The Master of Rain (27 page)

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Authors: Tom Bradby

BOOK: The Master of Rain
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“Dickie!”
Penelope was wearing a white dress, a circle of diamonds sparkling brightly around her neck. She kissed him, brushing a white-gloved hand on his arm, her body pressed briefly against his. Her skin was soft, a hint of French perfume catching in his nostrils. She was wearing red lipstick, generously applied, and as she stepped back, she laughed and began to wipe it off his cheek, ignoring the fact that it was staining her glove. He noticed for the first time how long her eyelashes were.
“Come.”
She slipped a hand into the crook of his arm and began to lead him up the marble staircase.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I seem to be improperly dressed. I didn’t—”
“Don’t worry,” she said, and smiled at him.
For the first time, Field liked her, because, of course, his dress
was
an issue and people
would
notice.
At the top of the stairs, she led him into a room that was even bigger than the Long Bar at the Shanghai Club. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the track were all open in a fruitless attempt to air the room. In the center stood a table with a silver bowl big enough to bathe in, filled with flowers. At the far end was the biggest brick fireplace he’d ever seen.
The room was packed, so that most people were forced to shout to be heard, and she led him in the direction of the fireplace, clutching his hand and occasionally looking back at him and smiling.
Geoffrey was surrounded by a small group—all men—at the far end of the room. One was Charles Lewis, another a tall, thin man of Middle Eastern appearance with dark hair and a beard.
“Richard!” Geoffrey stepped forward to greet him, the circle widening a fraction. “Charlie you know.”
“Good evening,” Lewis said.
“And this is Simon Hayek, you may remember from the other night at the council meeting.”
They shook hands, the man’s dark eyes scrutinizing his face.
“You’re in the Crime Branch?” Hayek asked.
“No . . . not normally.”
“You’re a detective . . . political?”
“We were just discussing,” Geoffrey said, “whether General Chiang Kai-shek was secretly a Red. You probably have views on that.”
They were looking at him.
“It’s not really an area I’ve been working on.” Seeing the disapproval in their faces, Field changed tack. “But I would say that the department’s view is that he is cynical. He will use whomever he can to advance himself, disposing of them later. The Reds have support and money in the south and he will use that to try and unify the country under his rule. What happens then may be a different matter.”
“Or may not,” Hayek said. “Any more sign of protests?”
“I don’t think we are aware of any.”
They nodded vigorously.
“We’ve broken them,” Hayek said. “We said a bit of steel would sort them out and we were right, Borodin or not.”
Field was not so certain that the unrest was over for good or that the decision to open fire on protesters last year had been a good one.
“And that’s what we need now,” Hayek went on, “to show Chiang and the Reds and anyone else with designs on China that they’re not going to get their bloody hands on the Settlement and that is final.” Hayek looked to Geoffrey for approval, but appeared to get no reaction. “Lu Huang runs around the city like he damned well owns the place, and no one says boo to him.”
This time Geoffrey nodded.
“If anyone thinks he’s an insurance policy, then forget it.”
“He’s close to Chiang,” Lewis said. “We know that. He has links with the Reds.”
“He’s a bloody gangster.”
“He’s getting too big for his boots,” Geoffrey said. “That’s certainly true. It’s sending the wrong signals.”
Penelope Donaldson straightened. “Communism will come to China, as surely as it came to Russia. And if you don’t believe that, then you’ve learned nothing.”
There was silence in their small circle.
“Penelope,” Lewis said, turning slowly toward her, “you know, I never saw you as a Bolshevik.”
She melted immediately. “Look, are you boys going to talk politics all night?”
At that moment the band struck up. Lewis, who had begun to look bored, slipped away.
“Dickie?” Penelope asked.
She took his arm.
“I can’t . . .”
“Come on. I’ll teach you.”
She dragged him away as the band seemed to gather steam, settling into a frantic beat.
“Richard.” It was Geoffrey. Field paused, watching Penelope disappear into the crowd on the dance floor. “I’ve got some work to do—tedious stuff. Would you mind looking after her for me, see she doesn’t get into any trouble?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“She hates it when I desert her and, anyway, I can’t dance.”
“Yes. Of course.”
He laughed. “Make sure she doesn’t damned well drink too much.”
“Yes.”
Penelope came back and grabbed his hand. “Come on,” she said. “Or I shall assume you’re standing me up.”
When Field looked back a second later, he saw Geoffrey moving in the direction of the door.
Penelope paused by a Chinese waiter in a white linen jacket holding a silver tray. She took one of the champagne glasses and drank its contents in one swift movement before placing it back in the same position, all the time keeping a firm grip on Field’s hand.
Then they were on the dance floor, and some—though not all—of the people around them were doing the Charleston. As he watched Penelope step back and begin to dance, he thought of the letter he had read in the
North China Daily News
at lunchtime exhorting Shanghai’s socialites to give up “this ridiculous dance that has young things who should know better flapping and kicking in a manner that shows no consideration for fellow dancers.”
Field did not know how to do the Charleston. It was not as simple as it looked and Penelope was laughing at him.
“Come on,” she said, leaning forward and putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got to put your heart into it.”
She moved her arms and her legs and he tried to follow, slowly understanding its jerky ritual, before being bumped from behind by a corpulent man with slicked-back hair.
Penelope moved closer. “You’re getting the hang of it brilliantly.”
Ten yards away, Charles Lewis was looking at him and smiling. He was dancing with a Chinese girl not much more than half his size. She reminded Field of the prostitute he had almost slept with the other night and he could hear again the screams from the other end of the corridor.
The rich, he thought, could get away with anything here.
Twenty-one
F
ield wanted to stop now. “I need a drink,” he said, smiling thinly and wiping the sweat from his forehead. He turned his back on Lewis.
“In a minute.”
Penelope danced more manically than ever, shutting her eyes, as if wishing to lose herself in the music and the movement of her own body. Her bangs swung across her forehead, like a pendulum, and her lips were pursed, as if offering a kiss. Her dress, like the one she’d worn last night, was loose, and with each movement, her small breasts thrust against the silk. Field found it hard to take his eyes off her and he wanted to stop dancing.
“All right,” she said, laughing. “All right.” She took his hand. Field felt uncomfortable again at the intimacy of this gesture and tried to free himself, but she would not let go, leading him to the big doors along the side of the room and out onto the balcony. “You know,” she said as they reached the rail and looked down over the track, “you’re too young and handsome to be a stick in the mud.”
“I don’t intend to be.”
“You could dance if you tried. You’re athletic enough.”
Field did not know how to respond.
Penelope clicked her fingers and a waiter he’d not seen appeared from the corner behind the door. Despite the throng inside, they were alone out here, save for a few small groups at the far end of the balcony, the racetrack illuminated like a frontier post beneath them.
Penelope took two glasses and filled them both with ice from the silver bucket on the edge of the tray. “Do you drink whiskey?” she asked, handing him one.
“Not often.”
“Do you have
any
vices?”
“A few.”
“Hold on,” she instructed the waiter before he could move away. “Your health, Mr. Field.” She upended her glass and, as she had with the champagne, drank it in one go. He hesitated for a moment and then, before she could reprimand him, followed suit. “That’s better,” she said.
Penelope replaced the glasses on the tray and took two more.
“How long does this go on?”
She shrugged. “As long as we feel like.”
“We?”
Her glass dropped a fraction. “You don’t like me, do you, Richard?”
“You’ve both been charming to me—more than I could have expected.”
“Why more than you could have expected?”
“I’m sure you know the answer to that.”
“Oh, all that stuff about your mother marrying beneath herself . . . it doesn’t mean a thing.”
“It matters at home.”
“Not to me it doesn’t.” She lifted her glass and again drained its contents.
He followed suit again. “Geoffrey said I should persuade you not to drink too much.”
“So you’re my keeper?”
“No, of course—”
“There could be worse keepers.”
He flushed. She took his glass, summoned the waiter back, and took two more. “So what
are
your vices, Richard?”
Field hadn’t eaten tonight and he was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol again. He sighed. “My vices?”
“You don’t have any.”
“I have vices.”
“So what are they?”
“Self-doubt. Is that a vice?”
“No. In moderation, it’s a virtue.”
“Well—”
“Hold on.” She raised her glass.
“You know—”
“No. You’ve got to keep me company, that’s your job.”
He frowned. “My job?”
“You’re my keeper.”
“Penelope . . .”
“Drink.” She tossed back another and Field did the same, shaking his head afterward. It was burning his stomach now. She gave the glasses back to the waiter and took two more.
“That’s enough.”
“Now, Dickie, you mustn’t—”
“I’ll—”
“No you won’t.”
“Just give me a few minutes. Can we slow down at least?”
She smiled, her face softening. “All right, Mr. Field. Let’s start with the traditional sins. Greed?”
He shrugged. “Would I like to be rich, never to have to worry, to afford . . .” He gestured with his hand at the men and women inside the ballroom. “If that is greed, then yes.”
“Envy?”
He hesitated. “Envy, yes. Sometimes, yes.”
“Sloth?”
“No.”
“Avarice?”
“I think I answered that with greed.”
She took a sip of her whiskey and looked at him, a hint of amusement at the corners of her mouth. “Lust?” she asked quietly.
Field didn’t answer, but she drained her glass and exhorted him to follow with her hand. “One more,” she said when he hesitated. He drank.
“I’ve never met a woman who drank whiskey.”
“How sheltered your life has been.”
“In some ways.”
“In what ways has it not been sheltered?”
Field smiled. “What about you?” he asked.
“Have I been sheltered?”
He shook his head. “Which of the sins do you fall prey to?”
“All of them, probably. Most people seem to think I’m wicked.”
“Greed?”
She sighed. “For happiness, yes.”
“That doesn’t count as greed.”
“Some people think it does.”
“Penelope . . .” A man stood at her shoulder. He wore thick glasses and had wavy hair and a neatly trimmed beard, both shot through with gray.
“Stirling,” she said, her voice starting to sound slurred. “Stirling Blackman, may I introduce Dickie Field, my . . . cousin, or . . .”
“Nephew,” Field corrected.
Blackman offered his hand and they shook. “Richard,” Field said.
“Stirling.”
“You two should talk. Stirling is a reporter for the
New York Times.
We were talking about you, Stirling, only last night, or was it the night before? I can’t remember.”

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