The Woman in the Camphor Trunk

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  “I know a few missionary girls, but no one’s said anything about one going missing.” Joe squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled. “This just makes things worse.”

  Anna stared at him. “What? You value the life of a missionary over a prostitute? At least a missionary will go to heaven.” She rose brusquely, brushed off her skirt, and strode to a window to take in the less putrid air. It was unlocked and she pushed it open.

  Joe followed. “You know that’s not it.”

  Anna did. Though Presbyterian, Joe wasn’t one to cast stones.

  They leaned outside and breathed fresh air in gulps. The essence of death clung to the insides of Anna’s nostrils. It soaked into her hair like cigarette smoke. Beneath them, on the street, people passed by as if a lady had not lost her life.

  Joe’s eyes caught Anna’s. “If word gets out that a white lady was murdered in Chinatown, especially a missionary, the city will go crazy. All of the Chinamen are going to suffer.”

  Anna said, “That’s preposterous.”

  “Anna, I know what I’m talking about. You heard about the Chinatown War? What went on in Negro Alley?”

  Anna hadn’t heard, so she lied. “Of course.”

  “Two tongs were feuding over the abduction of a woman and started shooting. A white rancher got shot. He died. Other white bystanders were wounded. Word spread that the Chinese were killing whites and five hundred angry men descended on Chinatown. Every building was ransacked. Every Chinaman in the quarter attacked and robbed. Nineteen Chinamen died. They lynched them, tortured them—chopped the fingers off some of them. The mob left bodies swinging from shop awnings, right downtown, as naked as Adam.”

  Anna shook her head. “I don’t believe you. If that had happened, I would know about it.”

  He smirked. “I thought you said you did, Sherlock.”

  Anna kicked herself.

  Joe said, “Anyway, it happened before you were born, but things aren’t that different now.”

  “What happened to the men who committed the crimes?”

  “Nothing.”

  Anna was silent for a moment. She gazed out the window. Across the street, she saw two children, with their long black braids and clothes like men’s pajamas, pressing their faces on the plate-glass window of a grocery, no doubt leaving trails of snot that someone else would have to clean up. Anna didn’t care for children, but neither did she want to see them trampled in a riot or their parents tortured and hung naked in her shopping district.

  Anna tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But what if it wasn’t a Chinaman? What if a white man killed this woman?”

  “Maybe, but it doesn’t look like it. She’s in a Chinaman’s apartment. Our best hope is that this woman’s kin isn’t vengeful and can be persuaded to keep this under wraps. If they’re missionaries, they’ll know the consequences. Maybe they’ll want to keep the peace.”

  “Or maybe they won’t want the world to know their wife or daughter was found unclad and eaten by maggots in the apartment of a Chinaman.”

  Joe whistled, long and low.

  “What?”

  “When Wolf assigned me this case, he assumed the victim was a Chinese man—a victim of a brawl or a run of the mill tong killing. Not a white lady. It’s not what you hand a new detective to cut his teeth on.”

  Anna sighed. “You are so lucky.”

  “Lucky? It’s a heck of a way to have to prove myself.” Joe paced in a circle, ruffling his hair, and came to rest again in front of Anna. “We gotta handle this like a grenade. We say nothing. This stays out of the papers. The investigation goes quietly. You don’t tell a soul that the victim’s white. Not even Wolf. I’ll get a coffin and a wagon and drive her straight to my cousin. He’s a doctor. He can do the postmortem. Then, it’s off to the mortuary.”

  “What about her family?”

  Joe closed his eyes. “When we find them, I’ll talk to them.”

  “Just tell them you found her somewhere else.”

  “I can’t lie to her family.”

  “Yes, you can. If it means saving Chinatown.”

  Joe shook his head. “No, I’m not compromising my honor.”

  Anna rolled her eyes, but inside she admired him for it. His truthfulness was one of the things she liked about Joe Singer.

  He continued, “Besides, they might have information we need to solve the crime.”

  “What about Mr. Jones. He’s out there in the hall.”

  Joe tapped his fingers on the windowsill. “We tell him.”

  “What?”

  “I trust him, Anna. He’ll understand what’s at stake.”

  Anna squinted. “You trust him and not Wolf?”

  “If I tell Wolf, he’ll take me off the case. Also, we need Mr. Jones. He’s respected in Chinatown, and he’s already agreed to help us with the investigation. Besides, we need a translator.”

  A ripple of excitement moved through Anna at the thought of working with the serious but well-made Chinese man.

  Joe said, “Now let’s go look in the bedroom. Maybe we’ll find her dress.”

  Anna and Joe took deep gulps of air and strode across the sticky floor. Joe protectively held Anna back so she had to walk behind him. He opened the bedroom door, sending a stream of daylight onto a dirty Chinese carpet. Inside, the air smelled stale, but not rotten. A fishy-scented oil lamp had long since burned out. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the windowless space.

  In the shadows, lying on a bed, was a second body, facedown. Its head was covered but for a dark braid of hair peeking from beneath a striped Mexican blanket. Next to the body, in the bed and on the pillow, was the indentation from some sleeping companion who was no longer there.

  Anna put a hand on Joe’s arm, her body tensing. “Jupiter.”

  Joe whistled. “The witness didn’t say there were two bodies.”

  “There aren’t two bodies.”

  “What?”

  “He’s not dead. He doesn’t smell.”

  Joe sniffed the air. “You’re right.” He set down his camera, drew his gun, and edged closer, pushing Anna behind him. He spoke sharply. “Police. Reach for the roof.”

  The man didn’t stir. Joe edged closer. “I said, hands up.”

  Heart pounding, Anna removed the pen from her purse, aimed for the sleeping man’s head, and tossed it. It hit his back and bounced off.

  No movement.

  Joe strode over to the bed and shook him.

  The man rolled over and his hair fell off.

  Anna screeched.

  Joe threw back the covers violently.

  The body was an oblong mound of pillows and towels stuffed into pajamas, which had been topped with a neatly placed braid of raven-black hair. Anna’s eyes fluttered in astonishment.

  Joe rubbed his glistening forehead with the back of his hand. “Holy smoke.”

  Anna padded closer, leaning low to examine the braid. She recognized the silky texture of the locks. Undoubtedly, the killer had cut them from the victim, explaining the unfashionably short length of the dead girl’s tresses, and the crookedness of the cut. “Well, I’m intrigued.”

  Joe gave her a hard look. “Don’t get too intrigued.”

  Anna frowned. It was a cock shame being a woman.

  Outside, the baby’s cries grew louder and angrier.

  Mr. Jones called from the hall. “Detective Singer, your witness needs to feed her baby.”

  Anna unhappily emerged from the apartment with Joe to find the manager’s wife bouncing her wailing baby in her lap. Joe approached Mr. Jones, who leaned against the wall looking stony and serious. Joe moved close and lowered his voice, though no one nearby, not the whimpering mother nor her servant, likely spoke English. He was brief in the telling, skipping the more gruesome bits.

  Mr. Jones listened. He closed his eyes and appeared to sink with the weight of the news. He pushed away from the wall and paced the length of the corridor, stopping to stare out a spotless window.
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  Anna watched him curiously. His eyes were unfocused and his hand, resting on the sill, was shaking. She whispered to Joe, “Why is he so upset about a dead white lady that he didn’t know?”

  Joe said, “Don’t think of it in terms of one dead lady. Think in terms of a war on Chinatown.”

  Mr. Jones seemed to be collecting himself, his broad chest expanding with deep, slow breaths. When he returned to Anna, he was composed. “Are you ready to interview the witnesses, Assistant Matron Blanc?”

  “Always. Do they speak English?”

  “No. I will translate.”

  “She called you and not the police?”

  “Her husband called me.”

  Anna crossed her arms, chilled in the cold, damp building. “Where is her husband?”

  “I sent someone to his shop, but he was not there. The Chinese don’t like the police, Matron Blanc.”

  Joe leaned in close. “We’ll need to interview him. He’s a suspect.”

  Mr. Jones nodded noncommittally.

  The young mother still sat against the wall near her servant, cradling the mewling baby. Anna glided over and squatted beside them. Her corset restricted her diaphragm, and she had to take a moment to catch her breath. The mother looked up into Anna’s face, her own pretty face splotched and puffy. She smelled like soap, warm skin, and ginger. Anna’s gaze dropped to the lady’s tiny feet, no more than three inches long.

  Then she blatantly stared. She’d heard of foot binding but hadn’t realized it would be so extreme. The girl’s shoes were like doll shoes. How could a woman walk?

  The servant woman had proper feet and big wondering eyes that took in everything. She was plain, but looked quick-witted.

  Anna smiled. “Hello.” She inclined her head. “I am Assistant Police Matron Anna Blanc, and I’m very pleased to meet you. What is your name?”

  Mr. Jones translated. The girl watched Anna warily and replied in musical tones.

  Mr. Jones said, “Her name is Mrs. Lo and her servant is Ah Bo.” He switched between languages effortlessly.

  Anna continued. “Very well, Mrs. Lo. You found the foul-smelling trunk?” Mr. Jones translated again.

  The witness convulsed with sorrowful hiccups, startling the baby and making it cry louder. She said nothing.

  Anna felt for the girl. Not because she’d found a rotting body in her apartment building. Anna herself would prefer a dead body to a broken heart, as long as the body wasn’t hers. She felt for the lady because her husband enslaved her, confining her at his pleasure, the way Anna’s father had tried to confine Anna only three short months ago. She wanted to tell the girl to revolt and run away like Anna had. But to where could a Chinese woman run? She was stuck in Chinatown.

  Anna asked the mother, “When did you last see Leo Lim?”

  The well-dressed girl spoke. Mr. Jones translated. “Leo Lim left the apartment ten days ago, in the morning, dragging a trunk. He loaded it into a cart.”

  Ah Bo shook her head and spoke. Mr. Jones translated. “Her servant said he must have come back. She saw him leave again that night carrying a bundle.”

  “But these ladies never leave the apartment. They saw him from the window?”

  Mr. Jones nodded.

  Anna’s lips turned down. “Are they sure it was him?”

  Mr. Jones had exchanges with the women. “They both recognized his clothing—a western-style suit and hat. He’s the only one in the building that wears one.”

  Anna glanced between the two ladies. “Did they see or hear about any white women coming to his apartment?”

  The young mother and servant eyed each other, then had an exchange with Mr. Jones. Now they both looked nervous. He said, “They don’t know anything about a woman. They never saw her.”

  Anna smiled at the girl while speaking to Mr. Jones. “I think they’re lying. White women are so conspicuous in Chinatown. How could they not see or hear about any white woman?”

  Both ladies’ eyes hardened in anger. The mother handed the baby to her servant, rose gracefully, and hobbled into an apartment with her nose in the air. Her servant followed, carrying the baby, eyes down at her big feet. The door shut.

  Joe pursed his lips and exhaled. “I’m awed by your feminine tenderness and understanding.”

  Anna turned to Mr. Jones. “I thought you said they didn’t speak English.”

  “Apparently, I was wrong.”

  “But don’t you think it’s odd that a white woman was able to walk past the restaurant, up the stairs, and down the hall without anyone noticing?”

  Mr. Jones stared off down the hall. “Maybe she didn’t want to be seen.”

  “Of course not.” Anna tapped her lip. “But still . . .”

  Joe glanced at the closed door, looking disappointed. “Well, if we’re done here, I’m going to finish examining the crime scene.” He lugged his camera back into the apartment where the corpse lay in the trunk. Anna took a gulp of fresh air and followed. Joe was already kneeling on the hardwood, considering scratches in the floorboards, preparing to take flashlight photographs with his camera. She wandered over to a table where several framed photographs rested by a candy dish full of nutmeats. Anna’s lips fell open. “Jupiter.”

  There were five different pictures. In each, the same Chinese man posed with a different young white lady. The man had short, thick black hair, parted on the side. He wore a Western style suit of clothes and gave the overall impression of a man between worlds. Judging from the photographs, many white women sought his company, or he sought theirs. Anna selected a photograph of Leo Lim posed in front of a Chinese theater with a brown-haired girl, and squirreled it away in her skirt pocket.

  She surveyed the room with intensity. A bowl sat on the floor in the corner, as if for feeding a cat. The cat herself had departed. Tea things still sat on the table—a tea towel, clay pot, two empty cups, a sugar bowl, and a dried out, crushed lemon. Anna sashayed over, the photograph in her pocket bumping her thigh when she walked. She picked up the pot, lifted the lid, and looked inside. A dark, grainy sludge coated the bottom, peppered with little islands of blue mold. She gave it a sniff. She gave it another sniff. It was like no tea she had ever known, but slightly floral and exotic beneath the mold smell. She pried a pinch of the sludge out with her fingers and dropped it onto the tea towel. Dampness spread across the cloth. Anna rolled it up and stowed it in her purse.

  Joe stooped to pick a brass key up off the floor. He tried it in the door and it turned. “Leo Lim’s key. He must have dropped it on his way out.”

  “Interesting.” She bustled to the window. It was unlocked. She opened it and looked out onto a fire escape. If the killer had left foot-prints, they had been washed clean by the rain. Joe sauntered up behind her. “Listen, Anna. I’m going to be here a long time documenting the crime scene. Let’s go down to the Cock of the Walk. Officer Clark eats lunch there. We’ll tell him you interviewed a witness about the death of a Chinaman and need to be escorted home.”

  She pivoted and swished past Joe to the bookshelf. “I’m not done yet.”

  Joe stepped in front of her. He looked peeved. “Fork it over.”

  Anna’s eyes widened in a poor imitation of innocence. “What?”

  “There were five photographs of Lim, and now there are four.”

  “Well, I had nothing to do with it.”

  Joe scoffed, stuck both hands in her big skirt pockets and rummaged around, almost touching her thigh through three blessed layers of fabric. Anna bit her lip. “Masher.”

  He produced the framed picture. “That’s it. You’re out.” His finger shot toward the door. “This is my case, and I won’t have you disturbing the apartment before I’ve finished going over it.”

  “I haven’t touched anything else.” She decided not to mention the tea.

  He took Anna by the arm and steered her outside. “Stay away from my crime scene.”

  “You’re just using that as an excuse to get me out of Chinatown. Well
, I don’t want to go.” Anna turned and went back inside.

  Joe followed. “Wolf didn’t authorize you to work this case.” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her backward. Anna dragged her heels. Joe pulled harder. Anna sat down. She began to crawl back toward the crime scene where she belonged. He stepped on her skirt. “I could arrest you.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’m a good sleuth and our chance of solving this crime is even better with two of us on the case. Admit it.”

  “I knew once you got a taste of this case you wouldn’t leave it alone. You’re going back to Central Station where it’s safe.” He grabbed her under the arms, pulling her up and onto her backside. She scooted along on her bottom, her skirt pushing up to reveal her stockinged shins, but Anna didn’t care. Why should she care? Propriety had gotten her nowhere. She simply closed her eyes tight so that she couldn’t see them.

  Joe sighed and let go. When she opened her eyes, he was tugging down her hem. He extended a hand to help her up. She eyed him suspiciously.

  He said, “We tracked mud on that floor. If you aren’t careful, you’ll stain your uniform.”

  Anna looked at the muddy floorboards and considered. Joe knew more about laundry than she did, and she did need to wear this uniform tomorrow. She took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

  “Sherlock, you make my life hell.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his coat pocket and slapped one on her wrist, holding tight to the other.

  Anna chuckled coldly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Mr. Jones,” Joe called as he tugged her into the hall.

  Mr. Jones looked curiously at Anna, and then at Joe. Joe cleared his throat. “Mr. Jones, would you consider taking her back to the station?”

  Mr. Jones held out one strong wrist, which peeked from beneath a silk sleeve. “Gladly.”