Chinawoman's Chance

by James Musgrave

  “Whatever you think is prudent, Captain. I want to thank you for saving my life once again,” George said, his dark eyes glistening under the lamplight.

  “Do you think the feds will shut down Clara’s trap?” Dutch asked. He was at one of the lockers, rummaging through the foodstuffs, which were mostly Chinese goods.

  “I don’t really know, partner. However, knowing Clara’s skills as a negotiator, I would doubt it. Something tells me the feds came here because of the local corruption and not because of Clara’s doings. We really won that trial. You do realize that, correct?” Lees moved over into the light to see the face of Vanderheiden better.

  “Win? You do realize that I am a hard-headed Dutchman. I go by what happens and not by what we would like to happen. All I know is that this here kid would be swingin’ from a rope if we didn’t kidnap him.” Venderheiden turned from the locker to face his boss. “Twice,” he added, smiling.

  “Yes, well, after this second kidnapping, under the noses of the federal authorities, we may be keeping George company on Russian Hill.” Lees returned the grin.

  “Do you mind not talking about hanging?” George squirmed on the bed and circled his fingers around his neck. “I had almost gotten used to the confinement in the mansion, and now I am back where I began. I feel like a pawn on the hangman’s chessboard.”

  “Good comparison, Lad! I’m happy to see you’ve kept your journalistic repose.” Lees chuckled.

  “Listen! You all hear that?” Venderheiden pointed up to the trap door above their heads. The muffled sounds of repeated gunshots vibrated the ceiling floorboards, and dust fell on their heads from above.

  “What in the hell is happening up there?” Lees sat down on the bed with George Kwong, and all three men stared up at the ceiling, as the continuing cacophony of gunfire and trampling footsteps made the entire temple rumble like a locomotive was passing through.

  After about twenty minutes, the noise finally subsided. Lees and Vanderheiden stood up, and brushed off their clothes, which had become quite dusty from all the commotion.

  “You think we should go up there now?” Dutch moved toward the portable wooden stairs that served as the method of getting out of the underground room.

  “No. Wait. If it’s all clear, then the minister will be opening up that trap door,” Lees also shuffled over to stand under the trap door with his partner.

  “Do you think the authorities know we’re in Chinatown?” George Kwong’s eyes were large under the lamplight beside his bed.

  “Could be,” said Lees. “If I know your father, he would do just about anything to save your neck, including starting a Tong war with those authorities.”

  All three men watched, in rapt attention, as the trap door above them slowly began to open. The sound of the creaking wood seemed like the door to their coffin. Both detectives drew their Colts from their holsters and stood still, pointing the pistols up toward the slowly opening aperture. On the bed, George Kwong held his breath and prayed.

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

  “Do you have the list of four candidates for tomorrow’s interviews?” Clara was having dinner with Ah Toy and Missus Hopkins. Their plates contained lamb chops, green beans and mashed potatoes. Hannigan stood to the side, ready to refill glasses of wine and cater to the ladies’ wishes.

  “Yes, but do you really believe we’ll be getting a visit from this killer?” Ah Toy was eating with chopsticks, but she had to first cut her food into small chunks. “You know, back in China, we invented these chopsticks because we were mostly starving. Small bits of food could be picked up easily, and we then had kindling to add to our fire for warmth.”

  “We’ll have no visits from Chinese killers. I don’t care if they have chopsticks. Those can be dangerous!” Missus Hopkins shook her gray head, reached over, and snatched the two chopsticks out of Ah Toy’s hands. She then stuck them both up into her nostrils. “See?” she grinned. “I could get brain damage from these things.”

  Clara laughed, but then her face became serious. “I do hope we hear from Isaiah. I’m concerned about where he took our friend George. If he took him back to Chinatown, I don’t think Mayor Bartlett will leave a stone unturned until he finds his convicted prisoner.”

  “We can’t be concerned with that right now,” Ah Toy pointed out. “We must find this murderer, and that means we have to continue the interviews tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I am happy we are together in all of this, my old friend.” Clara smiled at Ah Toy. “I don’t believe I could have done it without your help,” she added.

  “You once saved my life, Carrie. Remember? If you hadn’t defended my business against the San Ho Hui, the little slice on my arm could have easily become a crimson smile on my whore’s neck.” Ah Toy slid her index finger below her chin, across her neckline. “In our tradition, once your life is saved by somebody, you are responsible to that savior, for life.”

  “Our Lord and Savior! Halleluiah! Praise the Lord!” Missus Hopkins raised her hands in glory.

  Chapter Ten: The Killer

  One Nob Hill, Hopkins Mansion, San Francisco, March 3, 1884

  In order to make herself less of a target, Clara was staying inside the Hopkins Mansion. Ah Toy’s room was so large that it had two bedrooms, so it was easy for the attorney to sleep there. When she awoke from a restless dream, in which she experienced herself confronting the killer and being flayed in the manner of the previous eight victims, Clara’s mouth was dry, and she probed her body with her fingers, from the neck down, as if it might perhaps be skeletal in form. No, she was still in one piece, so she got up from the bed, dressed in her blue business frock, with a small bustle, and laced up her high black boots. As she arranged her auburn hair into its usual swirl, she heard something being dropped in the other bedroom.

  Using the shouting habit, she had picked-up from Ah Toy, she cupped her hands around her mouth and let loose. “Are you all right in there?”

  “It’s me, Missus Foltz. Hannigan. Miss Ah Toy’s not in at present.”

  Clara picked up her handbag with the pistol inside and walked over to the other bedroom. The door was open, and Hannigan stood there, having retrieved a statue of a Chinese peasant woman that he had knocked over while dusting. “Top of the mornin’, Missus. Will you be havin’ breakfast up here?”

  “It depends. Where’s Miss Ah Toy?” Clara tucked a stray wisp of hair up into her swirl.

  “She’s left to do some art shopping. She said I should tell you she would return before the first interview this afternoon.” Hannigan dusted the statue before he placed it back on the wall shelf above the bed.

  “Really. Do you happen to know where she’s doing this shopping?”

  “Yes, I do. I brought her the telegram. It was from Mister Guan Shi Yin at the Joss House in Chinatown. He told her he would like her to see some rare Chinese artifacts he had for sale. It seems the donations have been few these days, and …” Hannigan began.

  Clara’s mind froze when she heard the name Guan Shi Yin. She heard nothing more. She grabbed Hannigan’s arm, and he stopped talking. He stared at Clara’s ashen face.

  “Are you ill, Missus Foltz?”

  Many divergent thoughts raced through Clara’s mind at once. Ah Toy, her best friend, had, inadvertently, journeyed into the den of the murderer. Captain Lees and his partner were gone. If she told the undercover staff about this, they would certainly storm the Tin How Temple, and, no doubt, Ah Toy’s throat would be slit before they could break inside. Was Ah Toy even alive right now? Clara’s throat constricted and her mouth went dry. There was only one chance, a slim one at that. She had to go to the temple and confront the killer before he murdered Ah Toy.

  “I must leave at once, Hannigan. Could you have someone drive me there by rapid means? It’s a matter of life and death, I’m afraid.” Clara squeezed the butler’s arm until his face winced.

  “If you don’t m
ind riding a horse, Mum, Detective Tom Whitefeather has the fastest steed. He won a competition the other day between the mansion staff and the detectives on duty. His dappled gray is a swift mare, indeed.” Hannigan smiled, “I’m afraid he won’t have time to change out of his maid’s outfit.”

  “I don’t care about that. I need to get over to the Joss House right now.” Clara ran out of the room and into the hall, and Hannigan followed her. “Mister Whitefeather!” she shouted. “I need you!”

  A short person in a long blue and white dress, with an apron and a frilly white cap, came bounding up the stairs from the first floor. As he came running up to Clara, the attorney understood why Dutch Vanderheiden had thought the native would make a realistic woman. His dark lashes were long and flirtatious, and his hairless chin and jawline, and becoming features, were soft and appealing to the eye. When he spoke, however, his deep bass voice assured her this was no woman.

  “Missus Foltz. I am at your service. What is your need?”

  “I need to get to the Joss House, the Tin How Temple, as fast as possible. Mister Hannigan says your steed is swift afoot.”

  “She is. I can take you right now. Please follow me.” Whitefeather began to run, and Clara tried to keep up, but she was falling behind as he leaped several steps on the stairs on his way down. When he was standing at the front door, he held it for her as she caught up to him. “Come. She is in the mansion’s livery next to the guard house.”

  Clara tucked her small handbag inside her waist sash. She knew she would soon need the Derringer within. When Whitefeather jumped onto the gray, she realized there was no saddle on the back of the horse. However, the young man was very strong, and when he reached over to extend his arms, she noticed his forearms and biceps bulged against the maid’s uniform sleeves like those of a strongman she once saw as a child at the county fair. She gripped his hands, and he pulled her up quickly, until her legs were facing sideways behind him. “Missus Foltz, encircle your arms around my chest, and hold onto me. Ghost Lady likes to get her lather up when she runs. Until she’s into her full gallop, however, you will experience some amount of bouncing up and down.”

  Detective Whitefeather did not lie. As they took off in a sprint down California Street, at almost a twenty-five-degree angle, it was, to Clara, what she imagined it might be like riding the mythical Greek horse Pegasus. When they galloped past the streetcar, as if it were standing still, she actually believed the gray ghost horse might sprout wings and fly into the air. Thankfully, they stayed on the pavement, and as they raced toward Chinatown, Clara could feel the wind explode in her hair, sending her skirts ballooning outward to embarrassing proportions.

  A strange ancillary to this ride was the reaction of all the suffragettes, who were browsing and strolling down the sidewalks of the city. When they saw Clara and Detective Whitefeather galloping by, at breakneck speed in the middle of the boulevard, they hastily assumed the riders were both female. As a result, they began to cheer and wave, lining up along the street to get a better view.

  Clara soon realized these hundreds of women believed this to be a creation of female bravado for their benefit. Never to be lacking for showmanship, Clara dared to grab onto her bonnet with her left hand, and wave it in the air at these boisterous women, and when they saw it was their heroine, Attorney Clara Shortridge Foltz, they began screaming louder, “Portia of the Pacific rides again!” and, “Clara Foltz and women’s rights!”

  When they arrived in front of the Tin How Temple, there was a large group of Tong gang members standing outside. Standing in their midst was Andrew Kwong, father of Clara’s client, George. “Missus Foltz! There’s been a horrible event. My son is trapped inside the temple. And he is with Ah Toy and your two detectives. Guan Shi Yin has taken them all hostage. My men tried to overpower him, but he had weapons down in the hideout beneath Mazu’s statue.”

  Clara slipped down off the Ghost Lady and stood before the leader of the Six Companies. She took his two hands into her own. “How did Captain Lees and Dutch get overpowered?”

  Andrew’s eyes were wild, and his voice was cracking. “When someone heard Ah Toy’s screams, the Tongs tried to break into his temple, and the minister fought back with guns he had secretly stored inside the temple. Miss Ah Toy was there with him looking at artwork he had for sale. He had, at first, with my permission of course, allowed Lees and Vanderheiden to keep my son inside the secret room. I never … he’s the killer, isn’t he, Missus Foltz?”

  Clara frowned. She was already trying to think of how to save her best friends. “Yes, I’ve known he was the murderer for some time. I didn’t want to identify him until I could trap him into revealing his evil intentions. Of course, I never thought it would come to this.”

  “He’s inside the shrine with them right now. He says he’s going to kill them all unless his demands are met.” Andrew squeezed Clara’s hands. “You must save my son. He is our only child.”

  “What demands? This man is mentally deranged, and we must be quite certain he has not killed them already.” Clara looked at all of the men surrounding them. “You have to get everyone out of here. I want you to translate for me. Let me talk to this man. I must get to the cause of his hatred.”

  Just as she said this, Clara saw that hundreds of suffragettes were approaching Chinatown from the outer city streets. This wouldn’t do. “Get your men to cordon off the perimeter of this street. I can’t have anyone making a commotion while I try to negotiate. If the police or federal officials arrive, tell them it’s an emergency. I need to talk with Guan Shi Yin alone. I believe I can convince him to let your son and my friends go.”

  Andrew Kwong moved about the square outside the temple like a man possessed. He gave orders in Cantonese to all the Tongs and other men. The men began to get rope from inside one of the buildings on Waverly Place and string it all around in front of the temple. A guard was posted at every ten feet around the cordon of rope, with a revealing hatchet in his grip.

  Nobody was allowed inside Waverly Place. Andrew Kwong escorted Clara up the steps, leading to the temple on the third floor of the building. As she followed the old man up the winding stairs, Clara could smell the pungent odor of burning incense, and cooking stir fry, coming from the clan rooms on the second floor. She felt inside her handbag. The Derringer pistol that Captain Lees had given her for protection was still there, and she fondled its cold metal. She hoped she wouldn’t need it, but this man’s mental state could now be beyond reason.

  “It’s right up here,” Andrew turned to look at her as they came to the final plateau in the darkened staircase. The only lighting came from holes, in the shapes of different Chinese gods, in the walls of each landing going up. Kwong was now whispering. “I hope I can translate your words so the minister understands them correctly.”

  “I am certain you’ll do well. I have collected some information about your religious practices, but when somebody goes insane, the boundaries of reality and mysticism become disfigured. I’m not quite ready to approach such a task. Any mistake could mean the murder of my friends and your son.” Clara climbed the last few steps and stood with Kwong at the door leading into the temple. She could see bullet holes in it from the earlier conflict with the Tongs.

  “Shall I?” Andrew asked, as he held his trembling hand on the door’s dragon-shaped golden lever.

  “By all means,” Clara thrust her right four fingers in a forward motion, and she held her breath to calm her racing heart.

  When Andrew Kwong opened the door to the temple shrine of Mazu, Clara at once saw the glowing light. It was coming up from the open trap door on the floor of the shrine. The giant statue of the Empress Goddess was pushed to the side, and in its place, was the figure of the minster, Guan Shi Yin. He was wearing his golden robes, but it was what he was hovering over that riveted Clara’s utmost attention.

  His hands were gripping the T-shaped handle of a long metal tube that went down into a square box of some kind.
The glowing lanterns from the walls of the devotional chamber were casting an eerie glow on his face, which was smiled at her as he was poised to strike, like some kind of possessed demon.

  Clara attempted to keep her voice calm, but the sound still came out with a slight trembling vibration. “Hello, Minister. What are you trying to do? Can we be of any assistance?” Clara could hear Andrew Kwong speaking the translated Cantonese behind her. She then listened, as Guan Shi Yin spoke in a rambling, sing-song response.

  Mister Kwong spoke in a low whisper, “He says Mazu is very angry right now. She has given him the gift of millions of years of oceanic wisdom. The dynamite has been cradled in her gift of Diatomaceous earth, so that it will not needlessly explode until he pushes down on the blasting mechanism in his hands right now. Guan Shi Yin says he worked for seven years as the digger of the graves in Oakland. It was then he learned from railroad workers that there was a much easier method of creating the burial sites in the cemetery. Before the invention of the protected dynamite by Alfred Nobel, it seems Mister Leland Stanford had forced his Chinese workers to use the black powder explosives. Stanford did not care that many of his coolies were blown to bits, as they carried the charges of Chinese-made explosives out to the mountains where caverns needed to be blown apart to create railway tunnels. But then Mazu created the granulated sea earth which now protects these dynamite charges. At first, the minister says, he was killing the women by stabbing them with his sacrificial knife—the same one he used in his tributes to Mazu inside the temple. But then, the brilliant idea came to him. He could terminate the entire prostitution business in Chinatown with one blast. This is where we are now, Missus Foltz. Guan Shi Yin has connected fifty explosive charges—one for each of our houses of prostitution—and he is going to blow them all if his demands are not met.”