by S. J. Rozan
When, softened and passably supple, I wrapped myself in my thick robe and padded into the kitchen, I found my mother hanging the shirt and pants I had worn the night before on the creaky clothesline that runs outside our kitchen window. The frigid January air blasted in as she leaned, clothespins in mouth, out over the windowsill.
“Ma, what are you doing?” I objected. “I’ll take them to the laundry.”
“They smell terrible,” she scolded me, mumbling through the clothespins. “Stale smoke and sweat. I’d be too ashamed to let the laundry have them until they’ve aired out. They won’t be clean but at least they’ll smell like it. You must have been in a very unhealthy place last night, Ling Wan-ju.”
More than one, I thought. For more than one reason.
When I left it was still early, not yet eight-thirty. The day was clear, as the night had promised, and seemed a little warmer than the one before it. I took a cab to Bill’s. We jumped in the rush-hour subway and sped uptown.
Bill had suggested a cab uptown, too, if I wasn’t feeling up to being jostled by crowds, but at that hour it doesn’t pay to try to drive, and the subways are frequent and fast.
And it never pays to admit you’re not up to something.
We arrived at the brown brick building off West End twenty minutes after we left Bill’s. The doorman remembered us, and called upstairs. Soon we were in the wheezing elevator, and then walking the worn carpet, and then knocking on Dr. Browning’s door.
The door opened part way, and Dr. Browning’s wide eyes and thick glasses peered out. His head moved slowly back and forth from Bill to me, as though he were comparing us to photographs he thought he might have seen once.
“Well,” he said. He smiled the little shy smile. “Ms. Chin. And Mr. Smith. This is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?”
“There’s something we’d like to ask you about,” I told him. “May we come in?”
“Oh. Oh, my, of course.” Dr. Browning stood aside in the doorway, and we came in.
The dimness, the paper snowdrifts, the musty smell were the same, and if anything had been moved since we were here last, I wouldn’t be the one to be able to prove it.
“Would you like to sit?” Dr. Browning asked with bashful pride. He gestured at the spaces Bill had cleared on the small sofa and the chair at our last visit. They were still clear, and their cushions still showed the imprints of us. The piles Bill had moved to the floor were still where he’d put them, and would probably stay there, I thought, until some other force of nature put them somewhere else.
I’d seen Bill’s eyes, when we first came in, search out what we’d come to see, although, when he’d found it, his expression hadn’t changed. Now he smiled, thanked Dr. Browning, and sat, his jacket loosely open, his whole demeanor casual and friendly.
I didn’t sit, although I smiled also. I wandered over to the china cabinet on the wall, the one glittering thing in this dusty room, the one place where, instead of disappearing into the shadows like a footfall into carpet, light bounced and played and shot little piercing sparks into the dimness of years.
Just like the wine barrel god’s cabinet in my own living room.
“They are lovely,” I murmured. “Your collection.”
“Oh,” Dr. Browning blushed. “Well, they’re so small, but they’re quite special. Each of them really is wonderful, in its way. Thank you for noticing.”
I turned to him, some part of me already apologizing silently for what I was about to say. “You might not thank me, Dr. Browning, for what I noticed. Would you take one of them out for me?”
“Take one of them out? One of my little ones? Why—why would you want me to do that?” He moved protectively toward the cabinet.
I looked from him to the small, shiny porcelains on the shelves, and I caught Bill’s eye. “Well,” I said, “I suppose that may not be necessary.” I studied the shelves again, and then navigated the paper hillocks to the small sofa. “But I think you know which piece we’ve come to talk about.”
Dr. Browning remained standing, his owl-eyes regarding me through their thick lenses. Neither Bill nor I spoke; we waited. The silence was as thick and old as the dust that was everywhere. Slowly, Dr. Browning’s thin, stooped form seemed to deflate; he sank into the desk chair as though his legs were finally too weak to support their burden.
When he spoke, his words were so soft that I had to lean forward to hear him.
“The truth is,” he whispered, with a small, sad smile I didn’t understand, “that I don’t. Although I might hazard a guess.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said, more because I wasn’t sure I’d heard him than because I expected him to explain himself.
“They’re all… my little ones are all…” He trailed off, hands twisted in his lap, head bowed.
I glanced at Bill, then spoke again. “The cup.” I tried to make my words gentle. “The tiger cup with the tiger on the lid. It’s from the Blair collection, isn’t it?”
Dr. Browning nodded, eyes still on the floor. “I thought that must be the one you meant.” Suddenly he looked up. “I could tell you it isn’t.” That was offered in the tone of a hopeful suggestion, but before I could respond he folded in on himself again. “Oh, I’m no good at that,” he sighed. “I always knew my only luck would be not to be found out. And it lasted such a long time, too, my luck. But I always knew this would happen one day, and there’d be nothing I could do about it. I’m no good at the bold-faced lie.”
“Dr. Browning,” I asked, “what are you saying?”
The great owl-eyes blinked at me. “Stolen,” he said. “All of them. My little ones are all stolen.”
The thick silence covered the room again.
Bill and I looked at each other; then my glance went back to the cabinet, all the proud little pieces standing to attention.
“All?” I said lamely. “All of them?”
He nodded again. “On an assistant professor’s salary,” he said, as though it were an explanation. “An assistant art history professor, in a field so unglamorous. I could never have collected. Not even my little ones.”
He rose, shuffled over to the cabinet. From his trouser pocket he pulled a long gold keychain, hand over hand the way you’d draw a bucket up from a well. With the gold key on the end he unlocked the cabinet. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. Dr. Browning removed the tiger cup, held it in both hands while he regarded it. Then he locked the cabinet and, walking slowly to the small sofa, handed the cup to me.
“I knew this would happen,” he said, seating himself again. “It was bound to. I was never a very good thief. But I’m glad it’s you, Ms. Chin. And Mr. Smith,” he added politely. “I am. I like you, you see.” He blushed furiously, his eyes fixed firmly on the dark patterns in the carpet.
I held the delicate, translucent cup to what gray light had managed to make its way through the windows’ grime. The red tiger shimmered, and its eyes glowed. It seemed alive, about to flick its tail, about to spring into fierce flight across the room.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said. “All these pieces are stolen? Stolen from where?”
“From so many places,” was his answer. “Wherever I found them. So many dark places.”
The meaning of that was not clear to me. I tried to find another direction to come at this from. “The platter we saw at the Kurtz? That one too?”
Dr. Browning smiled as if in fond memory. “Oh, my, yes, such a beautiful piece. Quite unique in the height of the lip on its rim, for the time. From the Harwood House Museum,” he added. “In Concord, Illinois.”
“You stole it?” I asked, trying to make sense of this. “You stole it from one museum and gave it away to another?”
“Well, yes,” Dr. Browning answered. “Of course. I donate all the large pieces. I can’t possibly display them here.” He gestured around the shadowy room, with its paper mountains and bookcase crags, showing me what I must have unaccountably forgotten.
&nb
sp; “Displaying them?” Bill asked in a soft voice, speaking for the first time. “That’s the point?”
Dr. Browning nodded vigorously. “Yes, of course. So they can be seen. Why else would I take them?”
“Some people,” I suggested, “steal for money.”
“Money?” He looked horrified. “You mean, sell them? Try to …” he paused, seeming to search for a word, “…fence them?” He blushed again. “I? Ms. Chin, I wouldn’t have the first idea of how to go about that. Nor any reason to. Whatever untoward profit these pieces might bring me, were I to follow the path you suggest, with it would come a degree of guilt that I’m sure would be unbearable. The guilt I already suffer is, I assure you, quite difficult enough to carry.”
“Then why do you do it?” I asked.
“As Mr. Smith has suggested,” he answered patiently. “In order that they might be seen.”
“Dr. Browning,” I began; but he continued on his own, in a slow but steady rhythm, as though a gate had been opened and what had been locked inside could not now be prevented from marching out.
“The little ones,” he said, “the little ones, you see, are so rarely displayed. Even when most of the collection is out, the little ones are often left behind. In the basement, or in a stuffy attic. In dark boxes, where no one sees them from one year to the next. Think of that, snow to spring to summer, and still no one to admire them. Except the occasional dried-up scholar, who’ll unpack them, turning them in his hand looking for the brushstroke or chop that will prove his pet theory, then pack them away again, for years and years … No, Ms. Chin. It’s simply unacceptable.”
I thought of myself in the basement of the Kurtz, the melancholy feeling I’d had at the thought of all those bright objects shut in all those dark boxes.
“The occasional scholar?” I asked. “That was you?”
He blushed again, as though at a compliment. “It’s been my privilege to have studied most of the major collections of export porcelains over the years. And many smaller ones also,” he added, keeping the record straight.
“And you stole from them? While you were studying them?” I was trying to keep my voice matter-of-fact. Lydia Chin comes across this sort of thing every day.
“Yes, indeed. Though rarely anything large,” he said earnestly. “Certain items, like the Harwood Platter … well, they weren’t going to display it, you see. They hadn’t the space. They received their porcelains in a bequest from a local gentleman who’d been fond of the place. But they know little about porcelains, and their staff, bless them, are overworked as it is.”
“So you took it,” I said. “And no one noticed?”
“Why, they never do, do they? Remember, Ms. Chin, these are the pieces no one unpacks from year’s end to year’s end.”
“The Blair collection cup.” Bill spoke up from the dimness of the large armchair. “Why did you take that?”
Dr. Browning turned to him. “For the same reason, of course. Nora was not going to display it.”
“How do you know that?” Bill asked.
“They have such little space in that tiny museum. And, after all, there were two.”
“There were two!” I burst out. Dr. Browning gave a little jump in his chair. “There were! The other one was ours, then!”
“I’m so sorry?” Dr. Browning’s apologetic voice was tentative. He fixed his worried eyes on the tiger cup I was still holding. He seemed ready to charge to its rescue if I did anything else loud or sudden. “I don’t understand.”
I placed the cup gently on the top of the bookcase beside me before I spoke. “I saw another cup yesterday,” I said. “Exactly like this one. There are good reasons to believe it was stolen. If it was, it was stolen from CP with the rest of the things from the Blair collection, wasn’t it?”
Dr. Browning kept his eyes warily on me as he answered. “Most likely,” he said. “There may be others like it, of course. But there was one in the Blair collection crates that are now gone.”
“You didn’t tell us about it,” I said. “It wasn’t in your photographs or on your list.”
“Well, I hardly could, could I? You were sitting right here questioning me about the collection, right here with my little cabinet. I was terrified, even so, that somehow you’d know about it, that you’d see my cup and my secret would be out. I’ve always been afraid like that, you see.” He smiled a sweet smile. “I’m rather glad it’s over.”
The question of what was and wasn’t over for Dr. Browning was, I suspected, more complicated than he thought. I left it for another time.
“That cup,” I asked. “Had you photographed it?”
“Yes, of course. That was part of the task with which Nora charged me.”
“Where’s the photograph now?”
“I destroyed it. I’m sorry,” he added anxiously when I frowned, although my frown was more in thought than in anger.
“Professor,” Bill said, in an easy, friendly manner, “you weren’t quite truthful with us about the photographs. May I take it that you were less than candid about other things, too?”
I wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at, but Dr. Browning nodded as though he had been expecting the question.
“Mr. Blair’s inventory lists,” Bill went on. “They’re more complete than you led us to believe.”
“Yes,” Dr. Browning agreed. “Mr. Blair was a thorough man.”
He lifted the battered briefcase, stood it on his knees, extracted a file, and replaced the briefcase on the carpet. A small cloud of dust arose to cheer its return.
Dr. Browning opened the file. “I couldn’t let you see this, because my—acquisition—was on it. And I honestly didn’t believe it could help you locate the thief.” He blushed, dropping his eyes to the floor, smiling the shy smile again. “The other thief.”
“Dr. Browning,” I said, more because I felt I had to than because I wanted to, “there is another thief, isn’t there?”
“Another …” His round eyes widened as he realized what I was saying. “Oh, my. Yes. Oh, my. You don’t think I stole all those pieces? From Nora? Oh, I never could have done that. How terrible! What you must think of me! Oh, Miss Chin, never. Only my little ones. Only so that they can be admired. Never in quantity! From a friend? Oh, never.”
He sat hunched in his chair, deflated to the point where I thought he might collapse. His mouth quivered. I was afraid his great round eyes would fill with tears. Before that could happen, I said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Browning.” Apologizing to a thief for thinking he might have stolen something? What are you corning to, Lydia? “I did have to ask.”
“Yes, I quite understand.” Dr. Browning withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. He took a determined breath, replaced the handkerchief, and returned to the file on his lap. “Shall I?” he asked with dignity.
“Please,” I said.
He opened the folder, extracted a sheet of yellow legal pad paper. It was a list in fine fountain pen ink, written in a firm, legible hand. “I still don’t see what good it could do you,” he said. “But in the spirit of—I believe it’s called ‘coming clean’?—I’m happy to give it to you.”
He handed Bill the list. I stood and peered over Bill’s shoulder. Nine pieces were described briefly, with dates listed beside them. A group of letters—either ASR, PKM, or SG—stood next to each date. Two of the pieces were a pair; they were the tiger cups.
“What is this exactly?” I asked.
“It seems to be Mr. Blair’s record of the new acquisitions. He fell ill, apparently, before he was able to complete his records in a formal manner. Nevertheless, all the information is there.”
“The descriptions of the pieces?”
“And their acquisition dates and provenance.”
“Provenance?” I wasn’t entirely sure of what the word meant, and I didn’t see anything on the list that looked like it might mean that.
“The source from which they were acquired. Somewhere among Mr. Blair’s p
apers I’m sure Mrs. Blair, by now, will have found bills of sale and other formal documentation, although she hadn’t at the point when she made her donation to the museum. In any case, Mr. Blair recorded for himself the source of each piece.”
“These letters next to the dates?”
“Yes, exactly. If I may?” Dr. Browning reached for the paper, which Bill passed him. “These two, you see, were acquired from private collectors. ASR, that would be Dr. Arthur Reid, in Indiana. A lovely man. And SG is a Mrs. Grunewald in Boston. I’ve not met her, but I’ve no doubt this is she. The remainder of the new acquisitions seem to have come at one time from one source. You see? PKM. That would be right here in New York: the Peter Kurtz Museum.”
My heart took a leap into my throat. Dr. Browning, looking pleased and cooperative, handed the list back to Bill. Pushing the words out around my heart, I said, “The Kurtz? He got the stolen pieces from the Kurtz?”
Dr. Browning turned his attention to me. “Why, yes. I expect they were deacquisitioning. Their collection is quite extensive. You’ve seen it, have you not?”
“Yes, we were there.” More than once, I thought. For more than one reason. “Dr. Browning,” I said, “we showed your photographs to Dr. Caldwell. He didn’t give any sign of having ever seen those pieces before.”
“Dr. Caldwell?” he asked. “You did? He didn’t?”
Bill asked, “Could PKM mean anything else? Maybe another collector?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Dr. Browning said. “The attribution appears elsewhere in Mr. Blair’s collection, and in fact it’s rather commonly used in the profession to refer to the Kurtz Museum.”
“Then why didn’t Dr. Caldwell admit to knowing those pieces?” I asked.
“I—I wouldn’t know.”
I watched him. He watched the folded hands nervously twitching in his lap.
“No,” I said. “But you know something, don’t you?”
“I?” he said without looking up. “Oh, no. About what would I know anything?”
