Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

“You know…” Caprisi stopped as a trolley full of night soil was wheeled past and they were both forced to take a step back. The smell, which caught at the back of their throats, hung in the air long after the cart had passed.

Whatever he had been going to say, the American thought better of it.

“What will become of them?” Field asked.

“Of who?”

“That family.”

“Does it matter?”

“To you.”

Caprisi said, “But does it matter ? I’m not changing a thing, am I? There are thousands like them. The parents die, the children are sold or starve to death or, if they’re lucky, wind up in an orphanage.”

“If they’re lucky.” Field hesitated, his throat dry. “Lu says he has found homes for some of the children from the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage and takes them away…”

“And?”

“He must have found homes for them, mustn’t he? It’s not possible that he just… disposes of them?”

“Field, this city is run by big business for big business. They pretend it’s part of the empire when it suits them, and if you’re American or British, then fine, but anyone else… Look around you.” Caprisi shook his head. “You think they care what Lu does with his own kind? You think your uncle or the French actually care how many little boys Lu takes away and abuses and dumps in the canals? You think what he does with them would make them pause over their breakfast served on silver salvers for a single fucking second? What do you think would be happening to ten times that number if Lu didn’t fund the orphanages in the first place? You’ve seen people dying in the streets. What do you think happens to the children once they’ve gone?”

Caprisi’s voice had become hoarse with bitterness. He climbed into his rickshaw.

“Caprisi.”

“It is all right, Field.”

“No it’s not.”

Caprisi put his hand up to tell the rickshaw driver not to pull away. “So who did make that call?”

Field didn’t have an answer.

“Macleod left the office with me; we were the last to go. I switched the lights out.”

Field was about to ask the American who he thought it had been, when Caprisi said, “Is there anything to tie Lewis directly to the murders? Do we have anything approaching evidence?”

“We’ve just got Lena’s notes. The fact that the shipments are coming from his factory.” Field paused. “What I saw at Delancey’s.”

“What about the boy? We believe he can identify Lewis, correct?”

“I’ve found the orphanage where the boy was taken, but he’s been moved and the sister is going to need to be persuaded.”

Caprisi flicked the dust from his trousers with the back of his hand. “What if we went to talk to Lewis? Said we had a witness who’d watched him go into Natalya Simonov’s house on the night of her murder. See how he reacts.”

“Natalya?”

“Her or Irina. He won’t be as prepared for questions about them. He knows we’ve got nothing to link him with Lena Orlov’s murder, but the others he may be less confident about.”

“What about Macleod?”

Caprisi had a stubborn set to his chin. “He can say he didn’t know we were doing it. As you’ve said, there may not be much time.”

“I thought you said we should be careful.”

“We can wait until another girl is killed, if you like.”

Field shook his head.

“Tough questioning,” Caprisi said, “might at least make him more cautious. He’ll surely be in less of a hurry to kill again if he thinks we are close to him.”

“And what about Delancey’s?”

“What about it?”

“Perhaps we should begin by finding out exactly how cruel Lewis really is.”

Caprisi thought about this. “Yes,” he said.

The iron-framed door of Delancey’s was shut and no one answered the bell, so they had to walk down a dark side alley beneath a huge metal water tank in order to gain access.

The Chinese secretary sitting at an untidy desk in the back office looked as if she would scream when they walked in. The door through to the stage was open, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes pervasive even in here. Two girls were sitting on the edge of the stage and turned nervously in their direction. Field was about to ask where the manager was when a short Chinese man appeared behind them. He had greasy black hair and sallow, pockmarked skin. He wore a dark pinstripe suit and two-tone shoes.

“Help you?” His voice was higher-pitched than Field had expected, and “help” sounded more like “hep.”

Caprisi looked at him as though he were a piece of excrement. “Detective Caprisi,” he said. “And this is Detective Field from Special Branch.”

The man looked even more frightened than his secretary.

“Charles Lewis is one of your clients.”

The man looked nervously from Caprisi to Field and back again.

“I’d like to speak to some of your girls.” Caprisi walked toward the door and out onto the stage.

The manager was rooted to the spot for a moment, but then fluttered around Caprisi like an anxious bird. “You cannot,” he kept saying, but Caprisi ignored him.

The American came down the stage and stood in front of two girls. If this club exuded a certain seedy glamour at night, it now appeared merely sad. The girls looked dirty and tired.

“You both know Charles Lewis.” Caprisi spoke in English. Field knew it was for his benefit.

The girls gave no sign of any acknowledgment. Field did not recognize their faces.

“Have either of you been with him?”

They stared at the floor.

“We are investigating a series of murders of young women, and we need to know whether Mr. Lewis has ever shown violence to any of you.” Caprisi repeated himself in Shanghainese. “We know he likes to tie girls up. To use handcuffs. We know he likes to beat girls.”

“You canno, must no,” the manager repeated in English, the t s at the end of the words lost.

“Mr. Field,” Caprisi said.

Field took a pace forward. “I’m afraid we believe that this establishment has been employed for the purpose of distributing Bolshevik propaganda.” Field repeated the last part of this sentence in halting Shanghainese. Caprisi corrected him. Field took out his revolver. “You will be handed over to the Chinese authorities; they are waiting for you.”

Field stepped to the side and pushed the manager roughly toward the door. Caprisi tugged the two girls to their feet by the neck of their dresses. It took a moment for the message to sink in, and then both girls screamed. The manager shook his head but was unable to utter a word. “Taipan,” he managed to say. “Taipan.”

Field pointed the revolver at his chest. “Have any of the girls here disappeared?” Caprisi asked. “Or has he ever met any of them outside of this club?”

The manager shook his head so violently Field thought it might fall off. He looked at the girls, but they didn’t add anything.

“He likes to handcuff the girls?”

The manager nodded. Both the girls looked down.

“Sometimes he hits them?”

The manager nodded again.

“Always,” the girl on the right said.

Caprisi turned to her. “What does he do exactly?”

“He uses handcuffs to the bed,” she said in Shanghainese, clearly enough for Field to understand. “Then he likes to hurt.”

“Does he require you to wear certain clothes?”

“He likes underclothes.” She lifted her dress to reveal a stained stocking.

“What form does the violence take?”

She didn’t understand this question and looked at the other girl, who indicated, with the flat of her hand against her face, that he liked to slap them.

“But he has never taken it further than that? He has never asked to meet any of the girls outside of the club?”