“Was he Chinese?”
Mrs. Schmidt shrugged extravagantly. “How could I know? It is possible, likely, given her . . . type. It would be like her type to go with a Chinese.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“So you have no idea who he was?”
“Rich. Powerful. So she said. Good. He makes her happy. Good.
“What kind of presents?” Field asked.
She shrugged again. “A model airplane. Wooden. Nothing special.”
As her good-neighbor act fell away, Field was beginning to find this woman vexatious in the extreme.
“Otto has given her a silk scarf, but she does not like it. She does not like it! She asks him if she can take it back to the shop!”
Somehow Field knew it had not been Otto who had picked out the scarf.
“Do you think he murdered her?” Caprisi asked.
For a moment Mrs. Schmidt’s face went white, until she realized that Caprisi was referring to the mysterious nocturnal visitor and not her son, whereupon she looked as if she would faint with relief.
“It is possible,” her husband added. “It is possible.”
“Coming like a thief,” she went on, getting into her stride, “in the middle of the night.” She shook her head, as if desperate now to clear her son beyond doubt. “Otto is not here, of course. The whore drove him away. He has gone to Manila and we have not heard from him. Not a letter . . . With this new man, the thief in the night . . .”
Caprisi stood abruptly, as if unable to contain himself any longer. He thanked them unconvincingly and strode out into the hallway.
Outside, they squinted in the glare of the sun.
In deference to their position in the French Concession, they had left their pistols and holsters beneath the seat of the car and so they were just in shirts and ties. Field rolled up his sleeves. Caprisi had moved along to the end of the wrought-iron fence, to the gate into the yard, and looked through the bars. Field could see that he was checking whether or not it was possible to see the gate from the Schmidts’ house. He shook his head.
“He wanted to get in and out without being seen,” Field said.
“Yes.” The American detective turned on his heel.
“Why?”
“A rich and powerful man.”
“Lewis?”
“It certainly sounds like a big fish.”
“The boy,” Field said.
Caprisi straightened. “Yes, perhaps the boy saw him. The present may have been given in person.” Field caught sight of a black Buick parked opposite, its engine running. “Prokopieff and Sorenson,” Caprisi said. “They’ve been with us since we left the station this morning.”
They watched the car. It didn’t move off.
“They’re in the back?” Field asked.
“You’re the Special Branch expert.”
Field turned. “You saw them coming out of the lobby, or they were already in the car?”
“They were leaning against it.”
“So they were happy to be seen?”
“I think they thought they were out of sight.”
“So they knew we were coming out this morning?”
Caprisi shrugged. “Do you think the boy is still alive?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Which orphanage would they have taken him to?”
Field shook his head, though he had a fairly good idea he knew the answer.
Field waited until he was sure that Sorenson and Prokopieff had chosen to follow the American. Then he headed back to the International Settlement and the Happy Times block.
He took the stairs three at a time and was covered in sweat when he reached the top floor. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and then knocked once, hard.
There was no answer. He looked at his watch.
Field stepped back to press the button for the lift, then knocked once more.
He waited. He cursed, stepped into the lift, and pulled the iron cage violently across.
