by Holly Baxter
“Horseshit,” said Drew.
Elodie looked over at him, startled by his vehemence. “She came to me and was worried, frightened. I tried to help but—”
“Exactly.” Sal sat back. “You tried to help and she said no thanks, if I remember right.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing,” Drew said.
“I should have told the police about Mr. Lee getting poisoned,” Elodie went on.
“Obviously Mr. Lee didn’t want that,” Sal pointed out. “Now, what exactly happened?”
Elodie closed her eyes. “My cousin Hugh got a call from his paper saying Bernice was dead. He went down there. She…she was in an alley in Chinatown.” She swallowed hard. “Her head was…” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Her head was cut off.”
“That’s interesting,” Drew mused.
Elodie opened her eyes and stared at him, aghast. “Interesting?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to sound callous. It’s just that decapitation is not the usual method of despatch in this town. You said she was in Chinatown?”
“Yes. An alley behind a Chinese laundry, Hugh said.” Elodie had better control of her voice and herself, now. Drew’s dispassionate tone had helped more than Sal’s sympathy. “Hugh tried to get more details, but that…that Deacon was in charge and wouldn’t tell him anything. They’re supposed to have some kind of press conference today for all the papers, but Hugh said they won’t allow them to print the cause of death. You’d think…I mean…Deacon knows he’s my cousin.”
“And should have given him an exclusive?” Drew asked. “That’s not how it works. They have to keep stuff back, you know. Stuff only the killer would know.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “She might have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And somebody just killed her for no reason?” Elodie’s voice was hard.
“No,” Drew said, evenly. “For her money.”
Elodie shook her head. “Her handbag was right beside her, nothing taken as far as they could tell. Hugh did learn that much.” She looked from Drew to Sal. “She must have been there for a reason. Would she be in Chinatown in the middle of the night just for a stroll? No—it’s something to do with Mr. Lee and Webster and Suzy’s jade. I’m sure of it.”
“Whose jade?”
“Suzy. That’s what Bernice said. Suzy’s jade. I guess Mr. Lee has it and somebody wants it.”
Drew lay back down and stared at the ceiling. “If you knew Suzy like I know Suzy,” he sang softly to himself.
“Is it Barbara Hutton’s nickname, maybe?” Sal suggested.
“Doesn’t sound right.”
“What about some other collector? Maybe in Europe?”
“I wonder,” murmured Drew.
Both Elodie and Sal stared at him. “Wonder what?” they asked in unison.
“Well, maybe it’s another ming dao. I mean, another Chinese word that we aren’t getting right because we don’t know the right pronunciation. Suzy, Suzy. It sounds familiar.”
“It does?” They were still speaking in unison.
“I got interested in China when you told us about the party and so on. China is fascinating, you know. Very complex. Full of feuds and fights and secret societies and spies. Did you know the Chinese have had a Secret Service since 510 BC? First started by a guy named Sun Tzu. I’ve been reading up on Chinese history. I’ve nearly gotten up to the Boxer Rebellion.”
“I thought they had a revolution in China, not a rebellion.” Sal said. “That they were more democratic now.”
Drew chuckled. “A republic is not necessarily a democracy…and there have been several civil wars. Still people jockeying for power—although I admit I haven’t got into modern China, yet. I haven’t found much written since the War. Probably because nobody can work out enough of what’s going on to write about it.”
The more Elodie learned about Drew Wilson, the odder he seemed. She would have been startled to discover, for example, that he was not as alcoholic as he and Sal made out. In fact, although he liked his drink, his real vice was reading late into the night—hence the thick glasses. Insomnia was the bane of his existence and the blessing of his intellect. If he hadn’t had to earn a living, Drew Wilson would be reading eighteen hours a day or more. He knew the theory of practically everything, but often put on two different colored socks in the morning. As Sal had once said, he knew a lot of words, but didn’t always make a lot of sense.
“How do you have time for reading when you are so busy drinking?” Ellie asked.
He smiled up at the ceiling. “I’m a secret vampire,” he said. “Awake all night. Might as well fill the shining hours.”
“Shining?”
He turned his head from where it rested on the arm of the sofa. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” Elodie said. She stared down at her hands. She was holding them so tightly her knuckles were white. One by one she moved her fingers, forced them to open. Bernice was dead, Bernice was dead. Now her hands were open. Bernice was gone.
Sal cleared her throat. “As fascinating as this lesson has been, I think we should get to work. We can talk about Chinese history during lunch, if we must.”
“Yes,” Elodie agreed. She didn’t want to think about Bernice or China or Suzy or whatever her name was anymore. Better to work, better to think about the people staying at “Imperial Hotel.” Nice imaginary people you could make do whatever you wanted them to do. There she was in control, not pushed around by things she didn’t understand.
***
Molly: Thank heaven Chef Alexander is back. This wedding would be impossible if he wasn’t here.
Spike: Sounds like it’s going to be impossible even with him here. Who ever heard of a wedding where the bride wears purple?
Molly: I guess she’s kind of an unusual person.
Spike: Unusual? Crazy, you mean.
Molly: Somebody told me she thinks she’s a witch.
Spike: A what?
Molly: Her cat is going to be maid of honor.
Spike: Okay, okay, now you’re just getting silly.
Molly: I’m not. She has this cat that walks on a leash. It’s supposed to walk up the aisle with her. It has a diamond collar. Its name is Nebuchadnezzar.
Spike: (nearly hysterical with laughter) Nebuchadnezzar McGillicudy? This I have got to see.
Dunning: (coming up behind Spike). And what’s so funny?
Molly: We were just talking about the McGillicudy—
***
“McGillicudy what?” interrupted Sal. “Who’s this nutcase going to marry?”
“Something really outrageous,” Drew said. “We’re playing this one for laughs, right? If her name is Mercedes McGillicudy, what would her married name be?”
They thought about that for a moment or two, then Sal started to laugh.
***
Molly: We were just talking about the McGillicudy-Benz wedding, Mr. Dunning. It sounds very…unusual.”
Dunning: It’s outrageous. When I agreed to the booking her parents said nothing about all this nonsense. I thought it would be straightforward, classic…
Spike: But it’s totally nuts.
Dunning: I’m afraid the newspapers will make us a laughing stock. The McGillicudys are so wealthy the society pages are bound to cover it. Why on earth didn’t they go to the Ritz?
Molly: They had her coming-out party at the Ritz, remember?
Dunning: Oh, yes, that’s right. (groans) Monkeys, wasn’t it? Monkeys and a tiger who attacked the bandleader?
Spike: How come—were they playing the Tiger Rag? (snickers)
Dunning: (groaning) I should have known, I should have known.
Molly: (soothingly) I’m sure it will be all right, Mr. Dunning. I’m sure it will be fine.
Chef Alexander: Mistair Dunning! Mistair Dunning! I cannot do this thing.
Dunning: What thing?
Chef Alexander: All the courses—to be in the shape of the animals. And the cake…the cake!
Spike: (half to himself) I can hardly wait to hear this.
Chef Alexander: A pyramid! She says she wants a purple pyramid with a light on the top flashing on and off, on and off. Who can do such a thing? When they cut it they will be electrocuted!
(Spike collapses in hysterics.)
***
Elodie got through the day somehow. The fact that they were trying to produce something outrageous to fit the prospective bride Mercedes Benz helped a lot to lift her spirits. It required a lot more concentration to try and produce amusing images in the minds of the listeners than it did to scare them or mystify them. Sal said drama was easy, comedy was hard. Even so, she thought as she went down in the elevator, maybe we should make it funnier. Or, at least, do more comedy episodes. People loved to laugh. Shows like “Easy Aces” and “The Gumps” were getting really popular because times were so hard. People needed to get away from the fact that there was less food on the table, no jobs, and all the rest of it.
All the rest of it being like having a friend murdered.
By the time the elevator reached street level any solace produced by creating their silly show and the banter that went with it had evaporated.
And seeing Lieutenant Archie Deacon once again waiting for her in the lobby didn’t help.
Chapter Fifteen
“Have you…” Elodie began. But Deacon shook his head.
“Sorry. We haven’t gotten anywhere with finding out who killed your friend or why.”
“Thank you,” she said, and turned away to walk briskly toward the exit, but he followed her, his hat in his hand.
“I want to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry, I’m on my way home and I’m tired. I told you everything I know about what happened at Mr. Lee’s house.”
“Liar,” he said.
She stopped so abruptly that he nearly ran into the back of her. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was as cold as she could make it. Which was difficult because she was having trouble not bursting into tears.
“Shining sword.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her shoes. “Did Hugh tell you that?”
“Yes. And about this monk you’re going to talk to tomorrow.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, he’s not a monk. Well, not exactly.”
“I don’t care what he is, I think you should cancel your appointment and forget about all this once and for all. Leave it to us.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes? The trusty police, the incorruptible and wonderful police department of Chicago is going to solve it, are they? I think not.”
“Thanks for your faith in us,” Archie said, with equal sarcasm.
Elodie turned and went out the revolving door, and Deacon followed her yet again. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, over her shoulder. “Go away or I’ll call a cop.”
“Very funny. Listen to me—”
“No.” She put her hands over her ears—not easy, with her handbag swinging wildly against her chin.
He moved around in front of her and tried to force her hands down. “For goodness’ sake, stop being so childish.” He saw the tears glistening in her eyes and gentled his tone. “All right, all right. Maybe we can help one another, then.”
She lowered her hands slowly. “What do you mean?”
He looked up. “It’s starting to rain. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“What?”
“Of coffee. Or tea. Or sarsaparilla—whatever you like. But if we keep standing here arguing we’re going to get soaked.” He took her elbow and propelled her across the street and down a block to an unprepossessing entrance with placards on either side advertising The Chicago Rhythm Boys. It was a basement jazz club. Fortunately, the place was quiet—obviously the Rhythm Boys didn’t come on until much later. Tables surrounded a shiny dance floor, but without customers the place felt rather damp, and the dingy walls looked bleak with the lights full on. Waiters in shirtsleeves were moving among the tables, setting them up for the evening, talking desultorily among themselves, laughing from time to time. Later on the lights would be dimmed, the music would be loud, the dance floor would be full and the glasses and coffee cups would not contain sarsaparilla or coffee.
Behind the bar a man was polishing a large coffee urn. He looked up and saw Deacon. His face went lax for a moment, then he spotted Elodie and he smiled. “Off-duty, Lieutenant?” he asked. His voice was odd, whispery, almost hollow.
“You got any coffee in that thing?” Archie asked.
“I could squeeze out a cup or two, but I’m not bragging on it,” the man said. “It’s hot, that’s about it.”
“Fine. Thanks.” Archie led Elodie to a small table and pulled out a chair for her. “My lady,” he said, indicating the seat.
Elodie glared at him, but she sat down. She didn’t know if she could stand any more coffee, but she didn’t have to drink it.
He sat opposite her, laid his hat on a third chair, and folded his arms onto the table, leaning forward to gaze into her face. “You are a very stubborn person.”
“I’m angry.” She bit off the words. “My friend has been horribly murdered. I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I.”
“And I want to know why.”
“So do I. Tell me about shining sword.” He leaned back as the barkeep put down two coffees and a small pitcher of cream. “You want sugar?”
“No, thank you,” Elodie said, and picking up the spoon, she began to stir the suspect and murky liquid.
“Please tell me what you’ve learned,” Archie said, surprising her with all this sudden show of manners.
“I don’t think it will help you.”
“Try me.”
Elodie sighed. “All I know about shining sword is that it is a possible translation of the word—the words—ming dao.” She explained about the librarian at the university. “That doesn’t explain what it might really mean—or stand for.”
“It scared the hell out of the waiter at the restaurant the other night.”
“I know. Drew thinks it may be the name of a secret society.”
“Drew?”
“A man I work with. He’s been reading about China. He says it’s full of secret societies. He’s going to try to find out about Suzy.”
Archie looked at her with a frown. “Who the devil is Suzy?”
Elodie sighed. “I don’t know. Drew thinks it might be another Chinese word we’re saying wrong.”
“I think I’m getting a headache,” he said, plaintively. He had come to the Gower Building to intercept her and try to stop her getting involved any further in all this, and now he was discovering she knew a lot more about it than he did. He’d had no luck finding out the meaning of the odd word that Webster had shouted out before he was killed, despite what he had thought were ‘connections’ with the Chinese community. He had learned quickly enough that all their bowing and smiling revealed nothing at all, which was exactly what they were intended to do. And now that he had learned of the other deaths of Chinese people by decapitation, he thought he could see why. “Would you just explain all this in simple English?”
“Why should I?”
He gazed at her, calculating. “Because if you do I’ll tell you all I know so far about Bernice’s murder.”
She pressed her lips together, then relaxed. “I was just interested in the word, and why Mr. Lee didn’t want us to talk about it.”
“Ah, so that was it.”
“That’s how it started. And the fact that I think that guard meant to kill Mr. Webster right from the start.” She began to speak faster. “Mr. Webster knew something was going to happen there that night, he tried to stop it. The guard was part of it. He shot Mr. Webster to shut him up.”
He realized he shouldn’t have been surprised, as he had credited her with brains from the star
t, but he was. “That’s what I think, too.”
“What did the guard say?”
Archie felt himself flush, partly from embarrassment but mostly from anger. “He’s disappeared.” Her spoon stopped going around and around in her coffee for a moment, then continued its pointless journey. He reached across and touched her hand. “You’re going to wear a hole in the cup.”
Elodie put the spoon down. “Are you searching for him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because until last night, the Webster case was officially closed. I was told to stay away from it.”
“Why?” She saw his jaw clench.
“Because Miss Hutton was there? Because Big Bill Thompson wants to be re-elected mayor? Because Mr. Lee Chang is really Al Capone in disguise? Because nobody really gives a damn if a small time importer gets shot by some guard ‘doing his duty’? I’m told we shouldn’t waste time on such matters when there is so much ‘real’ crime in Chicago.” His smile was wry. “A lot of which we contribute to ourselves in a show of brotherhood with the criminals. Common interest in the downside of humanity, you see.”
“That bothers you a lot, doesn’t it?” she asked, sympathetically.
“Yes, it does. It’s beginning to make me ashamed of what I do, what my family has done for several generations. You have no idea how much corruption there is in this town.”
“I think I do. My sister regularly reads The American Weekly when our mother isn’t looking.”
His laugh held no amusement. “Hypocrisy sells.”
“I hate it, too. I really do. And don’t tell me not to be angry, because I can’t stop. Not now. Not after Bernice.” She grimaced. “We’re not getting very far, are we?”
“We might if we pooled what we know,” Archie said, earnestly. “I can see no matter what Hugh or I say, you’re going to keep getting into this thing, aren’t you?”
She smiled. “Hugh put you up to all this?”