by S. J. Rozan
“And then Hsing double-crossed him? Possible. Maybe we should look into Mr. Lee.”
“Here’s something else: Would this mean this was a Golden Dragon job and Trouble lied to you?”
I thought about that. “I don’t see why he would. What was I going to do about it? No, if the Golden Dragons had done it Trouble would have been bragging. Maybe Hsing was operating on his own.”
“Do they do that, the gang kids?”
“They’re not supposed to. It’s very bad; the dai lo loses face. But Mary told me Hsing was a loner, not well liked even in the gang.”
“If he had been operating on his own, would that explain why the Golden Dragons haven’t retaliated for his murder?”
“You mean, Trouble just sort of wrote him off?” I considered, sipping the cooled remains of my tea. “No, I don’t think so. It’s like family. You may not like someone, but you’re obligated to take care of them. If you didn’t manage that, you’re supposed to avenge them. But it would explain why the Main Street Boys killed him.”
“Because he was poaching.”
“In their rented territory.”
“Okay,” Bill said. “Let’s work on the theory this Hsing kid stole the porcelains. Where are they? Is there a way we can get a look around his apartment?”
“Actually, his mother did that. She said that she searched everywhere for the other cup after Lee said there was one. In case her son had been saving it for a gift for another occasion, or something. She didn’t find anything.”
“Do you think we can believe her?”
“Why would she lie?”
“To protect her son’s reputation?”
“She was the one who called Mr. Gao. If she’d actually found anything that says her son was a thief she’d never have called him. She’s torn because she doesn’t believe it but she’s afraid it might be true.”
“All right. Assuming he stole them and did something with them we don’t know about yet, here’s another question: why?”
“Why? Because they trade in the five-figure range, according to Dr. Caldwell.”
“Would he know that? An electrical engineering student, a gangster? If he could disable an alarm like that, why not knock over a jewelry store on Canal Street? He could fill his jacket pockets and be doing a lot better than he could with two heavy crates of porcelains.”
“Maybe he was a porcelain kleptomaniac and he stole the stuff from everybody who had some, CP and Lee and who knows who else,” I offered brightly.
“How did he know CP had some?”
“Oh.” I deflated a little. “Someone told him?”
“Uh-huh. Who?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That’s too hard.” I rubbed my forehead, suddenly tired. “Bill?”
“What is it?”
“I’m going to have to tell Mary, aren’t I?”
“Tell her what?”
“They don’t know why Hsing was killed. This could be why.”
“It could be.”
“I promised her if I actually made a connection, I’d tell her. God, Nora’s going to hate that. And Tim. He’ll say he knew from the beginning I wouldn’t be able to keep it quiet.”
Bill didn’t say anything.
“Do you think it would be terrible,” I asked, “if I didn’t tell her until tomorrow?”
“Giving us a chance to wrap up the case?”
“Well, we could, if we get a lucky break and find out where he hid them.”
“If he’s actually the guy,” Bill said.
“You mean, if that actually is one of our cups.”
“Right.”
“You know what I think?” I asked.
“What?”
“I think we need to go see Mrs. Blair.”
N I N E T E E N
Mrs. Blair, of course, was the most likely person to be able to tell us if the cup Mrs. Hsing so desperately did not want to give up was from the Blair collection. I could ask Dr. Browning, but he might not remember, or might not have gotten to it. He’d claimed, when Bill and I had talked to him, to have looked at everything in all the boxes, but this cup hadn’t been in the photographs, and, judging from the state of his apartment, methodical precision wasn’t his style.
It was, however, Mrs. Blair’s.
I very much wanted to see her. Before that, though, I wanted to do some other things.
One was eat. I was starving. Healing always gives me a big appetite; I’d discovered that when I was eight and I broke my wrist in the schoolyard running away from Tim, who was following me around everywhere just to annoy me. “You should have paid no attention to him,” my mother had scolded me, as she bustled around the kitchen and I examined my brand-new cast at the kitchen table. My brothers, including Tim, were still at school; they’d had to stay and finish the day. I was home in the early afternoon being plied with tea and sizzling rice crust.
It was after that incident that my father decided all his children needed the discipline that the study of martial arts provides. The Kung Fu academy in Chinatown where he sent my brothers didn’t take girls, so, outside the community, he found a Tae Kwon Do school for me. By the time he died five years later I was the only one of his children still practicing.
Right now, I was stiff and sore and too hungry to focus my thoughts. In my desk’s top drawer I keep various boxes with various things in them. From the business card box, which was divided up into sections, I took a couple of the cards with the Taiwan address. The kind of gag I was planning to use I’d used before.
I locked my office, but before I did I climbed up to the closet shelf for the .22 Smith & Wesson I keep there and rarely use. I checked it, loaded it, and stuck it in my pocket. A .22 is almost not a real gun and I liked my .38 a lot better, but the Smith & Wesson had two advantages. One, it was small, light, and could be carried around in a roomy pocket so a person with bruises all over her didn’t have to wear a holster.
And two, I, not the Golden Dragons, had it.
I left, headed to the Peacock Rice Shop. There I ate Seafood Chow Fun Soup and pondered Bill’s question: If Hsing Chung Wah was our thief, where were the Blair porcelains now? If he was, of course, and we could find the answer to that one, then maybe the case would be over and the rest of this wouldn’t matter. The Golden Dragons’ delay in avenging Hsing’s murder; the Main Street Boys’ lack of interest in squeezing CP; the mysterious Lee Kuan Yue; Roger Caldwell’s visit to Mrs. Blair; and whatever Steve Bailey and Franco Ciardi had to offer, would all be irrelevant, useless, not of interest.
And the guy who’d been following me.
And my brother Tim’s knowing I’d been to see Trouble.
All coincidental, innocent of any involvement in the Case of the Purloined Porcelains.
It could turn out that way.
Except that every ounce of p.i. instinct I had was yelling that it wouldn’t.
The Peacock Rice Shop isn’t on Mulberry Street, but nothing in Chinatown is far from anything else, so after I’d eaten my soup and drunk some restorative tea I strolled over to Mulberry to see what the importers were importing this year.
I knew where I was going, because from my office, before I’d gone to eat, I’d looked up import-export businesses in the Yellow Pages, called the three on Mulberry Street, and asked for Lee Kuan Yue. At the third they told me he was on the other line and would I like to hold? No, I said, I’ll speak to him later.
Now it was later. I paused before entering Spring Moon Imports, admiring the silk shirts and large porcelain vases in the front window. The day wasn’t quite as cold as the past few had been, the sun peering through small breaks in the clouds every now and then as though it were trying to decide whether this day was something it wanted to get involved in. It was already past two, though, and, being winter, it wasn’t long until evening; if I were the sun I’d figure it wasn’t worth it.
Inside the shop a few customers were browsing up and down the stainless steel shelves, looking through neat piles of silk and cotton clothing and
tablecloths, displays of porcelain teacups and painted bells. Cases down the center of the airy, mirrored store held jade and enamel jewelry and hair ornaments.
I browsed with the other customers for a short time, then approached a saleswoman at the jewelry counter and asked to see Mr. Lee. The saleswoman looked younger than I was, with long straight hair pinned back by a silver and topaz clip. She cheerfully called over the manager and conveyed my request.
“Of course.” The manager, a smiling, short man, folded his hands in front of his gray suit. “I’ll see if he’s free. You are … ?”
“Chin Ling Wan-ju,” I said, speaking, as he had, in English, using my Chinese name and my Chinese accent. I handed him one of the business cards I’d taken from the box in my desk. “I’d like to see him about the possibility of a business venture.”
The manager went to check on Mr. Lee. I spent the few minutes he was gone examining jade bracelets with the help of the cheerful saleswoman. I had just chosen a particularly pretty piece of cloudy jade with a small gold lotus flower inset as a birthday present for Elliot’s daughter when the manager came back and said Mr. Lee would be very pleased to meet me and was on his way down. As the bracelet was being gift wrapped, a tall man in his mid-fifties approached us through the doors from the back of the shop.
“Miss Chin.” He greeted me in the traditional way, one hand folded over the other and a small bow. I extended my hand and we shook. “Please let me offer you some tea.”
“I won’t trouble you,” I said, but he insisted it was no trouble, and soon we found ourselves in his office in the back, sipping a lovely pale oolong out of small white cups. Mr. Lee’s office, like the store, was airy and modern. Papers and pens were neatly arranged on his glass-topped desk; a computer hummed on one corner of it.
After a few minutes of general chat, so that neither of us would seem rude and only interested in business, we got down to business.
“My family has a small firm in Taipei,” I told Mr. Lee, keeping the Chinese accent going, “dealing in antiquities and objets d’art from Asia. We haven’t until now done business outside of Taiwan, but my eldest brother has decided this is a propitious time to explore the possibility of expanding. He’s sent me here on what you might call an exploratory expedition. I’m searching for business partners—firms who might be interested in bringing our goods to the American market.”
Lee Kuan Yue smiled in an interested way. “And what, may I ask, led you to us?”
“Spring Moon Imports is an established, respected firm, the sort of concern we would be honored to be associated with.” I smiled also. I had no idea if that was true, but it’s the kind of thing people’s vanity always lets them believe you believe if you tell them you do.
“Well,” Lee Kuan Yue said, “we’re always interested in new sources of merchandise for our customers. Can you tell me more about the kinds of items your family deals in, Miss Chin?”
“As I said, our specialty is Asian art and antiquities. We’ve recently acquired some small Indian bronzes, and we have some lovely Thai shadow puppets, for example. But your inventory here is all Chinese, isn’t it?” I looked around innocently, though there was nothing to see in the office except a few framed pictures and calligraphy scrolls.
“Yes, we deal exclusively in Chinese goods.”
“And may I compliment you on your jade, by the way. We don’t deal much in jewelry, but we have somewhat of a reputation for high-quality Chinese porcelains of varying antiquity, from imperial ware from the Tang period to some exceptional export porcelains made for the British and American markets.”
I smiled as I said this and held out my cup for more tea.
Pouring my tea, Mr. Lee said, “I’m afraid antiques aren’t something we handle, Miss Chin, although we are very interested in modern porcelains. Does your family have any association with any of the new kilns in Guangdong province?”
His tone and his look were friendly, interested. I sampled my new cup of tea, thinking fast. “No, we don’t deal in modern goods at all. Each of my brothers is a specialist in a different area of antiques, and we’ve concentrated there.” I sampled some more, thought some more. “We’re not a large firm and we’re not necessarily interested in large orders. Perhaps you have a particular customer or two for whom you might want to examine our porcelains, as a special service, even though they’re not the sort of goods you generally deal in?”
Mr. Lee gave a short, good-natured laugh. “No, I’m sorry, antiques are something I know nothing about, and my customers know that. If any of them are looking for older pieces, they won’t come to me.”
“Even if,” I said cautiously, “these are goods they might not find anywhere else?”
He said apologetically, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“We’re an old firm,” I told him, “and we have many long-established relationships with dealers and with certain … individuals. Occasionally we are offered items which for one or another reason are not to be sold on the open market. The porcelains we have now fall into that category.”
“Oh?” He held his teacup lightly between the fingertips of both hands. “Intriguing.” He sipped at his tea and went on, “However, as I say, I have no expertise in the antiques field and therefore no clientele. I’m not sure I’m young enough to start into a new line of work, Miss Chin. I appreciate your offer, and I’d like to do business with your family, but I’m afraid this may not be the right opportunity.”
I gave him my most mysterious smile, as a last-ditch effort. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Lee. I was hoping we would be able to work together.”
“I’m disappointed also, Miss Chin. But if you and your brothers decide to deal in modern goods, please get back in touch with me. I’m always, as I say, interested in new sources of merchandise.”
I made my achy way along the sidewalk, trying to avoid being bumped by my fellow pedestrians, and hailed a cab on Canal to take me to Bill’s. It was a ridiculously short walk, but I was cold and sore and tired and had a long afternoon and evening ahead. Traffic on Canal was snarled and couldn’t seem to figure out how to get itself moving; sitting in the cab I heard a lot of horn blowing but saw very little action.
I felt just like the traffic myself.
Why had Lee Kuan Yue denied dealing in antiques, at the same time as he accused Hsing Chung Wah of stealing them from him?
One possibility was that my clever ruse hadn’t fooled him in the least, that he knew who I was and what I was working on. But in that case, why sit there and talk to me at all? Maybe so he could find out what I knew. But then why not lead me on, ask me about the porcelains, get me to describe them?
And what would I have done if he had?
And what would I have done if he’d thrown me out of his office?
And what would I do if every question I asked in this case just kept on leading to more and more confusing questions and I never, never found any answers?
T W E N T Y
I was sitting in another car, Bill’s, as we made our way uptown. Driving had been his idea, and I hadn’t tried to talk him out of it.
“Otherwise your mother might think that I’m not looking after you well enough,” he said. “In your condition.”
“You’re not supposed to be looking after me!” I snapped at him. “And it doesn’t matter what my mother thinks. And I’m not in any condition.”
“Nope.”
“And it’s freezing in here.”
Bill rolled the window on his side most of the way up. He’d been driving, as usual, with it down; he’ll do that in any weather, unless the rain is actually falling sideways.
“Rough day?” he asked me, glancing over.
“Oh, stop being so understanding; you’re making me feel guilty. Yes, it was a rough day. First poor Mrs. Hsing, who doesn’t want to give Lee Kuan Yue back a cup that’s probably ours anyway, and then Lee Kuan Yue, who denies knowing or caring about antique porcelains in the first place.”
I’
d told Bill about my visit to Lee’s shop as we’d walked to the lot where he keeps his car. Now he asked, “Even the suggestion that what you were offering him might be hot didn’t light his fire at all?”
“Not a flicker.”
Bill pushed the car’s lighter in, waited for the little pop, put it to his cigarette. “Maybe he just likes to know who his fences are.”
“You mean, he wouldn’t want to buy stolen goods from my family because he didn’t know us?” I thought about it. “If that were true he’d have strung me along while he checked me out. Every Chinese-American has someone he can call on Taiwan who can call someone else who knows everybody. Especially an importer.”
“What would you have done if he had?”
“Well, I could have gotten lucky. There may be a Chin family on Taiwan who deals in Asian antiquities.”
“There may be.” Bill’s tone of voice implied it was entirely possible pigs could fly, too.
“Or I might have had to drop the whole gag and tell him who I really was and what I really wanted. I don’t know. But anyway, it didn’t happen. Lee Kuan Yue just wasn’t interested in my goods.”
“Hard to believe,” Bill said with a slightly lewd grin.
“You know, it’s a good thing you’re obnoxious.” I made my seat recline, closed my eyes. “Otherwise I might fall for you. Tell me when we get there.”
As the gentle motion of the car lulled me, my mind went back to Lee Kuan Yue’s spare, modern office. I pictured myself sitting up squarely, telling him straight that I’d been to Mrs. Hsing’s and whose cup was that, anyway? I wasn’t sure, now that I thought about it, why I hadn’t. My first instinct has always been toward subterfuge, fakery, and disguise; but maybe that’s not necessarily a good way to go. I could have gone in straight.
It just didn’t occur to me.
When we got to the Upper East Side we had to park two blocks away and walk through an afternoon that was colder than the morning, though the sun, more ambitious than I would have been, had come out after all. I had a flash, maneuvering around a newsstand on Lexington, of how good a hot bath would feel right now, with the warmth and the mountain scent of Mr. Gao’s herbs surrounding me, but I pushed the whole idea out of my mind.
