“Yes, but . . .”
“I’ve been expecting you.”
She turned her chair, her big, bony nose less prominent face-on, and gestured for them both to sit. All around the walls, Field saw pictures and posters of theatrical productions, mostly from Moscow and St. Petersburg.
“You knew her, obviously.”
“Poor Lena.” She sighed. “Yes, Lena was one of my girls.”
Caprisi took out his notebook and pencil. “Could I take your name, Miss . . .”
“Mrs. I’m Mrs. Orlov.” Caprisi looked up at her. “No relation.”
“What kind of work did Lena do here?” the American asked.
She sighed again. “Would you like some tea . . . coffee?”
They both shook their heads. Mrs. Orlov took her time, as if not wanting to be rushed. “Lena was . . . what can I say?” She was staring at the floor. “Lena was a dreamer. She dreamed of escape, a new beginning. New York, Paris, London, Rome. A life beyond the circumstances she found for herself here.”
“She was a prostitute?”
The woman wrinkled her nose, but expressed no surprise or disgust. “She was a dancer, Officer. I don’t know what arrangements were made beyond these walls.”
“But you know arrangements were made?”
“Each girl is different. Some do, some don’t.”
“Down to money.”
“Down to character. All the girls have impaired circumstances, or they wouldn’t be here.”
This was said, Field thought, as a matter of fact, without any hint of disapproval at those girls who used the opportunities the Majestic offered to take matters further.
“But Lena did make arrangements,” Caprisi persisted.
“I believe so, yes.”
“Why? Were her circumstances—”
“I believe she had a sister to support. But, as I said, each girl makes her own choice. Life is easier if you succumb, harder if you don’t.”
Field found this an uncomfortable line of thought.
“Whom did Lena make arrangements with?” Caprisi asked.
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know precisely, but—”
“She lived—”
“Hold on, I was coming to that.” The woman looked at Caprisi reprovingly for a moment. “About three months ago she moved into a new flat on Foochow Road.”
“Owned by Lu Huang.”
“Yes.”
“So she was his girl?”
“Yes. And no.”
Caprisi frowned.
“Lu Huang has many girls, but I’m not sure they all serve the same purpose.”
“You mean he doesn’t sleep with them all?”
She shook her head again. “I don’t know, but I don’t think Lena was his girl in that sense. She was not a concubine. I don’t doubt that he basically owned her, and paid for her life, but I’m not sure what his purpose was.”
Caprisi was sucking the end of his pencil.
“Lu has an intelligence network,” Field said, assuming this is what the woman was driving at.
She turned to him. “Yes.”
“Lena gave him intelligence on the activities of Bolsheviks like Borodin?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t the Bolsheviks find her suspect because of her past?”
“Everyone can be anyone in Shanghai, Detective.”
Field looked at Caprisi, who produced Lena’s notebook. “Ships, dates, and destinations,” Caprisi said.
She looked at it and handed it back. “It means nothing to me.”
“Opium, possibly.”
She shook her head curtly.
