Browning PI Page 8

  'The world's churches have been sadly misguided,' he said. 'China should always have been the first priority. Imagine a flood of Chinese Christians pouring across the world. Imagine the good, the faith, the hope, the love . . .'

  I could imagine a few other things coming from floods of Chinese, and I guessed the old guys running the religion racket in Rome, London and New York could do the same. But the message was getting through to the flock here on Penseroso. Heads were nodding and you could almost see the hands itching to go to the pockets and come out with the cash. I was pretty sure that this was a con. Well, all religion is, of course, but sometimes it's done with class. This was a crude appeal to a bunch of confused people who looked as if they might have a few bucks to spare.

  Not that Moon wasn't a good speaker. He had a nice, rounded voice and he used it well, changing pace and pitch to keep the one point he had to make from becoming monotonous. That's the secret of preaching, as an old Tennessee faith healer once told me—'You got one thing to say. You goin' to burn in hell less'n you give me your money. You just gotta make it sound like somethin' more 'n that.' Well, Moon did and he had the crowd thirsty for more by the time he stopped and announced the next hymn.

  'Well?' Pete whispered.

  I'd been admiring the delivery so much I hadn't really thought about whether Moon was Tan or Brown. Now, as the accordion sounded the first notes, I wasn't sure either way. There'd been a roughness to Brown's voice, but also a certain theatricality. Moon was smooth, but he'd put an edge into things when he'd spoken about the 'barbaric sons of Nippon' with their 'worship of blood and steel'.

  I shook my head. 'I don't know.'

  'Shit,' Pete said. He drew a shocked look from the woman next to him, an elderly Chinese party dressed up like she was going to a funeral in Alaska. She had on a black wool dress that reached to the ground, black fur hat and a black fur piece wrapped around her neck.

  I sneaked a quick look around the hall for any new faces, especially the kinds that go with lead-loaded saps and guns. But there was no-one like that. Just a lot of hopers and prayers, haters of sin and givers of money. We all stood up again and launched into 'Let us walk across the waters/ As Christ did long ago/ To hold out the hand of friendship/ To those who do not know.'

  After that it was back on our bums again to listen to Mrs Armitage, who headed up the Committee for the Protection of Christian Orphanages in China, up again for 'A hundred million souls would make the Good Lord smile' and back down for the Reverend's wind-up. He had looked his captive audience over thoroughly and there had been no flicker of recognition in his eyes when he'd seen me. I stood a good couple of inches taller than any other man in the place, apart from Pete, so he couldn't have missed me. Mrs Tan hadn't said a thing. Mrs Tan! I pulled out a pen, scribbled the name on a page of the hymnal and showed it to Pete who nodded. This time, the dowager in the black fur shot me an evil look.

  The Reverend spouted some more statistics and named a few people, Sun Yun this and Hung Yen that, who'd done great work in the field and then came his pitch.

  'The collection box is at the door. Please give generously for the work. Also, add any suggestions you may have and the names of any you would wish a prayer to be said for. I will pray now for you all while you marshall your thoughts.'

  And give you a chance to thumb through your wallets, I thought. Heads were hung all round and whispered voices uttered Chinese names and phrases. Then they were filing out and the sound was of shuffled feet, clinking coins and rustling banknotes. Mrs Tan and Peter Moon stood at the door talking to the faithful. There was much hand-pressing and whispering, much smiling and the brushing away of more than one tear. Pete and I sat where we were. When the body of the hall was empty there were just the four of us left—Pete and me, Moon and Mrs Tan.

  'Can I help you, gentlemen?' He advanced towards us, big and bulky in his suit, expressing interest but absolutely no recognition. When he was close I could see slight differences—his skin was smoother than Brown/Tan's and his teeth were slightly less white. Otherwise, he was a dead ringer. I looked at Pete and shook my head. Pete produced one of his cards and handed it over.

  Moon looked at it briefly. 'A private detective. I did not think that men of your stamp would be interested in our work.'

  'We're interested in a man named Charles Tan, Mr Moon,' Pete said. 'He also goes by the name of Brown.'

  There was a gasp from the end of the row. Mrs Tan had been standing there, maybe waiting for the signal to count the cash. Now she sank down into one of the seats and stared straight ahead of her.

  Pete said, 'I guess that cuts out you saying you never heard of him, Reverend.'

  Not liking to be left out of the scene too long, I got in with, 'And do you know a man named Henry Hewson?'

  Moon inclined his head gravely. 'I think we had better have a talk, gentlemen. Mother, I have to talk to these men. Please excuse me for a few minutes.'

  The old woman nodded.

  'Hadn't you better secure the money?' I said.

  Moon smiled. 'My mother lived through twenty-five years of war in China. She has a .22 pistol in her bag. The money is safe.'

  He led us through to a small room at the back of the hall. There were four chairs around a table, a gas ring, a tap and a dresser. Moon took a teapot from the dresser and rinsed it out. He filled a saucepan with water and set it on the gas.

  'Some China tea?'

  'Sure,' Pete said. 'I had it in Frisco. It's good. I'll take a cup. I should introduce my colleague, Reverend—Mr Browning.'

  'Tea, Mr Browning?'

  'No thanks.' I took a seat wondering if it would be all right to smoke. But the room was part of the church. Probably not.

  He made the tea, excused himself and took a cup out to pistol-packing Mrs Tan. When he got back he lowered himself into a chair, sipped at his tea and assumed a sad expression. 'It would seem you have had the misfortune to encounter my brother. I hope he did not harm you.'

  I'd chewed and filed the broken thumbnail down to the quick. It didn't make much of a trophy now but I held it up just the same. 'He threatened to pull my fingernails out one by one. And he made a start.'

  Moon shook his head. 'He is a violent and misguided man. How did you happen to fall foul of him?'

  'I was hoping you could answer some questions for us, Reverend,' Pete said. 'Not the other way around.'

  'Of course, of course. Well, Charles is my half-brother. He is several years older than me and his father was our mother's first husband. He was a bad man and my father, although his name also was Tan, was a good one. Moon, I might add, is a name I adopted for its symbolic value.'

  It was the sort of explanation of character you get all the time. I go along with it pretty much, except that it doesn't explain the black sheep in a family, like me. Take my brother14, he's . . . well, it doesn't matter. Moon went on to say that Mrs Tan brought her two children to the US in 1925 when Charles was twelve and Peter nine. She went back to China herself many times over the next fifteen years rescuing war orphans from the cities and countryside. The boys were placed with relatives in San Francisco but still saw a lot of their mother.

  'I worshipped her,' Moon said, 'and I still do. But perhaps the age difference was a problem, or the absence of a father . . . I do not know. But Charles turned out bad. He is a criminal.'

  'Claimed he'd been in the marines,' Pete said.

  Moon sipped his tea, which must have been cold by now. Pete had put his down long before. 'Briefly. Dishonourable discharge. Please, tell me what you are doing and I might be able to explain Charles's involvement.'

  'We'd rather you told us where we can find him,' I said. 'We've got some cops asking questions about a dead man.'

  Moon's eyebrows shot up. 'Really? Who?'

  'Henry Hewson,' I said, 'known as Hank to your brother.'

  Moon sighed. 'Henry was a troubled spirit. God rest his soul. Who killed him?'

  'I did,' Pete said, 'before he could kill me. Come o
n, Reverend, what's going on? What's this all about?'

  'All what?'

  It was obvious then that we weren't going to get anything out of him without giving a little. Pete made a pretty good fist of the story and I have to admit that it sounded bizarre—abducted scriptwriter, missing niece of nightclub owner, kidnapped and tortured detective, ransacked apartment. Moon listened intently, dropping in the occasional question.

  'You have spoken to this Singapore Sam? He had heard nothing about his niece?'

  Pete and I exchanged looks. I shrugged. 'Sam's not the kind of man you go to and say, "I was with your niece and she got snatched." He's a dangerous man and he's got dangerous men working for him. We're assuming May Lin was involved somehow.'

  'That is a comfortable assumption from your point of view.'

  'There's nothing comfortable about this, Reverend,' Pete growled. 'Sallust's in a jam and we're in a jam with the Santa Monica cops. We could lose our licences. Now, I'll front Singapore Sam and his gorilla if I have to, but I prefer to understand things before I start throwing my weight around and I think you can help there.'

  'Perhaps I can,' Moon said. 'More tea?'

  We both declined but he made some more, probably to give him time to think. When he had the tea in front of him again, and my nerves were screaming for tobacco, he spoke for about twenty minutes. The gist of it was this—as well as the struggle against the Japanese there was a civil war brewing in China between the Nationalists and the Communists. He was full bottle on the subject and he made it fairly clear. Pete asked a question here and there that made it clearer. Moon said that there were certain treasures in China—art objects, manuscripts, relics that were being protected from the Japanese and sought after by both Nationalists and Communists. Apparently, to have possession of these things would confer legitimacy on any Chinese government.

  Pete said, 'Who's got 'em now?'

  'We cannot be sure, precisely. But the last information is that they were safe in the hands of monks and others sympathetic to the Nationalist cause.'

  'Which side're you on?' I asked.

  Moon spread his hands. 'That of the Kuomintang, the Nationalists. General Chiang is a good Christian. I should add that there is a third force, also interested. There are those who yearn for the restoration of the old imperial order in China, the Manchus. They, too, would wish to have possession.'

  'Jesus,' Pete said. 'Excuse me, Reverend. But that's complicated.'

  Moon said nothing. I was turning the information over in my mind, trying to remember what Brown/Tan and Hank had said. All I could recall was Hank babbling on about the Communists. Brown seemed to be supporting him, in a way. But it didn't figure. I said, 'I can't see your brother backing the Communists.'

  'No,' Moon said. 'He would want the treasures for himself.'

  12

  There was a knock on the door and Mrs Tan came in. We all stood up the second she entered; she had that kind of presence. She was a small woman, dressed Chinese-style in a long dress with a high collar and mid-length brocaded jacket. Her hair was drawn back and she wore a black pillbox hat. She put a canvas bag on the floor and her large, black purse, the one with the gun in it no doubt, beside it. She took off her kid gloves, sat at the table and accepted a cup of tea.

  'Your few minutes threatened to become an hour, son,' she said. 'I ran out of patience.'

  'I'm sorry, mother. These gentlemen have been telling me a most disturbing story.'

  Mrs Tan sipped tea and I got my first chance for a close look at her. Despite the get-up she wasn't a hundred per cent Chinese. There were many traces of the European in her features which she seemed to be trying to play down. That accounted for the less than fully Asian appearance of her sons. I wondered if the fathers were Eurasians too, and whether that counted for anything.

  'I can guess,' Mrs Tan said. 'Charles is involved in some criminal activity which has touched our work here. That can only mean one thing—he is trying to secure the treasures.'

  'That is what we suspect,' Moon said.

  Mrs Tan snorted in an almost unladylike way. 'In order to sell them to the highest bidder. All he will do is ensure a knife between his ribs sooner rather than later. Tell me everything.'

  Pete had got it off pat and honed down by this time and he ran through it quickly and smoothly without interruption from me or Moon. Mrs Tan sipped tea and permitted herself an occasional sniff.

  'Very well,' she said when Pete stopped. 'Now you listen to me.'

  She told us that she belonged to a family descended from the Chinese nobility and wealthy taipans. 'Both of my husbands were from this class,' she said. 'People of mixed blood exhibit many varieties of character. With Peter and myself, there is a burning wish to give to China the best of European civilisation, that is, the Christian religion.'

  Moon nodded. 'And to make amends for the wrongs done to the Chinese people by European plunderers and politicians.'

  'Just so,' Mrs Tan said. 'Unhappily, some of our kind display the worst characteristics of both races. Charles, I regret to say, is one of these. He cares nothing for God or man in any form, Chinese, European or anything in between.'

  'That's a hard thing to say about your own boy,' Pete murmured.

  'It is. But the truth must be told.' Mrs Tan sighed. 'In some ways, this present trouble is the fault of Peter and myself. Charles must have heard us talking about the Imperial treasures and the plans being made. . .'

  'What plans?' Pete said.

  Mrs Tan glanced at her son. He inclined his head and she went on. 'It has been suggested that certain of these . . . items should come to America, for safekeeping.'

  That gave Pete and me reason to exchange nods. This was something I could understand at last—loot.

  'Perhaps the most important of the treasures is a piece of jade. Do you gentlemen know anything about jade?'

  Pete and I said 'No' together.

  'Fei Tsui jade is a rare and wonderful material. Because of its rarity it is valuable in itself, not just because of the workmanship that might have gone into carving it. But the Emblem of the Sun and Moon and Stars has incalculable value in every respect. Let me explain. It is a large piece of Fei Tsui jade in the form of a perfect half sphere. It is inlaid with a sizeable piece of gold, which represents the sun, and several perfect pearls which represent the moon and stars. The moon pearl is very large and very valuable.'

  'Sounds to me as if this dingus could be broken down into a lot of valuable merchandise,' Pete said.

  Mrs Tan shuddered slightly. 'Indeed. But that must never be allowed to happen. You are looking somewhat sceptical, Mr Browning.'

  I turned my hat around in my hands. 'I don't know,' I said. 'Maybe I just need a smoke and my brains are drying out. But just from your description, Mrs Tan, the thing sounds pretty, well, vulgar. I don't quite see. . .'

  Mrs Tan would have flipped her fan if she'd had one. 'You are exactly right! It is vulgar, extremely so, which is why the peasants and other ignorant people value it so highly and why anyone wishing to hold power in China aspires to possess it.'

  'Like the Crown Jewels, I suppose,' I said. 'Though I don't imagine that if I got hold of them I could set myself up as Richard the. . .'

  'Fourth,' Mrs Tan smiled. 'No, but China is in many ways a very primitive country. Such insignia matter very much to the common people, as they did back in the days of Richard the Third.'

  On British history she left me standing as, I suspected, she would on most subjects. She was a very sharp old lady.

  Like me, Pete was impressed, but he hadn't been sapped and kidnapped the day before and possibly hadn't been drunk recently. He weighed in with the key question.

  'What's this got to do with Hart Sallust? I can't see him wanting to get hold of the dingus for himself, or for the Nationalists or Communists, for that matter.'

  'No,' Mrs Tan said. 'But his wife would.'

  I shook my head. 'He hasn't got a wife. No woman would stay with him long enough to take
out a licence.'

  'True, the man is a drunkard, a brawler and a womaniser,' Mrs Tan said. 'Nevertheless, he has a wife. Her name is Sue Feng and she is an agent of the Kuomintang.'

  'It's hard goods to buy,' Pete said. We were out on the street, leaning against my car and smoking, at last. With what I thought was commendable generosity, until I remembered it would go on Bobby Silkstein's bill, Pete had contributed twenty bucks to the Reverend Moon's fighting fund. It was a polite way to pay for what could turn out to be a crucial piece of information. Mrs Tan had given us the address of a man who might be able to lead us to Sue Feng. She asked only that if we were ever in a position of power in respect to Charles Tan, we should temper justice with mercy. There was no problem with that to non-vindictive types like Pete and myself. The only problem was, the address was in San Francisco. We were mulling this over as we smoked and felt the sun finally begin to dispel the morning's dampness.

  'Could be a trick to get me out of town,' Pete said.

  'That'd mean you think Moon and Mrs Tan aren't straight.' I flicked ash onto the road. 'And I'd trust them further than I'd trust my own mother.'

  Pete sighed. 'I guess so. I still can't add it all up. What d'you make of it?'

  I shook my head. 'You'd do better to ask Chandler.'

  'That's not a bad idea. Listen, Rich, I want you to stay with me on this case.'

  'Do I see some money?'

  'Sure.' He fished out his wallet and peeled off a couple of twenties.

  'I lost a good hat,' I said.

  He gave me another twenty and then told me what he wanted done. My first thought was to give him the money back, but that's a hard thing to do, especially when you haven't got any coming in to take its place. I didn't mind going to talk about things with Raymond Chandler, that was the easy part. The hard part was going down to Santa Monica and telling Lieutenant Burt Martingdale and Sergeant Hamer that Mr McVey couldn't keep the appointment because he'd gone to San Francisco.