Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

Field tried to speed up, losing Caprisi again as they entered a narrow, dark alley and then almost bumping into him and Chen as they emerged at the edge of a square. Field’s height allowed him to get a clear view of what was happening ahead.

There was a crowd of hundreds, drawn back to the edges of the marketplace, watching as a man drew a long metal sword and put his foot on the neck of the doorman, who had been stripped, his red and gold tunic lying in the dust. Even above the hubbub, Field could hear his whimper and feel his fear. His own heart was pumping; sweat was stinging his eyes.

He wiped it away with his sleeve again, his hand still shaking. Caprisi lunged forward, but Chen stopped him, a strong hand on the American’s shoulder. He was shaking his head.

There was a hush in the crowd now, the blade bright as it was raised above the man cowering in the dust.

And then, before Field could credit that any of this was happening, it swung down, and the images before him seemed suddenly disjointed and unreal. He heard the thud as the head hit the ground and rolled, sending a puff of dust into the air.

There was an animal grunt, full of suppressed rage, and it took Field a few moments to become aware that Chen was wrestling with Caprisi. Voices were raised in anger as they thrashed into others in the crowd.

Chen lunged and caught the American off guard, pushing him into a nearby alley. The American swung wildly, but Chen was bigger and stronger and had Caprisi pinned up against a mud wall.

“Not now,” Chen said through gritted teeth. “Not now.”

“It’s never-”

“Leave it.”

They held each other, highlighted by thin rays of sunshine that shone through the dust hanging in the air. Field stood a few feet away, the smell of human feces from a honey cart catching in his nostrils.

Chen released his colleague. Caprisi dusted himself down. “Welcome to Shanghai, Dick,” he said.

“You’re not in England now,” Caprisi said as they got into the lift.

Field had no idea what he was talking about.

“Take your jacket off. You won’t be impressing Granger.”

Field would have removed his jacket if his shirt hadn’t been soaked in sweat. His tongue felt like rough stone and his head was pounding from exertion, heat, and shock.

“Your place or mine?” Caprisi hit the button for the third floor and leaned back against the side as the lift lurched into action. He’d barely broken sweat. “You might as well come up to Crime,” he went on. “Or is it down to Crime?” He shrugged when it was clear he wasn’t going to get a reaction. “You can take the prints to the bureau.”

Field was trying to forget about the way the doorman’s head had rolled forward through the dirt, blood from the severed artery in his neck spurting out into the crowd. “What are we going to do?”

“About what?”

“About what we just saw.”

Caprisi frowned at him. They reached the third floor, but there was no one in evidence ahead and Caprisi made no move to leave, his hand pressed flat against the edge of the door. “What do you mean, what are we going to do?”

“The man was murdered.”

“Was he, Field?”

“Of course he was.”

“He was a communist.”

“Why do you say that?”

The American smiled. “You don’t have records on him?”

“We don’t even know his name.”

“But there’s a war going on.”

“A war?”

“Against the red tide. I thought that was your department.”

“The suppression of-”

“He was taken by Lu’s men. Tell me you understand.” Field didn’t respond and Caprisi looked tired of the game. “They will have melted away into the Chinese city or the hinterland. In the unlikely event that we had managed to find one of them and persuaded him to testify, Lu, or whoever gave the orders, would say that the murdered man was a communist and that he was dealt with in the Chinese way. In the climate of the times, his claim would be met by understanding and sympathy.”

“So we let him get away with it? We stand back and let-”

“Don’t they teach you anything in training?”

“About what?”

Caprisi looked exasperated.

Field felt the flush in his cheeks. “The doorman was hardly a communist.”

“But threats to the grand capitalist hegemony are everywhere.”

“You’re sounding like a Bolshevik yourself now.”

“Is that an accusation?”

“Don’t be so fucking stupid.”

Caprisi looked at him, his hostility not assuaged. “What do you want to do, Field? Maybe we should apply to the French authorities and go down to Lu’s house in Rue Wagner and arrest him, just like that. Arrest the most powerful man in the city, a guy who makes Al Capone look like a social worker. “You think anyone is going to testify against him?”

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it for you.”

“I was sent to help.”

“And help you have.”

“So, case closed. The woman, too.” Field looked at his watch. “An hour of our time and that’s it. No immediate answers, so…”

“It’s a C.1 matter, Field.”

“So that’s it? That’s how C.1 works?”

“For you, that is it.”

“You were angry back there.”

“No I wasn’t, Field.”

“Chen had to-”

“Of course, I was fucking angry.”

“Then why-”

“Do me a favor.” Caprisi was pointing at him. “Don’t be so naive, all right?”

“So we bow to a gangster? They’re Lu’s apartments, so we just leave it?”

“Couldn’t have the empire doing that.”

“It’s not about-”

“I know you’ve been bragging about your connections.”

Field stared at him.

“Geoffrey Donaldson’s your uncle, is he? Municipal secretary, member of the Shanghai Club, drinking right at the head of the bar, mixing with the taipans…”

“For Christ’s sake.” Field tried to control his annoyance.

Their voices had become loud and heated, and they both found themselves glancing around to see who might have heard, but only Macleod’s secretary was looking at them and she now turned away.

Caprisi appeared suddenly chastened. “I’m sorry,” he said, touching Field’s arm. “I’m tired… you know?” He took his hands from his pockets and led Field down to his desk, which was pushed into a corner beneath one of the big windows at the far end of the room. He picked up a white form from the basket ahead of him. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Have you done much crime work?”

Field shook his head.

“Okay, trust me, the doorman is an incidental, relevant only in that he was part of a cleanup operation. The girl…” He shrugged. “The prints will be in the lab. They’ll look to see if there is any match on file. Even if the handcuffs are clean, other prints might tell us who has been to the apartment over the past few days, which is better than nothing. But you’ve got to fill this out and take it to the lab before they’ll release the results. They’ll bring them to my desk when they’re ready, tomorrow or the next day, and stick them in the tray. You may have to keep on their back because they’re always complaining about their workload. If they have a match, they’ll do a memo and you go to Maretsky and he’ll brief you about who the guy is. But if they’ve got a match, I’ll come and see Maretsky with you, okay?”

Field nodded, turning away, assuming it would be better to return to his own desk on the fourth floor to fill this out.

“And, Field…”

He stopped and turned back.

“Please get yourself a new suit. It’s painful to see you dressed like a polar bear in the desert.”

Field looked at his new partner. “The doorman was killed because he saw the murderer entering the apartment block.”