Murder In Chinatown

by Victoria Thompson

  To Frank’s surprise, the address proved to be a well-kept house on a side street near Mott. If the Lee family lived well, John Wong was doing even better. Frank rang the doorbell and waited. After a while, a young Chinese man answered. He wore the silk blouse and baggy pants that were almost a uniform for the Chinese in the city. He had wrapped his queue around his head, probably so bullies wouldn’t be tempted to pull it.

  “What do you want?” he asked with a worried frown. Once again, Frank had been correctly identified.

  “I want to see Mr. Wong.”

  “He not here.”

  “Where is he?” Frank asked mildly. No sense in getting riled up until it was necessary.

  “I not know. He gone. Not come back.”

  “Isn’t this his house?” Frank asked in feigned confusion.

  The young man nodded. “Yes, yes, his house. He not here now.”

  “When will he be back?”

  The fellow’s dark eyes flitted nervously about. “Tomorrow,” he finally decided. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Frank shook his head. “I’m here now. I’ll wait for him.”

  Catching the fellow by surprise, he pushed the door open, forcing him backward, and stepped inside. The front hallway ended in a stairway to the second floor, and doorways on either side led to spacious rooms. Carpets on the floor and lace curtains in the windows, Frank noticed enviously in the moment before the young fellow started shouting something in Chinese. Frank didn’t have to understand the language to know he was shouting a warning to John Wong.

  He heard a disturbance upstairs, the sound of feet hitting the floor and people scrambling to either escape or hide. Frank pushed past the young man, who was trying to block his way, and started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He could hear someone in one of the rooms shouting what sounded like, “Kee-ree, kee-ree!” Then a door opened, and a Chinese man appeared. He was wrapping a silk robe around his naked body and looking harried. He stopped dead when he saw Frank.

  “What do you want?” he demanded with an authority that indicated he owned the place.

  “John Wong?” Frank asked.

  “I have done nothing wrong,” he informed Frank haughtily.

  “Then you won’t mind answering a few questions.”

  “Question about what?”

  “About Angel Lee.”

  Wong’s expression hardened. “I know nothing about her. She is married—to a white man. Why do you come to me about her?”

  “I’m trying to find out who killed her.”

  Wong’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Kill? What you mean, kill?”

  “I mean she’s dead,” Frank said, wondering if it could be possible that Wong didn’t know.

  “Angel is dead?”

  Frank tried to read his expression, but the man was too used to concealing his true feelings. “Yes, she was murdered. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Wong shook his head. “I know nothing about this.”

  The fellow who had answered the door had crept up the stairs behind Frank, and now he asked Wong something in Chinese. He responded tersely, and the young man scampered down the stairs again.

  “You are from the police?” Wong asked Frank.

  “That’s right. I’m trying to find Angel’s killer, and I need some information from you.”

  “I do not know who killed her,” he insisted.

  “You might know something that will help me find out who did, though.”

  Wong didn’t want to cooperate. He wanted to throw Frank down the stairs. Frank could see it in his eyes, but then he glanced at the door through which he’d come, and instantly, his attitude changed.

  “You will let me dress myself,” he said, gesturing toward the silk robe, which was all he wore over his slender frame. “Then I will speak with you…Downstairs,” he added.

  Then he called out something in Chinese to the young man, who was waiting at the foot of the stairs. The young man hurried back up to escort Frank. Frank didn’t want to leave Wong. He might try to escape down the back stairs or something, but Frank figured he wouldn’t be very cooperative if Frank tried to force the issue. Better to let Wong think he was in charge of the interview. He let the boy lead him down to the front parlor.

  Frank had a few minutes to think about what had just happened while he waited for Wong to put on some clothes. Plainly, the fellow who answered the door knew Wong was busy, and Wong certainly hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. The fact that he’d been naked, in his bedroom, in the middle of the day, told Frank a woman was involved. He didn’t particularly care if Wong had a woman up there, although Wong might expect him to, especially if she was white, and she undoubtedly was.

  The newspapers liked to print stories about young white girls being kidnapped by the Chinese and forced to smoke opium so they’d become helpless sex slaves. The stories en-flamed the prejudices against the Chinese, but they had very little basis in fact, at least from Frank’s experience. He’d never found a white girl in an opium den who wasn’t there of her own free will, and there seemed to be plenty of white women perfectly willing to go with Chinese men, making kidnapping totally unnecessary.

  Like Mrs. Lee, for instance. And the woman upstairs was probably another.

  Frank made himself comfortable in Wong’s lavishly furnished parlor, but he didn’t have to wait long. Wong appeared in just a few minutes, dressed in a silk blouse and baggy pants, but his “uniform” was made of much higher quality material than that worn by the ordinary Chinese laborers in the street. It had also been tailored carefully to fit. Wong had donned richly embroidered slippers, and smoothed his hair and wound his queue neatly around his head. He was a handsome man, for being Chinese, and well built. Frank guessed he must be around forty.

  “I am very sorry about Angel,” he said when he had taken a seat in a chair near Frank’s. “Her father is old friend.”

  “Is that why he wanted you to marry her?”

  Wong didn’t like the question, but he wasn’t going to say so. “Charlie Lee want me take care of his daughter.”

  “It must’ve hurt your pride when she ran away.”

  He chose his words carefully. “She very young. Does not know what is best.”

  Frank noted that he still used the present tense. He wasn’t used to her being dead yet. “You think she would’ve been happier married to you?” Frank asked skeptically.

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. Frank let his surprise show, so Wong continued, “Look around. Do you not think so?”

  He did, but he couldn’t agree. “Angel was young, like you said. She must’ve had lots of young fellows chasing after her.”

  “Chasing?” Wong echoed with a frown.

  “Courting,” Frank clarified.

  Wong shook his head emphatically. “Her father not permit.”

  “Are you saying none of the Chinese boys she knew wanted her for themselves?”

  “They cannot support wife,” Wong explained patiently. “They never look on her.”

  Frank was impressed with Wong’s ability to speak English. He had an accent, of course, but Frank wasn’t having any trouble at all understanding him. The only thing that bothered him was the way Wong couldn’t seem to pronounce “l” clearly. He’d noticed that most Chinese had the same difficulty. They pronounced it like an “r” instead.

  “Where were you the day before yesterday?” Frank asked suddenly.

  Wong didn’t like this question, either. “I tell you, I not kill Angel.”

  “Then you must have been doing something else,” Frank replied reasonably. “What was it?”

  Wong frowned as he considered. “I here.”

  “Here, at home, all day?” Frank asked.

  Wong nodded.

  “Was anybody with you?”

  Frank noticed Wong’s gaze flicker upward, as if he was thinking about the woman upstairs. Had she been keeping him busy for three days?

  “I alone,” Wong lied. “Except
for Ah Woh, my nephew. He tell you I am here.”

  “I’m sure he will.” Ah Woh would undoubtedly swear to anything John Wong wanted.

  A loud thump on the ceiling startled them both, and Wong looked up again. The woman wasn’t being very discreet. What had Wong called her? Kee-ree.

  Suddenly, Frank knew exactly who was upstairs. He was on his feet and out the door in an instant, Wong’s surprised cry of protest echoing behind him. Once again he took the stairs two at a time, with Wong close behind him.

  “Kee-ree!” Wong shouted in warning, but she misunderstood.

  She thought he was summoning her. She opened the bedroom door and looked out. “Johnny?” she replied, and started when she saw Frank barreling down on her. She tried to shut the door, but Frank caught it and pushed it open again.

  She went stumbling backward, catching herself on the bedpost. She wore a beautiful red silk robe and apparently nothing else. She was a tall girl and buxom. The robe probably belonged to Wong, and it fit her fine, her curves filling the soft fabric invitingly.

  “Keely,” Frank said, pronouncing it correctly. “Keely O’Neal.” Behind him, Wong made a furious sound, but he quieted at a look from Frank.

  Keely gaped at him in surprise. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy,” he informed her. “And maybe I’m looking for you. Have you been kidnapped?” Certain things were starting to make sense now, like why Mrs. O’Neal had been lying about her daughter’s whereabouts. She must have known Keely was here.

  Keely looked genuinely puzzled. “Kidnapped? Who would kidnap me?”

  Frank looked around. An elaborately carved, four-poster, walnut bed dominated the room. The bedclothes were rumpled, the spread half on the floor. He glanced meaningfully at Wong, then back at the girl. “Oh, maybe a rich Chinese man who wanted a concubine.”

  “What’s a concubine?” she asked, curling a strand of her long, dark hair around one finger. It hung nearly to her waist and needed a good brushing.

  “From the looks of things, you are,” he replied.

  “I ain’t no whore, if that’s what you’re talking about,” she informed him indignantly, pulling her robe more tightly around her. “Johnny, tell him. We’re getting married!”

  “Are you old enough to get married?” Frank asked before Wong could confirm or deny.

  “I’m eighteen,” she lied.

  “No, you’re not,” Frank said. “How long have you been here?”

  “I don’t know,” she said defiantly. “A couple days.”

  He knew she’d been gone from home at least since Angel died. He looked at Wong for confirmation.

  Wong’s face was a dull red, but whether from anger or embarrassment, Frank couldn’t tell. “Four day,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Frank didn’t bother to hide his amazement. “You’ve been up here with her for four days?”

  “All except for when you went down to talk to Mr. Lee,” Keely reminded him quickly. “He was with me the rest of the time.”

  Frank couldn’t speak for a moment. Four days! Miss Keely O’Neal must be much more interesting and not nearly so innocent as he would’ve suspected. “When did you talk to Lee?” he asked Wong finally.

  “Three day,” Wong said, now obviously furious.

  Before Angel was killed, Frank noted. “And what were you doing two days ago?” he asked Wong for the second time.

  Wong just glared back at him, and after a few seconds, Keely laughed wickedly. Frank turned to her.

  “He was up here with me all day,” she told him with obvious delight. “What do you think he was doing?”

  “The whole time between noon and early evening?” Frank asked to clarify.

  “Oh, yes.” Keely grinned provocatively and looked at Wong. “That was the day I dressed up, remember?”

  Wong remembered, but it wasn’t something he wanted Frank to know about. “Angel is dead,” Wong told her bluntly.

  Keely’s grin vanished. “I heard him telling you that somebody killed her. Was that when she was killed? In the afternoon, two days ago?”

  “That’s right,” Frank said.

  “Well, we was both right here the whole time. You can ask Ah Woh.”

  Naturally, Wong’s nephew and his mistress would both swear he was here when Angel was murdered. Neither was a very reliable witness.

  “You don’t seem too upset to hear about Angel,” Frank said to her. “I thought you were friends.”

  “We wasn’t never friends,” Keely said with distaste. “She would just cry to me about how miserable she was because nobody else would listen to her.”

  “Kee-ree,” Wong said sharply. “Put on clothes.”

  Keely seemed startled to realize she’d been holding a conversation with a strange man wearing nothing but a flimsy robe.

  “Don’t bother,” Frank said, turning away. “I’m finished.” He strode out of the bedroom. Wong followed him, closing the door behind him. Frank turned to face him in the hallway.

  “She was not kidnap,” Wong said with the faintest hint of apprehension. He knew Frank could ruin him with an accusation like that. Outraged whites would destroy his home and his businesses and probably string him up in the bargain.

  “Who brought her here?”

  “No one. She come herself,” Wong said. “She say…”

  “What did she say?” Frank pressed.

  He had to force himself to speak the words. “She say Angel tell her about me. Angel say I make good husband.”

  “And you believed her?” Frank asked in amazement.

  “No,” Wong admitted.

  Now that made sense. “But you let her stay anyway,” he guessed.

  Wong didn’t need to answer. Only a fool would have turned her away, and Wong was no fool.

  “What did you and Charlie Lee talk about the other day?” Frank asked.

  Wong stiffened slightly in silent resistance. “Business.”

  “His business or yours?”

  “Business,” he repeated stubbornly. He thought it was none of Frank’s concern what they had discussed. Maybe it wasn’t, but Frank would find out eventually anyway.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Angel Lee?” Frank tried.

  Wong gave the question a few moments’ thought. “She not obey father. She is punished.”

  “You think her father killed her?” Frank asked, surprised that Wong would make the accusation.

  “I do not know,” Wong said. “But I did not.”

  Frank wasn’t sure about that, but he decided to take his leave for now. He started down the stairs, and Wong followed. Either he was playing the good host and seeing him out, or he just wanted to make sure Frank left.

  When they reached the front door, Ah Woh was there to open it. Frank gave him one of his fiercest glares. “Where was your uncle two days ago?”

  The fellow’s eyes widened with terror, and the color drained from his face, but he looked to Wong for guidance.

  “Tell him,” Wong said.

  “Here,” the boy fairly squeaked, pointing upstairs. “He sleep, all afternoon.”

  No surprise there. Frank started out the door, then stopped and turned back to Wong. “You really going to marry her?”

  Wong stared back, revealing nothing.

  10

  SARAH WAS PLAYING WITH CATHERINE UPSTAIRS WHEN she heard someone ringing her front doorbell. Catherine’s disappointment mirrored her own. She’d just gotten back from her last delivery a short while ago. Maeve went down to answer the door, and Sarah waited with Catherine for the inevitable summons.

  “Mrs. Brandt,” Maeve called up after a few minutes, “Mr. Malloy is here!”

  Catherine’s face lit with happiness, and she was halfway down the stairs before Sarah even got to her feet. By the time she reached the front hallway, Malloy was holding the child in his arms and asking her questions. She responded by nodding or shaking her head, but Malloy did
n’t mind that she wasn’t speaking.

  “Malloy,” Sarah said in greeting. She didn’t bother to hide her delight at seeing him. Why his presence always brought her so much pleasure, she didn’t bother to question. He was, simply, the most interesting person she knew, and the one who made her feel most alive. For a long time, she’d tried to pretend that was because he had involved her in his investigations, but she now knew that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was because when she was with him, she felt like a woman.

  “Mrs. Brandt,” he replied, looking just as pleased to see her as she was to see him.

  “Mr. Malloy, we’ve got some chocolate cake,” Maeve said. “Would you like some?”

  He pretended to consider. “Did you make it or did Mrs. Ellsworth?”

  Maeve grinned slyly. “We did, but she helped us, so it’s very good.”

  “All right then,” he said, making the girls laugh with delight. “I’d love to taste it.”

  The girls escorted him back to the kitchen with Sarah following along behind, watching fondly as he teased them and made them giggle. Children could never be fooled by a person’s character, and the fact that the girls adored Malloy told her everything she would ever need to know about him.

  Half an hour later, when Malloy had sampled the cake and declared it delicious, he asked Maeve to take Catherine back upstairs so he and Mrs. Brandt could talk for a bit.

  When they were alone, Sarah refilled their coffee cups and took a seat opposite him. “Do you have news for me?”

  “I haven’t found Angel’s killer yet, if that’s what you mean, but I figured I better give you a report pretty soon or I’d find you waiting for me down at Headquarters some morning, demanding an explanation.”

  Sarah smiled. The last place Sarah would choose to track down Malloy would be Police Headquarters. She’d once been locked in an interrogation room for several hours for trying that. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” she confessed. “It’s been very difficult not being involved.”

  “I figured it was,” he said, and she saw the sympathy in his dark eyes.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” she said. “What have you found out?”

  “I found out Angel wasn’t very happy with her new life,” he began.