Doug Allyn - v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

While Ariunbat offered condolences to Song, Dorj looked at the business card he had been handed. Apparently Mr. Young was a mining engineer — an associate of the late Mr. Liu.

“Did your father have any enemies?” Ariunbat asked Song.

The girl shook her head. “So far as I know, none, at least among the Chinese community.”

Dorj and Ariunbat exchanged glances. Was she suggesting that a Mongolian was responsible for her father’s death? There was tension between the Mongolians and Chinese. More than one Chinese had been beaten by gangs, usually drunks. But things had been quiet for a while.

“Your father — he was a man of mild temperament, not likely to get into an argument, say?” Ariunbat asked.

“He never lost his temper, not even when Myron — Mr. Young, that is, wished to marry me.”

“Dear!” the engineer said, “I don’t think we ought to—”

“Nonsense!” was the brisk reply. Dorj blinked. For a family so traditional to have such a modern-thinking girl seemed odd. “We must tell the truth about everything.”

Ariunbat’s pencil hovered hopefully over his notepad. “And that is—?”

“Well, my father was not happy about the idea. He wished for me to have an arranged marriage to one of his friends. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to go to America with Myron.”

Dorj sighed. Another young woman seeking her dreams in a foreign land. She seemed remarkably composed, less than a day after her father’s death. Maybe, thought Dorj, her grief was tempered by the removal of an impediment to her plans.

“Anyhow,” Song continued, “my father was adamant that we could not marry, and he sent Myron to look into a silver mine in Olgii.”

Dorj was familiar with the place, in the far reaches of the country on the border of Kazakhstan. The highest form of culture it boasted was a cinema that tended to show Indian films without subtitles.

“That’s right,” Young confirmed. “Song and I were separated for six weeks. We couldn’t even talk — except when the phones were working.”

“My father wasn’t himself recently,” added Song. “He had been ill, I think, but he didn’t like to discuss such things. Bad luck. I’m sure he would have changed his mind.”

Ariunbat nodded. “And, Mr. Young, what are you doing in Mongolia?”

“Joint mining venture with Mr. Liu. At least that’s what my company hoped for. Your country has plenty of untapped resources, Captain. Money to be made there. We’ll have you all living in proper houses before you know it.”

“Certainly,” said Ariunbat. “When did you return from Olgii?”

“Late last night. I have a room in the Ulaan Baatar Hotel. Rolled into bed and went out like a light. Firecrackers woke me up. It was an awful racket. Drums and people yelling New Year greetings. Like I said, Song’s taught me a little Mandarin. I decided to head into Chinatown.”

Ariunbat scowled thoughtfully.

“This was around eight A.M.,” Young explained quickly. “I wanted to see the lion dance.”

“We may need to talk to you further,” said Ariunbat, rising from his chair with some difficulty.

The big American accompanied them out the door. When they were outside he leaned forward confidentially, lowering his voice. “While I was in Chinatown yesterday morning, I overheard something that you may find useful. There were two Chinese boys behind me — teenagers — and I caught a bit of their conversation. Mr. Liu’s name came up. Well, as you can imagine, that caught my interest. One of the boys said something about getting ‘a black pearl.’ And then there was something else about a ‘yee chuan’ — an inheritance. And it must’ve been a big one because they were talking a million cash — paper money. So I began to wonder, were they planning a robbery?”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?” asked Ariunbat.

“I guess I couldn’t really believe what I was hearing. Figured it was probably my imagination, or maybe I’d misheard. But I came straight back here to warn him anyhow. He’d left before I got here.”

“What did these boys look like?”

“They looked like — well — Chinese boys.” Young paused to think for a moment. “They were dressed in red. I do remember that.”

“Yes, I saw any number of boys dressed in red yesterday afternoon,” said Dorj. “Part of the celebrations. But why would a couple of teenagers be discussing Mr. Liu’s finances?”

The two policemen had stopped for lunch at the Altai Hotel. Ariunbat removed his goose-down jacket, turned his attention to his plate of boiled mutton, and vigorously began to make up for his bicycling exercise. Dorj had planned on attending a production of Hamlet at the Drama Theater but that, apparently, was not to be. At any rate, hearing about the wished-for marriage between Song Liu and the foreigner, Young, had raised a personal ghost. Where was Mai now, he wondered? Had she and her family weathered the Cultural Revolution? Did she ever wish they had stayed in Mongolia?

“I wonder,” said Ariunbat, “if they might have been Chi’s sons? The embezzler had two sons. They might’ve heard their father talking about Liu’s wealth.”

“So revenge would’ve been a motive, as well as robbery.”

“What other Chinese boys would’ve had that kind of information? It’s obvious.”

“Yes, obvious,” agreed Dorj.

“What do you say, Dorj,” said Ariunbat. “I could pull the sons in for questioning, and maybe he’d recognize them.”

“He might. Of course, it might have just been the usual violent drunks — nothing to do with the conversation Young overheard.”

“And what about the American?” continued Ariunbat. “I checked at his hotel. He did arrive when he said, but as to the next day — the day of the murder — well, you know how our hotels are run.” He wiped grease from his lips.

“Mr. Liu was apparently standing in the way of Young’s marriage to Song.”

“But can you see him killing off his business partner? Besides, the girl said she expected her father to come around to the idea when he felt better.”

“It’s a difficult case,” said Dorj. There was something wrong that he couldn’t quite identify. Was it Song’s odd composure? Or something about those queer fishlike markings in the notebook? Were they in any way related to the murder?

He found himself thinking again about the wedding he’d witnessed. But something else — the girl who’d reminded him momentarily of Mai. Could it have been Song?

Dorj felt suddenly depressed, hemmed in. He almost missed the desert — cold and scoured clean by the winds off the massifs.

The next day, the local telephone service being what it was, Dorj simply walked unannounced into the dark, uninviting store where Song Liu worked. Her job was as seemingly at odds with her late father’s wealth as the family ger. But then the Chinese were reputed to be industrious. Unlike the grocery stores’, the bookstore’s shelves were full, but the books were dusty, and mostly in Russian.

When he saw her kneeling to arrange some maps on a low shelf, he recalled when he and Mai had spent hours browsing bookstores. Not long afterwards, he found himself sitting on a bench with Song, next to the Ferris wheel in Nairamdal Park.

“Yes, I was in Chinatown that afternoon,” admitted Song. She was not so pale. The cold, perhaps, had brought color to her high cheekbones. The bright but ineffectual sun high up in the vast, bright blue sky shone in her dark hair. “I... I stayed at Myron’s hotel the night before.”

“What about your father?” Dorj felt an irrational pang of jealousy.

“Oh, Father would have been furious if he’d known. I told him I was staying with friends. Myron had to go out early, on business, he said.”