Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

“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.

They worked patiently and in silence, the hours ticking by. Each time Field looked up, more time had passed than he’d imagined. He’d expected Caprisi, in particular, to have grown bored and gone off to do something else, but the American continued to scan the articles methodically, pencil in hand. Chen sat next to him, head bent, doing the same with the Chinese newspapers.

In the end, Field was left with the Journal de Shanghai and Caprisi with the Shanghai Times. Field did not trust his schoolboy French, but he had no option but to try. He opened the first volume.

“Cigarette?” Caprisi asked, and Field nodded.

The three of them smoked in silence on the steps of the library.

“There would have to be a record of it, wouldn’t there?” Field asked. “The level of crime cannot have reached the stage where the murder of a woman goes completely unrecorded?”

Caprisi took a long drag of his cigarette. “There will be a record, if there was a murder.”

“You’re indulging me.”