China Trade (6 page)

“Hello, I’m Roger Caldwell. Come in, come in. Ms. Chin?” He shook my hand. “Mr…. Smith?” Bill gets that a lot. Smith is such a common name that nobody can ever believe anybody is really named that.

Roger Caldwell looked no more than thirty but given the résumé Bill had laid out for me, he had to be forty-five at least. I looked for it in his face as he took our coats to drape on the claw-footed coatrack in the corner of his office, then gestured to two fragile-looking, softly upholstered chairs and a small sofa. He waited until we were seated before he seated himself. There were tiny lines around his eyes and a loosening of the skin over his cheekbones that gave him away if you were looking for them, but he probably got taken for a younger man a lot.

Not for a twelve-year-old, though.

I sat in one of the chairs, and Bill chose the sofa. I thought I detected relief in Caldwell’s eyes at that, though he was probably far too well-bred to have said anything if Bill, at six foot two, a hundred and ninety pounds, had risked one of the delicate chairs.

The office walls were the same dark green as the front door and hung with gilt-framed paintings and glass-covered prints. A heavy desk stood at the other end of the room, under the window, where the wall curved out. The window, surrounded by thick green drapes, was bright with the view of Central Park across the street.

“Well,” said Caldwell expectantly, looking from Bill to me. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever met a real private investigator before?” His look ended up back on Bill, as though he were waiting for Bill to tell him what was going on.
That happens a lot when we’re together. On Bill’s cases it’s reasonable, but this was my case.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a museum director,” I said, smiling.

“Oh.” Caldwell chuckled. “Well, we’re not a very exciting breed to meet, I’m afraid. We lead pretty quiet lives.”

“For the most part, so do we,” I told him, probably bursting his fantasy balloon. “A lot of what we do is routine. That’s why we’re here now—just routine. We’re hoping you can help us out on a case we’re working on.”

“I’ll be glad to, if I can. What’s it about?” He gave one more glance in Bill’s direction. Bill just smiled and said nothing. I began to speak and Caldwell turned politely back to me.

“Some valuable porcelains—Chinese export porcelains,” I added, as though I knew what I was talking about, “—were stolen recently. Our client’s hired us to recover them. The Kurtz is known for its collection of export porcelains, and it’s possible the thief may try to sell the stolen pieces to you. We wanted to ask if you’ve been offered anything recently that may be part of this theft, or if you’ve heard of any on the market.”

Caldwell rubbed his square chin. “Nobody’s offered us anything recently. I’d actually be surprised if anyone came directly to the Museum: Usually we work with dealers, unless we’re negotiating with an owner for an entire collection.” He smiled. “We prefer that sort of thing to be a gift, of course.”

“Do you think a thief would necessarily know that? About the dealers?”

“Maybe not a common thief, but I’d expect that anyone sophisticated enough to know that we, in particular, would be interested in what they have would know that. From whom were these pieces stolen?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Caldwell. The client’s asked us to keep that confidential.”

“Of course.” He grinned confidentially. “Theft is so embarrassing.” He waved that away. “When did it happen?”

“Three days ago.”

“Oh. Well, it’s probably too soon to expect any of the
pieces to surface, but I’ll keep an eye out. Without embarrassing the owner, can you tell me what I’m looking for?”

I took out the envelope of photographs I’d gotten from Nora. At first she’d been reluctant to let me show them around. But I’d convinced her that our chances of finding the pieces without photos were close to zero, and that, since almost no one had seen the Blair collection anyway, it wasn’t likely anyone would recognize the pieces or where they came from. Or know where they’d gone to and from whom they’d been stolen.

“There were others,” I said. “But they hadn’t been photographed yet.”

“Yet?” Caldwell, leafing through the photos, didn’t look up. “This is a newly acquired collection?”

“It was in the process of being comprehensively catalogued.” Neat recovery, Lydia, I thought. And alliterative, too.

Dr. Caldwell didn’t seem to notice. “Well, these are some extraordinary pieces. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble recognizing them if they come our way.” He handed the photographs back to me.

“Dr. Caldwell, I hate to show my ignorance, but can you tell me what things like this are worth?”

He gestured toward the photos. “That would depend very much on two things: their condition and their rarity. I don’t know these pieces, so I can’t speak to their condition, but they do look out of the ordinary, as I said.” He shifted in his chair, tugged the crisp pleat in his trouser over his knee. “Export porcelain has a limited market, although people who collect it are devoted to it.” He smiled an indulgent smile. “Some of them are a little dotty on the subject, actually. But most collectors are, about whatever obsession they’ve chosen. It’s my own original field, you know. It’s not as glamorous as some other things—silver, say, or even some of that hideous Americana that has to do with one-dimensional painted figures and hooked rugs—but it’s quite subtle, and the best pieces display a truly impressive technical proficiency. You’ll never find export
pieces in the six-figure range, but some trade quite comfortably in the mid-five-figures.”

As I digested that, Bill spoke for the first time. “The dealers you say you generally work with,” he said to Caldwell, who turned with a look of surprise, as though he’d decided Bill didn’t talk and was startled to find he was wrong. “Who are they?”

Caldwell missed half a beat; then he said, “There are three, here in New York. Shall I give you a list?”

“Please.”

Caldwell went to his desk, flipped his Rolodex, and wrote a list with a black-and-gold fountain pen on a piece of creamy stationery. He came back and handed the paper to Bill, who looked it over and nodded before he slipped it into his wallet.

“Do you know them?” There was a tinge of disbelief in Caldwell’s voice. Bill was in a suit and tie, but that didn’t make him look any more like a man who’d know an art dealer if he tripped over one. The truth is different, but Bill doesn’t advertise that.

“Two of them,” Bill said diffidently.

“Well.” Caldwell readjusted his assessment of Bill without much obvious difficulty. “I’m sure they’ll be glad to help. Tell them I sent you, if you want, but I think you’ll find everyone cooperative. Theft is a problem for everyone in our field.” He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I have another appointment. I’m just back from Europe; I was on a buying trip. And now there’s so much to catch up on.” He smiled apologetically. “Is there any other way I can help you?” Now that Bill was part of the conversation, Caldwell’s eyes went again from him to me and back, settling on him.

“We’d like to have a look at your porcelain collection, while we’re here,” I said, as much to leave him with the idea that I was not just decoration as because I wanted to see what they had at the Kurtz.

“Oh, of course. Come, I’ll ask Trish to show you around.”

Trish, as it turned out, had gone to lunch by the time we emerged from the dark green of Caldwell’s office into the light of fluorescent day.

“It’s okay, Dr. Caldwell,” the young man with the bright bow tie said. The tie’s green dots seemed to glow brighter as his eyes lit up. “I’m not really busy right now. I’ll do it.”

“Well …” Caldwell looked at his watch again. “Yes, all right, Steve. Why don’t you go ahead?” He offered his hand to me, then Bill. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I’ll call you if I hear of anything that might help.”

I thanked him, and Bill smiled, and we turned to follow the luminous Steve down the curving stairs.

S
I X

B
ack out in the freezing cold, our tour of the Kurtz completed, Bill and I considered our options.

“Coffee,” Bill enumerated, lighting a cigarette. “Coffee, coffee, or coffee.”

“That’s what I like about you,” I told him. “Flexibility.”

“Coffee,” he said.

“Quick? At the counter?”

He shrugged, breathing out a stream of cigarette smoke. “I see you and raise: to go.”

We compromised on the counter of a Greek diner on Madison Avenue. The windows were clouded with steam and the plants hanging in them looked incredibly lush and healthy.

“They’re really interesting, porcelains,” I said, stuffing my gloves in my hat and trying to balance my hat on my lap. “I never really thought about them before.”

The energetic Steve had taken us on a top-to-bottom trip
through the Kurtz Museum, formerly, we found out, the Kurtz mansion, home of Peter Kurtz and his Victorian-era family.

“The core of our collections is Kurtz’s own collection,” Steve had begun enthusiastically, looking back over his shoulder at us as we trotted down the marble staircase. “As far as porcelains—that’s what you’re interested in, right?—he collected mostly pieces made for the English and Dutch markets. The Museum has added American pieces.”

“Made in America?” I’d asked, confused.

“Oh, no, no. Made in China for the American market. They made export porcelain to order in China in the seventeenth through the nineteenth centuries so pieces for the American market had eagles and things on them, and ones made for Great Britain had, oh, you know, Union Jacks and stuff. The truth is,” he confided, “I’m not really a porcelain expert. I guess that’s why the Director wanted Trish to take you around. My field is textiles. We have some wonderful carpets.” His eyes widened hopefully.

“I’m sure you do, and we’d love to see them,” I said quickly. “But we don’t have a lot of time right now. Just a fast look.”

“Sure. Well, all our best display pieces are on the first floor. I’ll try to get it close to right.”

He took us down to the first floor and, stopping at case after case, pointed out the cups and saucers, bowls, plates, and tureens; told us about
famille verte
and
famille rose
(that had to do with colors); showed us the armorials (the ones with coats of arms on them—bigger with the British than the Dutch or Americans, which I probably could have figured out if anyone had asked me); picked out the Chinese motifs, the Chinese interpretations of European motifs, the European orders for particular items painted with screwed-up European interpretations of Chinese motifs.

Steve spoke not as an expert but as an enamored amateur, fast sentences sometimes broken in the middle by the next thought pushing its way through. He started in the middle and jumped around, giving no introduction to lines like, “Of
course it’s not at
all
true that the export porcelains were lower quality than the
kuan yao
,” when I didn’t know that anyone ever said they were. “
Kuan yao
, that’s ‘official ware.’ For the court. You know, internal use only,” he added helpfully, for Bill, although Bill’s chances of knowing what
kuan yao
was were actually better than mine. “See, for example?” He pointed to a large platter gleaming in the sun that poured in the tall windows. “That was made for export. Can you think of anything more wonderful?”

I had to agree with him. The springtime scene—little boys running with kites on a hillside, a sparkling sea behind—was so vivid I could practically smell the peach blossoms on the soft breeze.

I leaned forward to inspect the platter, and to read the card next to it, as though any information on the card would make sense to me.

Surprisingly, one thing did: the donor’s name. “Dr. Mead Browning? He gave you this plate?”

“You know Dr. Browning?” Steve asked eagerly. “He’s a big expert. One of the top people on export porcelains. He’s been here a couple of times to study our collection. How do you know him?”

“Oh, I just met him through a friend. I don’t really know him, I was just surprised to see his name. You know, to see anyone’s name I’ve met as a donor at a museum.”

“Oh, don’t I know,” Steve agreed. “Kind of makes you wonder what circles you travel in, doesn’t it?”

Our tour went on, Steve picking out for us motifs, shapes, colors, differences in brushstroke and firing temperature. Stopping in front of a particularly intricate blue and white plate (“Nanking ware”), he said, “They made hundreds and hundreds of sets, and individual pieces by the thousands, of course, but porcelain, you know, breaks.” He smiled an engaging, embarrassed smile, as if porcelain’s breaking was a bad habit of his own that he’d tried to correct. “That’s why complete sets are rare even in collections like ours. We actually
only have one. That big tureen over there, and the tea set with it? They’re from it.”

“Why don’t you display the whole thing?” I asked, inspecting the duck and drake swimming peacefully in the center of the huge bowl.

“Oh, the set is gigantic. I mean, hundreds of pieces. Nobody displays full sets, I don’t think. You keep most of them in storage. Most of your porcelain is always in storage.”

“Really? You mean you have a lot more pieces than this?”

Steve nodded earnestly. “In the basement, in the storage rooms. You want to see?”

We did, so he showed us. What he called the basement was what had been the kitchen, larder, pantries, and all those other rooms you see on
Upstairs, Downstairs
. Some of the rooms had iron-barred windows up near the ceiling where you could see people’s feet walking by on Fifth.

All the rooms were storage rooms now. Rows and mounds and stacks of boxes and crates and locked lockers with arcane red crayon markings stood silently, dustily, in dim spaces lit by bare bulbs Steve turned on and off as we wandered. Everything down here seemed brown or gray and the shadows were deep. Inside these rectangular, non-committal containers, according to Steve, were porcelains, carpets, statuary; enamel pillboxes, carved wooden bookends, clocks; lace tablecloths, silver carafes, and a set of jewelled dueling pistols. I imagined the crates and lockers throwing their doors and tops open, and glowing colors, rounded shapes, sensuous textures tumbling out and flooding the room. It made me a little sad to think of all those colors, shapes, and textures locked up in these strict, uncommunicative cells.