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Authors: Tom Bradby

BOOK: The Master of Rain
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Natasha shook her head.
“What do you think ‘ledger two’ might be a reference to?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Speculate.”
She shrugged.
“It just seems odd, doesn’t it? Notes that were sensitive enough to be hidden. Shipments of something that obviously suggests some kind of criminal activity, and a reference to ‘payments.’ You must be able to make a guess.”
Natasha looked straight at Caprisi. “You can go on asking all day, but I’ve already told you. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
Caprisi stared at her. “We’ll leave you, Miss Medvedev,” he said quietly, walking to the door. “I can understand your distress, but . . . I’ve been doing this a long time.” He sighed. “And I sense you could help us more than you’re letting on.”
Eleven
D
ownstairs, Field almost choked on the thick, sulfurous air. The wind had changed direction again and strengthened, bringing thick fumes from the factories across the river.
They climbed straight into the car and wound up the windows. Caprisi took out a white handkerchief and put it across his mouth. “This city is a cesspit,” he said as the driver turned the car around. “Can’t you tell your uncle?”
“What do you mean?”
Caprisi sighed and looked out of the window. “It’s not exactly a democracy, is it? A small group of men who own the big businesses run the council, with your uncle at their head . . . No wonder the air is poisonous. It’s poisoned by money, money, and more money.”
“Isn’t New York polluted? Or Chicago?”
“No. Anyways, not like this.”
Caprisi crossed his legs, placing his notebook on his knee and flicking back through it. “What did you think?”
“About what?”
“About her. Natasha.”
“I think she’s frightened.”
“I’d say so.” He looked down at his notes again. “What’s Lu’s interest in these girls? Why is he paying for them?”
“The obvious interest.”
“Natasha maybe, but there are hundreds of girls like Lena, and boys, of all ages.” Field blanched again at this thought, but Caprisi didn’t appear to notice. “Lena was nothing special, was she? He could have screwed her if he’d wanted. He didn’t have to go installing her in a penthouse apartment. Natasha—now, there’s a different story. That I can see. She’s got class. She’s special, a trophy, but not Lena.”
“Perhaps Lena was a useful gift.”
“Perhaps that was it.”
“Or had useful information.”
“On what?”
“On the communists.”
Caprisi turned toward him.
“I don’t think,” Field went on, “that there is any doubt Lena Orlov was attending meetings at the
New Shanghai Life
and at the Soviet consulate. So was Natasha.”
“So they’re Lu’s
agents
?”
“It’s possible.”
“But it can hardly be a secret that they live in his apartments. So what use are they?”
“Go-betweens.”
Caprisi nodded.
“The communists are gaining power in the south,” Field said. “Quite soon they’re expected to advance north. Lu likes to have as many fingers in the pie as he can get. He’s not going to be attending meetings himself, and these girls could provide information on what is discussed and planned amongst the Bolshevik underground here. Or perhaps the ownership of these apartments is
not
as commonly known as you suppose. We are only aware of it because of Chen, and he seems to know everything.”
Caprisi nodded slowly again, staring out of the window. “Natasha Medvedev is frightened, but she’s making no attempt to help herself.”
“She doesn’t trust us.”
“She’s lying about those notes.”
Field nodded.
“How much do you think she knows about the shipments?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It must be opium.”
Field shrugged.
“Lu controls the supply line into the city from central China. He gets together with others to export the drugs to Europe. It’s a whole new market. That’s a departure for the Green Gang, but it would be incredibly profitable, wouldn’t it?”
“I imagine so.”
“Lu has a brilliant mind and total control of the underworld here, but he’s going to need expat help to build a European operation. So . . . somebody else is involved. A syndicate, perhaps. Lena gets to hear of this, perhaps from Lu. She sees that it’s explosive and begins to make secret notes. Dates, shipments.” Caprisi looked down, deep in thought. “Lena and Natasha are friends. Does Lena talk to her, do you think? Are they close?”
Field thought about the pictures of the two women’s families at home in Russia.
“Do you believe Natasha’s account of how she found the body?” Caprisi went on.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because, if she heard or witnessed or was party to the murder, why would she wait so long before calling the police?”
“To allow the cleanup operation to be completed.”
This opened up an area Field did not want to consider. “I don’t know how close they could have been. Perhaps their past drives them apart, rather than bringing them together. Are they ashamed to be reminded of how life used to be? Or is the nostalgia what keeps them alive?”
“Both,” Caprisi said as he watched the crowds hustling down the street. “There’s something wrong with this.” He swung around toward his companion. “Lu’s men abducted the doorman, under our noses, a full twelve hours after Lena had been murdered. Does that make any sense to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“If Lu was behind the murder, why not remove the doorman at once, in the middle of the night?”
Field couldn’t think of a simple answer and found himself instead thinking about what Maretsky had told him—or not told him—about Slugger Davis.
“Are you married, Caprisi?”
The American’s intense, dark eyes rested on Field. “You’re persistent, Dickie.”
“I was once told it was my only attribute.” Field tried to smile. “It’s hard to know someone if you know nothing about them.”
Caprisi turned back to the window and the street outside.
“You don’t have to mistrust me,” Field went on.
“I never trust Brits.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
“Macleod is a Brit.”
“He’s a Scot.”
“So it’s the English?”
Caprisi didn’t respond.
“How come you ended up with Macleod?”
Caprisi frowned at him.
“You’re an Italian American Catholic. By rights, you should be with Granger.”
“Some things transcend the small-minded . . .”
“Like what?”
“I was in crime. In Chicago. Macleod is a detective.”
“You mean it was decided on a professional basis.”
A thin smile tugged at the corner of the American’s lips.
“So you came out here for a bit of adventure?” Field asked.
“There was enough adventure at home.”
“Al Capone?”
Caprisi smiled again, a gesture that brought deep creases to his cheeks.
“So what brought you out here? I mean . . .”
“Jesus, you don’t give up, do you?”
“I’m curious.”
“Well, that’s how you’re going to stay.”
“How old are you?” Field asked.
“What’s it to you?”
“I just had a bet with myself, that’s all.”
“And what did you put your money on?”
“Thirty-five.”
Caprisi’s smile grew broader, his body breaking into a momentary chuckle. “Then you’d better stick to policing, Dickie Field, because my mother tells me I’m twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-seven?”
Caprisi was looking out of the window on his side. “Yes, my friend, twenty-seven. Too much experience of the dark side, that’s what it is.” He turned back to Field, his expression suddenly serious. “We call them the cabal.”
Field frowned.
“You don’t understand, so I’m offering you an explanation.”
Field waited until he realized the American wasn’t going to expand. “Those who . . .”
“Belong to Lu. He buys influence any way he can and it’s spread like a cancer. In the force we call them the cabal.”
Field tried to decipher exactly what Caprisi was saying. “Who is we? You said
we
call them the cabal.”
“Macleod, Chen.”
“That’s it?”
“One or two others. Most in our department are clean.”
“But the rest of the force is dirty?”
Caprisi was staring at him. “Not all, Field, but more than you might imagine.”
“How does it work?” Field asked.
“Someone runs the group from the inside. The commissioner is a joke, but is probably paid for his silence.”
“You don’t know who runs them?”
“We don’t know for certain.”
“Is it Granger?”
“He’s your boss, Field.”
“You think Granger heads this group . . . the cabal. He orchestrates . . .”
“He’s your boss, Field.”
“I’m asking you.”
Caprisi shrugged. “Have you seen the way he dresses?”
Field stared out of the window.
“Last year it came to a head. We were closing down opium dens on Foochow Road. Lu didn’t like it and neither did the cabal. For each raid, we needed uniform support, and every time we went out, even if we’d planned it at short notice, they were expecting us. We started to find we were being followed after work—all of us. By Lu’s men, mostly, but they always seemed to know where we were going and what we were doing. And then they struck without warning. We were ambushed on our way out to a raid. Two of our detectives were killed, and Macleod ordered a tactical retreat, but he’s not forgotten and neither have I.”
“Is that when Slugger . . .”
Caprisi shook his head. “That’s enough.”
Field sighed and returned to looking out of the window. “It would be easier if you trusted me,” he said.
There was a long silence, until Caprisi said, “I do.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Instinct.”
Field took out his cigarettes and offered one to Caprisi, who shook his head.
“Macleod hates Granger,” Field said.
Caprisi didn’t answer.
“Because he thinks Granger is head of the cabal.”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. Macleod was brought up by his mother, in one of the roughest parts of Glasgow. He has a pathological hatred of disorder and decay and greed. His father was a womanizer and gambler, who ran off with a prostitute and left them in poverty. So if you take a look at Granger, I think you’ll get the picture.”
“Is Macleod married?”
“Yes.”
“Yes . . . but?”
“He married a Chinese girl, but the council disapproves, so he never talks about it, or allows anyone to meet her.”
Field turned back to the window.
“He seems rough, Field, but he’s loyal to those he cares about.”
Field faced his colleague again. He sensed he was expected to give an answer. “I can see that,” he said.

 

The Majestic was empty, save for two elderly Chinese women who were scrubbing the floor on their hands and knees, lonely figures in front of the big mirrors at the far end of this cavernous room. The porter led Field and Caprisi through a wooden door in the far wall and up a steep, narrow staircase.
At the top was a tiny balcony, with an empty hatstand.
The porter knocked once on the door and a woman answered, “Come.”
It was an attic room, painted red, with long sloping ceilings and a single small casement window, both sides of which were open. The woman sat at her desk, dressed elegantly in black, a silver chain around her neck, her white hair—long, like Natasha’s—tied up at the back of her head.
“You’ve come about Lena,” she said.
“Yes, but . . .”
“I’ve been expecting you.”
She turned her chair, her big, bony nose less prominent face-on, and gestured for them both to sit. All around the walls, Field saw pictures and posters of theatrical productions, mostly from Moscow and St. Petersburg.
“You knew her, obviously.”

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