or two of the men laughed. Granger smiled. “We keep a careful eye on the New Shanghai Life, especially when Borodin is around,” Granger said, “but the rags are careful and always stop short of incitement. However, we suspect them of leaflet printing in secret, and, of course, if we catch them doing that, we’ll shut them straight down.”

  There was a long silence.

  “What’s Lu got to say about all this?” Lewis asked. He turned toward Granger, whose face was half in shadow. “Come on, Granger, you’re supposed to be the one with the contacts.”

  Granger cleared his throat, ignoring the barb. “We are led to believe he opposes Bolshevism as forcefully as ever, but we . . . obviously we are doing our best to close down his criminal operations, so our intelligence may not be as good as it ought to be.”

  “Perhaps,” Lewis said, looking slowly around the room, “we should consider reaching an accommodation with him until we’re sure there is no chance of Bolshevism making any kind of advance.” He pushed back his chair and crossed his legs. “Then we can turn up the heat again.”

  “That’s out of the question,” Geoffrey said. “He is at least as much of a threat to this city as the Bolsheviks. Perhaps more so.” He, too, pushed his chair back. “Any other questions?” He stood. “I wanted you to be kept informed, that’s all.”

  The Sikh waiter pushed open a pair of double doors built into the wood panels to reveal another room beyond, similarly furnished, with leather armchairs gathered around an empty fireplace. A long sideboard was covered in food, and as they entered, another Sikh waiter took a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and popped the cork. Two strikingly pretty and scantily clad Chinese waitresses in silver dresses handed around food on silver trays.

  Field looked out over the rooftops behind the Cathay Hotel, uneasy about his presence here. He turned back to find Biers alongside him, already with a glass of champagne in his hand. “We met before, I’m sure.”

  Field took his hand. “We did, commissioner, but I was still a Griffin . . .”

  “Never forget a face.”

  Field doubted this was true. Biers’s nose was red, a tracery of capillaries covered his cheeks, and he looked unsteady on his feet. Granger handed Field a glass. “Good evening, soldier.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  Biers gulped down his champagne. “I’d better go, or Mary will kill me.” He smiled at Field and walked toward the door, stopping to shake Geoffrey’s hand.

  For a moment Granger and Field stood in awkward silence. “I hadn’t realized Borodin’s return was quite so significant,” Field said.

  Granger shrugged. “The
y like to be kept informed.” He leaned closer, smiling. “Geoffrey plays them beautifully.”

  Granger moved around so that his back was to the others. He looked Field up and down. “You need some new clothes. A bit of a supplement might be in order.”

  Field opened his mouth to speak, but Granger cut him short. “Bright, ambitious chap like yourself . . . right social connections.” He looked at Field’s dinner jacket, then at the sober-suited taipans in the room. “Can’t have you trying to get by on a detective’s wage.”

  “A supplement?”

  Granger held up the lapel of his jacket. “Not bad, eh, for a poor boy from Cork?” He leaned closer, his eyes on the naked back of one of the Chinese waitresses who was offering food to a group beside them. “We don’t like to see bright officers disadvantaged in this city of wealth, if you understand my meaning.”

  Field didn’t respond, uncertain what Granger was driving at.

  “And, as a result, we have a discretionary fund. Check your wages. You might be pleasantly surprised.” He cleared his throat. Field saw that Geoffrey looked as if he was approaching. “Anyhow, you can come and help me out tomorrow with the ten o’clock briefing in Hongkew.”

  “That’s . . . I’m still working on this case with Caprisi.”

  Granger shook his head. “You don’t want to get too closely involved. Just keep in with Caprisi and keep me informed.”

  “You don’t want me to be involved?”

  “Informed but not involved. You’re in the Branch, Richard. We just need to keep an eye on what the opposition is up to . . . unless you’d rather be in Crime?” Granger was smiling at him.

  “I’m fine where I am, thank you, sir.”

  There was another awkward silence.

  Lewis stopped chatting to one of the waitresses and ambled over. “All right, old man,” he said quietly. “One of your men, Granger?”

  “New stock.”

  “Good stock. Had him out last night.” Lewis smiled at him. “Slightly blotted his copybook at Delancey’s, but picked himself up when I said I’d show him where this Russian girl worked.”

  Granger said, “Which Russian girl?”

  “The Orlov woman.”

  “The prostitute?”

  Lewis was smirking. “Not one of your tarts, was she, Granger?” Field found himself smiling, until he recalled the screams of the Chinese prostitute in the darkened corridor of the club.

  “You don’t want to dig too deep, old man,” Lewis told Field. “You never know what you might find.”

  Granger sighed. “He’s just keeping his eye on Macleod’s lot.”

  Lewis eyed him dispassionately. “I thought it must be something like that.”

  Sixteen

  The breeze had brought in bad weather from the East China Sea. A light drizzle cooled their cheeks as they stepped onto the Bund. There was a thin sheen of water on the sidewalk and Field’s feet were instantly damp from the unseen holes in the soles of his highly polished shoes.

  Geoffrey had a car and driver waiting for him. On the very short journey to Crane Road, Field wanted to ask him about what Granger had said tonight, but thought better of it.

  He had not understood whom Granger had meant by “we.” What was the discretionary fund?

  Field tried not to dwell on the idea of more money.

  If it was a legitimate payment—though perhaps even to consider that as a possibility might be naive—then he would be able to pay Caprisi for the new suit and even get a decent pair of shoes.

  The house in Crane Road was down a quiet cul-de-sac, a single bright light on the wall illuminating a long wooden veranda. At the sound of the car doors shutting, Penelope came first to the window and then the door. She stood at the top of the steps, beneath the bougainvillea, a hand on her hip. “Your dinner would be in the dog,” she said. “If we had a dog.”

  She wore a closely cut, yellow silk dress, with a low neck beneath a thick string of dark pearls. Geoffrey shuffled forward and she bent to kiss him.

  “He won’t let me have a dog,” she said to Field as she put her cheek to his, the smell of her scent as strong as it had been last night. The floor of the veranda was old and worn, and the planks creaked beneath their feet.

  “Good evening, Chang,” Geoffrey said as he handed the servant his jacket. Field took off his own, hesitating a moment before also removing his holster.

  “Straight to the table,” Penelope said. “I’m sure you boys have managed to find time for a drink.”

  The dining room was smaller than he’d imagined, the silverware on the square, polished table bright in the candlelight.

  “Richard, on the far side, beneath Christopher of York—one of our most distinguished ancestors.”

  Field glimpsed a large dark portrait of a man in full military uniform. He sat down, taking the linen napkin from the glass in front of him.

  “Red wine, Richard?” Geoffrey asked. “It’s—”

  “Lamb,” Penelope said.

  “Whatever is . . . Yes, please, red.”

  Geoffrey stood again and left the room.

  “You survived the Volunteers.” Penelope leaned forward as she took out her own napkin. The dress was just as revealing as the one she’d worn at the country club.

  “It was a good speech.”

  “He can charm.” She sighed. “Which is, of course, why I married him.” She leaned forward again. “You have no idea how handsome and dashing he was in uniform.” She smiled, a gesture that was at once both weary and almost bashful. “Do you know, Richard, you’re a big man, and yet I don’t think there is an ounce of fat on you.”

  Field looked toward the door to hide his embarrassment.

  “You really must get yourself a girl. It’s a terrible waste.” She sighed, smiling at him. “You always look so hunched up and angry, like you’re about to hit someone.” She smiled again, imitating his posture. “You’re not about to hit someone, are you?”

  “I try not to, most of the time.”

  “See. You look lovely when you smile.”

  Field frowned.

  “And now you’re scowling again.”

  “So one can’t win, really.”

  “Of course not. That’s a woman’s prerogative.” She looked suddenly more serious. “What are you angry about?”

  “I wasn’t aware of being angry about anything.”

  “Everyone is angry about something.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Do you ever talk about your father?”

  “No.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Probably not,” Field said, irritated by this unwarranted intimacy.

  “Is that why you’re so angry?”

  Geoffrey reentered the room, carrying a decanter. Two servants followed, the old man and a shy young girl with a wide, flat face and hair pulled back from her forehead. “A Bordeaux, I thought. Do the trick?”

  Field realized his uncle was talking to him. “Yes, of course . . . I’m sorry, we don’t often have wine in the mess.”

  “Then we must get you into more civilized accommodation.”

  “He could come and live here,” Penelope said.

  Geoffrey filled their glasses. “Can you imagine being in a city as exhilarating as this and being stuck with your uncle and aunt?”

  “Speak for yourself, darling!”

  Geoffrey sat down, pulling his chair in, before reaching for the salt and grinding it over his plate. The window was open, the cicadas noisy. The candle flames flickered in the faint breeze that carried with it the damp, musty aroma of the street. Field ate a mouthful of lamb. It had been cooked with apple and was served with thickly cut, creamy potatoes. It was by far the best food he’d had since arriving in Shanghai.

  “This is very good,” he said.

  “I slaved all day over it,” Penelope said. “Didn’t I, dear?”

  Geoffrey smiled at Field. “You begin to see why we can never come back and live in England.”
>
  Field took a sip of his wine. He heard the low rumble of a foghorn on the river. It seemed to be answered by others.

  “Who is Stirling Blackman?”

  Geoffrey replenished their wineglasses before answering. Field noticed Penelope’s was already empty.

  “Blackman is not . . . how should one say? Not always a friend of the city.” Geoffrey looked at Field. “The thing about the New York Times, Richard, is that it thinks it invented the notion of integrity. The difficulty is that it sometimes provokes a response from Washington, which in turn causes problems in London.”

  “How is the Russian girl?” Penelope asked.

  For a moment Field assumed she was asking about Natasha. “She’s like a ghost,” he said eventually. “Her friends are either too frightened or too disinterested to want to talk about her.” He put down his knife and fork and took another sip of wine. “Her fate does not seem to elicit much sympathy . . . not in the force, anyway. She did not keep good company. She began life in such gilded circumstances and her end was so squalid. It seems . . . tragic, in its own way.”

  “You’re a romantic, Richard,” Penelope said.

  “No—”

  “She was a whore, you know.” Penelope’s mouth had tightened and her eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t get yourself too worked up about it.”

  There was a momentary silence.

  Geoffrey cleared his throat again. “Richard is right, I fear. We cannot get into the business of ignoring cases on the basis of who the victim was, tempting as it may be at times.”

  “Our concern,” Field said, “is that it may be part of a pattern. That the perpetrator may strike again.”

  Penelope looked up with an emollient smile, as if regretting her earlier harshness. “Thank God for the boys in blue.”

  “The difficulty with the Russians,” Geoffrey went on, “is that none of us like to ponder their fate too closely. It won’t happen to us, of course, but we’ve all seen the photographs: the big houses, the servants, the military schools, and holidays in the Crimea. It’s uncomfortable, particularly for those lower down the European social order here, who’ve never had any of those things.”