When they got back into the car, Caprisi was looking at his notes.
“So we know that Lu gave Lena to someone,” Field said. “This man murdered her and Lu covered it up.”
Caprisi stared out of the window. “You’re jumping too far ahead. It’s still possible that Lu murdered her himself, or one of his men did.”
“But what about Maretsky saying that it was sexual, motivated by extreme anger?”
“Well . . .” Caprisi sighed, pulling up the band of his trousers. They still hadn’t moved anywhere. The driver waited patiently for directions. “If Lu is covering up for someone, then he must have a damned good reason.”
“Should we go and see him now?”
“We can’t. Macleod is talking to the French. There will be hell to pay if we go to Lu in the Concession without applying through the proper channels. Customs,” Caprisi said, tapping the back of the driver’s seat. He looked at Field. “I want to talk to this man Sergei as well.”
Field settled back, trying to suppress the nausea that had been threatening to overwhelm him all morning. He wound down the window to allow some air in, though it was fetid rather than fresh.
They turned onto the Bund and Field looked out at the sampans, junks, and steamers that plowed the choppy waters. As they rounded the last bend in the river, he recalled the thrill of his first sight of the Bund—its giant buildings rising above a sea of patchwork sails.
A liner coming in toward the shore hooted loudly, a thick plume of smoke from its central funnel twisting up into the clear sky.
“We ought to talk to Borodin,” Field said.
“Yes.”
The wharf in front of the Customs House was teeming with life, a sea of white straw and dark felt trilbies.
A ship had just arrived from Europe or America, its passengers standing in groups on the dock, fanning themselves against the heat and trying to prevent overenthusiastic coolies making off with their luggage. It was noisy and chaotic, and as they got out of the car, Field found himself smiling at the expectant, hurried stride of residents and the anxious faces of those they were coming to meet.
The floor beneath them was filthy with rotten fruit and vegetables. He bumped into an American woman as she rushed headlong into the arms of a man with a cry of “Anthony!”
Caprisi led the way through the gate and up a long iron staircase. A small Chinese stood at the top, his long queue hanging down over the back of a green silk jacket. He did not turn around as they passed.
The office they entered was a flimsy wooden structure, which looked as though it wouldn’t survive a light breeze, let alone the ferocity of a typhoon. Two more Chinese in long tunics were locked in a heated argument with a corpulent European who sat behind a desk. He waved his hand at them imperiously, concluding the argument, and after some hesitation, they turned and left, their faces impassive.
“CID,” Caprisi said. The man’s face softened. He picked up a white towel on the desk beside him and wiped his face. He had, Field noticed, very poor skin.
“Inspector Jenkins,” he said, offering them each a chubby hand. Standing, he ushered them through to an airless office at the back, where an electric desk fan was riffling a pile of papers held down by a glass weight.
Jenkins was wearing a dirty khaki uniform, with thin cotton shorts and a leather holster on his belt.
“A Russian girl has been murdered,” Caprisi said, taking out Lena’s notebook.
“A Russian girl,” Jenkins said in a manner that seemed to suggest that Russian girls being murdered was the natural order of things. He looked at the entries for a few moments, occasionally turning back a page, before looking up.
“This notebook was found hidden in the dead girl’s bookcase,” Caprisi said. “We don’t see the relevance of the entries.”
Jenkins looked back at the notes, then heaved himself from his chair and moved to a cupboard, reaching into his pocket for a key. Inside, there were four or five ledgers, and he took out the top one, placing it on a desk with a thump that raised a small cloud of dust.
He sat and looked through the notebook again, mulling over each entry, grunting as he did so.
It was a tedious process and Caprisi began to fidget, drumming his fingers against his knee and fanning himself with his notebook.
“They’re all . . .” Jenkins trailed off. “All the same. The Electrical Company.”
“What is the Electrical Company?” Caprisi asked.
“Subsidiary of Fraser’s. Makes electrical goods here, ships them back to Europe. All these . . .” He looked down again. “They’re consignments of sewing machines, mainly. There are some other goods as well, of course, from the same company, but sewing machines provide the bulk—I would say eighty percent—of these ships’ cargo.”
“Sewing machines?”
“Yes.”
Caprisi looked at Field, but he could think of no explanation and shook his head.
“Why would a Russian tea dancer want to make secret notes about shipments of sewing machines?”
Jenkins shrugged.
“Speculate.”
“I’ve no idea.”
