Trail of Blood (28 page)

“The Shanghai Moon . . . That rings a faint bell, but no more. Is it something I should remember? Oh, dear.”

“Maybe not. It’s just something I’ve come across. It was a brooch, very valuable, and there was a rumor it was in Chapei Camp.”

“The Japanese had it, you mean?”

“No, actually, the story I read said a prisoner might have had it.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s possible. None of us had anything valuable. The Japanese took all that, you see. For safekeeping, they said, though of course it never came back.”

“What if someone had hidden it? Didn’t anyone conceal anything?”

“In the beginning, I think so. A widowed friend of my mother’s hid her wedding ring. But when her children got sick, she sold it to the camp commander for medicine. And another woman, alone and very beautiful . . . Miss Montgomery, she’d been a Sunday school teacher, yes, that was her name! One day she was gone, and I heard some adults say the Japanese had suddenly discovered she wasn’t American, but Swiss, and put her on a repatriation ship. The way they were talking, I knew something was odd, but I didn’t know what. Later I learned everyone thought she’d bought her way out of the camp. She had nothing valuable, though, and I couldn’t imagine what she’d sold.” Mrs. Conrad said that sadly, letting me know that now, she could.

“So the Shanghai Moon . . . ?” I said gently.

“No, dear, I don’t know about it. But I don’t think anyone in the camp had it. No matter how much they might have wanted to hold on to it when they arrived, after the first year, or the second, they would have given it and much more to get out.”

We talked some more, Joan Conrad offering whatever memories she had, me gently steering the conversation, until I was finally convinced she had no further light to shed.

“Mrs. Conrad, I want to thank you very much. You’ve been an invaluable aid to my research. If I can ask you one more thing?”

“You
may,
dear. You certainly may.”

“Yes, thank you. Your sister, Alice. I’d like to speak to her, too. Can you tell me how to find her?”

“Oh, Alice lives in Zurich now. She’s a lawyer. But you may be lucky. She’s in the U.S. at the moment, in New York. Isn’t that where you said you were?”

“Yes, at Columbia.”

“Good for you! You must be quite bright, studying at such a prestigious university. All the more reason to take care with your language usage. Yes, Alice is staying at the Waldorf-Astoria. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m not sure how much longer she’ll be there. She was up here yesterday, just for the day.”

Oh? When she said she was in Washington?

“She comes over every few months. She’s such a dear, but my goodness! I’ve told her she doesn’t have to make that costly long trip just to tell me to take my medicine! Maria will certainly do that!” She laughed. “But Alice has always taken such good care of me, since we were little. And now that I’m alone . . . Well, I do enjoy seeing her, so I suppose I don’t put my foot down the way I ought. In any case, try her at the Waldorf.”

“Thank you, I will. Could I—may I also have her address in Zurich? In case I miss her?”

“Of course you may.” She all but audibly beamed at my self-correction. “I’ll get it for you.” I heard the phone clunk down, and before long she was back. She read off an address and phone number in Zurich, both the same as on Alice’s card.

“Thank you. And I have just one more question.”

“Ask as many as you like. This has been so interesting. You know, when we came back, what with the horrible news from the concentration camps in Europe, and the prisoner of war camps in the Philippines and so on, no one wanted to listen to us talk about our war. Most people didn’t even know where Shanghai was. My parents never spoke about the camp, either. I suppose they didn’t want to bring up bad memories. And our family had other things to adjust to, after all. Alice and I had never been to America. We saw snow! And we were both sick when we got here. Then we got well and we started going to school and that was that. So I haven’t talked about it very much at all. So many memories! Even if most of them are muddled.” She stopped, coughed, then said, “Yes, I’m sorry, dear. You had another question?”

The needle on my guilt-o-meter had flown into the red zone, but I asked my question anyway. “After people died, what became of the things they’d brought with them? Mrs. Ulrich, for example. What would have happened to her suitcases?”

“Her suitcases?” A pause. “This won’t sound very nice, I’m afraid. I don’t remember about Mrs. Ulrich’s things specifically. But when people passed on, their things were . . . divided up. None of us had enough, you see. Clothes, or shoes, blankets, toiletries, medicines. Hairbrushes or sewing kits. Even the suitcases themselves—people made furniture from them, and cribs for the babies. So that would have been what happened. When poor Mrs. Ulrich took ill she died very quickly, a matter of days, I think. My mother was probably in charge of deciding what to do with her things, and they were put to good use, I’ve no doubt about that.”

I thanked her, promising to call again if my research needed anything else, and hung up. It crossed my mind she might call Alice and gush about the nice young graduate student from New York who was so interested in Shanghai. Well, it couldn’t be helped. What possible rationale could I give for asking her to keep mum?

I poured a cup of tea and thought about Mrs. Ulrich’s things being put to good use. It was likely they had been, but unlikely that, if she’d had the Shanghai Moon, anyone had knowingly ended up with it and kept it secret all these years. Why would they? But unknowingly? Could someone have it now—sewn into Mrs. Ulrich’s sewing kit, concealed in one of her many suitcases the way Rosalie and Paul had hidden Elke’s jewelry? Could it be languishing in some airless attic, tossed onto a moldy pile of World War II keepsakes? That was possible, and if so it was as good as gone forever. But that left Bill’s question unanswered: If Frau Ulrich had had the Shanghai Moon, or even knew where to find it, why hadn’t she used it to buy her way out of the camp?

So probably she hadn’t had it and couldn’t have laid her hands on it. But it was clearly way beyond coincidence that Alice had been locked in the same camp, in the same room, with the Ulrichs. Especially since that fact, like so many other things—say, the existence of the Shanghai Moon itself—was one Alice had failed to mention. But if something from those days gave her a clue to where the Shanghai Moon was now, why had it taken this long, and the discovery of Rosalie’s other jewelry, to get her moving on it? And if, as Wong Pan claimed, it had been in a secret compartment with the other jewelry all along, and he had it now, what was I supposed to make of Alice’s relationship with the Ulrichs? Or of Zhang Li’s contention, echoed by his brother C. D. Zhang, that it was stolen in a robbery in 1949?

I called Bill.

“Who’re you?” he drawled.

“I’m sorry.”

“And I’m pissed off. Pleased to meet you.”

“Are you really?”

“Pleased to meet you? I already know you. So I wasn’t surprised that you called and woke me to tell me you’d call me back. So no, I’m not really pissed off.”

That being the case, I told him about my morning.

“Whoa. You’ve been busy. Maybe there’s something to this early morning thing after all.”

“You think?”

“No. But this business about Alice Fairchild and the Ulrichs—God, I wish I knew what it means.”

“So do I. The other thing I wish I knew is what the White Eagles are going to be up to this afternoon.”

“You think this is it? The big score?”

“Don’t you? Mary said we have to stay away. But—”

“No buts. If the NYPD is all over it, we’re not. For one thing, it may have nothing to do with us, with this case. And come on, Mary will tell you all about it.”

“If she ever starts speaking to me again.”

“Doesn’t she owe you one, for calling me in the first place?”

“She doesn’t see it like that. Bill?”

“Uh-huh?” I could hear the snap of a match as he lit a cigarette.

“Do you think my mother could have done that on purpose? Called Armpit’s mother to see if she could find out anything to help me?”

Silence while he drew in that first nicotine hit. “I’d say yes.”

“But this is my mother!”

“Did she have any other reason to speak to Armpit’s mother?”

“Not that I know of. But . . .” I couldn’t think of anything more to explain my inability to believe this than “This is my mother.”

34

Bill and I made plans to meet; then I spent a useless half hour on the phone and online while Bill showered and pulled himself together. I called Mr. Chen, so Irene Ng could tell me he wasn’t in, and Mr. Zhang, so Fay could tell me he was out. I called Alice, so her voice mail could tell me she wasn’t available. I Googled the Ulrichs, the Fairchilds, and Chapei Camp in all the combinations I could think of, so the Web could tell me the Shanghai Moon wasn’t anywhere. I stared at my cell phone, trying to hypnotize it into ringing the
Wonder Woman
song so Mary could tell me anything at all. It just sat there.

I did my dishes, swept up, and straightened this and that. When the phone finally played something, it was the
Bonanza
theme. I grabbed it up. “Took you long enough!”

“Why, something happening?”

“No, and I’m sick of it!”

“A little antsy?” Bill asked sympathetically.

“So antsy I can’t stand it. Come on, I’ll buy you coffee. Meet me at Tai-Pan.”

“Uh-oh. Do I detect disobedience of a direct NYPD order?”

“No way! Do you see me anywhere near the White Eagles? And why can’t I buy my partner breakfast at my favorite bakery?”

“Since when is Tai-Pan your favorite bakery?”

I didn’t bother to answer, because he knew: since we found out how handy it was to Mr. Chen’s shop. I also didn’t comment on how he didn’t comment on my slip of the tongue that brought out “partner.”

My congee being a fairly recent event, I contented myself with tea and a red bean bun at Tai-Pan. I put this measly array on an unnecessary plastic tray and added napkins and knives and forks, the better to colonize space at the counter. Bill showed up soon after and ordered a large coffee and an ugly cream-filled pastry, something Chinese people wouldn’t have dreamed of eating until the Hong Kong British introduced what passed for food back home. When Bill took out his wallet, though, the stone-faced woman at the register waved him off with a nod to me.

“I told you I was buying.” I slid the placeholder tray off his part of the counter.

“You’re a class act. How’d she know it was me?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He turned and looked at tables crowded with Chinese grandmas chattering in Chinese, Chinese waiters on their way to work in Chinese restaurants, Chinese mothers with Chinese babies. The only
lo faan
besides Bill were a tourist couple trying in whispers to guess the ingredients in the pastries.

“Okay, I get it.” He sipped his mammoth coffee. “So what’s the plan?”

“We have no plan. Mary has people keeping an eye on Mr. Chen and other people keeping an eye on the White Eagles. I’m obediently staying out of it, even though both leads came from me. If the police department gives a civilian medal of honor, I think I should get one.”

“For leads, or obedience?”

“Both.”

“So we’re just here for breakfast?”

“You don’t like the coffee?”

“It’s great. And this cream horn is even better.”

“Don’t even tell me about that thing.”

“And if Wong Pan shows up?”

“If he does, I want to . . .”

He gave me a moment, then prompted, “You want to what?”

“See him. I just want to see him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m lying.”

Across the street, sunlight flashed off the door at Bright Hopes as Irene Ng stepped outside to inspect the window display.

“I wonder if Chen’s in there?” Bill said.

“I would really,
really
like to go over and find out.”

“Tell me again how long you and Mary have been best friends?”

“Okay, all right,” I grumbled. I sipped tea and watched the comings and goings. I was trying to convince myself the chewy dough and spicy sweet filling of my red bean bun were enough compensation for being forced to sit on the sidelines when Bill nudged me.

“There’s your cousin.”

And damned if Armpit Kwan wasn’t slouching up the other side of the street. His greasy hair flopped over his forehead, and if he’d changed his shirt since yesterday, it only proved his entire wardrobe was equally spattered and disgusting.

“Those two guys,” I said. “The one next to him and the one who just stopped at the noodle cart? They’re White Eagles, too.”

“Big deal ones?”

“I don’t think so. Junior nobodies, like Armpit. I wonder where Fishface is. Or his lieutenants.”

We watched Armpit and his boys meander. They stuck to that block but didn’t pay much attention to Bright Hopes. They smoked, they ate, they ogled girls.

“Must be waiting for the boss to show up,” Bill said.

I agreed; if this was the White Eagles’s big score, nothing would happen without their
dai lo
.

“That guy with the map, by the mailbox.” Bill pointed. “Fifty cents says he’s a cop.”

“And the man selling folded-paper animals. And the Xpress Messenger van, which doesn’t seem interested in expressing anything and isn’t getting a ticket after twenty minutes in a no-standing zone.”

“Well, everyone’s ready.”

I grabbed his arm. “Maybe not for everything.”

Making his way along the sidewalk was C. D. Zhang, carrying a leather briefcase. He entered Bright Hopes, where Irene Ng led him toward the back. She returned to the counter alone. C. D. Zhang must be in the office with his cousin, Mr. Chen, and I’d have bet a nickel his brother, Zhang Li, was there, too.

“Family conference?” Bill asked.

“Did you see Armpit checking out C. D. Zhang when he went in?”

“Yes.”

“I just got a bad feeling.”

“About what?”

“Our two upcoming crimes. They may be the same. Do you think the White Eagles could have heard about the Shanghai Moon? And they’re waiting for Wong Pan to bring it to sell to Mr. Chen so they can steal it?”

“Well, if that’s the case, they’re walking into the biggest mousetrap in Chinatown.”

We waited for more mice, but none showed. Just as I finished my tea, C. D. Zhang came out again. He headed briskly off in the direction he’d come from.

“What was that about?” I asked, but rhetorically. I pulled my phone out.

“You’d better be calling from Florida,” Mary said.

“C. D. Zhang just went in and out of Bright Hopes.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have a periscope. Look, I know you have people watching the place, but I wasn’t sure they know who he is.”

“I’m watching it myself,” she grudgingly admitted. “That was him just now?”

“You’re in the van?”

“Never mind. That was him?”

That was the cop speaking, not the friend, so I just said, “Yes.”

“He’s family and in the business. Why shouldn’t he drop in?”

“I don’t know. But on a day like this—”

“We don’t know it’s a day like this.”

“Oh, come on! There are three White Eagles loitering on that block, including Armpit. Wait—four. Warren Li just turned up.”

“Another bottom-feeder. No big score is going down just because those four punks are hanging out. Besides which, I know Li’s here, because I have two surveillances going, one on Chen and one on your no-good cousin. On your say-so, Lydia. If at least one of them doesn’t pan out my captain’s going to bust me back to the street and the overtime for all this will come out of my paycheck. And you’re about to ask me to put a tail on another old man who dropped by his cousin’s store? Don’t tell me you weren’t, I know you were. By the way, where are you?”

“In Tai-Pan. Mary—”

“
Lydia! I told you
—”

“I know: Get lost.”

“And when were you planning to do that?”

“Now. Right now. ’Bye.” I clicked off, jumped down from the stool, and told Bill, “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Mary said to get lost.”

We burned rubber out of Tai-Pan—Mary probably watching us scurry—and managed to pick up C. D. Zhang two blocks west. He threaded through the gray-market car stereos, fake Rolexes and counterfeit handbags with the practiced sidestep of a Chinatown local.

And returned to his own office.

Standing on the south side of Canal keeping an eye on a business on the north side might not have qualified as “lost” in Mary’s book, but really, there’s nowhere in Chinatown I could get lost anyway. I did
feel
a little lost when, after about twenty minutes, Bill asked, “Why are we doing this?” The answer was obvious, though: I had to be doing
something
.

“Anyway, it’s weird,” I said. “Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang don’t hang out with C. D. Zhang. He said so, Mr. Zhang said so, and Irene Ng said so. If C. D. had something to tell them or ask them, why didn’t he just call? Why go over and then not stay long? They hardly had time for a cup of tea. No, something’s up. Definitely. Positively. Why are you being so quiet?”

He grinned around his cigarette. “Adrenaline affects different people differently.”

We hung out across from C. D. Zhang’s office for close to an hour as the day got hotter and stickier. Two more White Eagles passed us, one I knew and one I didn’t but both with tattoos conveniently exposed.

“They don’t seem to feel any need for discretion,” Bill said.

“What good’s a gang tattoo if you can’t intimidate people with it?”

I restrained myself from leaving Bill on C. D. Zhang watch and charging up Canal to see what the gathering gang cloud was up to. I didn’t want to find out that Mary had ordered me arrested if I got too close to that end of the street; it wouldn’t be good for our friendship.

As the sun mounted, I began to wish I had a hat. Or a bottle of water. Or a purpose. Traffic snarled and flowed, snarled and flowed in a mesmerizing rhythm. We stood there breathing fumes, fried turnip cakes, and other people’s sweat. Wiping my forehead, I said to Bill, “I’m starting to feel like one of Armpit’s T-shirts.”

“That’s pretty serious. You want to take turns grabbing a drink in someplace air-conditioned?”

“No, but tell me something. Am I crazy, standing here like this? And are you just humoring me, or proving your loyalty or something?”

He shook his head. “I’m here because I think you’re right.”

I was about to demand proof of this ridiculous assertion, but I didn’t get the chance. Because proof came hurrying up the block: Wong Pan.