The Master of Rain

Thirty-five

The three of them waited in the middle car outside the factory. Macleod was beside the driver, Caprisi and Field in the back. The American had suggested they go on to see if the captain of the ship had returned from Blood Alley, but Macleod remained silent. It was hot, so Field wound down his window.

He knew what his colleagues were thinking.

“Does it go all the way to the top?” Caprisi asked. “Does Lewis know what is going on here?”

“It would fit,” Macleod said. “Lewis in business with Lu on the shipments, a highly profitable arrangement. Lu gives Lewis the girls as a bit of entertainment. It gets a little rough, but Lu cleans up behind him.”

Field watched a group of Chinese and Eurasian schoolgirls walking along the sidewalk. He turned back and took out his cigarettes. “Lewis must be the richest man in Shanghai. He doesn’t need the money.”

“Greed,” Macleod said. “The rich can be greedy, too.” He shook his head as Field offered him a cigarette. “But if the murders are down to Lewis, we will have to tread even more carefully.”

Field saw his own puzzlement reflected in Caprisi’s expression.

“He’s the taipan of Fraser’s, for Christ’s sake,” Macleod said.

“A few days ago,” Field said, “Lewis took me to a club—a brothel.”

“Which one?” Macleod asked.

“Delancey’s.” Field cleared his throat. “I extricated myself, but as I left I passed his room.”

“He was fucking someone.”

“There was a girl. A Chinese girl. She was handcuffed to the bed. She was screaming.”

“We’ll need more than that.” Macleod opened his door. “I’ll take the last car back to the office.” He slammed it shut and stalked off. Caprisi tapped the driver on the shoulder. “The wharf.”

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 balcony 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.