Socrates perked up and listened attentively. This was what he’d been waiting for.
“All the objects to be displayed, other than the Blue & White Export ware, were discovered in the Chairman’s secret archives within the past eight years. None has ever been seen by the public before, East or West. The opening of the exhibit will be their public unveiling.”
Bing-fa stopped and adjusted the knot on the belt around his waist. Then he continued. “Several of the stolen objects — the female rider on a horse, the Xi’an Agreement’s Secret Protocol, the Shang Dynasty wine cup, the Northern Sung Edict, and the Ch’ing Dynasty Imperial Mandate — were not even known to exist before the planning for the exhibit, not even as rumors, until recently.”
THE NEXT MORNING when the THREE PROSPERITIES CHINA ARTS GALLERY opened for business, Socrates was out front on the sidewalk staring at the CLOSED sign hanging behind the glass door. He watched as a disembodied wrist and hand suddenly materialized from the darkness behind the glass, gripped the small sign, and turned it over. The sign now indicated OPEN.
Socrates waited a few seconds to compose his thoughts, then stepped into the gallery and looked around. At the same time, Linda Fong looked up at him from where she stood alongside her desk. Socrates quick-stepped across the showroom over to the alcove.
Fong fixed her gaze on Socrates as he approached. She perched her left hand on one hip and cocked that hip and her head to the side.
Socrates suppressed a smile. All she needs is an accordion playing in the background, he thought, a navy blue beret on her head, and a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth to make the Parisian noir image complete.
“Good morning,” Fong said. She smiled broadly. “Welcome back. Are you here to buy one of the watercolors or, perhaps, to see the exhibit again? She gestured with her hand toward some paintings on one wall.
“Not today,” Socrates said. “I’m here to see the director. My name’s Socrates Cheng. Tell her I’d like to talk with her for a few minutes.”
Fong’s bearing noticeably stiffened. She dropped her left hand from her hip and narrowed her eyes. “The honorable director is not here.” Fong turned away from Socrates and walked around behind her desk. Then she turned back to face him.
Fong’s sudden hostility puzzled Socrates. He consciously softened his voice. “When do you expect her?”
Fong shrugged. “In the early afternoon, perhaps. Or possibly later. It is hard to say.” There was no warmth in her voice.
“In that case,” Socrates said, “so my trip here’s not wasted, I’d like to buy an exhibit catalog. The one for the postponed cultural exhibit, not for the show up now,” he said, tilting his head toward the paintings on display.
Fong shook her head. “The catalogs are not for sale, not until the replacement catalogs have come back from the printer. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
The irony and sarcasm of Fong’s last statement were not lost on Socrates. He took a step closer to her, moving around to the side of the desk. He glared at her as he spoke.
“That’s not good enough, Ms. Fong. I’m investigating the burglary at the request of Master Li Bing-fa. I need the catalog for my investigation for him.” He pointed to the stack of perfect bound catalogs piled on a chair across from the alcove.
Fong followed Socrates’ finger with her eyes, then looked back at him and shrugged her indifference. “I just told you, they are not for sale. The color is wrong. The books are going back to the printer to be pulped and reprinted. You cannot have one.”
Socrates stepped back, away from the desk, and deliberately raised the tone of his voice half an octave to moderate it. He cocked his head slightly to one side in a subtle attempt at classic subservient body language.
“Please, Ms. Fong,” he said, speaking gently. “I really need your help. Just let me buy one of the defective catalogs. I don’t care about the print color. I just need to see the images and read their descriptive captions for my investigation.”
Fong’s eyes hardened. “I just told you, they are not for sale. Now, if you don’t mind, you are keeping me from my work.”
Socrates knew he was beaten for now. “What’s the best time for me to come back today to talk with Director Hua?” he asked.
“After 1:00, maybe later, but you will be wasting your time. The director won’t permit you to have a catalog either.”
SOCRATES RETURNED TO the gallery a little after 3:00 o’clock to meet with the director. He hoped Fong would not be there.
He’d intentionally delayed his return to the gallery to a time later than the 1:00 hour when, according to Fong, Iris Hua was due to arrive back. He wanted to give Director Hua breathing room after she returned to work, time to respond to phone messages and time to catch up with anything else that demanded her immediate attention. He hoped his unstated thoughtfulness would reflect itself in her good mood and make her more amenable to talking with him.
Socrates entered the gallery, removed his sunglasses, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the artificial light. He could barely make out the silhouette of a woman standing next to a desk in the alcove. She had her back to him. Because she was not the assistant director, he assumed she was Iris Hua.
Hua turned toward the entrance door as Socrates closed it. She hurried across the exhibit room, taking short, quick steps toward him. An effusive smile overspread her face.
While still a dozen feet away from Socrates, but closing fast, Hua abruptly shut down her smile and stopped walking. The director had just recognized Socrates, although they had never met.
The word’s out about me, Socrates thought. Hua’s assistant obviously had warned her that Socrates would be coming back this afternoon.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Hua said. There was no vendor’s warmth in her voice. She clearly knew who he was and why he was there, and she wasn’t pleased.
Hua turned and walked back across the exhibit room to her desk. She gathered up some papers and put them in a drawer. Then she turned to face Socrates again, but this time from across the showroom. She stared at Socrates and remained silent.
Socrates walked over to the alcove. “I’m Socrates Cheng,” he said. He extended his arm to shake hands as he stepped into the alcove. “I came by this morning to see you. I spoke with your assistant.”
“She told me.” Iris Hua did not accept his proffer to shake hands. “What is it you want, Mr. Cheng? I doubt I can help you.”
“I’m investigating the burglary,” Socrates said. He paused a few seconds, waited for some reaction, then resumed when none was forthcoming.
“I’m acting on behalf of interested parties,” he said. “I represent powerful people in your community.” He paused and again waited futilely for some response, then said, “I have some questions, only a few, then I’ll get out of here and leave you alone.”
The director shook her head, but didn’t say anything.
“There’s one other thing,” Socrates said, “besides my questions. I need an exhibit catalog. I don’t care about the color. I need the information written about each object and the 1:1 scale photographs. I’ll pay for the catalog. How much is it?” He slid his hand into his right pants pocket and pulled out a folded stack of currency held together by a silver money clip.
“I won’t answer your questions,” Hua said, “and the catalogs are not for sale. Now, unless you have something else to say, I would appreciate it if you will please leave. I am very busy.”
She did not apologize for her unaccommodating attitude or offer Socrates any off-the-shelf excuses. She simply nodded sharply once as if to underscore the rightness and non-negotiable character of her position, then turned away and walked around behind her desk. She started rearranging a stack of mail.
“Anything you say to me will stay between us,” Socrates said. “I won’t make things awkward for you. I promise. I’m just here trying to help Honorable Li Bing-fa, is all.”
The director looked up. She raised her h
ead and eyes to Socrates’ level and moved her head with what Socrates thought was contrived languor, as if she was emerging in slow motion from a trance.
“Mr. Cheng,” she said, her voice taking on a patronizing sing-song tone, “I already know you represent the Honorable Li Bing-fa so I am not influenced by your statement and its implied coercion. But I am curious about one thing. Please tell me, if you will: Which part of what I just said to you, do you not understand?” She locked gazes with Socrates. Then she said again, speaking very purposely, “I have nothing at all to say to you, except, this: I will not talk with you about the burglary or permit you to have a catalog. That is final.” She let this sink in briefly, then said, “Now, leave before I call the police.”
Socrates’ neck and face burned. “Wait a minute,” he said, his nascent irritation now maturing into anger and percolating to the surface. “I don’t appreciate being brushed off. I don’t know who you think you are. I told you, I’m here on behalf of . . . .”
He let his statement fizzle into silence in the face of Director Hua’s almost imperceptible shrug and briefly raised left eyebrow, which together silently screamed her indifference. Socrates saw the picture. The woman was neither impressed with his fervor nor daunted by his assertion of putative authority.
Iris Hua slowly wagged her head. She spoke very softly, but deliberately now, emphasizing each word, using a condescending tone that offended Socrates. “Mr. Cheng, I do not care who you are, why you are here, or who you represent. I want you to leave. Now.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
Socrates was about to respond in kind when he heard the unmistakable clicking sound of wooden doorway beads banging together as someone walked through the hanging strands into the exhibit room. He turned in time to see Linda Fong emerge from the beaded doorway.
“Is there a problem, Director Hua?” Fong said. She rushed over to the alcove. “I heard angry voices.”
Oh, right, thought Socrates. You obviously were eavesdropping on us. We weren’t loud and we weren’t angry, just determined, was all.
The assistant director stopped walking when she came near Socrates. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. She turned her head toward the director. “I am sorry, Honorable Director Hua. I did not mean to interrupt. I is just I thought I heard someone arguing.”
“Everything is fine, Assistant Director. Go back to your work. This person is just leaving.” She flicked the back of her hand at Fong, motioning her away.
Assistant Director Fong bowed her head once, looked at Socrates from the corner of her eye, and turned and headed back through the wooden beads.
Socrates waited until she’d left, then said to the director, “Ms. Hua, what’s the problem selling me a catalog? I don’t plan on passing it around. I just want to use it as a reference tool for my investigation. I’ll even bring it back to you when I’m finished, if you want.”
Iris Hua drilled her eyes into Socrates’ eyes, and said again, speaking as slowly and deliberately as one might talk to a recalcitrant child, “Please listen to me, Mr. Cheng.” She paused until Socrates nodded. “I told you, I will not answer your questions and I will not sell you a catalog. Is that clear?” She waited a beat, then said, “Now, please go and stop wasting my time. I have no more to say to you.”
Socrates said. “Fine. Have it your way. For now.”
He turned to leave and noticed Linda Fong standing across the room in the doorway behind the beads, listening. He winked at her as he walked past.
Socrates left the gallery and walked around the corner. Once out of sight of the gallery, he took out his cell phone and called Bing-fa. Socrates recounted his experiences that morning with the assistant director and this afternoon with the director.
Bing-fa said he would remedy the situation, that he would arrange for Socrates to have productive meetings with both women, and would see to it that Socrates received a catalog. He told Socrates that he or one of his sons would soon get back to him.
THE NEXT MORNING Socrates awoke early and went for a run in Rock Creek Park. He ran three miles out and three in. The run worked. Socrates no longer felt stressed.
His plan for the day was to shower, then call Jade to see if she could meet him for lunch, and then turn back to the investigation.
As he approached his front door, Socrates pulled out his key ring, but stopped abruptly, his key poised inches from the STRASBURG dead bolt security lock.
The door was open nearly two inches.
Socrates stood motionless, held his breath, and listened for the sound of movement inside. He heard nothing.
Adrenalin kicked in and lubricated his judgment. His eyes narrowed; his nostrils flared. One part of his conscious mind, fueled by his flowing hormones, hoped he would find the intruder present. The resistant, rational part of his conscious mind hoped the intruder had already left.
He placed his knee against the door and slowly pushed it open until he could ease himself inside. He was feline alert, listening for the faintest sound as he tried to sense the presence and location of the intruder. He tiptoed into the foyer and looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
He stepped over to the living room and looked in. Nothing.
He quietly walked to the kitchen. It, too, was clear. He looked in the guest bedroom and bathroom. Still nothing.
Just a few areas left to clear, he thought. The master bedroom, its bathroom, and all the closets.
He edged up to the wall alongside his bedroom doorway and listened. The room seemed preternaturally still. In fact, the whole apartment seemed unnaturally quiet. No street noises seeped in through the bank of windows fronting the street, and no neighbors along the hallway slammed doors as they entered or left their condo apartments.
He waited, taking shallow breaths so he could hear the slightest movement inside.
Nothing.
He stepped into his bedroom and looked around.
Everything seemed to be in order. Everything, that is, except for the one thing on his bed, and that thing left him breathless.
IT HAD HAPPENED again. Someone had bypassed his two locks and the building’s security and had entered his home.
This time the intruder hadn’t left a threatening note. Instead, this time the intruder left a copy of the exhibit catalog, a copy with its front cover torn off, sitting on Socrates’ bed, leaning up against the pillows where the note had been left.
Socrates broke out in a heavy sweat. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand and gradually took control of his emotions. He forgot all about checking the closets to see if the intruder, surprised by Socrates’ return before he could exit, still lurked in the apartment.
Socrates picked up the catalog, using his handkerchief to hold it by its corner, careful to preserve any latent finger or palm prints or DNA the intruder might have left on the defaced book. He placed the catalog in a large, clear plastic Baggie, left his apartment, and taxied over to the 2D. He reported the break-in to the police, completed several forms reporting the crime, and left the bagged evidence with the cops. Then he walked home.
He was stressed. More than he’d been in a long time. He decided not to shower yet, not to change into fresh cloths just now. He needed to run again. So he donned his running gear and headed back to Rock Creek Park.
AS SOCRATES REACHED mile two in his run, he smoothed his pace, instinctively lengthened his stride, and, ever aware that time was slipping away before the date of the exhibit’s rescheduled opening, thought about his progress so far in understanding the burglary.
He tried to put himself in the frame of mind of the gallery’s burglars, and considered possible reasons they might have selected one object to steal over another. Why would they take nineteen objects and leave behind several hundred others? he wondered. What would I have been thinking had I been the burglar?
Socrates comfortably passed the three mile mark in his run.
In considering the burglars’ rationale, Socrates first elimina
ted the size and weight of the objects left behind as criteria because Bing-fa had told him that all the objects in the exhibit were small, easily hidden, and could be easily carried away. Even the large calligraphy scrolls could be rolled and readily transported.
Socrates’ fundamental dilemma was that he didn’t understand why someone would bother to steal any of the objects, let alone the specific works they’d selected. After all, he thought, it wasn’t as if there was a ready-made secondary market for them. At least there wouldn’t be if the Embassy and Bing-fa would change their approach and report the crime to the FBI and Interpol.
Yet the burglars could not have known that the theft wouldn’t be posted when they planned it. They would have assumed — rightfully, he thought — that the usual protocols would be followed, information about the burglary would be posted online, and that, as a result, it would be difficult for them to dispose of the stolen objects. Socrates doubted, therefore, that the primary reason for the burglary was to dispose of the articles in an aftermarket. There had to be some other reason.
Socrates quickened his pace, passed the four-mile mark, and thought about the usual reasons professional thieves stole art.
The typical reason for art theft was no different than the usual reason for most thefts — the thief’s desire either to possess the contraband for himself or to convert the loot into cold cash. Socrates discounted the first reason as unlikely. Professional burglars rarely were motivated to commit a theft so they could own the stolen property, professional being the key term here.
The second reason—the ‘convert to cash’ motivation—made good sense if the objects taken were not well known and would not raise an instant alarm in the art community if they were offered for sale. But this motive would not serve the thief well if the stolen objects were the subject of an exhibit catalog or were illustrated in books, magazines or journals, or were otherwise so much a part of the cultural landscape that they could be readily identified. In this instance, Socrates decided, the burglars would have anticipated that the stolen objects would be the subject of an illustrated catalog as part of the exhibit. The items, therefore, from that point of view would not be readily convertible into cash in the usual black market outlets.
Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries) Page 10
