Socrates thought about this in light of what he’d learned from Bing-fa at their meeting. The only common thread running through the stolen objects was that they all had been recently discovered, at most, within the past eight years and some as recently as six months ago, and none had ever been displayed to the public. This suggested that resale could have been the burglars’ motive after all, even though the objects were illustrated in the exhibit catalog, because it would have been unlikely that any of the articles would be recognized if surreptitiously offered in the black market in some city other than Washington.
Yet, as logical as this was, it seemed to Socrates that the burglars might still have difficulty selling the objects to third parties. The problem might result from the current trend among governments to criminally prosecute art and antiquities dealers, collectors, and museum curators by assuming that any artifacts they possessed over a certain age had been stolen or plundered. This put the burden of rebutting the presumption on the person arrested and charged with unlawful trafficking, including buyers of the antiquities who often knew no more about their purchases than the sellers were willing to tell them.. Consequently, most prospective buyers had become very demanding in their requirement for legitimate, defensible paperwork that authenticated the age, lineage and purchase history of offered items.
Socrates thought about this. This negative climate militated against the so-called resale theory, and led to another common motive for art theft, in particular — the desire of the thief to obtain the stolen goods to meet the specific request of a specific client.
Socrates had once read in Connoisseur magazine that there existed a netherworld of super-wealthy collectors scattered around the planet who paid large sums of money to acquire well known, but stolen works of art or historic documents. In certain instances, the magazine article indicated, the thieves stole objects to order, targeting specific artifacts to satisfy a collector’s particular request.
These collectors never displayed their purloined art or documents for others to see. They took their pleasure in the very possession and private viewing of such well known, high profile stolen works, deriving perverse gratification from knowing that they alone possessed, and that they alone could gaze upon, the stolen object.
That, Socrates thought, might explain the burglary at the gallery. At least it would explain it as much as anything else he’d thought about it so far.
SOCRATES FINISHED HIS run, showered and dressed, and made himself a peanut butter sandwich. After he finished eating, he inserted another Maria Callas disc — her June 1955 Rome performance of Norma — into the CD player, and laid down on the living room carpet in front of one of his speakers. He thought about his two prime motivations for pursuing the investigation for Bing-fa: to please Jade by pleasing her father; and, his desire to win Bing-fa’s approval of his relationship with Jade. As he thought about this, three loud, rapid knocks on his door jarred Socrates from his reverie.
That’s strange, he thought. No one’s supposed to get up here without first being announced over the intercom. This won’t do at all. I’ll have to talk to George again.
But then he thought, A lot good that’ll do. Whoever left the note during the first break-in and dropped off the catalog on my pillow during the next one, obviously had bypassed George.
Socrates walked to the door and looked through the security peep hole. He smiled and opened the door.
“Hello, Youngest Brother. Nice surprise. Come in.”
Youngest Brother didn’t move. “I have come with a message from my venerable father. He has instructed me to tell you that Director Hua will meet with you tomorrow morning at 10:00 at the art gallery, and that she will be most pleased to cooperate with you in all respects.”
Socrates nodded and smiled. Good, he thought, Bing-fa came through after all. “Please thank your honorable father for me,” he said.
Youngest Brother bowed his head, then looked up and said, “I have a second message. My venerable father would be most grateful if you will meet with him at the Golden Dragon. He suggests a meeting within the hour would be suitable.”
This stoked Socrates’ curiousity. What might be so pressing that Bing-fa gave him less than an hour’s notice to meet. He knew it would be futile to press Youngest Brother for more information. Bing-enlai probably didn’t know what his father had in mind, and surely wouldn’t tell Socrates even if he did know.
Socrates said, “Tell Honorable Bing-fa I will be happy to meet with him within an hour.”
When he was alone again, Socrates ran through a mental checklist of possible reasons for the unplanned meeting. He came up empty.
WHEN SOCRATES ARRIVED at the Golden Dragon forty-five minutes later, Eldest Brother met him at the front door. True to form, he said nothing to welcome Socrates. He merely glared at him and said, “Come.” Eldest Brother turned away and walked toward the back of the restaurant. He led Socrates to a room where Bing-fa sat alone at a rectangular table.
Bing-fa remained impassive until his son had left the room and closed the door. He turned toward Socrates, smiled, and gestured toward a chair.
“Excuse my intrusion today into your affairs, but we have encountered a new circumstance.”
This should be interesting, Socrates thought, else why’d he get me over here in such a hurry?
“This morning,” Bing-fa said, “I received a communication from someone who offered to deliver the precious writing instrument to me in return for my payment of $8,000 and my pledge of silence. I intend to conform to the caller’s requirements.”
Socrates raised an eyebrow. He didn’t like this turn of events. It suggested too many possibilities, most of them negative. He decided, however, that he should be circumspect and, at the very least, explore the matter with Bing-fa before he threw a wet blanket over it.
“Did you recognize the caller’s voice, Bing-fa? Was it a male or a woman?”
Bing-fa shook his head. “A man. A Celestial person. He spoke Shanghainese.”
Socrates nodded thoughtfully. “Did he say anything about the stolen art and documents? Are they included in the $8,000 ransom?”
“We spoke only of the cherished Mandarin Yellow.”
“Have you called the police?”
“Of course not. I will not involve the authorities.”
Socrates pushed back his chair. He stood and walked to the far side of the room, keeping his back to Bing-fa. He thought about what he’d just been told.
He slowly turned back to face Bing-fa. “I don’t think you should do this,” he said, “not until we know more. It might be a scam.”
Socrates watched Bing-fa’s eyes narrow. He wrinkled his forehead and glared at Socrates. He clearly wasn’t pleased with that response, Socrates thought.
“Explain yourself,” Bing-fa said. He voice had acquired an edge.
“You don’t know if this person actually has the Mandarin Yellow,” Socrates said, “your Mandarin Yellow. You only know he said he does. Keep in mind that the pen was the only stolen object specifically mentioned in the Washington Post’s article. The caller could have learned about it from the newspaper. He might not actually have your pen.” Socrates paused to let Bing-fa respond.
“Go on,” Bing-fa said.
“If you want to assume this isn’t a con, and you pay over the money and actually get back your Mandarin Yellow, that’s good. It’s your money. You can risk it if you want. But I have to ask, what’s next? Do you keep on paying, over and over, until you buy back everything, probably one at a time?”
Bing-fa shrugged. “That would not be important. What matters is that we rescue our country’s stolen patrimony and return it to the gallery in time for the opening of the Embassy’s glorious exhibit.”
“It’s blackmail,” Socrates said, “extortion. You’ll have a fortune squeezed from you, one artifact at a time, if you give in now.”
Bing-fa shrugged again as if to say, What part of ‘That would not be important’ did you not understan
d?
Socrates realized he was beating the proverbial dead horse, but he was frustrated by the ease with which Bing-fa seemed to be willing to dismiss his efforts and surrender to the burglar’s demands.
Well, Socrates thought, if that horse is dead, so be it. He’d let it lie there. “It’s your money, Bing-fa. You can spend it any way you want.”
When Bing-fa remained silent, Socrates realized he couldn’t leave well enough alone. Bing-fa’s cavalier attitude gnawed at him. “It doesn’t seem very smart to me, however, to give in without at least trying to negotiate a better arrangement for yourself.”
Socrates walked back and again sat across from Bing-fa. He put his hand on the table and rolled quiet drumbeats with his fingers.
“Paying $8,000 for a $2,200 pen, even one with great historic associations like your Mandarin Yellow, isn’t a good way to bargain for the other stolen art and documents, bargaining being the operative term here,” Socrates said. “Whoever broke into the gallery probably won’t be able to sell the art and other objects except to you. You’re undoubtedly his best customer, maybe the only one. You should take advantage of that and negotiate a more realistic price.” He paused to let Bing-fa respond.
Bing-fa still said nothing. Socrates didn’t know how to read Bing-fa’s persistent silence.
“If you insist on going ahead,” Socrates said, “in spite of my advice, I’ll handle the negotiation for you. It’s what I do. I mean, it’s what I did, as a lawyer. I assume that’s why you wanted me here today.”
Bing-fa shook his head. “No. I will do this myself,” he said. “I must recover the beloved Mandarin Yellow in just the manner the caller specified. I won’t jeopardize our national treasure to preserve money or to win an inconsequential financial advantage. The price is of no consequence to me.”
Socrates wasn’t surprised by Bing-fa’s response.
“I have told you this because I thought you should know,” Bing-fa said, “not to obtain your approval.”
Socrates wasn’t quite ready yet to let go of his point. “Don’t you find it strange the caller didn’t also offer you the other stolen items, even for an additional payment?”
Socrates waited for Bing-fa response. When none came, he continued. “Wouldn’t it make sense to sell you everything at once rather than risk being caught each time he arranges another sale?”
“I only know what the caller told me and what he has offered and demanded,” Bing-fa said. “Nothing else.” He paused, then said, “Now I must leave to gather the payment in the required small denomination Yuan. The caller will contact me again to make arrangements to meet.”
Socrates fanned out his hands, palms up, and said, “So be it.”
As he left the Golden Dragon, an ominous thought crossed Socrates’ mind. If Bing-fa successfully ransomed the Mandarin Yellow and if he later made arrangements to buy back everything else, he’d no longer need Socrates’ help. Socrates’ role would be over and he’d never be able to earn his way into Bing-fa’s good graces. And that would mean, as far as Socrates winning Bing-fa’s approval of him and Jade remaining together, that this possibility, too, would come to a premature and infelicitous end.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Socrates walked to the gallery to keep the 10:00 appointment he’d made with the director thanks to Bing-fa’s intervention. He arrived ten minutes before opening time, but hesitated at the front door, surprised to find it slightly ajar. He checked his watch. Not quite 10:00 yet. The Closed sign still showed through the door’s glass pane.
Socrates stepped inside and was immediately enfolded in a mantle of ice cold air. Neither Iris Hua nor Linda Fong was anywhere in sight.
The first thing Socrates noticed, aside from the frigid temperature and the conspicuous absence of the gallery’s only two employees, was a pervasive copper-like odor. He sniffed, and scrunched up his nose. The aroma was sweet, too sweet, not at all pleasurable.
The exhibit room was as dim as at dusk, neither lighted up nor dark, but sharing ghostly elements of both. The only illumination came from the indirect morning light that filtered in through two plate glass windows at the front of the gallery.
Socrates checked his watch. It was five minutes before the designated opening time. Someone should be here, he thought, especially since the door was open.
“Hello, is anyone here?” he called, but not too loudly. He had mixed feelings about bringing attention to himself before the designated opening hour. He felt as if he was trespassing, that the open door might not have been the invitation to step inside he’d taken it to be.
“Ms. Hua,” he called, “Ms. Fong. Anybody? It’s Socrates Cheng.” He listened for some response and waited.
Dead silence.
Socrates closed the entrance door and turned back to face the exhibit room. “Hello,” he said again, louder this time, but still feeling out-of-place. “Is anyone here?” He listened to the pervasive silence. “It’s Socrates Cheng. Honorable Li Bing-fa told you I’d be coming today. I have a 10:00 appointment with Director Hua.”
He listened for the slightest sound, any intimation someone was somewhere in the gallery and hadn’t heard him.
But there was nothing. Only dead air.
He wiped his forehead and neck with his handkerchief. He looked to his left, over at the doorway defined by the hanging beads, and considered going through to look for someone, but decided not to. He’d never been back there and had no idea what to expect. For all he knew, the back area might be the director’s private living quarters.
Socrates was puzzled and rapidly becoming irritated. He didn’t understand what was going on, why the front door had been left partly open with the air conditioning blasting, and yet no one seemed to be there. So much for Bing-fa’s influence with the director, he thought.
He decided to leave, not waste any more time at the gallery today. He’d try again tomorrow. In the meantime, he’d leave a note for the director, a note which would suggest in a few curt words his annoyance at being stood up and would remind the woman that Bing-fa was now directly involved, yet would not emphasize his annoyance. After all, he thought, he didn’t want to discourage the woman from meeting with him some other time or cause her to be so resentful that she would meet with him, but would render the meeting meaningless. The last thing he wanted to do was provoke a passive-aggressive response from the director.
Socrates wrote out the note, then walked across the exhibit room to the alcove to leave it in a conspicuous place for the director to find.
That’s when he saw Iris Hua.
She lay on the carpet on the far side of her desk, partly blocked from view.
At first, as he approached the alcove, all Socrates could see were her calves and ankles which extended out beyond the desk. He hurried over to her. Iris Hua lay sprawled on her back, her legs and one arm akimbo.
“Sweet Jesus!” Socrates said. He sucked in a deep breath.
Socrates lurched away from the director’s body as if he’d touched a hot stove. He kept his eyes fixed on Hua until he bumped up against Linda Fong’s desk behind him. He sucked in air in erratic, large gulps, then let his breath whoosh out between his clenched teeth. He leaned back against the edge of Fong’s desk and stared at the director.
After a minute, he walked back to the director ’s body and stood above her, looking straight down at Hua. He placed his palm against his churning stomach and pressed hard to suppress its waves. He flattened his other palm against the top of the director’s desk and briefly leaned his weight into his arm to steady himself.
The director’s half open, dead eyes glared up at Socrates, berating him for arriving too late to help her. Her mouth had frozen wide open in a soundless scream. Hua’s right arm and hand were locked in a cadaveric spasm as if she’d been trying to protect herself from her assailant. A dried, thin strip of dark blood banded her throat from one side to the other. Hua’s silk blouse was stained coppery red along the neckline and down over her chest.
“Oh, sh
it!” Socrates said. He shook his head and again pressed his hand against his stomach. He licked his lips and wiped them with his sleeve. The malodorous scent of his own stomach filled his nose and painted his mouth.
Socrates abruptly turned away and grabbed a nearby waste basket, lifted it to his face, and exploded the remains of his breakfast and stomach bile into the basket, not stopping until long after his retching had turned painfully dry. He slumped against Hua’s desk. His shirt reeked with perspiration, redolent of someone very aged and very ill.
Socrates pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face, neck and forehead. That was when he noticed the director’s left hand. It was closed in a fist clutching something.
Socrates took a deep breath and held it while he leaned on one knee and lowered his face close to the director’s hand. Her fingers held a tuft of reddish-brown hair.
“Terrific,” Socrates said to no one. “Just what I need. A clue.”
He placed two fingers against the director’s carotid artery and felt for a pulse, but there was none. The director was dead, just as he’d known she was as soon as he found her. He stood up and moved over to the edge of the alcove, away from the corpse.
That’s it, he thought, I’m out of here. He wanted to be away from the director and away from Death’s pernicious presence. He wanted to draw fresh air into his lungs, regain a clear head, and figure out his next play. He had to make some decisions while he still had the opportunity to do so, before some other gallery patron or Linda Fong wandered in from the street and found him with the body.
Socrates considered his possible courses of action. There was, he realized, the right thing to do. He could touch nothing else, stop showering the director’s body with his skin flakes and hair, his DNA, and God-only-knows what other forensic evidence, and promptly go outside, call 911, and wait for the police to arrive.
Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries) Page 11