Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries)

by Steven M. Roth

  “I’m happy to help, Detective.” Socrates was relieved the silence had ended. “That Fong woman was wrong. I didn’t threaten anyone or kill Director Hua. I found her dead on the floor, like I said.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Harte asked. “A Coke, coffee, some tap water?” Harte now eased himself into phase two of his interrogation technique, establishing rapport with Socrates.

  A few minutes later Harte returned carrying two Cokes. This time he ignored the chair at the head of the table and headed for the third one. He lifted the chair and carried it toward Socrates, setting it down backwards about three feet away facing Socrates. Then he straddled the chair and draped his weight lifter’s forearms over the chair’s back, leaning in toward Socrates.

  Harte smiled. The entire stage set, including the detective’s relaxed body language and his inanimate props, now whispered to Socrates, Trust me.

  Harte led Socrates through several questions to establish the baseline. He never took his eyes from Socrates as he mentally cataloged Socrates’ tells and tics. Meanwhile, behind the mirror, Thigpen, too, made mental notes about Socrates’ physical and oral responses. Alongside Thigpen, a video camera and audio recorder memorialized the entire session for later review by the detectives.

  When Harte satisfied himself he knew Socrates’ baseline body language, he said, “You’re not required to be here, Mr. Cheng. You don’t have to answer any questions. You’re not a suspect or person of interest, just a witness. You’re free to leave at any time.”

  Socrates told the detective he understood, and acknowledged he had come to the station house voluntarily. With that oral understanding out of the way, Harte handed Socrates a printed form and asked him to read and sign it to indicate he understood the consensual nature of the interview. Socrates signed the document without reading it.

  “Why don’t you go through your story again,” Harte said. “I’ll take notes so I can prepare a written statement for you to review and sign.”

  Socrates nodded.

  “But this time, Mr. Cheng, I want the whole story from you. No more bullshit. Understand?” He paused a beat. “I want everything. The exhibit catalog you lifted and have been carrying around, the name and location of the person you say you’re working for, the fact you up-chucked into a waste basket, but didn’t tell us, and anything else you left out before. Got it?”

  Socrates told it all, including Bing-fa’s name and role.

  The detective had Socrates repeat his story twice more. During Socrates’ second and third times through, Harte peppered him with questions, interrupting his narrative, testing his consistency.

  When Socrates finished his third recounting of events, Harte said, “You should’ve told us everything right off, without us asking. It doesn’t look good when we have to drag it out of you.”

  Socrates blushed. “I know, Detective. Sorry. Am I a suspect now?”

  “You’re a person of interest now . . . . and a witness, too.”

  “Should I get a lawyer?”

  “Think you need one?”

  “Well, I suppose . . . .”

  “We won’t be able to be this informal if you lawyer-up,” Harte said. “Once you bring in your shark, it’s a whole different ball game.” Harte paused to gauge Socrates’ reaction, then added, “But you already know this seeing as how you used to be a lawyer yourself. Right?”

  Socrates shook his head and sighed. “My practice wasn’t criminal law,” he said, “but I didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll hold off on getting one for now.”

  Harte nodded his agreement, and said, “I’m finished for now, Mr. Cheng. Keep yourself available.” He reached into his jacket pocket, fished out a business card and handed it over to Socrates.

  Socrates took the card, glanced at it, then nodded as if to say, I understand your unstated message, Detective: call if I remember something I left out or want to change my story. He put the detective’s card in his wallet as he left the 2D.

  AFTER IRIS HUA’S death, Linda Fong settled with seamless ease into her new role as acting director of the gallery.

  The first thing she did was change the siting of her desk in the alcove so that now when she sat behind it, she faced south as ordained by feng shui liturgy.

  Fong also added personal, previously forbidden, touches to the work area. Where before she had been required by the director to discard all exhibit catalogs received in the mail from other galleries, Fong now stacked the catalogs on the former director’s desk and chair, sometimes even when she hadn’t bothered opening their mailing envelopes.

  Beyond these two acts of belated rebellion, Acting Director Fong also impressed her imprimatur upon the gallery itself by bringing to her office her modest collection of art reference books which, under her predecessor’s rules, she had been required to keep at home. Now, Fong randomly scattered the art volumes across the surface of the former director’s desk, strewing them among the exhibit catalogs, exactly in the manner the former director would have forbidden her to do if she were still alive and in charge.

  FONG LOOKED UP at the sound of the entrance door opening and closing. Recognizing the visitor, she smiled and hurried out to the exhibit room.

  “Hello, Jade,” she said, speaking Mandarin. “Welcome to my gallery. I am most pleased you have honored me with your presence.”

  Fong did not bow her head in her usual servile, traditional manner or wait for some return acknowledgement from Jade before again speaking.

  “I am sorry for this disorder,” she said, still in dialect, sweeping her arm to corral the room. “I am trying to reorganize everything for the exhibit’s postponed opening.” She paused to let Jade respond.

  Jade looked at Fong, but said nothing. She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest.

  The acting director missed Jade’s implicit message, and continued. “The gaps in the exhibit created by the stolen Mandarin Yellow and other treasures have destroyed the natural flow of the display. I am trying to shift objects around to make the breaks less noticeable.” She looked over at the paintings and framed documents sitting on the floor, each one leaning against the base of the wall where, presumably, it would soon hang for the reorganized exhibit. “Unfortunately, I am alone here, without any volunteers to assist me, and there is so much to do to prepare for the rescheduled opening.” She canted her head in the direction of a group of discarded art packing boxes. “But that is my problem, not yours.” She smiled. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  Jade, also speaking Mandarin, said, “You no doubt are aware that my father has engaged the services of a non-Celestial to recover the stolen national treasures. His name is Socrates Cheng.”

  “I am aware of the barbarian,” Fong said. She briefly lowered her head, then looked up.

  “Mr. Cheng will soon come to see you,” Jade said. “When he does, it is important that you cooperate with him.”

  The acting director narrowed her eyes. “This person is an outsider, Jade, low faan. We have the resources at the Embassy to adequately assist the venerable Li Bing-fa. Why must your father force the barbarian upon us?”

  “That is not your concern,” Jade said, her voice becoming strident. She looked hard at Fong. “I have asked you to assist my father by assisting Mr. Cheng. That should be sufficient reason for you to do so without questioning those with higher standing than you.” Jade waited a few seconds, then said, “If not, then perhaps as a patriot it would be the prudent thing for you to do for your heritage and homeland.”

  The two women stared at one another. Jade looked directly into the acting director’s eyes without once blinking or releasing contact. Linda Fong lowered her gaze and stared at the floor.

  “Of course, Jade. I understand.” Fong did not lift her eyes to look at Jade as she spoke. “I will be pleased to do as you suggest. In return, I would ask a favor from you, if I may be permitted to do so.”

  “Oh?”

  “I would be most grateful if you would spe
ak to the Honorable Li Bing-fa on my behalf. Please request that he intercede with the Embassy to assist me in becoming this gallery’s permanent director.”

  “If you assist Mr. Cheng, I will see to it that my father learns you have cooperated in furthering his interests in this unfortunate matter. That will please him and might possibly inure to your benefit.”

  “Thank you. And if I do not cooperate?”

  “In that event, Youngest Brother will carry a different message to our father.”

  SOCRATES LEFT THE 2D station house as soon as Harte finished with him. He was glad to be free of the interview room and its tacit, unavoidable psychological coercion. He walked along Wisconsin Avenue heading to his store to check his mail. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten all day.

  He pulled out his cell phone as he walked.

  He wanted to tell Bing-fa about the director’s death and find out if Bing-fa had recovered the Mandarin Yellow from the mysterious caller. He also wanted to alert Bing-fa to the possibility that the police might contact him. He didn’t look forward to delivering this last piece of news.

  He was scrolling through his contact list to highlight Bing-fa’s speed dial symbol when the cell phone burped its ring tone, startling him. He looked at the readout to identify the caller.

  “Hello, Mom.”

  “Socrates. Is that you? It’s your mother.”

  Socrates smiled. “It’s me, Mom. And I know it’s you. I have Caller ID.” He picked up his pace. “Where are you calling from?”

  “What do you mean, where? From your condo, from in your practically unused kitchen, that’s where. I’m cooking for you and your Chinese girlfriend and your father. Remember? We talked about it. Are you coming home soon? It’s already after 6:00.”

  Uh, oh! Socrates thought. Did I screw up which night we said?

  “Um, Mom, didn’t we agree on tomorrow night for dinner? That’s what I told Jade. Did I mess up?” He paused for a response that did not come, then said, “I thought we left the time open. I didn’t realize I had a curfew. I thought I outgrew that when I went off to college.”

  He waited for his mother’s predictable response: Is that any way to speak to your mother? You put a knife in my heart, when all I did was ask you a simple question because I care about you. She surprised him by not saying anything.

  Socrates immediately regretted his wisecrack. “I’m sorry, Mom, I shouldn’t have said that. I guess I messed the nights up. I have a few more things to do, then I’ll be home. In about an hour or so. I’ll try to get in touch with Jade and see if she can join us tonight instead of tomorrow. I’ll call and let you know what she says.”

  “Where are you, anyway?” his mother said. “I called your pen store, but nobody answered. Nobody ever answers at your store. Don’t you work anymore? No wonder you don’t make a good living if you’re never in your store when customers want to come in and shop?”

  “It’s a long story, Mom. I’ll explain another time. I’m heading to my store now.”

  Socrates ended the call, walked quickly to his store, and looked through his unopened mail. Then he called Jade, reached her on his first try, and smiled when she agreed to come to dinner with his parents this evening.

  After he and Jade finished talking, Socrates marked a carton of pen demonstrator samples that had come to him unsolicited, REFUSED. RETURN TO SENDER, and put the box outside the front door in the mall’s covered walkway for the mail carrier to take back to the post office the next day. Then he went back inside and called Bing-fa. He reached him at the Golden Dragon.

  “Bing-fa,” Socrates said, intentionally speaking softly and in a somber tone, “Director Hua is dead. Murdered.” He waited for Bing-fa’s reaction.

  Nothing. Stone cold silence.

  He tried again. “I said I went to the gallery to talk to the director, like you arranged. I found her dead. Somebody had cut her throat.”

  “I have the cherished Mandarin Yellow in my possession,” Bing-fa said. “You must come here immediately to examine it.”

  Socrates forced himself to speak quietly and slowly. “Bing-fa. Did you hear what I said? Director Hua’s been murdered and the police think I might’ve done it.” Socrates paced in front of the store’s glass display case.

  “I heard you the first time, Mr. Cheng. It is of no consequence unless you did take Director Hua’s life. Since I assume you did not, and we can do nothing to change the woman’s situation or alter what the police might currently think, we have other important matters to address today. Come to the Golden Dragon. From there we will proceed to my home where you will inspect the Mandarin Yellow. I am sure you will not regret the opportunity.”

  Socrates thought about this. Bing-fa was right, of course. But it embarrassed him to realize that seeing the historic Mandarin Yellow, and perhaps even holding it — a once in a lifetime opportunity for a collector — was so important to him that he was ready to drop the subject of the director’s murder.

  He would explain to his parents and Jade at dinner why he had to go out as soon as they all finished eating. Jade certainly would understand, but his parents would have mixed feelings and many questions, especially once they realized Jade was not joining him in visiting her father. He would leave it to Jade to explain to his parents what that was all about. He wished he could be there to hear her explanation.

  BING-FA LED THE way to his private elevator and up into his eighteen room, three-floor penthouse suite at the White Plum Blossoms apartments. Once there, Bing-fa marched across the Great Room like a battlefield commander after a momentous victory.

  Socrates trailed close behind, matching Bing-fa step-for-step as if they were tethered and had rehearsed their walk. Socrates smiled. He pictured a hunched-over Groucho Marx, flicking his cigar and flashing his eyebrows as he trailed closely behind a clueless Margaret Dumont in A Night at the Opera.

  Bing-fa led Socrates into his scholar’s studio. He gestured for Socrates to take a seat in front of the desk.

  Socrates glanced around the room. Bing-fa’s studio followed traditional principles of design, siting, furnishing and use. It was Bing-fa’s private sanctuary. If Confucian tradition, as Socrates had learned it from his father, held sway here, no one, not even Bing-fa’s family, ever entered this room without his permission.

  Bing-fa had furnished the room with a simple Ching period desk, a single horseshoe back wooden chair made from huanghuali wood, and with two yoke back wooden chairs, also made from huanghuali wood. The desk consisted of a plain rosewood top, no drawers, and tapered rosewood legs.

  The only other furniture in the studio were a five-meter high A-frame antique mahogany cabinet in which Bing-fa stored his collection of calligraphy scrolls and landscape watercolor scrolls, and a low, eight-foot long table with claw feet on which Bing-fa spread the scrolls when he opened them to study from above.

  Socrates inspected the desk’s surface. It was the polar opposite of disorder. There was no randomness at work here, not like his own desk at home. Every object seemed to be in its proper place, and nothing was there that didn’t seem to belong. Bing-fa had organized the desktop like a great symphony or fine poem, with not one musical note, not one word or, in the case of the desktop, not one object too many.

  There were several ink stones, modern and antique calligraphy horsetail hair brushes, a dozen or so ink sticks, a brush pot, and three Ming period ivory brush rests on the desktop, all objects of the type and quality typically collected by Confucian and Taoist scholars for their utility, their specific histories, and their individual and collective beauty.

  Socrates looked across the room toward the persistent sound of chirping. Bing-fa’s caged song birds and his lucky crickets resided in hanging cages located, respectively, in the far corners of the studio.

  Socrates slowly lowered himself into the chair Bing-fa had pointed to. He moved cautiously, wary of depositing his 157-pound body onto the antique horseshoe back chair which, in his judgment, was more wisel
y looked at and admired than actually sat in.

  For his part, Bing-fa had settled himself in an antique chair behind his desk. He silently watched Socrates study the room. When it was clear Socrates had finished, Bing-fa reached within his silk gown and extracted a narrow box from a hidden fold. He placed the box on the desk between them, removed its lid, and used one finger to nudge the box across the desk to Socrates.

  Socrates untied the thin teal ribbon that held the Mandarin Yellow against the box’s foam-lined interior and carefully removed the pen. He slowly unscrewed its cap, taking care not to chip or crack the cap’s delicate lip.

  He examined the Parker Company factory imprint identifying the pen model and George Parker’s laudatory dedication to Chiang Kai-shek inscribed on the barrel. Both seemed to him to be strongly struck, intact and undamaged. Neither had been burnished by gripping fingers.

  Socrates examined the individual letters of each imprint. None of the letters in the two imprints was out of alignment, as they might have been if they had been reworked or hastily added. Socrates knew this wasn’t conclusive evidence that the imprint and engraving were genuine, but at least this visual evidence did not eliminate the possibility.

  He looked up at Bing-fa. “Very nice,” he said, smiling and nodding enthusiastically.

  He next brought the yellow barrel up close to his eyes and looked for hairline cracks in the delicate surface. He didn’t see any. He removed a small 10x power magnifying glass from his pocket and again examined the barrel, the cap, its lip and the end cap, seeking subtle defects or hidden repairs not visible to the naked eye.

  He next closed his eyes to avoid distractions and gently, being careful not to touch the pen with his fingernail or thumbnail, applied the all-important Braille test, running his index finger and thumb up and down the length of the barrel and cap, feeling for indentations or filled-in bite marks, dings or cracks.

  Socrates looked up. Bing-fa was watching him with more concentration than he’d ever seen Bing-fa display toward him.