The Master of Rain (43 page)

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Authors: Tom Bradby

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“You will contact us when he reports back to work?”
“Of course.”
“There is a consignment of sewing machines to be shipped?”
“Yes,” he said, eager to please. “They go on Saturday at midnight.”
“From here at midnight?”
“N-no,” Braine stammered, realizing he might have said something he shouldn’t. “No. The ship sails at midnight.”
“Why do you know what time the ship sails?”
There was silence. Braine was not a clever man, and Field could see he was trying hard to work out the direction of Caprisi’s questioning.
“What time will it be loaded up?”
“I do not understand.”
“What time will the goods be taken from here to the ship?”
“To the ship?”
“To the ship, yes. During the day or at night?”
“Before it sails, I suppose.”
Caprisi took a step toward Braine, his expression quietly menacing. “Mr. Braine, I think we are in danger of misunderstanding each other here. You have just told me that your shipment—a major shipment of your factory’s goods—leaves Shanghai at midnight on Saturday. You are the manager. There is a reason you know the exact time of the ship’s departure, and I’m sure you will be wanting to see the goods get off from the factory in proper order, so you’re now going to tell me when they will be taken from here. During the day or at night?”
“In the evening.”
“After nightfall?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t know. In the evening, that is what I’ve been told.”
“And is there something untoward about this shipment?”
“No.” He said it convincingly, then made the mistake of repeating his denial. “No, absolutely not.”
“Just sewing machines?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Being loaded under the cover of night.”
“No.” Panic crossed his face at the realization of the extent of his mistake. “Not—I mean, in the evening, that’s all.”
“Just a coincidence that they’re loaded a few hours before the ship sails.”
“No. I mean, yes, it is not—”
“Is that when cargo is usually loaded?”
“Yes. It depends.”
“I would have thought it more logical to load during the day, when you can see what you are doing.”
They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a languid whistle. Charlie Lewis appeared, dressed in a white linen suit and white Panama hat. “Good day, chaps . . . Dickie?” He threw his hat onto one of the chairs and ran a hand over his slicked-back hair. “Macleod.”
Field was embarrassed. “This is Detective Caprisi.”
“Pleased to meet you, Caprisi.” He offered his hand and the American shook it, his eyes wary. Lewis shook hands with Macleod with a formal nod, though Field could tell there was no warmth between the two men.
“Sorry I’m late. Bit of a long meeting, which I should be grateful to you boys for freeing me from.” He turned around and looked down at the factory floor. “Never been here before,” he said, offering his hand to Gordon Braine as an afterthought. “You must be the manager. Charles Lewis.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“What have you chaps been up to, then? Sorry about last night. Dreadful business. The commissioner called me this morning and I’m glad this Chinese lad is on the mend.”
“The driver is not.”
Lewis was not unsettled. “No, well, sorry to hear that.” He sat down and looked at Field. “I think you’re right, old boy. Whatever the hell is going on, this chap Lu needs a lesson.” He grinned at Field. “By the way, gather you’re to sample Mrs. Granger’s legendary home cooking. Got a call asking if I wished to join the merry throng on Friday.”
Field smiled thinly, acutely aware that Caprisi and Macleod were staring at him.
“I think Penelope and Geoffrey will be coming along.”
Field knew his face was reddening.
Lewis turned toward Caprisi and Macleod. “What can I do for you? Sorted it out with Brandon here?”
“Braine,” the American corrected him.
“Braine, yes.”
“Did you know the factory had been evacuated last night?”
“No.”
“No one informed you?”
Lewis picked up his hat and began to turn it in his hand. “Fraser’s is a pretty big company, as you know.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I’m not informed of every last—not of much, actually, on this kind of level. The taipan’s role is really strategic. It would be the same with all companies of this size. As I said, I’ve never been here before, let alone met the good Mr. Brandon.”
“Braine.”
“Quite.”
“So you know nothing of the shipment this Saturday night?”
“Shipment?”
“A consignment of sewing machines is leaving this Saturday, and they are, Mr. Braine here has informed us, being loaded at night, which is highly unusual.”
“Are they? Is it?”
“You’re not aware of anything untoward about the shipment?”
Lewis was showing signs of annoyance. “Untoward?”
“It’s just sewing machines?”
“I’ve no idea.” He turned to Braine. “Is it sewing machines?”
“Mostly, sir. There are a few other electrical goods, but it is mostly sewing machines.”
Lewis turned back. “There you are.”
Field could see that Caprisi was trying to control his temper. “Perhaps we could check the inventory?”
Braine did not hesitate, was almost nodding with enthusiasm. Field knew, before they left the office, that they would find nothing of interest.
The consignment to be shipped was being kept in a storage area to the rear, the machines themselves stacked in rows, close to a wall of wooden crates that stretched almost to the ceiling.
“Fortunate they’ve not been packed yet,” Lewis said.
Caprisi crouched beside one of the machines.
“Could we get someone to take it apart?” Macleod asked.
“Take it apart?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.” Lewis looked bewildered, as if not understanding why they could possibly wish to do this.
Braine went back through to the shop floor and returned with an assistant carrying a toolbox.
They all watched in silence as the man started to take apart the machine next to Caprisi.
Field wondered if Lewis enjoyed putting on a performance for his social inferiors.
When it lay in pieces, Lewis looked at his watch. “Have you chaps got anything else?”
“No,” Caprisi said curtly.
“Good. Then, if you don’t mind, I shall leave you in the capable hands of . . . my colleague here.”
“Good of you to come,” Macleod said.
Lewis said, “It’s been my pleasure. Always happy to help the force, as you know. Richard, do you have a moment?”
Field followed Lewis out through the factory floor, into the sunshine. He watched a flock of seagulls circling a chimney on the opposite side of the road.
“Word of warning, Richard, as a friend.”
Field looked at him. Lewis’s face was serious, his eyes apparently sincere.
“Be careful of Natasha Medvedev.”
Field didn’t respond.
“She’s a great ride and a woman of skill.”
Field’s anger was like a storm, instantly whipped up; the image of she and Lewis lying together crashed through his mind.
“Don’t go down with a sinking ship, or imagine to do so is a painful romantic tragedy.”
“I think I’ve heard enough.”
“Natasha has turned deceit into an art form.” Lewis’s face was almost earnest now; there was no sign of the indolent playboy leer Field had grown used to. “I’ve been here a long time, and I’m trying, again, to help. I saw your face the other night—”
“Perhaps you’ve been here too long.”
“Perhaps.”
“And I don’t need any help.”
“That’s up to you, but set aside romantic notions for a moment and consider the possibility that Natasha is not the victim you imagine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lu is a powerful man. Through him, she wields power. Believe me. All the more so once rivals are eliminated. She’s a woman of ambition.”
Field thought of the way Natasha had sat, straight-backed, close to Lu in the nightclub—a possession.
“Perhaps they deserve each other,” Lewis said.
“How do you know about—”
“Fraser’s is the biggest company in Shanghai, Richard.” His look was hard now. “It’s my job to know.”
“So . . .”
“You are playing with fire, and you will be burned.”
“So I keep being advised.”
“Then you have friends who know the city and care about you.” Lewis shook his head. “It’s part of being a policeman, I know. It’s not a job for a man of breeding, and I’d like to bring you on board, but I can’t do that if you’re not going to exercise good judgment.”
“I don’t want to be on board.”
Lewis put his hat back on. “That’s your choice, Richard. But as things stand, I don’t give much for your chances of staying afloat.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your uncle’s a good man, Field. But there is only so much I’ll do for him.” He lowered his voice. “For a man in his position, old Lu shows restraint on occasions, but not for much longer, I wouldn’t think.”
Thirty-five
T
he 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.

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