by S. J. Rozan
Mrs. Blair lived in a four-story brick rowhouse—the kind of building that’s called a brownstone in New York, no matter what it’s made of—two houses in from Lexington on Eighty-second. The maid, a fair-skinned Irish woman in a black uniform, told us Mrs. Blair was expecting us and would be right down.
The maid showed us into a bay-windowed room filled with satin-striped furniture with carved legs, a Turkish carpet, and diluted sunlight flowing gently through sheer curtains. In my room at home the sun charges in as though it’s trying to burn a square hole in the floor.
The maid took our coats and invited us to sit, but we both stood, admiring the portrait of Mrs. Blair in a formal gown over the fireplace and the small objects of porcelain, silver, and crystal placed in elegantly eye-catching spots. A silver-framed photograph of a smiling man in waders holding a large flopping fish dominated the mantelpiece.
“Do you suppose that’s him?” I whispered to Bill, pointing at the fisherman. “Mr. Blair?”
“Betcha,” he answered.
The click of heels on the marble foyer floor made us both turn as Mrs. Blair entered the room. Wearing a silk blouse and a wool skirt—and, I noticed, stockings and high heels in her own house—she smiled at us graciously.
“Ms. Chin. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Hello, Mrs. Blair.” I introduced her to Bill, although I wondered as I did that whether I was supposed to introduce Bill to her first. There’s a rule of etiquette that covers these occasions, but I don’t know what it is.
“Please, sit down.” She gestured to the pristine-looking furniture, chose a chair with graceful wooden arms for herself. Bill remained standing until both Mrs. Blair and I were seated. Well, at least someone in this partnership had manners.
“Mrs. Blair,” I began, after everyone had crossed their legs and tugged at their trouser creases—or, in Mrs. Blair’s case, her skirt hem—“something a little odd has happened and I wondered if you could help us.”
“If it will help Chinatown Pride recover my husband’s porcelains I’ll certainly try.”
“I’m not sure. But can you tell me about the porcelains that were stolen: Was there a white cup with a red tiger on it?” That seemed to me a shabby description of the delicate, translucent vessel painted with the fiery beast that Mr. Gao had held to the window’s light, but if she’d owned it she’d recognize it. “It had a top, with a tiger on that, too.”
Mrs. Blair paused, gave me a small smile. “This may seem strange to you, Ms. Chin, but I’m not sure. As I told you, the collection was my husband’s; I wasn’t really involved with it.” Her eyes went to the photograph of the fisherman, lingered a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that sounds familiar. Why?”
“There were two of them,” Bill interjected. “Two covered cups like that, identical.”
Mrs. Blair turned her gaze to him. “Well, as I say, I’m not sure, but I don’t believe they were my husband’s. Why do you ask?”
“One of them has turned up,” I said. “It was a long shot, but porcelain … we just thought we’d check it out. Mrs. Blair, may I ask you something else: Are you acquainted with Dr. Roger Caldwell, from the Kurtz Museum?”
I thought, for a fraction of a second, something hard passed over her face, but it might have been a cloud momentarily darkening the sunlight in the room.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Dr. Caldwell’s particular field is porcelains. I believe he and my husband consulted on occasion.”
“Had Dr. Caldwell seen your husband’s collection?” I asked. “Would he recognize the pieces?”
Mrs. Blair looked down at her perfect, French-tipped nails. “I don’t believe so, no. Apparently they occasionally bid against each other at auction, and I suppose whichever pieces my husband was successful in acquiring Dr. Caldwell might remember and recognize. But he was not a guest in this house.”
I thought I heard, in that, an echo of the icy Hong Kong lady I’d heard in Nora’s office. I glanced at Bill; if he’d heard it too, he wasn’t showing it.
Interested in the source of the chill, I asked, “But you didn’t consult Dr. Caldwell about the disposition of Mr. Blair’s collection?”
“As a matter of fact, I tried, but Dr. Caldwell was in Europe, on an extended purchasing trip, as I understand. He wasn’t aware my husband had passed away until his return. But all in all I’m very satisfied with—in fact, grateful for—Dr. Browning’s advice and assistance.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “Well, Mrs. Blair, we appreciate your seeing us, and we won’t take much more of your time. Let me just ask you one more question: Do you know a Chinatown importer named Lee Kuan Yue?”
Her clear brown eyes blinked. “Of course,” she told me. “He’s my brother.”
“We need a cup of coffee,” Bill said. “To help us think.”
We were walking south on Lexington, toward the art gallery that was our next stop. The sun had packed it in and the city was cloudy and gray, approaching the early twilight of a January afternoon.
“I never need coffee,” I pointed out. “But I could use help thinking.”
We chose the first place we came to, a white-and-green tiled cafe that was mostly takeout but had a line of tables opposite the pasta-salad-filled glass cases. Bill got black coffee and a blueberry scone; I got Irish Breakfast tea. We carried them to a table, drank, and tried to think.
“I’m such an idiot,” I told Bill, squeezing my teabag around my spoon. “Did I cover well enough?”
“You were perfect. I’m sure she has no idea that you’re an idiot.”
“Gee, thanks.”
After Mrs. Blair’s revelation about her relation to Lee Kuan Yue, I’d told her I’d only asked because his firm was known for dealing in porcelains and we were checking on all such firms. If I’d known he was her brother, of course, I wouldn’t have bothered. It sounded lame to me, but she appeared to buy it.
“You knew I had a brother doing business in Chinatown, of course? I believe I mentioned him to you when we first met.” She seemed slightly amused at my confusion.
“Yes, of course. I just never connected the two.”
“I should have thought to arrange for the two of you to meet. Have you talked to Kuan Yue? Was he able to help you?”
“Well, as I say, it was only a background check. Actually, he told me he’s not interested in antiques.”
“No, I don’t believe he ever was. We were raised to look to the future, my brother and I.”
Now, picking blueberries out of Bill’s scone, I said to him, “Maybe he’s the guy you were theorizing about at the beginning. Lee Kuan Yue. The one who had his eye on the collection for a long time but couldn’t get at it until it went to CP.”
Bill leaned back in his chair, sipped his coffee. “Keep going.”
“Well, he could have seen the collection. I mean, her brother. No matter how much of a recluse Mr. Blair was, his wife’s brother could easily have been in and out of the house all the time.”
“Ummm. It’s possible. But he’d also have known Blair was dead. Why not try to make a deal with her then?”
“Maybe they’re not on good terms?”
“She didn’t make it sound like that. Maybe we should ask him.”
“Maybe we should,” I agreed.
“That would fit with your other theory,” Bill said.
“I had another theory?”
“That Mrs. Blair has an idea who did it, and is lying about no one seeing the collection to protect whoever that is.”
“Ah, that theory.” I leaned back in my chair, too. “You know, there’s a way to test that theory.”
“I thought of that.”
“Did you?”
“Uh-huh. There’s an Irish bar on Second Avenue where all the Irish maids I know go for a pint in the evening, after the mistress retires.”
“You know a lot of Irish maids?”
“Doesn’t everybody? What’s Mrs. Blair’s number?”
> I gave it to him. He pushed back his chair and went to the pay phone.
“Okay,” he said, sitting down again. “I have a date with Rosie O’Malley at nine.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That she was beautiful as a summer’s evenin’, that her eyes were like the sparklin’ waters of home.”
“You didn’t.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“She didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d fall for that kind of stuff.”
“She didn’t. So I said I was a p.i., I’d like to ask her some questions, and I’d buy her a beer.”
“That worked better?”
“It usually does.”
He went back to his coffee. “Leaving her brother out of this,” he said between sips, “the guy Mrs. Blair doesn’t seem to be on such good terms with is Roger Caldwell.”
“You picked that up too?” I asked. “I wonder why.”
“And I wonder why, if it’s true, he was over at her place yesterday.”
“Maybe we should ask him.”
“Maybe we should.”
“But if they’re not on good terms,” I broke off a crumbly piece of scone, “why did she try to consult him about the collection when Mr. Blair died?”
“Who says she did? Maybe that was just to throw us off.”
“Could be. You think she’s that sneaky?”
“I don’t know her. The only Chinese women I know well are you and your mother.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What’s your point?”
“I wouldn’t dare make one.”
He grinned. I dabbed crème fraîche on my pebble of scone. “What do you suppose it’s about, her and Dr. Caldwell?” I mused. “The pieces her husband beat him out for at auctions?”
“That sounds to me like a reason for Caldwell to carry a grudge, not Mrs. Blair.”
“Well, maybe it worked the other way too. Maybe he snarfed up some soup bowl Mr. Blair’s heart was set on.”
“For a woman not involved in the collection, it seems pretty heartless to dislike him over a soup bowl.”
“Not involved in the collection. But very involved with her husband. Suppose he’d wanted something very badly, and Dr. Caldwell had stolen it.”
“Literally?”
“Well, no. But used some seriously dishonorable means to get his hands on it. I’ll bet that would have upset her, if it upset him.”
“Possible. But you know, it didn’t sound to me as though Mr. Blair had a lot of trouble with Caldwell. She said they consulted sometimes.”
“True.” I finished my tea, noticing that I ached, wishing I didn’t, or, if I had to, that I could do it home in bed. “I don’t know, maybe she just doesn’t like his cologne. But I can’t get over the feeling that there’s something real there.”
“I think so, too,” Bill said. “I think there is. We just haven’t figured out what, yet.”
* * *
Our visit to the Morpheus Gallery was short, because Franco Ciardi’s little tidbit of information was short, though very interesting.
The gallery was a hushed, white-walled space on Madison, three square rooms at the top of a flight of carpeted stairs. The glow of the bare wood floor, the tranquil oil-painted landscapes, and the refined sounds of a string quartet gave you the sense that this was a warm, calm refuge from the scurrying and the chill outside.
Of course, all the paintings had price tags, and the string quartet was on CD, available at Tower for $14.95.
“Smith, my boy!” Ciardi, a sharp-nosed man in his fifties, beamed as we walked through his glossy door. “I would have closed, but I waited for you.”
He said this modestly, as though waiting for us was some impressively generous act he didn’t want any fuss made over.
“Uh-huh,” Bill said. “Franco, this is Lydia Chin.”
“Enchanted.” Ciardi turned the beam on me. It was like being caught in someone’s headlights; I wondered if he could turn it down. “Absolutely enchanted.”
I murmured something I hoped was enchanting. Ciardi squeezed my hand meaningfully, though I had no idea what it meant. Bill wandered into the room, stood in front of one of the landscapes. Ciardi looked his way.
“Oh, don’t waste your eyes, dear boy. Marvels of mediocrity, very popular with the matrons.” He winked at me. I had no idea what the wink meant, either. “Still, one must make a living.”
“In all sorts of ways,” Bill said, turning back to him. “You called me?”
“Certainly. I certainly did. About your porcelains. Come sit down.”
He showed us to the corner where his desk angled, to two highly finished wooden chairs with needlepoint seats. He perched himself against the graceful, curved-legged desk, folded his arms, beamed some more.
“So what’s the story, Franco?” Bill asked. “Someone try to sell some hot porcelain to a friend of a friend of yours?”
“No. No no no. Your pieces aren’t on the market, as far as I know. Not, of course, that I would have any real way of knowing that sort of thing. Only what I inadvertently hear, that’s all.”
“Of course that’s all,” Bill said in total agreement. “So why are we here?”
“Well,” Ciardi hugged himself a little closer, with the look of a man about to share a delicious piece of gossip, “the point, the point about your porcelains is, someone else is looking for them.”
Bill and I glanced at each other; then I said, “Who?”
“Ah,” Ciardi said. “Unfortunately, I don’t actually know.”
“If you don’t know who, how do you know he’s looking?” Bill asked.
“He was here,” Ciardi said triumphantly. “But he gave me a false name. Never con a con man, dear boy. I looked him up as soon as he left.”
“When was this? What was he like?” That was me.
“It was early this morning. Early in the art world, that is: before ten. He was, if I may say so, like the pair of you: He claimed to be a private investigator. That may be true. But he also claimed his name was Jim Johnson, which sounded phony enough to be true—sort of like ‘Bill Smith,’ dear boy—but it wasn’t.”
“You checked?” Bill asked.
“Thoroughly. Although he showed me a license that looked very like yours, no one bearing that name is licensed to ply your trade in this great state. Or the surrounding colonies.”
“What did he look like?”
“A very average gentleman. Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot nine or ten.”
“Did he wear a hat?” I broke in.
“A hat?” Ciardi seemed delighted at the randomness of the question. “He didn’t. No hat.”
“The guy following me,” I said to Bill. “It could be him.” To Ciardi I said, “What did he want?”
“He wanted porcelains. Chinese export porcelains, though,” turning his eyes to Bill, “I have even less faith that he had any idea what that meant than that you do, dear boy. But he described some pieces, rather vaguely. His descriptions were too similar to the photographs you showed me for coincidence.”
“He said they were stolen?”
“He did. From his client, who, he implied, would be willing to pay for their return.”
“How did he get to you?” Bill wanted to know.
“My dear Smith, do you think I’m your personal trade secret? One has a reputation, you know.”
“I’m sure one has. Did he leave you any way to get in touch with him?”
“No.” Ciardi gave himself a moment, to add to the drama. Then he said, “He told me, however, that he would be calling me.”
“Franco,” Bill said, “this is fascinating. Did you send him to the Kurtz also?”
“That,” Ciardi seemed affronted, “I would not have done.”
“Not for free, anyway,” Bill said.
“Most certainly not for free. You and I, after all, have a history. This is a gentleman I don’t know. However, as it happens, he’d already been there.”
“To t
he Kurtz?” I asked.
“He asked me about the Kurtz. Whether I’d heard of them acquiring porcelains lately. I had to say I hadn’t, and he said that’s what they had told him, too, but he’d wanted to make sure it was true. Unfortunately I couldn’t enlighten him further.” Ciardi beamed at us. “Have I been useful?”
“Franco, you’re invaluable,” Bill said. “Tell me one more thing. In your line of work, have you come across an importer named Lee Kuan Yue? Lee’s his last name.”
Ciardi rolled his eyes. “My dear boy, I’m well acquainted with the Chinese custom of placing the family name first. A quite sensible way to proceed, actually.” He smiled and bowed to me. “No, I don’t believe I’ve heard the name.”
“You wouldn’t expect him to be interested in our stolen porcelains?”
“I have no reason to, no.”
“How about Hsing Chung Wah?” I asked.
“I’ve not heard of this gentleman, either. Is this case of yours turning out to be a far-flung international conspiracy? It’s beginning to sound quite fun.”
“Not fun, Franco,” said Bill, standing. “This sort of case is never fun.”
“My dear boy, I’m sorry to hear that,” Ciardi answered as I stood also. “One’s joy and one’s reputation are quite everything in life.”
T W E N T Y - O N E
Okay,” I said to Bill as we stood on the windy corner below the Morpheus Gallery. “I think it’s time to go to the Kurtz Museum and find out what’s going on around here.”
“Misguided optimism is one of your most adorable characteristics.”
“Get lost. But before you do, do you have any aspirin?”
“You have a headache?”
“I have an ache everyplace. Don’t sympathize,” I cut him off. “You’ll make me feel sorry for myself.”
“You have a right.”
“But I don’t want to. You don’t think Steve Bailey’s big news will make all this crystal clear?”
From his look I got the idea there was something he wanted to say, but he didn’t say it. He shrugged. “So far everything we’ve learned today has just made it murkier. Here’s a drugstore; I’ll treat you to some aspirin.”
