Joe said, “Chinatown’s flooded with cops because of the shootout. We tell Captain Dixon what’s going on, and he’ll mobilize the patrolmen. Meanwhile, I’ll get hard evidence so we can make an arrest.”
“I thought you didn’t believe me about Miss Robins.”
“It’s a lot to swallow, Sherlock. I’m reserving judgment.”
“Get Chan Mon. Maybe he’ll get Miss Robins to confess. We’ll say we know she didn’t mean it, and that it’s very understandable, even though it’s not.”
“Good idea, Sherlock. Stay here.”
“I thought we were clear on this. You don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m going back to Chinatown with you or without you.”
“Anna, this tong war’s not over.”
CHAPTER 26
A bullet hole marred the door at Chan Mon’s apothecary. Anna put her finger in the hole and touched the slug. Her heart pounded. “Jupiter.”
Joe tried the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn. He knocked, and silence answered.
Anna said, “Maybe he’s still at the temple.”
“First let’s find Dixon. Let the cops know what’s coming down the path.”
Anna nodded. They rounded the corner and passed the bulletin board where notices written in Chinese fluttered in the icy wind. The place looked desolate, without a man in sight. Saloons were closed and windows were shuttered. Anna stepped around a large bloodstain that dripped from the sidewalk onto the street and soaked into the mud. It was Chinese blood. Her fault. She stopped to stare at it. There would be more of it soon.
“Come on,” Joe said gently. He took her arm and pulled her along. Anna glanced back at the stain and wrapped her coat more tightly around herself.
A cop stood on the next corner looking watchful but tired, deflated after the violence. His pants were muddy at the knees, as if he’d fallen. The cop called gruffly, “Singer, get her out of here.”
Anna charged to him, hat flopping, and started talking fast. “There’s been a murder and you don’t know about it yet—a white woman killed in Chinatown. A missionary.”
The cop cut his eyes to Joe. “Just now?”
“No! It was weeks ago,” Anna said.
The officer cocked his head.
Anna repinned her hat as she forged on. “We covered it up because we knew that if people found out they would storm Chinatown.” Her words ran like champions. “But you have to know. A Chinaman didn’t do it. And you have to stop the bad people from pillaging and burning.” Anna smeared the back of her hand across her dewy forehead.
Once more, the cop looked to Joe.
Joe said, “She’s probably right. She usually is.”
The cop peered down the empty street, where no whites threatened Chinatown but for a blonde rat scuttling across the road. “If you say so, Joe.”
“Spread the word!” said Anna. “Get the Chinatown squad ready.”
“Find Captain Dixon and tell him to expect trouble from the west,” Joe said.
Two pop pops punctured the stillness.
“If I see him. The Chinatown Squad has their hands full.” The officer turned and jogged off in the direction of the shots.
Anna’s eyebrows formed a teepee of concern. “We’re on our own.”
Anna’s silk heels were grinding down on the rough board sidewalks as they jogged to the temple. She felt wet under the arms and could strongly smell her Ambre Antique perfume.
“Are you all right?” Joe asked.
She gulped air. “Of course.”
Inside the temple, a makeshift shroud, possibly a silk tablecloth, covered the dead boy’s body. The wounded man lay on his mat in an opium haze. The men who had sought refuge still knelt on silk cushions making supplications before the giant gods. Anna scuttled over, checking each man’s face. None was Chan Mon.
She wilted. Joe took her arm and led her quietly outside. She hadn’t eaten all day and felt shaky with exhaustion. Her stomach made an embarrassing sound.
Joe said, “Sherlock, go home, eat some Cracker Jacks, and go to bed.”
“Not unless you go to bed with me.”
“I think that came out wrong.”
“I’m not any more tired than you are, and we have evidence to collect. Neither one of us can go home. We’re not done. I want the morning papers to say we’ve made an arrest.”
Joe’s shoulders rose and fell. “All right. To the mission, then.”
“To the mission.” Her legs tried to keep pace with his longer ones.
He squeezed her arm. “Anna, I’m not saying I’m glad you’re here. I’d rather have you anywhere else, but you are the best damn detective on the force. I mean it.”
Anna wished he wouldn’t talk that way. It made her weak in the knees. She said nothing.
They reached Los Angeles Street. A group of twenty or so white men loitered near La Placita Church. Anna could see them across the plaza. She looked anxiously at Joe. “Who are those men?”
“I’m going to find out.” Joe moved closer, and Anna followed quietly at a distance to avoid being sent back. The men ranged in age from about fourteen to sixty-five and looked leaderless, uncertain, disorganized, angry. A well-dressed youth tapped a bench with a baseball bat. It made Anna’s spine prickle.
Joe flashed his badge and exchanged words with the men that Anna couldn’t hear. Ten or so persons huddled around to listen, their faces animated and skeptical. Joe waved his arms and the men began to disperse, heading back to town or down Los Angeles Street.
Joe jogged back to Anna, as serious as death.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“They say they’re just passing time, but clearly they read the paper.”
“Did you tell them the truth?”
“I did.” Joe ran his hands through his hair. “They were more concerned that a white girl had a Chinese lover.”
Shots rang out to the east, in Chinatown. Joe growled. “All hell’s breaking loose.”
“It’s not your fault.”
He stared at Anna with bitter Arrow Collar Man eyes. “Isn’t it? I hid the girls.”
Anna’s mouth opened and closed. She felt the weight of his guilt, the weight of her own.
She heard distant shouting. A stream of black smoke billowed up into the air from some building down Los Angeles Street, barely visible against the occulting sky.
Joe’s eyes widened, revealing a circle of white. He shouted, “Anna, go home!” He began running south. Anna loped after him, despite her footwear, weary state, and his admonition. Her body was floating, floating toward a crowd of white men who loitered in the street, angry faces hellishly aglow. It was the last place she should be, and yet her legs carried her forward.
The mission burned. Black smoke poured through the upper-floor windows into the first clear night LA had seen all week. In the absence of visible targets, men hurled insults at the flames. The roar of the blaze overwhelmed their voices, but Anna could guess their sentiments. They were mad about women missionaries working with Chinese men, and incensed over Elizabeth’s love affairs.
Joe grabbed her hand and yanked her toward the fire. Another volley of gunfire boomed in Chinatown. He stopped, bringing Anna to a standstill, and turned to look. He glanced again toward the mission, back at Chinatown, and then at her.
He yelled, “Anna, please go home!” Then he dropped her hand and ran. Anna’s legs worked furiously, bearing her toward the scene. The flames reflected in the windows of the churches across the street. The ancient proprietor of the Sun Wing Wo General Store, which flanked the mission, shuffled in and out, hauling merchandise from the vulnerable building and dumping it in the street. It promptly disappeared in the hands of looters.
Joe skidded to a stop at the back of the crowd in front of the mission. Anna overshot him, sliding past. He grabbed her arm to steady her.
She took a fistful of her frock and wrung it. “They’re smoking them out. The ladies are afraid to come out.”
One of the shouters
noticed Anna and stared. He tapped his companion, who was armed with a switch. They began drifting toward her exuding ferocity. Joe whispered, “Act like a whore, not a missionary.”
Anna hitched her skirt up to show a daring bit of shin and winked at them furiously and badly. Joe flashed his badge. “Back off. She’s under arrest for vagrancy.”
“She’s not a missionary?”
Anna’s eyelid fluttered. “Hell no.”
It forestalled their attack. They were distracted by the appearance of a Chinese man in silk pajamas, who began pacing in front of the flaming building, dangerously close, his skin glistening with heat. His eyes burned as he shouted in Chinese as if he had nothing to lose and nothing to fear. He held a gun in his hand, which kept the white men back.
It was Chan Mon.
Anna kept winking, kept lifting her skirt. Pulling her along, Joe approached Chan Mon cautiously. “Jones. You planning on shooting her when she comes out? Shooting her won’t make you feel better. We don’t even know if she did it.”
Chan Mon bellowed—not a word, but the sound of a man in anguish. He extended his gun hand to Joe. “Take it, quickly, before I change my mind.”
Joe took the gun and stuck it in the waistband of his pants. “Is she inside?”
Chan Mon nodded. He caught Joe’s eyes. “I didn’t set the blaze.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
Joe walked to the front door and kicked it open. He coughed, lowered his head, and called inside. “Mrs. Puce, Miss Robins. It’s Detective Singer. Come out.”
“No!” Anna grabbed a handful of his coat and pulled him backward. The fabric felt hot. He tried to extricate himself. She shouted, “You’ll be taking the ladies out of the fire and into the frying pan. You can’t fight off this mob alone. You’ll get trounced, even with a gun.”
“Anna, they are going to burn!” He called through the doorway again. “Come out!”
Anna snapped her head about. All the buildings on the west side of the block were attached—one continuous row. If the fire wagon didn’t arrive soon, they would all be ash.
She barreled down the street, around the corner, into the alley, doubling back until she reached the mission. Five rioters waited to ambush anyone who sought escape through the back door. Two well-dressed young fellows were kicking a trashcan, spreading litter everywhere, and making crashing sounds as it crumpled. They had smashed the lamps up and down the row. Their companions were drunkenly chanting, “Death to Chink lovers.” In contrast to the wealthy men, they looked rough and low class. Hate had brought them together.
Anna shouted, “Good evening. I’m a prostitute.” She flashed her shins like they were her badge. “Please help me. They are attacking missionary women in the front yard. Pulling their hair and such. Hurry. Hurry.”
The men hooted despicably and charged down the alley to partake of the imaginary bloodshed.
As soon as their backs were turned, Anna banged on the door. “It’s me, Matron Blanc. There are no men back here, but it won’t last. Come out while you can.”
She heard a bolt slide and Mrs. Puce opened the door, arms loaded with photographs, and stumbled into the back yard wheezing. Her face was red against her gray hair. Miss Robins followed, all aglow, carrying a framed picture and a wad of clothing. She dissolved into a coughing fit.
Anna whispered, “Is everyone out? The girl with the spectacles?”
“Gone home.” Miss Robins bent at the waist to spit. It gave Anna fleeting satisfaction.
“Then run toward downtown as fast as you can. Go to my apartment.” She pressed a key into Miss Robins’s hand.
Anna wanted to flee, too, but she had to go back for Joe, as he had unfortunate heroic tendencies. It would be a horror to save Miss Robins and lose Joe. As Anna rounded the corner onto the street, she came face-to-face with the trashcan kickers. Anna’s voice was two octaves higher than usual. “Biscuits.” She spun about and ran back through the alley. She could hear their drunken feet pounding behind her. They had longer legs and better shoes, but she had sobriety on her side and wasn’t screaming. At the end of the block, she looked back. One fop had tripped. One had folded over.
The mission burned, igniting the school and the Sun Wing Wo General Store. Joe and Chan Mon were gone. The fire brigade, with their team of white horses, unrolled their hoses and sprayed while the rioters chanted.
There was nothing left for Anna to do. She limped back toward the plaza, streaked with soot, smelling like fire. She wanted out of Chinatown. She heard her name being called and jogged toward the sound. She found Joe and Chan Mon searching the sidewalks, calling her.
Joe blinked at the sight of her. He ran and clutched her to him. “Damn you, Sherlock.” He stepped back like she was a hot stove. “We can’t be embracing.”
Chan Mon said flatly, “Miss Robins is dead. No one got out of the mission.”
“Actually, she’s at my apartment.”
Anna drove the paddy wagon back to her house, with Chan Mon deadly silent in the back. Joe perched on the edge of the passenger seat, his knee working up and down with adrenaline. The frigid night air stung Anna’s nostrils. Her cheeks felt too sunburned to touch. She led the men to her rundown apartment building, in through the hall, and knocked on her own door, having surrendered the key to the missionaries. Miss Robins answered. She had washed her face, fixed her hair, and changed, presumably into the dress she’d rescued from the mission, which was gorgeous and blue. She looked angelic, though she smelled like hell. Mrs. Puce had taken no such measures, and was sleeping on Anna’s bed, atop the white matelassé coverlet. She looked smoked. Anna wondered if you could get soot out of white coverlets. She would ask Joe.
Miss Robins stepped outside and closed the door with a quiet click, presumably to avoid waking Mrs. Puce. Then she saw Chan Mon. She screamed and flew to Joe like a startled bird, moving behind him, using his body as a shield.
Joe glanced at Chan Mon, who was staring open-mouthed. “Don’t worry, Miss Robins,” Joe said. “He’s not going to hurt you. I won’t let him.”
Like a striking snake that’s been cornered, Miss Robins reached into Joe’s waistband, where her hand did not belong, and grabbed Chan Mon’s gun. Joe caught her wrist, holding her hand down in an awkward position behind his back. As he turned around, she dropped to her knees and put the muzzle in her mouth.
The noise smacked Anna’s ears like a rock, leaving them ringing. Miss Robins lay dead in the hallway of Anna’s apartment building, blood spattering her stunning blue gown.
CHAPTER 27
It was midnight before the coroner removed Miss Robins’s body and Anna could finally retire, though she had to share the bed with Mrs. Puce. Anna bathed in the communal tub, which was always frigid after six, and changed into a negligee trimmed with lace. She drew back the matelassé coverlet, which was now smudged with gray, and lay down beside the quietly sobbing missionary. She slept like she was dead.
In the morning, she left the woman sleeping and stepped into the hallway dressed in black. Someone had scrubbed the tile outside her door clean of blood during the wee hours. She wondered if Joe had done it.
She rode her bike to the station. Joe was in conference with Captain Wells, and she could see them through the glass of the captain’s office window. The door opened, and Joe came out. He strode past Anna with the barest nod of acknowledgement. His eyes were pained.
Anna followed him. “It’s Chinatown, isn’t it? Everyone is dead.”
“Anna, not now.”
Anna blinked. She’d been insulted by Joe Singer on many occasions, but she’d never been dismissed. “Joe.” She reached out and took his hand. “Thank you.”
He gave her a potent look that she couldn’t read and took his hand back. It left her mightily confused. Was he angry with her? She said, “For cleaning the hall outside my apartment. Thanks.”
He sauntered to the reception area where a young woman waited with a basket full of bread, cookies, and other good t
hings.
It was the piano girl. She stared dazedly at Anna, like a bird that had flown into glass. Joe took the girl’s gloved hand and kissed it. He led her outside into the sunlight. The girl cast Anna a backward glance, her brows knit in confusion. Anna stared back, because she couldn’t help it, because she’d lost her mind and manners. She was stricken.
Later, Anna sat at her desk typing nonsense in a mad flurry. Anna couldn’t type, but the feel of the pounding of the keys almost soothed her, and it made her look busy on a day in which she could not focus. Her mind raced with images: The dead child; Ting Ting disappearing under the water; Miss Robins pulling the trigger, and her blood on the tile; Joe Singer kissing his fiancée’s gloved hand. Anna pushed the carriage return. The typewriter made a grinding sound and pinged. She typed some more.
Joe appeared and coughed. “Uh. Good morning.”
Anna looked up from her papers, but her eyes rose no higher than his collar. “I upset your fiancée with my familiarity. I regret—.”
“Never mind,” he said. “She’ll forgive me eventually. But things are different now. I’m going to be a married man, Anna.” He hesitated. “I mean, Assistant Matron Blanc.”
Anna nodded. “Yes, Detective.”
“You were right about the murder. We have evidence that Miss Robins was the killer. That dress she was wearing—Chan Mon identified it as one he bought Elizabeth as a gift.”
“The missing dress,” Anna said vaguely.
“Yes. And that tea you took from the crime scene—it was opium, like you said.”
“I suppose she’d rather take her life than face the gallows.” Her smooth brow furrowed. “And how is Chinatown?”
“Six more dead. All suspected highbinders. Chan Mon is trying to broker a truce with the new tong presidents.”
Anna nodded as the news sank in and settled in the silt of her remorse. She wanted to ask him if he felt guilty too. If he thought they had done wrong by rescuing the slave girls, especially since they weren’t truly rescued at all, but she said nothing.
The Woman in the Camphor Trunk Page 28
