on all fours.
Not that anyone wanted to take the stairs in this heat.
“You’re new?” the American asked.
Field nodded. “Yes.”
“Still a Griffin.”
“No.” Officially, he’d finished his training a month ago and had spent the intervening time being bored to death with routine office tasks. He was grateful to get out. Granger had told him that his job was to check that the murder was not politically motivated and keep an eye on the Crime Branch.
Caprisi shook his head dolefully before looking down at his shoes. Field noticed how carefully they’d been polished—just as his own had been ever since he’d come to the Far East and been relieved of the need to do anything like that for himself. He remembered his father’s obsession with his lack of military discipline and allowed himself a smile.
The American moved quickly through the lobby, his leather soles slapping the stone floor. Outside, Field found himself squinting against the sun before it once again disappeared behind a bank of dark cloud.
A Buick with a long brown body and a bright yellow hood stood at the curb, its engine running. As he climbed into the near side, Field noticed there were three bullet holes in the panel by the door.
“Where’s Chen?” Caprisi asked the driver, leaning forward against the scuffed leather seat.
The driver was an old man dressed in a white tunic. He turned and shook his toothless head.
Caprisi settled back and waited, looking out of his window, trying to contain his impatience, rapping the glass with his knuckles. Field saw that he had a large gold ring on the index finger of his right hand.
“Come on, Chen,” he said under his breath. “What’s he doing?” he asked the driver, although, so far as Field could tell, the man spoke no English.
Field turned to see a tall Chinese emerging from the entrance of the Central Police Station. He wore a full- length khaki mackintosh and carried a Thompson machine gun. He climbed onto the running board and ducked his head through the open window.
“This is a present from Granger,” Caprisi explained, pointing at Field. “He’s a Griffin,” he said, ignoring Field’s earlier intimation that his training was complete.
Chen seemed less put out by Field’s apparent intrusion than Caprisi and reached across to shake his hand before barking an order at the driver and slapping the roof. He remained on the running board as they lurched forward, the gun banging against the bodywork. Field felt for his own pistol in his jacket pocket, suddenly aware of the rapid beating of his heart.
They moved a hundred yards down Foochow Road. Field looked out past Chen at the tide of humanity sweeping down the sidewalk beside them, until they were brought to a halt once more. Caprisi leaned forward to try to see what was causing the holdup, then sat back with a sigh.
“Granger told me you’re from Chicago,” Field said.
Caprisi turned to him, a thin smile playing across his lips. “Granger is the intelligence chief, so he should know.”
Field didn’t respond. As head of the Special Branch, and thus Field’s boss, Granger was responsible for the suppression of communism in the city and the maintenance of order. He ran informers and conducted what American journalists called “Black Propaganda.” Caprisi and Macleod worked in the CID—the Crime Branch, or C.1. Their responsibility was “ordinary decent crime.” Murders. Armed robberies. The two branches were the most powerful departments in the force and they fought constantly.
“What brought you here?” Field asked.
Caprisi’s face was impassive. “How long have you been in Shanghai, Field?”
“About three months.”
“And you’ve not yet learned the golden rule?” Caprisi smiled again and Field realized he looked like a Caucasian version of Chen—thick dark hair, bushy eyebrows, a narrow nose, and an easy, sly smile. The sleeves of his dark jacket were pulled up above his elbows, revealing broad forearms, and bushy hair spilled out of his open-necked shirt. “Take my advice: never ask anyone in Shanghai about their past. Especially not a lady.”
Field turned to the window as an old beggar woman thrust a bundle of rags toward him. As Chen clubbed her aside with the butt of his Thompson, he saw that the bundle contained a baby.
“Take it easy, Chen,” Caprisi said, almost to himself. He leaned forward impatiently once more. “What’s the holdup?” he shouted. Chen leaned through the window and shook his head.
“What’s your name, Field?”
“Richard. But most people call me ‘Field.’ ”
“Dick?”
Field grimaced.
“You don’t like ‘Dick’?”
“No one calls me that.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Field looked at him, smiling. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Caprisi. It’s just that no one calls me that. But if you want to, be my guest.”
“Spirit.” The American smiled approvingly. “You’ll need that here.”
“What’s your name?”
