“I understand you have a commission for me to carry out?” I said. “I asked your employee about its nature but he was not very forthcoming.”
Lee Sing Tai tapped ash into an exquisite blue-and-white dish. “You will take tea with me,” he said. He didn’t wait for an answer but clapped his hands. The boy came into the room and bowed low. An order was given. The boy disappeared.
“Chinese tea is very fine,” he said.
“I know. I’ve drunk it. It tasted almost perfumed.”
“That was Lapsang Souchong,” he said. “In my household I prefer to drink Keemun. The king of teas, they call it. I am only one who imports it to this country.” He spoke English with a heavy accent, snapping out individual words rather than delivering a fluid sentence. “But important families in New York City come to me for their tea. Rockerfellers. Astors. You have heard of them?”
“Of course,” I said.
“I supply them tea and silk and many other things.” There was a quizzical smile on his face as he said this. “You would be surprised which distinguished people come to Lee Sing Tai to be supplied with what they need.”
He didn’t even glance up as the boy came in, carrying a red lacquer tray. I noticed that the servant moved silently and was wearing black cotton slippers. He put the tray on a side table and poured tea into two little round cups. Clearly Frederick was not to be included and indeed he had made himself scarce. Then the boy placed one of the cups on a smaller tray and carried it to me, presenting it with a bow. I took it and savored the smoky aroma. It was scalding hot and I hoped I wasn’t expected to drink it yet. Luckily the boy served his master, then came to me with a bowl of little almond cakes. I took one and nibbled politely.
“Delicious,” I said. Lee Sing Tai watched me eat and waited for me to take a sip of the tea. It was still very hot and I was used to having milk and sugar in my tea, but I sipped dutifully.
“This assignment you have for me, Mr. Lee. What is the nature of it?” I asked.
A spasm of annoyance crossed his face. “The tea is not to your liking?”
“It’s very nice,” I said. “Only rather too hot for me at the moment.”
“Tea is good for hot days,” he said. “You drink tea. You cool down. Better than water.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is.”
“The Chinese know better how to remain cool in this heat. We have known it for thousands of years.”
He went back to sipping from his own teacup. I was growing impatient. “Perhaps we might discuss our business while we wait for the tea to cool?”
I sensed from his expression that I might have committed some kind of faux pas, but frankly I didn’t care. I wasn’t the one who was looking for a job; in fact I really didn’t need one at the moment. “I need to know what sort of assignment you are offering,” I went on, my confidence returning, “as I am busy preparing for my upcoming wedding at this moment and actually I am planning to give up my business.”
He took a long sip of his own tea. I noticed how he deftly pushed the wispy strands of his mustache out of the way as he drank.
“I should let you know immediately that I don’t handle divorce cases,” I said.
This elicited the ghost of a smile. “Chinese have no need for divorce cases,” he said. “Private life is kept private. Don’t your people have a saying, ‘a man’s home is his castle’? This we too believe.”
“So if it’s not a divorce case, then what is it?” I persisted.
“Such an impatient young woman,” he said. “You would not make suitable bride for Chinese man.”
“Then it’s lucky I’m marrying a fellow Irishman.”
“I know. The famous Captain Sullivan.”
I must have shown my surprise because he said, “Do you think I would not have my people do a thorough search on a person I wished to hire? So one thing I have to know before you and I proceed with this matter—do you discuss your business with your future husband?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “My business dealings are entirely confidential. Whatever is spoken between you and me goes no further than this room.”
“Ah, so. This is what my spies tell me about you, but I wanted to hear it for myself. I had to make sure you were trustworthy. This is a matter of great delicacy.”
By now I was almost ready to grab him and yell, “Tell me what it is, for God’s sake!” but I practiced my newfound patience a little longer. I was certainly intrigued by him. Even if we had met somewhere other than in this elaborate room, I would have assumed him to be a man of power.
He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I wish you to recover a precious possession that has gone missing.” I noted that he could not say the r in the word “precious.” It came out closer to “plecious.”
I digested what he had just said before asking him, “When you say missing, do you mean that you have mislaid it or that it has been taken from you?”
“Both,” he said.
“Stolen, you mean?”