“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
