Lange blinked at him, the motion magnified by his spectacles. “I was here.”
“With your daughter?” asked Nick, nodding toward her. Tessie Lange could’ve been carved out of marble.
“Yes,” he replied quickly. “Yes.”
“Is it okay if I look around?” asked Nick.
“Mais oui,” said Lange.
Nick guessed that meant yes.
Down the passageway behind the curtain was a large storage room. The kitchen, two bedrooms, and a parlor were located upstairs. No evidence he could see that a young Chinese woman had been murdered on the premises.
He returned to the shop front, where Lange and his daughter were whispering together. They stopped when they heard Nick slide the curtain over.
“Thanks. If either of you thinks of anything further, you can contact me at the main police station,” Nick said, and turned to leave. Outside on the street, a man with his sleeves rolled up and carrying a broom peered through the window at them. Next to the shopkeeper stood the gossip whom he’d encountered earlier, still straining for a glimpse inside. They caught sight of Nick frowning at them and bolted like a pair of guilty kids.
“And tell your neighbors to contact me or my assistant, Officer Taylor, if they have any information for us.”
“Of course,” said Lange, nodding, his daughter at his side still as emotionless as a statue.
• • •
Out on the porch, Celia waved good-bye to her final patient of the day. The young woman, an actress from the Metropolitan, had come to collect medicines for her monthly pains—an infusion Celia purchased from Mr. Lange composed of gum guaiac, pokeroot, and black cohosh—and was hurrying back to rehearsals. The feathers on the woman’s hat bobbed as she sped along the road, her carrot-colored jacket and skirt a bold slash of color.
“She actually paid me, Addie. A dollar.” Celia held up the coin as proof.
Addie slapped the entry hall rug against the porch railing, sending dust flying. “Perhaps I’ll buy us a treat at Ghirardelli’s with that.”
Celia smiled and pocketed the coin with a sigh. She was tired, but she still needed to go to the Langes’, and after that, she had accounts to review. Her busy day was far from finished. However, she lingered on the porch, savoring the cool breeze against her cheek, the spicy aromas emanating from a neighbor’s kitchen, and the azure of the sky overhead. She missed England but she loved this city more.
“Hullo, Miss Ferguson!” Across the street, a deliveryman from a Washington Market butcher stall had finished dropping off meat and noticed Addie on the porch. Tipping his wool cap, he grinned. “Swell day, ain’t it? You’re looking just swell, too.”
Celia glanced over at Addie, whose face had gone as red as pomegranate seeds. “Whisht, go on with you.”
“Any Sunday you’d like to go to the Willows with me, you just holler,” he shouted.
“You’ll be waiting a long time for me to holler, you will!”
Laughing, he hopped up onto the delivery wagon seat and drove off, but not without a final grin for Addie.
“The Willows, Addie?” Celia asked. “I’ve heard it is very lovely there.”
“He’s a forward one, he is,” she replied, busying herself with folding the rug over her arm. “Thinking I’ll go on some picnic with the likes of him.”
“He is not bad looking, though,” Celia said, biting back a smile.
“Och, ma’am! Now you’re wanting to see me go!”
“I would never want to see you go, Addie,” Celia insisted. “But if you are serious about finding a husband, he seems a promising place to start.”
“That one?” She peered at the delivery wagon wheeling down the road. “Canna trust a man who grins so much— Miss Barbara!”
Celia looked to where Addie was staring. Barbara, visibly upset, was rushing up Vallejo as fast as her bad foot allowed.
“Barbara!” Celia hurried down the front steps.
Her cousin stumbled to a halt, and Celia reached out to help her rise.
Barbara shook off her hand. “Don’t make me go to Chinatown alone ever again.”
“I told you to take Addie with you.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Addie. “But when Miss Barbara wanted to go, I was busy cleaning the kitchen floor and couldna leave right then. I said I would go later.”
“So, Barbara—”
“I know, I know, Cousin Celia. It’s my fault.” Barbara grabbed the stair railing and hauled herself up the last steps to the porch. “They didn’t even let me see your patient. That old woman turned me away. So it was a waste of my time. And then . . .” Tears gathered in her eyes.
“What is it?” asked Celia. “What happened? Are you all right?” She started searching for any sign that her cousin had been injured, but she seemed fine aside from her pallid face.
“They said awful things to me. It was horrible.”
“Who?” asked Celia. “Who said awful things?”
“It was a bunch of boys. They shouted obscene words at me.” Barbara pressed her hands to her face and sobbed. “It’s the middle of the day, but nobody stopped them. They frightened me.”
“I must tell Mr. Greaves,” said Celia. But what could he do without the names of the bullies?
“Maybe Li Sha was killed by a nasty group of dirty white men who hate Chinese people. Just like those disgusting boys.”
“Oh, Barbara.” Celia buffed her hands down her cousin’s trembling arms. The hatred was coming too close to home.
“I wonder if Owen knows them,” said Barbara. “He knows everybody on the streets. I should’ve asked him when I saw him a bit ago. He was just around the corner. But I wanted to come home . . .” Barbara sniffled and wiped a hand beneath her nose. “I bet he knows who killed Li Sha. Maybe it’s one of them. Maybe it’s not . . . It’s just about gotta be.”
“I’ll find Owen and talk to him.” Celia looked up the road in search of the boy. “Addie, take Barbara up to her room and see she has something warm to drink.”
Addie led Barbara into the house.
Celia caught sight of Owen Cassidy, his wool cap set at a jaunty angle, moving down the street, kicking a stone along the plank pavement. He shot a glance at a scrum of boys, home from school and playing a boisterous game of French and English, trying to pull the opposite line of their mates across a mark scratched in the dirt. He slowed, perhaps hoping they would invite him to join in, and walked on when they did not.
“Owen!” Celia called.
“Aye, Mrs. Davies!” He trotted the rest of the way to the house. “You’re not busy now. I came by before and you was with a patient. Didn’t want to disturb you then, but I was just wondering how Mr. Smith is doing. You know, looking for my ma and pa.”
The anticipation on his face caused her breath to catch. She never had the news Owen most wanted. She had paid Mr. Smith, the strange man she’d hired to seek out news about Patrick, to search for Owen’s lost parents as well. He’d had no more luck discovering their whereabouts than he had learning if Patrick was still alive.
“Mr. Smith has not found them yet, Owen,” she answered.
The boy’s face fell. He had the clearest green eyes, full of weariness and cynicism, emotions no child his age should possess. He claimed he was fourteen; his eyes made him look much older.
“Don’t give up hope,” she said.
“Right, ma’am,” he responded, his courage tugging at her heart.
“I need to ask you something very important,” she said. “It might help the police find the person who hurt Li Sha.”
“That’s awful, ain’t it, ma’am? She was nice to me.” Kindness was Owen’s measure of anyone’s worth. “But it’s just something that happens to people like me and her, people nobody wants, I guess.”
Exactly what he had said to Barbara. “Who w
as it in particular that might not have wanted Li Sha, Owen? Someone you know?”
He shrugged. “There’s all kinda anger out there, ma’am. It don’t have to have a name.”
All kinds of anger. “Just now, several boys confronted Barbara on her way home from Chinatown. They shouted dreadful things at her.”
“Who was it?” Owen asked, tensing. “I’ll whup ’em!”
“I do not need you to whup them, Owen,” she said. “But I was wondering if you have heard anyone—those who hate the Chinese, I mean—discussing plans for something worse than shouting foul names or beating people up.”
His eyes widened. “I kin poke around, try to find out,” he offered, happy to have a purpose. “How’s that?”
“That would be very helpful, but promise me you’ll be careful. Any such men might be dangerous.”
“Shucks, ma’am, who’d bother with me?” he asked brightly, suddenly unconcerned by what had happened to Li Sha or to people like him.
He dashed off, a whistle floating on the air behind him.
• • •
“What did Harris say, sir . . . Mr. Greaves, sir?”
Taylor followed Nick to the detectives’ office and dropped into the chair in front of Nick’s desk. Briggs, who shared the office, was out again. To Nick’s mind that was like winning the lottery.
Briggs had left behind crumbs from the molasses doughnuts he liked to eat, and a line of ants crawled across the floor. Nick crushed some under his boot and went to sit in his chair, the window at his back, the afternoon breeze stirring papers on his desk. He steepled his fingers and rested them against his chin, which was scratchy with stubble. In a rush to speak with the coroner that morning and visit the Langes, he’d forgotten to shave.
“Dr. Harris concluded what we’d thought, Taylor: Li Sha was definitely dead when she was tossed into the bay; there wasn’t any water in her lungs. He also agrees she was murdered elsewhere. Her blood had pooled, indicating she’d lain someplace for a while after death.”
The coroner had been clinical as he’d recited his findings. The girl had been sliced by a sharp-edged blade across the stomach just below the ribs. There were multiple cuts on her forearms, indicating she might have attempted to fend off the blows from her attacker. She’d had significant bleeding on the brain and a fracture in the skull where it struck or was struck by an object, the probable cause of death. Also, the multiple bruises on her face had likely been received within a few days of her murder, although she had a misshapen rib from an old injury. A thin abrasion of unknown origin ran along the back of her neck, and she was in general good health, although there were indications she’d had the sorts of diseases prostitutes were prone to.
Lastly, she was around four months pregnant and carrying a female child.
We were gonna name her Katie . . .
“Did you learn anything from the folks living near the wharf?” Nick asked Taylor. “Any unusual wagons in the area that night, or people out of the ordinary hanging around? The murder either occurred very near the wharf or her body was carted there. The perpetrator couldn’t have gone completely unnoticed.”
“Hard to get much information out of that bunch,” Taylor replied. He dragged his notebook from his coat pocket and flipped through the pages. “One of them claimed he saw a gent in a fancy carriage, though, but his friend said he was too liquored up to know his right hand from his left. Another fella commented that it was raining hard around ten or eleven that night and nobody smart was out of doors. That’s about it.”
It was much as Nick had expected; it was almost impossible to get people to talk in this town, especially the boatmen and longshoremen who lived in the rough shacks near the wharves. “Did you ask at the Chinese Mission if Li Sha had been there lately?”
“The reverend who runs the place said he hadn’t seen her for weeks.”
“She had to go someplace. I doubt she was sleeping on the street. Too dangerous.”
“I’ll keep asking around, sir.” Taylor scribbled more notes. “When I came into the station this morning, sir, one of the men told me he’d heard some Chinese servant over on Jones Street had been pelted with rocks. Maybe somebody who sympathizes with those anti-Chinese groups forming all over the city got an idea to pick on a girl.”
“You might be right,” said Nick. “I came across some kids yesterday who were harassing a Chinese laundry boy in a Chinatown alley. Seems things are getting worse out there.”
Nick knew somebody who could tell him; it was a long shot that she’d provide answers, though.
“I can’t figure out why her, though, sir,” said Taylor.
“Neither can I. Maybe Li Sha was killed for a reason we haven’t considered. Or maybe simply because she made an easy target. She walked alone at night from Lange’s store to wherever she was staying.” Tom Davies’ lodgings were about half a mile distant, the Chinese Mission as well.
“What did the Langes have to say?” Taylor asked.
“They’re blaming the anti-Chinese groups, too.” Nick scratched the stubble on his chin. “Strange duo. About as skittish as a pair of unbroken horses.”
“Could one of them have killed her?”
Could they? Nick rubbed the ache in his left arm. The pain and numbness had been worse these past couple of days. Maybe it was because of the damp. Or maybe it was because he’d been dreaming about the war.
Dreaming? Having nightmares was more like it.
“They’re both tall enough to overpower a tiny Chinese woman,” he said. “Even Miss Lange. And they probably have a sharp knife or two in their kitchen.”
“But why do it?”
“We’ll have to discover a reason, Taylor.”
There was a knock on the door, and Mullahey stuck his head through the opening. “Got a moment, Mr. Greaves?”
“Sure.”
Mullahey nodded at Taylor and took the other empty chair in the room. “I just got done talkin’ to that dockworker. The one who stumbled over Wagner and the body of that Chinese girl. Told me he saw somethin’ funny.”
“He’s only mentioning it now?” asked Nick.
Mullahey shrugged. “Anyway, he says when he first came along the pier, he noticed this fella, Wagner. On his hands and knees on the edge of the pier, which is what got his attention to begin with. Thought it was odd. He claims it looked like Wagner was tryin’ to push somethin’ down into the water. Didn’t realize at first it was a body.”
“Whoa,” exclaimed Taylor. “But I checked Wagner’s story, sir. Wife says he was with her Monday night, all night, and went to work at his usual time. And his boss says he was sent to the pier Tuesday morning to inspect a ship come in from Manila. So he had a good reason to be there.”
“Yeah, okay, Taylor,” said Mullahey, looking annoyed.
“Maybe Wagner’s wife is lying and he did kill her, sir,” Taylor said. “Came in extra early for some sort of liaison with the girl that went sour. We know he beat up a Mexican sailor. He might just like to hurt people.”
“Wagner told me he doesn’t visit Chinese prostitutes,” said Nick. Plus, according to Mrs. Davies, Li Sha had left prostitution behind. “How would they have known each other?”
“Wagner could be lying about that, too, Mr. Greaves, sir.”
“So when that dockworker came along, Wagner lost his chance to hide his dirty work,” said Mullahey, brightening.
“And Wagner claims to have found her body in the bay in order to throw us off!” With his thumb, Taylor crushed an ant crawling along the edge of Nick’s desk. “I mean, who’d ever suspect the fellow who found her, aside from us? He mighta thought he’d be in the clear. Plus, he’d know there wasn’t much going on all night down at the wharf, wouldn’t he? Since it’s his job to know when ships are coming in.”
“Should I bring him back in, Mr. Greaves?” asked Mullahey.
• • •
Celia turned the corner of the street housing Mr. Lange’s apothecary shop. Just a few doors down, she could see all was dark behind the tall windows. She quickened her steps and noticed the CLOSED sign hanging over the roller shade, the blinds partly drawn. Had Mr. Lange forgotten she needed to replenish her supply of gum arabic and had planned to come by? Celia leaned forward to peer through the gaps in the window blinds. Lamplight flickered in the back room, visible beyond the open curtain.
She tapped on the window. “Mr. Lange? Miss Lange?”
A shadow crossed the room’s far wall, the motion hasty, furtive, and the lamp was extinguished.
How odd.
Celia considered what to do. It would be a waste of time to have come all this way only to return home without her supplies. Perhaps if she knocked on the door leading to their private residence, they would answer.
She found access to the alleyway that ran behind the row of buildings and hurried down the passage, scattering rats foraging through garbage as she passed. As she approached the Langes’ back door, she saw a figure hunkered within a heavy shawl and deep-brimmed bonnet slip away and take off briskly.
“Miss Lange!” she called to the woman, who did not stop.
Had she been mistaken? Celia counted doors. No, she was not wrong. That was the rear door leading to the Langes’ residence above the shop. And the woman had been Tessie Lange. She recognized Tessie’s checked brown dress and unusual height. Where was she headed so secretively?
Celia hastened after the woman. Up the road, she spotted Tessie rushing north along Kearney Street, zigzagging through traffic and pedestrians. Was she headed for the police station for some reason? But she hurried past that building without slowing. Celia dashed across an intersection in pursuit, drawing a shout from a produce-wagon driver who reined in his horse to keep it from trampling her.
Tessie glanced over her shoulder and turned right down Jackson. If she continued on this path, she would be heading out of the Barbary Coast and toward the warehouses, the lumberyards, and the docks beyond, where the masts of ships bristled like a forest of denuded trees tethered to the piers.
No Comfort for the Lost Page 8
