“One of Macleod’s men?”

“I work with Patrick Granger.”

“Ah.” Charles Lewis raised his eyebrows. “You look like you’ve been pounding the streets all day.”

Field smiled thinly. “There was a murder,” he said. He realized immediately he’d been trying to show off, and regretted it.

“The Russian woman,” Lewis said. “I was just reading about her in the Evening Post.”

“Lena Orlov.”

Perhaps it was Field’s imagination, but he got the impression Lewis had known Lena Orlov, or at least recognized the name.

“Handcuffed to the bed. Kinky.” Lewis took his hands from his pockets. “What are we doing?”

Geoffrey Donaldson looked at his watch and turned to Field. “We had better get along to meet Penelope.” He put his glass down on the bar, facing Lewis again. “You’re very welcome to come along,” he said without enthusiasm.

Lewis smiled. “Never say no to dinner with Penelope.”

Charles Lewis led the way out. Field held back to wait for Geoffrey. In the lobby Lewis took his trilby from the porter and walked straight through the doors. Geoffrey grabbed Field’s arm. “He’s all right,” he said. “Charlie’s all right.”

“Yes,” Field said. “Of course.”

Outside, Lewis’s chauffeur had already brought up his new black Buick and they climbed into the back before setting off down the Bund, past the brightly lit monoliths. The dome of the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank was ghostly against the night sky. They turned left into Nanking Road and Field looked out of the window in silence at the streets and shops still bustling with life.

The country club on Bubbling Well Road was similarly grand, a wide circular stone entrance giving way to an airy stone-floored lobby with plants in large silver pots. There was a reception area on the left, but Lewis led them straight through to a veranda that overlooked a small fountain and several acres of flat, well-tended lawn. A group dressed in white was playing bowls in the corner, close to the wall; another group, nearer, croquet.

It was growing dark. An Indian waiter in a starched white and gold uniform was hanging lanterns all along the terrace and placing joss sticks and spraying paraffin beneath each table to ward off mosquitoes.

Penelope Donaldson was waiting for them at the far end, one long leg crossed over the other, both resting on a wicker and glass coffee table. As she turned toward them, Field saw immediately that she was pretty, with bobbed, jet-black hair. Her skirt was short, her mouth small. She wore, Field thought, a lot of makeup.

“Charlie!” she said, standing and putting her arms around his neck, kissing him on the mouth. “What a treat.”

“Penelope,” Geoffrey said a little stiffly, “this is Richard Field, my-I suppose our-nephew.”

She stepped forward and offered a slender hand, her smile warmer and more engaging than Field was for some reason expecting. “We’ll get along fine,” she said, “just as long as you don’t call me ‘Auntie.’ ”

Field smiled back at her.

“The boy’s in the police force,” Lewis said.

“Good Lord,” she responded with the same mock admiration.

“Working on that Russian woman found handcuffed to the bed.”

“How exciting,” she said, ignoring Geoffrey’s frown. “It’s sexual?”

They were all looking at Field, who was wondering what the Evening Post had written about the story-sensational nonsense, probably-or from where they had received such detailed information. “In a sense, yes.”

“What do you mean?” Penelope asked.

Field wasn’t sure it was a good idea to get into this. “The consensus seems to be that it is a crime of a broadly sexual nature.”

“Perhaps he couldn’t find keys to the handcuffs,” Lewis said. Penelope laughed. Geoffrey looked embarrassed.

Lewis turned his hat in his hand as he contemplated Field. Field thought him the most supremely arrogant man he’d ever met. He was handsome, and he knew it, and was clearly totally comfortable at the apex of Shanghai society. Slowly, he turned away, toward Penelope. “You weren’t at the Claymores last night.”

Geoffrey interrupted by signaling for a waiter, another Indian, this time all in white, without any brocade. The three men opted for gin, Penelope for “a slow comfortable screw.”

She laughed as she said it, embarrassing her husband. Field could see from the menu in front of him that the cocktail was called simply “The Screw.”

“How are you finding Shanghai?” she asked him when the waiter had gone.

Field sat up straight. “Hot.”

“Got yourself a girl?”

“Penelope…”

“What?”

“Give the chap a break. He’s only been here five minutes.”

“I’m sure he has. Probably found a Russian already. They’re a bargain. Grateful, too, I gather, unlike us lot.”

The waiter arrived with a large silver tray, the drinks, and two bowls of peanuts. He set them down carefully, bowed once stiffly, and retreated.

“Come on, then, Richard… is that what we should call you?”

“Most people just know me as ‘Field.’ ”

“We can’t call you that! It’s far too impersonal.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Lewis said.

“Richard,” Geoffrey instructed his wife.

“All right-Richard. You must have a girl. Handsome chap like you.”

Field blushed. She was smiling at him. She leaned forward, the strap of her black dress falling off her shoulder to reveal a small, firm breast and nipple, only just visible in the half-light. She followed the direction of his gaze but made no move to pick the strap up.

“It’s been all-consuming since I got here.”

“You’ve been training?”

“Yes.”

“With guns?”

“Amongst other things,” Field said.

“How very brave. I’m sure your mother told us you were a fighter. Didn’t she, Geoffrey?”

“Richard is an accomplished boxer.”

“And she said you have a temper…”

“Penelope,” Geoffrey said sternly.

“No, I like a bit of spirit,” she said.

“Better watch our step,” Charlie Lewis added.

“Have you learned Chinese?” Penelope went on.

“I wouldn’t claim to be fluent.”

“Neither would I, but then I don’t speak a word. Geoffrey and Charlie do, of course.”

“Ignorance,” Charles Lewis said languidly, “is the preserve of the taitai.”

Field was frowning.

“Consort of a taipan,” Geoffrey explained, “but in more general usage, expatriate lady.”

“So you’ve not sampled the exotic delights of the city?” Penelope asked again, raising her eyebrow but still not lifting the strap of her dress.

“Penelope.” Geoffrey was smiling benignly as he eased back in his chair, stretching out his false leg. “Do give the chap a break.”

“No, it’s a serious issue,” Lewis said. “A man, whatever his station, must live here.”

“Or a woman,” Penelope said. She took a sip of her cocktail, which was yellow in color, with a cut strawberry resting on top. “I think he should have a Russian.” She leaned forward again. “They’re so beautiful and sexy, don’t you think, Richard?”

Penelope smiled and touched his leg, the front of her dress dropping still further. “I’m sorry, we’re teasing you.” She sat back, taking a cigarette from the silver case on the table in front of her. “Everyone expects Shanghai to be decadent, so we like to give the impression of debauchery, but you’re too nice to be teased, and you’re family.”

Field had drunk both the first and now this gin and tonic quickly, and was beginning to feel the effects.

“Another one, Richard?” Geoffrey asked.

Field shook his head.

Geoffrey leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette in the silver ashtray. “I think we should go through to dinner.”

To Field’s dismay, Penelope Donaldson put her arm through his and led him along the veranda to the French doors, leaning against him a little, so the smell of Parisian perfume caught in his nostrils.

“How is your mother, Richard?” she asked.