Caprisi was shaking his head and waving his hand.
Field sighed. “Thanks, Caprisi.” He looked at him. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” The American smiled. “Isn’t that what you English say? Don’t mention it.”
Field smiled and looked down again at the jacket in his hand.
“Put it on, polar bear.”
Field went back into the toilet to get changed, and emerged transformed.
Caprisi whistled. “Wait till they see you down at the Majestic, kid.”
They got into the lift together. Field had begun to worry that the American would have got the wrong impression about the money. He suddenly wondered if it had been appallingly naive to imagine that any supplement could be legitimate and straightforward. “Who would put cash into my account without my knowledge? Is it—could it be an official thing?”
Caprisi shook his head. “Someone in the cabal.”
“It couldn’t be a special supplement unique to a department?”
Caprisi smiled. “Not that I’ve ever heard of.”
“What should I do about it?”
“Nothing until someone approaches you. Then it’s up to you. If you don’t want a part of it, then say so and offer to pay the money back if they ask for it, which they won’t.”
“Who will approach me?”
Caprisi shrugged. “Sorenson, Prokopieff, take your pick. It is hierarchical, as far as we can tell. Even if you joined, it would probably be years before anyone told you who was in charge, if they ever did.”
The lift jolted suddenly to a halt. They stepped out as a group of uniformed officers got in.
Inside the car, Field asked, “Who took the prints?”
“Someone in the cabal. It doesn’t matter who.”
“But Granger is the head?”
“That’s a matter of speculation, Field.”
“But—”
“I’ve told you what we think.” He smiled. “You can draw your own conclusions.”
Caprisi leaned toward the driver. “Rue Wagner, number 70.”
Through the window, Field watched a young boy aggressively trying to sell newspapers to the passing crowd while a beggar lay sprawled by his feet, apparently unconscious.
“Do you think Macleod will be the new commissioner?” he asked.
Caprisi turned and was about to say something, then thought better of it and shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s a difficult time for him.”
“He seemed distracted this morning.”
“Lu is already our central suspect. We’re going to see him this morning. If we upset him, then he will bend the ear of those council members who are indebted to him in some way, which probably means most of them.” Caprisi looked at Field. “Macleod will be held responsible for our actions, and therefore he must be careful. But on the other hand, he says there are council members who feel Lu is out of control, so if he could check him, or better still, bring him down, then that might stand in his favor.” Caprisi smiled again. “He wants to find a way to bring Lu down, but if he messes it up now, then he’s finished.”
Field had assumed they were going straight to see Lu, but had omitted to take into account the extent of interconcession bureaucracy. There were papers to be filled out, coffee to be drunk, and, since they were in the gendarmerie, croissants to be eaten.
The headquarters in Rue Wagner was an old colonial villa with an extension on the back only a few hundred yards from Lu’s house. It had the same relaxed atmosphere as the station in Little Russia. The inspector sat behind his desk, long boots resting on a footstool. Above his head was a photograph of a cafe in Paris and another, alongside it, of a house that looked as if it was somewhere in Indochina.
The inspector had a thin, hawkish face, but a disarmingly genial manner. He’d already explained to them that he had come to Shanghai only after ten years in French Indochina, first in Saigon and then Hanoi. There was something weary about him, Field decided, not so much cynical as plain tired, as if the heat had finally got to him.
He couldn’t imagine the heat not getting to everyone, in the end. Not even his new lightweight suit was enough to prevent him from sweating.
The inspector spoke English with a heavy French accent and moved his hand in slow circular motions as he talked, pausing as a Vietnamese officer came in to refresh their coffee.
“The girl,” he said. “A prostitute.”
Caprisi edged himself forward in his seat, cradling his cup. “Not Blood Alley.”
“Classy.”
“Well . . .”
“A Russian.” The inspector waved his hand again, as if this were sufficient explanation. “I know.” He put his feet down and looked at the paper on his desk, then returned to his previous position. “Lu . . .” He shrugged. “It’s not his style, no?”
