I smiled as I said this and held out my cup for more tea.
Pouring my tea, Mr. Lee said, “I’m afraid antiques aren’t something we handle, Miss Chin, although we are very interested in modern porcelains. Does your family have any association with any of the new kilns in Guangdong province?”
His tone and his look were friendly, interested. I sampled my new cup of tea, thinking fast. “No, we don’t deal in modern goods at all. Each of my brothers is a specialist in a different area of antiques, and we’ve concentrated there.” I sampled some more, thought some more. “We’re not a large firm and we’re not necessarily interested in large orders. Perhaps you have a particular customer or two for whom you might want to examine our porcelains, as a special service, even though they’re not the sort of goods you generally deal in?”
Mr. Lee gave a short, good-natured laugh. “No, I’m sorry, antiques are something I know nothing about, and my customers know that. If any of them are looking for older pieces, they won’t come to me.”
“Even if,” I said cautiously, “these are goods they might not find anywhere else?”
He said apologetically, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“We’re an old firm,” I told him, “and we have many long-established relationships with dealers and with certain … individuals. Occasionally we are offered items which for one or another reason are not to be sold on the open market. The porcelains we have now fall into that category.”
“Oh?” He held his teacup lightly between the fingertips of both hands. “Intriguing.” He sipped at his tea and went on, “However, as I say, I have no expertise in the antiques field and therefore no clientele. I’m not sure I’m young enough to start into a new line of work, Miss Chin. I appreciate your offer, and I’d like to do business with your family, but I’m afraid this may not be the right opportunity.”
I gave him my most mysterious smile, as a last-ditch effort. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Lee. I was hoping we would be able to work together.”
“I’m disappointed also, Miss Chin. But if you and your brothers decide to deal in modern goods, please get back in touch with me. I’m always, as I say, interested in new sources of merchandise.”
I made my achy way along the sidewalk, trying to avoid being bumped by my fellow pedestrians, and hailed a cab on Canal to take me to Bill’s. It was a ridiculously short walk, but I was cold and sore and tired and had a long afternoon and evening ahead. Traffic on Canal was snarled and couldn’t seem to figure out how to get itself moving; sitting in the cab I heard a lot of horn blowing but saw very little action.
I felt just like the traffic myself.
Why had Lee Kuan Yue denied dealing in antiques, at the same time as he accused Hsing Chung Wah of stealing them from him?
One possibility was that my clever ruse hadn’t fooled him in the least, that he knew who I was and what I was working on. But in that case, why sit there and talk to me at all? Maybe so he could find out what I knew. But then why not lead me on, ask me about the porcelains, get me to describe them?
And what would I have done if he had?
And what would I have done if he’d thrown me out of his office?
And what would I do if every question I asked in this case
just kept on leading to more and more confusing questions and I never, never found any answers?
T
W E N T Y
I
was sitting in another car, Bill’s, as we made our way uptown. Driving had been his idea, and I hadn’t tried to talk him out of it.
“Otherwise your mother might think that I’m not looking after you well enough,” he said. “In your condition.”
“You’re not supposed to be looking after me!” I snapped at him. “And it doesn’t matter what my mother thinks. And I’m not in any condition.”
“Nope.”
“And it’s freezing in here.”
Bill rolled the window on his side most of the way up. He’d been driving, as usual, with it down; he’ll do that in any weather, unless the rain is actually falling sideways.
“Rough day?” he asked me, glancing over.
“Oh, stop being so understanding; you’re making me feel guilty. Yes, it was a rough day. First poor Mrs. Hsing, who doesn’t want to give Lee Kuan Yue back a cup that’s probably ours anyway, and then Lee Kuan Yue, who denies knowing or caring about antique porcelains in the first place.”
I’d told Bill about my visit to Lee’s shop as we’d walked to the lot where he keeps his car. Now he asked, “Even the suggestion that what you were offering him might be hot didn’t light his fire at all?”
“Not a flicker.”
Bill pushed the car’s lighter in, waited for the little pop,
put it to his cigarette. “Maybe he just likes to know who his fences are.”
“You mean, he wouldn’t want to buy stolen goods from my family because he didn’t know us?” I thought about it. “If that were true he’d have strung me along while he checked me out. Every Chinese-American has someone he can call on Taiwan who can call someone else who knows everybody. Especially an importer.”
“What would you have done if he had?”
“Well, I could have gotten lucky. There may be a Chin family on Taiwan who deals in Asian antiquities.”
“There may be.” Bill’s tone of voice implied it was entirely possible pigs could fly, too.
“Or I might have had to drop the whole gag and tell him who I really was and what I really wanted. I don’t know. But anyway, it didn’t happen. Lee Kuan Yue just wasn’t interested in my goods.”
“Hard to believe,” Bill said with a slightly lewd grin.
“You know, it’s a good thing you’re obnoxious.” I made my seat recline, closed my eyes. “Otherwise I might fall for you. Tell me when we get there.”
As the gentle motion of the car lulled me, my mind went back to Lee Kuan Yue’s spare, modern office. I pictured myself sitting up squarely, telling him straight that I’d been to Mrs. Hsing’s and whose cup was that, anyway? I wasn’t sure, now that I thought about it, why I hadn’t. My first instinct has always been toward subterfuge, fakery, and disguise; but maybe that’s not necessarily a good way to go. I could have gone in straight.
It just didn’t occur to me.
When we got to the Upper East Side we had to park two blocks away and walk through an afternoon that was colder than the morning, though the sun, more ambitious than I would have been, had come out after all. I had a flash, maneuvering around a newsstand on Lexington, of how good a hot bath would feel
right now, with the warmth and the mountain scent of Mr. Gao’s herbs surrounding me, but I pushed the whole idea out of my mind.
Mrs. Blair lived in a four-story brick rowhouse—the kind of building that’s called a brownstone in New York, no matter what it’s made of—two houses in from Lexington on Eighty-second. The maid, a fair-skinned Irish woman in a black uniform, told us Mrs. Blair was expecting us and would be right down.
The maid showed us into a bay-windowed room filled with satin-striped furniture with carved legs, a Turkish carpet, and diluted sunlight flowing gently through sheer curtains. In my room at home the sun charges in as though it’s trying to burn a square hole in the floor.
The maid took our coats and invited us to sit, but we both stood, admiring the portrait of Mrs. Blair in a formal gown over the fireplace and the small objects of porcelain, silver, and crystal placed in elegantly eye-catching spots. A silver-framed photograph of a smiling man in waders holding a large flopping fish dominated the mantelpiece.
“Do you suppose that’s him?” I whispered to Bill, pointing at the fisherman. “Mr. Blair?”
“Betcha,” he answered.
The click of heels on the marble foyer floor made us both turn as Mrs. Blair entered the room. Wearing a silk blouse and a wool skirt—and, I noticed, stockings and high heels in her own house—she smiled at us graciously.
“Ms. Chin. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Hello, Mrs. Blair.” I introduced her to Bill, although I wondered as I did that whether I was supposed to introduce Bill to her first. There’s a rule of etiquette that covers these occasions, but I don’t know what it is.
“Please, sit down.” She gestured to the pristine-looking furniture, chose a chair with graceful wooden arms for herself. Bill remained standing until both Mrs. Blair and I were seated. Well, at least someone in this partnership had manners.
“Mrs. Blair,” I began, after everyone had crossed their
legs and tugged at their trouser creases—or, in Mrs. Blair’s case, her skirt hem—“something a little odd has happened and I wondered if you could help us.”
“If it will help Chinatown Pride recover my husband’s porcelains I’ll certainly try.”
“I’m not sure. But can you tell me about the porcelains that were stolen: Was there a white cup with a red tiger on it?” That seemed to me a shabby description of the delicate, translucent vessel painted with the fiery beast that Mr. Gao had held to the window’s light, but if she’d owned it she’d recognize it. “It had a top, with a tiger on that, too.”
Mrs. Blair paused, gave me a small smile. “This may seem strange to you, Ms. Chin, but I’m not sure. As I told you, the collection was my husband’s; I wasn’t really involved with it.” Her eyes went to the photograph of the fisherman, lingered a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that sounds familiar. Why?”
“There were two of them,” Bill interjected. “Two covered cups like that, identical.”
Mrs. Blair turned her gaze to him. “Well, as I say, I’m not sure, but I don’t believe they were my husband’s. Why do you ask?”
“One of them has turned up,” I said. “It was a long shot, but porcelain … we just thought we’d check it out. Mrs. Blair, may I ask you something else: Are you acquainted with Dr. Roger Caldwell, from the Kurtz Museum?”
I thought, for a fraction of a second, something hard passed over her face, but it might have been a cloud momentarily darkening the sunlight in the room.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Dr. Caldwell’s particular field is porcelains. I believe he and my husband consulted on occasion.”
“Had Dr. Caldwell seen your husband’s collection?” I asked. “Would he recognize the pieces?”
Mrs. Blair looked down at her perfect, French-tipped nails. “I don’t believe so, no. Apparently they occasionally bid against each other at auction, and I suppose whichever pieces
my husband was successful in acquiring Dr. Caldwell might remember and recognize. But he was not a guest in this house.”
I thought I heard, in that, an echo of the icy Hong Kong lady I’d heard in Nora’s office. I glanced at Bill; if he’d heard it too, he wasn’t showing it.
Interested in the source of the chill, I asked, “But you didn’t consult Dr. Caldwell about the disposition of Mr. Blair’s collection?”
“As a matter of fact, I tried, but Dr. Caldwell was in Europe, on an extended purchasing trip, as I understand. He wasn’t aware my husband had passed away until his return. But all in all I’m very satisfied with—in fact, grateful for—Dr. Browning’s advice and assistance.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “Well, Mrs. Blair, we appreciate your seeing us, and we won’t take much more of your time. Let me just ask you one more question: Do you know a Chinatown importer named Lee Kuan Yue?”
Her clear brown eyes blinked. “Of course,” she told me. “He’s my brother.”
“We need a cup of coffee,” Bill said. “To help us think.”
We were walking south on Lexington, toward the art gallery that was our next stop. The sun had packed it in and the city was cloudy and gray, approaching the early twilight of a January afternoon.
“I never need coffee,” I pointed out. “But I could use help thinking.”
We chose the first place we came to, a white-and-green tiled cafe that was mostly takeout but had a line of tables opposite the pasta-salad-filled glass cases. Bill got black coffee and a blueberry scone; I got Irish Breakfast tea. We carried them to a table, drank, and tried to think.
“I’m such an idiot,” I told Bill, squeezing my teabag around my spoon. “Did I cover well enough?”
“You were perfect. I’m sure she has no idea that you’re an idiot.”
“Gee, thanks.”
After Mrs. Blair’s revelation about her relation to Lee Kuan Yue, I’d told her I’d only asked because his firm was known for dealing in porcelains and we were checking on all such firms. If I’d known he was her brother, of course, I wouldn’t have bothered. It sounded lame to me, but she appeared to buy it.
“You knew I had a brother doing business in Chinatown, of course? I believe I mentioned him to you when we first met.” She seemed slightly amused at my confusion.
“Yes, of course. I just never connected the two.”
“I should have thought to arrange for the two of you to meet. Have you talked to Kuan Yue? Was he able to help you?”
“Well, as I say, it was only a background check. Actually, he told me he’s not interested in antiques.”
“No, I don’t believe he ever was. We were raised to look to the future, my brother and I.”
Now, picking blueberries out of Bill’s scone, I said to him, “Maybe he’s the guy you were theorizing about at the beginning. Lee Kuan Yue. The one who had his eye on the collection for a long time but couldn’t get at it until it went to CP.”
Bill leaned back in his chair, sipped his coffee. “Keep going.”
“Well, he could have seen the collection. I mean, her
brother
. No matter how much of a recluse Mr. Blair was, his wife’s brother could easily have been in and out of the house all the time.”
“Ummm. It’s possible. But he’d also have known Blair was dead. Why not try to make a deal with her then?”
“Maybe they’re not on good terms?”
“She didn’t make it sound like that. Maybe we should ask him.”
“Maybe we should,” I agreed.
“That would fit with your other theory,” Bill said.
“I had another theory?”
“That Mrs. Blair has an idea who did it, and is lying about no one seeing the collection to protect whoever that is.”
“Ah, that theory.” I leaned back in my chair, too. “You know, there’s a way to test that theory.”
“I thought of that.”
“Did you?”
“Uh-huh. There’s an Irish bar on Second Avenue where all the Irish maids I know go for a pint in the evening, after the mistress retires.”