by Holly Baxter
“The Shadow knows,” Alyce said in a mysterious voice.
Elodie stared at her. “What?”
“What evil lurks in the minds of men. The Shadow knows.”
“Oh, Lord, not another radio program.”
“But you work in radio, now.” Alyce was deeply wounded at this evidence of perfidy toward her favorite form of entertainment. “I thought you were all for it.”
Elodie sank down into her father’s old chair, seeking its comfort. Sometimes, if you sat down hard enough, you could still catch the scent of his cigars. “Oh, honey, I am, I am. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m just so tired, I can’t think straight. Even Archie said so.”
Alyce surveyed her for a moment, and even turned down the jazzy music that was playing on the radio beside her. “Archie?”
Elodie felt herself flushing. “Lieutenant Deacon, I meant.”
“I heard you the first time,” Alyce said, with an air of amused accusation. “You called him Archie. You’re sweet on him. I knew it, I really knew it.”
“Well, that’s more than I know.” Elodie was too weary to argue the point. “He’s in charge of finding out who killed Bernice.”
“Oh.” Alyce was instantly contrite. “I forgot. I’m sorry.” Elodie shook her head and waved the apology away. Alyce went on. “I mean, it’s bad that she was killed and so on, but she wasn’t all that good a friend of yours, was she?”
“We went to school together,” Elodie said, evasively. “We worked in the same building. We had lunch together nearly every day.”
“But you didn’t like her all that much, did you? Not really.” Alyce, for all her youth, was very perceptive. “And Mumma didn’t approve of her, either.”
“Does that mean I’m not supposed to care that she had her head chopped off in some filthy alley?” Elodie realized she was angrier than she had thought. “That she lay there all alone while people walked right by only a few feet away?”
“Ellie!” Mrs. Browne came into the room and glanced at Alyce, who looked quite shocked. “There’s no need to talk like that.”
Elodie put her hands to her face. “I’m sorry, Mumma. I’m just so tired…I’m sorry, Alyce.” She took her hands away. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“Nobody deserves to get murdered.” Alyce’s voice trembled only a little. “And Bernice wasn’t so bad, really.”
“She was a flighty little miss.” Marie joined them with a brimming sewing basket. She sat down in her usual place and began sorting spools of thread. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but there’s no reason to be hypocritical about it. I liked her, myself. She had spirit.” This was surprising coming from Marie, who was the mildest of the Browne sisters.
“Did you really, Marie?” Elodie was grateful for the support.
“Yes, I did.” Marie stabbed several pins into the fat red pincushion Alyce had made for her in her domestic science class. “But it was clear she would come to a bad end, Ellie, one way or another. Girls like that take chances. She took one too many, I guess.” She looked up, her gaze kind and a little sad. “It does you credit that you care.”
“Too much, perhaps.” Mrs. Browne sat down beside Elodie in her own favorite chair, next to her late husband’s. “You’re getting all wound up in this, Ellie. I don’t like it. You have a new job that needs all your attention. That alone is tiring. To go around asking questions about something that doesn’t concern you, something that is obviously very dangerous, is too much. You’re not that strong, you know. You never have been.”
“I’m perfectly fine.” Elodie knew her mother was right. “But Archie needs my help.” She put up a hand. “Oh, not investigating murder, exactly. But I can do some research for him about what might lie behind it. I can do that much, anyway, to help. Tomorrow I’m going to talk to Father Anselm, and then that’s the end of it for me.”
“And who is Father Anselm?” Mrs. Browne voice was wary.
“He’s a missionary priest who teaches at DePaul.” Elodie leaned forward to explain. “I have an appointment with him tomorrow to find out some things about China. He was there for many years.” She told them about going to the library and the things that Drew Wilson had said. “It’s all tied up with China, because of Mr. Lee and Mr. Webster and the guard and the jade and the secret society and…”
Mrs. Browne put her hand over Elodie’s, which was now gripping the armrest of her father’s chair so hard that the leather was creaking. “Ellie, slow down. You’re babbling.”
“I am?” Elodie abruptly realized she was also crying, and that they were all staring at her with worried expressions. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I…I’m sorry.”
“Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth,” Mrs. Browne advised. It was her remedy for just about everything emotional. “And again.” Elodie obeyed, and gradually felt herself relaxing. “Now then…I think you had better tell us all about it. I had no idea you had gone this far, and I’m not sure I want you to go any further.”
“She’s helping that cop she’s sweet on.” Alyce gave a little bounce of indignation. “So would I if I was Elodie. It’s exciting. Like a story on the radio. I bet it’s Fu Manchu.”
“Alyce!” Mrs. Browne said, disapprovingly.
Elodie had to laugh, just a little. “She’s right, Mumma. It is exciting.”
“Not for Bernice.” Marie pulled a stocking over her darning egg and picked up her needle.
“Well, I’m not going to walk down any dark alleys,” Elodie said. “I’m just going to talk to a priest. And, anyway, Hugh is coming with me.”
“And why is that?” Mrs. Browne asked, pointedly. “Because he’s worried about you, too?”
“Well, there might be a story in it for him.”
“But he is worried about you, isn’t he?” Mrs. Browne persisted.
“I suppose so. Hugh worries about everything.” It had been the source of many arguments between them as they grew up together. “But it’s so interesting, Mumma.” Slowly, she explained about “Suzy” and the jade and the ming dao. “Father Anselm will know all about the ming dao and the other things, I’m sure of it. Mr. Evans said he was a great authority.”
“So is Maybelle, to hear her tell it.” Alyce had obviously been subjected to a speech or two from Maybelle. “She’s read one novel about China and so she thinks she knows everything. She said it’s a terrible place for the peasants.”
“Well, I’m not a peasant and I have no intention of going to China.” Elodie smiled at Alyce.
“But you insist on seeing this priest?” Mrs. Browne asked.
“That’s all, Mumma. Just to talk to him, to see if he knows anything that will help Archie figure this all out. Archie’s own captain is making it hard for him. He closed the investigation on Mr. Webster because of some kind of pressure from over his head, and then he had to re-open it because of Bernice and he didn’t like having to do that, and Archie has to work alone because he doesn’t know who to trust…”
“Are you sure it’s not this Archie who interests you more than China?” Mrs. Browne’s voice was gentle.
“Bernice said he was very attractive.” Marie replaced the darned stocking with another holed one and rethreaded her needle.
“No.” Elodie heard her voice crack. “No. I really like Mr. Lee and I liked Bernice, too, no matter what you say. She was fun, and she was good-hearted and…” She realized she was weeping again.
Marie stood up. “You need something to eat.” Like their mother, she had her own special remedies, and they all had to do with food. “I bet you’re absolutely sloshing with coffee and nothing else since lunch. I kept your dinner warm in the oven, but it’s probably dried up by now. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“I’m not hungry.” The very thought of food made Elodie feel quite ill.
“You will eat something.” Mrs. Browne, concerned mother, turned into Mrs. Browne, stern t
eacher of recalcitrant children. “And then you will have a relaxing bath and go straight to bed. We can talk about all of this again in the morning.”
“But—”
Mrs. Brown stood up and looked down at her miserable daughter. “Do I have to get angry, Ellie?” Her voice was kind but firm. Elodie knew the tone, they had all grown up with it, and there was no use arguing. She got up obediently, suddenly grateful to have someone take charge of her. She knew her mother was right, she was too tired, too wound up, too involved for her own good.
She also knew that whatever anybody said, she was going to see Father Anselm tomorrow. Silently she followed Marie through the dining room. Behind them, Alyce turned up the volume on the radio, where a manly voice was announcing Miss Smith would now sing “What Is This Thing Called Love?”
Elodie immediately thought of Archie Deacon, and was so disconcerted that she nearly walked into the swinging kitchen door.
***
Archie was not a happy man.
He drove away from the Lee house in some confusion, having learned both too much and too little.
Lee admitted sending Bernice to Chinatown with a picture of one of the jade chess pieces belonging to the late T’zu-hsi as evidence of his possession and willingness to negotiate.
But he refused to say—or did not know—who met Bernice and killed her. That it was some member of the dreaded ming dao was obvious, but Lee claimed to know no names. Helen Chou had wanted to go, made great efforts to be the one representing Lee, pointing out that she spoke Chinese and could therefore deal more effectively with whoever came to meet her. But Bernice, jealous of her position as Lee’s personal secretary, had insisted. Lee, too ill to argue with two shrill women, had let Bernice take on the responsibility because he thought she was bolder than Helen and possibly safer from attack because she was an American.
And now Helen Chou, by her sudden and inexplicable disappearance, seemed likely to be the traitor in the Lee organization. It had been Helen, after all, who had conveyed the time and place of the meeting, claiming there had been a telephone call demanding it. And she had not been at the party, having claimed to be ill on the night. Extraordinary, as she would have been expected to be Lee’s hostess to those guests whose English was poor.
“The guard was named Chou,” Archie had pointed out.
Lee shook his head. “Chou is as common in China as Smith is here.” It had been obvious that Lee Chang was seriously affected by Helen’s apparent disloyalty. He seemed convinced that Archie would be hampered because he wouldn’t be able to recognize which Chinese person was good or bad. Lee himself had been fooled, after all. When his somewhat hysterical laughter had faded, he had sunk back in his pillows and closed his eyes. Although Archie went on questioning him, he only gave brief answers and was generally uncooperative. It was as if he had accepted his fate, whatever it might be. He never opened his eyes after that. He had gone somewhere far away inside himself, and eventually Archie had given up.
“The treasure is cursed,” were Lee’s last words. “I should never have agreed to take it. I will die for my greed.”
Archie had stood, promising to have the house watched. He left Lee to the tender ministrations of Mrs. Logie, who glared at him balefully as he left.
He returned to the station, wrote out a brief report of his interview which omitted his method of getting into the house, and organized regular patrols of the Lee mansion. Lee’s new guards were patrolling the grounds. Archie knew the company that employed them. They would be reliable—they ought to be, because the agency charged top dollar. Many of them were former police officers.
He frowned. Not that that guaranteed anything these days.
Back in his apartment he tried to put it all together. This treasure was more than just a chess set, that was certain. It seemed clear to him that Webster’s ill-fated intervention had prevented a terrible crime taking place. He conjectured that once Lee and his guests had entered the strong room, the planted guard would have sealed them in, making them hostages against the handing over of the treasure to the ming dao.
The fact that Miss Hutton would have been among the hostages would have created tremendous pressure and a certain scandal. Lee—and whoever his seller had been—would have been pressured from all sides to hand over the jade as ransom immediately.
The identity of the seller was another secret Lee had kept to himself, along with the value and extent of the treasure itself. Who had smuggled it out of China and into the United States? Some ex-member of the Qing dynasty who had inherited it? Some thief who had stolen it? That it was apparently recognizable would have precluded its sale in China itself. Immigration from China was increasing steadily. Had it come into the hands of some wealthy Chinese who hoped to move his assets out of the homeland and into America in order to give himself a base here before the Communists totally took over?
And who was the General?
Deacon made himself scrambled eggs—more or less the height of his culinary skills—ate it with a crust of bread that hadn’t gone moldy, and went to bed. How was he to find the killer of Bernice Barker when it could be any Chinese person in Chicago? And Lee was right—the members of this ming dao probably looked no different than any other Chinese.
Guilty or innocent, they would bow, smile, tell lies, bow, smile, and tell more lies.
They could all be killers.
And what if all this came out to the public? Clearly this was why the powers that be feared publicity about the decapitated Chinese murder victims. There would be repugnance, a backlash against the entire Chinese community, and possibly panic. Innocent people could get hurt. Prejudice against immigrants was easily inflamed in these hard times, when every job was precious, every penny counted. Worried people turned to drink. That would please the Syndicates.
He opened his eyes suddenly and stared at the blocks of light cast from the window onto the ceiling.
The Syndicates.
There had been many conflicts between the Italian and Chinese neighborhoods which lay side by side. Beatings, a shooting, competition for prime business sites and housing space. Could Capone or one of the others be involved in this? Was it even more complicated than it had seemed to him five minutes ago?
Was that why someone had hushed up the Webster murder?
Why someone had been so reluctant to re-open the case when Bernice Barker was killed? Why he was getting no help from anyone on the force? He’d be willing to bet a week’s salary that already Brett or someone else had cancelled the drive-bys he had set up for the Lee house.
“Let ’em blame it all on the Chinks.”
He could hear Capone saying it right now.
He could hear his vulgar, rasping laughter.
And he could imagine his own heart start to race as from the street below there came the wail of a siren.
Who had died tonight?
Who would die tomorrow?
Chapter Seventeen
Exhaustion took Elodie deep into sleep almost immediately, for which she was grateful. Just before she dropped off she resolved that her appointment with Father Anselm would be the last thing she would do because all this stuff about China was getting very scary. Hugh and Archie were right—whoever killed Mr. Webster and Bernice (to say nothing of the five nameless Chinese) was still out there. Whether it was a group or a single person, she would be foolish to tempt fate by getting in their way. The police should and could handle it.
With that decision made, oblivion claimed her.
She slept late—or pretended to—until nearly everyone had left the house. Her mother had to teach, Maybelle had her job, Alyce had school. That left only Marie downstairs.
Would Marie try to stop her?
She dressed carefully, wanting to look serious and scholarly for Father Anselm. Since she always wore black, that was not a big problem, but she eschewed the normal accessories she used to brighten an outfit, and settled on a plain white collar and cuf
fs.
The smell of coffee wafted up the stairs as she descended. She knew Marie always percolated a second pot once everyone had left, so she could sip it as she listened to her favorite shows. Morning was when Betty Crocker, Aunt Jemima, “Housekeeper’s Half Hour,” and “The Wife Saver” came on. Sure enough, she found Marie listening to some suggestions to liven up pot roast and making entries in one of the big housekeeping and recipe books she kept so carefully. “For the grandchildren,” she always said, with a smile.
There had to be at least five of the blue notebooks already resting on a shelf in the pantry. Maybelle often told Marie if she would get enough of her recipes and tips together they might get published one day. But Marie was too modest to contemplate such a thing. She was optimistic about the grandchildren she expected them all to have one day, and Elodie had always loved her for that. Marie had a beau—Bill Matthew—but the prospect of marriage and children was still a distant one because she felt it was up to her to run the house until Mrs. Browne retired from teaching. Mrs. Browne said that was nonsense, they could manage—Marie should marry Bill and settle down in her own home. But Marie said there was time enough for that when they could afford it. Meanwhile she wrote her notes in the big blue books, and Bill saved what money he could in these hard times.
But Elodie worried that he wouldn’t wait forever.
Marie looked up. “You’re safe, they’re all gone.”
“Didn’t fool you?”
“Didn’t fool Mumma, either.” Marie turned over a page and continued writing. “She’s counting on your good sense.”
“And you?”
Marie shrugged. “I cook and clean and sew. You’re the one who causes trouble.”
“I don’t mean to.” Elodie poured herself some coffee and took one of the muffins that were cooling on the cake rack. She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite Marie, who made a final entry and closed her notebook as the theme music came on.