“He will be in tomorrow?”
Braine was embarrassed now. Field did not think that he was carrying this off at all well. He was coming to the conclusion—as he could see Caprisi was—that the man was frightened. “I do not think he will be in tomorrow. He said he was quite ill.”
“You will contact us when he reports back to work?”
“Of course.”
“There is a consignment of sewing machines to be shipped?”
“Yes,” he said, eager to please. “They go on Saturday at midnight.”
“From here at midnight?”
“N-no,” Braine stammered, realizing he might have said something he shouldn’t. “No. The ship sails at midnight.”
“Why do you know what time the ship sails?”
There was silence. Braine was not a clever man, and Field could see he was trying hard to work out the direction of Caprisi’s questioning.
“What time will it be loaded up?”
“I do not understand.”
“What time will the goods be taken from here to the ship?”
“To the ship?”
“To the ship, yes. During the day or at night?”
“Before it sails, I suppose.”
Caprisi took a step toward Braine, his expression quietly menacing. “Mr. Braine, I think we are in danger of misunderstanding each other here. You have just told me that your shipment—a major shipment of your factory’s goods—leaves Shanghai at midnight on Saturday. You are the manager. There is a reason you know the exact time of the ship’s departure, and I’m sure you will be wanting to see the goods get off from the factory in proper order, so you’re now going to tell me when they will be taken from here. During the day or at night?”
“In the evening.”
“After nightfall?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t know. In the evening, that is what I’ve been told.”
“And is there something untoward about this shipment?”
“No.” He said it convincingly, then made the mistake of repeating his denial. “No, absolutely not.”
“Just sewing machines?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Being loaded under the cover of night.”
“No.” Panic crossed his face at the realization of the extent of his mistake. “Not—I mean, in the evening, that’s all.”
“Just a coincidence that they’re loaded a few hours before the ship sails.”
“No. I mean, yes, it is not—”
“Is that when cargo is usually loaded?”
“Yes. It depends.”
“I would have thought it more logical to load during the day, when you can see what you are doing.”
They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a languid whistle. Charlie Lewis appeared, dressed in a white linen suit and white Panama hat. “Good day, chaps . . . Dickie?” He threw his hat onto one of the chairs and ran a hand over his slicked-back hair. “Macleod.”
Field was embarrassed. “This is Detective Caprisi.”
“Pleased to meet you, Caprisi.” He offered his hand and the American shook it, his eyes wary. Lewis shook hands with Macleod with a formal nod, though Field could tell there was no warmth between the two men.
“Sorry I’m late. Bit of a long meeting, which I should be grateful to you boys for freeing me from.” He turned around and looked down at the factory floor. “Never been here before,” he said, offering his hand to Gordon Braine as an afterthought. “You must be the manager. Charles Lewis.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“What have you chaps been up to, then? Sorry about last night. Dreadful business. The commissioner called me this morning and I’m glad this Chinese lad is on the mend.”
“The driver is not.”
Lewis was not unsettled. “No, well, sorry to hear that.” He sat down and looked at Field. “I think you’re right, old boy. Whatever the hell is going on, this chap Lu needs a lesson.” He grinned at Field. “By the way, gather you’re to sample Mrs. Granger’s legendary home cooking. Got a call asking if I wished to join the merry throng on Friday.”
Field smiled thinly, acutely aware that Caprisi and Macleod were staring at him.
“I think Penelope and Geoffrey will be coming along.”
