Chinese Dragon by Dave Barraclough - HTML preview

Chapter Twenty-one

When I left The Golden Sun, with the two auction catalogues tucked under my arm, I saw a newspaper stall and headed towards it, only to find that I hadn't any change in my pocket. The vendor looked up at me.

'I wonder if you have change for a twenty pound note?' I asked, handling the barrow boy the note. 'I'm out of change for the paper'.

'Anythin' to oblige, guv!' he said with an engaging grin. 'There we are!'

As I thanked him he looked round cautiously, then said in a low voice: 'Want to do yerself a bit of good, guv? Then don't forget 'Bronze Dragon'. It's four- nineteen. Best tip of the week, guv!'

I smiled and nodded my head, then walked off fishing my cellphone from my pocket. I looked up No Jung-jong in the directory, and selected his number. After listening for a full minute to the burring at the other end I hung up, and as it was almost noon I decided to have a snack lunch before phoning No Jung-jong again.

As I wondered off the barrow boy was grinning broadly. 'Don't forget - Bronze Dragon in the four-nineteen, guv!' he reminded me. 'You're on a winner there!'

I flipped my hand in acknowledgement, then paused, biting my lip thoughtfully. I hadn't noticed it before, but now I thought there was something vaguely familiar about the trim, fair-haired figure. I shrugged; he was just a rather sprucer than normal barrow boy.

I returned to my car, drove into town, and parked in a side street, beside a bar, which I  believe was called The  Rice  Farmer  - an old collector's-piece, with enormous wall mirrors and teak fittings. Here I had a bowl of rice and steamedfish, and a glass of soju at the bar counter. I'd bought a midday paper from the newspaper seller outside and I scanned it for any further developments in the Doyle murder. All I found was a buried news item, which proved no more informative than is customary when the old bill are running round in circles. Reading between the lines, it seemed that Detective-Inspector Lee Shi-hoo was up against a blank wall.

Out of curiosity I turned to the racing page. My barrow boy's 'hot tip' looked cold. No horse named Bronze Dragon was listed among the runners for the four- nineteen that afternoon.

After lunch I drove in the direction of City Hall, stopping twice to call No Jung- jong, but with no reply. Eventually, I decided that he must be a three-hour-lunch man.

It was five o'clock before I made contact with No Jung-jong. Then, at the first ring, the receiver was lifted and a fruity voice said: 'Chinese Art Auctioneers'.

'No Jung-jong speaking', the voice said when I asked for him by name.

I tried to sound convincing as I said: 'I'm interested in buying some Chinese antiques, Mr No. Your firm was recommended by a friend of mine'.

There was a pause of a few seconds at the other end, then the voice asked guardedly: 'What's the name of this friend?'

'Bae Yeon-seok', I said, my hand tightening on the receiver.

I could almost sense No Jung-jong's nod as he responded at once, quite matter- of-factly, with: 'I see. And what's your name?'

I glanced at the newspaper beside me and gave the first name that met my eye.

'Kim - Kim Sang-woo. You don't know me'.

'No, I don't'. No Jung-jong paused, then asked: 'Have you got a catalogue?'

'Of course', I said easily. 'Otherwise I couldn't have phoned you'.

'That's right'. He appeared to have swallowed my story. 'I'll be in my office for the next half-hour', he said decisively. 'And don't forget to bring the catalogue with you'.

I assured him I shouldn't forget, and rang off.

There wasn't much sense in picking up my car and then touring the streets of Seoul for a parking space. So I walked briskly through the side-streets and was outside No Jung-jong's office building in three minutes.

It was not exactly impressive. A hand-painted sign in the entrance informed me that of his presence on the first floor. I climbed the wooden stairs and went down a dismal passage until I came to a glass-panelled door marked 'Chinese Art Auctioneers. Seoul and Shanghai'.

At my knock the fruity voice I'd heard on the telephone called: 'Come in'.