The Shanghai Moon (7 page)

“Who said you could smoke in here?”

“You changed the rules?” He held the cigarette over the ashtray, prepared to stub it out.

“No. But you’re lucky I still have that.”

“The ashtray? Yeah, but you hid it. It wasn’t easy to find.”

“You’re supposed to be a detective.” I dropped into my chair.

“As such I have a question.”

“Which is?”

“When did you start using four-letter words?”

“I haven’t, as a rule. But some situations demand extreme measures.”

“Like me.”

“Yes, I’d say you’re one of those situations.” I paused. “Bill?” I said, more gently. “How’s Gary?”

Bill looked into his coffee. “Coping.”

“Better than you?”

He shrugged.

As badly as things turned out in that case, they’d have turned out worse if Bill hadn’t been there, and people—including Gary—told him that, but it didn’t comfort him. I think the reason Bill disappeared after that was that he didn’t want to hear anymore how it wasn’t his fault.

So I didn’t say it now.

“If you talk to him,” I said instead, “give him my love.”

Bill nodded.

I got up and poured more tea, to give myself a chance to figure out some really smart, articulate words for what I wanted to say next, but I was lost, really. All I could come up with was exactly what I meant: “What do we do now?”

“About what?”

“Well, it was lots of fun cracking up with you, but we still haven’t gotten past the part where we haven’t spoken in months because you’re a four-letter-word. And Joel’s still dead.” I tried for matter-of-fact, but I felt my eyes mist.

“How about,” Bill said, “we put the first item on hold and work on the second?”

“Meaning what?”

“Mary said you think Joel’s murder may be related to the case you’re working, but the homicide cop who caught it doesn’t.”

“Speaking of Mary, wait until I get my hands on
her
.”

“That’s between you two. What I’m proposing is, if you want, I’ll work with you on this. We can follow up whatever you think needs following. If you’re right maybe we
can light a fire under the cops, and if you’re wrong we’ll find that out.”

“I’m right.”

“You usually are.”

“Boy, you must be seriously feeling guilty, to say something like that.”

“You’re right about that, too. Deal?”

“Is this why you called?”

“Yes.”

“Because you thought I needed help?”

“No. Because I wanted to help you.”

And that was like the “please” when he’d first called.

Probably the sensible thing to do would be to let the cops handle Joel’s murder. I could focus on Rosalie Gilder’s jewelry, assuming Alice Fairchild still wanted that. Bill speaks a number of languages, but none of them is Yiddish or Chinese, so if I took that route I could throw him out and count myself lucky to be rid of a fuckup.

But it was Joel who’d said we worked well together, Bill and I.

I laid the situation out for Bill: Alice Fairchild and the Waldorf, Joel summoning me to his office because something was fishy, Detective Mulgrew’s unsolved robberies. I showed him the photos: the jewelry; Wong Pan, who stole it; Rosalie Gilder and her brother, Paul, smiling on a windy day. I gave him Rosalie’s first letter to read.

“There are others,” I said. “At the Jewish Museum.”

“Have you read them?”

“Some.”

“Do they help?”

I felt an odd, unexpected comfort: the same feeling I’d had dropping my suitcase in my own apartment after a month away.

“Not really, except to get to know her. It made me want to get her jewelry back even more, though.”

“Can I have them? I’ll read them later.”

“I’ll print you out a set.” I clicked on the computer and had just gotten to the Jewish Museum site when the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I answered in both languages. “Lydia Chin, Chin Ling Wan-ju.”

“Whatever,” a dismissive voice countered. “Where’s your client?”

“Detective Mulgrew?”

“Two points. Where is she?”

“I have no idea. She’s not at the Waldorf?”

“If she was why would I be calling you?”

Because you’re as charmed by me as I am by you?
“If you tried there and her cell phone, I have no idea.”

“It would be good if you did.”

“I thought you said Joel’s death had nothing to do with her.”

“I don’t like witnesses running out before I talk to them. Makes them look bad.”

“Running out? Did she check out of the hotel?”

“No, and her things are still in her room. But she’s not turning up.”

“You were in her room?”

“Oh, gee. Shouldn’t I have done that? Look, when you hear from her, you’re going to let me know right away, right?”

“Anything you say.”

“Because I don’t like people helping witnesses run out, either.” He hung up on me.

“Mulgrew can’t find Alice,” I told Bill. “He thinks that makes her look bad. I can’t tell him where to find her, so I look bad, too.”

“Did she check out?”

“No.”

“Then what makes him think she’s not just in a meeting or something, with her phone off?”

“Probably because so many people avoid him all the time, it’s his first guess.”

“She may not even know he’s looking for her.”

“Or she could be in trouble. Maybe that’s what was fishy.” I tried Alice’s cell and the Waldorf myself but just got voice mail. I pulled her card from my wallet. “I’m going to call her office in Zurich. Maybe they know how to reach her.”

“You can do that, but it’s eight at night there.”

I did it anyway, and all it got me was a woman’s voice, speaking German, saying nothing I understood except “Alice Fairchild.” I tried to leave a message, but the phone clicked off.

“How’s your German?” I asked Bill.

“My Dutch is better. Why?”

I made the call again and handed him the phone.

“The office is closed for two weeks,” he said. “Please call back.”

“That’s why it won’t take a message?”

“Who wants their voice mail clogged with two weeks’ worth of calls?”

“Who can afford to blow off business for two weeks? Wouldn’t your clients drop you if you did something like that?”

“My clients drop me for all sorts of reasons.”

“Yeah, like you don’t have that smart, dependable Chinese partner anymore.”

“And they know it’s my own fault. Maybe all the clients she cares about have her cell number.”

I was trying to think what to do when the phone rang again. It was another unfamiliar number, and I considered letting it go to voice mail, but at the last minute I answered, drawing out both names in case it was Mulgrew again.

“Ms. Chin? This is Leah Pilarsky calling.” The voice was tentative. “You don’t know me. I’m Joel Pilarsky’s sister-in-law.”

I felt as if the sun had suddenly gone down. “I’m so sorry about Joel.”

“Thank you. We all loved him. Ms. Chin, Joel’s wife, Ruth, asked me to get in touch with you. She got a call from someone looking for Joel, someone who didn’t know . . . Anyway, Ruth thinks it has to do with the case he’d just started, with you. Joel always spoke highly of you, and Ruth is sure he’d want you to go on. Do you want the number?”

Joel spoke of me at all? And, highly? “Yes, I do, please. Was it Alice Fairchild?”

“No. A man called Friedman, Stanley Friedman.” She gave me a number. “Do you know him?”

“No, but I’ll call him right away. Thank you very much. And please tell Mrs. Pilarsky how sorry I am.”

I briefed Bill while I dialed.

“Friedman and Sons, you’ve reached Stanley Friedman.” The voice had an Eastern European accent.

“Mr. Friedman, my name is Lydia Chin. I worked with Joel Pilarsky. I understand you called him?”

“Yes, I did. You’re his partner? My condolences to you.”

“Thank you.” I let the inaccuracy slide. “Mr. Friedman, do you have information you wanted to give Joel?”

“I’m not sure I do, I’m not sure I don’t. Yesterday when he came here, he spoke to my son, I was out. I only just now saw the pictures he left.”

“Do you know something about the pieces in them?”

“Something. Ms.—Chin? A question: Maybe it’s possible for you to come here? The telephone is a fine instrument, but some things are better face-to-face.”

“I completely agree. Where’s here?”

“Thirty West Forty-seventh Street. Third floor. Friedman and Sons.”

“I’ll be right up.”

I hung up and looked at Bill. He was already on his feet.

For the second time that day I took the N uptown. Weaving along the crowded Diamond District sidewalk, Bill and I parted for three bearded, black-coated Hasidim and eddied around a Latino couple holding hands at an engagement-ring display. At Number 30 a minimal lobby led to a no-frills elevator. On the third floor, a camera peered from the ceiling and a buzzer clung to the wall by a door labeled
FRIEDMAN AND SONS
. I buzzed and it buzzed back.

In a windowless but brightly lit room we were greeted by a man with warm blue eyes and white hair under a black yarmulke. “Ms. Chin, I’m Stanley Friedman. Thank you for coming.”

I introduced Bill—as my associate, not my partner; he looked at me sideways and I thought,
So sue me
—and we all shook hands. Stanley Friedman gestured us to chairs around a book-piled coffee table. Luscious color photos of rings, bracelets, and necklaces decked the walls.

“These are your work?” I asked. “They’re beautiful.”

He smiled. “My father, of blessed memory, was a real jeweler, an artist. So are my sons. In between is Stanley
Friedman, a peasant. I choose the stones and run the business.” He lifted an envelope from the table and slid out photographs I recognized. “Now, Ms. Chin, I ask you a question: These are the pieces you and your partner, may he rest in peace, were looking for?”

“Yes. Have you seen them?”

“No.”

“No? But—”

“Again, I ask you a question: These were all?”

“All?”

“Nothing else?”

“Not as far as I know. Should there have been something else?”

“Should, I can’t say. I’ll admit to you, when I saw these pictures, I got excited. I thought probably it was just Friedman being romantic, and it wouldn’t be true, but if it was, how wonderful to be part of it! But then I find the man who brought the pictures is murdered, and I think this: The chances of it being true are greater, and wonderful it’s not.”

“Mr. Friedman, I’m sorry, but I don’t follow you.”

He turned one of the photos over. On the back a bulleted list covered the facts of the case: Rosalie Gilder’s name, and Elke’s, Horst’s, and Paul’s; the date of Rosalie and Paul’s arrival in Shanghai; Wong Pan’s name, the date the box was dug up, and the date the contents disappeared.

“My son is a precise man,” Stanley Friedman said. “This is the information your partner gave him. It’s correct? These pieces were Rosalie Gilder’s?”

He spoke Rosalie’s name with an odd familiarity.

“Yes, it’s correct.”

He leaned forward. “Ms. Chin, your partner. He had found these pieces?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Possibly, you may need to think again.” From the coffee table Friedman picked up a thick book. “
Legendary Gemstones of the World.
Scott and Huber, 1992. A reference in my field. May I read an entry?” He slipped on half-glasses and opened to a bookmark. “ ‘The Shanghai Moon. A disc of white jade streaked with green, set in gold, surrounded by diamonds. The surface of the jade worked in a pattern of clouds and magpies, China, Tang Dynasty (618–907); the diamonds of nineteenth-century origin, reportedly bar-and princess-cut.’ Ms. Chin, Mr. Smith, do you know this gem?”

“No,” I answered.

But Bill said, “Yes.”

“You do?” I was surprised, though Stanley Friedman didn’t seem to be.

“When I was in the navy, in Asia,” Bill said. “It’s a brooch, right? And it’s lost. It was the Pacific seaman’s equivalent of the Brooklyn Bridge. If you were particularly clueless, some guy would always offer to sell you the Shanghai Moon.”

“A brooch,” Mr. Friedman agreed. “And lost. Listen to Scott and Huber. ‘One of the more recent pieces in this volume, the Shanghai Moon is also the most mysterious. Its story is unverified, but there is general agreement on the basic facts: In Shanghai in 1941, a young couple brought a jade disc and a diamond necklace to a jeweler whose
identity has been lost. The couple were a Jewish refugee from Salzburg, Rosalie Gilder—’ ”

“
Rosalie?
”

Mr. Friedman stopped, peering over the glasses.

“I’m sorry!” I said. “Go on. That gem is
Rosalie’s
? Who was the man?”

The jeweler went back to the page. “ ‘Rosalie Gilder, and a Shanghainese named Chen Kai-rong. Secretly—’ ”

“Kai-rong! Oh! Oh, good! No, I’m sorry, go on.”

He lowered the book. “Ms. Chin? You don’t know the Shanghai Moon, but you know these people?”

“I’ve read some letters. Her letters. From when she met him. That’s all. Please go on.”

“Letters?”

“At the Jewish Museum. In the Holocaust archives.”

“Ah.” He nodded slowly and resumed. “ ‘Secretly betrothed, the pair asked the jeweler to combine the jade, an heirloom of the Chen family, with the stones from the necklace, which had been Rosalie Gilder’s mother’s. The resulting brooch was known as the Shanghai Moon. Worn by the young woman at their wedding the following year, the Shanghai Moon was seen only rarely after that. It was variously reported sold, stolen, or destroyed; the most fanciful rumor had it in the possession of a German officer’s widow in a Japanese internment camp. None of these stories was ever proved true. It remains most likely that Rosalie Gilder Chen, or in any event the Chen family, retained possession of the brooch throughout the war.’

“ ‘Jewish refugees leaving Shanghai after the war took with them rumors of the Shanghai Moon’s splendor, as
did repatriated European and Japanese nationals. How many of these people had actually seen the brooch is unknown, but its legend grew.’ ”

Here Stanley Friedman looked over his glasses, then went back to reading. “ ‘For four years following the Second World War, civil war raged in China. Occasional accounts of sightings of the Shanghai Moon reached the West, none verifiable. In 1949, as the Bamboo Curtain fell across the early days of the People’s Republic, the brooch was said to be in Kobe, Japan; in Bangkok; and in Singapore. Over the years stories have put the Shanghai Moon in such places as Taipei, Hong Kong, and San Francisco, and collectors have followed; but to date every search has been fruitless.’ ”