Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  "Are those rumors good or bad?"

  "From where I sit, all the rumors about Din Gau, the formidable detective, are good. We share a mutual enemy—the criminal tongs." Ho Yow poured himself some tea, and added a drop of milk and sugar. "You've certainly wasted little time in reestablishing your reputation in Chinatown."

  "A habit of mine."

  "Consul Chang warned me about you, Mr. Riot. He said that you are relentless and principled, and that makes you a dangerous man."

  "Do you agree?"

  "The criminal tongs are made up of relentless and principled men, too. We may not agree with their practices, but there is honor within their ranks—if a twisted kind of honor."

  "Know thyself, know thine enemy," Riot quoted Sun Tzu.

  "A thousand battles, a thousand victories," Ho Yow finished. "When I studied law in England, I found little honor in the profession."

  "Cambridge."

  Ho Yow dipped his chin. "A guess?"

  "No, your accent."

  Ho Yow raised his brows. "As perceptive as the Great Detective."

  "I'm afraid I don't hold a candle to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He's brilliant. I'm more the Watson of Ravenwood Agency."

  "And your partner was the Holmes?"

  "Yes. Very much so."

  "Still, you're more perceptive than Watson, I think."

  "The good doctor is simply a humble man."

  Ho Yow tilted his head slightly. "Yes, one could interpret the stories that way. Perhaps he is cunning, too."

  "I wouldn't go that far."

  "Still, the unexpected can be used to one's advantage. My background in law makes me a formidable consul. Politicians are not used to a British solicitor representing China." He smiled. "It was the student tradition of roof climbing that gave me a taste for adventure. Harness racing is equally exhilarating. But I doubt you came to hear about my university days, Mr. Riot. Unless you came to discuss horses, in which case I'll talk your ear off for hours. Fair warning."

  The edge of Riot's lip quirked. "Noted." He studied the consul, letting silence hang in the air. How much should he tell this unknown man? Could he trust him? Sometimes, as the consul had insinuated, surprise was a detective's only card.

  "How much do you know about Sing Ping King Sur?"

  Ho Yow froze, his teacup poised in midair. He eyed Riot over the brim. A moment later, Ho Yow abruptly set the cup in its saucer, stood, and closed his office door. "You certainly don't waste time."

  "No one can find it," Riot replied, a subtle reference to the proverb hanging in the sitting room wall.

  Ho Yow sat, and folded his hands. All trace of the cheerful young man vanished. The Imperial Consul General of the Chinese Empire sat across the desk from him now. "Where did you hear that name?"

  "They were the last words of a man who drove a knife through his heart."

  "Jim Parks."

  Riot nodded.

  "I read the newspaper articles. There was no mention of Sing Ping King Sur at the inquest."

  Riot had been much amused by the article Isobel wrote detailing her interview with him. "Given your reaction, I think you know why I failed to mention that name."

  "Do you know why?" Ho Yow asked. It was a profound question.

  "I was told that the words killed my partner, Zephaniah Ravenwood. That those words would kill me, too. I assume it's a tong."

  Ho Yow sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, his gaze traveling over a railroad map that stretched along a wall. He was deep in thought for a minute, and then returned his attention to his guest. "I know what happened three years ago, Mr. Riot. You did China a favor by executing the Hip Yee leaders. But it created a void of power. The tongs have been at war ever since. The violence has driven many residents to other parts of the state. It's much the same as when Little Pete was assassinated, only this is more brutal. There is no 'King of Chinatown' keeping the other tongs in check."

  "And what of Sing Ping King Sur?"

  "It is a whisper; a shadow. I do not think it exists. My detectives and informants have been unable to confirm its existence."

  "But you don't deny it? You closed the door when I mentioned it."

  "I understand the power of words. Whether truth or lies, words can incite a mob to murder innocent people."

  "How did you first hear of Sing Ping King Sur?" Riot asked.

  "A boo how doy working for Bing On. He was known as the Butcher. When See Yup's leader was found dead in a pool of blood, all eyes turned to him. But he did not take credit for the assassination. While he was heavy in his cups, he confided to a friend—one of my informants—that Sing Ping King Sur had carried out the assassination. My detectives found nothing. Only a phantom—a superstition as real as spirits and devils."

  "Did anyone come forward?"

  Ho Yow shook his head.

  "That seems strange. Boo how doy are always eager to take credit for a kill."

  "They are. Perhaps a devil killed the leader."

  "I've met a few devils in my lifetime. They're gifted at keeping to the shadows."

  "This devil was exceptional, then. I ask you, Mr. Riot, as a detective: How do you track a superstition?"

  "It takes a relentless man."

  "Do you believe Jim Parks? That a tong so mysterious, so shrouded in silence that no one can confirm its existence, killed your partner?"

  "I intend to find out."

  "Where my detectives have failed?"

  "Perhaps it takes a devil to find one," Riot said.

  Ho Yow looked him square in the eye. "And you are that devil?"

  Riot didn't answer. Only waited.

  "Remember, Mr. Riot, Americans have a habit of pinning things on the 'vile Chinese'. This would not be the first wild rumor to be spread by a white man. The word 'plague' is my current concern—my killing word. Yet another lie to spread hate and fear. I will not allow a repeat of Honolulu. Not in my quarter."

  Honolulu's Chinatown had been incinerated only months before due to a plague outbreak. The resulting homeless were currently being housed in detention camps.

  "Have the plague deaths been confirmed?" Riot asked.

  "Doctor Kinyoun and a few city health officers say so, but the State Health Board have not confirmed the deaths as plague. And then there is this." Ho Yow opened a drawer, and tossed a sheet of paper onto the desk.

  Riot read the note. 'The plague is a sham. I'll lift the quarantine for ten thousand in gold. Hang a red silk scarf from the second-story window of the consulate building when you're ready to pay. I'll contact you with further instructions.'

  "It was delivered by a carrier through a string of street urchins the day the quarantine barrier was put in place."

  "Did you hang the scarf?"

  "Of course," Ho Yow said. "I wanted to find out who made the offer. But I had no intention of paying. There was no further contact, and the quarantine was lifted a few days later. I have heard nothing more."

  Riot put his nose to the parchment, took a deep breath, and then reached into his pocket for his magnifying glass. He studied the paper closely.

  Ho Yow raised his brows. "Let me guess. A man with a limp and a white terrier living on California Street wrote that?"

  "I'm afraid I'm not that talented, Consul Ho. But this was written by a left-handed man who is educated. Although some say it's impossible to determine the sex from handwriting alone, I believe otherwise. He's confident, not desperate. This wasn't written by a man looking for an easy con. The paper is expensive, and it bears the same watermark as the paper that's found in every room of the Palace Hotel—except that it has no hotel letterhead. This paper may have been taken from the man's personal office supply, or he may have purchased it from the boutique in the Palace. Based on the tobacco smell permeating the parchment and the lack of smell in your own office, I'd say it was written in a private office."

  The consul leaned forward. "That is most impressive, Mr. Riot."

  "A good guess."

  Ho Yow huf
fed. "I will have my detectives follow up on that information. Perhaps we can trace this 'left-handed' man through the paper company. It's almost a shame that the quarantine was lifted. I was curious to see how he planned on transporting ten thousand dollars worth of gold without being discovered."

  Riot considered the problem. "Discovery may not have been a concern."

  "True. A white man conning the Chinese Consulate would have been heralded as a triumph, not a criminal act."

  Riot frowned at the note. "There's another option. It may have been intended as a warning—to sow doubt about Doctor Kinyoun's claim."

  "In that case, it worked. Although I was already doubtful."

  "A cry of plague goes both ways," Riot mused. "It may drive Chinese out of the Quarter, but there's also the possibility that it would shut down ports. White newspapers are calling it a sham as well."

  "The ports would not be closed if the plague is contained to 'yellow people'. The Honolulu ports have already recovered from their plague. All it took was the torching of Chinatown. Then it was business as usual."

  Riot had to agree with that sentiment. "Have you spoken with Dr. Kinyoun, and the officials who performed the postmortems?"

  "I have. Police Surgeon Wilson, a health officer by the name of O'Brien, and a bacteriologist, Wilfred Kellogg, are adamant that there have been five confirmed plague deaths. The guinea pigs, rats, and a monkey that Kinyoun injected with fluid from the dead have died as well. But is that really surprising? If you take fluid from a dead man and inject it into the living… it would most likely kill anything."

  "I'm not a medical man, Consul," Riot admitted. "And I don't pretend to understand much about bacteriology, but Kinyoun and Kellogg are experts in their field."

  "Experts, yes. But even white physicians view bacteriology as 'black magic'. The health officials are trying to pass a mandatory vaccination for Chinatown, with the Haffkine vaccine—a vaccine that causes sickness. But only for the Chinese." His words were clipped. An undercurrent of anger. "Tell me, Mr. Riot, if plague was brought to San Francisco on a steamer from Honolulu, how did this disease skip over eight blocks of the Barbary Coast to kill a lumber salesman in the Globe Hotel?"

  "That'd be a question for a bacteriologist."

  Ho Yow sat back. "I'm sure you can appreciate why I'm skeptical of 'expert' opinion."

  "Would you like me to look into the matter?"

  "Officially? No. I have my own detectives, but if you should hear anything, I would not turn down information."

  "I'd appreciate it if you'd return the favor."

  "For a man the tongs call Din Gau…? I would be a fool not to."

  Riot stood to leave, and extended his hand, but then he stopped. His gaze fell on the magnificent dragon banner, with its shimmering scales and flashing eyes. "You frequent the horse tracks," he said, more to himself.

  "As much as my duties allow." Ho Yow turned to admire his racing colors.

  "Have you encountered a man by the name of Parker Gray or Andrew Ross?"

  "I've met Andrew Ross, yes. He has an eye for winning horses that would rival Little Pete."

  The innuendo was not lost on Riot. Little Pete had been infamous for rigging races and buying jockeys. He had made a fortune before his scam was uncovered.

  "Ross is far more subtle, however."

  "Was," Riot said.

  Ho Yow raised his brows. "I see. I've been distracted by this plague business. What happened?"

  "He was killed." Riot did not relate the entire story. That was not his aim.

  "I can't say I'm sorry."

  "Nor was I," Riot admitted. "Have you heard the name Lincoln Howe?"

  Ho Yow frowned, his mustache accentuating the gesture. He rifled through a desk drawer, and laid out a telegram slip. "I have never met the man, but my people are being blamed for his disappearance. He is a health inspector. He came from Honolulu on the SS Australia, and went missing the first week of March."

  And just like that, a piece fell into place. The mysterious Lincoln Howe had been found, or rather lost.

  13

  Drowning

  So absorbed in the infantile delight of destruction, Atticus ignored the recovered records. —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  ISOBEL PACED IN HER holding cell, back and forth like a caged thing. One telephone call. Her choice had been obvious.

  The other women in her cramped cell watched her. They kept their distance. It might have been the smell emanating from her person. The drab wool dress that a matron had forced her into had done nothing for the lingering scent of her vagrant guise.

  "You sure that's a woman?" a prostitute called through the bars.

  "Shut it, Mary," a matron snapped.

  "Bloody crazy," Mary muttered.

  Isobel felt as if she were mad. She could not breathe. Could not think in this small, cramped cell. It wasn't the first time she had seen the inside of a jail. But back then she'd always had her father's name to wave in front of the police.

  Isobel walked back and forth on a worn little path, counting her steps. Her world ended at five steps.

  "I think she's sick," another voice said. "Look at the girl's hair."

  "She's right thin."

  "Guard, we think this one's got the plague!"

  Isobel ignored them. All her energy was focused on breathing, but her lungs had shrunk in size, and each breath came hard. She wanted to scream.

  Five steps. She was drowning.

  Isobel put her back to a corner, and slid down the cold stone, covering her head with her hands. No one came near her. The only sound in her self-made cocoon was the rush of blood in her ears. She was frozen in that corner. Trapped. For how long? Hours? Days?

  Every regret, every foolish mistake and failure came crashing down on her like a wave. Her life seemed hopeless, and the irony of it was that she was already dead to the world.

  "Charlotte Bonnie!" The call whipped her head up. A policeman stood at the bars of the holding cell. Isobel climbed to her feet and nearly fell. Needles pricked down her legs as she staggered towards the bars. The cell was empty. How long had she been there? "Your father is here for you."

  Joy, dread, and puzzlement battled in the silence that followed.

  "My father?" she breathed. Her father, Marcus Amsel—calm and warm, and always patient, he was the best father a daughter could ask for. And she was every father's nightmare. She didn't deserve him—not after all she had put him through.

  A moment later, reason returned. In keeping with her story to the police, she had telephoned Mack McCormick, only he hadn't been at the office. Had he received her message? But why would Mack pose as her father?

  It wasn't Mack, and it wasn't her father. The man who claimed that title was neither tall and thin nor tall and solid. A wizened old man with a white beard rocked back and forth from toe to heel. He seemed ill-suited to a suit, and held his straw hat over his heart as if it would protect him from all the brass in the room.

  Tim looked at her, blue eyes narrowing with anger. "I told you, gurl, this newspaper business isn't no profession for a woman!" he growled. "Whatcha do to her? Did you rough her up?" He shot an accusing eye at the police sergeant.

  "My men were attacked," the sergeant said.

  "By this beanpole of a gurl?"

  Isobel clasped her hands in front of her, and let her head droop in remorse.

  "She smashed a bottle over a patron's head."

  "Now, I talked to your boy," Tim said. "He said there was two people in that alley. Sounds as if your boys went for the easier prey. And don't you worry, I'll see she's properly punished. I appreciate you dropping the charges, but goddammit, man. Your boys need to toughen up if they're claiming a wee thing like my darlin' Charlotte here got the better of 'em."

  Tim continued to berate the sergeant, his patrolmen, and anyone else in range as he frog-marched Isobel towards the exit. But before he pushed her through the door, he yanked a frilly shawl free from his hat. "Put this on, quick now," Ti
m ordered. Without questioning him, she swept the shawl around her shoulders. He plopped his straw hat on her head, tilted it low, and fished his own cap out of his pocket.

  Stark daylight blinded her. She blinked past the sun, disoriented and wishing she'd had sense enough to consult a clock. Voices battered her.

  "Will you press charges, Miss Bonnie?"

  "How serious are your injuries?"

  "Wasn't that a risky stunt?"

  "Foolish, more like!"

  Reporters. A whole murder of them. The reason for hat and shawl became apparent. She made use of the accessories, making sure her face was obscured by the brim. A moment later, a flash bulb went off.

  Tobias White hopped off a waiting hack, and opened the door for her. Eyes bright, he was trying to hold back a smile. He looked very official.

  Isobel climbed inside the hack, and Tim followed on her heels. The door slammed shut, and the carriage lurched forward. As it rattled over cobblestones, she glanced out the window. What had seemed like a mob, was only five desperate reporters aching for a story and cash.

  Tobias' face appeared in the window, and he folded his arms on the sill. "Where to?"

  "My boat."

  "Hold on, Tobias. You sure you don't want to head to the house for a hot bath?" Tim asked. "Pardon my French, but you smell like shit."

  She stuck her head out the window. "The Folsom Street Pier, if you please, Grimm." Nearly a man, Grimm was as sober as his nickname. He gave a stoic nod.

  "What if he don't please?" Tobias asked.

  "Git back on the seat before you fall under the wheels," Tim ordered. Tobias made a face and disappeared, climbing alongside the hack.

  Isobel sank back into the seat with a sigh. "How did you hear I was in a holding cell?"

  Tim pulled out a newspaper from his coat. "Page four."

  When she found the article, she let out a string of curses directed at Mack, her editor, and reporters in general.

  "They are vultures, Miss Bel."

  "I would have called you or Riot, but I didn't want my name tied to the agency anymore than it already is."