Free The Chinese Jars by William Gordon Page A

exclaimed. “It looks like a receipt for something.” He asked both men searchingly, “Do either of you read Chinese?”
    â€œWhat do you think, Mac?” said the examiner, laughing. “Does this Irish face look like it speaks Chinese?”
    Charles, ignoring their conversation, took a close-up photo of the claim check and tried to duplicate the Chinese characters on a piece of paper. After three attempts he shrugged and said, “This will have to do until we get the pictures back.” He and Samuel then put everything back in its place.
    â€œYou’re acting like you know something you’re not telling me,” said the examiner. “Do you want me to ask for an inquest?”
    â€œLet’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Charles. “We’re just starting our investigation. Let’s see where it leads, and then you can decide.”
    On their way out, Charles whispered to Samuel, “We really pissed the old man off,” and he smiled with a self-congratulatory smirk. “Now let’s see what we can find out from his employer, Mr. Engel.”
    They walked around to the front of the new Hall of Justice on Bryant Street and got in another cab.
    â€œEngle’s on Sacramento Street,” said Samuel, “right near Front.”
    â€œThis is pretty fancy,” said Samuel, impressed anew with the elegance of Engel’s waiting room. “The owner has good taste. Those are real Piranesi drawings.”
    â€œAnd who the hell is Piranesi?” asked Charles, examining a couple of them without interest.
    The receptionist remembered Samuel. “You’re here to see Mr. Engel again about the janitor, aren’t you?” she asked. “Just a second.” She dialed the phone and called Mr. Engel. He appeared quickly from the hallway by the reception desk.
    â€œHello again, Mr. Hamilton. I see you didn’t waste any time in coming back.”
    â€œI’m glad you recognized me,” said Samuel. “This is Charles Perkins from the U.S. attorney’s office. He’d like to see Mr. Rockwood’s stuff and the closet where he lived. He has a subpoena to make it all legal.”
    â€œYou’ll have to give me a few moments. We put everything in boxes. We wanted to get rid of it, but thought someone might claim it.”
    They followed him to the rear of the building, where he unlocked a storage room. The tuxes were hanging in four plastic bags from an overhead water pipe, and two boxes with the Engel company name on the outside were stacked next to them. They were crammed full and heavy. As Samuel lifted them, Charles talked to the owner.
    â€œCan we use this work table here?” he asked, pointing to one that was directly outside the room.
    â€œOf course,” said Mr. Engel. “If you need anything else, let me know.” He tipped his hand, as if removing a bowler, and wandered toward the front of his establishment.
    Samuel lifted the two boxes onto the table and began to remove several shoeboxes from inside. Charles began taking invitations out of the boxes. They were all in alphabetical order. He examined and looked at the notes on some of them, but he trusted what Samuel had already told him, so he didn’t want to waste time on ground his friend had already covered, especially if it didn’t produce anything of significance.
    â€œTell me if you find any plane tickets to Morocco,” said Samuel.
    â€œWhat are you looking for?” asked a surprised Charles.
    â€œNever mind. I’ll know if you find ’em.”
    Samuel searched the pockets of the hanging tuxes, but found nothing. He returned to the boxes they’d started to empty. In the bottom of one he found a set of keys, which he jiggled as he pulled them out to catch Charles’s attention.
    â€œThose may be our most important find,” said Charles.
    â€œI hope so,” said Samuel. He placed them on the table and went