incense. At the stroke of ten she unlocked the door and smiled to find me at it.
“Lydia Chin. I was here yesterday? I’ve come to see Mr. Chen.”
“Yes, he’s expecting you. I’m Irene Ng, by the way. Please follow me.”
Irene Ng led me through the shop, lifting a gate in the back counter. She knocked on Mr. Chen’s door and then opened it for me. Mr. Chen and another man stood from low lacquered stools. On the table before them, along with my photos, sat a tray of sweets, tiny teacups, and a gourd-shaped pot. A flowery fragrance filled the air.
“Chin Ling Wan-ju, welcome.” Mr. Chen bowed, using my Chinese name but speaking in English as we had yesterday. “This is my cousin, Zhang Li.”
I bowed to Mr. Zhang as he did to me. Older and bigger than Mr. Chen, full-faced and balding, he had classic HanChinese features that made Mr. Chen’s rounded eyes and sharp nose more apparent. “An honor to meet you,” I said. Formally, with both hands, he handed me his card, so formally, I took it and did the same.
In some way I didn’t follow, this had become an occasion. Mr. Chen seemed to have recovered enough from yesterday’s vapors to regard me intently, almost hungrily. It wasn’t the guilty look of a man nervous about being caught with contraband goods. It might be, it occurred to me, the look of a man who’d already bought some and was interested in buying more.
I was intrigued. If I hadn’t had pressing things on my mind, like murder, I’d have played it their way, letting them spin it out until I saw what they wanted. Under the circumstances, though, that would be disingenuous to the point of fraud.
I sat, thanking Mr. Chen when he handed me tea. Courtesy dictated that I try it and comment on its deliciousness, allowing him to tut-tut and me to insist, but I skipped all that and went straight in. “Mr. Chen, I’m not sure why you called me, but since yesterday the situation has changed.”
“Situation?” His surprise may have been due to what I’d said, or to my rudeness in cutting so directly to the chase.
Mr. Zhang, the cousin, was giving me an odd, appraising look. Maybe he was having trouble with the language. “Should we continue in English?” I addressed them both. “Or in Cantonese?”
At that Mr. Zhang smiled. “Please, in English. Our Chinese is the Chinese of Shanghai. We learned Englishthere as boys, when learning came easily. In America, my cousin has been able to conquer your Cantonese dialect in a way that has eluded me. Of course, he is younger and his brain more agile.”
Mr. Chen waved that away. “Neither of us has been young for some time, cousin. But”—to me—“I have had this shop for many years. My customers provided my education. What do you mean, Ms. Chin, that the situation has changed?”
“Yesterday, when I brought you these photographs, I was working with an associate trying to find that jewelry. I’m sorry, but there’s no good way to say this. He’s been killed.”
Both men stared at me. Mr. Zhang recovered first. “Killed?”
“I’m afraid so. And another man, too: a police officer from China, following the thief.”
“They were killed because of this jewelry?”
“I don’t know. Once you tell me what you know about it, I’ll have a better idea.”
It seemed to me Mr. Chen’s hand trembled slightly as he set his teacup down. Mr. Zhang said, “Yes, of course. And please accept our condolences on the loss of your associate.”
“Thank you.”
“Before I speak about this jewelry,” he continued, “it is important that I understand the entire, as you say, situation. Perhaps you could tell us again why you are looking for it?”
No, you answer my question first!
I wanted to shout. But yesterday I’d insisted to Joel that pushing was no way tohandle an old Chinese man. “These pieces were in a box excavated in Shanghai recently. They’ve been stolen. My late associate and I were hired by a client who believes they’ve been
“Lydia Chin. I was here yesterday? I’ve come to see Mr. Chen.”
“Yes, he’s expecting you. I’m Irene Ng, by the way. Please follow me.”
Irene Ng led me through the shop, lifting a gate in the back counter. She knocked on Mr. Chen’s door and then opened it for me. Mr. Chen and another man stood from low lacquered stools. On the table before them, along with my photos, sat a tray of sweets, tiny teacups, and a gourd-shaped pot. A flowery fragrance filled the air.
“Chin Ling Wan-ju, welcome.” Mr. Chen bowed, using my Chinese name but speaking in English as we had yesterday. “This is my cousin, Zhang Li.”
I bowed to Mr. Zhang as he did to me. Older and bigger than Mr. Chen, full-faced and balding, he had classic HanChinese features that made Mr. Chen’s rounded eyes and sharp nose more apparent. “An honor to meet you,” I said. Formally, with both hands, he handed me his card, so formally, I took it and did the same.
In some way I didn’t follow, this had become an occasion. Mr. Chen seemed to have recovered enough from yesterday’s vapors to regard me intently, almost hungrily. It wasn’t the guilty look of a man nervous about being caught with contraband goods. It might be, it occurred to me, the look of a man who’d already bought some and was interested in buying more.
I was intrigued. If I hadn’t had pressing things on my mind, like murder, I’d have played it their way, letting them spin it out until I saw what they wanted. Under the circumstances, though, that would be disingenuous to the point of fraud.
I sat, thanking Mr. Chen when he handed me tea. Courtesy dictated that I try it and comment on its deliciousness, allowing him to tut-tut and me to insist, but I skipped all that and went straight in. “Mr. Chen, I’m not sure why you called me, but since yesterday the situation has changed.”
“Situation?” His surprise may have been due to what I’d said, or to my rudeness in cutting so directly to the chase.
Mr. Zhang, the cousin, was giving me an odd, appraising look. Maybe he was having trouble with the language. “Should we continue in English?” I addressed them both. “Or in Cantonese?”
At that Mr. Zhang smiled. “Please, in English. Our Chinese is the Chinese of Shanghai. We learned Englishthere as boys, when learning came easily. In America, my cousin has been able to conquer your Cantonese dialect in a way that has eluded me. Of course, he is younger and his brain more agile.”
Mr. Chen waved that away. “Neither of us has been young for some time, cousin. But”—to me—“I have had this shop for many years. My customers provided my education. What do you mean, Ms. Chin, that the situation has changed?”
“Yesterday, when I brought you these photographs, I was working with an associate trying to find that jewelry. I’m sorry, but there’s no good way to say this. He’s been killed.”
Both men stared at me. Mr. Zhang recovered first. “Killed?”
“I’m afraid so. And another man, too: a police officer from China, following the thief.”
“They were killed because of this jewelry?”
“I don’t know. Once you tell me what you know about it, I’ll have a better idea.”
It seemed to me Mr. Chen’s hand trembled slightly as he set his teacup down. Mr. Zhang said, “Yes, of course. And please accept our condolences on the loss of your associate.”
“Thank you.”
“Before I speak about this jewelry,” he continued, “it is important that I understand the entire, as you say, situation. Perhaps you could tell us again why you are looking for it?”
No, you answer my question first!
I wanted to shout. But yesterday I’d insisted to Joel that pushing was no way tohandle an old Chinese man. “These pieces were in a box excavated in Shanghai recently. They’ve been stolen. My late associate and I were hired by a client who believes they’ve been
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