Trail of Blood (25 page)

“Pure intellectual curiosity! Refreshing as a Tsingtao ale. Chapei wasn’t any nicer than any of the others, I can tell you that.”

“Are there records from the camps?”

“What kinds of records?”

“Lists of internees, I was thinking.”

“It’s hard to say how accurate they are. How would we know who’s missing? But they exist.”

“Can you find out if an American missionary family named Fairchild was also in the Chapei camp?”

“Might do. That would require my researcher to ferret out another set of documents in another language, so she might get her A after all. But you’re not about to tell me why, are you?”

“Not yet, no. I’m sorry. But you’ve been a big help.”

“I’m tickled. And now
I
have a question for
you
.”

“Go ahead.”

“If Ulrich’s buddy General Zhang wanted his brother-in-law Chen to rot, and if Ulrich’s mission was to cozy up to guys like Zhang, why did Ulrich bite when Chen’s sister called? Was she Ulrich’s bit on the side?”

“No. She couldn’t stand him.”

“Well, if it wasn’t sex it must have been money.”

“In a way. She promised him the moon.”

Professor Edwards said he’d call us with information on the Fairchilds if he found it, and we said we’d let him know what it was all about as soon as we could. After we hung up, Bill lit a cigarette. “You said that about promising Ulrich the moon to show you’re as clever as the professor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That would imply I’m the competitive type.”

“Oh, right, and that’s nuts, isn’t it? Listen, when we get a minute we’d better copy that diary for him. I think he deserves it.”

I nodded vaguely, distracted by something I couldn’t quite place.

“Now, in the spirit of intellectual inquiry, I have a question, too,” Bill went on. “What if it turns out Alice was in the same camp as Ulrich’s wife and child? She was a kid herself. You think she learned something then that would tell her now where to find the Shanghai Moon? Why would it have taken all these years? And how does it tie into what’s been going on? And what are you scowling about?”

“This isn’t a scowl, it’s a contemplative frown. I’m trying to remember something.”

“What?”

“How do I know? I don’t remember it. Ah! Aha! Mr. Friedman!”

“Aha Mr. Friedman what?”

“I knew this sounded familiar! His book. Didn’t it say something about a rumor, a German officer’s widow in an internment camp having the Shanghai Moon?”

Bill, also being contemplative, drew on his cigarette. “I think you’re right. But that doesn’t make it true.”

“But it makes it an old rumor. Look: Mei-lin gives it to Ulrich, he slips it to his wife when they come for him.”

“Difficult to imagine how she could have kept it hidden in the camp, though I guess she might have. But if she had it, why didn’t she use it to bribe their way out? And what happened to it when she died?”

“Maybe she didn’t have it, but she knew where it was.”

“Same questions.”

“Okay, I admit that’s all a little fuzzy. But I really, really want to know whether Alice was in that same camp.”

Bill got to his feet. “Let’s go ask her.”

32

Twenty minutes later Bill and I were sitting in the sticky heat of Sara Roosevelt Park. If I’d had a watch, I’d have been checking it every five seconds. I did check Bill’s a few times, until, with a sideways look, he pocketed it.

“She won’t get here any faster if you do that.”

“What if she doesn’t come at all?”

“It was her idea,” he said.

That didn’t particularly reassure me; I have lots of ideas I don’t follow through. I scanned for the moon, but the streetlights’ glow saturated the haze.

“Do you see Mary? Or any cops?” I asked Bill.

“No.”

“Good. Then Alice won’t spot them either. Wait! There she is!” By which I didn’t mean Mary, and he knew it.

A compact shape in a black straw hat and, despite the darkness, sunglasses, hurried along Chrystie and into the park. She peered around, then headed our way. Bill slid over and made a space between us. Slipping the sunglasses off, Alice Fairchild said, “Thank you both. For indulging me.”

Bill didn’t answer; my client, my show.

“Alice,” I said, “what’s going on?”

She watched her hands finger the sunglasses. “Lydia, I’m so ashamed. It’s fraud.”

No kidding. “Tell us.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here.” She shoved the sunglasses into her purse as though they suddenly annoyed her. “I can hardly believe I did it, but it’s true.”

“What is? What did you do?”

She took a deep breath. “I . . . It was all so wrong. It started a few weeks ago, when I heard about jewelry being unearthed in Shanghai.”

“How?”

“How I heard? I maintain sources there. No one in the asset recovery community is interested in Shanghai except me. Anything that made it there was by definition not confiscated, you see? But I know how it was there. And I’ve always thought so much must have been lost, left behind. When I heard about this find, I thought the jewelry might have been a refugee’s. I wondered who, and if they had family. Then the next day, sitting at my desk, I suddenly remembered the Shanghai Moon.”

“You thought it was part of the find?”

“Oh, no. That news would have gotten out. But I remembered the name of its owner, and the story that she’d had other jewelry. So I did some research. Ambulance chasing, I guess. If I found heirs, I was going to propose that I try to recover it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I learned two things. One, the find certainly sounded like Rosalie’s jewelry. And two, the family was gone. Horst Peretz died in Salzburg in the spring of 1938, Elke Gilder in the Stutthof concentration camp a few years later. I couldn’t trace either Rosalie or her brother, Paul, as the Shanghai community broke up. So—”

“He lives in New Jersey.”

“What?”

“Paul Gilder. With his granddaughter’s family.”

“Now? He’s still alive?” Her voice dropped to a shocked whisper.

“He came in 1949. Just after Rosalie died.”

“ ’Forty-nine. They stayed on in Shanghai. That’s why the Red Cross had no record. Oh, God. It just gets worse and worse.” Shaking her head, she went on. “In any case, I didn’t find anyone. Maybe I didn’t look as hard as I might have. Because over the next few weeks, I couldn’t get that jewelry out of my mind. I think . . . It’s probably self-serving to say I went a little mad, but I think I did. I associate Shanghai with so much unhappiness. And the business I’m in . . . You have to understand how disheartening it is. Emotions run so high. People feel
owed,
though of course what they’re really owed they can never get back. Cases take years, and it’s hard every step of the way. No one, collectors or museums, banks, governments, no one does anything but throw up roadblocks. And then . . .” She petered out.

“Then?”

“If we do recover anything, the heirs turn around and sell it. Almost always. You see recovered assets on the auction markets all the time. It’s not because they’re greedy. Once things are returned, people find they can’t bear to have them around, knowing why they were lost, knowing who had them all these years. Asset recovery can give you a kind of cold satisfaction, but really, it doesn’t make anyone happy.”

A gust of wind mixed the shadows around on the path. “So you decided if you personally recovered
these
assets, it would make
you
happy.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds awful, but I guess it’s true. I got in touch with Wong Pan and went to Shanghai to ‘negotiate.’ ” Her fingers made quote marks. “It wasn’t hard to manufacture heirs. I might not have been able to fool the Swiss, or some of the Eastern European countries where a lot of assets ended up. But the Chinese aren’t used to these claims.

“Wong Pan, though, turned out to be shrewder than I’d thought. He caught on, I don’t know how. And he offered me a deal: He’d expose me, or I’d help him get out of China and we’d split the proceeds.”

Bill said, “Sounds like he took a big risk for a hundred thousand dollars, give or take.”

“I thought so, too, but I was in no position to argue. His share would have been a few years’ salary at his level, so maybe that was temptation enough. Also, I got the feeling this wasn’t his first step over the line. Things might have been getting a little hot for him in Shanghai.

“When he suggested the deal, I woke up. That’s what it felt like, waking up. I was appalled by what I’d tried to do. I’d have given anything to be back in my office in Zurich, slogging through dull paperwork! But I didn’t have any choice.”

“I can see a few choices,” I said. “But go on.”

“What you must think of me,” she murmured, not meeting my eyes. “In any case: I did it. I got him the papers he needed and followed him here as we’d arranged. Then everything started to go wrong.”

“He gave you the slip.”

“That was the first thing. That’s why I hired you.”

“Why didn’t you just go back to Zurich, slog through paperwork, and count your blessings that you were rid of him? If you were so appalled at what you’d done?”

“I . . . Oh, I don’t know! I think I was afraid of losing track of him. Afraid he still might expose me. I thought, if I could just find him and talk to him . . . But then more things happened, so fast. First, Joel called to tell me you’d found an heir.”

“Mr. Chen? But Joel didn’t know who Mr. Chen was. I didn’t find out until after Joel died.”

“But I did. Remember, I’ve been living with these people longer than you. As soon as Joel decribed his reaction to the photos, I realized who he might be. That made everything different, you see?”

“Not really.”

“Stealing unclaimed assets is one thing, but stealing from the family? No, I couldn’t. And while I was trying to decide what to do, you called and told me Joel was dead. Then I was really frightened.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sure Wong Pan killed him!”

I was sure, too: Wong Pan told me. “That call to the Waldorf. You did speak to Wong Pan, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I spoke to him. He wanted a truce. He needed me. Needed me? Hadn’t he already gotten me in enough trouble? I was about to hang up.

“But he said there was something I didn’t know: that he’d tricked me, and his bureau in Shanghai, too. I could hear him smirk. He said before I’d ever contacted him, he’d palmed something from the box, something no one else knew was there. The Shanghai Moon.”

“Alice, how could he? No one saw it? He opened the box alone? He’s lying.”

“No, there were three people there to open it, and when they saw it was jewelry, they called the head of the bureau. They all inventoried it, and Wong Pan put it in a safe. But antiquities are his specialty, remember. The box intrigued him. He’d seen ones like it before. It was deeply carved all around, and he played with it, thinking he might find a hidden compartment. Well, he did.”

“And the Shanghai Moon was in it?”

“Wrapped in red silk. Of course he’d heard the stories. He knew right away what it was. He pocketed it and was trying to figure out what to do next—he couldn’t sell it in Shanghai, obviously—when I came along. Oh, I thought I was so smart! I was completely out of my league. I’ve never done anything like this in my life! I’ve been so . . . upright. And now there I was, completely tangled, like a fly in a web.”

The Shanghai Moon.
C. D. Zhang’s words floated back to me.
Casting its web
.

“All right,” I said, softening. “I think it’s time to go to the police.”

“No! Not yet.”

“Alice, Wong Pan killed Joel. And he killed that cop who followed him from Shanghai. Shanghai’s sent another cop here now. They know you made those documents for Wong Pan.”

“They—You knew that? Before I told you?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you—”

“We wanted to hear what you had to say.”

She sighed. “I guess I deserved that.”

“And I guess I understand how you got caught up in this. But it’s time to let the police take over.”

“No!”

“They’ll understand, too. But it’s not about you getting in trouble anymore. It’s about catching Joel’s killer.”

“I’m not worried about getting in trouble. I’ll take what I’ve earned. But I want something good to come out of all this first.”

“How could that happen?”

“I have an idea.”

“Your ideas don’t have a stellar track record.”

“I know, but this is different. The heir. Your Mr. Chen. I want to give him back the Shanghai Moon.”

I didn’t know what to say. Bill stepped in. “It would be his anyway. Once Wong Pan’s caught—”

Alice shook her head. “It would be evidence. If it’s true about the Chinese policeman, it would be evidence in
three
criminal cases—two murders and a theft. On two continents. And it’s incredibly valuable. The Chinese government might not be so happy to see it returned to Mr. Chen. At the very least it will be a long battle—after the criminal trials are over. Mr. Chen’s an old man. He might never get to hold it in his hand.”

I thought about that. To have chased this elusive gem, this jewel that was his mother’s, all his life, and then to know it had been found, and not to be able to touch it—that alone could kill Mr. Chen. “What are you proposing?”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Anyone’s law. Wong Pan wants to sell it to Mr. Chen.”

“Wong Pan knows who he is?”

“No. He knows there are collectors who’d give anything for it. I’ve told him I’ve found one, and I want to set up a deal. I said I won’t tell him who because he’ll cut me out. The police can be there, waiting, you see?”
Sort of like they are right now,
I thought. “As long as they don’t interfere before the exchange. Then when they arrest Wong Pan, Mr. Chen will already have the Shanghai Moon. I’m not sure he could be made to give it up. Only the other pieces were inventoried. The killings and the theft can be prosecuted using the inventoried jewelry as evidence. As far as anyone would be able to prove, the Shanghai Moon has always been just a myth.”

I watched cars drift up Chrystie Street. A shaft of light and a salsa beat spilled out a half-opened door. The breeze blew my hair across my forehead. I started to reach my hand to smooth it but stopped just in time. If I looked like I was scratching my head, Mary and a platoon of cops might leap from the bushes, guns blazing.

I turned to Alice. “I think you’re right.”

“You do? Oh, I’m so glad.”

“No,” I said. “I think you’re right about being a little crazy. It’s a bad idea, Alice. I’m sorry. I appreciate that you want something good to come from this. But if Wong Pan’s already killed two people, we can’t mess around with him. We have to go to the police and tell them everything, including how you and he get in touch with each other.”

Her face fell. “But . . . are you sure?” She looked to Bill, as though his opinion might be different. He gave her nothing. She said, “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

“Yes.”

Alice nodded disconsolately. The breeze came up again, and she put her hand up to steady her hat.

“Alice,” I started, “there’s something else we wanted to ask you about. It’s—”

A bullet’s scream put an end to that. Wood splinters exploded from the bench beside me. A different scream: Alice, jumping, shrieking. What had been an empty park erupted in shouts and running footsteps. A second gunshot; I couldn’t tell if it was coming or going, aimed at us or the shooter. I swung behind the bench, gun drawn. Another shot whined, slamming the earth, kicking up a dirt cloud. Bill edged around a tree. I heard Mary’s commanding bark, telling her backup where to go, which ones here, which there.
Damn, girlfriend, you sound like the boss of this!
Juiced on adrenaline, I looked around for someone to shoot at or someone to run from. “Lydia! You guys
stay put
!” Mary yelled. Hey, she could read minds, too. Though, stay put behind an open-slatted bench when bullets were flying? Maybe not. But the footsteps faded, there were no more shots, and even with the sirens that wailed up Chrystie doing their best to keep nerves on edge, it soon became clear that whatever this was, it was over. Mary came running down the path, Bill emerged from behind his tree, and I stood up.

“Anyone hurt?” Mary shouted as she neared.

“Not me,” I said.

“No,” said Bill.

The bad news was there was no third answer. There was no one to give it: Alice was gone.