Field shook his head again.

“Thirty million U.S. dollars. Thirty million in five years. No one in organized crime ever made that much money before.”

“Did you know Capone?”

Caprisi shook his head.

“Then why are you telling me about it?”

“I’m trying to explain.”

“Explain what?”

“You don’t understand the nature of this city. Every man who comes to serve here comes to escape or to enrich himself. No one belongs here, so I guess that makes it worse than Chicago. Men come out to make something for themselves and the choice is simple. They can be honest, save a little, go home with a pension and live a modest life. Or they can get rich in a way they never imagined, by turning a blind eye… turning their eyes toward home and dreaming of the house and the green fields they’ll own.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“What I’m saying is that the disease has already spread. Macleod has something that is priceless in this city. He’s chosen to be honest when he could be rich. Don’t ask me why he is the way he is, but he pathologically hates corruption.” Caprisi pushed his food away. “He is the last chance-the last, Field-and we have no choice but to stand behind him and to trust each other.”

Thirty-four

Charlie Lewis was not at the factory on Yuen-Ming Road at three o’clock.

Macleod had skipped his meeting and joined them, with the promise that the questioning would be left to Caprisi. Field was in the middle car, Caprisi in the front, and a total of seven armed officers stepped out inside the factory gate. This time, however, the factory was full, the machines in noisy operation.

An anxious security guard showed them up to the glass box above the workshop floor, where they were greeted by the Scottish factory manager. Field could see immediately that he was nervous. “A snifter?” the man asked.

Caprisi and Field shook their heads as he poured himself one. Field looked down at the police officers standing guard by the door. Macleod scowled at the man.

“Gordon Braine. I’ve not introduced myself.”

Caprisi ignored his outstretched hand. Braine had a long nose with hairs poking out of it and hollow cheeks. He looked ill.

“What happened last night?” Caprisi asked.

“I’m sorry, dreadful thing to happen. Glad no one… you know…” He sat, taking a sip of his whiskey.

“No one except a driver whose family won’t be quite as relaxed as you are today,” Caprisi said. “What time do you normally shut up?”

“Seven. Normally seven. But, of course…”

“Go on.”

“Last night our head of security received a call, saying that we should close early.”

“And what was the reason?”

“No reason was given, but…”

“But what?”

Braine avoided their eyes. “These are difficult times, Detective. Our workforce is Chinese. Strikes, protests. I said we shouldn’t give in and I didn’t see why-but this is a man whom we trust to be in touch with… you know.”

“The underworld.”

“Yes. And with whatever intelligence there is-the Bolsheviks, the protests. Some factories have been damaged, of course, burned even, when they are the subject of intimidation and they-”

“So you were being brave?”

Braine took another sip of whiskey. “Our man was insistent that we must vacate the floor immediately and go home. I did not understand it, but as I said, he was sufficiently alarmed to make me feel there was no choice but to comply.”

“You didn’t think to tell the police?”

“I thought it would blow over-just one of those things that happen here, from time to time.” He took another sip and gained confidence. “Doing business here-it’s a far cry from Scotland.”

Macleod fiddled with the cross around his neck. Field was glad that he had chosen to come along. Out of the office, he exuded a quiet confidence and strength.

“Where is this man?” Caprisi asked.

Braine looked confused.

“The head of security, where is he?”

“Oh, he is…” The confidence disappeared. “He is ill today, I believe.”

“Ill?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“How convenient.”

“I’m sorry. I understand it must be frustrating and I can quite appreciate-”

“Where does he live?”

“I’m not sure we actually have an address. You see-”

“You employ a man as your head of security and you don’t know where he lives?”

“In the Chinese city, I know that, but… He was employed before my time, and he is always here, in place when I arrive and still here when I go. I never thought to ask. He really controls the shop floor. He would have details of the employees, and he ensures-”

“He will be in tomorrow?”

Braine was embarrassed now. Field did not think that he was carrying this off at all well. He was coming to the conclusion-as he could see Caprisi was-that the man was frightened. “I do not think he will be in tomorrow. He said he was quite ill.”

“You will contact us when he reports back to work?”

“Of course.”

“There is a consignment of sewing machines to be shipped?”

“Yes,” he said, eager to please. “They go on Saturday at midnight.”

“From here at midnight?”

“N-no,” Braine stammered, realizing he might have said something he shouldn’t. “No. The ship sails at midnight.”

“Why do you know what time the ship sails?”

There was silence. Braine was not a clever man, and Field could see he was trying hard to work out the direction of Caprisi’s questioning.

“What time will it be loaded up?”

“I do not understand.”

“What time will the goods be taken from here to the ship?”

“To the ship?”

“To the ship, yes. During the day or at night?”

“Before it sails, I suppose.”

Caprisi took a step toward Braine, his expression quietly menacing. “Mr. Braine, I think we are in danger of misunderstanding each other here. You have just told me that your shipment-a major shipment of your factory’s goods-leaves Shanghai at midnight on Saturday. You are the manager. There is a reason you know the exact time of the ship’s departure, and I’m sure you will be wanting to see the goods get off from the factory in proper order, so you’re now going to tell me when they will be taken from here. During the day or at night?”

“In the evening.”

“After nightfall?”

“Yes. I mean, I don’t know. In the evening, that is what I’ve been told.”

“And is there something untoward about this shipment?”

“No.” He said it convincingly, then made the mistake of repeating his denial. “No, absolutely not.”

“Just sewing machines?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Being loaded under the cover of night.”

“No.” Panic crossed his face at the realization of the extent of his mistake. “Not-I mean, in the evening, that’s all.”

“Just a coincidence that they’re loaded a few hours before the ship sails.”

“No. I mean, yes, it is not-”

“Is that when cargo is usually loaded?”

“Yes. It depends.”

“I would have thought it more logical to load during the day, when you can see what you are doing.”

They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a languid whistle. Charlie Lewis appeared, dressed in a white linen suit and white Panama hat. “Good day, chaps… Dickie?” He threw his hat onto one of the chairs and ran a hand over his slicked-back hair. “Macleod.”

Field was embarrassed. “This is Detective Caprisi.”

“Pleased to meet you, Caprisi.” He offered his hand and the American shook it, his eyes wary. Lewis shook hands with Macleod with a formal nod, though Field could tell there was no warmth between the two men.

“Sorry I’m late. Bit of a long meeting, which I should be grateful to you boys for freeing me from.” He turned around and looked down at the factory floor. “Never been here before,” he said, offering his hand to Gordon Braine as an afterthought. “You must be the manager. Charles Lewis.”