Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

The footsteps grew louder. His hand was shaking.

He saw the corner of a fedora.

He lunged over Chen’s legs, dropping his revolver, diving for the machine gun, kneeling, head down, trying to get his finger to the trigger, looking up to see the man in the hat swinging around.

The machine gun juddered in his hand, thumping back against him. The man was peppered with holes, and specks of blood floated above him in a fine mist as he fell, his face white with the shock of his own death.

Field got to his feet, turned toward the next man, and pulled the trigger. The gun flew up in the air, but the other two men behind turned and ran.

The car revved up and reversed as they sprinted toward the door, shouting.

Doors slammed, the car’s engine roared, and then it was gone, leaving the factory eerily silent.

“Is he-”

“Check the others are dead,” Caprisi said, still fighting to get Chen’s raincoat off.

Field stood. His legs were shaking, the gun hanging down beside him.

He walked slowly, listening to the sound of his own footsteps as he moved toward the bodies.

Both men were Chinese. The first wore a blue suit. His chest was full of holes, a pool of blood beneath him. His fedora lay a few feet away.

Field had hit the second man in the head. There was less blood, but his face was contorted and ugly.

“Are they dead?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes,” Field shouted.

“Well then, come back.”

Their voices seemed to echo.

Field returned and crouched beside the American. “It’s an artery,” Caprisi said. “Get his sleeve off that arm and rip it. Rip the coat or the shirt-anything.”

Field handed him the strips of material.

“Now, while I keep my finger on the pressure point, get this off. Tear it. Don’t worry about Chen.”

Field grabbed Chen’s raincoat underneath the arm and pulled it off. Caprisi gave him Chen’s hand and indicated he should hold it up while he tried to get the makeshift bandages around the wound to stop the bleeding.

“It’s all right, Chen,” he said quietly. “It hurts, but it’s not going to kill you.” Caprisi stood. “All right, let’s get you out of here.”

They lifted Chen up. One arm was over Field’s shoulder, and Caprisi still held the other above the level of his head. The front of Caprisi’s shirt and his hands and face were covered in the Chinese detective’s blood. As they walked past the line of machines, the American said, “They knew we were coming.”

The rain was still like a wall beyond the entrance, pounding onto their heads and into their eyes as they stepped out, trying to spot the car. The lights were not on, and several seconds passed before they realized that it was full of holes, the windows broken, their young driver slumped forward over the wheel.

This is a declaration of war.”

There was silence as Macleod looked around the room, waiting for someone to challenge him.

Field hadn’t been in Commissioner Biers’s office before and he was impressed. They were sitting at a round table, surrounded by tall windows which, on a clear day, would have afforded a panoramic view out over the rooftops, toward the Customs House and Hong Kong Shanghai Bank in one direction, and the race club in the other. Outside, the rain pounded on the glass. Behind him, a brass lamp on the commissioner’s teak desk struggled to dispel the gloom of the gathering night.

If it was true that Biers was rarely sober, he was hiding it well tonight. He’d been solicitous and charming to both of them, gripping their shoulders, asking after Chen, before slipping into a discussion of the Dempsey-Carpentier fight at Jersey City some five years ago, clearly picking up on an earlier conversation, oblivious to the fact that Caprisi was not in the mood for small talk. The commissioner was softly spoken, with the hint of an accent that betrayed his Irish-immigrant background. He did not remember Field from their meeting the other night.

Biers began to fiddle with the pen and papers he’d brought from his desk. Field could see that he was nervous. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat.

“This is a direct attack on some of our most important men.”

“Well, we’ve been attacked before.” The commissioner cleared his throat again. “You chaps have been brave, of course.”

“During a robbery, but that’s different. This was premeditated. An ambush.”

The door opened. Granger strode to the table and pulled back the leather-cushioned chair next to Field. He touched his shoulder in a gesture of support, or possibly consolation, as he sat down. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Good evening, Patrick,” Biers said warmly, as if greeting a favored son. Field noticed that both Macleod and Caprisi avoided Granger’s eyes.

Granger loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and stretched his long legs. He was smartly dressed in a dark three-piece suit, a gold watch at his waist.

“Perhaps you could give us your assessment, Caprisi,” Biers said, “as the senior officer.”

The American detective leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He glanced at Macleod, then Field. “Chen’s all right. We’ve taken him to the Hôpital Ste.-Marie.”

“I meant about the events tonight.”

Granger lit a cigarette. He offered the silver case to Field, but no one else, then got up and brought back an ashtray.

“They were waiting for us. The machines were still hot. They’d left in a hurry.”

“They knew you were coming?”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence; the only sound was Granger sucking in smoke, then blowing it out into the air above them.

The commissioner appeared to be in a trance.

Macleod leaned forward. He seemed calmer. “The question is, what have we done to attract such a response? Is it the murder investigation, or the notes that implicate the factory? And who knew that we were going to the factory today?” He turned to Field. “Did you tell anyone?”

Field shook his head.

“After you left us in Crime, you went straight out?”

“No, I went up briefly to see Mr. Granger, but-”

“He certainly didn’t mention the visit to me, or I’d have told him to be more careful.” Granger looked around, reprimanding them for their naiveté. Macleod and Caprisi stared at Field, as if daring him to contradict his boss.

He said nothing, his jaw clenched.

Field recalled that he had also told Natasha they were going to the factory. He tried to remember the exact words he’d used.

He found it impossible to accept the idea that she could betray his confidence.

“So from this side, no one knew of the impending visit,” the commissioner said.

“I knew of it,” Macleod said. “And Caprisi. No one else.”

There was another silence as Granger stubbed out his cigarette and pushed the ashtray toward the middle of the table. “There’s Chen,” he said.

“He would never tell anyone,” Caprisi said. “He’s smarter than that.”

“How can you be so sure?” Granger asked.

Caprisi glared at him but made no attempt to respond. Granger had kicked this subject into the one guaranteed gray area-the true loyalties of the Chinese detectives on the force-and Field could see that it had infuriated the men opposite him. Upon reflection, it enraged him, too. Chen was a good man and he was in hospital.

Biers ran a hand over his head and smoothed the few hairs that remained there. Field met Macleod’s steady gaze. It seemed, suddenly, vitally important that this man and not Granger become the next commissioner.

“The next question,” Macleod said, “is what are we going to do about it?” He looked first at the commissioner, then Granger. “This man is no more than a gangster. He’s murdered a girl in our jurisdiction, or covered up for the man who has; he’s removed a perfectly innocent doorman and had him executed; and now he’s made a brazen raid on our men as they went about their duty. And all in the space of five days.”