The Woman in the Camphor Trunk

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  The highbinders showed no interest in Anna.

  The All Fragrance Saloon smelled like spilled beer, smoke, and other fragrances Anna would never mention. Brown saliva stained the entrance on the sidewalk. They desperately needed a spittoon. She peeked inside. There were blacks there, and whites, sitting at tables, playing cards. They seemed rough and possibly drunk. They did show interest in Anna, eyes full of evil suggestions. She folded her arms to hide her chest. Someone belched.

  She wouldn’t expect to find a respectable man like Chan Mon in such a place. She turned in a circle, looking. There he sat, with his chiseled cheek down on a table, looking bent, a full glass of beer and a half empty pitcher before him.

  Anna bustled over to the bar. “Chan Mon, you must not drink. You need to board up your shop, find yourself a gun, and help me.”

  Chan Mon groaned.

  She put her palms on his shoulder and rocked him. He groaned again. Anna picked up the pitcher of beer and dumped it over his head.

  He shook like a dog, spraying Anna. “Elizabeth is dead because of me. She was to be my wife, my responsibility.”

  “No. Elizabeth is dead because of Miss Robins.” Anna spoke sharply, like an angry nun. “Get up. Elizabeth would have demanded it.”

  She took him by the hand and pulled him up onto his feet. She couldn’t tell if he was drunk with beer or with grief. “You have to help me find hard evidence that Miss Robins killed Elizabeth.”

  “Miss Robins means nothing to me. She just helped me with translation. She was Elizabeth’s friend not mine. She flirted with me. I never flirted back.”

  “I believe you.”

  Chan Mon stumbled against the table, and she tried to steady him, letting him lean on her. In the mirror, she saw their reflection—the epitome of East, the epitome of West.

  Then Anna heard shots. She swung her head around. Two round holes appeared in the window glass. A black man in a pinstriped suit fell over sideways with a thud, upsetting his chair. She heard another pop outside.

  Anna screamed. Chan Mon pushed Anna’s head down, his eyes suddenly focused. “Get on the floor.”

  She dropped to her knees on the gritty, sticky planks. Another pop and the body of a Chinese man hit the front window, arms splayed out, holding a revolver. He slid out of sight, leaving a streak of blood on the glass. There were more shots and the window shattered, spraying Anna with broken glass. On the planks across the room, the blank eyes of the Negro stared accusingly at Anna. She shook uncontrollably. She had contributed to this violence by rescuing the girls, and now at least one innocent man was dead. And she hadn’t even saved the girls. Ting Ting was dead, and Yuk-Lin was Presbyterian.

  Anna’s voice rippled. “Will the city avenge that Negro?”

  “No,” Chan Mon said flatly.

  Pain singed her stomach. It was grief. In the street, there was a pop and an answering pop, and then a lull. Chan Mon gripped Anna’s sleeve. “Come on.”

  They crawled across the sticky, bloody, glass-strewn floor toward the rear of the saloon and peered out the back door into the alley. Along the narrow, muddy passage, Anna saw men in black pants and tunics scrambling from doorways, spilling in both directions. Chan Mon took her hand. Blood seeped between their palms—hers or his she didn’t know. He led Anna down the alley. More shots popped in the street, and someone was wailing. Chan Mon opened a door in the wall of a tall brick building on the alley and pulled her through into a room that smelled like incense. The door trembled shut behind them, closing them into a quieter space. The ceiling rose heavenward. Five wooden giants confronted Anna, standing twelve feet tall atop a platform that made them taller still. They wore busy robes, long beards, and towering hats that exceeded even her own in grandeur. Each was a different color—black, white, yellow, red, and sea green. Smoke rose from brass censers.

  Anna stared wide-eyed up at the gods and crossed herself. “So this is a temple.”

  He nodded. “They won’t shoot in here. They won’t risk angering the gods.”

  Sirens bleated in the streets. The cops were coming, Joe Singer no doubt among them, heading into the thick of the violence. She prayed to the five gods before her, promising to be good forever after if they would just keep Joe Singer safe. Anna looked at the angle of the sinking sun and acid began to seep into her throat. “I have to go. I need to go to the mission to get evidence. I only have until five o’clock.”

  Somewhere close, a gun went off. Anna dropped to the floor and huddled behind a brass urn, trembling. Chan Mon held her hand again. “Let the shooting subside. Then I will go with you.”

  Anna hesitated, then nodded. She couldn’t find evidence if she were dead, and she would feel braver with Chan Mon by her side. Maybe Chan Mon could persuade the woman who loved him to confess, because if the city thought Chan Mon had killed Elizabeth Bonsor, he was a dead man.

  Time ticked, and more shots popped in the streets. Anna huddled, sweating, though it was cold. Her opportunity to find evidence of Miss Robins’s guilt was trickling away. Periodically, the doors in the front or back of the building opened and slammed shut. More Chinese were finding their way to the temple, displaced by the violence. A man entered clutching a small boy to his breast. There was blood on his shirt, his own and the child’s, who couldn’t have been more than seven. Chan Mon took the boy from the man’s arms.

  Anna’s lips parted, her voice quivering with outrage. “They shot a child?”

  “He was no doubt caught in the crossfire.”

  She wiped her dripping forehead. “I can tend him. You don’t like blood.”

  Chan Mon laid the child on a golden bamboo mat, as cool and efficient as any doctor. It dawned on Anna that he was a doctor of the Chinese sort. She murmured, “You don’t fear blood at all.”

  “I feared Elizabeth’s blood.”

  The boy’s red chest stilled, and Anna beheld her first dead child. She silenced an anguished cry with her fist. Her eyes welled, and she thought she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear her guilt. Then the saints buoyed her and she did. She had to. His father needed her.

  The father’s hand was clamped to his own arm. Crimson seeped from between his fingers. He fell to his knees beside the boy, his blood dripping out, reddening the mat. He’d been shot in the arm.

  Anna spun in a circle, looking for something to stanch the blood. There was nothing but silk cushions, carved mahogany, and the gods themselves. She brazenly lifted her skirt and untied one of her petticoats, with its lace and fine pleats. It dropped to the floor. She stepped out of it and began ripping it into strips, handing them to Chan Mon. He used them to bind the wound. “I need medicine. I’ve got to go to my shop. Press the wound.” He lifted his hands from the man’s arm.

  Chan Mon slipped away.

  Anna pressed on the wound so hard her arm tingled. She said silent prayers to Joseph, patron saint of fathers, that the man would not die. The blood soaked her petticoat, then the cuff of her sleeve. Finally, the ferrous scent of blood overcame the incense.

  Every few minutes, more men arrived, until little space remained in the temple. Most of them knelt, their hands pressed together in prayer. Some squatted beside her, perhaps offering help, perhaps holding vigil by the man, speaking to her in their mysterious language. They stank of fear. So did Anna. She scanned the many faces. Were any men highbinders? How could she tell?

  An hour passed without sight of her Chinese doctor. She’d been abandoned to nurse the wounded man alone, which she did not know how to do. She had no medicine. Her arms were aching. Then Chan Mon returned carrying a long burlap sack. He pushed his way to Anna and squatted beside her. “It’s bad outside.” He rustled in the bag, withdrawing a long bamboo pipe, a candle, a lighter, and a black ball. Anna guessed it was opium.

  He put the opium in the bowl of the pipe and held it over the flaming candle. Two of the men tried rolling the wounded man on his side so he could smoke. Anna wanted to smoke, too, because she wanted to forget the horror of their pre
dicament, but she needed to be clear-minded.

  Anna unwrapped the wound. Chan Mon washed it in clean water and applied a poultice, which he bound to the arm with silk bandages. He lifted the patient’s shoulders and poured a tincture between his lips.

  Anna wondered how many wounded hadn’t made it to the temple, how many lay dead in the street.

  CHAPTER 25

  It had been twenty minutes since the last shot. Anna decided she must risk venturing outside, despite the danger. She was already late for her appointment with Tilly, and Chinatown’s safety depended on it. Chan Mon’s very life depended on it. Her opportunity to go to the mission to find evidence was long since lost, but she could perhaps convince the weasel to give her more time. No matter what, she had to intercept him before he submitted his article to his editor.

  Chan Mon now watched over the wounded man. It would be selfish to draw him away. Anna slipped out through the front, past the two wooden giants that guarded the temple, towering like redwoods. Cops occupied the sidewalks, patrolling the streets looking grim. Joe Singer wasn’t among them. Anna tried not to think of him. Flaunting propriety, armpits smeared with sweat, she jogged to All Fragrance Saloon to reclaim her bicycle, hoping Tilly would wait for her.

  When she arrived home at half past the hour, she looked at her watch and swore. No Tilly.

  Anna called the station from the telephone in the hall of her apartment building. Mr. Melvin gave Joe the receiver.

  Anna cried out, “You’re back. You’re safe.”

  “For now. I brought in a bunch of highbinders, although I doubt they’ll stay in jail for long. It’s beginning, Sherlock. One Negro and four Chinamen are dead.”

  “Five.” Anna rubbed her eyes and fell silent from shock. She had watched the black man and the boy die.

  “Anna?”

  “Tilly didn’t wait for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought I would be able to stall him with, I don’t know, my irrefutable logic as to Miss Robins’s guilt.” Her voice cracked. “But I was trapped by the shooting and he left.”

  Silence. “You were in Chinatown?”

  “Yes, but I’m fine. I . . . I think the story’s going out in the evening paper. Can’t we talk to the paper? Tell them that it’s libel.”

  “Libel against Chan Mon? He’s a Chinaman.”

  “Well, he’s going to be a dead Chinaman if we can’t stop the presses. Someone will know that Mr. Jones is Chan Mon.” The muscular, poetic man would die, and it would be her fault.

  In front of Central Station, a paddy wagon waited beside a pair of horses, five bicycles, and one motorcycle. Joe cut his eyes to Anna. “I can’t take you on the motorcycle.”

  “I can’t ride a horse through town with my skirts bunched up around my waist. We’ll have to take the paddy wagon.”

  Joe froze. “I don’t have permission.”

  “You can ask permission later!”

  While Joe fiddled behind the dash, she charged to the front of the car, set the crank, and slipped into the passenger side. The engine growled. The car lurched forward and into a palm tree. Joe put his forehead on the steering wheel.

  “You don’t care if we have permission. You can’t drive an auto,” Anna said.

  “I can. A little.”

  Anna disembarked and ran to the driver’s side. Joe got out and Anna got in. He leapt into the passenger seat as Anna set the car rolling backward. She eased the auto forward onto First Street and accelerated. The speed limit was ten miles per hour. Anna drove twenty.

  Joe braced himself against the door as Anna took a turn too fast. “Mother of God. You drive like you’re in a race.”

  “At least I haven’t crashed into a tree.” Anna shifted and hit the gas. She flew toward the Los Angeles Herald building, saying a silent prayer to the Chinese gods, because shouldn’t they listen? She was, after all, trying to save Chinatown.

  Anna skidded to a halt in front of the Herald as Joe leapt from the paddy wagon and flew up the steps. Anna scampered after him with her skirts lifted above her ankles. He threw open the door beside the loading dock and swore. “Damn it.”

  Anna’s hopes dissolved.

  The presses had already stilled. The papers were bundled and stacked near large industrial doors, smelling of hot ink, awaiting delivery. A printer stood near the doors, sleeves rolled up, hands black with newsprint.

  She hadn’t missed Tilly at her apartment. Tilly had never come at all. He’d written the story and submitted it for press hours ago.

  Anna crossed the floor and picked up a paper. Elizabeth gazed mildly from the front page, as did her lover, the convert Leo Lim. Chan Mon’s picture was represented with a framed question mark, though they used his name. Anna wondered where Tilly had gotten the pictures, and how many people knew Chan Mon’s identity. She wondered, too, how Mr. Bonsor would survive this, and then realized she didn’t care. Elizabeth would have been humiliated to have her love triangle splatted across the headlines so that everyone in Los Angeles knew. Anna could only hope they didn’t read the papers in heaven.

  But how did she stop Angelenos from seeing the papers on earth?

  The newsies, faces unwashed, clothes unmended, had started to line up outside, waiting for their bundles and talking their tough-boy talk. Some sat on the sidewalk playing marbles or gambling with dice. Anna guessed nearly a hundred boys waited, plus a handful of girls, and more were coming. “Can’t you order the Herald not to sell the papers?”

  Joe said, “No, I can’t order the Herald not to sell papers. Do you know how powerful the press is?”

  “Then arrest the newsies.”

  “If I start arresting newsies, they’re all gonna run like mad.”

  “As long as they run without their papers.” A red, swirled aggie hit Anna’s foot. She kicked it hard back in the direction from which it had come.

  “Sherlock, most of these kids live on the streets. If they can’t sell their papers, they don’t eat. They’ll come back for the papers later.”

  This resonated with Anna, who knew about not eating. “Okay, then. We’ll win them to our cause.”

  Joe’s forehead creased. “How?”

  Anna climbed up the stone railing, not realizing her skirt had gotten hung up on her stocking showing four inches of shin. Clearing her throat, she shouted, “Your attention please. I am Police Matron Anna Blanc. Your attention!”

  The newsies gabbed on in conversations of their own. Standing near her feet, Joe tugged her skirt down.

  Anna looked to him for help.

  He said, “Talk about the crime.”

  Anna brushed a loose curl from her hot cheek and called out louder this time. “A white woman was murdered. Her maggot-eaten body was found rotting in a trunk.”

  The newsies began quieting for the most part, and turned to stare at the beautiful, shouting woman who relayed such gore. A few young mouths hung open. No doubt they recognized Anna, having seen her picture in the paper last summer with her knees showing, brandishing a gun. She was the scandalous lady who had broken all the rules to dispatch the New High Street Suicide Faker.

  For this, she commanded respect.

  Joe shook his bowed head from side to side. Perhaps he didn’t like her choice of words. Anna didn’t care.

  She called out, “The papers claim that a Chinaman did it. That’s a lie. Today’s headlines are lies. Lies, lies, lies. Shall I go on?”

  The grimy boys stared skeptically but remained relatively quiet, marbles at rest.

  Anna smiled her sweetest smile. “Good.” She cleared her throat again. “Elizabeth Bonsor was killed by a white woman—another missionary. She’s a vicious, vicious killer, and she roams the streets still.”

  Some of the smaller boys gasped. Joe sighed.

  “You must tell each customer that the headlines are a lie. Shout it from the top of your lungs. ‘Lies, lies. Read all about it.’ Tell them the truth. If you do, I will come tomorrow and give you each a dol
lar and a toy surprise.”

  Joe whispered, “Where are you going to get that kind of money?”

  “I’m bluffing,” Anna whispered back.

  “I’m sure they can smell it.”

  They were, in fact, beginning to dismiss her with their eyes. Still, they stared.

  Anna bit her lip. “The toy surprise part is true.”

  “No.” Joe shook his head definitively.

  “Oh, very well.” She began to shout at the boys again. “That is . . . we have patrolmen all over the city. They will be watching you. If you do not spread the word, we will arrest you. You will be held in prison for the rest of your lives, fed only wormy bread and stagnant water with spiders in it.”

  Joe conked himself in the head. A newsie at the front of the line scratched his greasy scalp. Anna scanned the crowd. Eyes and brows formed triangles of doubt.

  Anna splayed her hands at Joe. “Help me.”

  Joe stepped up onto the stone railing and flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Singer with the LAPD. Spread the word. Or . . . or else.”

  Anna concluded loudly. “Do you understand?”

  The Herald’s big industrial doors opened, and the boys began to file up the stairs past Anna, staring at her, top to bottom. They entered the building, buying their stacks of papers from the printer.

  Once in possession, they dissolved into the streets of LA. To Anna’s relief, they began calling out to passersby. “Lies, lies. Read all about it.”

  Anna turned to Joe. “Now what do we do? Some of the newsies might not do it, and even if they do, not everybody’s going to listen to them.”