“So this mysterious Chinese gentleman,” I said to Bill as we headed back to the subway. “One of ours?”

“Ours being Mr. Chen, Mr. Zhang, or the other Mr. Zhang?”

“Right.”

“Why would they?”

“Why would anyone? Why would you want the jeweler who made the Shanghai Moon not to talk about it?”

“And why wait twenty years to ask?”

“Maybe it took him twenty years to figure out who the maker was.”

“If he was one of ours, wouldn’t he know?”

“Not necessarily. Two of them were children when it was made, and one wasn’t born yet.”

Bill lit a cigarette, took a puff, then stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Oh, for God’s sake. Even if they did know. Two of them weren’t here.”

I looked at him, and then, with new respect, at his cigarette. “Of course. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang came in ’sixty-six. Then it would have taken them time to find him.”

“But what about C. D. Zhang? When did he get here? If he sponsored them, he was a citizen already, so he must have been here a while.”

“But he was a kid, too, when it was made, and of them all, he’d have been the furthest out of the loop. So he might have needed Chen and Zhang to get here before he found out, assuming it was him who cared. ‘He,’ right? Aren’t you going to tell me to say ‘he’?”

“I wasn’t, no.”

“Good thing, too. So it still could have been any of them.”

“Or someone else.”

“You think?”

“No.”

I flipped my cell phone open. It was time we stopped getting the runaround from these Chinese gentlemen.

Which was an opinion apparently not shared by Mr. Chen or Mr. Zhang. Both Irene Ng at Bright Hopes Jewelry and Fay at Fast River Imports were sorry to inform me their bosses were not available. “I really have to speak to him” and “I know he’s ducking me” didn’t make either man magically reappear.

“Why won’t they talk to me?” My complaint to Bill was rhetorical, but his answer made sense.

“You’re representing someone whose clients wanted that jewelry enough to lie about their identity. Chen and Zhang are sure to have their own networks in the jewelry world, and I’ll bet they’re trying to track down Wong Pan themselves.”

“Well, there’s still one Chinese gentleman left. And we wanted to talk to him anyway.” I poked in another number and spoke to another secretary.

Miraculously, I heard, “Hold, please,” and then C. D. Zhang’s energetic voice: “Ms. Chin! Good afternoon!”

“Good afternoon to you, Mr. Zhang. I was wondering if you had a few minutes?”

“Of course! What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to come speak to you.”

“Is this a part of your quest for the Shanghai Moon?”

“And other things. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“Such industry! Please, come! Though beyond what I told you yesterday I don’t see how I can help you.”

“I’ll explain when I get there.”

“Ah!” A tiny pause. “Have you made new discoveries?”

“Mostly I’ve found new questions.”

“This is quite exciting! I’ll be expecting you.”

C. D. Zhang and the sleek white tea set were waiting when we arrived. I introduced Bill, and a smile creased C.D. Zhang’s face. “Mr. Smith. Now, you more closely fit my preconceptions of a private eye.”

“It’s a liability,” Bill said.

“Not in all situations, I imagine. Now, please! Sit down! Tell me your new discoveries!” He poured tea and passed cups around.

“We’ve come across some information,” I said. “Facts I wanted to ask you about.” To be polite, I tasted my tea before I began. This was not the smoky tea from yesterday but a flowery jasmine. Delicious, I thought, and said so, and Bill agreed, though I was sure it was too sweet for him.

I decided to lead with yesterday’s question, to soften him up. “Mr. Zhang, you told me Rosalie Gilder took your brother to Hongkew because his mother, Mei-lin, had disappeared. Forgive me, but sir, what you didn’t say was that she disappeared with you and your father. When you escaped the Municipal Police, who were coming to arrest your father for being a Communist spy.”

C. D. Zhang stayed silent for a long minute. His face slid from buoyant to rueful. “He wasn’t, of course.”

“A spy? No, Chen Kai-rong was.”

“Yes. The Communist cause, as miserable a failure as it became, was guided in those early days by idealism and ideology. Those were not goods in which my father traded. Tell me, how did you learn this?”

“We’ve been doing research. There’s a navy intelligence report that lays out the incident based on interviews with former members of the Municipal Police. Why did you let me believe you had no idea what happened to Mei-lin?”

“You came here to unearth the Shanghai Moon, not the disgraceful secrets of my family. What happened to my poor stepmother isn’t part of the story of the Shanghai Moon.”

“I think it may be. Can you tell us about it?”

“In what way could the two possibly be related?”

“I’d rather you told the story first. So your memories aren’t tainted by what I think.”

His glittering eyes regarded me. “And if I do, you’ll tell me why?”

“Yes.”

Another few moments; then he put his teacup down. He folded one hand over the other and let some time go by before he began. “My stepmother did indeed leave for Chongqing with my father and myself, and not happily. I was frightened, not because of our rapid flight-I was twelve, young enough to be excited, not old enough to fully comprehend the danger-but because my stepmother was so wretched. I thought that was because we didn’t take the time to fetch my brother at the Chen home, and wondered why we didn’t. My father, of course, explained nothing.”

“How did he know to run? Did Mei-lin tell him?”

“No. He was warned-in your profession you’d say ‘tipped off.’ ” He gave a wan smile. “A bought-and-paid-for friend in the SMP.”

“What happened after you left Shanghai?”

“We boarded a train for the interior, rattling over the miles in air electric with Mei-lin’s misery, my father’s anger, and stiff silence. Late at night my father and Mei-lin left our compartment. He returned without her. I knew my father’s fury, and even in the weak lamp from the corridor I could see it was best to play at being asleep. But I didn’t sleep that night, though my father did. I heard his snores. In the morning I asked where my stepmother had gone. My father said she’d betrayed us and now she’d left us. I asked if she’d gone back to Shanghai, and when we would be going back. My father replied that I’d be punished if he heard my voice again before we reached Chongqing.”

“So you never knew what happened?”

“I never knew, and for years I wouldn’t let myself imagine. But it’s clear.” He looked at me sadly, and I had to agree.

“And after that?”

“After that? Where the train line ended, my father bribed the border guards. From filthy cafés he hired drivers. At one point we rode hidden in an oxcart. If not for my father’s smoldering fury and my loneliness, it would have been thrilling. Finally we arrived in Chongqing. We set up house. A new amah-young and beautiful-and new tutors. My father, as always, gone much of the day, and I more lonely than before. I missed my stepmother. I missed my small brother, who made me laugh. It was a long time before I let go of the idea that Mei-lin had returned to Shanghai. I pictured the garden at the Chen home, the acacia in bloom, everyone playing, happy together. I was consumed with envy! But of course I said nothing to my father. He, in a change of heart I only understood years later when I learned the reason for our flight, had joined the army of Chiang Kai-shek. I did the same myself when I was of age, though as I said, my value increased with my unit’s distance from actual combat. But my lack of military talent pales beside my father’s political judgment. He had a genius, apparently, for picking the losing side. In a three-way war, he chose it twice.