Anna strode to the living room, picked up the phone, and called the hello girl. “Please get me Earl Rogers.”
The phone rang. A young girl answered. “Mr. Rogers’s office, Miss Rogers speaking.”
“Yes, this is Anna Blanc, Georges Devereaux’s sister.”
“Hello Miss Blanc.”
“Georges asked me to call. He’s misplaced Allie Sutton’s address in Santa Barbara. Surely your father has it.”
The girl was quiet for a moment. “Yes, he did have it. But Miss Sutton is not in Santa Barbara now. She’s on her way to Nice.”
“Of course she is.” Anna disconnected, then rang the hello girl. “Hello. Get me Central Station. I have to report a criminal.”
Two hotel maids packed Anna’s things while she lay on her bed and numbly ate a chocolate cake. It was covered in chocolate roses gilded with real gold foil. She may never have such fine chocolate cake again.
Three bellhops arrived to take Anna’s trunks and load them into a wagon waiting below. She took one last look around Georges’s chic apartment. “Goodbye lovely suite. Goodbye nice things.” She followed the men to the elevator and down to the street in a daze.
At the curb, Anna climbed into the front seat of the wagon next to the driver. The driver looked at her expectantly, then said with some exasperation, “Miss Blanc? Where to?”
“Oh,” she said and gazed blankly down the street, eyes unfocused. “To the Streeter Apartments, 502 First Street, please.” Her voice sounded tentative, not like a lady speaking to her driver. She felt broadly apologetic, as if she owed the whole world an apology, and that they—the world—would not accept it. Should not accept it.
Anna wondered if Joe had heard the news yet. How could she ever face him when she’d been so terribly wrong? Surely if she had been open to the truth, she would have deduced that Georges was the Black Pearl. The facts shouted it: his presence at the Jonquil Café, perhaps even dining with the man from Mars; Samuel Grayson’s blackmail attempt; the flipped testimony of his two lovers; the Black Pearl’s lavish generosity. Joe had sensed it all along, and she had badly abused him for it—for being a good detective.
It was no longer a question of whether Anna could forgive Joe, but whether Joe could forgive Anna. She didn’t think so. She remembered the anger lighting his eyes when they parted with no kiss goodbye. That was before he knew she had violated the principles of their profession. She was no better than Joe’s father, and Joe could barely stand him.
The driver took an hour unloading Anna’s things and trying to find space for her trunks in the little crammed apartment. Finally, Anna told him to take the trunks of new hats and gowns away.
The phone in the hall rang and rang. She didn’t answer it. Someone pounded on the door, sounding irritated. “Anna Blanc? Telephone!”
Anna ignored the woman. There was no one in the world that Anna wanted to speak to. She took off her clothes, donned a nightgown, and flopped onto the bed. The phone rang again, followed by pounding. “Miss Blanc! The tube!”
Anna put the pillow over her head. It rang a third time, interminably. More pounding. Anna ignored it. Sometime later, more knocking.
Anna tried to doze. She became aware that someone was throwing rocks at her window. She crawled across her bed and pushed the heavy drapes aside. A woman stood in the dark alley wearing far too many ruffles and a floppy hat meant for daytime. A neighbor angry about the telephone ringing off its hook? Anna opened the window. “Please leave me alone!”
She moved to shut the window and the lady charged. Anna instinctively jumped back, too startled to scream. It was the murderous Flossie Edmands all over again. Fear rose in Anna. She swept up a sterling silver shoehorn from the shoe rack. The lady leapt, grabbing the sill, and hoisted her body up. Anna struck her on the head with the shoe horn. She struck again, hard.
“Ouch!” Undaunted, the intruder began slithering through on her belly. Her gown rode up exposing hairy legs, drawers, and a backside that Anna would have known anywhere. Her heart began pounding. She wasn’t thinking clearly. She should have closed the window sooner because now Joe Singer was climbing through. He landed head first in the small space between her bed and shoe rack, bottom in the air.
Anna quickly drew the drapes.
Joe scrambled onto the bed and turned to face her. He had lost his hat. His wig was wild, like a Medusa. His skirt bunched around his thighs, and he was not sitting like a lady. He whispered with exasperation. “What does a man have to do to get an audience with you?”
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Anna backed away from him and into a stack of hat boxes. They fell, bounced, rolled, and opened, spilling their contents and stirring up a cloud of dust. Anna yelped in despair. Then she sneezed.
“Sherlock, you turned your brother in.”
“He told me he was the Black Pearl. Not in so many words, but he did, because he wanted me to forgive you. But there was nothing to forgive.”
“He told you because of me?”
“Yes, he thinks you are a good sweetheart, but he didn’t know it was for naught and that you can’t be my sweetheart anymore. So just go and catch the rat. He’s on his way to Nice with Allie Sutton.” She put her face in her hands.
“I can’t arrest him. That would be double jeopardy. He can’t be tried for the same crime twice and he knows it.”
Anna glanced up. “But he drugs young girls.”
Joe took off his wig and rubbed his head. “Sherlock, I don’t think so. He’s not a good man, and I want him far away from you, but I really don’t think he knew about that. After the trial, I spoke with Mrs. Rosenberg again. She wasn’t forthcoming, exactly, but I learned a few things. I think Georges was just a procurer, connecting rich men with young mistresses, bringing the Jonquil business. Also, he loans aristocrats money at usurious rates, and I think he might own an opium parlor.”
“In Chinatown?”
“No. One for whites.” Joe kicked off his skirt and began unbuttoning his shirtwaist.
He had wonderful legs, but it didn’t matter now. She wanted to touch them but may not. “He’s a rat, Joe, and I’m his rat sister. I crapped out.” She made a sound of despair. “I’m a flincher!”
Joe stood in his underwear and waded through furniture and fallen hats to Anna. He still wore his boots. “No, baby. You’re his good sister—his loyal sister.”
Anna made a sobbing sound. “Really?”
He caressed her cheek. “Really.”
“Maybe Petronilla wasn’t against me. Maybe she was simply on the side of justice.”
“Anna, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I just wanted a return of affection.”
“What?”
“Jonquils, in the language of flowers, means to desire the return of affection. It’s what we all wanted, I suppose—me, Allie Sutton, the girls at the Jonquil, even Georges.”
“For what it’s worth, I think the rat loves you.” He drew her to his chest. “Even before you saved his life. Baby, you are one killer police matron.”
She rested her wet cheek upon his chest. “Charlene is going to go to the new school for prostitutes. She’s going to open up a frillies store.”
“I’ll be sure to patronize her establishment.”
“Yes. And I caught the man from Mars, but he’s dying.”
“Oh?”
Anna looked up. “Matilda and I are going to egg his—”
Joe kissed her.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Much of the story is fictionalized Los Angeles history. Petronilla really was cheated out of her father’s land, which once included Griffith Park. She really did curse that land and then drop dead, so legend has it, to seal the curse with her blood. Misfortune did befall those associated with the land for generations. Look it up.
The Jonquil Apartments, café, and resort (bathhouse and massage parlor) operated at 807 South Hill Street, run by one Mrs. Rosenberg, who introduced young career girls to wealthy men to exchange
sex for money. She took her cut. George Bixby, brother of police matron, Fanny Bixby, was arrested in 1913 for sleeping with two underage girls at the Jonquil. He was one of the richest men in California. He did not use his own name when visiting the Jonquil, so the girls referred to him as “The Black Pearl” because of his black pearl scarf pin, or “Mr. King” because of his majestic disregard for money. He visited twice a day, and gave all the girls at the Jonquil a gold cross, which they called “The Cross of the Legion of Dishonor.”
Bixby fled but was arrested in San Diego. The architect, Octavius Morgan, testified at Bixby’s trial that he himself had been blackmailed by girls from the Jonquil. George Bixby was found not guilty, and the young girls who testified against him were prosecuted for blackmail. Mrs. Rosenberg was charged with being the chief procurer for the Black Pearl and his millionaire associates and contributing to the delinquency of minors. She paid a hefty fine and spent a year in the county jail.
Was Bixby guilty? Look it up online and make your own decision. There are numerous newspaper articles available at https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov.
The Azusa Street Mission was the birthplace of the Pentecostal movement, led by William J. Seymour, an African American preacher. It was notable for its racially integrated church body. The descriptions of the service come from eyewitness accounts.
So many little details in the book—too many to mention here—come from history. Earl Rogers was the best criminal defense attorney in Los Angeles at the time, and his daughter, Adela, did help him in his practice as a child. He really did stay at Pearl Morton’s brothel whenever he got in a fight with his wife. He really did have a thing for Dolly the piano player.
The pulp novel quote comes from The Privateer’s Cruise and the Bride of Pomfret Hall, one of Beadle’s dime novels. Joe won the bet. The shrinking females do survive.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My most sincere thanks to my family—immediate and extended—for their unfailing support. Many thanks to my editor Dan Mayer, and all the staff at Seventh Street Books, who waited patiently for this book. I want to acknowledge the reference department of the Denver Public Library, especially Joe, Steve, and Shelby, who dug up legislation related to “white slavery” from the 1900s. I am eternally grateful to my insightful beta readers: Joely Patten Eskens, Melissa Ford, Stephanie Manuzak, Jonathan Owen, and Liz Englehart (a.k.a. Elizabeth Bonsor). To my writer’s group who provided comments all along the way: Serena Al-Darsani, Heather Bell, Sara McBride, Sarah Lurie, Rebecca Rae Parker, Cassi Clark Ward-Hunt, Michelle Ray, and Tiffany Hammond. Many thanks to Travis Miller who listened to me brainstorm. I am grateful to everyone at the Blair Partnership, especially Neil Blair, Zoe King, Josephine Hayes, and Amy Fitzgerald.
Most of all, I’d like to thank my readers. If you liked this book, please spread the word. Tell a friend. Post on Facebook. Write a review. It’s the number one way readers find new authors.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jennifer Kincheloe is the author of The Secret Life of Anna Blanc, winner of the Colorado Gold Award for mystery and the Mystery and Mayhem Award for historical mystery; and The Woman in the Camphor Trunk, a finalist for the Left Coast Crime Lefty Award for Best Historical Novel. She has been a block layer, a nurse’s aide, a fragrance model, and on the research faculty at UCLA, where she spent eleven years conducting studies to inform health policy. Jennifer currently lives in Denver, Colorado with her husband and two teenagers, two dogs, and a cat. There she conducts research on the city’s jails.
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