The Body Snatchers Affair

by Marcia Muller

  She threw open the shutters, then the glass doors to the balcony. He knew what she was about to do then, even before she stepped out onto the balcony, but it was too late to stop her. She emitted an ear-piercing shriek, followed by a shrill string of Chinese words dripping with simulated terror and then more shrieks. Anyone on Clay Street below would think she was being raped or murdered and there would soon be a stampede, if not a riot.

  Quincannon was no fool; he did the prudent if not the manly thing.

  He fled.

  * * *

  A messenger service envelope was waiting for him when he returned to the agency—on the floor with the morning mail, having been pushed through the slot in the locked door. Sabina seemed not to have come in yet today. It must be that she was off investigating the Blanchford matter or perhaps another of her cases. The alternative, that she had spent a long, amorous, and exhausting night with the Montgomery swell, was too depressing to consider.

  At his desk he sifted quickly through the mail, separating out the only piece which might contain a check for services rendered, but leaving it unopened for the moment. Then he gave his attention to the messenger service envelope.

  As he’d anticipated, it was from Father O’Halloran’s scholarly acquaintance, a man named Fosbury, and contained both the original two-page document from James Scarlett’s office file and an English translation. He read and digested only a few sentences before putting it down. For the document was nothing more than a contract between Mock Don Yuen and the owner of the building in which he maintained his herbalist shop, extending a five-year lease for the shop and the rooms upstairs at no monthly increase.

  The document made no mention of the fact that the upstairs rooms were being used for an illicit gambling operation, although the amount of money Mock Don Yuen was paying the owner indicated a percentage payoff. Even if the gambling had been mentioned, it had no direct bearing on Quincannon’s investigation. The attorney, who had both spoken and read Chinese, must have acted as an intermediary in the financial negotiations between the two men and then vetted the agreement.

  A waste of time and money, having the document translated? No. While it didn’t absolve Mock Don Yuen of complicity in James Scarlett’s murder, it strengthened Quincannon’s growing belief that the old man was not the one plotting a criminal takeover of Chinatown. He was not cold-blooded enough, nor recklessly ambitious enough at his age, to have masterminded such a scheme. His son was. And so was Little Pete.

  Which one, then? Or was it possible that the two of them were in cahoots, Mock Quan’s vicious invective against Fong Ching nothing but a smokescreen? Possible, but highly unlikely. Pete had long been a ruling force in Chinatown crime, a man who relished his position of power; while he might want to gain command of the Hip Sing’s gambling network, he would never agree to share with a rival to get it. If he was behind the Bing Ah Kee snatch, it was in an effort to gain control by devious means. Yet he had had plenty of opportunity to start war between the Kwong Dock and the Hip Sing before this, and hadn’t done so. The death of Bing Ah Kee might have acted as a trigger; he could have other, hidden reasons as well. But it still seemed out of character for him to have risked the wrath of Blind Chris Buckley and the Chinatown flying squad by ordering the murder of a white man. Or, for that matter, to have made an ally of James Scarlett in the first place.

  Which left Mock Quan. More and more, he seemed the most likely candidate. How to prove it, though? And how to do so before more blood was shed on the streets of Chinatown?

  Quincannon sat staring into space, pondering the dilemma. He was still pondering, and beginning to make out the shape of things, when the sound of the door opening and Sabina’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

  15

  QUINCANNON

  Sabina’s demeanor immediately aroused Quincannon’s suspicions. She looked less energetic than usual, sleep-deprived, and her “Good afternoon, John” had what he deemed a somewhat distracted, almost formal note. The result of a long, passionate night with that damned Montgomery fellow? The notion made his heart ache and his blood pressure rise.

  It rose even higher when she shed her coat and he saw the white rose corsage pinned to the bosom of her shirtwaist. Before he could stop himself, he said, “That looks to be an expensive corsage. Where did you get it?”

  “What would you say if I told you it was a gift from a secret admirer?”

  “I’d ask you not to keep his name secret.”

  “Of course you would. Well, it wasn’t. I bought it from Ross Cleghorne in exchange for some information. For ten dollars.”

  “Ten dollars! That coxcomb is as big a crook as some of those we’ve put in prison—”

  “At least he’s a gentleman most of the time.”

  Her snappish tone warned him that she was in no mood for any more personal questions or comments, and especially not badinage. (Not that he was in the mood for raillery, either.) Anything other than a strictly professional conversation would cause serious friction and that was to be avoided now more than ever.

  “Was Cleghorne’s information helpful to your investigation?” he asked.

  “You mean the Blanchford case?”

  “You have another at present?”

  She was seated now at her desk, shuffling through the mail he’d placed there, and it seemed to him that she hesitated before answering. “No. Only my part in the Scarlett matter. I stopped at Elizabeth Petrie’s earlier. She has Mrs. Scarlett’s confidence as well as ours.”

  “Splendid.”

  “As for the Blanchford body snatching,” Sabina said, “you needn’t concern yourself. I have the matter well in hand.” She didn’t seem to want to discuss it in any detail. Playing her cards close to the vest, as he himself often did, until a resolution was imminent.

  “I can say the same for the Scarlett affair. Though there are certain complications.”

  “Yes?”

  He told her about his talk with Lieutenant Price the night before and the possibility of a premature raid on Little Pete’s shoe factory. “It will serve no purpose except to turn up the heat on an already boiling pot. I doubt Fong Ching is behind the ferment in Chinatown. I’m more convinced than ever now that Mock Quan is the guilty party, working at cross-purposes to those of his father and the Hip Sing elders. But I don’t have enough evidence to convince that blockhead Chief Crowley.”

  “What makes you so sure it’s Mock Quan?”

  “The nature of his character, or lack of it. He’s capable of any vicious act, including cold-blooded murder. In fact, I’m beginning to believe that it was he, not one of the boo how doy, who shot James Scarlett.”

  Sabina arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Disguised as a coolie food seller? Why, for heaven’s sake? Why wouldn’t he have sent one of his hatchet men to do his dirty work?”

  “I can’t say for certain. He may have had a personal reason. Or he may not have trusted an underling to break the Chinese code of nonviolence against white men. Or it could be a mental aberration, a power-mad megalomaniac’s need to indulge in daredevil acts and to satisfy bloodlust. He covets Little Pete’s criminal empire, and he doesn’t care a whit who dies, white or yellow, in his quest to take it over.”

  “You make him sound like a monster.”

  “Just so, if I’m right about him. And I believe I am.”

  “What led you to the conclusion he murdered Scarlett?”

  “His hat.”

  “His— Are you serious, John?”

  “Never more so. The gunman outside the Cellar of Dreams wore a black slouch hat with a dark-colored topknot, as I told you. The more I thought about that topknot, the more certain I became that its color was red. And a red topknot—”

  “Is a symbol of the highborn.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “It’s called a mow-yung,” Sabina said.

  Now it was Quincannon’s turn for the lifting of an eyebrow. “How do you know its name?”

  “And why sho
uldn’t a woman know something you don’t?”

  He chose to let that pass without comment. “Coolie food sellers don’t wear such hats and neither do the boo how doy. The assassin therefore has to have been a high-caste Chinese. To my knowledge Little Pete has never resorted to personal violence, and never against an Occidental. That leaves only Mock Quan.”

  “If it was a mow-yung on the shooter’s hat.”

  “It was. I’m convinced of it.”

  “Mock Quan is just one of many highborn Chinese,” Sabina pointed out.

  “Yes, but he’s the only one keeping company with the woman who seduced James Scarlett and started him on his opium addiction.”

  “Dongmei? You tracked her down?”

  “I did. Last night I persuaded Lieutenant Price to allow me a look at his files. She’s a known consort of Mock Quan’s and her address was noted. I paid a visit to her apartment this morning.”

  “And what did she have to say for herself?”

  “She wasn’t there. I took advantage of the opportunity to search the premises.”

  “Illegal trespass, John?”

  “In the cause of justice,” he said piously. He saw no reason to mention his brief confrontation with Dongmei and its somewhat ignominious conclusion. “I found a black slouch hat with a red topknot among her effects. It could belong to no one except Mock Quan.”

  Sabina considered this. Then she asked, “What of the snatching of Bing Ah Kee’s corpse? What is his purpose in that?”

  “I’d bet five gold eagles,” Quincannon said, “that he has the corpse stashed somewhere and intends to produce it soon, to be found somewhere that will place the onus on the Kwong Dock and bring about the tong war he desires. If that doesn’t finish off Little Pete, he reckons, Will Price’s flying squad will. Thus leaving him in a position to step into the wreckage and build a new criminal empire.”

  “Do you suppose he was intentionally trying to kill you, too, in Ross Alley?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Because he recognized you, or with premeditation?”

  “The former. It’s unlikely he could have known I was searching for Scarlett that evening. I suspect he knew in which resort Scarlett was holed up, learned it from an informant perhaps, and went there with the intention of murdering him while he lay drugged inside. By happenstance I must have arrived just before he did. He recognized me, feared that Scarlett was my quarry as well as his and that the lawyer had told or would tell me something that might threaten his plans, and determined to kill me, too, if I emerged with Scarlett in tow, as I did. He set up his ambush by frightening off the genuine coolie food seller and assuming position over his brazier.”

  “And Fowler Alley?” Sabina said after a pause. “Have you learned its significance yet?”

  “No, confound it. Although I feel as though I should have by now.” He stood abruptly and went to the window overlooking Market Street, his hands clenched behind his back. Rumbling trolley cars and a near collision between one of them and a horse-drawn barouche held his attention for a few seconds. Then he turned and began to pace the office, muttering, “Fowler Alley, Fowler Alley…”

  There was a sudden loud thumping on the office door. It brought him up short, and a second thump sent him to the door. When he opened it he found himself looking at an elderly woman dressed in black and wearing a black veil, a gold-headed walking stick upraised in one thin hand in preparation for a third thump.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Are you the other half of Carpenter and Quincannon?”

  “I am. John Quincannon, at your service. How may I help you?”

  “By stepping aside and letting me enter. I’ve come to speak to Mrs. Carpenter.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “No, but she will certainly see me. Well, young man?”

  Quincannon stepped aside. Sabina was on her way around her desk, he saw out of the corner of his eye. The old woman entered and then stopped to lift her veil and scrutinize him as if sizing up a side of beef.

  “He’s a big one, isn’t he,” she said to Sabina.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Looks like pictures I’ve seen of Blackbeard, the scourge of the Spanish Main.”

  Quincannon wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended until Sabina said, “John, this is our client Mrs. Harriet Blanchford.” Then he allowed a bright professional smile to crease his whiskers.

  “Ah, yes. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blanchford, even under such trying circumstances—”

  “Eyewash,” the old lady said in her feisty way. “Whether or not it’s a pleasure remains to be seen.”

  Sabina took gentle hold of her elbow, guided her to one of the client’s chairs. “What brings you here?” she asked then. “Have you news?”

  “I have. A decision that neither of you will agree with, I imagine, but that is neither here nor there. I’ve just come from my bank, the Whitburn Trust, where I made a substantial withdrawal of funds.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “I do. For payment of the ransom demand.”

  16

  SABINA

  Sabina exchanged a look with John, whose smile had turned upside down. Before he could say anything, she asked Harriet Blanchford, “Tell us, please, why you decided to pay the ransom?”

  “Bertram convinced me it had to be done,” she said. “Another note was delivered this morning. Even more harshly worded and threatening than the first. It said my husband’s remains would be … disposed of in a most disgusting fashion if the seventy-five thousand dollars wasn’t paid this afternoon. The threat was too great to be ignored.”

  “Do you have the money with you?”

  “No, Bertram has it. He is on his way to deliver it to the specified location.”

  “And that is?”

  “Near one of the bandstands in Golden Gate Park.”

  Sabina repressed a sigh. As gently as she could, she said, “I must say I wish you had consulted with me before withdrawing the funds.”

  “You would not have been able to talk me out of it. My mind was made up. Besides, there was no time for a consultation. The ransom is to be paid no later than four o’clock.”

  “One of us could have accompanied your son,” John said, “perhaps apprehended the culprit—”

  “I wouldn’t have allowed it. It might well have jeopardized the safe return of my husband’s remains. The note promised in its crude way that if instructions were followed to the letter, Ruben would soon be back in his final resting place.”

  “Unfortunately, the promises of kidnappers of any stripe are seldom to be trusted.”

  Sabina gave him a reproving look; he was not always as tactful as he should be. The old matriarch glared at him. “Are you saying these fiends won’t keep their word?”

  “Not at all,” Sabina said quickly. “They may well return the body or inform you where it can be found.”

  “But it is a possibility I should be prepared for?”

  “I’m afraid so. But even if that should be the case, it doesn’t mean that any harm will have been done to the body. It might still be recovered intact.”

  “By whom? You? You have no idea who the kidnappers are or you would have said so by this time.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Sabina said. “I am gathering information that I expect will soon reveal their identities.”

  “Indeed? What sort of information?”

  “I would rather not say just yet.”

  “If you are being deliberately evasive, Mrs. Carpenter—”

  “I assure you, I’m not. Merely cautious. You do want me to continue my investigation?”

  “Naturally. I came here to keep you informed, not to discharge you. I want those fiends caught and punished for their heinous crime, whether they keep their promise or not.”

  “They will be,” John put in. “And if at all possible, the seventy-five thousand dollars will be recovered and returned to you as well.” Leave it
to him to mention the money.

  “That is the least of my concerns.” With the aid of her cane, Harriet Blanchford rose to her feet. “I’ll be going now. I want to be home when Bertram returns from the park.”

  “Please let us know right away of any new developments.”

  “I will.”

  John, in his courtly fashion, sought to take her arm as she started toward the door. She shrugged off his hand. “I am quite capable of making my own way, young man.” She squinted up at him through her glasses. “You really ought to trim those whiskers of yours,” she said then. “Blackbeard the pirate is one breed, Blackbeard the detective quite another.”

  Sabina hid a smile as the door clicked shut behind her. The expression on John’s face was a delight to behold. He was not at all used to dealing with women of Harriet Blanchford’s age and outspoken manner, and she’d left him more than a little nonplussed. Not that he would admit it. And of course he didn’t.

  * * *

  John soon departed, not saying where he was bound for but only that he didn’t expect to return before closing time. Alone in the quiet office, Sabina attended to necessary paperwork—reports, invoices—that had begun to pile up on her desk. While she worked, part of her mind reviewed the Blanchford case and what she’d discovered about the Gold King scandal.

  The former was the least mystifying of the two. The fact that a second threatening note had convinced Harriet Blanchford to pay the ransom, she decided, was a blessing in disguise. Usually it was a bad idea to give in to the demands of kidnappers of the living or the dead, but in this case it might well hasten a successful conclusion. She was reasonably sure now that she knew the how, why, and who of the matter. By tomorrow, if the next development happened as she now anticipated, and if her informants came through with the necessary information she’d requested, she would know for certain and proceed accordingly.