The Master Of Rain

Caprisi shook his head. “No, it was a good idea.”

The American looked at Chen, who shrugged to indicate that nothing was lost by trying.

“If you were a criminal,” Field said, “would you keep a record of everything?”

Both Caprisi and Chen looked puzzled.

“Would you record bribes, drug shipments, whatever it is that you are into?”

“Record what?” Caprisi asked.

“Transactions. Such and such a payment to someone in the French police, this amount of drugs arriving from India or from inland China on this day, distributed in these quantities to these locations.”

They were still frowning at him.

“Crime is a business like any other.”

“Sure,” Caprisi said.

“You would still want to keep accounts. I mean especially here, where they’re so meticulous.”

Chen nodded. Caprisi shrugged. “You thinking of becoming an accountant?”

Field looked down the street. “I used to be, in a way.”

“In what way?”

“I used to do my father’s books.”

Caprisi snorted. “You want to bust Lu for not paying his taxes?”

Field smiled. “Lena’s notes suggest that payments were recorded in ‘ledger two.’ ”

“Correct.”

“I’ve just read an interview with Lu. He boasts about what good records he keeps of all those who owe him money.”

Caprisi nodded. “Getting to the point . . .”

“He obviously has to record all details of shipments and so on. He must also keep track of whom he bribes and for how much. Lena must have seen those records. The interview says that he keeps these records at home. He wouldn’t need to lock them in a safe all day; entries are being made all the time, and no one is going to steal them. The French are no threat and the house is like a fortress. It’s better guarded than a bank. The only people who have access are his women.”

They didn’t answer him.

“If most of his actions are criminal, then most of those records will provide proof of criminal action.”

“As you know, Field, he lives in the Concession.”

“Yes, but supposing we could get hold of them? Supposing there was the political will to mount a prosecution? It shouldn’t take much for the Municipal Council to decide he’s got too big for his boots.”

“Who says there is the political will?”

Field decided to drop it, but he could see he’d got Caprisi thinking.

“You should talk to Macleod,” the American said. “But you answered your own question. How would we ever get a look at them in the first place?”

They finished their cigarettes. “Is Macleod as dour as he sometimes appears?” Field asked.

“He’s Scottish.”

Field smiled. “I know, but that’s not necessarily—”

“He wants to clean up Shanghai, then go home and be a minister of the Kirk.”

“Do you think he’ll succeed?”

“I’m sure the church will have him.”

“No, I mean—”

“I know what you meant, Field.” Caprisi smiled. “What do you think?”

Field didn’t answer immediately. “Nothing is impossible.”

“Quite right,” Caprisi said, mocking him. “This is almost part of the empire, after all.”

Field grinned. “Fuck off, Caprisi.”

They worked for another twenty minutes before Field found what he was looking for. It was a brief paragraph on page two of the Journal of May 2. He kept his finger on it as he tried to translate. “The body of an . . . entraineuse . . . entertainer was discovered last night by gendarmes in Little Russia. She is believed to have been stabbed to death at home.” Field looked up.

Caprisi pulled the newspaper across the table. He pinched his nose between his fingers as he glanced at the print, leaving a smear of black ink.

“They don’t even give her name,” Field said.

“Make a note of the date,” Caprisi said. “There’s a station in Little Russia which would have received the first call. You should go down there tomorrow. Forget the French CID, they’ll tell us nothing. See if you can find out more