Free Everything Under the Sky by Matilde Asensi Page A

look of reproach that bore an unmistakable message: So he can call himself Paddy, but I can't call myself Fernandina? I followed the antiquarian's lead and simply ignored her.
    “No, Mr. Jiang, nothing untoward has happened to us. I left all the servants on guard to watch the house last night.”
    “Good idea. Do the same tonight. We're running out of time.”
    “Time for what?” I asked worriedly.
    “Did you find a small chest among the pieces in Rémy's collection, Mme De Poulain?” he suddenly asked, catching me off guard. My silence gave me away. “Ah, I see that you have! Well, good. Marvelous. You must give it to me so I can resolve this matter.”
    Just a moment. Stop right there. No, none of that. Who was this Mr. Jiang for me to simply hand over a very valuable piece that could help me escape ruin? What did I know about Mr. Jiang apart from what Tichborne had told me? And who was Tichborne? Had I unwittingly brought my niece into the lion's den? Could these two colorful characters be members of the very Green Gang that was supposedly threatening our lives? My sudden nervousness must have been obvious, because my niece placed a reassuring hand on my arm and turned to the journalist.
    “Tell Mr. Jiang that my aunt's not going to give him a thing. We have no idea who the two of you really are,” she declared.
    That's it, they're going to kill us now, I said to myself. The Irishman would pull out a gun and threaten our lives if we didn't hand over the chest, and then the antiquarian would sever the tendons in our knees.
    Mr. Jiang stretched his lips into a mocking smile—had my fear been that obvious?—and quietly said:
    “Exactly two months ago, Mme De Poulain, the chest you found in your home came to me from Peking with the imperial seals intact. It was one of several objects bought just outside the Forbidden City by my agent in the capital. The court of the last Qing 6 monarch is collapsing, madame. My great country and our ancestral culture are being destroyed not only by foreign invaders but also, and above all, by this weak, outdated dynasty that has left power in the hands of warlords. The pathetic young Emperor Puyi can't even control the theft of his own treasures. Everyone from the highest dignitary to the lowliest eunuch unscrupulously steals items of inestimable worth, all of which can be found a few hours later in the antiquities markets that have recently sprung up in the streets around the Forbidden City. In a vain attempt to stop this, Puyi decreed that a complete inventory be taken of all valuables. Unsurprisingly, the first in a terrible series of fires erupted a short while later in the street stalls where antiquities were being sold. To be more precise, according to the papers, the first fire occurred in the Palace of Established Happiness on June twenty-seventh, and just three days later I received the hundred-treasure chest that you found in your home, leaving no doubt as to its origin.”
    “I didn't know any of this!” Tichborne stammered angrily. Was he really upset, or was he just pretending? True, all he had mentioned the night before at the consulate was “something very important” and “a piece of art.” Had the antiquarian kept this from him until now? Didn't he trust him?
    “‘Hundred-treasure chest’?” I asked, curious, pretending to ignore the Irishman's discontent.
    Mr. Jiang remained impassive. “It's an old Chinese tradition. The name comes from the fact that they contain exactly one hundred objects of value. Believe me, Mme De Poulain, many hundred-treasure chests like ours have come out of the Forbidden City since June twentyseventh.”
    “And what is so special about ours, Mr. Jiang?” I asked sarcastically.
    “That's precisely the problem, madame: We don't know. Some of the objects must be truly priceless, because the following week, the first week of July, three notable gentlemen from Peking appeared in my shop. They wanted to buy the chest and were