The Chinese Gold Murders

by Robert Van Gulik

  Shaking his head, the judge entered the room opposite. It was empty but for a few large pieces of furniture, packed up in straw mats.

  The passage ended in a massive door, securely locked and bolted. Deep in thought the judge walked back to the corridor.

  The door at its end was elaborately carved with motifs of clouds and dragons, but its beauty was marred by a few boards nailed over the upper part. There the constables had smashed the panel in order to open the door.

  Judge Dee tore off the strip of paper with the seal of the tribunal, and opened the door. Holding his lantern high he surveyed the small, square room, simply but elegantly furnished. On the left was a high, narrow window; directly in front of it stood a heavy ebony cupboard, bearing a large copper tea stove. On the stove stood a round pewter pan for boiling the tea water. Next to the stove he saw a small teapot of exquisite blue and white porcelain. The rest of the wall was taken up entirely by bookshelves, as was the wall opposite. The back wall had a low, broad window; its paper panes were scrupulously clean. In front of the window stood an antique desk of rosewood, with three drawers on either end, and a comfortable armchair, also of rosewood, covered with a red satin cushion. The desk was empty but for two copper candlesticks.

  The judge stepped inside and examined the dark stain on the reed mats, between the tea cupboard and the desk. Presumably that stain was caused by the tea spilling from the magistrate's cup when he fell down. Probably he had put the water on the fire, then had sat down at his desk. When he had heard the water boil, he had gone to the tea stove and poured the water into the teapot. Standing there he had filled his cup, and taken a sip from it. Then the poison had taken its effect.

  Seeing a key stuck in the elaborate lock of the cupboard, the judge opened it and looked with admiration at the choice collection of utensils of the tea cult that were stacked on the two shelves. There was not a speck of dust; evidently the investigator and his assistants had been over everything very thoroughly.

  He walked over to the desk. The drawers were empty. There the investigator had found the dead man's private papers. The judge heaved a deep sigh. It was a great pity that he had not seen the room directly after the murder had been discovered.

  Turning to the shelves, he ran his finger idly over the tops of the books. They were covered with a thick layer of dust. Judge Dee smiled contentedly. Here was at least something new to examine; the investigator and his men had apparently ignored the books. Surveying the packed shelves, the judge decided to wait with his examination till Hoong would have come.

  He turned the armchair round sa that it faced the door, then sat down. Folding his arms in his wide sleeves, he tried to imagine what kind of man the murderer could have been. To kill an imperial official is a crime against the state, for which the law prescribes the death penalty in one of its most severe forms, such as the hideous "lingering death" or being quartered alive. The murderer must have had a very strong motive indeed. And how had he poisoned the tea? It had to be the tea water in the pan, for the unused tea leaves had been tested and found harmless. The only other solution he could think of was that the murderer had sent or given the magistrate a small quantity of tea leaves, just enough for making tea once, and that those had contained the poison.

  Judge Dee sighed again. He thought of the apparition he had seen. It was the first time in his life he had actually seen such a ghostly phenomenon and he stil'. wasn't quite convinced that it had been real. It could have been a hoax of some kind. But then the investigator and Tang had also seen it. Who would dare to take the risk to pose as a ghost, inside the tribunal itself? And for what reason? He thought that after all it must indeed have been the ghost of the dead magistrate. Reclining his head on the back rest, the judge closed his eyes and tried to visualize the face of the apparition as he had seen it. Was it not possible that the dead man would give him some token to assist him in solving the riddle?

  He quickly opened his eyes, but the room was as still and empty as before. The judge remained a few moments as he was, idly surveying the red-lacquered ceiling, crossed by four heavy roof beams. He noticed a discolored spot on the ceiling and a few dusty cobwebs in the corner where the tea cupboard stood. Evidently the dead magistrate had not been as fussy about cleanliness as his senior scribe.

  Then Sergeant Hoong came in, followed by two guards carrying large candlesticks. Judge Dee ordered them to place the candles on the desk, then dismissed them.

  "The only things left for us here, sergeant," he said, "are those books and document rolls on the shelves. It's quite a lot, but if you hand me a pile and replace it when I am through, it shouldn't take too long!"

  Hoong nodded cheerfully and took a pile of books from the nearest shelf. As he rubbed off the dust with his sleeve, the judge turned his chair round again so that it faced the desk, and he started to look through the books the. sergeant put in front of him.

  JUDGE DEE INSPECTS THE LIBRARY

  More than two hours had passed when Hoong replaced the last pile on the shelves. Judge Dee leaned back in his chair and took a folding fan from his sleeve. Fanning himself vigorously, he said with a contented smile, "Well, Hoong, I have now a fairly clear picture of the murdered man's personality. I have glanced through the volumes with his own poetry it is written in exquisite style but rather shallow in content. Love poems predominate, most of them dedicated to famous courtesans in the capital or other places where Magistrate Wang served."

  "Tang made some veiled remarks Just now, your honor," Hoong put in, "to the effect that the magistrate was a man of rather slack morals. He often even invited prostitutes to his house, and had them stay there overnight."

  Judge Dee nodded, "That brocade folder cou gave me a few moments ago," he said, "contained nothing but erotic drawings. Further, lie bad a few score books on wine, and the way it is made in various parts of the empire, and on cooking.On the other hand, he had built up a fine collection of the great ancient poets, every volume dog-eared and with his own notes and comments written in on nearly every page. The same goes for his comprehensive collection of works on Buddhism and on Taoist mysticism. But his edition of the complete Confucian classics is in as virgínal a state as when he purchased it! I further noticed that the sciences are well represented: most of the standard works on medicine and alchemy are there, also a few rare old treatises an riddles, conundrums and mechan-ical devices. Books on history, statecraft, administration and mathematics arc conspicuous by their absence."

  Turning his chair round, the judge continued.

  "I conclude that Magistrate Wang was a poet with a keen sense of beauty, and also a philosopher deeply interested in mysticism. And at the same time he was a sensual man, much attached to all earthly pleasures-a not unusual combination, I believe. He was completely devoid of ambition; he liked the post of magistrate in a quiet district far from the capital, where he was his own master and where he could arrange his life as he liked. That is why he didn't want to be promoted-I belive that Peng-lai was already his ninth post as magistrate! But he was a very intelligent man of an inquisitive mind-hence his interest in riddles, conundrums and mechanical devices-and that, together with his long practical experience, made him a fairly satisfactory magistrate here, although I don't suppose he was very devoted to his duties. He cared little for family ties; that is why he didn't remarry after his first and second ladies had died, and why he was content with ephemeral liaisons with courtesans and prostitutes. He himself summed up his own personality rather aptly in the name he bestowed on his library."

  Judge Dee pointed with his fan at the inscribed board that hung over the door. Hoong couldn't help smiling when he read, "Hermitage of the Vagrant Weed."

  "However," the judge resumed, "I found one very striking inconsistency." Tapping the oblong notebook that he had kept apart, he asked, "Where did you find this, sergeant?"

  "It had fallen behind the books on this lower shelf," Hoong replied, pointing.

  "In this notebook," Judge Dee said, "the ma
gistrate copied out with his own hand long lists of dates and figures, and added pages of complicated calculations. There is not one word of explanation. But Mr. Wang seems to me the last man to be interested in figures. I suppose he left all financial and statistical work to Tang and the clerks, didn't he?"

  Sergeant Hoong nodded emphatically.

  "So Tang gave me to understand just now," he replied.

  Judge Dee leafed through the notebook, slowly shaking his head. He said pensively, "He spent an enormous amount of time and labor on these notes-small mistakes are carefully blotted out and corrected, etc. The only clue is the dates, the earliest mentioned is exactly two months ago."

  He rose and put the notebook in his sleeve.

  "In any case," he said, "I'll study this at leisure, though it is of course by no means certain that it concerns affairs that are connected with his murder. But inconsistencies are always worth special attention. Anyway we have now a good picture of the victim, and that's, according to our handbooks on detection, the first step toward discovering the murderer!"

  FIFTH CHAPTER

  TWO STALWARTS HAVE A GRATIS MEAL IN A RESTAURANT; THEY WATCH A STRANGE PERFORMANCE ON THE WATER FRONT

  "THE first thing to do," Ma Joong said when he left the tribunal together with Chiao Tai, "is to get something under our belts. Drilling those lazy bastards made me hungry."

  "And thirsty!" Chiao Tai added.

  They entered the first restaurant they saw, a small place on the corner southwest of the tribunal. It bore the lofty name of Nine Flowers Orchard. They were met by the din of confused voices; it was very crowded. They found with difficulty an empty place near the high counter in the back, behind which a one-armed man stood stirring an enormous kettle of noodles.

  The two friends surveyed the crowd. They were mostly small shopkeepers, taking a quick snack before they would have to hurry back to meet the evening rush of customers. They were gobbling their noodles with relish, stopping only to pass the pewter wine jugs around.

  Chiao Tai grabbed the waiter's sleeve when he hurried past them with a tray loaded with noodle bowls.

  "Four of those!" he said. "And two large jugs!"

  "Later!" the waiter snapped. "Can't you see I am busy?"

  Chiao Tai burst out in a string of picturesque curses. The onearmed man looked up and stared intently at him. He laid down the long bamboo ladle and came round the counter, his sweatcovered face creased in a broad grin.

  "There was but one over there who could curse like that!" lie exclaimed. "What brought you here, sir?"

  "Forget the sir," Chiao Tai said gruffly. "I got into trouble when we were moved up north, and gave up my rank and my name. I am called Chiao Tai now. Can't you get us a bit of food?"

  "One moment, sir," the man said eagerly. He disappeared into the kitchen, and presently came back followed by a fat woman, who carried a tray with two large wine jugs and a platter heaped with salted fish and vegetables.

  "That's better!" Chiao Tai said contentedly. "Sit down, soldier, let your old woman do the work for once!"

  The owner drew up a stool, and his wife took his place behind the counter. While the two friends started eating and drinking, the owner told them that he was a native of Peng-lai. After he had been discharged from the expeditionary force in Korea, he had bought the restaurant with his savings and wasn't doing too badly. Looking at the brown robes of the two men, he asked in a low voice, "Why do you work in that tribunal?"

  "For the same reason you are stirring noodles," Chiao Tai replied. "To earn a living."

  The one-armed man looked left and right. Then he whispered, "Queer things are happening there! Don't you know that a fortnight ago they throttled the magistrate and chopped up his body into small pieces?"

  "I thought he was poisoned!" Ma Joong remarked, taking a long draught from his wine cup.

  "That's what they say!" the owner said. "A kettle of mincemeat, that was all that was left of that magistrate! Believe me, the people there are no good."

  "The present magistrate is a fine fellow," Chiao Tai remarked. "I don't know about him," the man said stubbornly, "but Tang and Fan, those two are no good."

  "What's wrong with the old dodderer?" Chiao Tai asked, astonished. "He looks to me as if he couldn't hurt a fly."

  "Leave him alone!" the owner said darkly. "He is… different, you know. Besides, there's something else very wrong with Tang." "What something?" Ma Joong asked.

  "There's more happening in this district than meets the eye, I tell you," the one-armed man said. "I am a native, I should know! Since olden times there have been some weird people here. My old father used to tell us stories-"

  His voice trailed off. He shook his head sadly, then quickly emptied the wine cup which Chiao Tai pushed over to him.

  Ma Joong shrugged his shoulders.

  "We'll find out for ourselves," he remarked, "that's half of the fun. As to that fellow Fan you mentioned, we'll worry about him afterward. The guards told me he's kind of lost, just now."

  "I hope he'll stay that way!" the one-armed man said with feeling. "That bully takes money from all and sundry, he is even more greedy than the headman there. And what's worse, he can't leave the women alone. He is a good-looking rascal, heaven knows what mischief he has made already! But he is thick as thieves with Tang, and that fellow always manages to shield him."

  "Well," Chiao Tai put in, "Fan's palmy days are over; he'll have to work under me and my friend here now. He must have collected plenty of bribes though. I hear he owns a small farm west of the city.

  "That he inherited last year from a distant relative," the owner said. "It isn't much good, it's a lonely small place, and near the deserted temple. Well, if it's there he got lost, it's they who must have got him."

  "Can't you talk plain Chinese for once?" Ma Joong exclaimed impatiently. "Who is `they'?"

  The one-armed man shouted to the waiter. When he had placed two enormous bowls with noodles on the table, the owner spoke, softly.

  "To the west of Fan's farm, where the country road joins the highway, there stands an old temple. Nine years ago four monks lived there; they belonged to the White Cloud Temple, outside the east gate. One morning all four were found dead, their throats slit from ear to ear! They were not replaced, the temple has been standing empty ever since. But the ghosts of those four men are still haunting the place. Farmers have seen lights there at night, and everybody gives it a wide berth. Only last week a cousin of mine who passed by there late in the night saw in the moonlight a headless monk slinking about. He saw clearly that he was carrying his severed head under his arm."

  "August heaven!" Chiao T'ai shouted. "Stop those tales of horror, will you? How can I eat my noodles when they are standing on end in the bowl?"

  Ma Joong guffawed. They started on the noodles in earnest. When they had finished their bowls to the last drop, Chiao Tai rose and groped in his sleeve. The owner quickly put his hand on his arm and exclaimed, "Never, sir! This restaurant and all in it is yours. If it hadn't been for you, those Korean lancers would-"

  "All right!" Chiao Tai interrupted him. "Thanks for your hospitality. But if you want to see us back here, next time we'll pay cash!"

  The one-armed man protested energetically, but Chiao Tai clapped his shoulder and they left.

  Outside Chiao Tai said to Ma Joong, "Now that we have eaten our fill, brother, we had better do some work! Now how does one get an impression of a town?"

  Ma Joong looked at the thick fog. Scratching his head, he replied. "I suppose it's done by sheer footwork, brother!"

  They walked along, keeping close to the lighted shop fronts. Despite the mist there were a good many people about. The two friends looked idly at the local goods on display, and here and there inquired about prices. Arrived at the gate of the Temple of the War God, they went inside, bought for a few coppers a bunch of incense sticks and burned them before the altar, praying for the souls of the soldiers fallen in battle.

  When they were strollin
g south again, Ma Joong asked, "Do you know why we are all the time fighting beyond our frontiers against those barbarians there? Why not let the bastards stew in their own grease?"

  "You don't know a thing about politics, brother," Chiao T'ai replied condescendingly. "It is our duty to deliver them from their barbarism, and to teach them our culture!"

  "Well," Ma Joong remarked, "those Tartars also know a thing or two. Do you know why they don't insist on their girls being virgins when they are married? Because, my friend, they make allowances for the fact that those Tartar girls, from childhood, are always riding on horseback! But don't let our own girls come to know about that!"

  "I wish you would stop your prattle!" Chiao Tai exclaimed, irritated. "Now we have lost our way."

  They found themselves in what seemed to be a residential quarter. The street was paved with smooth flagstones, and on either side they vaguely saw the high walls of large mansions. It was very still, the mist deadened all sound.

  "'That there in front of us is a bridge, isn't it?" Ma Joong said. "That must be the canal that crosses the southern half of the city. If we just follow that canal in an easterly direction, we'll probably get to a shopping street again, sooner or later."

  They crossed the bridge, and started to walk along the waterside. Suddenly Ma Joong laid his hand on Chiao Tai's arm. He pointed silently to the opposite bank, faintly visible through the mist.

  Chiao Tai strained his eyes. A group of men seemed to be moving along there, carrying on their shoulders a small, open litter. In the gray moonlight that filtered through the mist he saw on the litter the figure of a bareheaded man, sitting cross-legged with his arms folded on his breast. He seemed all swathed up in white. "Who's that queer fellow?" Chiao Tai asked, amazed.