The Shanghai Moon

by S. J. Rozan

  Pale already, C. D.’s face drained of all color. “Ms. Chin! How can you—”

  “You told us your cousin and brother are sure robbers took the Shanghai Moon. But neither Mr. Chen or Mr. Zhang ever told the story of that day. To anyone. How do you know about the robbers?”

  We could have been wrong. If he’d said of course his brother had told him the story, what could we have done? But this was the answer Bill had proposed to the question he’d asked. I’d agreed, and my instincts told me we were right.

  And we were. But wrong, also.

  “Did your father take the Shanghai Moon from Rosalie?” I asked, more gently, when he didn’t respond. “Have you had it all these years?”

  “No.” C. D.’s voice was dry and rustling. “No. My father didn’t kill Rosalie.”

  “I’m sorry, but there’s too much wrong. Your knowing what went on. Rosalie not having the gem. You and your father not staying together. Maybe the reason you didn’t take your brother’s million dollars is that you already have his jewel.”

  “Is that what you believe? Is that what you’ll tell my brother and my cousin?”

  “I don’t know what I’ll tell them. I don’t know what to believe. Except that this all needs to be explained. If your father didn’t give the Shanghai Moon to you—”

  “He didn’t give it to me. Or to anyone. He never had the Shanghai Moon. My father didn’t kill Rosalie Gilder, Ms. Chin. I did.”

  38

  I stood in stunned silence at C. D. Zhang’s bedside. I didn’t know what to say, and neither, obviously, did Bill. C. D. suddenly grinned a shadow of his old, ironic grin. “I see you didn’t know that.”

  I said in astonishment, “No, of course not.”

  “In that case, Ms. Chin, I must apologize for the mayhem in your office.”

  “My office?”

  “I asked Deng dai lo to provide entry, and I must say he made a creative and efficient job of it.”

  “You were the client?”

  “Your documents, the newly discovered sources from that time. I was afraid somewhere there was a trail that would lead to me.”

  “That’s why you offered to read them for me.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t find them. I had them at home. Why didn’t you try that next?”

  “Ms. Chin! Where your aged mother lives?” His look said I should be ashamed of myself. “No, I decided I would be forced to take my chances. And I can see now it was not the documents that betrayed me.”

  “No. But I don’t understand. The way you’ve spoken about Rosalie . . . and your brother was there . . . how could you do that?”

  “I’m not sure I can make you understand. But if you want to hear the story, and then judge me as I’ve judged myself through all these years, I’ll tell you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We certainly do.”

  C. D. Zhang gazed at the ceiling as though a grainy old film were flickering there. After a long pause, he began to speak.

  “I was twelve when we left Shanghai. I was eighteen when we returned, and a soldier. My body had grown, my face hardened, my voice deepened. I was not with my father, had not been together with him for weeks. He’d gone ahead, to make sure of our arrangements on the Taipei Pearl. I entered Shanghai with two men from my unit, no older than I. Through terrible days and nights these companions had followed me without question. But now I was leaving Shanghai, and they were not. They had no fathers to buy them passage with stolen wealth, as I had.”

  “Stolen?” As soon as I said it, Bill shot me a glance, and I could have kicked myself for interrupting. But the word had grabbed my attention. C. D. Zhang didn’t seem to notice.

  “By 1949 anyone with eyes unclouded by doctrine could see Chiang Kai-shek’s army wouldn’t win the civil war. Abandoning any pretense of fighting for a cause—which had only been pretense in any case—my father had his troops lay siege to villages and towns, for no reason but thievery. They killed those who resisted, chased off the rest, and divided the spoils. Oh, don’t think he was the only officer who did this, or even the worst! There was no order toward the war’s end, no rule of law, or sense, or kindness. War is a madhouse of fear, hunger, and death. We were all mad.

  “Myself included. My unit—a tattered and pitiful bunch, wrapped in rags, living on crickets and field mice, filthy, diseased—tried, in those last days, to work our way toward Shanghai. Not to fight, not to hold the city for our glorious Generalissimo, oh, no. To escape! Our captain had died of a fever, and we had no leader, except myself. Not from rank but because, as I told you, I seemed to have a skill for finding food and shelter, what little there was to be had. My fellows followed me, and I carried their hope like a heavy weight.

  “But I wasn’t up to the task. Under my inadequate command we stumbled into an ambush. Remembering a flooded marsh outside Shanghai where frogs were plentiful when I was a boy, I led the way. But Mao’s soldiers had reached the area before us, situating themselves on high ground. I might have seen evidence of their positions, had I known what to look for, but I didn’t. They pinned us down, and over three days they picked us off.

  “At first we took aim, but shooting only drew their fire. So, in the steaming heat, soaked and starving, we waited to die. Crickets whirred and the wounded moaned. Otherwise all was still. Only when one of us, unable to bear it, tried to bolt, did we hear the whine of bullets. The wounded died and the dead began to rot. Crows circled and landed to feast. Mao’s troops amused themselves firing at the birds.

  “Days and nights of this, until all around, floating in brown water, were the staring bodies of my friends. I thought, finally, I was the only man living. I decided to show myself and let the enemy end my miserable life.

  “So I jumped up, arms wide, and shouted for the soldiers to shoot. There was no response. They were gone.

  “I started to laugh. Unable to control myself, I collapsed in the mud. I’d have drowned there, laughing, if not for another soldier who’d seen my suicide attempt. He pulled me to drier ground, shouted and slapped me until the hysteria passed. As we struggled together from the swamp, we found one more man alive. Just one.

  “Together we three resumed our stumble toward Shanghai. We stole clothing from the bodies of civilians—thousands to choose from, thousands!—so we could discard the tatters of our uniforms. We had rifles, but still we exhausted ourselves crossing fields and paddies to avoid the Red Army, which filled the roads. The details of that flight do not bear repeating. Until finally, four days later, we entered the city, to fight our way to the wharves.

  “I couldn’t leave these men, do you understand that? They’d followed me into that swamp, and after what had happened, still they followed me out. But I knew I had passage on the Taipei Pearl, if I could reach the wharf. And they did not.”

  He broke off, coughing. He gestured to a cup on his bedside table. Bill held it for him. When C. D. Zhang spoke again his voice was weaker, and I leaned to hear him.

  “I was starving. I was beyond the end of my strength. That’s how I’ve explained my decision to myself, over the years. I was mad.

  “Chen Kai-rong was responsible for my desperate situation. That was my logic. His escape was the reason my father and I had been forced to flee Shanghai and suffer the privations of war, while his family remained, comfortable in their villa, surrounded by their wealth. Of course that was absurd—if I’d looked I could have seen what the war had done to Shanghai. No one had comfort, no one had wealth. But I was mad.

  “I led my companions to the Chen villa. We would steal what we could and barter what we stole to buy them passage on the ship. As we neared, my mind burned with the thought of the carpets, the paintings, the delicate porcelains. And one treasure more than all the others: the Shanghai Moon. I hadn’t seen it since I was a boy. Any of the hoard I imagined the Chen family to possess would have done to save my friends. But it was the Shanghai Moon that consumed me. Because it was not only a treasure of the Chen family but o
f the wife of Chen Kai-rong. He was responsible for my nightmare. As recompense for my suffering, I deserved the gem!

  “By the time we reached the villa, I was aflame with fury and righteousness. We broke in easily—I knew the gates, the walls, their weaknesses, from days of childhood play. Screaming, waving our rifles, we forced everyone to the study. I must tell you, my resolve nearly broke when I saw my brother, thin and trembling. In my feverish visions of triumph and revenge, he had not appeared.

  “But my companions were dismayed and panicked by the bare walls, the empty shelves. Where were the treasures? A smaller boy, a child I didn’t know, began to cry, and both Rosalie and my brother stepped forward to comfort and protect him. My brother, safeguarding a strange child! My duty to my friends became all I could see, all I lived for. I seized old Chen Da, Kai-rong’s father. Something must remain, some hidden treasure—the Shanghai Moon must be in the villa, I was sure of it. I beat him, an old man; I beat him and he would tell me nothing.

  “Then . . . I don’t know. I don’t know precisely what happened. I heard a shot, and when I turned to look, it was not one of my men but the old houseboy—I remembered him, always slipping sweets to the children—and he aimed a rifle at me! I fired first. And my shot struck Rosalie.

  “When Rosalie fell, the fog of madness cleared instantly. What had I done? Both children reached for her, wailing. I called out, ordered my companions to leave with me. As they had for weeks, they obeyed. The old houseboy chased after us. One of my friends stopped him with one shot.”

  C. D. Zhang’s labored breathing and his pallor made me think he wouldn’t go on, but after a few moments he turned his gaze to me. “We took nothing with us. Do you understand? Nothing. If Rosalie wore the Shanghai Moon, my companion didn’t find it.”

  It took me time to regain my voice. The Shanghai Moon seemed almost beside the point. Still, I asked, “How do you know? What’s to say he didn’t keep it from you?”

  “Because he died! They died, both of them, fighting to force their way onto a ship on which they could not buy passage! The Shanghai Moon would have saved them. But they—we—didn’t have it.

  “So I and my father sailed for Taipei, and my fellows died. We came to America, and I started a new life. But there’s no putting the past behind you, no matter what you’re told. The sight of my companions’ hands reaching out to me from the gangway has haunted me always. And another sight, so similar: those two young boys, reaching for Rosalie.”

  Another cough; then, with clearly slipping strength, he resumed. “Twenty years later, when I received that letter from Shanghai, I felt I’d been given a new chance. I could help my brother and my cousin, I could save them, and we could be a family. But of course that hasn’t happened. It would have been much more than I deserved. My brother especially has always felt a discomfort in my presence. He’s a sweet-natured man and regrets this sentiment he doesn’t understand. As though his unease were the result of some flaw in himself.”

  C. D. Zhang’s eyes slowly closed. “I didn’t take their money,” he murmured. “I’d taken far too much from them already.”

  39

  Bill and I had left the hospital and were back in Chinatown, but even these familiar streets didn’t give me any sense of being on solid ground.

  “You think it’s true?” I asked. “What he said?”

  “Could you tell a story like that if it weren’t true?”

  “He killed Rosalie? But . . .”

  “But you like him.”

  “And he was family!”

  “Families are complicated things.” He lit a cigarette and didn’t look at me.

  I trudged on glumly. I didn’t like this new knowledge; it was weighty and disheartening and didn’t seem to offer any compensation, like for example help in figuring out where the million dollars was. Or the Shanghai Moon.

  “We have a plan?” Bill asked.

  “Are you kidding?” I turned down Mulberry for no good reason. At Bayard we stopped for a funeral to go by. In my mood, I wasn’t surprised; I might have conjured it. Red and yellow flowers frothed on the grille of the hearse, surrounding a photo of the deceased. A youngish man; I could see his wife and children in the next car, stunned and still. I wondered who was at home preparing the funeral meal, and whether it would be as chaotic as Joel’s shiva.

  And suddenly I was struck by a bolt of lightning.

  I grabbed Bill’s arm.

  “What?”

  “Wait.” I ran it through in my mind once more, to make sure I was right. I was. “Joel’s fishy thing. It was in the call with David Rosenberg. Oh, damn! Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

  “I don’t see it now. Care to explain?”

  “Alice asked him for a PI!”

  “And?”

  “In Zurich! At a cocktail party. Before she left for Shanghai. Before she met Wong Pan, before he skipped out. Before this all started!”

  Bill didn’t answer. I could see in his eyes he was doing what I’d done, playing the conversation with Rosenberg over in his mind.

  Three more funeral cars rolled by, holding more solemn children. Nieces, nephews? Cousins? The kind I had, so many and so distant that even my mother couldn’t run down the lines of connection? But it didn’t matter; family was family. Better if you could choose relatives, my mother had said. But you can’t.

  “But you can!” I burst out as the second bolt hit. I saw not the black cars in front of me but other funerals, plain pine boxes, garden graves, winding sheets. Swampy water and bricks weighting bodies down.

  “You can what?”

  “You just said it. Families are complicated things.” I whipped out my phone and dialed Rosenberg’s number.

  “Hello, Ms. Chin. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks.” If you didn’t count the guns, the sidewalk scuffle, the police station, C. D. Zhang’s depressing revelations, and the jolts from the lightning. “But I have to ask you something. When you talked to Joel, you told him Alice had asked about a PI in New York. Did you tell him when she asked?”

  “Not precisely. I think I said a few weeks back.”

  “Thank you! Talk to you later.”

  “Wait. Are you in a rush, or shall I tell you what I’ve learned about the forged documents? My reporter’s spoken to his street source. I was waiting until my information was complete, but I can give you what I have now if you’d like.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, please.”

  “Alice Fairchild probably did have them made, in Zurich. There were a Chinese passport and a U.S. visa in the name of Wu Ming.”

  “Thank you. And”—a wild guess, but it was so clear to me now—“a Swiss passport, too?”

  “Yes. How did you know that? For herself, though why—”

  I interrupted. “In what name?”

  “Helga Ulrich.”

  “Thanks! Good-bye.” I speed-dialed Mary. “Unbelievable!” I said to Bill while I waited.

  “What is?”

  “How stupid I am.”

  Mary answered her phone with “If you’re in trouble, I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Trust me, I wouldn’t tell you. Listen, this is important. Alice Fairchild has a Swiss passport in another name. She’s probably registered at a hotel using it.”

  “What name?”

  “Helga Ulrich.”

  “What kind of a name is that?”

  “Swiss. No, seriously, it’s a long story.”

  “Do I want to hear it now?”

  “No, you want to go looking for Alice.”

  “You’re right, but first tell me how you know this.”

  I was tempted to remind her PIs have an ecological niche in the crime-fighting world, too, but I just gave her the facts.

  “Oh,” she said grudgingly. “Not bad.”

  “You’re welcome. ‘Bye.” I clicked off before she could ask what I was up to next, even though I didn’t know what I was up to next. But fresh adrenaline was sizzling in my veins. Turning to Bill, I s
aid, “Alice has—”

  “I was eavesdropping. Helga Ulrich?”

  “How about that?”

  We stood on the sidewalk and discussed how about that. We were on our way to a hell of a theory, I thought, when we were interrupted by my phone ringing again. It wasn’t the Wonder Woman song but, hoping it was Mary calling from some landline to tell me my tip had panned out and they’d found Alice, I answered anyway.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s your cousin, cuz. I got some shit for you. You want it?”

  Crabby because it wasn’t Mary, I said, “If that’s all you have.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  Warily, he said, “That shit you asked about before, I don’t know nothing, like I said.”

  “Armpit—”

  “Just listen! That fat dude, got picked up today when dai lo got grabbed—anything you can do about that, by the way? Cuz?”

  “No.”

  “I just thought, since you’re tight with the cops—”

  “You thought wrong. Keeping them off you is about all I can do, and it’s getting harder every minute. Armpit, I’m busy here. You have something for me or not?”

  “Jesus, take a chill pill. That fat guy, like I say. Warren says he saw him. With dai lo, twice. You know, at meetings I couldn’t make.”

  Or wouldn’t have been invited to if you were the last White Eagle standing. “You’re telling me Wong Pan and Fishface Deng knew each other. It’s nice to have that corroborated, Armpit, but we’d kind of figured it out by now.”

  “Shit, cuz! Cut me some slack, will you? I’m trying to help you out here. The second time, Warren says the fat dude was with a lady. Baak chit gai.”

  Oh. “Who?”

  “No idea. But you want to see her, she just went into old man Chen’s store.”

  Bill and I charged to Bright Hopes on a dead run, as far as that’s possible in weekday Chinatown. I called Mary, got voice mail, left a message, and stuck my phone in my pocket so I could dodge grandmas, school kids, and melon vendors. Drenched in sweat, we pushed into and through Bright Hopes past a first smiling, then confused Irene Ng, who gave us a token “Wait.”