“A girl came last night,” Donaldina said. “She wouldn’t speak to me, but she finally opened up to Ling. A dark-haired man told her to come here. She said he had a warm voice.” Donaldina smiled at Riot.
Ravenwood made an impatient sound. “And?”
“There was another man who told her he’d help her escape weeks ago. Only she didn’t like the sound of his voice. A ‘preacher man’ who came in much the same manner as the second man, which I believe was Atticus. Another girl did trust him, however. And arranged to be rescued the following night.”
“I want to speak with this child,” Ravenwood said.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mr. Ravenwood.”
Riot had to agree; his partner tended to loom.
“Perhaps she’ll be more at ease with me?” he asked.
Ravenwood grunted, and sat on the bench in the front hall, folding his hands over the knob of his stick. With the gargoyle settled, Donaldina sent Ling to fetch the newcomer. She returned shortly, holding the new arrival’s hand.
The girl kept her head down, staring at her feet. And Riot immediately recognized her. She was one of the girls he had visited last week—when he first heard the story about the white women. She had been the silent one behind the curtain in a gambling den. Unresponsive. Staring, as if drugged with opium.
She glanced up, her eyes darting between men. When she caught sight of Ravenwood, she stopped, and took a step back.
Riot adjusted his stance, ever so slightly. To appear less threatening. He caught her attention with a nod. “I see you made it here. Are they treating you well?” he asked in Cantonese.
The girl’s eyes returned to her slippers, and remained. She nodded.
He introduced himself, and asked after her name.
“Wong Hai,” she said. Her voice was so very faint. And he feared the slightest mistake would send her back into silence.
“A pleasure.” He pressed his palms together and bowed slightly. She automatically returned the gesture. “My partner and I are trying to help other girls. Miss Cameron told us what you said about the man who came before me—the one your friend went with.”
He didn’t take out the photographs or sketches. Not yet.
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
She shook her head. And he could well imagine what she was thinking. How many men had used her since she came to San Francisco? Had she even looked at his face?
But this girl who ran from her captors and risked torture and death to escape was made of sterner stuff than he thought. She pointed to Ravenwood, and made a gesture around her chin.
“He had a beard?”
Hai nodded.
“White?”
Hai shook her head. Ravenwood shifted, but Riot shot him a warning glance, and he subsided, scowling at his shoes.
“Blue like Miss Cameron’s skirt?” Riot asked.
At this Hai smiled—the faintest of expressions. “No, yellow,” she said.
“Young and handsome like myself, or old and grouchy like that one?”
Again a light entered her eyes. “Thin. Tall. He had wrinkles around his eyes and silver in his hair.”
“Did he give a name?”
“Mr. Jones.”
“How was he going to help you escape?”
“He told us that the Chinese Mission Church right before the big hill would help us. That we would be saved from our life of shame, and that he was a preacher man.” Ling translated all of this for the benefit of the others.
“Did he tell you all this in Cantonese?”
She nodded.
“And you were to run there?”
“He would come back for us,” Hai said. “Through the hole in the roof.”
“Did he come back?”
“Not that night.”
“When did he come for your friend?”
“I don’t know. I was sold to another man.”
Riot nodded. “Thank you, Miss Wong. I am going to show you some sketches of other girls. I need you to tell me if you recognize any of them. Would that be all right?”
She nodded. And he took out the sketches. Hai frowned as she sorted through each. Four in all. “Here is my friend. Where is she?” The third victim.
Riot did not immediately answer. “Where did you first meet her?”
Hai began to tremble violently. Her eyes turned inward, and Donaldina placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Riot said.
Hai didn’t have to, but she did, her words tumbling from her lips in a rush. “I did not want to go. I would not learn the names of the family they told me to memorize. So the man gave me something. It made me sick and dumb, and I was picked up from the steamer cabin. I was taken to a place—a big room where a white woman put me on a crate. There were other girls. And we were all stripped. The white woman and another Chinese woman looked us all over—our teeth, our tongue, our… legs.
“Over the next day, more men and women came to look at us. The girls who resisted were beaten, or burnt with iron. Then one day a woman shoved a gold coin in my hand. After she cut hair from my body, and pricked my finger, she had me sign a paper. She told me I was marked, that bad things would happen if I did not go with the man. That is where I met Lun Foo.”
Hai did not cry. Her eyes were dry, but her body quaked as if the ground itself were moving her. “Where is Lun Foo?” she repeated firmly.
Riot took a breath, and squared his shoulders. “She was killed. We’re trying to find the person who killed her, and with what you’ve just told us, I know we’ll bring her murderer to justice.”
Tears dripped down Hai’s cheeks. “There is no justice; there is no peace for her.”
18
Saintly Suspect
Zephaniah Ravenwood bashed his heavy stick on the door. It left a dent in the wood. The man might be as hard to read as a slate of stone, but that didn’t mean he lacked emotion. His anger was the slow, dangerous kind, and once he made up his mind, those who got in the way were crushed.
An old Chinese woman bent with time and wear answered the door.
“Ravenwood for Mr. Jones.”
Her milky eyes traveled up, and farther still, to the face of Ravenwood. She took a step back.
Riot cleared his throat, and nodded politely. “If Mr. Jones will see us,” he said in a softer tone.
She ushered them into the sitting room. The furnishings were in an oriental style—teak woods, reds, and scrolling gold work. Spartan, yet rich. Riot’s gaze flickered to the bagua hanging above the front door, but this one was turned around, the mirror facing the wall.
Mr. Jones was a hearty, older man. His light hair and beard might have been blond once, but gray had long since taken over in the way that particular color blended with the other. He had sloped shoulders, and one twisted arm that ended with a hand plagued by arthritis. The fingers resembled a talon.
As usual, Ravenwood left the pleasantries to Riot, while he scrutinized the room. Riot made introductions, and extended his left hand. The older man shook it with his good hand. It was a strong grip, and his eyes shone with warmth.
“Your reputation precedes you, of course,” said Jones, gesturing at a chair. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“We’re investigating some recent murders. Have you heard of the Broken Blossom Murders?” asked Riot.
Jones nodded grimly. “It’s a shame. A true shame. But then, it’s really only one more crack among many in that dam.”
“How so?” asked Riot.
“Have you ever traveled to China?”
“A brief visit.”
“The poverty among the lower classes is extreme, and the value of a girl is so low that the parents themselves sell their daughters.”
“And men of all sorts have no issues using them,” Riot said.
“True, true, the problem is pervasive,” Jones admitted. “I’ve always thought if there weren’t such strict immigration laws—if men w
ere allowed to bring their wives here—that we’d not have thousands of unmoored bachelors in the Quarter. As I said, it’s one crack in a failing dam.”
Riot waited politely, to see where the man would go next. Most people had a need to fill silence, and Riot was content to wait to see what Jones would fill it with.
Ravenwood was not content. He rapped his knuckles on a modest piano. “Do you play, Mr. Jones?”
The man grimaced. The question called attention to his claw-like fingers. “I haven’t been able to for years.” There was true grief in his words. “My son plays, however. And my wife did. God rest her soul.”
“Do you have a photograph of your son?” Ravenwood asked with a flash of teeth. It was a far from reassuring smile.
Riot shot his partner an irritated look. It was lost on him. If there was a sure way to close a man up like a clam, it was to put him on guard about his kin. But Mr. Jones appeared not to mind. Quite the opposite, he appeared pleased that someone had asked. He left, and returned with a photograph. Jones Jr. was the spitting image of his father. Tall, thin, sparse hair, but with two good hands. Although one couldn’t tell from a photograph, Riot would wager his hair was blond, with a few gray threads.
Ravenwood snatched the framed photograph.
“Is there something wrong?” Jones asked.
“We’re questioning everyone connected to the missions. To see if they might have seen something,” Riot lied smoothly. “You own the Chinese Mission Church?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I help where I can. I’m not a man of great wealth, but it’s a good place for the mission.”
“Are you active at the mission?”
“I stop by now and again.”
“Do you rescue slave girls?”
“I’m afraid those days are over.” He rubbed his crippled hand with his good one. “But I used to visit dens in an attempt to convince the girls to run. I tell them of a kind Christian God, and talk to them about seeking safety in his arms. Unfortunately the guards know me by sight now, and I’m never allowed entrance.” Mr. Jones paused, and sighed. “As awful as these murders are, they’ve raised awareness for the slave girls. Before the killings, the newspapers and general public would scarcely acknowledge that slavery of this kind was taking place in the city. People don’t like to be reminded of unpleasant things.”
“Acknowledgement brings responsibility,” Ravenwood grunted. “Your son,” he set the photograph down with a kind of purpose that Riot knew well, “Does he follow in your footsteps? Does he rescue slave girls?”
“He has nothing to do with mission work. He’s a business man.” The disapproval was plain in his tone. “He concerns himself with worldly possessions rather than spiritual.”
“Does he manage your properties?”
“Not exactly,” Jones said. “But he does manage a lumber yard on a property of mine. It’s on the edge of the Quarter.”
Mr. Jones Jr. was an unremarkable man. His shoulders sloped like his father’s, and his spectacles sat on the end of his nose. His eyes were perpetually squinting with strain. Everything about him screamed accountant. Except for his hands. They were large and calloused, and his sleeve protectors were taut around his forearms. There was strength in those arms. He smiled amiably, and shook hands. Riot glanced at the pin on his lapel. A gentleman’s fishing society.
“A fellow sportsman, I see,” he said after introductions were made. The man started with surprise, and Riot glanced pointedly at the pin.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Jones said, smoothing his beard. “Are you a fisherman yourself?”
“I am,” Riot said, adding silently ‘of a human sort.’ He could well imagine Ravenwood’s internal snort. “But it’s a hard thing to do without a boat.”
“River fishing, then?”
“Mostly. I don’t have the strength for ocean fishing,” Riot said.
“It only takes the right equipment. As do most jobs. I enjoy the challenge—a man and the sea. It gets the blood pumping.”
“Indeed. Nearly biblical.”
Jones Jr. paused in thought. “I suppose so. The apostles were fisherman after all. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
Riot took the offered seat, but Ravenwood remained on his feet. The looming, white-haired bird of prey didn’t seem to bother Jones Jr. His eyes were all innocent inquiry.
“We’re questioning residents in and around the Quarter about the girls who have washed up in the bay. I was hoping you, or some of the other residents, might have seen a fleeing girl, or heard screams.”
Mr. Jones Jr. chuckled. “Aside from the regular gun shots, screams, and arguments of the Quarter?”
Riot inclined his head in acknowledgement. San Francisco was far from peaceful. Gun fire barely elicited the flutter of an eyelash in the Barbary Coast.
“I’ve heard nothing out of the ordinary,” Jones Jr. said. “We would have whistled for the police if we’d heard anything. These murders are unfortunate. A terrible, terrible tragedy.”
“Are you involved with your father’s mission work at all?” asked Riot.
Jones smiled. “I’m not much of a church-going man. Numbers keep me occupied—” Mr. Jones Jr. blinked. “Er, where did your friend go?”
Riot glanced over his shoulder. For a tall man with a limp, Ravenwood could be surprisingly swift. “Fresh air,” he said smoothly. “Do you mind if I question your workers? Do you have a night watchman?”
“I’ll put you in touch with him, or you can come back tonight. His name is Seaward.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“You should think about joining our society, Mr. Riot. Jolly good fun. We’ll get you out on the ocean for some fishing in no time.”
“Do you have a boat?”
“Yes, a modest one,” Jones Jr. replied. “But it’s not a requirement. That’s the beauty of a club. What one doesn’t have, others share. There’s never a weekend goes by that someone isn’t out on the water.”
Riot thanked the man, and excused himself. He found Ravenwood scowling at a stack of baskets. They were the type of baskets that Chinese laborers used to carry large loads on their shoulders. These were full of wood scraps.
Ravenwood knocked a basket with his stick. They were certainly large enough to stuff a limp girl inside.
“We could be grasping at straws,” Riot said under his breath.
“Puns are not lost on me, my boy.”
“The comment was more on the serious side.”
“If we are, then it is a very large straw. What do you make of the son?”
“He’s hiding something,” Riot said. Most people were. Brandish a detective agency card and people tended to get nervous.
“Find out who delivers the lumber shipments from the docks.”
Riot strolled around the yard, and stopped to introduce himself to four dogs basking in the sun. The smallest mutt growled, but Riot went straight to the largest, and scratched behind the dog’s ears until his companions became jealous. “I’ll bring food next time,” he said softly, dodging an eager tongue. After a round of head pats, he went in search of the delivery man. The dogs followed.
He wasn’t hard to find. A broad-shouldered Chileno with hands that looked like tree roots picked up a board, flung it over his shoulder, and carried it to a waiting wagon. The unloading made the wagon shudder. When the man turned, Riot touched the brim of his hat.
“Atticus Riot.”
“What kind of name is that?” the bull-sized man asked.
“Depends on yours.”
“Jim Mason.”
“What kind of name is that for a Chileno?”
Mason grunted. “I tan easy.”
Riot offered his hand with a quirk of his lips. His grip made Riot wince. When he recovered his hand, he shook out his numb fingers behind his back.
“What can I do for you?” Mason asked, as he hefted another staggering load onto a shoulder. The boards passed right over Riot’s head.
“Do you handle all th
e deliveries?”
“Most,” Mason said. “Why, did I cut off your cabriolet? If I did, there’s nothing I can do about it, and I wouldn’t start a fight with me if I were you, being as small as you are.”
“I prefer to walk rather than take a hack, but thank you for the warning.”
Mason paused with the load of lumber easily balanced on a massive shoulder. “Now that’s rare in this city. What do they say? Why walk when you can ride? Not of fashion to walk, or do they say uncivilized?”
“It’s unfashionable,” Riot answered. “And you’re correct. I’m practically a savage.”
“You use the wrong tailor for a savage,” Mason grunted. A racket of noise signaled another unloading, and the wagon shuddered again.
“Same could be said for a certain mule.”
Mason chuckled. “I take what jobs I can get. I do the work of two men for half the pay of one.” Mason frowned. “You’re not a union man, are you?”
“I am not.”
Mason looked relieved.
“Do you pick up the lumber from the wharves?”
“I do.”
“Alone?”
“Is there a point to your questions?”
He’d get nowhere at this rate. Given Mason’s size, Riot couldn’t imagine him spiriting away slave girls without someone remembering a Chileno giant. “I’m investigating a number of murders. The victims were Chinese girls. Their bodies were thrown into the bay.”
“You think I did it?”
“No,” Riot said truthfully. “I was hoping you might have seen or heard something. Here, or down at the wharves—anything out of the ordinary.”
Mason shrugged. “I hear talk of those murders. It’s all over the wharves. Lots of things are ordinary in San Francisco, but if I saw a child in danger, I would not be reporting it to you now. I’d smash the bastardo’s head in.”
“Likewise, although I’d put a bullet there.”
Mason nodded.
“What time do you generally make deliveries?”
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