by Jake Logan
“Jason is from there. He said he knew men who could pay huge amounts of money for Chinese jade. But the crown was the best of the pieces. Worth a fortune.”
“A small fortune or a big one?”
“Huge,” Tess confided. “It is a Tang Dynasty artifact, dating from AD 600.”
“Instead of sending it all by train to Boston, you were going with it to New York. Sir William would never have found you.”
“That was what I thought. Jason had other ideas, apparently. The whore’s son!”
Tess began shaking again, this time from anger. Slocum draped his shirt over her bare shoulders. The cold morning air slipped across his own bare chest, but he was better able to tolerate it than the woman. Moreover, modesty dictated that she be covered.
“Why wasn’t the crown in the crates? Lai Choi San isn’t one to miss something she wants so bad.”
“Jason, he, oh, I hate him!”
“He double-crossed you?”
“He put me aboard the Portobello. I knew what was in the crates. I thought I had the box in our cabin with the jade crown. He slipped off the ship seconds before we sailed. I didn’t realize that he had gone until I looked in the box and found only a brick. When I searched, one of the sailors told me he had seen Jason standing on the dock.”
“With the crown.”
“Yes, with the damned crown. I could have killed him, but we were already through the Golden Gate and setting course down the coast.”
“That’s about the time the pirates attacked.”
“They can keep the rest of the jade artifacts. Those are really minor pieces. Oh, worth something, but only a fraction what the crown is.” Tess looked up at him. “John, help me get the crown from him. Do that and you can have anything you want.” Tess let his shirt slip open to expose one breast in obvious display of what his reward might be.
“What if I wanted the crown instead?”
“I—” Tess clamped her mouth shut and glared into the flames for a moment. “Take the crown. Take it, if you can kill him. I want Jason to suffer for what he’s done to me.”
“Lied? Stolen the crown? Or left you for the pirates?”
“All of that. I loved him. Add cheating on me to the list of reasons I want him dead.”
“What about your feelings for Sir William?”
“I never…” Her voice trailed off. “Nothing gets past you, does it? I fell in love with him, but he didn’t know I even existed. He couldn’t even remember my name.”
Slocum was not so sure. It just wasn’t Sir William’s way to show affection when he was distracted by a fabulous archaeological find like the jade and the emperor’s crown. No man was likely to ignore Tess’s being around. Slocum had not.
“What’s your friend Jason likely to do with the crown?”
“He’s not my friend.” She flared, then settled down a mite. “He must have someone in San Francisco willing to buy it. If he doesn’t, I suppose he’ll take it back to New York.”
“That means he’d go by stagecoach or railroad,” Slocum said. “The Portobello was the only ship scheduled for the Cape Horn trip in the next few days.”
“He might just leave town with it,” Tess said.
Slocum thought on it. That did not ring true. He said so.
“You’re right, John. It would be burning a hole in his pocket. He would want money for it, no matter what. Jason has no interest in beautiful things.”
“That why he let you go?”
Tess looked up sharply and started to speak. Then her face softened.
“I don’t know if you mean it or are just using me.”
“You’re free to go,” Slocum said. He grinned and added, “Don’t take my shirt, if you do go.”
Tess laughed. Some of her old fire returned and turned her into a beautiful woman again, in spite of looking like a drowned rat. Her salt-caked hair hung stiffly and wind had burned her cheeks. From what Slocum could tell, Lai Choi San’s intended torture of letting her sunburn had not been too effective, thanks to the storm. The woman’s tender skin was again rosy with health and not at all frostbitten.
“Kiss it and make it well?” Tess saw how he was looking at her and bared her breast again.
“Later,” he said. “Right now we have to get to San Francisco before your friend hightails it.”
“He’s not my friend!” She saw he was only joshing her and settled down.
Slocum wondered if the plow horse had wandered far—or if they were anywhere near where he had let it go free. It would be worth a few minutes to explore. If the horse was nowhere to be seen, there were other ways back to San Francisco.
“Thanks for the ride,” Slocum called to the driver of the heavily laden wagon. Search as he might, he could find no trace of the plow horse he had bought in San Grigorio. After an hour hunting, Slocum could not even figure out where along the California coast they had landed. It might be north or south of the cove where Lai Choi San had put in to wait for Sung to bring her word of the jade crown. Instead of following the coastline, Slocum had convinced Tess to hike inland.
After getting over a sizable hill, they had spotted a road. Within thirty minutes he had flagged down a wagon loaded with foodstuffs heading for San Francisco and given the driver a cock-and-bull story about Tess being robbed and his horse dying under him as he chased the road agents responsible. The man had given Tess a spare blanket and let them ride into town.
When Slocum recognized some streets near Portsmouth Square, he decided it was time for them to strike out on their own.
“My pleasure,” the driver said, giving Tess one last fond look. Slocum saw how she dropped to the cobblestone, letting the blanket flop open just a mite to give him his reward for being such a Good Samaritan. Slocum knew the thoughts running through the man’s mind at that instant, and they had nothing to do with lending a helping hand to those in need.
The wagon rumbled on, leaving them on the sidewalk near a hissing gas lamp.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
Slocum did not want to mention that he was likely to have the On Leong tong swinging their hatchets for his head again, if they spotted him. He had lost track of time and did not know if he had gone over Ah Ming’s deadline. Even if he still had time, he had no reason to seek out any of the Chinese gangs.
“We need money, we need clothes, we need someone to help us,” he said.
“No, John. I couldn’t!”
Their eyes locked, her blue ones wide with denial and his green ones cold with need. Neither wanted to answer questions Sir William was likely to have, but there was no one else they could turn to. Reluctantly, they started walking for the museum.
19
Sir William Macadams paced back and forth until he’d worn a dull path on the wood floor. The curator’s office seemed more of a prison to him than ever. He was a man of action. He should be out on the trail of adventure, not worrying about trivial things.
Out in the museum he heard the click of soles on the floor. His heart leaped as he took a step toward the door. Then he remembered the troubles he had encountered and reversed his course, going to the desk drawer and pulling out a small pistol. He tucked it into his pocket since he was not certain he faced a challenge yet.
The office door opened a fraction of an inch.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. Visions of tong killers waving about hatchets filled his vivid imagination but no one entered. “I say, who’s there. Answer or be damned!”
“I prefer to stay on this side of the door,” came a muffled voice.
“What nonsense is this? Show yourself, man.” He drew the pistol but was hesitant about using it without some obvious threat to his person.
“Let’s say I got me som’thin’ you want. You got som’thin’ I want, so we can do some horse trading.”
“I don’t need a horse. Either speak plainly or get out of here. I have serious matters on my mind that must be resolved soon.” Sir William worried more and more about Tess
and how she had simply vanished. Had he angered her? Or had he inadvertently told her to do something, and she foolishly acted without making him repeat it? He had checked the railroad depot and not found anyone who had either sold her a ticket to Boston or authorized shipment of the jade exhibition.
In spite of this, she was gone and so were all the pieces of jade that had been on display in the museum.
“Curse this place,” Sir William grumbled. “I wish I’d never come to San Francisco!”
“Well, I kin make it a little better for you,” the hidden man said. “Give me a thousand dollars, and I’ll see you get your purty green stone bauble back.”
“What are you going on about?” Sir William lifted the pistol and aimed it at the small opening through which the man delivered his ultimatum.
“I got the jade crown. If you want it back, gimme a thousand dollars.”
“That’s extortion, sir!”
“Call it what you like. I think on it as two businessmen conductin’ business. I got what you want, and you got what I want. Each of us comes out ahead.”
Sir William fired the small caliber pistol at the door. It tore away a hunk of wood and sent splinters flying everywhere. He cocked the pistol for a second shot.
“You crazy old coot! Kill me and you’ll never find the jade. I got it hid real good. And you got to pay two thousand dollars now fer takin’ a potshot at me!”
“Make it five thousand, then!” Sir William fired again. This time the man slammed the door. Ears ringing from the report, Sir William rushed to the door and flung it wide open. He pointed the small pistol this way and that but the corridor was empty.
Hearing running footsteps in the main room, Sir William hurried to follow. He caught sight of a shabbily dressed man darting into the foyer. The slamming of the outer door signaled the man’s ultimate departure.
“Good riddance,” Sir William said. He had no time for such foolishness. He had an assistant to find and jade to recover. He returned to the curator’s office and his well-worn path to begin pacing again. It helped him think.
Jason Stark ducked as the first bullet slammed into the door. By the time Sir William had fired a second time, Stark was running like a scalded dog. The Britisher was crazy to pass up the chance to buy back the jade crown. Where would he ever find anything like it again? Stark had taken it around to his usual fences and all had turned him down. No one wanted to touch anything that might get the tong killers down on them.
Stark had tried to convince more than one of the dealers in stolen property that the hatchet men would not be interested, but all had said the same thing: stolen jade meant tong interest. Not a one of them even talked to Stark after saying that.
It had been a clever idea trying to sell the crown back to the man he had stolen it from, but Stark had not expected Sir William to be so quick on the trigger.
“Burn in hell, you damn fool,” Stark muttered as he walked quickly along the road leading past the museum. “You won’t ever see that damn crown again. I’ll find somebody who’s not scared to even look at it!”
As he mumbled to himself, an idea began to form. If none of the fences wanted to handle hot jade because of the tongs, why not try selling the jade crown directly to the tongs? He was good at making up stories. He could tell them he found it and only wanted a small reward. A couple hundred dollars would do. He didn’t want to keep something that belonged to another people.
“Yeah, that sounds ’bout right,” Stark said out loud. “I’m a fine, upstandin’ citizen and only want to do the right thing. Returnin’ it to them chinks is what I will do. A couple hunnerd dollars is better than gettin’ shot at by a crazy Brit.”
Stark slowed when he left Union Square and circuitously approached Dupont Gai, the main thoroughfare through the heart of Chinatown. He knew all the thieves and pickpockets in San Francisco. He knew the men who trafficked in black-market goods and bought stolen merchandise. But they were all white men. He had never set foot into Chinatown. All the stories of silent killers lifting the tops of the heads of anyone they didn’t like came rushing back.
He almost retraced his steps, then found resolve. He needed the money. If Sir William was not going to pay him—and none of his usual cronies would, either—that left only one place to sell the jade crown. How hard could it be finding a tong? They were supposed to have their members all over the place. All he needed to do was make a few discreet inquiries and bang! He would make the deal.
Summoning up his courage, he walked into the section of town he had avoided since coming to San Francisco more than a month earlier. He faded back into a doorway when he saw a furtive Chinaman moving with obviously murderous intent down an alleyway. Intrigued and afraid, Stark watched as a hatchet appeared in the man’s bony hand. Stark swallowed hard as the hatchet was sent spinning. From his vantage Stark could not see the victim, but he heard the hideous cry of pain, followed by a dull thud. He imagined the body collapsing to the dirty street.
The hatchet man ran past Stark without giving him so much as a glance. Stark pressed even harder against the door when he heard running feet. Passing him, hot on the trail of the hatchet man, came four Chinese. They spoke rapidly in their own language and split up when the got to Dupont Gai. All four sported wickedly long, sharp knives.
Unexpectedly, the door Stark leaned against opened, sending him tumbling to the floor inside the shop. He looked up at a young Chinaman.
“What’s goin’ on out there? Those guys’re killin’ ever’one!”
“Tong war,” the Chinaman said. “You go. Leave. Not safe here.”
“I need to find somebody,” Stark said.
“No, you go. Hurry. Now!”
The young man took Stark’s hand and pulled him up only to give him a shove out into the street. Stark stood there, looking around wildly. He was certain the hatchet men would come after him and split his head wide open. Pressing his hand against his coat pocket was not reassuring. He carried a slungshot there. Otherwise, he wasn’t armed. No knife or six-shooter. Then Stark wondered what good even a Gatling gun would be against the yellow phantoms drifting through the streets intent on killing.
Courage almost gone, Stark started to get back into the sections of San Francisco he knew best. The dives along the Embarcadero were dangerous, but he understood what the rules were. The Sydney Ducks had been replaced by other, more brutal gangs, but Stark got along all right with them. The worst in his world were the police and the Specials, but they could be bought off. He had yet to find even a squad of Specials who would not respond to a few dollars each.
For that kind of money he could hire them to kill anybody he wanted. But here? He was in a different country—a different world.
Stark started to leave the Chinese community behind, then slowed and finally stopped. Nobody he knew wanted the jade crown. What good was stealing it if he could not get money for it? He’d look like a damned fool wearing it. Besides, it was heavy and was too small to fit his head. He had gone through a lot to get that crown to give up on selling it.
Stark shook his head ruefully. The ease of gulling Tess Lawrence had made him think everything would go smoothly. She had expected him to sail off to New York with her, sell the jade and then they would live happily together in some nice little whitewashed house with a yard in front and, after a few years, a gaggle of kids running around. Jason Stark had his goals set higher than that, although Tess was quite a piece of ass. A moment of guilt passed for how he had used her.
“She wanted it, she did,” he said. Stark turned and started back into Chinatown. “And who am I to let her sacrifice mean nothin’?”
He hitched up his pants and put his hand on the slungshot in his pocket. Those knives and hatchets were not going to bother him none. He was too much a man for that. He was the one who stole the jade crown that all the Chinese wanted. At least he figured they would want it, what with all the jade trinkets on display in the store windows.
Stark strutted along the street
, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of a man who might be a tong member. When he saw a pair of them on a street corner, making little effort to hide the symbols of their position—the hatchets—he boldly walked over to them.
“You gents know where I kin palaver with one of the big bosses?”
“Big boss?”
“Your big boss. I want to talk to him,” Stark said. He became a little uneasy as the two exchanged looks, then began yammering in their singsong talk. “Speak English so’s I know what you’re sayin’,” he demanded. “You don’t, then I go find another big boss to make my offer to.”
“On Leong?” asked one.
“Don’t know what you just said,” Stark said. For some reason this calmed them.
“We take you to Little Pete. He big boss of Sum Yop tong.”
“Just the man I want to see. Little Pete. A little name for a big boss, huh?” Stark laughed at his own joke, then let his chuckle die down when neither of the Chinamen so much as smiled. He followed them, basking in the attention he got. The people peered fearfully, and Stark loved the feeling that they were afraid of him. He never thought for an instant it might be the men guiding him through the winding streets of Chinatown that engendered the fear.
“Here,” said one, pointing to a two-story building that had seen better days. If he had not seen men walking along the roof carrying rifles, he would have thought it was deserted. The front had been blown out and crudely repaired. From the scent of fresh mortar, Stark knew that the new masonry was less than a week old.
“Can’t hardly go through solid walls,” he complained. He wondered if the two men were joshing him.
“Not here. There.” The larger of the pair, who towered above Stark, pointed to an alley.
Stark walked to the corner of the building and looked down. He saw a solitary man standing, arms crossed over his chest, guarding a door.
“Much obliged,” Stark said to his two guides. “If you ask the big boss real nice, he might let you touch it.”
The two hatchet men exchanged glances, then turned uncomprehending stares on Stark. He laughed. They would all know soon enough what he was offering. Hell, let the boys on the front line wear the jade crown for a second or two. That ought to make them feel real special.
