Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

Somehow Field knew it had not been Otto who had picked out the scarf.

“Do you think he murdered her?” Caprisi asked.

For a moment Mrs. Schmidt’s face went white, until she realized that Caprisi was referring to the mysterious nocturnal visitor and not her son, whereupon she looked as if she would faint with relief.

“Ja,” she said. “We do not know.”

“It is possible,” her husband added. “It is possible.”

“Coming like a thief,” she went on, getting into her stride, “in the middle of the night.” She shook her head, as if desperate now to clear her son beyond doubt. “Otto is not here, of course. The whore drove him away. He has gone to Manila and we have not heard from him. Not a letter… With this new man, the thief in the night…”

Caprisi stood abruptly, as if unable to contain himself any longer. He thanked them unconvincingly and strode out into the hallway.

Outside, they squinted in the glare of the sun.

In deference to their position in the French Concession, they had left their pistols and holsters beneath the seat of the car and so they were just in shirts and ties. Field rolled up his sleeves. Caprisi had moved along to the end of the wrought-iron fence, to the gate into the yard, and looked through the bars. Field could see that he was checking whether or not it was possible to see the gate from the Schmidts’ house. He shook his head.

“He wanted to get in and out without being seen,” Field said.

“Yes.” The American detective turned on his heel.

“Why?”

“A rich and powerful man.”

“Lewis?”

“It certainly sounds like a big fish.”

“The boy,” Field said.

Caprisi straightened. “Yes, perhaps the boy saw him. The present may have been given in person.” Field caught sight of a black Buick parked opposite, its engine running. “Prokopieff and Sorenson,” Caprisi said. “They’ve been with us since we left the station this morning.”

They watched the car. It didn’t move off.

“They’re in the back?” Field asked.

“You’re the Special Branch expert.”

Field turned. “You saw them coming out of the lobby, or they were already in the car?”

“They were leaning against it.”

“So they were happy to be seen?”

“I think they thought they were out of sight.”

“So they knew we were coming out this morning?”

Caprisi shrugged. “Do you think the boy is still alive?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea.”

“Which orphanage would they have taken him to?”

Field shook his head, though he had a fairly good idea he knew the answer.

Field waited until he was sure that Sorenson and Prokopieff had chosen to follow the American. Then he headed back to the International Settlement and the Happy Times block.

He took the stairs three at a time and was covered in sweat when he reached the top floor. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and then knocked once, hard.

There was no answer. He looked at his watch.

Field stepped back to press the button for the lift, then knocked once more.

He waited. He cursed, stepped into the lift, and pulled the iron cage violently across.

He hailed a rickshaw and gave the man Katya’s address. He knocked on the back door and waited.

Katya opened it, but only enough to catch sight of his face. “She’s not here,” she said before Field had had a chance to speak.

Katya tried to shut the door again, but Field jammed his foot in it.

“Please, Katya.”

“She’s not here.”

“Then tell me where she is.”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

“I know the boy was Natalya’s.”

Katya faltered, easing the pressure on Field’s foot.

Ivan said something in Russian behind her. Katya opened the door further, without answering.

“Can I come in?”

“Not here,” Ivan said. He sounded nervous and frail, and his eyes anxiously scanned the garden over Field’s shoulder.

“The boy,” Field said. “She and the boy are in danger. The boy can probably identify Natalya’s killer. The…” Field sighed in frustration. Their English wasn’t up to an explanation of the threat posed by the police investigation. If Lu felt they were close to identifying the killer, he wouldn’t hesitate to liquidate the boy. “They are in danger. I have to find them. I have to take them to a safe place.”

They both looked at him with pained disbelief.

“Does she know what happens in that orphanage?” Field cleared his throat, thinking of the picture of the handsome little boy inside. “Boys are taken for Lu to abuse, and then they’re disposed of.”

“Not here,” Ivan said. Field didn’t know if he’d understood any of it.

“Please go,” Katya pleaded.

“I must see her.”

“Not here,” Ivan said, more firmly this time.

“Please get a message to her.”

“She left here,” Katya said, “and told us she would be back to see us soon. We do not know where she is.”

“Is she inside?”

“No,” they said in unison. “No,” Katya added for emphasis.

“She said that she would come here if she was ever in trouble,” Field lied.

“We do not know where she is. Please leave us.”

Field hesitated, then turned away and walked slowly down the path toward the gate, willing them to call him back.

He stepped out into the street, leaned against the railings, and then sat down, his head in his hands, trying to think.

He pushed himself to his feet again and dusted himself down. He lit a cigarette, threw the rest of the pack to a beggar, along with his matches, and strode down toward Avenue Joffre, where he hailed another rickshaw.

He allowed himself to look back once, but there was no one at the gate.

Sergei Stanislevich wasn’t in his apartment, but Field found him in the café opposite. He pulled up a chair. The Russian was reading a copy of the New Shanghai Life.

“Coffee,” Field told the waiter. “White, no sugar.”

“Black,” Sergei said.

The man retreated behind the bar.

“Well, well,” Sergei said, blowing cigarette smoke into the air, “this is becoming one of your favorite places.” He smiled to himself. “I saw you here only yesterday, I think.”

“I need to find Natasha.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Field stared at him.

“Everyone is looking for Natasha.” He sighed theatrically, well aware of the impact of his words. “So beautiful, so dangerous.”

The waiter brought their coffee and waited, notepad poised, to see if they would order anything else. Field shook his head as Sergei lit another cigarette from the stub of his first.

“Yes, everyone longs for Natasha,” Sergei continued. “Everyone is in love with her. That is her skill. But only the richest can afford her.”

“Natasha is not for sale.”

Sergei leaned back in his chair and laughed, harshly and without mirth. “If you say so, Detective. Have you seen her apartment? Of course you have. I’m sure she will be content with a life of poverty, an honest cop by her side.”

“We need to know where she is, Sergei.”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Is there anywhere-”

“How can I know?” He raised his hands, palms up. “These girls… they…” He breathed out smoke. “Sometimes they like a Russian man inside them again-I told you-maybe just to hear the language and feel their betrayal, so I do them.” He smirked. “Lena-sometimes Natasha-they all want to be done.” Sergei ground out his cigarette and leaned forward, conspiratorially. “They want to be done, so I make them pay. I make them scream!”

“You’ve slept with Natasha Medvedev?”