The Woman in the Camphor Trunk

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  She collapsed back into the chair, making it rock and squeak, rock and squeak. She fingered a doily, stretching a hole in the lace. Did she have the courage to go back to Most Lucky Laundry to face the tong alone? Anna thought about Elizabeth, who bravely saved heathen souls in Chinatown for nothing but a heavenly reward. Elizabeth had the courage. But Elizabeth was dead, and that should be a lesson to Anna.

  Anna fought a little war inside herself. Yes, it was dangerous, maybe even foolish. But if Anna didn’t find Elizabeth’s murderer, no one would. And she had her father’s debt to pay. Chinatown crawled with cops whom she could apply to in a pinch, and it was only a stone’s throw to the Plaza.

  If the old woman were Bing Kong, she would know where to find the Bing Kong president. Maybe the Bing Kong president had information about the whereabouts of Leo Lim, or at least where she ought to begin looking.

  If she must return to Chinatown alone, the earlier she went the better. Later, when she returned home, she would read the rest of Elizabeth’s love letters.

  A mist dampened Anna’s veil as she rode through muddy streets lit only by paper lanterns and the glow leaking from windows. The sewage smelled strong that night. The gun in her pocket knocked against her thigh with each turn of the pedal.

  Most Lucky Laundry stood empty and dark.

  “Biscuits!” She’d come all this dangerous way for no reason. Anna pushed off on her bicycle, but the back tire spread out like a pancake. She saw the broken bottle that was likely the culprit and kicked it. “Cock biscuits!”

  Anna wheeled her bicycle with one hand, took her gun from her pocket and held it with the other. She wondered to herself where a tong president might pass the time, with the weight of his heinous crimes eating away at his blackened heart. Anna herself would go to confession and then drink whiskey. Or rather, the other way around. But she didn’t know what a man would do.

  Anna thought she’d seen a temple down a side street. She could, perhaps, ask a holy man. She encountered the red building with the grand entrance, carved wooden pillars, and a string of paper lantern moons. Two enormous deities stood guard on either side of the threshold. A stream of incense escaped through the door, perfuming the air.

  She felt a strong hand on her shoulder and spun about, pointing her rod at her assailant’s chest.

  Mr. Jones towered above her. He ignored the gun, and reprimanded her with his tone. “What are you doing here?”

  Anna lowered her gun and blew out a breath. Her pounding heartbeat slowed. “I’m looking for the Bing Kong president. He’s put a mark on Leo Lim and so have I, so to speak. The tong knows things about Lim that might help me find him. I thought a priest might know where to find the tong leader.” She tucked her gun back in her pocket.

  “You are insane.”

  “I have a debt to pay. They have no reason to hurt me. I could lead them to Lim.”

  Mr. Jones looked thoughtful.

  Anna’s eyes sparked. “Jupiter. Aren’t you important in Chinatown—big in the Consolidated Benevolent Society? I’ll bet you could take me to the Bing Kong president.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll trade information. I’ve spoken to Elizabeth’s parents, something you could never do.”

  “I’ll ask Officer Singer.”

  “He doesn’t know about my progress in the investigation. We’ve had a falling out. I no longer tell him anything. Besides, he’s in the hoosegow and won’t be out anytime soon.”

  Mr. Jones’s lips flattened. “What information?”

  “Tell me where to find the president, and I’ll tell you everything. Chinatown isn’t very big. I’m sure you’re acquainted.”

  “Tell me first. Something I don’t already know.”

  “Leo Lim was Elizabeth Bonsor’s lover.”

  “I know.”

  She frowned. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I don’t particularly want to help you. What else?”

  “She was leaving to go visit her aunt in St. Louis. She probably went to Lim’s apartment to say goodbye.”

  Mr. Jones raised a single black eyebrow.

  Anna smiled. “Ah hah. You didn’t know that. Now you owe me. Where is the Bing Kong president?”

  Mr. Jones said, “Matron Blanc, the Dragon Head is not to be trifled with. His people may call him ‘Big Brother,’ and he may help his people, but he has killed and with impunity.”

  “A white woman?”

  “You of all people should know how to make a dead white girl disappear. You saw Joe Singer do it.”

  Anna paused for a beat. “Then the tongs didn’t kill Elizabeth, because they would never leave a white corpse somewhere so easy to find, somewhere that would implicate the Chinese.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And yet you kept this from me.”

  “I told you. This is a Chinese matter.”

  “But we made a deal, Mr. Jones. You have to take me to the Bing Kong president. Your honor is on the line.”

  Mr. Jones led Anna toward a grocery, which appeared to be open despite the late hour. She felt glad for his company. Though he was strange and truculent, he was large and Joe trusted him. It was like having Joe by her side, only larger and with a pigtail. She almost felt safe with him, though she’d have felt safer if he hadn’t warned her so vehemently, if he hadn’t kept nervously clearing his throat. She snuck a peek at Mr. Jones. He caught her eye and held it. She looked away. “Joe said you went to Yale?”

  “Yes. I was sponsored by missionaries.”

  “So you’re a Christian.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Rather a shame for the missionaries.”

  Mr. Jones’s lips curled in a hint of a smile.

  By the entrance to the grocery, a man sat on a stool calling out to passersby in Chinese. He narrowed his eyes at Anna, as if straining to see her, or not believing what he saw. She smiled and nodded courteously. His face didn’t change, so Anna averted her eyes.

  She looked about the store. It sold rice and exotic vegetables, pots and pans. She whispered, “The Bing Kong president is here?”

  Mr. Jones shook his head. He took her arm and led Anna down a flight of stairs that descended into the cool underground. They came to a steel door at the bottom of the steps and stopped. Mr. Jones rapped a rhythm on the door. The door groaned open. It was the thickest door Anna had ever seen, maybe eight or nine inches deep, like a bank vault. She whispered, “Jupiter.”

  The scent of stale beer overlaid with tobacco assaulted her nose. Mr. Jones ushered her through. A boy of maybe twelve, some sort of sentry, secured the door with four heavy crossbars.

  Anna found herself in a vast room, among a dozen crowded tables. The dim light swirled with tobacco smoke, which rose from long bamboo pipes hanging from the mouths of a hundred Chinese men. She felt her lungs constrict and her eyes burn. She coughed. Banners with Chinese characters draped the walls. Green cloths covered the tables. Each table had one empty bowl, columnar stacks of silver half-dollars, and piles of what looked like buttons made of horn. Four or five men surrounded each table, drinking mugs of beer. They appeared to be counting the buttons in unison: “yāt, yih, sàam, sei . . .” A cheer rose from one of the tables. Anna guessed they were fan-tan games, which she’d seen referenced in the paper, although she didn’t know the rules.

  Her companion’s handsome face was wrinkled with perplexity. He was speaking to the door boy, but Anna didn’t understand their words. She turned back to watch the games. As the men had not yet noticed her, she took the liberty of staring at them. They were red in the face, flushed with drink or excitement. Some sat, some stood, clustered around tables. It only took a moment to deduce the rules. Each dealer grabbed an unknown number of buttons and put them in a bowl. Next, he dumped the bowl out onto the table. Then, he reduced the pile of buttons by four at a time until one, two, or three buttons remained. The men were betting on the number in the remainder—a simple game of chance—like a lotto game.

&nbs
p; The room pulsed with masculinity and the ordinary danger Anna imagined one would find in any room full of drinking, gambling men. Losers got angry. Winners celebrated in a way that made tempers rise. But something else was going on—a kind of whispering that ran like a current through the room. Anna was excluded from the secret, and it made her feel tense. Did it portend violence? She scanned to see if she recognized any highbinders from that terrifying night she had walked alone.

  To the side, an ordinary door cracked open by the hand of an unseen man. Through the gap she saw a large, ornate safe painted with an outdoor scene and the words “Safe and Lock Company.”

  Anna turned her eyes back to Mr. Jones, who was watching her watch the room. She smiled nervously.

  There was a great, resounding crash—like a rhinoceros colliding with the thick metal door. Mr. Jones and Anna jumped away from the entrance holding their ears.

  The boy shouted. All eyes turned to the door.

  There was another bang, and another—pounding in rhythm—the hard strokes of a battering ram. The discordant clanging continued.

  Dealers rolled buttons and cups up in the tablecloths and fled toward a third door, which another sentry had opened. It too was thick, like something from a fortress. They dematerialized into the darkness behind it.

  Anna heard the loud crack of wood splitting, as the bolts across the front door failed. Her heart bounced to her throat. The last thing she needed was to be caught in an LAPD vice raid. She sped toward the portal where the dealers had disappeared, trusting that Mr. Jones could take care of himself. Some officer boomed, “Police!” She pressed past the door and found herself in a dark tunnel. Mr. Jones slipped through behind her, slamming and bolting the door with one, two, three bars.

  He grabbed Anna by the hand and jogged down a narrow passageway, pulling her along so that she almost lost her hat. Water dripped onto the cement floor. Her heart raced and her senses sharpened. She smelled everything—the damp bricks, her own bitter sweat, and the incense that clung to his hair. He led her up a staircase and opened a door where they were met with a wall of steam. It settled damply on her skin and hair.

  Heaps of clothes lay in wicker baskets along the wall, but Anna could see the merest corner of a green tablecloth from the fan-tan games buried beneath them. Three men fed sheets into a trough of hot water—the source of the steam—while long metal arms agitated more linens inside. A placid-looking man filled his mouth with water from a cup, then expertly squirted the water out in a fine spray onto a shirtwaist he was ironing.

  She saw a washboard, a large wringing machine with India-rubber rollers and a mangle. Table linens and towels hung dripping on a line. Mr. Jones pushed through them, batting them out of the way, pulling Anna behind him. Soon they stood on the sidewalk.

  Anna sank against the building’s wall, sweating, sticky with steam, trying to catch her breath. She had a stitch in her side. Out in the night air, the dew on her skin now made her cold.

  “What about the gamblers? They all stayed behind,” Anna said.

  Mr. Jones shrugged. “Sitting innocently at tables drinking beer.”

  She peered down Los Angeles Street and saw two lonely paddy wagons parked fruitlessly in the road. Detective Snow leaned with his hand on the side of one wagon, scratching his neck. Anna could easily tell the cops that the men had been gambling, and that the evidence was hidden in the laundry baskets, but she’d be alienating the Chinese and giving herself away. But there was another reason not to tell the cops. She didn’t think the police really wanted to close the fan-tan games, or Captain Dixon wouldn’t send Snow and his men to do it. Everyone knew Snow was as dumb as a donkey.

  The cops climbed into the paddy wagons and motored off. Anna’s inhalations slowed. “Why did you take me to a fan-tan parlor?”

  “It’s the Bing Kong president’s fan-tan parlor. He should have been there. He and his number-two man. Something’s wrong.”

  “I wanted to find him, but not at the cost of my job. You almost got me fired.”

  “That should be the least of your worries. I’ll take you home.”

  Anna’s shoulders sank. “All right.”

  No derelicts darkened the street, just a man tossing slop into the gutter. Still, Mr. Jones did not dare to slip his arm through hers, though she would have welcomed it, because it was friendly. A new brick building graced Juan Street, one Anna had noticed before. It had a balcony with a tile roof that swooped up at the ends in the Chinese style and two small palm trees on either side of the door. Light seeped from behind curtains, illuminating strips of the sidewalk.

  Mr. Jones paused in front of the building. “This is the home of Wong Nim, the Bing Kong president.”

  “His residence? It’s nice.” Anna hesitated, then made her mouth form the words. “Take me inside.”

  “I didn’t come here to take you inside, Anna Blanc, but to fulfill my promise. In fact, I forbid that you enter. I won’t be responsible for you any further. If you want to meet the Bing Kong president, go with Officer Singer, in daylight, in public, at the fan-tan parlor. You won’t need me. Wong Nim speaks English.”

  Anna stood and gazed at the building. Wong Nim was a vicious killer, responsible for countless murders. Torture even. Maybe he himself hadn’t killed people, but he had ordered their deaths. Or maybe he had killed . . . But those had been his enemies, not innocent police matrons who only wanted to help. And surely he wouldn’t kill a woman.

  Anna glanced at Mr. Jones.

  He said, “Matron Blanc, you’ve gone as far as you can. It’s time to let it go. Forget about Elizabeth’s death and leave it to me, or I’ll wash my hands of you.”

  “I owe a debt.”

  “I’ll give you anything you want if you leave Chinatown and never come back. Whatever you want. A pearl necklace? My Cadillac?”

  Anna checked his beautiful, somber eyes. He was serious.

  “Are you afraid for me or for Chinatown?”

  “Both.”

  She considered this. A Cadillac would be nice . . . But how she missed her lovely pearls. Then she thought about Elizabeth—good, brave Elizabeth, who had neither car nor pearls—and how Anna’s father had ruined her family. How she lay dead and would never have cars or pearls.

  Anna steeled herself. “Hah! I can’t be bought, Mr. Jones. Not when it comes to honor.” To show him this was true, and before she could change her mind, she dashed to the door and knocked. She half expected Mr. Jones to pull her back, and that they would play ding-dong ditch. He didn’t.

  Anna trembled, but held her ground. Part of her, the weak side, hoped that no one answered. She was about to come face to face with the man likely responsible for the decapitation of Ko Chung. She said a silent prayer to Saint Dismas, patron saint of criminals, that the Bing Kong president would be in a good mood.

  Joe Singer answered the door.

  Despite her training, Anna’s mouth hung open like a grouper.

  Joe’s nostrils flared. “Please tell me I’m dreaming.” He looked grim. That part made sense to Anna because the air smelled like excrement.

  She said, “Jupiter. You’re out.”

  “I went to an ice cream social!” Joe looked up to heaven as if anguished. “You’re in Chinatown. At night. Alone. Here.”

  “Not alone.” Anna glanced around, but Mr. Jones had wisely slipped away. Maybe he truly had washed his hands of her.

  Or maybe he was afraid.

  “Um . . . I have my rod. May I come in?”

  Joe surveyed the street. Anna could count three different derelicts who appeared to be watching her.

  “I can’t leave you outside, can I?” Joe opened the door wider.

  Anna brushed past Joe into a dimly lit parlor furnished with intricately carved mahogany tables and chairs set with marble and mother of pearl. A picture of a bearded man hung above a gilded and lacquered altar. Jade ornaments and painted wall hangings decorated the space. Her eyes swept the parlor and into a dark, adjoining dining room.
They alighted on the source of the smell—the foul excretions of three dead bodies slumped over at a table, in their chairs. One lay face down in a bowl of noodles. Dominoes were scattered across the table and arranged in a discrete grouping in front of an empty chair. A fourth body—a woman—lay on a chaise longue, wearing intricately embroidered silk with sleeves like butterfly wings. It was as exquisite as any gown Anna had ever seen but for the red stain that marred the fabric directly over her heart.

  Anna stuttered, “We . . . we have a case.”

  Joe pulled Anna into his arms. She struggled free and pushed him so that he stumbled. “This is an odd time to force your attentions . . .” She trailed off.

  Four living men of various builds stood at the back of the dining room, blending into the darkness. She hadn’t noticed them at first, her senses occupied with the bodies. Anna guessed they were highbinders and took them in one feature at a time—scar from fighting ; nose off center; a belly; a mean, piercing gaze; and a pair of giant clam hands.

  A particular man stood in the center—small, yet, once she’d noticed him, his presence filled the room like smoke. He had close-clipped gray hair and the face and bearing of a pug. She’d seen unfortunate faces before—Detective Snow for instance—but this was the first truly ugly man that Anna had ever seen. His expensive western suit was poor compensation. His eyes slipped over Anna’s body like rancid oil. She looked away and wondered irrationally whether his face had driven him to a life of crime.

  Anna was truly at a loss. What did one do when confronted by assassins while standing over the bodies of their latest victims? Besides tremble and sweat, which she was doing already. She had to concentrate to keep her knees from buckling. If she did the wrong thing, they might kill Joe and possibly even Anna. She and Joe were, after all, witnesses. Anna turned to Joe with desperate, questioning eyes, but couldn’t read him.

  So she fell back on her training and proffered her most winning smile. “Detective Singer, aren’t you going to introduce us?”