“There is clearly a pattern,” Field said. “If we can find out where these other girls lived, there may be evidence from their neighbors that would prove more conclusive.”
“Lu is challenging us,” Macleod said. “Whether he has intended it or not, this is a head-on confrontation. We all know the French police are entirely in his pocket, but the Orlov murder is a challenge to us. If he did not murder the girl himself, he is certainly protecting whoever did, and if we let him get away with it, we might as well hang up our boots and go home.”
They were silent again as they contemplated Macleod’s wisdom. To Field, it had seemed like a speech to a larger audience. Macleod was even more withdrawn today, and Field wondered if ambition, and the proximity of the decision on the new commissioner, were beginning to take their toll.
The Chinese woman brought in the mugs of tea on a battered metal tray. Field thought briefly of the fine, polished silver of the country club and the Donaldsons’ house in Crane Road. Although it was too hot to drink comfortably, the smell of the tea alone made him feel a little better.
“It is Monday,” Caprisi said. “The shipment mentioned in Lena’s notes is on Saturday.”
“And?” Macleod asked.
“We know Lena had a reason to make a note of this shipment, but after that’s gone . . .” He shrugged. “The lead will then be lost.”
The American looked at Field again.
“Sewing machines?” Macleod asked.
“Yes.”
“I still don’t see the bloody relevance.”
“We can’t see any, either.” Chen took Field’s cigarette, leaned over to the cubicle beside Caprisi’s, and stubbed it out, half closing his eyes as the smoke twisted up into his face. “The captain of the ship is still lost down Blood Alley. The machines are made by an electrical company. I could see nothing unusual about them. They’re just . . . sewing machines.” He put his hands back in his pockets.
“The manager is British?” Macleod asked.
“Scottish.”
Macleod scowled, not certain if this was a joke. “It’s a Fraser’s company?”
“Yes,” Caprisi said.
“Field can arrange an audience with Charlie Lewis.” Macleod looked at him, then smiled for the first time. “Lighten up, man. I’m pulling your leg.”
Caprisi sipped his tea. “We should talk to Lewis.”
“We should find out where these women lived,” Field interjected.
They stared at him, frowning at the truculence in his voice.
“One step at a time, Field,” Caprisi said.
“We could send some plainclothes officers down to do door-to-door.”
“Avenue Joffre is at least three miles long. And you think the French won’t get wind of a door-to-door?” He shook his head. “One step at a time.”
Chen went ahead to get the car. Field walked to the toilet and confronted his bloodshot eyes and tired face in the mirror while he washed his hands.
Caprisi was waiting in the corridor outside, holding a large white box. He handed it to him. Field took off the top and pulled out the gray suit. He put the box down. The jacket was beautifully made and many times lighter than his current one. “My God.”
“My Chinese tailor.”
“Thank you.”
“Put it on. You’ll feel better.” Caprisi bent down and took out two shirts wrapped in tissue paper. “Thought you might need these.”
Field pulled back the wrapping and felt the quality of the cotton.
Caprisi bent down once more. “And a decent silk tie.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.”
“If we can go down to the bank, I can pay you straightaway. I’ve got money now and—”
“It’s on me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Caprisi shook his head. “It’s my pleasure.”
“I can’t allow—”
“Fortunately, you don’t know how much it cost.”
“But it’s too generous.”
“I can’t watch you melting in this heat anymore, polar bear.”
“But I have the money.”
