Trail of Blood (12 page)

Oh, but how far afield I’ve flown! But you see, flies and rats aside, I’m happy today, and want to share that happiness. Paul’s trading expeditions led to the discovery of the rarest treasure of all: a room to let. The owner of a typewriter shop in the International Settlement which he supplies from time to time with screws and bolts had lost a tenant, bound for Australia. As he remembered Paul inquiring about rooms, he telephoned to the Home requesting the honor of Paul’s presence. We set off immediately! The room in question is the rear of two above the shop, facing a courtyard used for cooking and washing, as I imagine we will use it. It is not large—nothing in Shanghai is large, Mama, nothing! with the exception of the banks and great villas—but it is irregularly shaped, with an alcove for a bed. So Paul and I will have privacy now not only from the population of the Home but, up to a point, from each other! We have a basin with cold running water and wonder of wonders, in the hallway, shared with the room at the front, a water closet! Indoor plumbing, whoever would have thought that something to aspire to? But the norm is a bucket, whose contents are taken off each morning by night soil collectors. So a flush toilet, shared with but one other family, is very heaven! The past days have been a matter of scrubbing and airing, of negotiating the price of beds, chests, and linens, of finding coolies to pile them on carts and push them through the streets. This morning we said our good-byes at the Home, with little regret. Friends we’ve made we’ll continue to see, and as for kasha soup, I hope never to see another bowl!

And Mama, it is Shabbos here. Though I do not expect to continue observances, it does seem fitting that on our rickety table in our odd-shaped attic I have set out the pewter candlesticks. I’ve sent Paul out with a few yuan for candles; when he returns, we’ll light them, and say a
barucha,
in thanks for our new home and in hopes to see you speedily in it!

Stay well, Mama.

Your Rosalie

17 June 1938

Dearest Mama,

Oh, I am tired! But I could not go to sleep without writing to tell you what a lovely dinner we’ve had!

Dinner, you say? I’m writing about a meal?

Well, first, a meal in Shanghai is not a small thing. Wait, that’s phrased incorrectly: Often it
is
a small thing: some rice, a carrot boiled with an onion, and there you have it. (Though I have not yet had to resort to kasha.) But after a complicated transaction that began yesterday with a shoemaker’s awl and proceeded through several shop keepers, Paul marched triumphantly up our stairs this afternoon with a chicken! Plucked, cleaned, and ready for the stewpot, the bird became the centerpiece of a Shabbos dinner at which we had our first guest. No, Mama, I am not taking up religion, I assure you. But Kai-rong had expressed a desire to attend a Shabbos dinner, and after his kindnesses, how could I say no? We lit candles, washed, and said the correct prayers, Paul explaining the meaning of the various rituals to Kai-rong. (And he has absorbed much more from his bar mitzvah preparation than I’d have suspected!) We ate chicken, stewed with onions on our charcoal stove in the courtyard, and challah, a great delicacy, purchased from a Viennese bakery. I even managed to sauté some thin Chinese beans into a reasonable side dish. Kai-rong brought linzer torte and a pound of coffee! We sat and ate and talked in our tiny room, at which Kai-rong showed no dismay but also, to my relief, no false cheeriness. We never ran out of conversation, the three of us, and the hour at which Kai-rong finally took his leave would have scandalized our neighbors, had they not been scandalized already by the fact of his unchaperoned presence. Luckily, I and Paul—who in any case considers himself as much of a chaperone as we could ever need—remember your own attitude toward the opinion of neighbors, and are fashioning ours after it.

Mama, it was so lovely, to have a guest for dinner, as we used to at home; it made us feel, nearly, that this could be home, too. All that’s missing is you and Uncle Horst, but the day is fast approaching when your train leaves! Oh, Mama, I cannot wait to see you again!

Your tired but happy! Rosalie

That was it.

That was
it
?

Apparently so. I’d reached the end of the stack of printouts. Suddenly Rosalie was silent. Her romance, her marriage, the birth of her son—I wanted to follow her through that. I knew her now, and I wanted to stay with her. But I couldn’t. She was gone.

I stared into the dimness of my office, feeling the cloud that had begun to lift rolling back in. In my growing affection for Rosalie, my joy in watching her find, as she said, her sea legs in Shanghai, I’d almost let myself forget that at least part of her story had a tragic ending.

Elke and Horst never made it out of Austria.

That must be why the letters stopped. Rosalie must have learned there was no one to write to.

15

I don’t know how long I sat there, feeling simultaneously terrible for my eighteen-year-old Rosalie and like an idiot for caring so much.
Terrific, Lydia. Here you are, all depressed over a sad story from sixty years ago. What’s wrong with you?

Well, it could be what was wrong with me was the sad story from yesterday.

All right, that was enough. If the moroseness in here got any thicker I’d need a cleaver to cut through it. There had to be something I could
do
.

Zhang Li, now. Mr. Chen’s cousin. Hadn’t I not pushed him for long enough?

I dug out his card and called. A pleasant woman told me in Cantonese that I’d reached Fast River Imports, but the boss was out and she didn’t know where to reach him or when he’d be back. I gave her my name, which did not make the boss miraculously reappear. Whether that meant he really wasn’t there or he was ducking me, I had no idea. I asked her to have Mr. Zhang call me at his earliest possible convenience and hung up.

All right, that hadn’t worked, but I still had to get out and move. Maybe I’d pop up to Mr. Zhang’s office, just in case he was one of those people—there were a lot of them, actually—who didn’t know how much he wanted to talk to me until he saw me, and saw me, and saw me.

Joel would have laughed, would have said,
Chinsky, hold your horses
. Have a little patience, he’d have suggested, lots of doors were still open. I just had to wait until David Rosenberg got in, until Zhang Li called me back, until Wong Pan tried to peddle Rosalie’s jewelry up the street here.

Joel would have mentioned something else, too, though.
Chinsky? What exactly are you up to? Did you miss it? We’ve been fired
.

Yes, well, maybe it was time to take that up with the client.

Alice’s cell rang three times, and then, just as I was starting to grit my teeth, she answered. “Lydia! How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I said. Which was true, if you didn’t count the sudden visions of Joel with blood all over the front of his shirt that flashed into my brain every few hours. “Fine.”

“I’m glad,” Alice said. “I hope you’re calling with good news. Have the police found anything?”

“No, but I have.” I ignored the “good news” part. “Alice, I called you before. Did you get my message?”

“You did? I’m sorry. I have eleven new messages, and the truth is, I was too dispirited to even look at them.”

“We need to talk,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Washington.”

“
Washington?
”

“I have friends here. I thought it might help to come down and see them.”

“When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow or the next day.”

“But you haven’t checked out of the Waldorf?”

“It’s tourist season. I have the room booked for two weeks. If I give it up I’ll never get another. I’ll call you when I’m back.”

“No, wait. This is really important. Have you spoken to your clients in Zurich?”

“Yes, I told them what had happened. They agreed we should suspend the search for the jewelry until Joel’s murder is solved. I’m sorry, I know—”

“Alice, what do you know about them?”

“About the Kleins?”

“That’s the name they gave you?”

“What do you mean?”

“They told you they’re Horst Peretz’s daughter’s sons?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Alice, Horst Peretz didn’t have a daughter. He never had any children.”

A pause. “Lydia, what are you saying?”

“That’s why I asked what you know about them.”

“What do you mean, Horst never had children? How do you know that?”

“Because Rosalie did. She and Chen Kai-rong had a son, and I’ve met him, and he told me.”

A much longer pause. “You’ve met him? He’s still alive? He’s in New York?”

“Yes. He recognized the jewelry photos.”

“Oh, my God. You’re sure? Rosalie’s son?”

“Yes. When you get back I’ll introduce you. But then—”

“Yes, I follow you. Then who are my clients?”

“Right. So you can see—”

“Have you told this to Detective Mulgrew?”

“You can’t believe he’d care. But Alice, there’s more. The police found Wong Pan’s hotel.”

She caught her breath. “They found him?”

“No, just where he’d been staying. But he seems to have tried to call you. At the Waldorf. He didn’t get you, did he?”

“Wong Pan? Of course not. What do you mean, he seems to have tried to call me?”

“A pay phone near his hotel called the Waldorf.”

“Oh. But that could be coincidence.”

“It could. There’s another thing, though, and it’s bad: The police think Wong Pan killed someone. A cop from Shanghai who’d followed him here.”

“The Shangahi police followed him?”

“But the cop was murdered. In Wong Pan’s room.”

“My God. Lydia, this is . . . But then, you
have
spoken to the police.”

“Not to Mulgrew. To a detective friend of mine, who’s . . . involved.”

“Lydia, I want you to listen to me. I need to think about this. About the Kleins. I’ll call them in Zurich as soon as it’s morning there. And I’ll come back to New York tomorrow and we’ll talk. But this is important: If what you’re saying is true, you have
got
to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Lydia! Stop working on this case! Tell Detective Mulgrew, tell your detective friend, and then leave it alone. If Wong Pan killed someone, if my clients are lying to me—whatever this means, one thing that’s clear, the situation is dangerous. It sounds likely now that Joel’s murder may well be part of this case. And I want you out of it! I won’t be responsible for you getting hurt.”

“Alice, this is my choice. You’re not responsible, but I can’t just—”

“Lydia, I fired you to keep you safe. You must stop.”

“I don’t feel like I can.”

“What do you want me to do, get a restraining order?”

I came to a screeching halt. “What?”

“This is my business. I hired you, I fired you, and now you won’t leave it alone. If it’s the only way I can keep you out of danger, I’ll do it. Please, Lydia. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“You can’t do that,” I said, wondering if she could.

“Lydia, please. Leave it alone until I get back tomorrow. We’ll decide how best to move forward from there.”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Will you call me as soon as you’re back in New York?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I clicked off. It was possible my voice sounded a little more resigned, a little less resolute, than I felt. Alice could interpret that however she wanted. I never actually said I’d give up the case, though, and she couldn’t quote me as saying I had. Because, in fact, she was wrong on one particular.

She hadn’t hired me. Joel had.

16

I called Bill, got voice mail, told him we were fired again and to call me. Then I gathered up my things and started to move.

In five minutes I was back on the other end of Canal. Outside Bright Hopes I paused, letting my gaze sweep the rings, the necklaces, and the ridiculously adorable gold zodiac animals on a Plexiglas Milky Way. This was the bridge between earth and heaven, where the Weaver Maid and the Shepherd meet once a year for all eternity, brought together by their steadfast love.

Behind the jewels and silly animals, Irene Ng’s smiling face appeared. She came around and opened the door. “Did you want something? Mr. Chen’s not here, but I’d be happy to help you.”

“I wanted Mr. Chen, so I guess I’m out of luck. Is there somewhere I can reach him?”

“He didn’t say. I’ll tell him you were looking for him.”

“What about his cousin? Zhang Li?”

“Oh, I have no idea. He comes here a lot, but his business is on Mott Street. Do you want me to call him for you?”

That sounded like a good idea. Zhang Li might be in to Irene Ng even if he wasn’t in to me.

But no. Smiling apologetically, she put the phone down. “Fay doesn’t know where he is or when he’ll be back.”

Well, at least Fay’s story was consistent. “Thanks.” I peered into a case of rings. “I’ll bet you enjoy your work. Around these beautiful things all day.”

“Oh, yes! I’m just learning, but I love it. Mr. Chen knows everything about stones and settings. And he’s nice, very patient even when I’m being hopeless. Mr. Zhang says Mr. Chen’s mother was just like that.”

“They seem very close, Mr. Zhang and Mr. Chen.”

“Yes. Like brothers.”

I had to smile. “I have four brothers. Do you suppose when we’re all old we’ll get along that well?”

“I’m not sure age helps.” She cocked a dubious head. “From what I hear, Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang were always much closer than Mr. Zhang and his actual brother.”

“Mr. Zhang had a brother?”

“Has. A half brother, about ten years older. The same father, different mothers.” To my surprised silence she said, “C. D. Zhang. You don’t know about him?”

“I certainly don’t. Tell me.”

“Oh, there’s nothing special to tell. He imports jewelry. His business is a few blocks down Canal Street.”

“He’s
here
?”

“He’s been here much longer than Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang. He actually sponsored them to come. He was so happy when they asked him to help, he told me once. But I don’t think it’s worked out the way he wanted.”

“Why not?”

“I think he thought they’d all be, you know, family. Hang out together. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang, they do that, kids and grandkids, that kind of thing. At Thanksgiving and Chinese New Year they include C. D. Zhang, but otherwise, they just aren’t that close with him.”

I left Irene Ng dusting jade bracelets and hurtled down Canal. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang might not be close
with
C. D. Zhang, but close
to
was a different matter. My phone call barely got to C. D. Zhang before I did. On the second floor of a wide-windowed building not far from my office, a secretary with a frizzy Chinatown perm ushered me through the boss’s door. “Lydia Chin,” she announced in English.

“The private detective!” A tall, spry old man jumped from behind a flat monitor remarkably at home on an antique scholar’s desk. “So intriguing! Please, come in.”

Bony and quick, with broad shoulders and a lined and leathery face, C. D. Zhang was clearly older than both his half brother, Zhang Li, and his cousin, Chen Lao-li. He gestured me to a thin-armed rosewood chair of the kind I’d seen in museums and always wondered whether they were comfortable.

“I appreciate your seeing me, Mr. Zhang.” He’d greeted me in English, so I guessed it was the language of choice.

“How could I resist?
The Maltese Falcon! Farewell, My Lovely!
When I was young, schoolboys in Shanghai were weighed down with dull books for our English lessons, but among ourselves we put those lessons to better use. Oh, the intrigue! The romance!” His black eyes sparkled. “Of course, in those days detectives were tough-talking, two-fisted men.”

“Some still are.” I sat; the chair creaked but fit me pretty well. The door opened, and the secretary brought in a tea tray. While he poured from a sleek white pot into sleek white cups—the Western kind with saucers and handles—I looked around.

The rosewood chairs and the scholar’s desk were the only things in the room older than I was. Everything else—lamps, desk chair, credenza—was relentlessly minimalist-modern. Bookshelves lined two walls, interrupted by certificates of membership in importers’ and appraisers’ associations. The roar of traffic charged through steel-framed windows along with the midday sun. On my right hung the only other evidence of the past: a colossal black-and-white photo of prewar Shanghai. A full moon gleamed over the neon of the Cathay Hotel and laid a broken path along the sampan-clogged river. Its round glow was dittoed down the Bund in the headlights of boxy cars. A black ocean liner rode the horizon. I found myself listening for the lap of waves, wondering whether the passengers found the harbor’s complicated scents exciting or disturbing.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Startled back to Canal Street, I said, “I’ve never been to Shanghai. It seems so fascinating.”

“Oh, it was!” C. D. Zhang held out my tea, smoky and strong. “Wild. Intoxicating. As a boy I was in love with the streets of Shanghai. Endlessly I pestered my amah to take me outside our villa walls. I didn’t understand half of what I saw or heard, but what chaos! What cacophony! She’d buy me an ice or a bit of fried eel. Women in silks would smile from rickshaws. I can still see it: Coolies with carrying poles darting between limousines. Dazzling bar girls, Sihks with turbans, English bankers sweating in tweeds. Ships and cargo! Temples and gongs! Shops, soldiers, crowds. Banners and neon in the hot damp air.”

“That’s very poetic, Mr. Zhang. I feel like I’m there.”

“No, you’re too kind. It’s just the truth. If it sounds like poetry, credit the Shanghai of my youth, not myself.” His smile turned wry. “Now the Cathay is the Peace Hotel. Our villa houses the Bureau of Water Resources. I hear they park in the side garden, where my father’s banquet tent stood.”

“Do you go back?”

“Why would I? Everything I remember, and everything I had, is gone. But you’re being polite, Ms. Chin. You’re a private eye, on a case! You haven’t come to discuss Shanghai.”

“No. Well, in a way maybe I did. I want to ask you about the Shanghai Moon.”
Go ahead, Lydia, jump right in
.

C. D. Zhang was silent for a long moment. “The Shanghai Moon.” Then his face cleared. “Ah, I see! I think you’ve been talking to those two old men.”

“Your half brother and your cousin? Yes.”

“Li and Lao-li,” he smiled. “One madder than the other. They’ve spun you their tales, and now you’re caught up in the romance of the Shanghai Moon.”

“I did talk to them, about—something else. But they never mentioned the Shanghai Moon until I found it in a book and asked. In fact, they never mentioned you.”

“And why would they?”

“Because you’re Mr. Zhang’s half brother?”

His smile remained, but it softened. “My brother and I have never been close. The difference in our ages, plus other factors—not least, the war our childhoods shared—conspired to keep us at arm’s length. I’d hoped, when Brother Li and Cousin Lao-li came to this country, things might change, but I suppose it’s not easy to set one’s feet on a new path.”

“Still, we were talking about the past. I’d have thought they’d have said something. With you being right down the street here.”

“Ms. Chin, if your business with Li and Lao-li concerned the Shanghai Moon, I promise you nothing else was in their thoughts. They’d have no reason to mention me. It would surprise me to hear they told you anything at all.”

“Why is that?”

“My cousin has been searching for the Shanghai Moon obsessively and all his life. It’s not in his nature to share news of it.”

“Well, it was his mother’s. I understand it’s very valuable.”

“Yes, both those things are true. But neither riches nor family pride are what draw him. Cousin Lao-li seeks the Shanghai Moon as a way to recover his past. As though it were a portal he could walk through. He chose jewelry as his life’s work solely to dwell in the world of the Shanghai Moon.”

“Mr. Zhang, you’re in the jewelry business yourself.”

“Yes! One of many interesting ironies in our lives, I suppose. But my reasons are quite different. I see you wear a jade
bi,
Ms. Chin.”

“My parents gave it to me.”

“To safeguard you through life! Do you know why?”

“Jade is supposed to have protective qualities.”

“Supposed so, by we Chinese. To the Tibetans, it’s turquoise; for the Romans, it was opals. And diamonds are forever!” He waved his hand toward the shelves. “In a flood, my beautiful books are soaked to pulp. In fire, this desk, seven hundred years the support of scholars, is ash. You and I will one day be dust, though mine will form sooner and yours will be prettier. But your jade? The diamonds in this ring? They
will not
change! Burn them, drown them, bury them for a million years: immutable! Smash them to bits—each bit will still be pure: a tiny speck of diamond or jade. Everything changes, Ms. Chin. Water becomes sweet tea and then grows bitter as it steeps. There is no immortality for us. The nearest we can come is to be in the presence of gems.”

“Mr. Zhang, I have to repeat myself: You’re quite a poet.”

“And I repeat myself: It’s just the truth.”

“But isn’t that why Mr. Chen wants the Shanghai Moon? To touch that immortality?”

“My cousin’s search is for the Fountain of Youth: a very different obsession. My brother indulges him. Fools, the pair of them.”

Immortality and the Fountain of Youth: I wasn’t sure I saw such a great difference. “Fools,” I said, “but family. Mr. Chen’s assistant told me you sponsored them to come here.”

“As you say: family. That was forty years ago. I’d heard nothing from them in twenty years, since my father and I had left China. I didn’t even know if they still lived. Suddenly, from Shanghai, a letter! It brought greetings from my cousin, whom I had never met, and my brother, and wishes for my good health. It told of a storm fast approaching, to engulf all China in chaos and destruction. If possible”—the wry smile again—“my brother and cousin would prefer to ride out the storm in America. They asked for my help. Such was their good fortune that my father had recently died.”

“Why was that good fortune?”

“Sad to say, my father’s capacity for ill feeling increased as he aged.”

“But Zhang Li is his son.”

“And Mei-lin’s. And he and Loa-li were both raised by Kai-rong. My father and Kai-rong had not exactly brotherly feelings toward one another.”

“But not to help his own son because he didn’t like his brother-in-law?” That would take a very hard man. Suddenly, I had another thought. “General Zhang! Rosalie Gilder met him at a bookstore. It’s in her letters. He’s not—”

“My father? Yes. Shanghai society was a small and insular world. The book Rosalie found him was for Mei-lin. It was the beginning of their courtship.” He smiled. “I’ve read that letter. Rosalie took a fast dislike to him.”

“Oh, but I’m sure she wasn’t seeing his best side.”

“No, his everyday one. And for his part, he didn’t much care for Rosalie’s proud nature. Or her temper.”

“Was that part of the problem between your father and Kai-rong?”

His glance rested on the Shanghai photo. “Part of it, yes. But surely, Ms. Chin, we’re getting far afield from the reason you’ve come?”

Reluctantly, I said, “I suppose so. Your brother and your cousin—the storm was the Cultural Revolution?”

“They hadn’t been here six months when the first clouds burst. They’ve made new lives, but like so many, their hearts remained in China. In a China that ceased to exist. That’s the meaning of their search for the Shanghai Moon.” His smile grew sharper. “Beware, Ms. Chin.”

“Of what? The search is dangerous?”

“Not in the way you mean. Men have lost their lives in it, it’s true. But it’s a living death. No one’s seen the Shanghai Moon for sixty years, but everyone’s gotten word, gotten wind, everyone knows someone who’s heard from someone who saw something glitter in a dusty shop. They throw away their money and their time and in the end have nothing.”

“All those people over all these years, finding nothing?”

“Oh, not so many. Most men, even jewelry men, have more sense than to chase a ghost. But through the years, enough. A jeweler in Antwerp who spent his savings rushing here, there, and everywhere, ending with pockets as empty as his hands. A Singaporean of enormous wealth, already the owner of three of the world’s great jewels. Ah, your face betrays your fascination! The Shanghai Moon, casting its web.

“But now you must tell me: Why are you asking about the Shanghai Moon? And since those two old men didn’t send you, why have you come to me?”

“Mr. Zhang, you say the search for the Shanghai Moon isn’t dangerous in the way I meant. I’m not sure that’s true. You also say there are always rumors about it—have you heard any lately?”

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“A client hired me to trace some jewelry recently found and then stolen in Shanghai. Rosalie Gilder’s jewelry. The Shanghai Moon may have been there.”

The racket of traffic crowded into the space his silence made. A flock of pigeons swooped by. I wondered if C.D. Zhang had chosen this corner for its chaos and cacophony.

Quietly, he spoke. “Have you seen the Shanghai Moon?”

“No.”

“No.” He nodded. “This is how it always goes. ‘It’s possible.’ ‘It could be.’ ‘I think, I heard, I was told.’ But in the end . . .”

“Mr. Zhang? What would the Shanghai Moon be worth?”

He fingered his teacup. “There are no accurate records. It would have to be appraised.”

“Sixty years,” I mused. “I wonder if there’s anyone still around who ever saw it.”