Tears of the Dragon

by Holly Baxter

  “Is Father Anselm still here at the university?” she asked, impulsively.

  “Oh, yes. But I believe he’s been away.” Mr. Evans spoke over his shoulder. “In California, I think. You can ask at the Department if he’s back yet. But they won’t be open until Monday. I’m sure he’ll be able to tell you more than I can. I only do the words, you see. He knows all the rest.” He glanced back. “You’re Dr. Browne’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “Why, yes,” Elodie said, taken aback at being recognized.

  “A very great man. We miss him here.”

  “So do I,” Elodie said, fervently. Papa would have been such a help in all this, she thought. He loved a mystery, too.

  But would he have encouraged her in trying to solve this one? She thought not, once he heard about Mr. Webster’s death.

  “Thank you, Mr. Evans.”

  “Any time, any time,” came his voice from a distance, muffled by the books that surrounded them. As Elodie walked away, she could hear him humming to himself. He seemed to be quite perked up by her visit.

  She only felt more confused than ever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After church on Sundays was Alyce’s favorite time. There was nice music on the radio, and the Sunday papers had all the comic strips she loved. She lay on the floor with the colorful pages spread out before her. Skeezix, Captain Katzenjammer and the Kids, Caspar Milquetoast, Jiggs and Maggie—they were all there for her. And, especially, Little Orphan Annie. After that, if she was very lucky, Mrs. Browne would have allowed her to buy a copy of The American Weekly, if the cover photo wasn’t too lurid. Mrs. Browne didn’t really approve of Mr. Hearst or the contents of his publication, but she occasionally indulged her youngest daughter’s fascination with crime and the doings and romances of the rich and famous.

  Today was one such day.

  After absorbing all the comics, Alyce turned to The American Weekly and immediately announced to Elodie that Barbara Hutton was going to Europe.

  “Oh, really?” Elodie asked.

  “Yes. It says here that her father doesn’t approve of her boyfriend Phil Morgan Plant and is sending her away to get over him.” Alyce looked up, round-eyed. “Was he with her at the party?”

  “Oh, yes.” Elodie was filing her nails. She thought back to the rather louche Mr. Plant. If she were Miss Hutton’s father, she would have recommended the same trip. “Does it say when she is leaving?”

  “No, not exactly.” Alyce giggled. “But it says that rumor has it Plant has booked a ticket on the same liner. Boy, I bet that makes her father wild.”

  “Plant has a lot of money of his own.” Maybelle was on the other side of the room where she was reading a new book called The Good Earth, which someone at work had lent her. As she read she kept twisting her hair into little tendrils. Beside her on the table was a bowl of her favorite dill pickles. “He can’t be after her inheritance.” She plucked up a pickle and began to gnaw the end. Sometimes she ate so many her lips turned quite white, greatly alarming her mother.

  “He drinks and gambles and used to be married to Constance Bennett but now he goes out with all kinds of movie actresses,” Alyce said. “Is Miss Hutton Catholic?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Well, then she couldn’t marry this Plant man because he’s divorced,” Alyce seemed to think that explained everything. “So I don’t know what her father is so upset about.”

  “Bad influence,” Elodie suggested. “Miss Hutton is pretty young, you know.”

  “Was she nice?” Being “nice” came high on Alyce’s list of values.

  “Actually, she was.” Elodie thought back. “She was very…gracious.”

  There was an unlovely snort from Maybelle. “With her money she can afford to be gracious.”

  “Well, she could also afford to be obnoxious, and she wasn’t.” Elodie wondered why on earth she was defending Barbara Hutton of all people. “Did it say anything else about her in there?”

  Alyce turned a page. “No. But they found three bodies out in Cicero.”

  “Nothing new there, then.” Maybelle helped herself to another pickle and turned a page of her book.

  Elodie put down her nail file and looked out at the sunshiny day. The trees were bending in a strong breeze, and a piece of newspaper skittered down the street to wrap itself around a car tire. It chilled her that Alyce could read so casually about three dead bodies, and Maybelle make so little of it. They were all becoming numb to the violence in the city. Was Miss Hutton “nice,” Alyce had wanted to know. Was anyone, these days? Surely accepting violence condones it in the end. So much wrong, and yet the sun comes out and the birds sing and children go to school and people get married and have babies and go to work, honest work, and grow old and die in their beds, never having been touched by crime. If it went on the way it was going, how much longer would they still have “nice” people anywhere? What was the quote Papa always gave? Evil happens when good men do nothing? Something like that. Was she going to be one of the ones who do nothing? Was she going to be one of the ones who hide behind the curtains and pretend everything bad will go away by itself?

  A rich fragrance drifted in from the kitchen where Marie was making Sunday lunch—smelled like meatloaf, Elodie thought, and remembered when there was always a roast on the table on Sundays. But Marie did wonders with their limited budget, and had a vast collection of recipes copied from the magazines that were read and traded among those of her friends with a similar interest in homemaking. On the radio, Betty Crocker and Aunt Sally both had many suggestions for stretching limited funds—a problem that dominated most households these days. Marie made a small income, too, from her dressmaking, and now with Elodie’s raise, there might be an occasional roast again on Sundays. Hugh wouldn’t care; Hugh loved Marie’s meatloaf. And her apple pie.

  When Hugh arrived, he blew in like a cyclone, his hat askew and his coat flapping open. “Boy, that wind is picking up,” he said, kissing each of them in turn on the cheek. Maybelle hardly looked up from her book, and Alyce blushed.

  Elodie looked at him affectionately. Later on, they would talk. Hugh had to understand, now, had to see it her way.

  He had to.

  ***

  It was meatloaf, a big fat juicy one, with lots of gravy. With new potatoes and spring greens from their own garden out back, and some of the tomatoes and green beans Marie had canned last year. And apple pie with cream. They sat, full and rather stunned from their own eager consumption, and then Hugh jumped up.

  “Time for a good walk,” he said. “Helps pack it all down.”

  Maybelle gave a ladylike groan. “No thank you. If I’m going to be playing bridge later on, I need a nap.”

  “And I’ve got homework to do.” Alyce did not like physical exercise of any kind whatsoever. She said walking to school and back every day was enough for her. Homework was always a good excuse to get out of anything.

  Mrs. Browne looked at her. “I thought you finished your homework on Friday,” she said, with a slight frown.

  “All but one little tiny bit,” said Alyce, evasively. Friday nights were especially good on the radio.

  “Marie?” Hugh asked.

  But she shook her head. “Have to wash the dishes.”

  “We’ll help you,” Elodie said, not very eagerly.

  Marie laughed. “Last time you and Hugh helped me with the dishes you broke two plates and a glass and dented my best roasting pan. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “It was a fair fight,” Hugh protested. “Ellie ducked, that’s all.”

  Mrs. Browne stood up. “I’ll help Marie, you two go and have your walk. I can see you’re dying to get going.”

  Without further argument, Elodie and Hugh put on their outer things and went down the front steps into the breezy April afternoon.

  “Wow.” Elodie grabbed her hat and jammed it down further onto her head. “You’re right about the win
d.”

  “Good for the lungs.” Hugh took a huge breath and coughed violently. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, jammed it back into his pocket, and looked down at her solemnly. “Now, what is it you’re dying to tell me?”

  Elodie stared at him. “How did you know?”

  “Ellie, I’ve known you since you were born.” Hugh put his arm around her shoulders. “You were like a cat on hot bricks all during dinner, and you kept opening your mouth and then closing it without saying anything. You looked like a guppy.”

  “I’m turning into a zoo,” Elodie said. “Yesterday Alyce said I look like a raccoon, and now you say I’m like a guppy.”

  He glanced at her closely. “You do look a little dark around the eyes.”

  “Yes, all right. Maybe.”

  “Is it this new job? Not going well?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. Hard work, but so much fun…”

  “Well, then?”

  “Somebody tried to poison Mr. Lee,” Elodie said, abruptly.

  Hugh stopped and stared at her. “That Chinese guy? The one where Webster was shot?”

  “Yes.” Quickly she told him about Bernice’s fears and then her strange change of attitude. “And that word—that Chinese word I told you about?” He nodded. “Well, it could mean shining sword.”

  “And?”

  She shrugged. “And nothing. It sounds kind of scary but it obviously means more than just that. The librarian said Chinese words often have many meanings. So he told me about Father Anselm and I want to talk to him. I think he could explain it all.”

  “Who the devil is Father Anselm?”

  “One of the professors at DePaul. He lived in China for twenty years as a missionary, apparently. But he won’t be back from California until Tuesday. I was hoping you’d go with me to talk to him. I’m sure there’s a story in it, Hugh.” That was her trump card—any reporter worth his salt jumps at a possible story.

  But not Hugh, apparently. “I thought I told you to stay out of it, Ellie. To forget it.” His voice was gruff, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. He seemed suddenly fascinated by the Closed sign on the grocery store opposite.

  The wind tugged at her hat and again she pulled it down to her ears. They were both leaning forward into the wind, which was surely coming straight off the lake. Even after traveling over half the city there was a real chill in it.

  Elodie looked at him suspiciously. “What do you know that I don’t, Hugh?”

  “What makes you say that, for goodness’ sake?”

  “It’s for goodness’ sake I want to know. What possible harm could come from talking to a priest?”

  Hugh stopped walking and jammed his hands into his pockets. They were at the corner, and he looked all around while he thought what to say. “There’s more to this than you know, Ellie,” he finally said.

  “And what might that be?”

  He made a peculiar face, as if he had tasted something bitter. “The Chinese and the Italians,” he finally said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They’re fighting over boundaries again,” Hugh said.

  “What boundaries?”

  Hugh gave a deep sigh. “Who controls the brothels, who controls the drugs. Booze too, although the Chinese aren’t so interested in that. Chinatown is right next to Little Italy. The Chinese tolerate a lot of things the Italians don’t like but would like the money from.”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s not go into details.”

  “But I need details if I’m going to figure this out.”

  “Figure what out?”

  “Why Webster was kidnapped and then killed. Why someone is trying to kill Mr. Lee.”

  “It’s none of your business, Ellie. Mine, either.”

  She looked up at him. “Are…are you scared, Hugh?”

  “If you’d heard and seen some of the stuff I have, Ellie, you’d be scared, too. Nobody knows who to trust, anymore. And a lot of people think life is cheap—the Italians because they can go to confession, the Chinese because…well, because in their country, life is cheap. If you get nosy, if you get in between them, your life would be cheap, too. And I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Well, neither do I. But I don’t see what talking to a priest will do.”

  “You said he lived in China for twenty years.”

  “Yes, so he’ll understand them.”

  “The Chinese can be very persuasive. They have a revolution going on over there every five minutes. People are taking sides, people who aren’t Chinese at all. He could have hidden motives.”

  “He’s a priest, Hugh. He was a missionary.”

  “People change. You know nothing about this Father Anselm. What’s he doing out in California during term time, for example? Doesn’t he have classes to teach?”

  “I have no idea. I’m sure it’s something…”

  “Something what?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Respectable.”

  Hugh gave a short laugh. “In this town? In this year?”

  “There’s more, isn’t there, Hugh? More than just you being suspicious of everyone.”

  “I know that the big foot that slammed down on the Webster killing came from high up and flattened everything. I know Big Bill Thompson is after another term as mayor, and he’s got Capone on his side, which means an Italian connection which means a Catholic connection. I know that Lee is very very rich, and nobody sells that much jade in these times. I think Lee could be selling drugs, and getting them out of China through Webster. Too much money involved for the Syndicate to ignore.”

  “I liked Mr. Lee,” Elodie said, defensively. “I’m sure he wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  He looked at her pityingly. “Oh, Ellie, you are so damn naive.”

  “No, I am so damn fed up with people ignoring all the terrible things that are going on in our city and all over the country. I am fed up with nobody caring, nobody doing anything about anything.”

  “Ellie—”

  “And I am damn fed up with you patronizing me, Hugh Murphy,” she said, literally stamping her foot. Her foot was numb and the stamp made it sting. “Ouch.”

  “All right, look. I’ll go with you to see this Father Anselm, if you promise to be satisfied with whatever he has to say, and to leave all this alone.”

  “I can’t promise that.” She was quiet for a moment. “But I’ll try. It could be something very simple, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Hugh said, turning back toward the house. “Like all the simple things that are happening in Chicago right now.”

  ***

  That evening after supper they settled down to bridge: Mrs. Browne, Elodie, Maybelle, and Hugh. Alyce was listening to the radio. Bridge had swept the nation lately. Maybelle had become a demon bridge player, matched only by Hugh. Elodie and Mrs. Browne were the weaker pair, but they gamely joined in the weekly “tournament.”

  Cheap entertainment was needed by a nation rocked back to survival level. Almost everyone could afford a deck of cards. Elaborate jigsaw puzzles were starting to appear—Alyce was wild to have one. And, best of all, the radio was free and sets were cheaper every day as the demand for them grew and grew.

  “Oh, boy!” said Alyce, suddenly. She was listening to “The Collier Hour” and sat up in her excitement. “Fu Manchu!”

  Elodie glanced over. “What?”

  “Fu Manchu…a whole new serial. Mr. Rohmer just introduced the first episode. Sounds really gruesome.” A somewhat unholy glee suffused Alyce’s round little face. “I love Fu Manchu.”

  “China seems to be of the moment,” Maybelle observed, laying down her hand for Hugh’s dummy. “The novel I’m reading is all about China.”

  Hugh and Elodie exchanged a glance as Hugh selected a card from the dummy hand and laid it down, drawing Mrs. Browne’s ace of hearts out of hiding.

  “You should have ducked,” Maybelle repro
ved her.

  “I know, dear, but he would have gotten it eventually,” sighed Mrs. Browne.

  “You should have made it harder for him.”

  Mrs. Browne nodded and rearranged her cards. “Yes, dear. I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Whose side are you on, anyway?” Hugh asked his partner, with a grin.

  “I just like to see the game played well,” Maybelle said, imperturbably.

  “You’re lucky to see it played at all.” Elodie’s patience had snapped. “I certainly didn’t feel like playing bridge tonight.”

  “Oooh, very grouchy,” said Maybelle. “Dear me.”

  Elodie had to laugh. She knew Maybelle didn’t mean anything by correcting everyone’s play. Maybelle spoke her mind freely, but she was never unkind. She had just become so good at the game that she was thinking of joining a proper bridge club. She was a very organized and precise person, which was one of the things that made her such a valuable employee for her rather scatter-brained but brilliant boss. The only annoying thing about Maybelle was that she was usually right. But she was so lovely that even being corrected by her wasn’t a problem.

  “Darling, turn that down, would you?” Mrs. Browne was counting under her breath as she dealt the next hand. The drama on the radio was becoming rather fraught. “It’s very distracting.”

  Marie, who was sewing in the side room off the sitting room, said, “Why don’t you listen on my little radio in the kitchen?”

  “Because by the time I get it tuned it will be all over,” Alyce complained. “Besides, this one is better.” She turned down the volume a tiny bit, and Mrs. Browne’s mouth twitched in a smile.

  “Thank you, dear.” She spoke in such a telling voice that Alyce turned it down a little more, and put her head right up against the speaker so as not to miss a single thing.

  “I’m not at all sure she should be listening to that,” Mrs. Browne said in a quiet voice.

  Hugh laughed gently. “She’s just fifteen, Aunt Elizabeth. Everything is exciting when you’re fifteen, but it goes in one ear and out the other.”