Chin - 01 - China Trade

by S. J. Rozan

  Mrs. Blair ignored that. She asked, “And the other murder? The gang boy?”

  “We don’t think Dr. Caldwell was responsible for that. It probably had to do with the theft, but it seems to have been a gang territory dispute more than anything else.” I think, I added silently. And dammit.

  Mrs. Blair finished her coffee with two elegant sips. She replaced her cup and saucer on the polished table beside her, regarded me without speaking.

  “Bill and I have this worked out pretty carefully, Mrs. Blair,” I said, wondering what was on her mind. “If you agree, we’ll bring the police in before we start. I don’t think there’s any danger to you.”

  “Danger can mean many different things, Ms. Chin,” she answered. I heard the sudden, unexpected echo of Mr. Gao’s voice in my head, saying almost the same thing. “The sort of danger you’re talking about is not something that concerns me.”

  She stood, paced the room slowly to the marble fireplace mantel. There, after glancing at the likeness of her younger self, and, it seemed to me, at the spot where her husband’s photo no longer stood, she turned back to face us.

  “Roger Caldwell may well have killed that young woman. He is quite capable of an act like that, I believe. If he did so, it may have been to protect whatever ‘laundering’ scheme, as you call it, he had created at the Kurtz. If there is a way to prove that he did, and if I can help in that, I would consider it my duty to do so.

  “However, if you intend to prove that he committed that crime by connecting him with the Chinatown Pride theft, you will fail at that.”

  The certainty of her words knocked me off balance. I looked at Bill; he seemed as at sea as I was.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Because Roger Caldwell did not steal my husband’s porcelains from the basement of Chinatown Pride,” she said in a tone of calm control. “I did.”

  T H I R T Y

  I felt like a department store dummy, a figure in one of those scenes where the action is frozen in the middle of a situation that’s unexplained. Nothing had changed from the second before Mrs. Blair spoke until now, except that the room seemed stuck in time, no one able to move, no sounds able to penetrate from outside.

  Bill recovered before I did. “Mrs. Blair,” he said, gently placing his coffee cup on the table beside him, sounding as calm as she was, “would you explain that, please?”

  She looked as though she had been waiting for an indication that we were ready for her to proceed.

  “Everything you’ve just told me about the laundering scheme at the Kurtz,” she said, remaining standing by the mantelpiece, “I already knew. Except its name. May I assume that, since it has a name, such things go on all the time?”

  “Usually with money,” I managed, staring at her. “I’ve never heard about it with art before.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, that Roger Caldwell invented it, or adapted the standard procedures of such schemes to his profession,” she said thoughtfully, and with what sounded to me like bitterness. “In any case, I apologize for putting you through the process of explaining to me the entire situation and your theories regarding it, but it seemed important to me to find out exactly how much you knew. I suppose I thought—or hoped, rather—that the possibility still existed that my act could remain undiscovered. And I confess to being shocked at what you told me that I did not know: about the two deaths connected with this case.”

  She looked down, her lips pursed. Then she raised her head and began again.

  “Ms. Chin, Mr. Smith: What you have surmised is correct, but only partially. My husband did, indeed, purchase stolen porcelains through the Kurtz. I knew nothing about it until Dr. Caldwell returned from Europe, was informed of my husband’s passing, and came here inquiring as to the disposition of his collection.

  “I had not met Dr. Caldwell before this, but I did know that he was one of the few people that, toward the end of his life, Hamilton was willing to leave the house to see. That had inspired in me a gratitude toward Dr. Caldwell that, I see now, was extremely ill-founded. In any case, thinking his interest solely professional, I received him and informed him I had donated the collection to Chinatown Pride, on the advice of Dr. Browning.

  “I was prepared for a certain disappointment, but not for his reaction. He became extremely agitated. He told me this was impossible, and that I must retract the gift. That, of course, was out of the question. Imagine making a donation and then retracting it! It’s simply not done. I refused, of course.”

  Mrs. Blair stopped, and the parlor was heavy with silence again. Looking no less in control than ever, but suddenly weary, she crossed the room to her seat on the satin chair. She arranged her skirt and, her back ramrod-straight, continued.

  “He told me then about the stolen pieces, the six new pieces that Hamilton had bought from the Kurtz in the months before his death.

  “I reacted with furious anger that he had cheated my husband in such a way.

  “And he told me he hadn’t.”

  She looked down as she said that, for the first time seeming unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes.

  I said, “You mean, Caldwell said it wasn’t him?”

  “No,” she said, looking up again with her steady gaze. “I mean, he said there was no cheat.”

  I caught her meaning just before she explained it, but I still felt the chill of disappointment, a ghost of what she must herself have felt, as she said, “Hamilton, according to Dr. Caldwell, knew exactly what he was buying.”

  “Oh,” I said weakly. “Oh, dear.”

  “Are you sure that’s true?” Bill spoke up, a deep, calm voice of reason. “He could have said it just to apply pressure.”

  Mrs. Blair gave Bill a small, grateful smile, and shook her head. “He claimed Hamilton had wanted certain pieces for many years, pieces he had been unable to obtain. My husband was a patient man, but he was growing weaker and progressively unwell. According to Dr. Caldwell, those particular pieces were stolen on Hamilton’s instructions. He claimed to be able to prove that.”

  “And you believed him?” Bill asked.

  “I felt I couldn’t take the chance. My husband was a well-respected man, both in his profession and among those who shared his love of porcelains. It was unacceptable that his reputation and good name should be destroyed after his death. Even,” she said steadily, “by accusations based in truth.”

  “So Roger Caldwell blackmailed you into stealing your own porcelains back from CP?” I asked, still getting this organized in my head.

  “No. I told Dr. Caldwell that I could not tolerate such a man as he in my house and requested that he leave at once. I said that, for my husband’s sake, I would find a way to ensure that their mutual crime not be brought to light. I did not tell him what I was planning; at that time I did not know myself. He called me a number of times over the next few days, but I refused to speak to him. He didn’t know what I had done until you and Mr. Smith showed him the photographs of the stolen pieces. He came to me not knowing it was I who had arranged the theft. He was greatly worried that those pieces would reappear on the market.

  “I told him I could assure him that there was no question of that, that I had arranged for the solution to the problem, and that I would appreciate it if he did not contact me again.”

  “So you risked your own name and reputation to commission the theft?” I said.

  “If my husband’s reputation were ruined, would not mine be in any case?” She shrugged. “I had nothing to lose.”

  “Your brother,” I suddenly said. Oh, good morning, Lydia! “Lee Kuan Yue. He’s the one who actually made the arrangements, the one who hired Hsing Chung Wah to commit the theft.”

  “I wish I could deny that,” she said. “I don’t know how you found out about his involvement, and I must admit my heart sank when you mentioned his name to me. I’m ashamed to have entangled Kuan Yue in this, but after I had demanded that Roger Caldwell leave my house I didn’t know where to turn. Ku
an Yue and I have always looked out for each other.”

  “That’s why he claimed Hsing had stolen the cup from him,” I said, still following this path, thinking out loud, “but he didn’t respond when I offered him hot porcelains. I thought he was lying when he said he didn’t deal in antiquities, but then everyone else also said he wasn’t in the stolen-art business. And he isn’t, is he? Except for that one time.”

  “No, he isn’t.” Mrs. Blair shook her head slowly. “Although I’m not sure what offer you mean … ?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “An investigator trick. It didn’t work, anyhow.”

  Mrs. Blair’s look was doubtful, but she continued. “As I say, I’m ashamed to have involved my brother, but it was necessary. I have no contact with the class of person who could commit a theft. Any Chinatown merchant, however, knows, at a minimum, those gang members to whom he pays protection money. I knew Kuan Yue could find someone to arrange things. I could not retract the gift without considerable damage to my own reputation, and the gossip that would be engendered in collecting circles if I did might bring to light, eventually, exactly what I was trying to hide.

  “The loss of the collection would also be a blow to Chinatown Pride. If those particular pieces could be retrieved, however, my husband’s reputation would remain intact, and the rest of the collection could remain at Chinatown Pride. The standing of their museum would be—will be—greatly enhanced by their ownership of the Blair collection, and they would not feel the loss of those pieces.”

  “You weren’t afraid of being caught?”

  “There was a risk, but once the actual theft was successfully accomplished, it was small. Nora, I felt, would be unwilling to involve the police in an investigation, for the sake of Chinatown Pride’s reputation, and could be persuaded to take another path.”

  “And we were that path. Because you didn’t think we could do it.” My blood was beginning to boil, but my voice was steady. After all, she’d almost been right.

  “Ms. Chin, please don’t take offense. No criticism of your professionalism was implied. I felt that, because your resources were more limited than the authorities’, and because these pieces were not going to reappear on the market, you would be less likely to come close to the truth. I had not counted on your ingenuity, nor Mr. Smith’s. In a way I must congratulate you.”

  I looked to Bill. He was smiling a small, polite, ironic smile.

  “However,” Mrs. Blair went on, in stronger, clipped tones, “the situation has changed entirely. If it’s true, as you tell me, that two young people have died, then one’s reputation no longer has much meaning, has it? You will not need the deception you were planning in order to unveil Dr. Caldwell. I am prepared to go to the police and tell them everything I have just told you.”

  Her calm and her self-possession filled the room as completely as the soft sunlight filtering through the curtains. My anger faded, and it occurred to me as I looked at her that I’d never met a more courageous person. The thought surprised me, and I put it away for later. “I think,” I said slowly, “that that’s the right thing to do. And I can imagine how difficult it will be, considering the reasons you did all this.”

  “Well,” she said, “I suppose there will be some satisfaction for me in this, if it results in the apprehension of Roger Caldwell. I do blame him for tempting a weakening, aging man into an act that, in his final few months, largely cancelled the virtue with which he had struggled to live the lifetime that preceded it.”

  “I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Bill said. “I don’t think virtue at the end cancels a lifetime of corruption, and I don’t think it works the other way either.”

  Mrs. Blair smiled at him in thanks, but didn’t answer.

  “Is that why you removed his photograph?” I asked gently. “Because you’re angry at him?”

  She returned her gaze to me and waited before she spoke. “That’s part of the reason,” she said. “I felt increasingly uncomfortable each time I looked at that photograph, until finally I felt I must do something. Partly it was because I was angry with him, yes. For his weakness. And for his lack of trust in me, that he told me nothing of this when he was alive. And partly, after what I had done—and entangled my brother in—I felt he must be angry with me.”

  The ghosts, I thought. Like my mother, she’s living with the ghosts. Active presences, real beings who demand room in your life. Are we all like that, Chinese women? Are the ghosts demanding my attention too, and I’m refusing to notice?

  The room suddenly seemed alive to me, the diffuse light moving with the not-quite-visible spirits of Hamilton Blair, of Hsing Chung Wah and Trish Atherton, even of my father and my mother’s sister. Not all of them wishing us well, and all complaining, in voices I could almost but not quite hear, of neglect, of abandonment, of loneliness.

  Stop it, Lydia. I shook myself mentally. Get a grip. This is theft and murder and cops we’re talking about, not seances. Make a plan. Talk to the woman.

  Before I could, however, the parlor door opened. The ghosts vanished, whisking away to corners and shadows as the solid form of Rosie O’Malley appeared, stopping at a respectful distance just inside the room.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” she said, “but there’s a telephone call. I told him you were engaged, but he says it’s important.”

  “Thank you, Rosie. Who is it?”

  Rosie O’Malley gave Bill a lightning-fast glance and a tiny secret smile before she said, “The gentleman from the museum, ma’am. Dr. Roger Caldwell.”

  “Tell him I can’t speak to him.” The anger in Mrs. Blair’s voice was faint—one tried, I supposed, not to display such strong emotions in front of the servants—but definitely there.

  Rosie turned to go.

  “No,” I said. “Wait. Mrs. Blair, talk to him. If you can. See what he wants. It might help.”

  Her look was all reluctance and distaste.

  “I’ll get on the extension,” Bill said, standing. “Be noncommittal. Just let him talk.”

  Mrs. Blair looked at him, then stood. “Very well,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “If you think it’s important. I’ll take it in the study, Rosie. Show Mr. Smith to the hall telephone.”

  The study was the back room, opening off the parlor. I stood and followed Mrs. Blair into it, trying to establish myself close enough to hear but far enough away that I wouldn’t make her nervous. The small room, dim and wood-panelled, held a desk, a few large framed paintings, and alcoves whose glass-doored shelves were empty. The collection room, I realized.

  Mrs. Blair picked up the receiver. “Dr. Caldwell.” Frost hung on her words. She waited.

  “Yes,” she said. A pause. “Yes, I know them.” Another pause. “No, I don’t think so.” More pause. I tried to hold my frustration in check. “I don’t see—” Silence as he evidently cut her off. “You cannot possibly be serious.” About what? I demanded silently. “That is unthinkable. I cannot—” I clutched an easy chair so I wouldn’t run over to the desk and grab the phone. “You wouldn’t do that,” she breathed, in apparent disbelief. “There is not—you cannot prove—” Another pause. Involuntarily I stamped my foot. Mrs. Blair looked up. I held up my hands in apology. She went back to the phone. “Even if I were willing, I would not know—no, it is not the same. I have—” A long silence, during which I almost exploded. When she spoke again the disgust in her voice was obvious. “Very well. I will consider what you say. You will hear from me.” Without a good-bye, Mrs. Blair hung up.

  Sitting at her husband’s desk, her hand on the phone, she regarded me with a curious look.

  “Well?” I said, trying to sound professional and at least a little bit disinterested. “What did he want?”

  I heard the parlor door open. Bill crossed the parlor, entered the study as Mrs. Blair answered me.

  “He wants me to have you killed.”

  T H I R T Y - O N E

  I felt my jaw want to drop, but I refused to let it.
r />   “Me? Killed?”

  “And Mr. Smith,” Mrs. Blair told me, with an equanimity born, I suspected, of breeding and not of the emotions of the moment.

  “Roger Caldwell does? He wants us killed?”

  Bill and I looked at each other; he shrugged. Then he smiled.

  I realized I was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Mrs. Blair,” Bill said, “do you mind if I smoke?”

  Mrs. Blair, looking very confused, waved away the question distractedly. “No, go right ahead. Ms. Chin, what on earth is there to smile about?”

  “This is good,” I said, trying to collapse the smile and cut off the adrenaline flow that had sparked it. “This is very good. Tell me what he said.”

  Bill struck a match, lit up a cigarette that I imagined he’d been wanting for some time now.

  Mrs. Blair, still looking confused and now a bit impatient, said, “He asked if I knew who you both were. I said I did. He then said that you had information that, if made public, would put him in such a bad position that it was worth his while to take rather radical measures to insure that your silence was maintained. Further, he said, your information would surely reveal my own participation in the theft from Chinatown Pride, and my husband’s crime also. For this reason he was prepared to offer me the following choice: either he would turn himself in to the police, making the best deal he could by offering evidence against my husband and myself, which, he said, would result in my going to jail and the loss of my husband’s good name.

  “Or I could arrange to have you two ‘taken care of’ as I had arranged to solve the earlier problem.”

  “Did he actually say to kill us?” I asked, looking from her to Bill. “Did he say that?”

  Bill shook his head as Mrs. Blair answered, “No, not in so many words. But he said that any solution I devised must be permanent and foolproof. He said he himself could think of only one such solution, and he was sure I could envision the same one. He said he was looking forward to reading the morning Times.”