Celia broke into my thoughts. “Do you think she's his wife?”
“I don’t think he's married,” I said, continuing to study the girl.
“I don’t remember seeing her before,” Celia mused. “I doubt I could forget anyone so exquisite.”
I had no time to reply as the house lights dimmed and the drop curtain—also new and depicting the majesty of Yosemite Park— rose. As it did, I forgot Benjamin Wylde and his mysterious companion and felt the familiar tingle of anticipation I always experience as a play is about to begin.
Tonight, I wasn’t disappointed. Farquhar's writing, as usual, was crisp and witty, the acting first-rate. Living in the city, I appreciated the play's rural setting, but I was especially interested in the playwright's concern, subtly woven into the comic fabric of the play, with the social and moral problems of his day, issues that continue to plague us even now. As one character so aptly expresses, “There is no scandal like rags, nor any crime so shameful as poverty.”
Once or twice I caught my escort glancing at me with an expression of curiosity and frank disapproval. I smiled to myself. Somehow I didn’t think I would be forced to endure many more dreary evenings in the good doctor's company.
As we stood in the lounge during the first intermission, I knew
the time had come to tell my brother the real reason I’d suggested we attend the California Theater. Dr. Ferris was at the bar ordering whiskeys for Charles and himself while Celia and I sipped cold lemonades. Taking advantage of his absence, I began, “Charles, you’ve treated Mr. Carstairs, haven’t you?” I referred, of course, to the play's lead actor.
“For a fever, yes.” He looked at me curiously. “Why?”
“I thought perhaps he might receive you, and your guests of course, backstage after the play?”
I caught Celia's eye and she quickly put in, “What a splendid idea. Do try, Charles.”
“Try what?” Dr. Ferris asked, returning from the bar.
“We’re going to go backstage after the play,” Celia told him. “Isn’t that exciting?”
Dr. Ferris seemed to consider this a somewhat dubious honor, but he had little choice but to go along with it. As we returned to our seats for Act Two, I whispered my thanks in Celia's ear.
“It's nothing,” she said with a conspiratorial smile. “I can hardly wait to hear what you are up to.”
The remainder of the play was as delightful as the first act, and the theater echoed with applause as our foursome made its way backstage. Michael Carstairs, it turned out, was delighted to greet my brother, who had treated him at a time when the actor was down on his luck and unable to adequately pay for Charles's services. The actor gave us an animated tour of the backstage area, introducing us to other cast members and explaining the use of various lights and mechanical contraptions.
“If I’m not mistaken, you appeared in a production of Henry V at the Tripoli Theater several years ago,” I said as we ended the tour in Carstairs's dressing room. His Chinese manservant waited pa tiently at the dressing table, a jar of cold cream in hand to remove his master's makeup. After the actor took his seat, the man placed a cloth around his neck and adroitly set to work.
Carstairs looked pleased. “I’m surprised you remember. I had a very small role.”
“It's not the size of the part that matters,” I said, sincere in the compliment. “It's the quality of the performance—which, in this case, was very fine indeed.”
The actor's reflection beamed back at me from the dressing table mirror. “Thank you, Miss Woolson. It's kind of you to say.”
“If I remember correctly,” I went on casually, “Peter Fowler also appeared in that production.” My brother gave me a surprised look but held his tongue.
“Your memory is remarkable, Miss Woolson,” said the actor.
“I was distressed to hear about Mr. Fowler's recent difficulties,” Celia put in, ignoring Charles's censoring look.
Michael Carstairs's face darkened as his manservant removed the last traces of pancake makeup. “It's preposterous,” he said. “The police have gotten hold of the little end of the horn if they think Peter could have killed that woman's husband.”
“You weren’t with Mr. Fowler, then, when he was arrested?” I asked the actor innocently, knowing full well that he wasn’t.
“No. After the play, we held a party in honor of Miss Long's birthday—she's the actress who plays Dorinda in the production. Unfortunately, Peter had other plans and left directly after the final curtain. I read about his arrest in the papers the next morning. It was an awful shock, I can tell you.”
“I wonder if the police have notified his family?” I said.
“You know, I don’t think he has any family,” Carstairs replied. “I seem to remember Peter mentioning that he's an orphan.”
“That's unfortunate,” Celia said with genuine regret. “At a time like this, a family would be a great comfort.”
This seemed to prick the actor's conscience. “I’ve been meaning to visit Peter, but there never seems time.” He looked shamefacedly at Celia. “That is a poor excuse, isn’t it? You’ve made me realize my lack of Christian charity, Mrs. Woolson. Rest assured I will make time to visit Peter tomorrow.”
Celia flushed. “Please, Mr. Carstairs, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Do you know where Mr. Fowler went after Saturday night's performance?” I cut in, eager to get the actor back on track.
I had caught Dr. Ferris darting a pointed look at my brother, obviously displeased by my bold behavior. While I cared little for his opinion, I knew his impatience would provoke my brother to leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Carstairs's manservant start to lay out the actor's street clothes.
“I have no idea where he went after the show.” The actor looked at me curiously. “Why? Does it matter?”
“I just wondered if you knew him to frequent Chinatown?”
There was no mistaking the actor's surprise. “Chinatown? What a strange notion. I have no idea.”
“He never mentioned a man named Li Ying?” I pressed.
Behind me, I heard the Chinese manservant's soft intake of breath. When I turned to look at him, I caught a brief flash of what I can only describe as raw fear cross his previously stoic face. A moment later, he’d regained his composure and once again seemed disinterested in our conversation. Yet I was sure the mention of Li Ying's name had terrified the man.
“I’ve never heard the name,” Carstairs said. “But my visits to San Francisco are brief. Aside from other actors, my circle of acquaintances is unfortunately limited.”
Dr. Ferris's patience was clearly at an end. Charles apparently agreed. I could see by my brother's expression that I had overstepped even his generous boundaries of propriety.
“You’ll have to excuse my sister, Mr. Carstairs,” he said. “This is
argument. “Sarah, it's time for us to go.”
Dr. Ferris agreed with alacrity. “Yes, we’ve kept you too long as it is, Mr. Carstairs.”
“Thank you for showing us what goes on behind the scenes,” Celia told the actor with a dazzling smile.
“Not at all,” Carstairs protested. “It's been my pleasure.”
Realizing there was nothing further to be learned from the actor, even if I had the time to try, I added my own thanks and we departed the theater for a light supper before bringing the evening to a close.
a poor way to repay your hospitality.” His expression brooked no
CHAPTER SIX
I’m normally an early riser, but after a fitful night's sleep, I awoke later than usual the next morning. I hurried downstairs, just in time to catch Samuel as he was leaving the house.
“President Hayes arrives today,” he said, then lowered his voice. “My editor wants me to write a piece about his visit. I’m sorry I can’t stop to talk, but I’m already late.”
I spied a brougham waiting in front of the house and made up my mind in an instant. “Wait, I’ll go with you
. Just let me fetch my hat and briefcase.”
The cab made its way through morning traffic, already heavier than usual due to the arrival of the first United States’ president to visit San Francisco. The city had been abuzz for weeks, arguing endlessly about how best to capitalize on such a historic occasion. In the end several events had been planned, preceded by a parade through the heart of the city by the Bay. Although it was not
Samuel's usual story, the honor of such an assignment demonstrated the newspaper's growing respect for him as a writer.
Outside the brougham, the sun had burned through the fog and the morning showed promise of becoming a splendid day. If nothing else, President Rutherford B. Hayes would see San Francisco in all its considerable glory.
I was too busy filling my brother in on the events of the previous day, however, to be concerned with the weather or even with visiting presidents. Succinctly, I told him about the partners’ mysterious bank accounts, as well as their tontine agreement, then showed him the strange note I’d found jammed in the banker's desk.
“I thought you might have come across this Li Ying when you researched your Chinatown article last year.”
He read the note with interest. “Anyone with more than a passing knowledge of Chinatown has heard of him. Li Ying is a very powerful tong lord.”
“Tong lord?” I repeated. “You mean the leader of some kind of Chinese secret society?”
“In a way, yes. Originally, the tongs were set up as fraternal organizations to aid and protect newly arrived Chinese immigrants, as well as to set policies for the established Chinatown community. Unfortunately, over the years these groups have become increasingly competitive and violent. Li is generally considered the most powerful of all the tong lords. Some call him the God of the Golden Mountain.”
“The Golden Mountain. Isn’t that the name the Chinese use for San Francisco?”
“ Gum San Ta Fow—Big City in the land of the Golden Hills.”
I thought about this. I was aware of the recent burgeoning of crime in Chinatown. Thugs known as bow how doy, or hatchet
men, banded together to create fighting tongs, utilizing blackmail, graft and murder to spread waves of terror throughout the district.
We were suddenly jostled as our driver swerved to avoid an open phaeton carrying three stylishly dressed ladies. I heard him swear something, then ease his horse back into an easy trot.
My brother looked amused. “What are you thinking, little sister? That a tong lord murdered Hanaford and Mills?”
“To be honest, Samuel, I don’t know what to think. I’m just examining all the possibilities.”
“No matter how improbable?”
“At this point, no lead is too unlikely to pursue. It would be helpful if I could speak to someone with an intimate knowledge of Chinatown, though. I don’t suppose you know of such a person?”
He shot me a pointed look. “This is a dangerous business, Sarah. The bow how doy are ruthless. They wouldn’t scruple to injure a white woman if they felt she threatened their power.”
In light of subsequent events, I would have reason to regret not taking my brother's warning more to heart. At the time of our conversation, however, I felt confident that I’d heard enough about Chinatown, and the dark crimes rumored to be committed there, to comprehend the dangers involved. Foremost in my mind was the knowledge that a young woman's fate rested upon my ability to discover the truth. This was no time for weak resolve.
“But you do know someone who might be able to answer my questions?” I pressed on with well-meaning determination.
Samuel shook his head. “Against my better judgment, yes. A woman by the name of Margaret Culbertson runs a mission shelter on Sacramento Street. I’ve heard that she rescues young slave girls who’ve been illegally imported from China, sometimes from under the noses of their kidnappers. She gives them refuge at her mission
house until they can either return to China or start a new life here. The stories of her exploits may be exaggerated, but even so, they’re remarkable.”
I was instantly struck by the valor and courage of such a woman. “She sounds like exactly the sort of person I’m looking for, Samuel. I’ll pay her a visit this very morning.”
He looked at me warily. “Promise you’ll do nothing foolish.”
“I’m after information. There's no need to be concerned.”
He gave me a wry smile. “With you, Sarah, there's frequently reason for concern. I only wish I could go with you. If you could postpone your visit until tomorrow—”
“I’m sorry, Samuel, but this business can’t wait. Whether or not Li Ying played a role in the two murders, I must follow every lead. And as quickly as possible.”
With a final warning to be careful, my brother exited the brougham in front of city hall, whereupon I directed the driver to “China Street,” as Sacramento Street was popularly known.
The ride took longer than usual due to heavy traffic, but we finally stopped in front of a nondescript red brick building perched on the side of one of the steepest hills on Sacramento Street. A sign above the door read: “Occidental Board Presbyterian Mission House.” Farther up the hill loomed the mansions of Nob Hill, and I was struck by the contrast of such different worlds existing within a few blocks of one another.
As Samuel had already paid the driver, I got out of the cab and walked purposefully to the front door. It was opened by a very pretty Chinese girl in her late teens wearing traditional loose-fitting dark pants and a gray jacket. When I announced my desire to see Miss Culbertson, the girl smiled and invited me inside.
“Please, you sit,” she said in broken English. “I get Mother.”
She was gone before I could correct this mistake, for I was sure
the girl had misunderstood me. A moment later, however, a tall, slender, middle-aged white woman appeared. Smiling at my confusion, this woman of obvious genteel refinement explained that she was known as “mother” to her rescued “daughters.” She went on to tell me that the mission house had been founded some six years ago by the women of the Occidental Board, who were determined to provide a safe haven for the helpless victims of white slavery.
Miss Culbertson seated herself across from me in the pleasant, simply furnished chamber. The sun poured through an open window to illuminate several Chinese prints hanging on the walls. The highlight of the room, however, was an exquisite silk screen, delicately rendered in clear, brilliant colors.
Following my gaze, Miss Culbertson told me the screen had been a gift from a wealthy society matron whose treasured Chinese maid had been abducted in broad daylight from a city street not many blocks from her Nob Hill home. By a stroke of luck, Miss Culbertson had been able to locate the unfortunate girl and effect her rescue before she could be sold into white slavery.
At my look of disbelief, she explained that the men of Chinatown outnumbered the women by a ratio of more than thirty to one. Because of this disparity, there was a great demand for feminine companionship. Of the thousand or so Chinese women currently in San Francisco, at least half were “singsong girls,” or residents of houses of ill fame located throughout the quarter. Many of these girls, some as young as eight or nine, had been kidnapped from their homeland or lured to San Francisco by deceitful promises of marriage or an education. After they were brought into the country—either by the use of false documentation or outright smuggling—they were sold into houses of prostitution. No Chinese woman, married or single, was safe, as evidenced by bold
abductions carried out every day on the streets of Tangrenbu, or Port of the People of China.
Listening to this shocking narrative, I was overcome by a fury that such atrocities could go on in this day and age. When I demanded to know why the police had not put an end to this shameless situation, Miss Culbertson smiled at my naivete.
“The police do not gladly enter Chinatown,” she told me gently. “Nor do they involve themselves in its affairs unless it is absolutely necessary. Mayor K
alloch's administration is notorious for turning a blind eye or worse to the white slave trade. You’d be surprised by the number of public officials who share the profits from this despicable practice.”
“But that's intolerable! There must be something we can do.”
“I assure you, Miss Woolson, we’re doing everything we can.” She sighed, and I saw the weariness in her gray eyes and in the lines etched in her sensitive face. “It's not nearly as much as we might wish, but it is at least something.”
I felt my face flush, belatedly realizing the criticism implied in my unfortunate choice of words. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to devalue the vital work you accomplish.”
“I know you didn’t mean to offend. Most San Franciscans who hear about white slavery for the first time demand something be done. Unfortunately, the situation isn’t that simple. Nor is its solution. Until the trade can be permanently stopped, we save as many poor souls as we can, one victim at a time.” She smiled wearily. “Now, Miss Woolson, I assume you didn’t call on me today for a lecture on corrupt politics. What may I do for you?”
Briefly I explained the reason for my visit. When I mentioned Li Ying's name, however, she frowned.
“You couldn’t have chosen a more mysterious man to inquire
about, my dear. All I can tell you is that Li Ying is one of the most powerful and dangerous of all the tong lords.”
“Surely something must be known about the man.”
“Very little, I’m afraid. Now that I think about it, I’ve heard no rumors that he personally owns slave girls, although he may well be involved with one or more houses of ill repute.”
I was struck by a sudden plan. Ignoring the possible dangers— or Samuel's reaction if he found out—I presented it to Miss Cul-bertson.
“Would it be possible for me to accompany you on a raid?”
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