by Tom Bradby
As they moved away, Field said, “Why was he being so negative?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I thought we were all agreed.”
“Lewis isn’t one of his supporters, and putting him in the frame for murder . . .” Caprisi whistled quietly. “It’s not the best time for that, is it? Unless the evidence is overwhelming, which it isn’t. I’m not sure the Municipal Council is going to like one of its candidates for commissioner going after the most powerful businessman in Shanghai.”
“So we wait until it happens again?”
Caprisi sighed. “Calm down, Field . . . or should I call you ‘Dickie’?”
“He’s nothing to do with me.”
“Dickie? They call you ‘Dickie’?”
“He was patronizing me.”
“You’ve nice friends,” Caprisi said. “Charming.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Of course he’s not. He sure is an arrogant bastard, I’ll say that. What did he want outside?”
Field sighed. “Nothing.”
At the wharf the fat customs officer was not there—on the river, his assistant said—so they made their own way down to the SS Saratoga.
Caprisi had not dismissed their escort, and the effect was exactly as he’d intended. As they walked up the gangplank, the Indian deckhand they had seen the other day got to his feet and scrambled into the cabin. Caprisi banged on the door, and a few moments later the captain appeared, hastily tucking a filthy vest into his trousers. He was an Indian, too, much older and fatter, with a few days’ growth on his chin. He’d obviously been asleep.
“Enjoy Blood Alley?” Caprisi asked.
“What do you want?”
“We have some questions.”
The captain studied them for a few moments, then led them through the doorway and up to the bridge. There was a rag over one of the brass instruments and he used it to wipe his forehead.
“You’re leaving this Saturday,” Caprisi said.
The captain nodded.
“What are you carrying?”
“I cannot remember without looking at the manifest.”
“Sewing machines?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know.”
“What do you normally carry from this company?”
“Electrical goods.” He yawned. “I don’t know—whatever they ask us to carry.”
“Why are you loading the goods at night? On Saturday night, after dark?”
“We load them when they bring them.”
“Isn’t that unusual? Doesn’t it make you suspicious?”
He shook his head. “Why?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for you to load shipments during the day?”
“Easier for me, yes, but I am not paying. If they want to load at night, we load at night. They are the customer. What are their reasons? How can I know? Maybe they have a full shift on Saturday and want to wait until the last of the machines are done before beginning to load.”
Field could see Caprisi thinking. This man was not going to be caught out.
Caprisi placed one hand on the wheel and looked out toward the deck. “All right, Captain . . .”
“Sendosa.”
“All right, Captain Sendosa. Thank you for your time.”
They retraced their steps. As he got into the car, Caprisi said, “He’s in on it. Whatever is going on, he’s in on it as well.”
Field watched the American for a moment before turning to look out of the window at the activity on the wharf.
Field climbed the stairs to the Immigration Department quickly, arriving just as it was closing. The woman he’d spoken to before took a lot of persuading, but eventually she led him into the back, along a corridor, and up the stairs to a room on the floor above, where the dust hung in the air, illuminated by the rays of the dying sun. A small Westerner with thick glasses sat hunched over a ledger by the door. The rest of the room was filled from floor to ceiling with steel filing cabinets. There was barely enough room to squeeze between them.
“Mr. Pendelby, this is Mr. Field.”
They shook hands. The man had a nervous smile.
“Mr. Pendelby has worked through 1918 and 1919, without success. If you wish to help, you can begin with 1921, but I must insist it is only one hour. I have to close then. Mr. Pendelby, you must go home now.”
“I’m happy to do one more hour.” He smiled at Field, who returned the compliment.
“Very well. I shall return in one hour. Otherwise, you may come back tomorrow, Mr. Field.”
Field smiled and she turned to go.
“You’re on 1920?” Field asked.
Pendelby nodded. He tugged awkwardly at his mustache.
“Thanks for your assistance. I appreciate it.”
Pendelby nodded again, then, without speaking, got up and disappeared down one of the corridors between the files. He emerged a few moments later with four thick, leather-bound ledgers. “The first half of 1920,” he said.
Field took the top book down, opened it, and began reading. All entries in the ledger were chronological. He soon realized that the best way to proceed was to run his finger over the names, so as to be certain he wasn’t skimming, but even so, it was difficult. The book provided a record of information about nonresident country citizens: every arrival, every departure, every change of address. Resident country citizens had their passports examined upon arrival and did not have to attend Customs to register officially, but nonresidents—like Russians—had to wade through a mine of bureaucracy for years. Every time they moved, they were required to inform Customs, and failure to do so could result in heavy fines and even imprisonment. Some names appeared frequently as a result, and many, if not most, were Russian. It made it a tedious task.
Field kept on having to go back on himself. He told himself that all he needed was one address to begin a proper hunt for Irina Ignatiev or Natalya Simonov.
After about half an hour—at a guess, since he did not have a watch—he stepped outside and had a cigarette.
When he returned to the room, Pendelby looked up and smiled at him again, before continuing with his own work.
Field glanced again at the columns in front of him: Markov, Alexander, he read, residing at 47a Avenue Joffre, to Harbin by train. Julius, Anthony, residing at 27 Bubbling Well Road, to Cape Town, South African passport, no. 407681, on the SS Sarawak. Beside this, at the end of the column, a clerk had written, not intending to return. The next entry was for a Semtov, Vladimir, of 7c Bubbling Well Road. The clerk had written, to Harbin, return November, or before if business completed.
Field had reached June 1920 by the time the woman returned, and he recognized that he was too tired to continue.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Field,” she said gently. “You can come back tomorrow, but we must lock up.”
“Of course. What time do you open?”
“At eight.”
“I’ll be here.”
Field dozed on his bed at Carter Road for two or three hours.
Swinging his legs off the bed when he awoke, he tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes. He washed his face in the basin at the other end of the corridor.
He nodded at the steward sitting nearby, then walked down the stairs and slipped out into the heat of the night. He wondered where Lewis had gone to school. Eton, almost certainly.
Field was carrying his jacket over his arm, no longer bothering to conceal his holster, which slapped against his chest as he walked. He put on the trilby Geoffrey had given him.
He thought he ought to go and see Geoffrey and Penelope. He wanted their wisdom and support and experience. But he no longer felt entirely in control of his own actions.
It was clear tonight, but close again, and there were damp patches under his arms by the time he reached Foochow Road.
The light was on in her apartment.
He stood in the shadows, away from the streetlamp on the far side, and lit a cigarette, rarely taking his eyes from the balco
ny above.
The door onto the balcony opened and she stepped out, a glass in her hand, the sound of jazz from the radio drifting out into the night. She bent over to water a plant, then straightened again. She was wearing a loose, bright yellow dress. She turned and looked down at the street.
His heart pounded.
Was she looking at him?
Natasha stood motionless. Then she turned swiftly away and stepped inside.
Field threw the cigarette into the drain. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He walked quickly across the street and into the lobby. In the lift he saw the heat in his face, the sweat on his chin and lips and forehead.
The sound of the radio was louder in the hall outside her flat, and Field stood in the semidarkness, listening to his breathing. He stepped forward and was about to knock when the door opened.
She seemed taller, fiercer, more beautiful, her dress split almost to the waist.
He took another pace forward, their noses touching, then their lips, her mouth warm, her hands running through the wetness of his hair and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Her skin was cool to the touch.
“I’m—”
“I’m weak,” she said.
Thirty-six
Natasha rolled Field over onto his chest. The white cotton sheets were luxuriously cool on this side of the bed. She lay on top of him, her heart thumping in time with his, both of them covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Sometime later he became aware of the soft touch of her lips against his ear. “Wake up, Richard.”
“I’m awake.”
“You’re sleeping.”
“I’m . . . comfortable.”
“Too comfortable.” She rolled him onto his back and straddled him again. She smiled. Very slowly, her hair gathering around his neck and face, she lowered herself. Her fingers touched the side of his face gently as her lips met his.
Now Field did sleep, and when he awoke, she was looking at him, leaning on her elbow.
“What’s the time?”
She shrugged. “Almost dawn.”
“You’ve been watching all night?”
“No. You sleep peacefully.”
He rolled over onto his back. “I slept deeply.” He noticed a clock on the bedside table and leaned over to try to get a closer look. “Five,” he said.
Field stared at the ceiling. A streetlamp lit the corner of the room nearest to the window, but the rest was lost in the darkness. She was kneeling in a pool of light on the side of the bed.
“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked.
She took one from the packet on the bedside table and lit it. She threw another across to him and leaned over with the match still alight. She put a shell ashtray between them and they smoked in silence.
When they had finished, she said, “You will have to go soon.” She took the ashtray and lay down, moving closer so that her back was alongside him. As he rolled over, she brought her knees up and took hold of his arm, wrapping it around her stomach and caressing his hand. “Hold me tight, Richard.”
They lay still, her body warm.
“You’re frightened,” he said.
“Of course.”
There was another long silence.
“Whatever anyone says,” she said almost inaudibly, “I loved you.”
“What do you mean loved?”
“Perhaps the end will be a relief,” she said.
“The end of what?”
She did not answer, so he spun her around roughly. Her eyes and face were wet with her tears. “What do you mean?”
Natasha looked into his eyes without answering.
“What do you mean?” Field rolled off the bed. “What do you mean the end will be a relief? Will you stop talking like that?”
“I’m just tired, Richard.”
Field breathed out heavily. “Me too. Want to know why?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for the lives of two more ghosts, Irina Ignatiev and Natalya Simonov, and can we find any trace of them?”
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. He waited in vain for her to respond.
“And all the time,” he went on, “you know exactly who they are.”
She remained absolutely still.
Field moved around to her side of the bed and sat beside her. “You tell me you dream of a life in Venice or Paris. Well, we can do it. We can stop Lu. But not unless you start to tell me the truth.”
She turned to face him, but he knew, from the distant look in her eyes, that he’d lost her again. “I want a drink of water,” he said, and before she could answer, he stepped into the corridor.
There was a glass by the sink and he filled it with some purified water from a jug and drank greedily. He returned to the living room with a full glass for Natasha.
Field glanced toward the balcony and the clock tower above the race club. Then he noticed the bookcase.
In the bedroom he put the glass down beside her, but she didn’t thank him. He lit another cigarette.
“You don’t like Charlie, do you?” she said.
Field drew the smoke into his lungs. “Lewis?”
“How many others do you know?”
“One or two.” Field imagined Natasha throwing her head back, arching her spine, and then looking down at Lewis as the two of them fucked. He sucked even harder on the cigarette, trying to eradicate the image, which was as vivid as if he’d been watching it happen.
“I can tell by the way you look at him.”
“Tell what?”
“He’s rich.”
“Is that why you slept with him?”
“That’s what you think?”
Field watched the smoke drifting from darkness to light.
“Charlie’s not the man you think he is,” she said.
Field did not answer.
“He’s a little sad.”
“I’m sure.”
“You Englishmen.”
“What about us?”
“Always like little boys, like someone hurt you.”
Field cleared his throat. “I don’t see Charles Lewis as a victim.”
“Why? Don’t they say money doesn’t buy you happiness?” Natasha rolled over onto her back. “Charlie was angry when I asked him to leave,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t think a Russian girl has a right to say no?”
Field stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray in front of her. “What have you done with all the photographs?”
She looked at him, and even in this light he could see the depth of her annoyance. “I do not understand.”
“The bookshelf in the living room. I just wondered what had happened to all your photographs.”
“Which photographs?”
“When I came around the other day, your bookshelf was covered in photographs.”
“I took them down.”
“What did you do with them?”
“It is not your business.”
“Can I see them again?”
“Why do you ask this?”
“Just . . . interest.”
“No. You cannot.”
She sat up, moved to the side of the bed, and picked up her gown. She slipped into it and tied the knot around her waist. “I’m sorry, this has been unfair of me. I said to you that I am weak.”
“Stop.”
She turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean don’t go down that road. I mean stop.”
“Stop what?”
“I know what you are going to say and I don’t want you to say it.”
Natasha sighed, closing her eyes.
He knelt on the bed. “Everything has changed.”
“Richard—”
“No. You said, ‘Everyone needs to dream.’ So let’s dream. Longer. No more questions.” He stood. “Let’s . . . do something. Let’s get out of here. Now. We can go for a walk
.”
She was still looking at him, confused and uncertain, and for a moment he thought that she would reject him again.
She stood and began quietly to dress. She pulled on her stockings first, unselfconsciously, knowing his eyes were upon her. She indicated with the tap of a finger that he should button her dress, and as he did so, he wanted to kiss the curve of her back.
They did not speak as they walked down the stairs and, outside, she led the way, as if this had been her suggestion and she had a destination in mind. It was cooler this morning. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the sycamore trees.
A barge honked on the river, but the street was quiet save for the hiss of the gas lamps and their footsteps on the pavement. She wore a simple blue dress, a string of pearls around her neck, her hair untidy. She looked as if she had just got out of bed, and for some reason this pleased him.
Natasha took his hand, her own warm in his. She squeezed harder and he responded and then, as he was becoming used to this public display of affection, she let go.
She clasped her other hand around her waist.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“We’re walking.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“I thought perhaps a coffee at the French Club, then I want you to meet a friend.”
“You’re a member?”
She looked at him, without emotion. “They tolerate me.”
“Tell me about your house,” he said after a moment. “In Russia.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m interested.”
“So long ago.”
“Not so long ago.” Field tried to take her hand again. “Natasha, tell me about your home.”
She held his hand briefly, then let it slip away. She sighed. “It was not a grand house. Not like Lena’s.”
“In Kazan itself?”
“It was a farm. Quite far from Kazan. Closer to Chistopol, on the other side of the river.” Natasha smiled. “It was a beautiful place.”
“Your father was a farmer?”
“For many years, we . . .” She hesitated. “Papa was an officer in the army, like Lena’s father. He was away so much, and when Mama died, we had to run the farm.”