China Trade (28 page)

For a moment she just watched me. Then she said, “What are you saying? Stolen from whom? Under what circumstances?”

Such self-possession, I thought. Learn from this, Lydia. No indignation, no righteous anger. Just the facts, ma’am.

“We’re not certain of the circumstances, Mrs. Blair. But these pieces’ provenances seem to have been deliberately misattributed, and the pieces were never exhibited. Instead, they were sold to Mr. Blair, who was known to keep his collection very private.”

“Are you insinuating,” she said, ice on her words, “that my husband was involved in some sort of shady transaction?”

“Not deliberately,” I answered quickly. “Not at all. But if he’d inadvertently bought pieces that were stolen, and you gave them away to somewhere where they’d be exhibited, the whole scheme could have unraveled. So the person whose scheme it was had to get them back. So he stole them.”

“And you believe that was Dr. Caldwell?”

“Yes.”

“How would he have done it?” Skepticism, and something
else I couldn’t identify, filled her voice. “The alarm system at the Chinatown Pride building was disabled, Nora said. Surely a man such as Dr. Caldwell hasn’t the skills for that sort of activity.”

“We believe a boy from the Golden Dragons gang was hired for the actual theft.” I paused, then continued, “Mrs. Blair, that boy is dead now too. His death is probably related to this theft.”

Her brows knit together in a puzzled frown. “Dead?” she said tonelessly, after a moment. “Another death?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know all this must be hard for you to hear.”

Mrs. Blair didn’t answer that. She let her eyes wander the room, but in a curiously vacant way, as though she already knew she wasn’t going to find what she was looking for.

She came back to me. “And the death of the young woman?”

“We think she was involved in the misattributions. Bill and I hadn’t told her about the theft from Chinatown Pride, but someone else seems to have. She may have decided that it was time to get out, but she never got the chance. We think Dr. Caldwell killed her to keep her quiet. He destroyed the records at the same time.”

Mrs. Blair was silent for a long time. The sunlight through the swaying curtains was as diffuse as fog and all the street noises were muted. I caught Bill’s eye, but all I got for it was a briefly raised eyebrow.

Then Mrs. Blair stood abruptly, strode to the parlor door, and called—without raising her voice, quite a skill—for Rosie. When Rosie appeared, Mrs. Blair asked her to bring coffee. Rosie turned one way and Mrs. Blair turned the other, came back, sat.

“What is it you want me to do?” she asked.

I exchanged glances with Bill, then said, “The police are investigating the death of Trish Atherton. Everything we’ve just told you is theory: Now that the records at the Kurtz have been destroyed, there’s no proof. We want to be able to give
the police a motive, something that will tie Dr. Caldwell to Trish’s murder.”

“And how are you planning to do that?”

“With your help,” I answered, “we’d like to try to set Dr. Caldwell up. We think if you told him you’d found records Mr. Blair had kept, and suggested that they implicate someone—but it’s not clear who—at the Kurtz in this sort of laundering scheme, his reaction and the moves he makes might give him away.”

“Is that what this is called?” she asked. “ ‘Laundering’? Such a homely, domestic word for something so distasteful.”

Although she was looking at me as she said that, she seemed to be almost brooding, speaking to herself. I hesitated, uncertain whether to continue to outline the plan Bill and I had worked out, or to wait a little.

Into my pause the parlor door opened, and Rosie O’Malley entered, carrying a silver tray that held graceful silver pots and a plate of sugar cookies and flared porcelain cups with tiny flowers painted on them. She set the tray down with a quick sidelong smile at Bill and left. Mrs. Blair poured coffee from one pot for herself and Bill, and tea from the other pot for me. Until the refreshments came, she’d never asked us which we wanted, or whether we wanted anything; that would have put the burden on us, as guests, to insist that she not go to any trouble. Take lessons, Lydia, I thought.

We clinked the delicate cups in their saucers and passed the plate of cookies around. I sipped some tea, strong but not bitter, and replaced the cup on my saucer, nudging my cookie over. Nobody was saying anything, so I figured it was time to get back to it.

“What we need,” I began, “is to make Dr. Caldwell think that he didn’t get away as cleanly as he thought when he stole the porcelains from Chinatown Pride. We need to connect him to that. From there the police will be able to connect him to the murder of Trish Atherton. And,” I added, to be inspirational, “we may be able to recover Mr. Blair’s porcelains. Or at least settle the question of what happened to them.”

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. Kuan 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.”