Shanghai.”
“So we wait until it happens again?”
Caprisi sighed. “Calm down, Field . . . or should I call you ‘Dickie’?”
“He’s nothing to do with me.”
“Dickie? They call you ‘Dickie’?”
“He was patronizing me.”
“You’ve nice friends,” Caprisi said. “Charming.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Of course he’s not. He sure is an arrogant bastard, I’ll say that. What did he want outside?”
Field sighed. “Nothing.”
At the wharf the fat customs officer was not there—on the river, his assistant said—so they made their own way down to the SS
Caprisi had not dismissed their escort, and the effect was exactly as he’d intended. As they walked up the gangplank, the Indian deckhand they had seen the other day got to his feet and scrambled into the cabin. Caprisi banged on the door, and a few moments later the captain appeared, hastily tucking a filthy vest into his trousers. He was an Indian, too, much older and fatter, with a few days’ growth on his chin. He’d obviously been asleep.
“Enjoy Blood Alley?” Caprisi asked.
“What do you want?”
“We have some questions.”
The captain studied them for a few moments, then led them through the doorway and up to the bridge. There was a rag over one of the brass instruments and he used it to wipe his forehead.
“You’re leaving this Saturday,” Caprisi said.
The captain nodded.
“What are you carrying?”
“I cannot remember without looking at the manifest.”
“Sewing machines?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know.”
“What do you normally carry from this company?”
“Electrical goods.” He yawned. “I don’t know—whatever they ask us to carry.”
“Why are you loading the goods at night? On Saturday night, after dark?”
“We load them when they bring them.”
“Isn’t that unusual? Doesn’t it make you suspicious?”
He shook his head. “Why?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for you to load shipments during the day?”
“Easier for me, yes, but I am not paying. If they want to load at night, we load at night. They are the customer. What are their reasons? How can I know? Maybe they have a full shift on Saturday and want to wait until the last of the machines are done before beginning to load.”
Field could see Caprisi thinking. This man was not going to be caught out.
Caprisi placed one hand on the wheel and looked out toward the deck. “All right, Captain . . .”
“Sendosa.”
“All right, Captain Sendosa. Thank you for your time.”
They retraced their steps. As he got into the car, Caprisi said, “He’s in on it. Whatever is going on, he’s in on it as well.”
Field watched the American for a moment before turning to look out of the window at the activity on the wharf.
Field climbed the stairs to the Immigration Department quickly, arriving just as it was closing. The woman he’d spoken to before took a lot of persuading, but eventually she led him into the back, along a corridor, and up the stairs to a room on the floor above, where the dust hung in the air, illuminated by the rays of the dying sun. A small Westerner with thick glasses sat hunched over a ledger by the door. The rest of the room was filled from floor to ceiling with steel filing cabinets. There was barely enough room to squeeze between them.
“Mr. Pendelby, this is Mr. Field.”
They shook hands. The man had a nervous smile.
“Mr. Pendelby has worked through 1918 and 1919, without success. If you wish to help, you can begin with 1921, but I must insist it is only one hour. I have to close then. Mr. Pendelby, you must go home now.”
“I’m happy to do one more hour.” He smiled at Field, who returned the compliment.
“Very well. I shall return in one hour. Otherwise, you may come back tomorrow, Mr. Field.”
Field smiled and she turned to go.
“You’re on 1920?” Field asked.
