“I’m afraid there is no time for that.” Field reached over and pulled across the red book. He flicked through the pages. “This is new. Where’s yesterday’s?”
She was flustered. The man eyed them nervously as she pulled her chair back and opened the drawer.
Field took the new book. “Now I need a number for Lu Huang at 3 Rue Wagner. If you haven’t got it, call the external operator, please.”
She hesitated.
“Hurry, or I will have to get Granger down here and he won’t like that.”
While she put her headphones back on, Field flicked through the pages. During the day there had been hundreds of calls, but by teatime the volume had dwindled. He looked over as she wrote a number down on her pad, then scanned the entries between five and six.
He put the logbook in front of her, his finger marking the point, the blood pumping through his head. “Did you write this?”
She nodded. He could tell he was frightening her.
“It says Caprisi, correct?”
“Extension 2082. Detective Caprisi, yes.”
“Caprisi?”
“Detective Caprisi, yes.”
“It must be a mistake.”
She didn’t respond.
“It must be a mistake.” He took a deep breath. “You put through his call to Lu Huang?”
She nodded.
“You recognized Caprisi’s voice?”
She hesitated. “I think so, yes.”
“You think so, or you did?”
“I did, yes.”
“You recognize everyone’s voice?”
“I’ve worked here ten years, sir. I do, yes.”
“So it was Caprisi.”
“That’s what he said.”
“You asked for his name and that is what he said.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Caprisi is English, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No he’s not. He’s American.”
She was flustered. “That’s right.”
“So it was or wasn’t Caprisi?”
“He said it was.”
“And his accent was American?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked as if she would burst into tears.
“You must have made a mistake.”
“No, sir . . . no. I listened to the first few seconds. A Russian gentleman answered the telephone and he said, ‘Caprisi, yes.’ I remember.”
“All right,” Field said quietly. “All right.”
Thirty-three
Outside, Field leaned against the wall by the stairwell, out of sight of the lobby, and sank down until he was sitting on the step.
He stared at his battered, scuffed shoes. He hated his damned shoes, hated the poverty of the past and the unexplained wealth of the present. He hated himself for wanting friendship and love and being weak enough to seek it in the wrong places.
He placed his head in his hands, his eyes closed.
“God,” he whispered. He felt tired. He could not raise his head.
Field heard footsteps on the stairs and knew that he should move, but could not.
They stopped close by. “You all right, polar bear?”
