Tears of the Dragon

by Holly Baxter

  The marcelled blonde waitress screamed at the loudness of the gun but nobody else moved or spoke, all seemed frozen in shock. Mr. Lee, who had gone pale, was the first to move. He grabbed the guard. “Why did you do that?”

  “I thought he going to kill you.” The guard’s English was heavily accented. “I doing duty.”

  “No,” Mr. Lee was visibly shaking, his voice sorrowful. “No,” he repeated. He stared down at the white cloth that covered the fallen man. Blood was staining it, spreading and oozing through the cloth. Mr. Lee turned quickly and snatched the gun from the guard. “You didn’t need to shoot,” he said, furious.

  The guard looked truculent. “My duty,” he repeated.

  “Somebody had better call the police.” It was Phil Plant, now looking not at all bored, but really rather excited. “You’re supposed to call the police when someone is shot, I believe.”

  Mr. Lee kept the gun pointed at the guard as with one foot he moved aside the white tablecloth, revealing the bloodied face of the fallen man. “Please—is he dead?” he asked. Still nobody moved.

  Beside Elodie, Bernice gasped.

  “Holy smoke,” she said. “It’s Mr. Webster!”

  Chapter Five

  The Junfa was wakened from a pleasant sleep to find that their prisoner had escaped. His fury rose quickly as he spat questions at his underlings.

  “Who was guarding him?” he demanded.

  “Soo,” was the answer.

  The Junfa cursed. “Was he asleep?”

  There was a shuffling of feet. Finally one of the men spoke. “He had a pipe.”

  This enraged the Junfa even more. “Only I may have pipes, I have told you that. Only me. Where did he get it?”

  “Upstairs.”

  The Junfa closed his eyes. “Bring him.”

  The unfortunate Soo was produced. He gazed blearily at the Junfa, a foolish grin on his rough features. Whatever intelligence he normally possessed had clearly fled.

  “You fool!” screamed the Junfa. “You ugly, stupid, hopeless fool! How did you ever become a member?” There was no reply.

  The Junfa began to pace in front of the altar. He looked up at the symbols on the wall above it. Another example had to be made. And this time he would make sure the blood did not stain his expensive suit.

  ***

  Apparently it was Mrs. Logie who’d had the sense to ring the police. While they were waiting, Mr. Lee spoke quietly.

  “That man died to protect you. Whatever was going to happen has not happened, but the danger remains. The police can only make it worse. Your names are obviously known and I am still…” He paused, shook himself. When he went on his voice broke oddly. “Say nothing, I beg you. Say nothing.” He turned to the waitresses. “I will pay you double for this terrible night. But say only that he tried to warn me. Mention nothing else, no other words, or your lives could be in danger, too.”

  Elodie felt a thrill of fear. Could he be serious? She could see the other girls were terrified, as she was, but was amazed to sense something else within her that she had never felt before.

  Delight.

  How dramatic it all was. Horrifying, to see a man shot dead in front of her, the blood, the noise, all made her feel sick inside. And yet, she was stunned to hear a little cold voice within her say “I can use this.”

  “Dear God, what kind of person am I to think like that?” she asked herself. But it was undeniably there, within her—the need to record and remember people’s faces and reactions, as well as her own.

  She looked carefully at Lee’s wealthy guests. They appeared outwardly calm, all except the little plump woman, who could not stop shaking and sobbing. Miss Hutton reached over and put her hand on the older woman’s arm.

  “Mr. Lee is right, my dear. We must simply say this poor crazed man came in and seemed to threaten Mr. Lee and the guard shot him. As for the other things he said….” She glanced at Mr. Lee, who nodded. “The other has nothing to do with us, as long as we remain quiet. We must promise, for Mr. Lee’s sake.”

  After that everyone was very quiet, and Elodie longed to know what they were thinking and feeling. She herself was consumed with curiosity, but she was determined to do as Mr. Lee said. She liked him instinctively, and could see he was deeply upset and frightened.

  The police arrived about fifteen minutes later, and through the French windows Elodie could see uniformed patrolmen with flashlights swarming over the grounds. Inside, they were treated to a more elegant perusal.

  Because of the address, and presumably the reputation of Mr. Lee, they were attended by no less than a Captain and a Lieutenant of Police, who introduced themselves as Brett and Deacon. Both wore suits, Captain Brett’s very expensive looking, Lieutenant Deacon’s rather wrinkled.

  Captain Brett was small and red-faced. His steel-grey hair sat in ridges close to his scalp. He was all business, brisk, and without humor. His manner was a combination of conciliatory and peremptory. It was clear he was in charge.

  Lieutenant Deacon, on the other hand, was tall and angular, with amused eyebrows, and a thick thatch of dark red hair that seemed to have a life of its own, so electric was his presence. And yet he said very little. Just looked, just listened, just appeared as if the whole tableau before him was a play designed for his pleasure. He leaned against the doorway, lit a cigarette, and blew a smoke ring.

  He made Elodie very nervous.

  Captain Brett went straight to Mr. Lee, who was by now sitting at the head of the ebony table. The others were ranged below him in the chairs, all of the guests on the side away from the body. Miss Hutton sat beside Mr. Lee, Plant slumped beside her, followed by the plump woman who was a Mrs. Weatherbee, then Mr. Ryan, then an elderly married couple named Clayton, and finally little Mr. Blick. The serving girls, all of whom, like Elodie, had been in the dining room at the time of the shooting, had been allowed to sit down, but were forced to sit on the side nearest the body. The blonde looked quite ill. Bernice and Betty Ann still looked frightened. Elodie didn’t know how she looked, but she felt very peculiar. She caught the eye of Lieutenant Deacon and, to her amazement, he winked at her.

  “I’m very sorry this had to happen, Mr. Lee,” Captain Brett was saying. “You know we’ve been looking for this man for almost a week, now.”

  Mr. Lee nodded wearily. “I spoke to the police the other day. I have no idea where he has been. I had feared he was dead. And now he is.” He cast an angry glance at the guard, who was seated well away from the table on a chair in the corner. He wore a blank expression and seemed to be in shock.

  “He was a friend?” Captain Brett asked.

  Mr. Lee shook his head. “A colleague. A business colleague. But we have known one another for many years. He seemed concerned for my well-being…it was very strange.”

  “He gave no indication where he had been? Or what had happened to him?”

  Mr. Lee glanced around the table, looking at each one in turn. “No,” he said. It sounded more like an order than an answer.

  Miss Hutton looked down at her hands and twisted the magnificent ring on her right hand. Mrs. Clayton opened her mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it. Mrs. Weatherbee just whimpered.

  “He….” Elodie stopped because Bernice had kicked her, very hard, under the table.

  The Captain turned to Elodie. “Yes?”

  Elodie shook her head. “He…worked in the Gower Building.”

  The Captain looked slightly annoyed. “Yes, we know that. We know who he is.”

  “Sorry,” said Elodie, feeling both foolish and puzzled. Again she found the Lieutenant looking at her, and again, he winked. He really was a very odd policeman. Not that she had met many policemen, but she was sure most of them were serious about things like murder. Maybe he’s drunk, she thought, suddenly. But his eyes were very clear, very focused…and very green.

  Suddenly he spoke. “We’d like to speak to each of you separately,�
� he said. His voice was a little hoarse, as if he didn’t use it very often.

  “We had nothing to do with this,” Phil Plant said, arrogantly, slurring his words slightly. Miss Hutton reached out a hand and laid it on his sleeve. He subsided.

  “It will help us if we get everybody’s version of events.” Captain Brett looked at each of them in turn. “Not everybody sees the same thing. Or remembers the same thing, because…”

  “Because it happened so fast,” Bernice burst out. Her face was flushed, and she shot a look down the table at Mr. Lee. No wonder he pays her so well, Elodie thought. She’s backing him up. She’s reminding us we have an excuse not to speak fully.

  The Captain scowled. “Exactly.”

  “My guests are very tired,” Mr. Lee said. “Will this take long?”

  “Not at all, not at all.” Captain Brett’s manner was soothing. “We know you are all upset and shocked, but really it is only a matter of corroboration, to give us a clear idea of the circumstances.” He looked around. “Is there some other room we could use?”

  Mrs. Logie, who had been standing in the kitchen doorway, stirred. “Mr. Lee?”

  Lee waved a weary hand. “The library.”

  “This way,” Mrs. Logie said, and the two policemen followed her out. A little while later, several men arrived and swarmed over the dining room. One kept taking photographs, the light flashes upsetting everyone. One knelt by the body of Mr. Webster and seemed to be examining him. After a little while he stood up and indicated that someone could take the body away. Two men arrived with a stretcher, to everyone’s great relief. For ten minutes the room had seemed filled with men doing things while the people around the table sat and watched like so many wax statues.

  The examining people left as suddenly as they had arrived, and a uniformed officer appeared in the doorway, glaring. “No talking.” He folded his arms across his chest. Nobody paid any attention to him.

  Mrs. Weatherbee began to cry. Again. She had been sniffing and gasping ever since Webster had been shot. “I don’t know what Mr. Weatherbee will say,” she whimpered. “He doesn’t approve of this kind of thing at all.” She had announced earlier that Mr. Weatherbee was presently in Hong Kong and had no idea she had come out to see Mr. Lee’s treasures. Elodie thought Mr. Weatherbee sounded like a tyrant.

  The uniformed officer spoke up. “Hey! I said you aren’t supposed to discuss anything until you talk to the Captain,” he said, reprovingly. “Orders.”

  “Your orders, not ours,” Arnold Ryan observed.

  The officer bristled. “Especially you.”

  Mr. Ryan smiled to himself. Mrs. Clayton looked startled.

  “Why does he speak to you like that?” she demanded. Elodie decided the couple must be from out of town.

  Mr. Ryan leaned back in his chair. “He thinks I am a very, very bad man.” He inspected his fingernails. “He thinks I had something to do with it.”

  “Do you?” asked Mr. Clayton, with keen interest.

  “Absolutely not,” said Mr. Ryan easily. “I came to see the jade, just as you have. I have no idea what all this is about.”

  “Now listen,” said the uniformed officer, coming to the foot of the table. “You just stop all that gabbing, the bunch of you.”

  Mr. Blick, so small, so self-effacing, suddenly poked the uniformed policeman in the side. “You should be nice. We are innocent bystanders.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know about that.” The officer was clearly not the brightest of lights. “I only know you ain’t supposed to be talking, that’s all.”

  “We shall refrain from further conversation,” Mr. Lee announced.

  So they did.

  Time seemed to drag. Miss Hutton lit up cigarette after cigarette, Plant dutifully lighting them with a large gold lighter. Bernice and Betty Ann twitched and wriggled in their chairs, but the blonde girl, whose name Elodie later learned was Dawn, just slumped and stared at the floor. Mr. Blick was immobile, Mrs. Weatherbee continued to snivel into her handkerchief, and Mr. and Mrs. Clayton held hands. Mr. Ryan played with a few pieces of cutlery that lay before him on the table, left behind by an earlier diner. Mr. Lee sat in his chair and closed his eyes, sliding his hands into the sleeves of his red gown. He looks like a Chinese emperor, Elodie thought. And we are lined up along this big black table as if we were his courtiers.

  She didn’t know what she would say when Captain Brett or that Lieutenant talked to her. She was fairly clear in her mind about what had happened, but Mr. Lee didn’t want them to say too much. How much should she say, then? She thought back and tried hard to remember what Mr. Webster had actually said. It had sounded like some kind of dance. Maybe that was what Mr. Lee wanted kept secret.

  But what was a mingdow?

  It was very confusing. The whole question of what she had heard the night Mr. Webster disappeared was now probably quite unimportant. She hoped so. She was determined not to mention it, unless they asked her directly if she knew anything else. She tried to escape the tension by thinking about what she would be doing in the weeks ahead. Two days from now, she thought, I will be going to the Gower Building to start a whole new life, full of drama and excitement. She smiled ruefully to herself—her present life seemed to have a lot of that too. Had she wished for too much? Had she done or said something in the past few days that had brought all these changes and upsets down on her head? She wished she were back at the agency, writing catalogue entries for corn plasters. She wished—

  Another uniformed officer came into the room. He gestured at the guard. “He wants to talk to you, first.” The guard slowly got up and followed the officer, his head slumped, for all the world as if on his way to be hanged. Maybe he thought he was.

  ***

  Archie wished that Captain Brett had left this to him, but he knew that was impossible, considering the status of the people involved. Brett was reputed to have a socially ambitious wife, who wanted him to become Commissioner one day, or even Mayor. He seized any opportunity to “get in good” with people who mattered in the city. The thought of Fred Brett as Police Commissioner was frightening, as Mayor absolutely disgusting. The one they had was bad enough.

  “Why did you shoot the man?” demanded Brett of the Chinese guard.

  “Thought he going to kill Mr. Lee with knife.” His tone was sullen, his face a mask of indifference.

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Lee?”

  “Three weeks. Friend send me.”

  “What friend?”

  “Chi’en Pu Yi.”

  Archie knew a few Chinese people, but had never heard of any local Chi’en Pu Yi, but that proved nothing. So many Chinese names sounded similar. The Chinese community in Chicago was not large, and was extremely tight-knit. But new members arrived frequently, mostly from Canton, relatives brought over by uncles, brothers, sons who had come to the States and earned enough to start transferring family from the old country.

  “Where does he live?”

  The guard shrugged.

  “Where does he work?”

  Again, the shrug.

  “How did you meet him, then?”

  The guard sighed heavily. “Milton Street Tong.”

  “What’s that?” Brett turned to Archie.

  “Tongs are business and social organizations. Kind of like Rotary, but very localized, by area or profession,” Archie explained. “They exist to help their members, and newcomers.”

  “And this Tong person recommended you to Mr. Lee just like that?” Brett demanded.

  “I in police. He knew.”

  “Ah,” said Brett, expansively. “A fellow officer.”

  The guard looked puzzled. “In Canton,” he said. “Two years.”

  “When did you arrive in Chicago?” Archie asked.

  “Five weeks now.”

  “Your English is pretty good.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you learn it?”

 
“Mission school.”

  It was like pulling teeth. “You understand that there will have to be an investigation,” Captain Brett said. When the guard frowned again, he continued. “We have to find out just what happened.”

  “I did my job.” The truculent guard had given his name as Sammy Chou.

  “You will have to come down to the station and sign a statement. The District Attorney may want to talk to you.”

  Chou stood up. “Now?”

  “Soon,” Archie said. “For now, just wait outside with Sgt. Casey.” The guard frowned. “The big man with the moustache,” Archie amplified, indicating his own upper lip. Chou nodded and went out, closing the door behind him.

  Brett snorted. “Either he’s very dumb or very smart. And I don’t think he’s smart. He sure doesn’t seem very upset to have shot a man. Do you think he’s used to it?”

  “I don’t know,” Archie said. “Things have been rough over there. Maybe it’s just as he said—he thought he was doing his job.”

  “What does he expect, a goddamn medal?”

  Archie grinned. “Probably.”

  Next up was Miss Hutton, mostly because Brett couldn’t wait to make himself known to the famous heiress. She came in quietly and sat down without any fuss. She regarded them with her amazing blue eyes, and waited.

  “I’m sorry this had to happen during your visit, Miss Hutton,” Brett began. “Are you a friend of Mr. Lee’s?”

  “I have purchased a few pieces from him,” came the soft reply. “But only through an intermediary. This is the first time I have actually met him face to face. He has an excellent reputation. This is a terrible thing for him.”

  “Yes,” Brett agreed. “Did you know Mr. Webster?”

  “Is that the name of the dead man? No, I have neither heard of nor met him. I have never seen anyone killed before.” If it disturbed her, it didn’t show. She had complete control of herself, her hands neither shook nor twisted in her lap. She was, in fact, utterly still.