Trail of Blood (8 page)

12

Somewhere on my walk downtown, the day slid from fresh promise into muggy fact. I wiped my forehead and put on my sunglasses. By the time I hit Canal, traffic was at full stampede, giving out with honks and rumbles the way a herd of cattle might bellow and stamp.

Even though I’d walked, I was early. I watched through the window at Bright Hopes as the young assistant flicked on lights and lit General Gung’s incense. At the stroke of ten she unlocked the door and smiled to find me at it.

“Lydia Chin. I was here yesterday? I’ve come to see Mr. Chen.”

“Yes, he’s expecting you. I’m Irene Ng, by the way. Please follow me.”

Irene Ng led me through the shop, lifting a gate in the back counter. She knocked on Mr. Chen’s door and then opened it for me. Mr. Chen and another man stood from low lacquered stools. On the table before them, along with my photos, sat a tray of sweets, tiny teacups, and a gourd-shaped pot. A flowery fragrance filled the air.

“Chin Ling Wan-ju, welcome.” Mr. Chen bowed, using my Chinese name but speaking in English as we had yesterday. “This is my cousin, Zhang Li.”

I bowed to Mr. Zhang as he did to me. Older and bigger than Mr. Chen, full-faced and balding, he had classic Han Chinese features that made Mr. Chen’s rounded eyes and sharp nose more apparent. “An honor to meet you,” I said. Formally, with both hands, he handed me his card, so formally, I took it and did the same.

In some way I didn’t follow, this had become an occasion. Mr. Chen seemed to have recovered enough from yesterday’s vapors to regard me intently, almost hungrily. It wasn’t the guilty look of a man nervous about being caught with contraband goods. It might be, it occurred to me, the look of a man who’d already bought some and was interested in buying more.

I was intrigued. If I hadn’t had pressing things on my mind, like murder, I’d have played it their way, letting them spin it out until I saw what they wanted. Under the circumstances, though, that would be disingenuous to the point of fraud.

I sat, thanking Mr. Chen when he handed me tea. Courtesy dictated that I try it and comment on its deliciousness, allowing him to tut-tut and me to insist, but I skipped all that and went straight in. “Mr. Chen, I’m not sure why you called me, but since yesterday the situation has changed.”

“Situation?” His surprise may have been due to what I’d said, or to my rudeness in cutting so directly to the chase.

Mr. Zhang, the cousin, was giving me an odd, appraising look. Maybe he was having trouble with the language. “Should we continue in English?” I addressed them both. “Or in Cantonese?”

At that Mr. Zhang smiled. “Please, in English. Our Chinese is the Chinese of Shanghai. We learned English there as boys, when learning came easily. In America, my cousin has been able to conquer your Cantonese dialect in a way that has eluded me. Of course, he is younger and his brain more agile.”

Mr. Chen waved that away. “Neither of us has been young for some time, cousin. But”—to me—“I have had this shop for many years. My customers provided my education. What do you mean, Ms. Chin, that the situation has changed?”

“Yesterday, when I brought you these photographs, I was working with an associate trying to find that jewelry. I’m sorry, but there’s no good way to say this. He’s been killed.”

Both men stared at me. Mr. Zhang recovered first. “Killed?”

“I’m afraid so. And another man, too: a police officer from China, following the thief.”

“They were killed because of this jewelry?”

“I don’t know. Once you tell me what you know about it, I’ll have a better idea.”

It seemed to me Mr. Chen’s hand trembled slightly as he set his teacup down. Mr. Zhang said, “Yes, of course. And please accept our condolences on the loss of your associate.”

“Thank you.”

“Before I speak about this jewelry,” he continued, “it is important that I understand the entire, as you say, situation. Perhaps you could tell us again why you are looking for it?”

No, you answer my question first!
I wanted to shout. But yesterday I’d insisted to Joel that pushing was no way to handle an old Chinese man. “These pieces were in a box excavated in Shanghai recently. They’ve been stolen. My late associate and I were hired by a client who believes they’ve been brought here to be sold.”

“Who is your client, and why is he looking for this jewelry?” Mr. Zhang asked. “Is he from the Shanghai authorities?”

Oh ho,
I thought.
You do know something, and you don’t want to get in trouble.
“No. The client’s a woman, a Swiss attorney working for heirs of the original owner.”

Mr. Zhang exchanged a look with his cousin. “Who are these heirs?”

“I don’t know their names. The original owner was a Jewish woman from Salzburg, Elke Gilder. Her daughter, Rosalie, brought the jewelry to Shanghai. The heirs are Elke’s brother’s children.”

Mr. Chen started to speak but was stopped by a look from his cousin. Notwithstanding the fact that we were in Mr. Chen’s shop, Mr. Zhang was clearly in charge. “Do these photographs represent the entire contents of the box?” he asked.

“As far as I know.”

“Was anything else found?”

“Anything else.” I eyed the two men. “You mean the Shanghai Moon?”

Mr. Chen froze, as though any movement might break something. Mr. Zhang, though, just said mildly, “Yes. The Shanghai Moon.”

“I heard the story yesterday,” I told them. “That the Shanghai Moon might be in the company of these pieces. I also heard that these pieces aren’t worth killing over, but the Shanghai Moon is.”

Mr. Zhang smiled. “You’ve cleverly sidestepped my question.”

“As you have mine.”

His smile grew delighted. “I’m unused to being clever, but I suppose I have. Ms. Chin—the Shanghai Moon? Was it there?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “If it was found, my client wasn’t told.”

Mr. Zhang inclined his head. “Thank you for indulging me.” Something passed between the two cousins then; I couldn’t read it, but they’d reached a decision. “I hope,” Mr. Zhang said, “we are able to answer your questions as fully as you have answered mine.” He sipped some tea, waiting.

“Well, to start with, let’s go back to this question: Have you seen these pieces?”

“Yes.”

I nearly jumped off my seat. “Wong Pan, the man who stole them, he’s been here?”

“No.”

“But—”

Mr. Chen spoke. “We have seen them.”

“Why didn’t you—”

He raised a hand. “Yes, we have seen them. But not for sixty years. They are my mother’s.”

13

Under the bright lights in the jewelry store office, I stared from one old man to the other. “Your mother’s?” I said. “But these are Rosalie Gilder’s, that she—” I stared again: Mr. Chen’s rounded eyes, his sharp nose.
Oh
, I thought.
Oh, oh, oh.
“Rosalie Gilder? She was your
mother
?”

“Yes. Do you—”

“Chen,” I breathed. “Chen Kai-rong. He’s your father.”

Mr. Chen gave a bow of his head. “It does me honor to acknowledge them. I’m surprised to find you know their names, however.”

“They were in the book. Where I read about the Shanghai Moon. But of course, Rosalie’s—Miss Gilder’s, I mean”—I corrected myself, not wanting him to think I was taking liberties—“my client told me her name. And I found Chen Kai-rong’s name in her letters.”

“Your client’s letters?”

“No, your mother’s.”

A pause. “My mother’s—”

“I suppose,” Mr. Zhang interrupted gently, “Ms. Chin means the letters at the Jewish Museum?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Chen. “Yes, of course.” He nodded a few times. “Yes, at the museum.”

Not sure why his face had clouded, I said, “I apologize if you feel I’ve invaded your mother’s privacy. But she was a fascinating woman.” A thought struck me. “Mr. Chen, is she—”
Not that way, Lydia
. “I’d be thrilled to find her still with us.”

Mr. Chen smiled sadly. “As to that, I must disappoint you.”

It was true, I did feel disappointed.
Though really, Lydia,
I pointed out to myself,
if Rosalie were alive, she’d be near ninety
. But to me she was a scared, brave young woman I’d just met, and grown fond of.

I looked at Mr. Zhang, the cousin. “Is your relation in the Chen family line?”

“Yes. My mother, Mei-lin, was Chen Kai-rong’s sister. But Ms. Chin, this is not the time for reminiscence. We have more urgent matters before us.”

“The jewelry.” I nodded. “You haven’t been offered it?”

“No.”

“But you want to find it before it’s sold.”

Mr. Chen answered that one. “Yes, of course. Anything that was my mother’s is precious to us.” Again the smile. It faded and he said, “However, the piece not pictured here . . . the Shanghai Moon . . . you’ve heard nothing?”

“No. I’m sorry. If it was your mother’s, I understand how much it must mean to you.”

He nodded. The hungry look was gone from his eyes, replaced by a stoic disappointment.

“My cousin has been searching for the Shanghai Moon all his life,” Mr. Zhang said.

“When it disappeared, what—” I was stopped by a tiny shake of Mr. Zhang’s head. He cut his eyes toward his cousin, who, with an air of resignation, was pouring tea.

What was Mr. Zhang telling me? Not to ask any more questions in front of Mr. Chen? What could that mean? Nothing in that story could be news to Mr. Chen. Mr. Zhang shot a look at the phone on the desk. Got it: He’d call me later. Well, okay, for now. I had his card, too.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “whether or not what happened to my associate and the police officer has anything to do with the Shanghai Moon, it still may have to do with the rest of this jewelry. If you hear from Wong Pan, or anyone else who wants to talk about these pieces, will you let me know?”

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Zhang, and Mr. Chen nodded. “But there is still another matter.”

“What’s that?”

“The heirs.”

“What about them?”

“You say you don’t know who they are.”

“I don’t know their names. They’re grandchildren of Rosalie’s uncle, Horst Peretz.”

Mr. Chen lifted his eyes to me. “Ms. Chin, are you familiar with Jewish naming practices?”

I shook my head.

“My father chose my Chinese name. My mother gave me a European one. Horst Chen Lao-li. An odd name, is it not? Ms. Chin, Jewish people do not name babies for living relatives, in case the Angel of Death, coming to collect the elder, should make an error. When my mother named me for her uncle Horst, she knew he was gone. She gave me his name so he would be remembered. There was none other to remember him: He died childless.”

It took me a moment to process this. “Then who are these clients?”

“Whoever they are, they are not who they claim to be,” said Mr. Zhang. “That in itself is worrisome, wouldn’t you say?”

14

I called Alice as I headed back to my office but only got her voice mail.
Come on, Alice, pick up! Your clients are bogus!
Could this be what Joel had meant by “fishy”? But how would he have known? I left a message to call me, then switched directions for the subway, to go up to the Waldorf and bang on the door myself. Before I’d gone two blocks, my phone rang the
Wonder Woman
song.

“Lydia, we were right.”

“We’re always right. About what?”

“A few days ago a pay phone a block from Wong Pan’s hotel made a call to the Waldorf.”

“To the Waldorf?
Wong Pan
called
Alice
? But she never said anything. She wasn’t even positive he was in New York.”

“The call was short. He might have tried, didn’t get her, and hung up. The point is, he knows where to find her.”

“If it was him. All you have is a pay phone calling the Waldorf.”

Mary ignored my magical thinking. “I’m here, but she’s not. Have you heard from her?”

“Here, the Waldorf? You’re there? And she’s not? Now you’re worrying me. I just called and got voice mail. I was about to go up there. Was that pay-phone call before the Chinese cop was killed or after?”

“His death can’t be pinned down that exactly, but it was probably within a few hours. Let me know right away if you hear from her.”

“I will. And Mary? I have a couple of other bombshells.” I told her about Mr. Chen, Rosalie’s son, and Mr. Zhang, Rosalie’s nephew, and about Alice’s clients, not Rosalie’s relations at all.

“Oh,” Mary said slowly. “Oh, Lydia, I’m not liking this.”

“Me either.”

“I’m going to alert the sector cars to look out for her. Meanwhile, Shanghai’s sending a new cop over.”

“They are?”

“Hey, it’s a homicide of one of their own, plus a theft from the Chinese people. It wouldn’t surprise me if they sent a whole squad. Inspector”—a pause—“Wei De-xu. The e-mail says, ‘Inspector Wei is one of Shanghai Police Bureau’s most esteemed officers.’ I’m going to the airport in the morning to collect him.”

“How come you get to go? Instead of someone from Midtown Homicide?”

“Captain Mentzinger’s squeezing this. Technically, once the John Doe was identified, I was done, but he wants me to stay with it. After the screw-up on the room, Midtown can’t really object. They’re saving face by saying it’s okay for me to collect this guy because I can talk to him.”

“In Shanghainese?”

“What do they know? Besides, would Shanghai send a cop here who didn’t speak English? But don’t tell them.”

After we hung up I redirected myself again, back to my office; there was no point in going to the Waldorf if Mary was already there and Alice wasn’t. At the office I put on water for tea and called Bill, repeating for him everything I’d told Mary and what she’d told me. His reaction was a lot like hers: He didn’t like the sound of things either.

“That seems to be the consensus,” I said. “What are you up to?”

“I’m waiting for a call. And reading a book.”

“A history of Shanghai?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“I’m afraid so. What call?”

“A friend of a friend. An expert on modern Chinese history. I’m hoping he can give us some background.”

“That’s very enterprising.”

“Am I stepping on your toes? I don’t want—”

“No, I meant it. Did I sound sarcastic?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

I was taken aback. Bill, unable to read the tone in my voice? “No, I think it’s a great idea. Let me know if he calls.”

“Where will you be?”

“I think I’ll do some reading, too. I’m going to print out the rest of Rosalie’s letters.”

“They’ve been public property for years. You won’t find anything in them that Chen and Zhang don’t already know.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m looking for a map with a big
X
on it. But Mr. Chen caught me flatfooted when he said he was Rosalie’s son. I don’t want that to happen again. Right now the letters are the only thread I have.”

* * *

I took my tea to the easy chair and settled in.

29 April 1938

Dearest Mama,

Well, your ignorant Rosalie is only slightly less ignorant today, as regards China. But having sat with Chen Kai-rong yesterday long into the afternoon—over coffee and linzer torte, which I’m afraid I devoured greedily; he suggests we alternate the foods of our peoples, a charming offer—I am considerably less ignorant about my new friend.

He made, I must say, a valiant effort to unravel the history of forty centuries. But I became hopelessly lost among the states and dynasties. My floundering amused him, which he tried to hide. (And failed!) His own family traces its roots to a time called “the Warring States”—two thousand years ago, Mama! When our people had already been scattered for millennia, when Christianity was about to rise and scatter us again—Chen Kai-rong has visited the graves of his ancestors from that time!

I confessed to envy, and a wistful longing for a similar homeland. Our books tell us the history of our people is as long as China’s, but what Jewish family knows the names of its forebears beyond half a dozen generations, or could find their graves?

Chen Kai-rong questioned me about Zionism, and though he pleaded ignorance, he was well informed on the subject. I told him I consider Zionism a collective opium dream of the Jewish people; and then I quickly apologized for the mention of opium, as I understand the drug to be a scourge of the Chinese. The Chinese people carry many burdens, was his answer, and opium, though a curse, at least provides a temporary joy.

The conversation having taken this doleful turn, I moved to another subject entirely, asking how he came by such a fine command of English. English, he said, is the lingua franca of commercial Shanghai. Since I have been finding the prospect of conducting myself in Chinese a daunting one, you might imagine my delight in hearing this! Kai-rong attended the Shanghai British School and has spoken English since he was a boy. He now returns home from two years’ study at Oxford. I asked what his field had been.

“I was reading law,” was his answer. “Though from what I hear, law is a discipline very much needed in Shanghai at the moment, and very little in demand.” He fell silent, staring over the water.

“I’m sorry,” I ventured. “I seem to be touching today only on subjects that distress you.”

At this he stirred himself. “No, no, I’m the one who must apologize. I was . . . brooding.” And he smiled.

“Over what, if I may ask?”

“Ah, Rosalie. You’ve left a country where your people have lived for centuries, but are no longer welcome. I fear I return to one.”

“How can that be? You’re a Chinaman going to China.”

His smile broadened. “First, you must not say ‘Chinaman.’ ” (Mama, this word has no German equivalent, but is in common use in English. I never knew it was offensive before this.) “It’s a word used by Europeans and carries a condescending odor. You’ll find more friends in Shanghai if you say ‘Chinese.’ I know this seems trivial—”

I assured him it did not, having been myself rudely awakened in the past months to the pain words can cause. “I can’t pretend to understand the nuance, because my English is so poor,” I told him. “But if the word offends you, I shall strike it from my vocabulary!”

“I and my countrymen thank you. And permit me to say, if you’re able to slip ‘nuance’ so neatly into a sentence, you must stop thinking your English poor.”

I thanked him for the compliment (though, Mama, his English really does outshine mine) and asked what he meant by being unwelcome in China, whether he referred to the Japanese occupation.

“The occupation, yes; though I can understand foreign invaders better than I can the puppet government—Chinese so hungry for power and wealth that they take orders from invaders, against their own people.”

“But what of the government this puppet one replaces? Is there no resistance movement of loyal Chinese, working to retake the country?” I was of course thinking, Mama, of the situation at home, of those loyalists who refuse to accept Herr Hitler’s Anschluss.

“What they replaced,” Kai-rong replied, “was hardly a government. Chiang Kai-shek and his Nationalists are two-faced thieves who betrayed the Republic many years ago, before it could take root. And half the country, in any case, was never under their control—and isn’t under Japanese control now. It’s strangled by warlords. Greedy thugs to whom ‘China’ is an abstract concept, while wealth is a concept they understand.” He paused, sipping coffee; I had no idea how to respond. And then, Mama, he made this extraordinary statement: “As painful as your situation is, Rosalie, there may be an advantage in having no country to fight over. Your traditions are long and beautiful, and your spiritual nature has flowered in the absence of the distractions of politics and the necessity, once power is gained, to keep a grip on it.”

I was amazed by this, and had to answer: “Also in the absence of safety, and often of food to fill our bellies!”

Surprised, he said, “Did I sound patronizing? I apologize.”

My indignation vanished and I began to laugh, pointing out we were apologizing to each other with every third breath!

“You’re right,” he said, “and if that’s my fault, I apologize.” He laughed with me.

Then he grew pensive and added, “But it seems we have something to envy in each other’s history, if not in each other’s circumstances. Come now, there’s still linzer torte to fill your belly. And I can return, if you want, to the Northern Song, and pick up where we left off.”

I sighed. “Yes, please, though I don’t think it will do much good. But first, you never gave an answer to my question: Is there in China a resistance movement against the Japanese?”

I thought he wouldn’t reply, but at last he said, “Yes. There is. Fighting to regain China for the Chinese people.”

“Will they win?”

“If you’re asking me to tell the future, I can’t do it. But I can tell you this: History is on the side of China. Now pick up your plate and let’s return to history.”

And we did. Not that, as I say, I’ve managed to learn much about the past. But I’ve learned enough about Chen Kai-rong to look forward to the future—tomorrow’s lesson, accompanied by fragrant tea and curious Chinese cakes.

Stay well, Mama!

Your Rosalie

3 May 1938

Dearest Mama,

I haven’t written for some time, I know, but as I’ve been told there will now be no mail service until we reach Singapore, I feel foolish putting pen to paper to produce a letter that will sit on my bureau for days. Paul applauds this lack of enterprise on my part, seeming to feel it justifies his own, though I have a number of previous letters to point to, which makes me feel quite superior but has little effect on him.

But this morning I awoke feeling melancholy, Mama, and missing you greatly. Perhaps the fog which enshrouds us affects my mood. People speak softly; even the children are subdued. We’re less than a week from Shanghai. I believe the enormity of this undertaking has at last forced itself on our understanding. I have had glimpses of it over the past weeks, but have resolutely refused to acknowledge it, preferring the luxury of the ship, the exhilaration of new acquaintances, and the adventure of sailing into the unknown. But the fog brings about an odd sensation. There is little wind, and in no direction can anything be seen beyond the rail. At home a chill fog precedes a change of weather, but this warm, featureless mist seems as though it might continue forever. Ah, and there you have it, Mama: I’ve said “home,” and the word fills me with sadness.

When I look toward the future, excitement and curiousity lighten my trepidation. My new friend, Chen Kai-rong, has taught me much about his country. It’s clear he loves his homeland deeply and longed for it when he was away, equally clear he knows China’s shortcomings and is eager to see them corrected. His devotion in spite of all he thinks wrong is reassuring, and I hope his feelings will color my own. In this way, I find myself already connected to Shanghai; but when I turn toward the past, my feelings are exactly opposite. I’m no longer connected, but uncoupled and adrift. My every happy memory is shaded by a forlorn longing for the home we’ve lost.

Mama, have you written to us? I understand the fast liners are few and I do not expect a letter from you on each tender that meets us; and yet, as Paul asks, if that’s true, why do I continually put myself in the path of the steward who distributes the passengers’ mail? I should dearly love a letter, Mama. But much much more, I should love to find you and Uncle Horst on the ship that follows immediately behind this one.

I’ll seal this letter now, and lay it on my bureau until tomorrow, when the tender sails out from Singapore. Perhaps by morning the fog will burn off, and I’ll be

Your strong and sunny Rosalie, again.

9 May 1938

Dearest Mama,

Yesterday we arrived in Shanghai.

What a place this is!

How to tell you? How to begin? It’s all so strange, Mama, and we’re so unprepared! On shipboard Chen Kai-rong painted such vivid word-pictures that I felt quite ready to step into life as a practiced “Shanghailander.” But oh, how wrong I was!

Though I’m finding great difficulty, Mama, in putting words to this experience, nevertheless I’ll try, so things won’t be as strange for you when you arrive; and also so you’ll have an idea what Paul and I, in this dizzying world, are feeling.