The Master Of Rain

“I really don’t have time.”

“Maretsky.” Field breathed out heavily, his heart still beating fast. “Come on, give me a break. It’s like fighting with a blanket over your head. Caprisi says you have a contact in the gendarmerie. All I need is an address for both women, so we can establish a pattern.”

“Caprisi is familiar with the procedures for applying for information from the gendarmerie.”

There was a long silence.

“Irina Ignatiev was murdered at the end of March, Natalya Simonov on May 1, Lena Orlov three nights ago. As you said, there is a pattern.”

“Thank you for keeping me informed, Detective.”

“Someone is going to be his next victim.”

“Someone will be, yes.”

“And that fact leaves you cold? It was you who predicted that there would be more victims.”

Maretsky sighed. “What is fueling this, Field? An admirable philanthropic concern for Russian women in general, or for one in particular?”

“Maretsky . . .”

“I ran into Caprisi today.”

Field was silent.

“I hope she hasn’t been foolish enough to give you any encouragement.”

“I don’t know who you are—”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“I want to prevent it happening again,” Field said.

“Before it happens to her.”

“Please, Maretsky.”

“I really do hope Natasha hasn’t given you any encouragement, Field, because if she has, she’s a fool and so are you. And if she hasn’t, then you’re just victim to an unjustifiable obsession and you should develop a sense of reality before you lead a lot of other people into trouble.”

“I wish you could hear yourself.”

“I’ve seen it before, Field, and it never ends well.”

“I just need your help.”

“I have to survive, Field, and so does she. And so, probably, do you. So follow the advice of those around you and desist.”

There was a note from Caprisi in his room: Where the fuck are you? French agree to interview with Lu, scheduled tomorrow. Be in my office nine sharp.

Field tore the note up and put it in the bin, then lay down on his narrow bed, but couldn’t sleep. He was haunted by the image of Natasha, twisting desperately to avoid the slashing of the knife.

Twenty-four

Field finally slept for a couple of hours but was still at his desk long before nine. He pulled over the tray that had contained the fingerprint results, then looked at the pile of journals to be censored.

He pushed his chair back and took the stairs down to the registry. His still-damp soles slapped loudly on the stone steps as he moved through the pools of light cast by the narrow window slits. The place was open, but Danny did not smile at him and there was none of the usual banter.

“Everything all right, Danny?” Field asked as the Irish American went to check whether or not there was a file on Irina Ignatiev or Natalya Simonov.

“Sure. Early morning.”

After a few minutes Danny came back with a single buff-colored folder. “Only Ignatiev,” he said quietly. He examined Field’s paperwork with exaggerated care before handing the folder over.

Field leaned against the wall outside and opened the file. It contained a single sheet, which read: Irina Ignatiev has been seen attending a meeting at the New Shanghai Life. She is a native of Kazan on the Volga and arrived here via Vladivostok. She resides in the French Concession.

Field sighed, flipped the folder shut, and went to return it. “Have we got any surveillance reports on Lu?”

“Surveillance reports?”

“Yes.”

“I believe not.”

“We’ve never mounted any kind of operation against him?”

Danny cleared his throat.

“What about around the time of his takeover of the Green Gang? We must have kept a watch on him then. Will