Free The Master of Rain by Tom Bradby Page B

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.