by Holly Baxter
Of course, he had not counted on acquiring a wife, but Mei Mei, his cousin’s youngest daughter, was a flower and a pearl, so lovely, so sweet, he could not resist. Now responsibility for her and for his family back in China weighed heavily on him. He worked very hard and tried to do all the right things. He even changed his name to the more American Walter Way, but found it very hard to remember.
Which was why the girl in the booth troubled him.
She had said the word, the dreaded word they all feared. And she had been with a man that his cousin told him was a policeman. How much did the policeman know? Or the girl? He had lain awake for many hours after work, trying to decide what to do, with Mei Mei sleeping softly beside him.
The girl had looked pleasant, for a white girl, and the man, the policeman, had seemed attracted to her. But family came first, always. Always.
In the end he had left his bed and his sleeping wife and had gone out into the dark streets, to the place all men of sense avoided. It seemed to him that if he passed on this information, which could be valuable, he might keep his Chicago family safe. He would have gained some credit with the dreaded ones, credit that might stand him in good stead at some future time.
He felt sorry for the girl, and for the policeman, but it seemed to him his duty was clear.
Wei Ching was not a bad man.
He had no idea what he was doing.
Chapter Nine
Work on “Imperial Hotel” went a little more slowly on Tuesday. For a start, Drew was terribly hung over and didn’t make much sense until nearly lunchtime. Lying on the couch and occasionally moaning, he made little contribution to the growing outlines and bits of dialogue that Sal and Elodie were amassing.
Neither of Elodie’s new partners had smoked much the previous day, but now Sal lit cigarette after cigarette, then let them burn out in the ashtray as she became absorbed. Elodie began to think Sal was addicted to matches more than cigarettes. Drew also smoked, but he smoked each one down as far as possible before stubbing it out. Nobody in the Browne family smoked, except Hugh, and Elodie soon found her eyes smarting from the smoke and the bitter smell of the cigarette butts as they mounted up in the ashtrays. Finally she could stand it no more, and went over to open the window. A sharp cool breeze whistled in, scattering the papers on the table. After a few minutes spent capturing the errant pages and weighing them down, Elodie lowered the window to a few inches. Neither Sal nor Drew protested the influx of April breezes, and when she sat down, Elodie felt a bit better. Everything was compromise, including the scripts.
The way Sal saw it, they had to work out at least six full scripts before they even thought of presenting to the agency and then the client, much less going into production.
“Even if the agency approves, there will be complaints from the client, his lawyer, his mother-in-law and his dog,” Sal said.
“Not much different from advertising, then.” Elodie was smiling, but she was all too familiar with the “client’s mother-in-law” syndrome. She once had to rewrite a simple advertisement for a really ghastly-tasting cough medicine five times, because the client actually said his mother didn’t believe what she had written.
“But because we are going to make these the best and most compelling scripts in the whole wide world, at least some of them may be accepted and go into production.” Sal was enthusiastic, and her eyes sparkled.
Ellie had never considered what actually went into producing a radio show, and was embarrassed by her ignorance. “What does that mean?”
“Choosing a producer-director, sorting out a studio, casting actors and booking time on the air,” said Sal. “There’s talk of combining the Red and Blue networks on NBC, but that’s all wild blue yonder at the moment. Anyway, that’s not our problem. Our problem is what to do about Chef Alexander’s disappearance.”
“I think he was kidnapped by bootleggers.” Elodie shuffled through the papers on the table.
A groan came from the couch opposite. “Why?”
“Ummmm—because he was taking some money from them, of course. Charging the hotel more than they did and pocketing the difference,” Sal snapped. “Common practice.”
“Is it?” asked Elodie. Her ignorance on the practice of bootlegging was a good match for her ignorance of the nuts and bolts of radio.
A rustle from the couch across the room. Drew was staring at her. “Where exactly is it you live, Ellie? Cloud cuckoo land?”
“Very funny.” Elodie felt herself blushing. “Not everybody is involved with the bootleggers and drunks in this city. Why should I bother to know anything about them except that they are criminal scum.”
“Don’t talk about my mother that way.” Drew turned his head away again and closed his eyes.
“Sorry.” Elodie had forgotten his mother supposedly ran a blind pig in their basement. “I might know that world exists, but I don’t have to experience it myself.”
“Then how are you going to write about it?” He was obviously feeling better, because he was fighting back.
“I don’t have to set fire myself to know that it hurts,” Elodie pointed out. “I just have to extrapolate from the pain of a burning match.”
Drew snorted. “College vocabulary. Very impressive.”
“Shut up, you two,” Sal intervened. “Chef Alexander, remember?”
***
Bellboy: It’s them Syndicate people, I tell ya. I saw ’em, big guys in black overcoats, with gats and everything.
Dunning: You’ve been reading too many comic books, Spike. I am sure Chef Alexander is just at home, too ill to send us a message.
Bellboy: Uh-uh. He’s gone. Who knows, you might be next!
Molly: (bursts into tears) Spike! What a terrible thing to say!
Bellboy: (reluctantly) Well, he don’t believe me. But I was there. I saw it all.
Dunning: Then why didn’t you do something?
Bellboy: Are you kidding? Me?
Dunning: You could have told me.
Bellboy: Well, I’m telling you now. We have to do something before they fit him with cement galoshes—
Molly: (crying harder) Poor Chef.
Dunning: I’m going to the police. If this boy is right—
Bellboy: I’m right, all right.
Dunning: Then the hotel could be in danger, too.
Molly: (shocked) Don’t you care about Chef?
Dunning: I can always get another chef, but I can’t build another hotel. Haven’t you ever heard of arson?
***
“Over the top,” protested Drew. “Too much, too soon. And where’s your hero? Dunning sounds like a pompous ass.”
“You’re right.” Elodie reluctantly agreed. “We want people to like Dunning, even if he seems sort of starchy at first. I mean, Molly’s in love with him, isn’t she?”
“It worked for Mr. Rochester,” Sal observed.
They thought about that for a moment, and then Drew sat up. “What time is it?”
“Lunchtime,” said Sal. “What will it be, salami or egg salad?”
Drew groaned again. “Just a little milk toast, please.”
Elodie stifled a giggle. “I remembered to bring sandwiches, too,” she said. “I won’t be lunching with my friend for a while, anyway.”
“Why not?” asked Sal. “Aside from the fact that we can’t spare the time?”
“Well, she’s not working in the building at the moment,” Elodie explained. “She’s working out at Mr. Lee’s.”
Sal selected a sandwich and then rose to get some coffee. She found the pot empty. “Wilson! Water!”
“Get it yourself,” was the snarled reply.
Sal stood her ground. “You want coffee, you get water.”
Drew unfolded himself slowly from the couch and took the empty pot from Sal. “Dragon,” he said.
“Boozehound,” was the retort. As Drew went out sulkily carrying the empty percolator, Sal came back to sit
beside Elodie. “So how’s that all going?” she asked. “That stuff at the Chinaman’s place?”
“I had to make a statement and sign it, yesterday.” Elodie opened her own brown bag and looked to see what Marie had given her. “I hate that policeman.”
“What policeman?” Sal was immediately intrigued by Elodie’s intensity.
“Lieutenant Archibald Deacon,” Elodie spit out. “He thinks he’s so smart, he thinks he’s some kind of mind-reader. And he made me eat dinner with him, too.”
“Did he pay for it?” Sal was amused.
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I’d say you were ahead on the deal. Wish somebody would buy me a dinner. Even a cop.”
“Not this one, you wouldn’t. He seems all nice, all so very pleasant, and then bang! He pounces.”
“You mean he made a pass at you?”
“No, no, of course not. I meant…well…” Elodie muttered to herself.
“What?” Sal leaned forward.
“I said I don’t know what I mean,” Elodie repeated, miserably. “He’s got me all mixed up.” She opened the wax paper and found Marie had given her tomato sandwiches. And cheese.
“I don’t see what you’re mixed up about,” Sal said, reasonably. “What’s done is done, isn’t it? I mean, seeing a man get killed is nasty, I agree, but once you’ve made your statement, that’s the end of it. Even if they take that guard to court, he’ll probably get off because he was just doing what he was paid to do—protect his employer.”
“But he wasn’t!” Elodie burst out.
“Wasn’t what?” asked Drew, returning with the filled coffee pot, which he thrust at Sal. He then returned to his couch, lying down with a grunt.
“Wasn’t protecting his employer,” Elodie explained. “He killed Mr. Webster on purpose, I’m sure of it.”
“Why the devil would he do that?” asked Sal as she fitted the percolator together and spooned in the coffee grounds. “He didn’t even know the man, did he?”
“Well, that’s just it. Maybe he did. I bet he was part of it.”
“Part of what?”
“Part of the kidnapping gang that took Mr. Webster. I think Mr. Webster recognized him, and the guard shot him before Webster could say anything.”
“Wow,” breathed Sal.
“You think I’m right?” Elodie was encouraged.
“No—but I think we could use something like that in the script,” Sal said, with enthusiasm, reaching for her pencil.
***
Before Elodie left the Gower Building that night, she took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor and used an agency telephone to ring the Tribune. It was just a chance, but to her relief, Hugh was still at his desk.
“It’s Elodie,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Fed up with the new job already?” Hugh sounded in a good mood.
“No, not at all. This is about Saturday night.” When he didn’t say anything, she was puzzled. “You know about Saturday night, don’t you?”
“I know a lot of things about Saturday night,” Hugh said, cautiously. “Could you be more specific?”
“I need to talk to you,” Elodie said again.
“Well, I’ll be over for dinner on Friday night, as usual. Can’t it wait?”
“No, I need to talk to you now.”
Another silence. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Ellie?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Are you alone?”
She frowned and looked around. There were a few people still in the office, but nobody was near her. “Yes, why?”
“Just checking. Look, can you meet me in about half an hour?”
“Oh, thanks, Hugh. It really is important.”
“It better be, I have a date tonight with a new girl.”
“Where should I meet you?”
They agreed on a nearby deli, and Elodie put the phone down with relief. Hugh would know what to do. Hugh always knew best.
***
“Are you nuts?” Hugh demanded, an hour later. “Forget it, leave it to the police.” The delicatessen was busy with both shoppers and early diners, but Hugh’s shocked voice cut through the clatter of plates, the hiss of the coffee urn and the surrounding conversations like a knife. Several people turned to look at them. Elodie lowered her voice and leaned forward, nearly dipping her coat lapel into her steaming coffee cup. “But I’m sure there’s some connection. I’m certain that guard meant to kill Webster before he could say any more about Mingdow.”
“Are you sure that’s what Webster said?” Hugh leaned back as the waiter refilled his coffee cup. He was edgy, obviously in a hurry, and had swallowed his first cup of coffee almost in a gulp. But he could see that Elodie was upset, so he was torn between listening to her and being late for his date.
Elodie thought back to Saturday night. “Positive. That is…”
“Well?”
“Well, it’s obviously some Chinese word or other. I told you about the man in Mr. Lee’s office and the waiter. It scared them, so it must be something terrible.”
“Probably just some kind of Chinese swearing,” Hugh said, picking up the glass dispenser and stirring sugar into his coffee. “They were probably shocked that a nice girl like you knew such words, that’s all.”
“Oh.” She had never considered that. “No,” she said after a minute. “It is something or someone, I’m sure.”
“You said Arnold Ryan was there. Did he show any reaction to what Webster said?”
“No more than any of us,” Elodie admitted. “Why, do you think mingdow is Chinese for the Syndicates?”
“Could be. It’s a new one on me, but why not? Maybe if the guard hadn’t shot Webster Mr. Ryan would have.”
Elodie thought about that for a while. “But the guard was Chinese, too.”
“So what?”
Elodie shook her head. “It’s not Them,” she said. “It’s something Chinese, something about China. Something that involves Mr. Lee, otherwise why would Webster have come running to him?”
“Oh, great,” Hugh said. “Do you know anything about China?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.” Hugh thought for a minute. “Did Mr. Lee have booze at the party?”
“Well, of course. And the real thing, too. I saw the labels. Wine from France and the liquor had British names, most of it.”
“That means he has a private bootlegger, probably in Canada. And if he does, then he might have made Mr. Ryan’s people angry at him and they took Webster as a warning that he should do business with them. Nothing to do with China at all, strictly local.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Let’s just say I’d rather think that than try to figure out some weird Chinese mystery,” Hugh said, glancing at his watch and drinking up the last of his coffee. “Honey, I have to go, I told you, I have a date.”
Elodie was disappointed but tried not to show it. She had been counting on Hugh to come up with answers and all he had come up with was more questions. “Somebody new?”
Hugh grinned. “Yeah. Her name is Collette, and she’s a real dazzler. This might just be The One.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
He stood up and took his hat from the stand, then came back to look down at her. “If you are really worried about this, go back to Lieutenant Deacon.”
“He said you’d say that.”
“Well, I do say it. He’s all right. Not like a lot of them. He’s straight.”
“He thinks he’s so smart, I could kick him,” Elodie grumbled.
“He is smart,” Hugh said. “And he knows people who know things. Maybe he knows someone who can tell him what mingdow means. And if you’re so sure there is more to the shooting of Webster, you ought to tell him before the guard goes to trial, if he does. He’s the man to look into it. Not you.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Someone got kidnapped, so
meone got killed, Ellie. It’s not something you should get involved in. You have this new job and you should give it everything you’ve got. You don’t need silly distractions. You always did have too much imagination, you know.”
“You think I’m being foolish,” Elodie flared.
“I didn’t say that. But you do have a gift for the dramatic, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone into this radio writing stuff. Leave it alone, Ellie. Stick to your Imperial Hotel and let Deacon and the police take care of the rest of it. You know I’m right.” He squeezed her shoulder again. “You don’t want your mother to have to identify your body on a slab, do you?” he added, gruffly.
She was shocked. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“I know. I meant it to be,” Hugh said. He reached into his pocket and gave her some money. “Here, take a taxi home, it’s late.”
“I don’t want—”
“Maybe you don’t, but I do,” said Hugh. “Somebody has to look after you, idiot.” He leaned down and winked. “Just in case the big bad mingdow is following you,” he teased. With a quick wave, he left her and went out into the evening.
Elodie looked at her watch—dinner at home would be finished by now. When the waiter came over to clear their table, she ordered some beef and barley soup and a corned beef sandwich. It meant she would have to take the streetcar instead of a taxi, but it was worth it. Hugh wouldn’t mind. He was probably right, she was just letting her imagination get away from her. It was all this writing about the Imperial Hotel—she was seeing plots and mysteries everywhere. Her imagination had gotten her into trouble before, but not for a long time. Her teenage years had been filled with mysteries that didn’t exist and games that weren’t being played. Two years of college had knocked most of that out of her, and the tough realities of working in advertising had pretty much eradicated it. Or so she had thought.
But “Imperial Hotel” had come out of her imagination and it was good. It was wonderful. And Hugh was right, it should be enough for her.
As it was late the streetcars were less frequent and she had to wait quite a while and transfer twice. She was walking wearily up the front path when someone stepped out of the shadows behind the lilac bush, making her jump back in alarm.
