The Master of Rain

Eighteen

Discussing Lena’s murder made Field feel like a caged animal, but despite his own sense of urgency, and Macleod’s approval, Caprisi and Chen said they had other things to attend to first.

While he was waiting for them, Granger’s secretary called down to the department to find out where he was. Field had forgotten that he was supposed to be accompanying him to the Hongkew district.

Granger was in a sullen mood. “Morning, son,” he said as Field climbed into the new yellow and gray Chevrolet and settled into the backseat. The leather was smooth to the touch, the walnut trim highly polished. Granger sat easily, his big legs stretched out in front of him. As Field tried to free a small stone that had become lodged in a hole in the sole of his shoe, he couldn’t help noticing the quality of Granger’s clothes.

As they raced along the Bund, past the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank and the Customs House, Granger took a small bottle of whiskey from a compartment built into the walnut dash. Field declined his offer and turned to look out of the window at the neatly laid-out gardens next to the imposing building that housed the British consulate.

They crossed Garden Bridge, the water beneath the iron structure teeming with sampans. The fog had lifted, but it was still warm and overcast and close.

The driver hooted loudly at another car as they passed the Soviet consulate, before entering the narrower streets around the Hongkew market. The signs and banners here were in Japanese, though the difference to the foreign eye, Field thought, was not marked.

Field had never been into the Hongkew station before; it was a cramped but well-organized building. The constables were mostly either Japanese or Chinese, and they all stopped talking, respectfully, in the corridors as Granger strode past.

The briefing was the same as the one Field had heard the day before, and afterward there were no questions, so they had saki with the Japanese S.1 officer who was attached to the station. Granger talked more about Borodin, becoming personal and abusive, still furious that the Russian’s diplomatic status allowed him to send his children to the American school and keep mistresses in different apartments around the city.

In the car on the way back, Granger said quietly, “Charlie tells me there was some trouble last night at the Majestic.”

“It was an accident.”

“Well, don’t do anything stupid, eh?” Granger smiled. “Can’t have you getting damaged before the match this afternoon.”

Field had completely forgotten about it. “You don’t play?” he asked.

Granger shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“But you did?”

“Might have for Ireland.” He lowered his voice, the laughter still in his eyes. “If there had not been a war on.”

“The Great War or . . .”

“The war of independence. The Irish war. Rebellion, to you. Now, I’m the worst kind of coach . . .”

“Were you and Michael Collins friends?”

Granger looked at him, as if weighing him up. “Yes.”

“How did you end up here if you were fighting the English?”

“New York for guns, then a girl.”

“Your wife?”

Granger smiled. “No.”

“They say the commissioner is about to retire.”

“Within the month.”

“Do you think . . .”

“If it’s Macleod, we’re all finished.”

“But the Municipal Council must favor you overwhelmingly.”

“Don’t be so sure.” They had stopped outside the Cathay Hotel, and Granger was looking at him steadily, his hand on the door handle. “I’ve a meeting.”

“I’ll get out here as well.”

“I’ll get the driver to—”

“No, it’s fine. I said I’d meet Caprisi at the library.” Granger narrowed his eyes. Field shook his head. “Nothing important.”

They got out of the car. Granger adjusted his clothes. Field wondered when his light suit would be ready.

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating Macleod, Field. He may not mix with the council socially, but he’s been on a private sales job for years.” Granger lit a cigarette. “I’m sure he’s given you one of his little chats . . .”

“Yes.”

“Policemen shouldn’t act like missionaries, and I get tired of him lecturing us all like joyless schoolboys.”

Field hesitated. “He seems sincere in what he believes.”

“You think so?” Granger frowned. “So you bought the speech?”

Field shook his head. “No, I just said I thought he was sincere in what he said.”

Granger looked agitated. He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his foot. “I don’t like Macleod. If he becomes commissioner, it will be a disaster for the force, the city, and me personally. We’ll be forced into a head-on confrontation we cannot yet win. Think about it. Look around you. Containing Lu, trying to keep his influence at bay in the Settlement. Maybe. Eradicating organized crime? Forget it.” Granger shook his head. “This is China. We have to accept that building some kind of civilization here is going to take longer than people would like. And I’m tired of being made to feel like a criminal for not signing up to the whole puritan sermon. It’s a time for knowing who your friends are.”

Field thought about his confrontation with Lu last night, recalling the discomfort and unease he’d felt during the meeting itself and the anger that had returned shortly afterward. “Loyalty is one of my few qualities.”

“I like that, Field.” Granger put an arm around his shoulder. “You’re a good man. You’ve got plenty of qualities, believe me.” He turned toward the hotel. “We can go far if we work together.”

As he watched a doorman jump forward, Field wondered again what it must be like to be rich enough to arrive in Shanghai and climb into the liveried cream Cathay Hotel Chevrolet that he’d seen waiting on the quayside when his own liner had docked. He imagined the rooms as a more modern version of the Shanghai Club, full of leather and glass. It was said that the taps were gold-plated. It was common knowledge you could get almost any drug from room service.

He looked up at the narrow, conical roof and the balcony that surrounded it. He could see some guests leaning over, gazing out toward the river. Another sedan pulled up behind Granger’s and a woman in a cream skirt made her way toward the entrance, her chauffeur following with a hatbox.

Field nodded at the doorman, half expecting to be refused entry, not yet used to the idea of belonging in such surroundings. Inside, it was cooler, the white marble floor spotlessly clean. He walked slowly down the long corridor between rows of potted plants, then turned into the reception area.

It was as fashionable as he’d imagined, an iron-framed balcony above the swinging doors giving way to a gilt-edged ceiling. There were new designer clocks all along the wall behind the reception desk with the local times in different cities.

Field’s eyes were drawn to an attractive blond-haired woman sitting in the tea lounge. She had an infectious laugh and reminded him of Lena Orlov. Then he noticed that her companion—the man she was laughing with—was Granger.

“Can I help you, sir?” One of the bellboys smiled at him.

“Er . . .” Field took two swift paces backward, so that he was out of view. “No. Just looking for someone, not here. Thanks.”

He turned around.

“Would you like to leave a message?”

“No . . . no thanks.”

Outside, Field crossed the road and walked in front of the Customs House.

The girl must have been another of Granger’s women.

Field needed cash, but had to wait in a long queue in the central hall of the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank. The ceiling was made of elaborate colored glass.

He looked at the Roman figures surrounding the dome at the entrance, representing Sapienta, Fides, and Prudentia, among others.

To his left, small groups of men and women huddled together beneath two huge chalkboards. The one on the left listed the closing prices on Wall Street, headed by Reading and Baldwin Locomotive, a plus sign next to the final price showing that both had seen small rises on the day. The other listed Shanghai prices, and two men in long tunics stood in front of it, one of them reaching up to rub out and replace the figures as a colleague farther back shouted out instructions.

Field looked at his watch, thinking that he would probably be early for the meeting he’d arranged with Caprisi and Chen at the central library. It would give him time to get started.

He shuffled closer to the front of the line. A tiny Chinese, his head only just above the counter, was arguing with the teller. Field examined the boards behind the counter that listed currency rates in English and Chinese.

When he was the next in line and confident of not losing his place, Field filled out a slip for a withdrawal of thirty Shanghai dollars. He looked up through the brass grille to try to calculate what his salary was worth in pounds this month.

He finally stepped up to the counter and smiled at the young girl behind it as he pushed the form across. “An account balance also, please.”

The girl checked the slip he had filled out, then got up and walked back to the huge filing cabinets that stretched all the way from one end of the room to the other. She checked the number and disappeared around the corner.

She returned a few moments later with a buff-colored file and ran her finger down the page before taking a sheet of paper from the box in front of her, writing down an amount, and handing it to him. She began to count out the cash for the withdrawal he had requested. Field looked at it for a moment and frowned. He showed it to her. “Are you sure you have the right account?”

She looked at the file. “Mr. Field, yes?”

“Yes.”

She nodded.

Field frowned again. “Has there been a credit?”

She checked it once more. “Credit today, two hundred; credit today, two hundred.”

“Two credits?”

“Yes.”

“Both for two hundred?”

“Yes.”

“Four hundred in total?”

“Yes.” She was looking at him now as if he were the stupidest man she’d ever met.

“The first one for two hundred—my salary, the same source?”

“Police force.”

“Yes. What about the other? Who . . .”

“Cash.”

“Cash?”

“Yes, pay in cash.”

Field found it hard to control the excitement in his stomach as he walked out of the bank into the light drizzle and subdued bustle of the Bund. It seemed clear that the supplement Granger had talked of—which had to be the source of the extra money—was effectively doubling his salary, and, for the first time in his life, it would leave him with something to spare. It would mean a decent pair of shoes, nights out—he would be able to afford to drink at the Majestic. He could put some aside, send some home to his mother. This winter she’d be able to pay for coal.

His first thought had been that the supplement was generous and even of questionable honesty, but his qualms faded quickly. The fact was his salary was poor, even mean, and if Granger wanted to make sure his men got extra from department funds to reflect the nature of their work, then that made sense.

A few minutes later he sprinted up the wide stone steps of the public library on Nanking Road and entered a room that was almost as cavernous as the bank he’d just left.

The bookcases were two or three times his height. One of the librarians was retrieving a book from the top shelf with the aid of a small stepladder. The reference counter was directly ahead. A sign in English and Chinese hung from the ceiling above it.

Field took out his identification as a timid-looking Chinese girl approached him. “From the Special Branch.” She looked as if she might faint, so he smiled encouragingly. “I need the last six months of the following.” He smiled again. “Got a pen?” She scurried back to her desk to get a pen and a piece of paper. “The North China Daily News, the Shanghai Times, the Evening Post and Echo, the Evening Mercury, and the Journal de Shanghai.”

Field took a seat at one of the long wooden tables and waited.

It was about twenty minutes before she wheeled them in on a trolley with the help of a porter dressed in a dirty gray tunic. Field thanked her and looked over the leather-bound volumes, their titles etched in gold.

He began with the most recent copies of the North China Daily News, which had not yet been bound and were kept loose in a box. He went back to a week before the Orlov murder.

Most of the front page of the first edition he looked at was covered in advertisements for everything from flytraps to shaving balm. Never mind the swarms of mosquitoes in your neighbourhood, one said. They will not pester you when you are protected by XEX. For sale; $4 per bottle at leading dispensaries. Only for the rich, he thought.

Field’s eyes were drawn to a private notice beneath the advertisements on the left-hand side. Cool and comfortable, well-furnished, detached three bed house to let for three months. Garden, tennis, garage, centrally located in French Concession, near French Club.

He sat back. It did not give a price, but how much could something like that be? If the monthly supplement went up a bit, he’d be able to afford it comfortably and still send money home to his mother. There would be funds for a car, a driver, and a couple of servants.

Field shook his head, trying to suppress the pleasure that knowledge of the money sitting in his bank account was giving him.

He turned to the headlines: “War in Hunan” and “Comrades Bickering Up North.” His eyes were drawn to an article below: “Kuomintang and Communism.” Canton, June 17. General Chiang Kai-shek has announced he is not in sympathy with the “reds.” The strongest of all the Kuomintang leaders has openly and vigorously announced that he is not in sympathy with the communists.

The paper did not yet seem to have picked up on Borodin’s return.

He began to scan the pages methodically, but there were so many small items that it took time. His hands were covered in black ink almost immediately, so that he smudged each new page that he touched.

He found an item headed “Russian Suicides Drop.” The Central Coroner has reported a drop in the number of Russian suicides in the Settlement in the first half of this year from 12 to 9. The French Concession has reported a similar drop, from 25 to 22.

Field looked at the item for a long time.

He worked backward methodically, soon lost in what he was doing. He was looking at a picture of the Duchess of York’s new baby girl, Elizabeth, born in April, when Caprisi came and sat in the chair opposite him, Chen beside him. “Progress?”

“I’m guessing they might simply have been passed off as suicides.”

Caprisi shook his head confidently. “If there is a pattern, then the other girls will probably have been stabbed. Even the French police wouldn’t try to pass that off as suicide.”

“Why not?”

“What’s the point? You might get an angry relative causing trouble. Simpler to let an investigation run into the sand.” He cleared his throat. “It will be down as a murder, but the details will have been obscured or changed. Have you got the Chinese papers?”

Field shook his head and Caprisi nodded at Chen.

“Do you speak French?” Field asked Caprisi.

“Italian.”

Field got up and lifted over one of the piles, a cloud of dust rising as he dropped them in the middle of the big oak table. “Take the Mercury.”

They read on in silence. Field found another piece about Lu Huang. There was a picture of him directly above one of the new Shah of Iran with his son, but while the one from Iran was of reasonable quality, Lu’s was dark and shadowy. The feature covered “the Shanghai society figure’s largest donation to charity yet.”

Field felt his anger rising as he read it. The donation had been to the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage and had been made because he “loved children” and wanted young orphans to be given the kind of care he had never received. The lady interviewer had obviously been overawed by Lu’s wealth and power. Field was about to stop reading when his eyes were drawn to a comment at the conclusion. “I am a Chinese!” he had said. “Always keep good records. Always records of everything. Guarded at safest place—home. Always know who owes money! Who already paid!”

Field looked up at Caprisi, then went back to scanning the pages, the thoughts he’d been about to voice not yet clearly formed in his mind.