The manager shook his head but was unable to utter a word. “Taipan,” he managed to say. “Taipan.”
Field pointed the revolver at his chest. “Have any of the girls here disappeared?” Caprisi asked. “Or has he ever met any of them outside of this club?”
The manager shook his head so violently Field thought it might fall off. He looked at the girls, but they didn’t add anything.
“He likes to handcuff the girls?”
The manager nodded. Both the girls looked down.
“Sometimes he hits them?”
The manager nodded again.
“Always,” the girl on the right said.
Caprisi turned to her. “What does he do exactly?”
“He uses handcuffs to the bed,” she said in Shanghainese, clearly enough for Field to understand. “Then he likes to hurt.”
“Does he require you to wear certain clothes?”
“He likes underclothes.” She lifted her dress to reveal a stained stocking.
“What form does the violence take?”
She didn’t understand this question and looked at the other girl, who indicated, with the flat of her hand against her face, that he liked to slap them.
“But he has never taken it further than that? He has never asked to meet any of the girls outside of the club?”
She shook her head.
“There have been no unexplained disappearances?”
She shook her head again.
“Have any of the girls died this year in any circumstances?”
“No,” she said.
“How much violence does he like to inflict?”
The girl looked down again and Caprisi glanced over toward Field, shaking his head.
The Fraser’s headquarters was on the Bund. A uniformed security guard took them from the reception desk, across the wide marble lobby, to the lifts.
Lewis’s office on the top floor reminded Field of the private room at the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, except that the windows were bigger here, affording a still more panoramic view of the bend in the river. Lewis’s desk faced the water and he sat in a leather chair, invisible save for his feet on the desk.
Field looked out beyond him at a line of junks on the far side of the river that appeared to be sailing tied together. They bobbed up and down violently, their patchwork sails tilting to and fro like fans. A thick plume of smoke from another steamer cut a jagged line through the sky. Field could see the passengers on deck and sticking their heads through dirty portholes. New arrivals, he thought, feeling that his own seemed like years, rather than months, ago.
When Lewis finally replaced the receiver, he swung round, dropping his legs to the floor. He stood and walked over to the sideboard. He was in a vest and shirtsleeves, and he moved aggressively. “This had better be good. Drink, gentlemen?”
“No,” Caprisi said. “Thank you.”
“Never drink on duty?”
“Something like that. The shipments go the day after tomorrow. Will you be monitoring them?”
Lewis looked at Caprisi, and then at Field, as if they were insane. “I’m sorry, but—”
“We have a witness,” Caprisi said. He looked as if he were going to step forward and thump him. “A witness who saw you entering Natalya Simonov’s house on the night of her murder.”
Lewis poured himself a whiskey. A muscle in his cheek was twitching, and he scratched the end of his long nose with an elegantly manicured fingernail. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“You claim you’ve never heard of a Natalya Simonov?” Caprisi pulled out his notebook.
Lewis was still being icily polite. “If you would care to explain, Officer, then perhaps I could help you.”
“I’m sure you know that Natayla Simonov was the Orlov killer’s previous victim. We know you were seeing her, and have an eyewitness account of you going into her apartment on the night of her murder.”
“Should I call a lawyer?”
“It is your prerogative.”
“That was a joke, Officer.” Lewis took out his cigarettes, lit one, and then threw the case to Field. “I’m afraid I have no idea who your Natalya is.”
“She’s Natasha Medvedev’s sister,” Field said, without having intended to.
“Poor old her.”
“So you knew her?” Caprisi asked.
