by S. L. Stoner
“Who’s it for?” asked the desk clerk, his tone a bit more helpful.
Terry said the first name that came into his head, “Vernon Clark.”
The desk clerk quickly scanned his register and shook his head. “No. We don’t have Mr. Clark registered here. You must have the wrong hotel.”
Terry slapped the side of his head, apologized and quickly left. Once outside, he dithered, deciding to wait and see whether the posh man walked anywhere else. He’d give it an hour or so. If the stranger stayed put, then Terry planned to return to Franklin’s boardinghouse because Matthew might know where to find Mr. Miner or Mrs. Clemens. He didn’t know why but he was certain the man he followed knew what had happened to Glad. Finding his brother was all he cared about.
Glad crouched behind a pile of discarded furniture and watched as the two men with the lantern passed by. There was enough light that he could see that they were scruffy and he could hear them arguing.
“I told you we should have waited for Orville. He knows the underground. We’ll be stumbling around here forever and never will find the meeting place.”
“We done waited long enough for him. He’s probably off getting his snoot full. The captain says he ain’t gonna wait. Once the tide’s up, he’s lifting anchor whether the boy and woman are aboard or not.”
Those words made the hair on Glad’s head tingle and stand up. A squeak of alarm escaped his lips.
“What was that?” One of the men asked and they both stopped and looked around.
“Seemed to come from over there, by that pile of junk,” said one of them. The lantern lifted higher and silence followed. Glad stopped breathing, hugged the dirt floor and hid his face in his elbow. If they came closer, there was no place for him to run. He was in a corner. The light brightened as they moved toward him. He trembled and then his jaw set in determination. He had to rescue Miss Lucinda, no matter what. If they saw him, he’d rush them. Knock their lantern away and run. His grip tightened on his trusty pipe.
“Ah, hell. I ain’t seeing nothing. It was probably just a rat. They’re all over down here. We better stop wasting time. We gotta find the right basement in the next few minutes,” one said, and their footsteps moved away. Glad slowly raised his head and peeked through the spokes of a discarded wagon wheel. Sure enough, the two men were shuffling in the opposite direction of where he planned to go.
Carefully, he stepped from behind the furniture, taking advantage of the last remnant of their lantern light. Though they scared the heck out of him, his memory of the lantern-lit basement meant he quickly found the last tunnel he needed to go through before he could look for help.
It was very short. That meant he’d been right about his location because Ankeny Street was only one wagon wide. Once he traversed that tunnel and was beneath the next block, he stood still and listened. A murmur of voices and laughter came from close by. Carefully, with the pipe waving before him, he advanced toward the sounds, becoming filled with fearful elation. That could be salvation up ahead.
Faint lines of vertical light strengthened and, after moving closer, he saw even more light. Now there was no doubt. Ahead was a boarded off cellar with people inside.
Slowly he stepped forward until he could put his ear to a crack between the boards. She’d told him, “Only go to the Chinese people.” He had to hear what language these people spoke. Seconds later he was certain it wasn’t English. It was either Chinese or Japanese. Glad took a deep breath and stepped forward to put his hand on the boards. He began gently feeling for the door that must exist. As he did, his ear picked up a click-clack sound.
At last his searching hand encountered the cool hardness of a metal door pull. Taking a deep breath he knocked. The noise inside stilled until the only sound Glad heard was his own breathing. He knocked again, this time louder and heard someone shuffling in his direction.
A voice on the other side of the door asked a question in Chinese and Glad paused unsure what to say to make them open the door. Finally, he remembered. “Fong Kam Tong,” he said, his voice sounding weak and frightened to his ears.
The person on the other side of the door asked a question, but again, Glad couldn’t understand. So he repeated, “Fong. Kam. Tong.” This time, saying it loudly.
The metallic rattle of a padlock lifting from its hasp followed and the door swung slowly inward. A raised lantern lit Glad’s face. A surprised gasp sounded but at least the door didn’t slam closed. A small Chinese man stuck his head out to survey the underground. After assuring himself no raiding party lurked in the dark behind Glad, he gestured the boy inside and padlocked the door.
Once his eyes adjusted to the light, Glad saw that he was in a gambling den. There were seven men in the tiny cellar, all crowded around a table. A pile of coins was at each man’s elbow. Cards ran down the middle of the table with other cards branching off like tree limbs. This was a fan tan game. He’d seen it played before on small sidewalk tables. But, in those games, no money appeared to change hands.
Even as he surveyed the scene his ears registered the rapid-fire of what his mother would call “jibber jabber” between the men. He couldn’t understand but thought their tone was alarmed. He broke in and again said, “Fong Kam Tong”, saying the words slowly and with confidence.
The man who answered the door raised a hand, turned to Glad and asked, “Ah! You want Fong Kam Tong?”
Glad nodded his head and said excitedly, “Yes! Fong Kam Tong!”
The group seemed to relax as they exchanged a few words. A younger man got up from the table and walked to Glad. He said in careful English, “You want to find Fong Kam Tong?”
“Yes, yes!” Glad insisted, eagerly.
“Okay,” the young man said. “We go. Find Fong Kam Tong. You follow.”
Glad sighed with relief. Seconds later, he was following the young man up the stairs and through a heavy door at the top. Once through it, Glad noticed that they had exited a false-fronted cupboard. Their way turned stranger with every step and Glad had to fight a growing fear. What was this place? The man was leading him through a labyrinth of hallways, up and down stairs, through sliding panels and always there were six-inch thick doors, sometimes only three feet apart. The doors weren’t locked against exiting, only against entering. Glad finally remembered reading about this kind of arrangement in the newspaper. The police were always raiding Chinese gambling dens. To prevent capture and confiscation, the Chinese hid their illegal gambling behind thick, locked doors, secret passageways, trick hallways, and, of course, in cellars that gave them a chance to escape through the underground.
After what seemed like forever, they passed beyond a door. There they found a young Chinese man sitting on a high stool beside a dirty window that filtered pale gray light from outside. His vantage point let him peer out and see who approached. The man leading Glad said something to the scout who jumped off the stool and raised the iron bar that secured the door. Seconds later, Glad and the man stood outside. Glad recognized Second Street, but what he reveled in was dawn’s early light. It was the first daylight he’d seen in weeks.
“Hurry, hurry. We go find Fong Kam Tong,” urged the young man as he turned and rapidly headed south. Glad trotted to keep up. A few blocks later, they entered a provision store. It looked and smelled like none he’d ever seen. Weeds and other strange things hung from the ceiling on wires. Huge glass jars held mysterious substances and twisted roots. All the labels were written in Chinese squiggles.
A tiny Chinese lady came forward and exchanged bows with the young man who said something that included the magic words, “Fong Kam Tong.” The woman broke into a wide smile and turned to Glad. She asked, “You Glad boy? You missing boy?”
Glad nodded only to flush when he realized that her question had sent tears pouring from his eyes.
The woman’s face softened and she said, “You safe
now. This man go find Fong. Come, have tea. You rest.” She gently tugged at his arm, guiding him toward a door at the back of the shop.
“Land sakes, Mae! What are you doing up at the crack of dawn?” Millie Trumbull demanded. She was standing in the doorway of her house, a wrapper tight around her sturdy body, her hair straggling from its nighttime bun. She didn’t know it, but the fact Millie answered her own door sent Mae’s opinion of her up a notch. Mae knew Millie’s husband was a railroad executive which meant they could have afforded a maid. Instead, Millie did for herself.
“Come in, come in. I just finished feeding my husband breakfast and sending him off to work. The poor devil likes getting an early start,” she said, swinging the door open.
Inside, Mae saw that the house was well-furnished but not ostentatious—just merely comfortable. She followed Mille into the kitchen and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. She hadn’t slept yet. They’d gone round and round at Hanke’s, finally settling on a scheme that they hoped would reveal the man behind all the mayhem and free Lucinda and Glad.
Mae quickly filled Millie in and asked, “If I give you the money, would you be willing to tell Chief Hunt it came from National Committee on Child Labor? Maybe say the Committee wants the attackers of their photographer arrested and tried?”
“Lord, yes. I suspect, if there’s enough time, I could even convince the organization to pay for it.”
“Nope. Time’s too short. We can’t wait. We need those two galoots here now. Sergeant Hanke thinks we can get two Redding police officers to escort them up on the next train, so long as we first wire the money for the officers’ wages and four tickets.”
Millie stood up. “Well, we better get going if you have the money. It’ll take me a few minutes to get presentable.”
Mae held up a staying hand. “One more thing, Millie. Do you think Henry Russell will be up to taking a few pictures for us? It could be a bit dangerous.”
“Only way to know is to ask him. Lucky for us, he’s camped out in my guest room. I’ll wake him up and send him down.”
Twenty Five
“John, John.” Sage jerked awake to find Knute beside his bed in dawn’s gray light. Sage struggled into a sitting position. If Knute was still here, on a workday it was either before six a.m. or something bad had happened.
“What is it, Knute? Is something wrong with Ida or Matthew?”
“No, no. They are both just fine,” Knute assured him. “Mrs. Clemens is not here. She left about half an hour ago. Ida asked that I come tell you the policeman, Hanke, is waiting for you in the kitchen.”
“Have you seen Mr. Fong?” Sage asked.
“I checked. He’s asleep in his room at the end of the hall. I did not wake him.” Knute’s glance toward the window told Sage the man was worried about being late to work.
Sage flipped back the covers. “Let Fong sleep. But, you go on to work, Knute. I’m awake now. Please tell Hanke, I’ll be down in a minute. I’ve just got to get dressed.”
Hanke sat in his usual chair, a cup of coffee before him and a glum look on his tired face. Sage wasn’t the only one with only a few hours of sleep under his belt.
“Christ! Don’t tell me I have to start the day by looking at another dead child,” Sage greeted him and immediately felt ashamed of his surliness.
Hanke puffed out some air and shook his head. “Nope, this one’s a man. But I remember you said one of the bad guys had a scar on his face. Well, that’s what this corpse has.”
Despite the heat from Ida’s oven and pots, cold washed through Sage. “Let me get Fong. He saw the cabbie better than I did. We need him to come with us.”
The three of them walked to Crofton’s funeral home in silence. This time the mortician didn’t smile a greeting as he said, “Sergeant Hanke, I’m getting more business from the police department than I am from families. I suspect that this will be another body for potter’s field.”
Dr. Lane’s face was also grim though his eyebrows rose when first Sage and then Fong followed Hanke into the basement room. What he said, however, was, “At least, this time, there’s no question about what killed him.” Lane flipped back the sheet to expose the man’s head and the gaping slash across his throat.
“His death was quick. Looks like the killer stood behind him.”
Hanke cleared his throat. “No chance he did it to himself?”
Lane’s head shake was adamant. “Not likely. A suicide will stretch his neck, throw his head back, making the skin taut. That makes the wound a clean cut. This one’s jagged. Also, a suicide’s cut tends to be shallow at the beginning, not deep like this wound.”
Sage’s knees suddenly weakened as his mind superimposed Lucinda’s face onto the face of the man on the table. Fong must have sensed Sage’s reaction because he stepped forward to grab Sage’s elbow.
Lane turned to them. “Mr. Adair, this is the third time I’ve seen you in as many weeks. Are you becoming the police department’s official identifier of bodies?”
Sage cleared his throat. “Believe me, I’m not here by choice. We’ve been looking for a man with a scarred face like this corpse. My friend here, Mr. Fong, saw the man more than once.”
Lane turned to Fong. “So, is this the man you were looking for?”
Fong stepped forward, his face impassive. He quietly said a Chinese phrase, one of the few translations that Sage remembered: “May you now be free from sorrow and the causes of sorrow.” He remembered the translation because he’d heard Fong intone the saying too many times in the last few years.
Fong turned and said to Hanke the words that sent a wave of despair washing over Sage, “That is him, the cabbie.”
Lucinda was thirsty. The water jug was empty and had been for a long time. She tried to think of things other than her dry mouth and her empty stomach. At least she hadn’t needed to use the piss pot for a long time. “Now, now, Lucinda, what have I told you about proper language?” she chided herself aloud, “You should have said, ‘toilet facilities’.” She chuckled but it was a bitter chuckle. Soon, her language might make no difference at all.
She forced her thoughts onto more pleasant things. Like the spring rose buds that were just forming. In a few weeks, they’d flower. Portland was famous for its roses. There was even talk of lining city streets with more of them. Of course, if she was in the middle of the ocean or worse, she’d never see those buds bloom or smell their sweet scent. There were many things she loved in the world that she’d miss.
Whoops, back there again. Maybe she should think of Sage and Mae and Fong and Eich and the other friends she’d acquired through knowing Sage. They’d given her affection and her life meaning. For the first time, she felt like she was doing something good and right in the world.
Ah, Sage. Darn his black Irish good looks and kindness and humor and . . . hell, he had so many good parts to him. It was his on-again, off-again, attention that hurt. Mae asked her to be patient but, while she was waiting, who knows what could happen? For sure, if she didn’t get herself out of this pickle, it wouldn’t matter. She’d never again smell his scent, kiss his lips, snuggle against his chest, feel the rumble of his voice against her ear, or laugh with him.
Damn. Back to gloom again. What had happened to Glad? Help should have been here long before now. If she had to sit in the dark much longer, she was going to start screaming her head off. Why not?
As if triggered by this thought, the door at the top of the stairs squeaked open and footsteps thudded on the stairs. “That’ll teach you, Lucinda girl,” she muttered to herself. She stood. Damned if anyone was going to slap or knock her down again. The padlock rattled and the door opened. Clark and her henchman stepped into the cellar.
“What? You didn’t dig yourself out?” Clark asked. “Maybe all your fine living has made you too fat?”
&nbs
p; Lucinda sensed the one thing Clark would hate most was someone stonewalling her insults so she said nothing and kept her face impassive.
“Be that way,” Clark finally said. “I was so hoping we’d have a real nice heart-to-heart. This is our last opportunity after all,” Clark said, but Lucinda heard a satisfying edge of irritation beneath Clark’s mild words. Clark shrugged. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving and will never see you, again, but I wanted you to remember me.”
Quick as a snake’s tongue, she darted forward and slapped Lucinda’s face before jumping back. “Ever since I’ve known you, I’ve fought the urge to slap you silly. I find I like doing it,” Clark said. “Unfortunately, we’ve run out of time, so that little tap will have to do.”
Clark pulled a tiny gun from her dress pocket and gestured Lucinda to one side. “Willard here is going to open the door to the underground. Then you and he are going to meet the ship captain. He’s expecting you. Got a place in the hold all picked out.” If there was such a thing as an evil grin, Clark was pulling it off.
“Go ahead Willard, pull out the nails and take her away.” Clark turned back to Lucinda, saying. “You better not give Willard any trouble. I’ve told him to kill you at the first sign of it. He’s done me that service once already. Our Willard is handy with a knife. So, you’d best be on good behavior.”
Willard got busy with the claw end of a crowbar, yanking out the two big spikes. He unlocked the padlock and swung the door open. A gust of damp, musty air swept into the cellar.
Still, Lucinda remained silent, staring at Clark, keeping her face expressionless though now it felt frozen from the effort. She’d die before giving Clark the satisfaction of hearing her beg. The other woman twitched but she neither spoke nor launched another attack. Too bad really, Lucinda was ready for her this time. Her fists were tight and she wanted nothing more than to punch the smirk off Clark’s face.
But the woman wasn’t completely stupid. She knew exactly which wounding arrow to shoot because she said, “The boy’s been gone long enough. Must be somebody grabbed him. Maybe he’s already out to sea. Or could be he’s dead—lots of scary things happen in the underground. One thing for sure, he didn’t bring back help, did he?”