by Holly Baxter
White-coated men were moving quietly and efficiently around the kitchen, preparing the food. Almost all of them were oriental, and had closed, expressionless faces. The smells of the various dishes were strange and rather wonderful to Elodie. Hugh had taken her to a Chinese restaurant once, but it was not like this. She didn’t recognize any of the things being prepared. The housekeeper, a Mrs. Logie, paused in her instructions and asked if there were any questions.
“Is Barbara Hutton really going to be here?” Betty Ann smiled eagerly.
Mrs. Logie frowned. “Mr. Lee has many well known friends and clients, but there is to be no gawking whatsoever, is that understood? Even if you recognize a face, you must not do or say anything that would make the guest uncomfortable in any way. They are here privately. That is of the utmost importance.” Betty Ann looked a little sulky, but said no more.
Mrs. Logie continued. “Before dinner we will be serving dim sum, which is a Chinese delicacy. This is made up of many small items along with a dipping sauce. As we give you each tray, we will tell you what is on it, in case a guest asks. As each tray is emptied, you will return immediately to the kitchen for the next tray. This will continue until eight thirty, at which time the dining room will be opened for the buffet, which will continue to be offered throughout the rest of the evening. You will stand behind the buffet tables and serve the guests as they come along. Is that clear?” Everyone nodded.
“Very well. I suggest you now go out into the house and get your bearings. Be back here in fifteen minutes. You may use the staff bathroom there, off the kitchen. I suggest you make yourselves comfortable before you begin serving. And wash your hands thoroughly.” She glanced down. “I see Bernice has informed you of Mr. Lee’s dislike of nail polish. Well done, Bernice.”
Elodie almost giggled. Mrs. Logie meant they were to pee, she supposed. They’d also been told not to wear any scent or jewelry. Nuns at the feast, she thought. Discreet, subservient, silent. Ghosts in black. She wondered if this was how all wealthy people were served, or whether it was just the private fancy of Mr. Lee Chang, whom she had yet to see.
The interior of the house was as impressive as the exterior. Much chrome and glass, and all the walls were of the very palest grey. There were, in contrast, many large modern paintings on the walls. The subjects were distorted and barely recognizable, the colors were violent and unreal. Bernice thought they were ugly, as did the other girls. Elodie quite liked them. Maybelle had taught her a lot about art because her magazine featured it. Sisters had their uses.
The Lee house was carpeted throughout in the same pale green she had glimpsed heading to that odd little building in back. The furniture was all ebony, square in outline and oriental in style, but did not look very comfortable, despite the thick cushions of raw silk in dark grey and straw-gold. She had the feeling they were rarely occupied. The whole house looked like something out of Maybelle’s magazine and not a place anybody really lived in from day to day. The main rooms were very large, as was the reception hall. Big double doors at the back of the main room led to the dining room and its massive ebony table. A line of small tables leaned against the far wall, which held stacks of plates and so on for the buffet. A fantastic chandelier hung over the big table in a most extraordinary design that reminded her of the weird sculptures that had been on display a few weeks back in the Gower Building lobby. Could it have been fashioned by the same artist? If so, it must have been incredibly expensive and certainly unique.
There was a soft footstep behind them. They turned and saw, at last, Mr. Lee Chang himself.
He was short and as round as a ball. He wore a long crimson oriental robe of thickly embroidered silk. Small black felt shoes just showed under the hem of this extraordinary garment. He was completely bald, and had two eyes like black currants sunk in the golden bun of his face. He gestured to Bernice, who hurried over to him. He spoke briefly to her, then came over to inspect the girls who would be serving his guests. For a long moment he stared at each one, and then suddenly he smiled. He had a wonderful smile, broad, white, and very unexpected.
“Beautiful,” he said, beaming at them. “I like beautiful things.” He gestured around. “And beautiful women. You are welcome in my home. I am sure you will do as Mrs. Logie has told you. If you have any questions you must go to her. I shall be busy with my guests.” He had a very slight accent, noticeable only in his attempts to get around the letter “l,” but otherwise sounded completely American. Bernice had told Elodie that Lee Chang had been born in China and had been very poor. His parents brought him to America when he was only four, his father being employed on the railways going West. He had been orphaned by the time he was fifteen, and had worked very hard all his life. He was clearly poor no more.
He bowed, very slightly, and left them, trailing a faint aroma of jasmine.
“Whew,” said the blonde standing next to Elodie. “Is he fat or is he fat?”
Bernice spoke softly. “Not all of that is Mr. Lee. He is wearing a padded vest for protection. He has many enemies—or thinks he has.”
“I think he’s wonderful.” Elodie had been very impressed with Mr. Lee Chang. “So different. I don’t imagine many wealthy men speak to servants like that.”
“Mr. Lee is a very unusual man.” It was plain Bernice was very proud to be working for him.
“I thought his name was Chang.” Betty Ann looked puzzled. “That’s what it says on his office door, Lee Chang Enterprises.” So Betty Ann worked in the Gower Building too, Elodie thought. She wondered why she hadn’t seen her before, as the jet-black cap of shiny hair and pale skin were very memorable. Betty Ann obviously considered herself a Vamp.
“In China, what we call the last name comes first,” explained Bernice, as they headed back toward the kitchen. “If it was said the American way he would be Mr. Chang Lee, but he prefers the Chinese way. In fact, he insists on it.” She spoke as if from a great height of superior knowledge, and Elodie could have slapped her. As they entered the kitchen, they heard cars outside, and voices. The guests were arriving. She could hardly wait to see what the rich and famous were really like.
***
Elodie was rather shocked.
Never having encountered so-called High Society outside of the newspapers before, she had actually expected them to radiate a flawless glow, like in the movies.
The rich and famous were, in fact, rather ordinary, save for two things—their money, and their manners. They wore their money on their backs, for the women’s dresses were spectacular, the men’s dinner clothes immaculately tailored. They expected to be waited on, and therefore took no notice of those who served. But under the expensive clothing the women had freckles, wrinkles, and the occasional pimple skillfully but inadequately covered with makeup. Many of the men were going bald or had dandruff. Some had bad breath. The women were either as thin as rakes or wore flamboyantly draped dresses to distract from their bulk. Some of them smelled wonderful, and some of them definitely did not. One of the women was actually rather grubby around the neck, but wore a fabulous diamond necklace to cover it. All of them ignored Elodie and the other girls completely, and seemed only to notice the trays. They helped themselves greedily and talked to one another, never once raising their eyes to the pretty faces behind the food.
We really are invisible, thought Elodie, as she stood in the living room holding her first tray of dim sum. She had been given a tray of tiny shrimp dumplings, pale and fat, with a small porcelain bowl of murky but pungent sauce. It smelled like good old vinegar to her, and she wrinkled her nose. There was something more there, she decided, so it was probably flavored with some exotic Chinese spices even Marie had never heard of.
Elodie’s family was not wealthy. They were a working family, but what she had heard referred to as “white collar” rather than laboring. She had an education. She had good manners. She had self-respect. And she had an almost overwhelming impulse to shout at the gathering crowd, like Alice, “
You’re nothing but a pack of cards!” Of course she did not, but it almost choked her. She glanced over at Bernice, who caught her eye and somehow detected the glint there. She scowled and shook her head. Elodie didn’t want to upset Bernice, and she liked Mr. Lee. It was difficult, though, and as soon as her tray was emptied, she fled to the kitchen. Unfortunately Mrs. Logie saw her return and quickly snapped her fingers, summoning up another loaded tray—this time crisp little fishy-smelling toasts with no dipping sauce, for which Elodie was grateful. The fumes of the dipping sauce had made her want to sneeze.
She returned to the large main room and began to walk among the guests, offering her tray, trying to catch the conversations going on around her. She had expected hoity-toity accents and was again disappointed. Indeed, some of the guests sounded very ordinary indeed, especially some of the younger women. She wondered if they were high-class prostitutes. The thought didn’t shock her. People in Chicago were getting all too accustomed to crime and loosening morals. Between Prohibition and the Depression, things were sliding fast. Maybe we should have a prostitute at Imperial Hotel, Elodie suddenly thought. But of course we couldn’t actually call her that. She moved on, automatically offering her tray and thinking about her precious radio show. Now that she was over the first shock, her brain had begun working on its own, returning her to her own interests. She was only there to do a menial job. Her brain was free to roam.
She began looking at the gathering with new eyes.
There were some foreign accents among the guests—she detected French, German, and, of course, Chinese. It was the Chinese who were most fascinating. Small men, smaller women, their voices high and light, speaking their own tongue quick as birdchirps, but speaking English slowly, and with great care. She liked them for respecting her language. And almost all the women wore Western clothing, in the very latest styles. She found herself staying nearer to them than other guests, until again she caught Bernice’s eye, and had to move in wider circles. She thought there could be at least one Chinese person working or passing through the portals of Imperial Hotel. And that woman over there, the one with the grubby neck—she would be an interesting character, too.
As for the man in the corner—Elodie looked again and nearly dropped her tray. She knew that face from the pages of the Tribune. Arnold Ryan. One of the top men in the Capone organization. So Their tentacles reached even here. Hugh had told her that Ryan was known to be a cultured man; perhaps he was a collector. Bernice had said Mr. Lee sold to anyone. It was apparently true.
There was an abrupt instant of silence, then a kind of rustling murmur ran through the crowd as people turned and whispered. Elodie turned, too.
A tall, slender girl with dark blonde hair and a gown of peacock blue silk stood in the entrance. Elodie recognized her immediately. Barbara Hutton, one of the richest young women in the world, heiress to the Woolworth millions. Her “coming out” party in New York the year before had been a fabulously lavish affair, pictures in all the papers and magazines. Next to her stood a bored looking man with bloodshot eyes. Maybelle would know who he was, Elodie thought. She reads all the society columns. Didn’t she say that Miss Hutton’s father hated her current boyfriend? He didn’t look like much next to the glowing heiress. Plant, that was it, Phil Plant. Elodie didn’t think any more of him than she did a lot of the other guests, but Miss Hutton was special, she thought. She lived up to expectations all right. There was a kind of vibrant heat in her that radiated over the room. Everyone seemed momentarily spellbound. Then the talking began again, louder than ever, and Miss Hutton and her escort moved into the crowd. Behind her came—good heavens!—was that really Conrad Nagle—impossible! Behind the Hollywood actor came some kind of Indian prince in full regalia, a peacock feather in his turban, and a small woman who looked alarmingly like Helen Twelvetrees. All followed Miss Hutton, like some kind of retinue.
Still transfixed, Elodie got a bump on the arm by Betty Ann. “You’re gawking, and your tray is empty. Don’t let that old battleaxe catch you.” Mrs. Logie was standing in the doorway, surveying the party and her minions.
“Guest stars,” said Elodie, dreamily.
“What?” Betty Ann stared at her.
“We could have guest stars. After all, it’s a very good hotel.”
Betty Ann leaned forward slightly and sniffed. “Have you been sneaking cocktails?”
Elodie snapped out of it. “Sorry,” she said, and made for the kitchen to get another tray. As she slipped past Mrs. Logie the older woman frowned, but said nothing. Elodie’s reward for staring was another tray with a dipping sauce, this one even more pungent than the last.
The evening went on, and Elodie’s feet began to hurt. Back and forth she went to the kitchen, bringing out heavily loaded trays and returning with empty or near-empty ones. All the sense of glamour engendered by the wealth on display wore away, until all she could think about was sitting down. She longed for paper and pencil to make notes about the people she was seeing and hearing. Bits of conversation suggested stories, it was all here, if she could only remember and harvest it for Monday’s meeting with the writers. She had to have something to offer them. She had to be prepared beyond the basic idea for “Imperial Hotel.”
Finally the cocktails were finished. The heat in the main room was intense, and when the doors to the dining room were thrown open, a welcome fresh breeze came through. Someone had had the sense to open the French windows on the far side of the dining room. Framed in them was the long glowing line of the narrow glass passage. Now she could see there was someone in it, seated at the far end beside a plain door. He was a policeman, she thought. At any rate, he was in uniform and wore a gun.
“Get behind the table, miss, and start handing out the plates,” Mrs. Logie hissed into her ear. Startled, Elodie went across and did as she was told. She smiled at everyone, but only one or two smiled back, invariably a man. And invariably with an assessing eye. Again, she wondered if their duties started and ended with the party. Her hand shook a little, and the man opposite her took firm hold of the plate and her hand.
It was Arnold Ryan. He smiled, quite a nice smile, really, considering the fact that he regularly had people killed. “Thank you,” he said, politely. He was the only one that did.
***
Around eleven o’clock, when Elodie could have screamed with fatigue, she finally learned about the glass passage and the little building at the end of it. They were ferrying dirty dishes to the kitchen and she quizzed Bernice.
“Oh, that’s Mr. Lee’s treasure house.” Bernice set down the stack of dirty plates and picked up a fresh supply. “He keeps his jade there, and all his special items. That’s why Miss Hutton is here tonight—he has something very rare to show her. She is a big jade collector. Mr. Lee says she was taught about jade by a blind man in San Francisco and can tell quality just by touch. She has never been to Chicago before. I think she has come here especially to see this special stuff he’s got. He was very secretive about it, even I don’t know what it is, and I type up the inventories.”
Elodie looked out at the glowing passage as they returned to the dining room. Most of the guests had left, and nobody was interested in the buffet now. There were just eight guests remaining. Miss Hutton had stayed, and her escort, who was by now rather drunk. He kept saying he wanted to leave and go to some club or other. She kept telling him to be quiet. With them were Mr. Ryan, a married couple of middle age, an elderly woman with masses of white hair coiled elaborately on her head, a very plump and excited woman, and a funny little man called Blick. They seemed to be waiting for something. Finally Mr. Lee walked over to the French windows. He still looked splendid in his crimson robes, but he had seemed tired earlier. Now he was full of a new energy.
“And now we shall view the jade,” he said. He beamed around at the few remaining guests, and nodded to Miss Hutton. Plant was still beside her, but he looked rather vexed, and tired, too. Elodie found herself feeling sorry for him. Sh
e would have gladly taken his place to see the jade. She had never seen jade before, or oriental treasures of any kind. But nobody was going to ask her to walk down the glass passage. She sighed and stepped back to lean surreptitiously against the wall, easing one shoe off and wriggling her toes.
Suddenly, just as Mr. Lee turned to start down the passage, there was a crash from the kitchen, and shouting. The kitchen door flew open, and a man, his face covered in blood, came staggering through. At first Elodie thought one of the servants had cut himself, or another had gone berserk and used one of the big choppers on a colleague, but although the man’s face was very battered and blood-streaked, she could see he was not Chinese.
“Lee!” shouted the man, lurching forward. “Don’t take them in!” His words were slurred, but his warning was clear.
Mr. Lee was frozen in the act of turning, off-balance, and shocked. Everyone in the room stood gaping at the apparition before them. The man grabbed hold of the back of one of the chairs now ranged haphazardly around the ebony table. He pushed himself away and went toward Lee in a desperate, stumbling run, reaching out with both hands. Mr. Lee stepped back, but the man came on. Elodie saw, at the far end of the passage, the uniformed man with the gun was running toward the house, his gun in his hand. He looked furious, and wild. He was Chinese, like Mr. Lee, but his features were coarser.
“Mingdow,” panted the stranger. “Mingdow…got me after all…” He was panting, forcing the words out. One of the cooks tried to drag him back into the kitchen, but he shrugged him off. “I got away, but I overheard them planning…take hostages…force you…” He gasped. “Look out!” he gasped. He reached out and grabbed a large knife that lay beside a tray of sliced meats, and continued to move forward.
The uniformed guard burst out of the glass passage and without even a moment’s hesitation, fired past Mr. Lee at the stranger, who cried out and fell with a great crash against one of the buffet tables, bringing the white cloth that covered it down on top of himself, along with several serving dishes.
