by S. L. Stoner
“Ah, well, I don’t know,” came Krupps’ reedy voice, a little slurred with drink, “there’s always someone who thinks he can bring you down.” Bendt, the uncommunicative one, bestirred himself to nod in agreement, his small eyes gleaming in the folds of his porcine face.
Fogel leaned forward across the table toward the Gray’s Harbor men, tossing another grin sideways at Sage, catching him off guard. “Me and Drake, we know how to take care of those that try to mess in our business, ain’t that right, Drake?” Fogel’s face and voice were unnaturally gleeful. That marked change in personality, more than the words, started alarm bells clanging inside Sage’s head.
Irritation seemed to flit across Drake’s face, but Sage thought he must have imagined the expression because Drake, too, grinned and his voice was easy as he answered. “That we do Fogel, that we do. Anybody tries to get crosswise of us, and our business, will find himself a hundred fathoms down, crabs stripping his toe bones and snacking on his eyeballs.” The four guffawed and Sage joined in, only to have them stop laughing so abruptly that only his laughter continued on. Sage shifted uneasily in his chair. What was going on here?
Abruptly, Drake stood, “Now that Crowley’s arrived we might as well get a move on.” They all pushed back their chairs and stood, Sage turning toward the door they usually exited. Drake grasped Sage’s arm. “Not tonight, Crowley. We’ll be leaving here a different way tonight.” He led them at a quick pace through the swinging kitchen doors. The five trailed past dirtyaproned cooks stirring pots on hot stoves and rows of squatting Chinese men rinsing beer mugs in buckets of grimy water.
“Remind me never to eat here,” Sage muttered to himself. The unease he’d been feeling grew stronger. How long it would take his mother to realize he wasn’t coming out? “Why we going this way?” he asked Drake’s back.
Before Drake could speak, Fogel answered, “We go through Erickson’s cellar whenever we got business we want kept especially private.” His hand cuffed the back of Sage’s shoulder like a weighty bear paw. Fogel’s touch caused Sage to twitch in alarm. What had got into Fogel tonight? Just yesterday he wouldn’t have extended a short stick to Sage if he’d seen him drowning. Now he’d turned all grins and pats on the back.
Sage fought the urge to whirl, push past the men on his heels and run out Erickson’s doors. He could see himself doing it. There’d be witnesses in the crowded saloon.
Then the opportunity passed. Drake opened a door, grabbed a lantern that hung just inside and lit it. He passed the lantern back to Krupps, who was behind Sage and lit a second one. Raising his lantern high, Drake led them down wooden stairs into the saloon’s cellar. Krupps followed so close behind that Sage could smell the man’s lavender face tonic. Without pausing, Drake led them through a tangle of wooden boxes, full flour sacks, and broken furniture to a heavy wooden door set into the wall. Sage felt Krupp’s stare on the back of his neck the entire way.
Taking a key from his pocket, Drake unlocked the door, gestured them through and locked it behind them. The five of them stood in the underground.
Dust began to clog Sage’s nose. The inky blackness beyond the lanterns pushed inward and he felt an inner shriek of fear building. Quickly he looked up and counted the wooden floorboards, listening for the thumping boots and the drunken life taking place overhead. He heard all those sounds and more. This was no mine shaft buried deep in a mountain, he reminded himself, and was gratified to feel his heartbeat slow and his fear subside.
“What’sa matter?” This question came from behind him, from the heretofore silent Bendt. “‘Fraid of the dark?” A sneer laced the man’s low voice, and Sage twisted to see if there was a sneer on his face, too. But Bendt stood just beyond the circle of Krupps’s light, his face an indistinct pale moon gleaming in the dark.
Sage again felt a sudden urge to move away from the four of them, but he kept his boots planted. Stepping away from them would look strange and it would be unsuccessful since they could grab him easily. Besides, without a light, how far could he get?
“Hey, now, don’t be teasing the new man, Bendt. He’s still getting used to our little underground operation here. They do it different down there in Frisco, don’t they, Crowley?” Drake asked.
Krupps chimed in before Sage could respond.“That’s right, Crowley, Frisco doesn’t have the same kind of arrangements, do they? Tell them how it’s different.”
“Ah,” Sage searched his mind for the stories he’d heard when he’d hung around San Francisco’s Barbary Coast waterfront. “We’d fish the men out of the water right after the saloon trapdoors dropped them into the Bay. We’d tie our Whitehall boat to a piling near the trapdoor, wait for them to drop through, drag them aboard and row straight to the ships. Got to be quick so they don’t drown, since they’re pretty woozy from the knockout drops.” Sage hoped he’d gotten the name of the boat right. “So, are we going to stand here all night?” he asked, wanting the subject to change.
“This way men,” Drake responded and began shuffling in a direction that seemed southerly to Sage. Good, that meant they were heading in the direction of the entrance he’d seen them enter the night before. The fallback plan was that if his mother lost him, Sergeant Hanke and his men would use that entrance to enter the underground. How long would she wait before she gave up and told Hanke to go ahead with the alternative? Would their timing work or would Hanke be too late?
They kept moving south, passing under Burnside Street and through a series of basements. His companions were silent but, once, when Sage stumbled over a water pipe, Fogel caught his arm to prevent him from falling. When Sage said, “Thanks,” Fogel rasped, “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” Somehow, his tone belied the kindness of the words.
Warning bells began a steady clang in Sage’s head. These men are all in a strangely vicious mood, he thought. Maybe it’s how they prepare themselves to do their evil deeds. A dim glow a few basements ahead stopped Sage’s musings. Drake didn’t hesitate, just kept moving toward it.
A scuttling sounded off to the side, probably rodents disturbed by their passage. Drake must have heard the noise, because he lifted his lantern, casting its light around the basement. The light showed nothing but discarded wood crates and lumber. The smell of joss sticks and opium began scenting the air. The heart of Chinatown must be somewhere close overhead.
Drake lowered his lantern and moved toward the distant glow. Just what was that light? Maybe they didn’t leave their captives in absolute darkness, like Franklin said. Or maybe someone stood guard there. Or, maybe other men were waiting to help move the drugged men. If so, they would outnumber him and Hanke’s group for sure.
Sage was wrong. The glowing light was not for the captive’s benefit. Nor were there reinforcements. A solitary man who was neither guard nor extra helper was holding the lantern aloft. It was Kaspar Mordaunt himself, incongruously dressed in top hat, black dress coat, silk waistcoat, white cravat, and thin patent leather shoes.
Sage felt a spurt of satisfaction at the sight. Mordaunt would be here for the raid. Hanke would catch him red-handed. Things were turning out better than Sage could have hoped.
As they came within the circle of Mordaunt’s light, Sage saw that the man’s eyes blazed with hatred. Even as he took this in, Fogel and Krupps grabbed Sage’s arms. At the same time, Bendt’s meaty forearm clamped across Sage’s throat so that his windpipe felt like it was being crushed.
Mordaunt’s thin lips spread in his shark’s grin. “Step forward, Chaplain,” he said over his shoulder into the darkness beyond his lamp. “Is this the man you saw meeting with Stuart Franklin?”
Robinson stepped into the weak light to squint at Sage. “It sure is. I watched him scheme with Stuart Franklin the whole time I was preaching the Word.” His chin appeared to quiver at the remembered affront.
“Okay, Robinson. Get your ass end out of here. Drake will stop by tomorrow with a donation for you,” Mordaunt didn’t suppress the contempt in his voice. Without
a word, the Friend’s Society chaplain shuffled off, carrying Drake’s lantern.
No one spoke while the man moved beyond earshot. In the relative silence, snores penetrated the panic roaring in Sage’s ears. He glanced to the left, seeing a wooden wall and iron slat gate. It was a holding pen. The snores were coming from inside the pen.
Mordaunt caught his look. “Ah. So that’s what you were looking for? The location of the cell? Congratulations, Crowley, or whoever you are, you’ve found it. You can die a happy man. You’re not a very smart man, though. Besides the preacher, Krupps here also tumbled to your game. He’d worked for the Crowleys and he’d never heard of no ‘Twig.’ We telegraphed down to Frisco, and sure enough, nobody’s ever heard of a Twig Crowley working the Bay.”
“We get to kill him, boss?” Fogel rasped, as he gave Sage’s arm a vicious twist.
“Yes, Fogel. He’s not to leave this underground alive.”
“But, boss, if we ship him, we can make some money.” Drake said.
“Not this time.” Mordaunt’s voice was sharp. “We want to get rid of someone permanent, we ship him dead, like we did that first union troublemaker from the plywood mill. I let you talk me into sending the kid organizer, Kincaid, out alive and now I get a telegram from Frisco saying the captain wants his money back. Said Kincaid wasn’t drugged enough and jumped overboard and drowned himself before the ship ever made the ocean.” He shook his head. “That was one loose end that never should have happened. And you did a shitty job with Franklin, too. He’s still alive and in the hospital.”
Bendt’s arm tightened so that just breathing became a struggle.
“How you want it done, boss?” Drake’s tone was chilling because it carried no more emotion than if he were asking which horse Mordaunt wanted saddled.
Krupp’s excited piping erupted before Mordaunt could answer. “How about I stick him a few times?
Bendt’s fetid breath came blasting over Sage’s shoulder as he said, “Heck, we might as well all take a turn at him. Like you said, Drake, he’ll be a hundred fathoms down by this time tomorrow. The captain will be happy to drop his body overboard since we’re making sure he’s shipping out with a full crew.”
“You keep talking and that stinking breath of yours will do the job all by itself,” Sage managed to croak before Bendt’s arm squeezed so tight that red spots popped up before Sage’s eyes.
Mordaunt lifted his brass-headed cane from where it leaned against a support column and tucked it beneath his arm. “I’m off to an important event,” he informed them. “You boys have your fun. Just see that he doesn’t leave here alive. Tell the captain we’ll charge him twenty dollars less for each live one if he’ll dump the body once the ship clears the river bar. If he’s the man I think he is, he’ll jump at the offer.” That said, Mordaunt picked up his lantern and strode off.
Would Mordaunt encounter Hanke and the other policemen? Was a cry of alarm in the offing? Sage tensed, waiting for any opportunity. Nothing happened. Silence reigned in the aftermath of Mordaunt’s departure. It was so quiet that he could hear street noises: the rumble of drays, the carousing of people still abroad in the night. His ears strained for the sound of shuffling feet moving through dust. Instead, there was only the scuttle of rodents and the heavy breathing of the men who held him. Even the snores of the imprisoned men had quieted. The only noise coming from the pen was the soft rustle of clothing as they turned in their drugged stupor.
TWENTY EIGHT
“I GET FIRST CRACK AT HIM,” Fogel said as he bounced on his toes in front of Sage. “Before he dies, I want to feel his nose break.” Sage waited, immobilized by the combined grip of Bendt, Krupps, and now Drake, who’d taken Fogel’s place holding Sage’s left arm. Fogel balled his fist, making ready to let fly. Sage tried to twist in the men’s grip, but Bendt’s arm, an iron bar across his throat, held him in place. Sage thought of Fong then, but none of his friend’s pithy advice came to mind. So, Sage focused his attention on his belly, following Fong’s instructions and hoped that the effort would lessen the shock of Fogel’s punch and give Sage an opening to act unexpectedly.
As Fogel drew back his arm, Sage squeezed his eyes shut to protect his eye sockets. But the punch never came. Instead, a shrill whistle sounded and Sage’s eyes flew open to see a hard object bounce off Fogel’s forehead. Fogel staggered back a step, arms flailing as he fought to keep his balance. At the same time, the barred door on the holding pen slammed open and the hulking frame of Sergeant Hanke crashed into the basement, followed by three equally large policemen. Sage had barely grasped what he was seeing before Bendt grunted and released Sage’s neck.
Sage did not hesitate. His foot flashed out in a kick to Fogel’s chest, hitting the man so hard that he thought he felt Fogel’s breastbone snap. Fogel was falling to the ground as Sage whirled to face Bendt. But, the heavy man no longer stood there. Instead, he writhed on the ground at the feet of two Chinese men. Behind them, a serene Fong stood at the front of even more black-clad Chinese men.
Fong bowed, nodded toward the four policemen who were bringing Drake and Krupps under control, and then he and Sage’s other black-clad saviors melted into the black underground so fast that Sage wasn’t certain but what his imagination had conjured them up.
“Looks like we done it! Got every one of the villains,” boomed a panting Hanke.
“You were inside the holding cell?” Sage asked.
“You bet. Been there so long I could draw you every mark on the planks some poor souls have scratched.”
“But how . . . ?”
Hanke cut him off, stepping close and saying softly, “It was Mr. Fong and your mother, but nobody’s supposed to know. They changed the plan this afternoon.”
Sage nodded. Keeping his voice low, he said,“I understand.” He raised his voice and continued, “Did you and your men hear what Mordaunt said?”
“Better than that.” Laidlaw’s voice came from the darkness on the far side of the basement. Britain’s consul stepped into the light. “I was back there behind a packing box. I took down every word and so did our young friend here.” Laidlaw jerked a thumb toward the man beside him. It was one of the Journal’s reporters. “We heard him admit to killing that first organizer and being responsible for Kincaid’s death as well. He also made it clear that he gave the order to kill Stuart Franklin. And we also heard him order his runners to kill you. Wrote down every word of it.”
Hanke came up, holding a moaning Fogel in his grip. The reporter whipped out his camera and snapped the two, lighting up the underground with its flash. Fogel tried to lunge at the reporter only to be jerked back to Hanke’s side.
The policeman blinked a moment before saying, “We best get to the courthouse. Judge Berquist has been waiting some hours now for us to bring him these criminals. We’ll drop these four off, get them arraigned. After that, we’ll go round up Mordaunt and that so-called chaplain, Robinson.”
“He’s attending some kind of fancy do,” Sage said.
“Portland Hotel,” Hanke said, “where all the rest of the city’s so-called ‘finest’ are whooping it up right now. Come on,” he said, jerking Fogel along beside him, “time’s a-wasting.”
When they saw who Hanke held in custody, jaws dropped on the two additional policemen summoned from the precinct station to open the courthouse in the middle of the night. They couldn’t spread the alarm, however, because Judge Berquist, being nobody’s fool, ordered everyone confined to the courtroom. He ordered one of Hanke’s men to station himself outside the door to prevent anyone sneaking out or in.
The proceedings were short. Hanke told his story and left with one of his men to arrest Kaspar Mordaunt in the Portland Hotel’s ballroom just blocks away. The reporter and Laidlaw gave their evidence.
Berquist, a tall scrawny man with gray wisps fringing a freckled dome, presided from a lofty bench. His lowered brows met together on his forehead, letting all present know that he did not tolerate nonsense. “How about the
six men who were in the holding pen? They willing to testify about who put them there?” he asked.
Sage and his mother sat on the rearmost bench, slouched down so that, in the dim gaslight, their faces were indistinct. But at this question Sage straightened up, intent on hearing the answer.
Laidlaw responded without hesitation. “Actually, these rascals were holding five men and a boy. I know the lad. He works in a local restaurant. All six have given their word that they’ll point their fingers straight at Mordaunt and his men. Tonight, though, we told them it would be acceptable for them to spend time reuniting with their families and friends.”
Judge Berquist wasted no time. Slapping his gavel down with a resounding bang, he addressed the four men who stood before his bench, heads hanging, policemen at their elbows, “The four of you are bound over for trial, without bail, on a multitude of charges including kidnapping, murder, and attempted murder. I’ll let the district attorney sort it out.” He aimed his gavel at the four who stood before him with faces either sullen or dumbfounded. “You best cooperate with the district attorney. These are damn serious charges. And if they are proven true, I will see you feel the full power of the law around your filthy necks.” He smacked the gavel down for emphasis.
With that, Berquist ordered the two policeman and Hanke’s remaining man to transport the prisoners to the city jail. He spoke sternly to the policemen just as they reached the door with their prisoners, “See that they get there, too, or I’ll have you arrested! Report back to me when you’re done and don’t be talking to nobody. You do, and I’ll jail you for contempt so you can share a cell with those rascals!” He looked toward Hanke’s man, who winked back. Obviously, Berquist knew how the land lay when it came to collusion between Portland’s crimps and the police.
