Chinawoman's Chance

by James Musgrave

  “I understand, Ah Toy, but my mind works the same way Captain Lees thinks. We concentrate on the task at hand and not on the glory to come.” Clara turned to Vanderheiden. “Detective Vanderheiden. What happened to you? Your suit is stained with dirt, and you have scratches all over your face.”

  Dutch looked at Clara as if he were the boy who was caught pilfering the cookie jar. His face reddened, and he tried to sweep the stains off with his hands. “We were in a little scrape in a Chinatown alley. The Captain saved my life. We was attacked by a couple of Tong boys who thought we were kidnapping George here. I guess I wasn’t looking and got tackled.”

  “Captain Lees disarmed that hatchet-wielding thug by using his Bowie knife. He dropped down low, like an Indian, just as the intruder rushed him, and he sliced the Tong’s Achilles tendons. His assailant went down like a puppet that just had his strings cut. Wham!” George Kwong spoke with the colorful phrases of his journalist’s skill.

  “Did I hear my name being used in vain?” Captain Isaiah Lees stood in the doorway, scowling.

  In spite of herself, Clara rushed over to Lees and gave him a demonstrative hug. “Thank goodness, you’re safe!”

  Lees gently pushed Clara away. “What did you ladies concoct about our being here? I was thinking about that on the way over.”

  “Clara thought of an excellent ruse. I shall be painting your portraits in the Observatory. You and Detective Vanderheiden will be arresting young Bai Kwong, who will be dressed in his jailhouse uniform.” Ah Toy explained. “She even thought of a title for my masterpiece.”

  “The One that Got Away?” Lees laughed.

  “How dare you insult my creativity!” Clara chuckled. “I entitled it Chinese Lawbreaker. It will show the pathos of such a young man being taken in, not having a chance in the world against the powers that be.”

  “Indeed. You should have seen this powerful one with his face down in the alley mud,” Lees said. “As for myself, after all of this is over, I may be the one being arrested in your painting. I’m up to my eyeballs in this illegal subterfuge right now.”

  “The subterfuge must continue, I’m afraid,” Clara said, moving over to the table and picking up her advertisement. “I now have the content that will lure our killer from hiding and into our haunted mansion. The ghost of all these murdered women shall assist me in the capture of such a predator!”

  “You will not be alone in this. But it won’t be ghosts. You’re going to have an armed guard in hiding during every one of your so-called private interviews. We don’t even know if this killer will be induced to come into the middle of your spider web. What if he or she attempts the daring deed while you are out and about, or even somewhere else in this house?”

  “The captain’s right. A smart killer would expect a trap. We need to plan for all the possibilities.” Dutch pointed out.

  “What? Do you propose we have a police officer in every room of the house and following me everywhere I go? What if this murderer just wants to kill any woman? Ah Toy, me, or even old Missus Hopkins might be in danger. Can you protect all of us at the same time?” Clara was using her attorney mind on this conundrum.

  “You seem to forget. I am the Captain of all detectives in San Francisco. I also have connections with other districts, in other cities. I can have twenty men—all professionals—who can blend in with any setting or crowd. I shall spare no expense when this trap gets triggered. Kwong’s life, and our future careers and lives will depend on how well you are protected. In fact, just as you have chosen to protect the identify of this would-be murderer, I am stating that my detectives shall be unknown to you as well. They will be there, but you won’t know it.” Lees placed his hands on his cape and puffed out his broad chest. “Agreed?”

  Before Clara could answer, a shout came from downstairs. It was Hannigan.

  “Miss Ah Toy! You must come down here. There are hundreds of people assembled by the guard’s gate outside.”

  When everybody, with the exception of George Kwong, assembled out in front of the mansion, the sight they took in was at once frightening and comical. There were indeed hundreds of people out beside the guard house on California Street. The guard, in his plumed regalia, was attempting to ward off belligerent members of what was left of the San Francisco Vigilance Committee. The men were pushing and shoving against the gate, causing it to balloon inward like a fishnet on the wharf, bursting with the day’s catch.

  The spokesman for the group, a tall, elderly gentleman with a walrus mustache and a Confederate uniform from his Civil War days, was shouting at poor Missus Hopkins, who had placed herself in harm’s way in front of this person’s flailing arms.

  “You chink-lover! We know you have that killer inside. Bring him out here, or we’ll go in and get him!” The old man shouted at the old woman.

  The guard, in his protective stance, stood between the two, his rifle pointed at the Confederate impersonator. Having served in the Union, Missus Hopkins’ old guard was none too patient with such a scallywag. “Step back, you blackguard, or I’ll shoot you between your rebel eyes!”

  Stepping back, the old man raised his voice above the crowd’s yells. “See? She’s got a union-buster guarding the plantation. We need to get that murderer ourselves!”

  Clara, who noticed there were also many of her fellow suffragettes in the crowd of demonstrators, sprinted out to the guard shack, with Lees and Dutch following close behind. She could hear poor Missus Hopkins speaking to them in her nonsensical manner.

  “There are no guided tours to my home without prior arrangements. All of you! Leave at once, or I shall have the mayor call out the National Guard!’

  Clara took her position beside the old woman. “Listen to me. Everyone. Miss Ah Toy, the artist, is the only Chinese person living here.” She pointed to her friend, who was still standing on the front porch of the mansion. “We will be conducting a course to teach women how to become independent and wealthy in these trying times. Why would we risk our reputation by harboring an escaped felon? I was just going to place my advertisement in the daily news. See? Here it is!” Clara held up the handwritten paper.

  Lees moved forward to stand beside Clara. He opened his cape to show his badge, his sheathed Bowie, and the Colt .45 in his holster. “And my men and I will be here to guarantee that these courses are respectfully and peacefully attended.”

  Just as Clara expected, the hundreds of women in the crowd began to scream and applaud the news. They had obviously followed the men up California Street when they heard about the rumor of the escaped criminal. “Clara Foltz! Hail, Portia of the Pacific! We want independence for women now!”

  “Follow me, independent women!” Clara yelled, stepping past the frustrated Vigilantes. “I’m going now to place my ad, and I want you with me to protect me on my journey!”

  The big crowd opened up, like the Red Sea for a female Moses, and Clara began to strut down California Street toward the office of the San Francisco Examiner. The women, in their colorful dresses and twirling parasols, swung in behind her, as if they were modern Israelites following their leader to the promised land.

  Behind them, the small crowd of men continued to growl their dissatisfaction at Lees and the guard, but they soon began to disperse, like whipped canines, and began to head back down the street, their invisible tails between their legs, into the waiting fog below.

  ***

  Mayor Washington Bartlett was pacing his office like a caged tiger. The dragnet on his city had commenced, and he was ready to make a speech to the people at the City Hall, on the Market Street side. Of course, it was the Van Ness side that concerned him most, but because most of the votes came from the masses, he wanted to assuage them about the danger of their community, while putting the most protection in the Nob Hill and Rincon Hill areas where the rich lived.

  The window of his office opened up to a large enclosed platform overlooking Market and the Sand Lots area. There were already th
ousands gathered to hear the news of what was happening to make the city safe again. Part of them were disappointed that there would be no hanging up on Russian Hill, others were concerned for the safety of their families, and a minority, including former members of the Vigilante Committee, wanted to take matters into their own hands if this mayor proved to be as ineffective as he seemed to be.

  Bartlett was ready. He picked up the large megaphone from his desk and held it in his arms as one would hold a baby. It had his last name stenciled on its side in Old English lettering. When he stepped out onto the balcony of his office, the crowd noise was a mixture of cheers and boos. Bartlett brought the voice enhancer up to his full-bearded face and puffy lips, and he began:

  “Greetings, fellow citizens of San Francisco. I want you to feel safe this evening because I have ordered a complete search of Chinatown, including the homes of the Six Companies’ leaders. I am promising to you, with the authority of my office, we shall have this killer back into custody. He will pay for his conviction of murder in the first degree by hanging by the neck until death up on Russian Hill!”

  Cheers were thunderous, but some voices shouted out separate jeering statements, such as “You better get that chink, you crook!” Or, “The Chinese are not the problem, you are!”

  “However, I need your assistance to capture this man. If you see or hear anything suspicious, or you see this man,” Bartlett held up a large poster with a photo of George Kwong on it, “report it to City Hall or to a local policeman or sheriff’s officer. If we work together, we will capture this convicted murderer and keep our city safe, as it should be. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and I bid you a good evening!”

  Mayor Bartlett turned away from the crowds and walked back into his office. Sheriff Pat Connolly was there to greet him. “Well, what is it? Did you find him?”

  “Old Reb Bill and his men tried to scare them with threats. Guess who was staying there with the chink, Ah Toy.” Connolly brushed a few bits of cigar tobacco off his Chinatown Squad jacket.

  “Clara Foltz?” Bartlett guessed.

  “Yes, the chink-lover was there. So were Captain Lees and his Dutch sidekick.”

  “Oh, really? I want somebody to infiltrate that house and find out what they’re up to. I don’t care what you do. Tell them there’s an epidemic of the plague. Just get inside that mansion and see if they’re hiding Kwong!”

  “Yes sir!” Connolly saluted and left the room.

  “I know he’s in there,” Bartlett whispered to himself after Connolly left. “If I get him, I can begin to pack my bags for the governor’s mansion.”

  Chapter Nine: The Interviews

  One Nob Hill, Hopkins Mansion, San Francisco, March 2, 1884

  Both Clara and Captain Lees perfected their individual jobs before the first interviews were to be conducted that afternoon in the mansion. Clara, realizing she may not have written enough in the advertisement to infuriate the real murderer sufficiently, decided to write an article to emphasize the content of the course to be taught to women. She wrote that the course would be an “empowerment for women, in that it will show females how to establish legitimate businesses based on using women’s feminine attraction to make money off men, mostly bachelors. It will not be prostitution (no physical contact), but it will include allure, poetry, dancing and other forms of female sensuality and grace.” Clara believed her new article’s content, published the day before in the morning papers, would enrage the killer most profoundly because this course will be making “honest women out of former prostitutes in Chinatown and elsewhere.” As a result, Ah Toy would become the target for murder rather than some random woman who might show up for an interview.

  For his part, Isaiah decided he would import his guardian detective force by giving them staff employment. They would take jobs such as butler, chauffeur, cook, and even maid. The “maid” idea came from Dutch, who believed the killer might let down his guard if he thought it was a woman in his presence. Detective Tom Whitefeather, who looked rather effeminate because he was a beardless young man from the local Muwekma Ohlone Tribe, volunteered for the maid role. Although Tom received some number of good-natured cat-calls and insults, it was soon clear that Tom was so certain of his masculinity that wearing a maid’s dress was not threatening to him. The Colt .45 tucked into his girdle would be threatening to any would-be attacker.

  There were four women who made reservations to be interviewed that afternoon. Clara was on pins and needles about their possible identities. She had once again gone over the clues she had collected to lead her to the killer. She also knew the two physical traits that she could use to identify this person. Hopefully, this information would be enough to save Ah Toy’s life and possibly even her own.

  The day before, when she was taking her new article to the newspapers to be published, she also sent a message to her family in San Jose at the telegraph office on Market Street. She did not want to unduly frighten them about what she was about to do, but she did want them to know she was thinking of them at this time of personal crisis. She imagined it was like her husband, Jeremiah Foltz, the Civil War veteran, who told her about how painful it was to go off to battle. “Carrie, I am not the same man I was because of what I saw. I cannot trust society ever again.” If Jeremiah had become so mentally affected by his war experience, then what was she going to be like after confronting this demonic woman-killer? Would she have to pull the trigger? If she did, and this murderer were dead, then would the evidence she had be enough to convince the mayor and the police? Writing down the message to her family was a brief respite from such thoughts:

  Carrie here. How are my beloved ones? Are they growing like beanstalks? I so long to have you all in my arms once more! I am working hard to make it so. As soon as I have saved enough, you shall be escorted to me by an entire police force. I am doing important things, as you may have read, Father, and now I will be tested. Do not fear. I will make the most of my trials, I will soon call you to my side for the rest of our lives together! Yours lovingly, daughter and mother.

  Now that Clara was mentally prepared for this ordeal, she went about setting up Ah Toy’s room for the first interview. Ah Toy would be seated at the table facing the door. The person being interviewed would enter through the facing door and would sit in the padded green antique chair, which had no armrests. This was to give Clara and the guard easy access to shoot the killer if he or she should pull a gun while seated. Detective Vanderheiden discovered that the late Mister Hopkins used an ingenious two-way mirror in his study to observe prospective business partners before meeting with them. When the lamp light was shined on the rear side of the mirror, where Clara was, it became transparent, and she could secretly view the suspect. She knew she must be able to identify one or both of the physical traits of the suspect before preparing for the arrest.

  The staff and integrated detective force were instructed by Captain Lees to never discuss George Kwong or even the fact that Ah Toy was going to paint a portrait of him in the Observatory steeple. The escapee’s presence in the Hopkins mansion must remain a guarded secret until the real killer was captured or terminated. And, most importantly, no guard was to confront or attack a person visiting the house unless Clara gave the word. Lees and Vanderheiden were doing their regular police work in the mornings, and they would appear at the mansion during the scheduled interviews in the afternoon.

  The four women to be interviewed were Miss Marjorie Potter, Missus Elizabeth Baxter-Shaw, Miss Changying Chen, and Missus Miriam Levine. Two were single women and former prostitutes who wanted to begin new lives. The others had been married, but Baxter-Shaw was a widow, and Levine was divorced.

  Miss Potter arrived promptly at one p.m., and Hannigan brought her upstairs to Ah Toy's office and living quarters. Clara was in the adjoining bedroom, peering through her mirror at the entering applicant. The distance between the suspect and Clara's eye was ten feet. She could see the woman's face, and Clara knew at once this
person was not the killer. Even disguised, Clara knew she wasn't the one. Miss Potter was too diminutive. She was an attractive young lady of about twenty-five, with auburn hair rolled into a bun, an hourglass figure, and a professional dress that included a fashionably dark-blue, narrow skirt with a medium bustle. Clara listened to the interesting dialogue between her friend and the young applicant.

  "Miss Potter, I want you to forget about your past and especially how you came to your profession. What I need to know is why you want to learn how to work as an independent woman." Ah Toy leaned forward, watching the way the woman conducted herself as she spoke. From her many years supervising young women, Ah Toy had three key questions that she answered by watching and listening: 1. Did she look you straight in the eyes? 2. Was her grammar and elocution proper? 3. Did she have a sense of humor? If a candidate failed in two of the three questions, then she was rejected, even as a prostitute working for Ah Toy in Chinatown.

  Miss Potter gazed steadily at Ah Toy as she spoke, her eyebrows arching somewhat at emotional moments, her tone calmly confident. "I want to learn to become independent because our society respects those who can make life better by contributing to values we hold dear. As you stated in your advertisement, a woman who knows how to benefit from the finer attributes of life like literature, dance and physical magnetism, can profit without losing her chastity. I have known this to be true, even when I dreamed it during what I now call my fallen days. I watched these women of grace and allure as they paraded in the hotels, and I tried to be like them in both appearance and voice. Sadly, I did not know there were women like you who could save me from the burden of masculine lust and fear that was used to keep us submissive and dependent on our keepers. As I rode the cable car from downtown, I kept feeling inside as if I were climbing up to a woman's Mt. Olympus, where I could finally learn the skills we need to survive the rape of Zeus. Zeus overcame most of his female victims by trickery: he raped Leda in the form of a swan, Danaë in the guise of a golden rain, and Alkmene in the persona of her legitimate husband, and he did not even hesitate to take on so coarse a disguise as that of a randy satyr for the purpose of violating Antiope."