When I got back to my hotel room, I dug Liu David’s card out and called his cell again. I’d been reluctant to call him directly, but there was nothing for it. Not entirely unexpectedly, he didn’t answer, but his message was in both Chinese and English. “Nice to see you today,” I said after the beep in as neutral a tone as I could manage. “I would like you to call me back, please. Here is my mobile number. It works intermittently here, but if at first you don’t succeed, keep trying, and please feel free to leave a message. I will pick up my messages regularly. I think you owe me one. There are perhaps other things we could discuss at the same time—for example, the murder I witnessed in the alley close to where you were today. I believe Song Liang was the man who tried to buy the silver box in New York, and stole it in our presence in Beijing. Now you owe me again. Here is how you can repay me. I would like to know the name of the army officer who was present when the silver box was stolen. I am tired of people telling me I don’t want or need to know. I look forward to your call.” I left my mobile number, not telling him where I was staying in case I’d completely misjudged the situation, and hung up. He probably knew where I was staying anyway. Everybody else seemed to know.
I figured that should do it. If it didn’t, I’d tell him where he could find a stash of looted T’ang tomb figures. Then, still protected by the bubble I’d created that insulated me from the realities of this world, like murders for example, I headed out one more time. I moved west along Dong Dajie and soon found myself once again underground at the main square, at which point I headed up the stairs toward the Drum Tower, intending to visit the market behind it again.
I was close to the Drum Tower when I was approached by a beggar on crutches. There are unfortunately a lot of beggars in China. The burgeoning economy has created an enormous gap between rich and poor, between city- and country-dwellers, that is quite evident for anyone to see. This man, however, was particularly aggressive, frightening really, and not the kind of person I would stop to help under any circumstances. He kept pace with me, even though I tried to wave him away. I was walking faster and faster trying to get away from him, but I couldn’t do it. I reversed my direction heading back to the steps that led down to the underground passage at the Bell Tower, thinking the stairs would certainly stop a man on crutches. They didn’t. He kept right beside me, matching me step by step, his entreaties getting louder and louder. Call me crazy, but I didn’t think he needed the crutches. I was getting really anxious, and didn’t know how I would get rid of him. Then I saw the door to a rather fancy department store on the tunnel level and ducked through it. I knew the two doormen were not going to let the man, dirty and disheveled as he was, into this fancy establishment.
I felt safe for a few minutes, surrounded by familiar cosmetic counters and bright lights, and decided I had overreacted. It was a zealous and possibly desperate beggar, that’s all, one who used crutches as a ploy for sympathy and therefore cash. I was annoyed at myself for being frightened by someone who clearly needed some money, but in truth there had been something about him. When I was certain the man was gone, I went out another door, and continued my way west and then north into the market area behind the Drum Tower.
I’d been so intent on following Burton when I’d last been in this area that I hadn’t really savored it at all. It was a vibrant and exciting place. People thronged the streets, their children running and jumping along with them, the merchants outside the shops trying to lure customers in. Soon I was back in the Muslim Quarter. I’d learned enough about the Chang’an of T’ang times to know that it had been a very cosmopolitan city, a magnet for traders from far and wide. The people of the Muslim Quarter were said to be descended from Arab soldiers who’d arrived in the eighth century, right about when Illustrious August was emperor.
I had left the puppets I’d purchased for Jennifer in Beijing, but thought I should get something for Rob— although I had no idea what—if I was going to arrive in Taiwan bearing gifts for his daughter. I found some lovely inkwells, and had a beautiful jade stamp carved with his initials in Chinese while I waited. I doubted he’d be stamping his correspondence with it, but it’s the thought that counts, and it would look nice somewhere in his place. If we ever got around to moving in together, it would be something I’d permit him to keep, too, unlike, say, his red-and-green plaid recliner with the duct tape on the left arm, no matter how hard he tried to persuade me the nasty thing was an antique.
I made my way to the lane that featured antiques, and started going from shop to shop, trying to make myself understood. Everybody shook their heads no. Most of what they called antique wouldn’t have qualified as such in my shop, so I held little hope for success, particularly when one dealer who spoke a little English told me someone else had been looking for the same box. I assumed that person was Burton.
I kept an eye out for the man in the mosque, not really hopeful of success. Still, I looked, and I asked, and eventually a woman directed me to a shop down one of the little lanes. My heart soared, my pace quickened. I was getting closer, I just knew it. Burton had just had an easier time of it because he spoke the language. I, however, had persistence on my side.
It was a particularly large stall, one that you actually entered as opposed to stood in front of, and to my surprise, I found some real antiques once again. There was no one there, however, to assist me. That seemed a little strange to me, as an antique dealer. I wouldn’t have left my stall unattended. That would be way too much temptation for locals and tourists alike.
I called out, but there was no answer. I then noticed there was a teapot, and I could smell the tea, so perhaps the proprietor had made a quick dash to the communal toilet down the street. I waited a few more minutes, standing in the doorway. It was then I saw the beggar with the crutches again, the man who’d aggressively followed me down the stairs. I recognized him despite the fact that he’d apparently made a miraculous recovery, no longer requiring the crutches.
He was standing a few yards from the shop I was in. I couldn’t tell whether he’d seen me or not, but I knew I didn’t want to risk another confrontation with him. I ducked back inside and moved as far into one corner as I could so that if he happened to look in, he wouldn’t see me. There was a pile of carpets on offer, and I decided if I moved behind it and stayed down low, he would pass right by.
It was in the corner near the carpets that I made a horrible discovery: a hand, and a hand only. I reeled back, then ran out of the shop, getting several yards along the lane before my rational self regained a measure of control. I stopped a man on the street, and with hand gestures and sounds that were possibly tinged with hysteria, I convinced him to follow me.
Police were called. They found the rest of the body behind a curtain. Despite the body’s bloodless aspect, I recognized him as the man in the mosque. In addition to having both of his hands severed, his throat had been cut.
Soon I was back at the police station. “Violent events appear to follow you, madam,” said the interviewing officer, the same one, in fact, I’d spoken to before. His name I believe was Fang, Officer Fang.
“Burton Haldimand killed himself by accident,” I said. “You are the ones who decided that. This was a terrible crime. I’m calling Dr. Xie.”
At the sound of that name, the man blanched. Apparently Dr. Xie did not even have to be there for his power and influence to be felt. I was very happy to have him on my team.
“That will not be necessary,” Fang said. “What were you doing in the shop?”