by Holly Baxter
“Are you going on with it?” Marie asked.
Elodie bit into the muffin and nearly choked on an errant crumb. “Are you going to stop me?”
Marie got up and went to the sink to rinse out her cup and pour a fresh one. “No. I wouldn’t even try, Ellie. You know your own mind, and I have a feeling that nothing I say would make any difference, anyway.”
“True.” Elodie shoved in the last bit of muffin and chewed thoughtfully. “Anyway, Hugh is going with me, so that’s all right.”
But she was wrong.
As she was retrieving her coat from the closet the telephone rang, and it was Hugh himself. “Ellie, you have to cancel that appointment.”
“Why?” She glanced toward the kitchen and kept her voice low.
“Because I have to go out to Cicero on another story and I can’t go with you. Make it for tomorrow or something.”
“I can’t—I made the appointment through his department at the college, I have no way of reaching him directly.”
“Call them and get them to do it. You’re not to go alone.”
“Phooey.” She wound the phone cord around her forearm and then unwound it again, making a pattern in her flesh. She waited for the inevitable outburst, but it did not come. Only a deep, exasperated sigh.
“Dammit, I haven’t time to argue, the photographer is waiting for me,” Hugh said, hurriedly. “You’re not to go alone, Ellie.”
“I understand.” She understood she would be going alone and wasn’t in the least worried about it. “Thank you for calling.” Elodie hung up.
Marie came into the dining room with an armful of freshly ironed napkins which she put into the drawer of the sideboard. “Who was that?”
“The meeting to go over the new scripts has been rescheduled. We’ll be glad of the extra time.”
“Well, you’d better get down there and get to work, then. You’re late enough as it is. I imagine they’ll be glad to see you.”
“I imagine so.” She didn’t want Marie worrying all day long. She had an impulse to call Archie Deacon and ask him to accompany her, but dismissed it as quite ridiculous. He could only confuse an issue which was probably quite straightforward. “Can I have another muffin to eat on the streetcar?”
“I’ll put it into your lunch bag.” Marie asked no questions, and Elodie wondered if she suspected. Probably. She might stay at home all day being domestic and actually enjoying it, but she was no fool, and she knew Elodie through and through. The lie unspoken was still a lie, but somehow a little less sinful than the lie direct. And the meeting had been rescheduled, but she had known that yesterday. As for Sal and Drew, they thought she had a doctor’s appointment this morning, so would not expect her. The lie direct was for non-family.
Elodie collected her lunch from Marie, put on her hat and coat, and went out to meet the day. It was windy, but the sky was blue and the air was fresh. By tonight she would have the whole Chinese business cleared up in her own mind. If anything Father Anselm had to say was relevant to Archie’s investigation she would relay it and that would be that. She had hoped he would call and tell her about his talk with Mr. Lee, but the phone had been silent all evening and only Hugh had called this morning.
Oh well—if it had been anything really scary he would have called her, wouldn’t he? Of course.
She saw the streetcar coming down the street and ran to catch it. It wouldn’t be polite to be late.
***
After two transfers she was in the right neighborhood, but unsure exactly where to find either Addison Avenue or St. John’s House. Stopping in a corner shop, she got precise directions and eventually located both.
St. John’s House was a large, purpose-built edifice but neither forbidding nor institutional. In fact, it was of warm pink brick accented with white shutters, flanked by large oak trees, and had an immaculate front lawn bordered by spring flowers that tossed in the breeze as she went up the curving path to the front door.
Inside, she went to a desk marked Reception and asked for Father Anselm, stating her name and that she had an appointment. The young priest behind the desk seemed unsurprised by that—she was still young enough to pass for a student, after all. He directed her to a small, comfortable lounge, and said he would summon Father Anselm for her.
The lounge was filled with pairs of chairs covered in cheerful flower prints. Small tables sat between each pair, and it was obviously a place designed for private conversations. It smelled of lavender and furniture polish, and the carpet, though worn, glowed with rich color.
She was standing by the window, looking out at a side garden that was clearly tended with great love, when she heard a step behind her and turned. Father Anselm stood in the doorway, and he was not at all what she had expected, if indeed she had formed any preconceptions at all.
For a start, he was black. And yet he was also, unmistakably, at least partially Chinese. The combination was extraordinary, resulting in tilted eyes and high cheekbones in a mahogany face. He stood straight, but his hair was grey and there were deep lines in his face. He noted her expression and chuckled.
“Not what you expected?” His smile was startlingly white against the dark complexion. Elodie didn’t know what to say, and felt herself flushing because of her inability to control her reaction. Father Anselm waved a negligent hand. “Don’t worry about it. It has proved most useful to me to be…how shall we put it…unusual? It disarms people, and once they get accustomed to it, everything is fine.”
“I’m sorry.” Actually, she was fascinated. His accent was clearly American, and despite his unusual appearance, he was obviously from the midwest.
“Please sit down, Miss Browne.” He gestured her to a comfortable chair, and took one next to it. He wore a dark blue sweater and trousers, and only the white band of his collar indicated his calling. “Mr. Evans told me you had come to him with some questions about China—most particularly ming dao?”
“Yes.” Elodie sat on the edge of her chair, unsure how to proceed. “It was a bet…”
Anselm gently interrupted her. “We will proceed much more quickly if you tell me how you heard the words and in what circumstances. I can’t say I’m happy that an obviously respectable young woman should have those words on her lips.”
“Is it so terrible, then?”
He leaned back in his chair. “It could be.” But he smiled as he said it, and she was encouraged.
“They were the words of a dying man.” She hadn’t meant it to come out quite so dramatically. He seemed unperturbed.
“No more than I expected. Go on.”
Quickly, Elodie outlined what had happened at the party when Webster had burst in. “He said the ming dao had ‘got him’ but that he’d gotten away.”
“Then he was a lucky man.” Anselm crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands in his lap. “Go on.”
She related how the guard had shot him before he could say any more. The police had taken the guard away, but he had since disappeared. Anselm kept nodding as she spoke. She stopped there, not wanting to go on to Bernice’s death before she knew more.
Anselm looked out the window for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Eventually he spoke, rather reflectively. “Perhaps it would be helpful if I told you a little of my own background.”
“All right.” Having gotten her first worries off her chest, Elodie felt herself beginning to relax, and moved back a little in the overstuffed chair.
“I was born here in Chicago. My mother was Chinese, my father black. I took the name Anselm when I was ordained, of course. I grew up in a neighborhood where I was an outsider in everyone’s eyes, not like any of them. The Chinese rejected my mother for marrying out, my father’s people felt the same toward him. It was a lonely life for them, too, but they had a remarkably happy marriage. My father was a musician, and not home as much as he would have liked because of his working hours, so my mother’s influence was strong. There were three
children, and we all have entered the Church, perhaps because it was only there and at home that we felt accepted and comfortable. My sister is in a nursing order, my brother is a Franciscan monk in California. I chose to be a missionary and a teacher. Because I spoke Chinese, my destination was an obvious one. I was sent to China, where I taught in a mission school, and was very happy there. I loved the Chinese culture, the people, everything.” He paused. Sighed. “Everything.” He looked down at his hands. “But things were not well in China—still are not. The last royal dynasty, the Qing, fell shortly before the Great War began. Afterward everything was and still is in a state of flux. Sun Yat Sen was a visionary who wanted democracy for China, but because he could not get proper support from the British or Americans, other influences began to try to take control. When Sun died, and things were very uncertain, the Russians were eager to move into power. Also the Japanese. Now Chiang Kai Shek has set up a nationalist government, but it is under many threats from many sides. I have tried, in my small way, to be of help to the Nationalist Kuomintang government because in them I see the best hope for a free China where their splendid culture would be respected and retained.”
“Why did you leave?”
“The Communists are growing stronger and stronger. They were put down rather brutally once, but they are reforming in the countryside, and it is only a matter of time before they gather sufficient strength to challenge the present government. I had been in China for twenty years, and it was thought best that I return to Chicago to teach others who may follow. But I have remained in touch with friends I made there, and have helped where I could. Naturally I support Chiang Kai Shek, who at least respects China’s cultural heritage. The ming dao, on the other hand, belong to the Communist faction.”
“Is it a secret society?”
He glanced at her in surprise. “You know about that?”
“I have a friend—a work colleague—who thought they might be. He said there are lots of secret societies in China.”
“Indeed there are, and have been for centuries. Some are new and troublesome, others are old and respected. The ming dao belong to the first group. They are ruthless, vicious, stop at nothing. Kidnapping is one of their specialties. As is murder.”
“Why would they kidnap Mr. Webster? Was it because of Suzy’s jade?”
“You seem to know a good deal more than Mr. Evans indicated, Miss Browne.” Father Anselm did not look particularly pleased at this discovery. He scowled and looked around the empty room uneasily. “How did you learn about that?”
“Bernice told me. I think Mr. Lee Chang has the jade now. But I don’t know where he got it.”
Father Anselm gazed at her with a degree of sadness. “He got it from me.” His voice was quiet. “And was this Bernice the unfortunate young woman who was found murdered in Chinatown?”
“Yes, she was.”
“Mea culpa, I’m afraid.”
“You didn’t kill her!” Elodie could not believe that.
“No, but I have participated in a chain of events that may have led to her death. I am very sorry.”
Elodie could hardly believe her ears. She had arrived with a simple wish to learn more about ming dao, what it meant, what it was. Now this quiet, unusual man was saying he was the person who brought the jade to Mr. Lee and so in some way felt responsible for Bernice’s death. She thought back to the steps she had taken, one by one, that had inevitably led her to this man. Had she been directed here? It seemed incredible, incomprehensible. Especially in this small, slightly shabby, but very American room, with its flowered upholstery and holy pictures on the walls. Behind Father Anselm a painting of the Madonna looked down with sadness and infinite sympathy in her eyes. Below the painting was a vase with the dried folded palm leaves left over from Palm Sunday.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand at all,” Elodie said.
“Perhaps I can help.” The voice came from behind them. It was a rough-edged voice with an unmistakable East London accent. Elodie turned and saw a short, stocky, balding man with a sagging face and heavy black eyebrows. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
“Morris, you should have stayed in your room.” Father Anselm was concerned and made as if to rise from his chair. “You aren’t well.”
He was waved back into his seat. “I’m fine. And I don’t think you should be taking all the blame for this mess onto yourself.” The man came forward and smiled benignly at them.
Father Anselm shook his head, sighed, but was apparently resigned to his presence. “Miss Browne, I want you to meet the General. General Morris Cohen, one of Chiang Kai Shek’s chief aides.” The priest allowed himself a brief smile. “Popularly known in China as Two-Gun Cohen.”
***
Miss Desire Smith: (overdramatically) I can’t go on like this!
Mr. Dunning: I assure you, Miss Desire, that the new orchestra will be ready to rehearse with you this afternoon.
Miss Desire Smith: You don’t understand…I am sensitive to nuances…may be a terrible clash…(stops suddenly and loses accent)—what will they be wearing?
Dunning: I beg your pardon?
Miss Desire Smith: What color are their outfits? Not red, are they?
Mr. Dunning: I’m afraid I don’t know, but—
Miss Desire Smith: (calling for agent) Charlie! Charlie! Where’s my contract?
***
Hugh Murphy knocked on the frosted glass of Room 1054 and a voice told him to come in. He did so, and was greeted by the sight of a stoutish woman in a tight and eye-wateringly bright green dress. She was sitting on a battered leather sofa, and opposite her, a long, thin man was stretched out on a second sofa, his head propped on one armrest, his feet on the other. The woman had frizzy hair and astonished-looking drawn-on eyebrows. The man looked decidedly unwell, with a pasty complexion and dark circles under his eyes. The big table between the two sofas was thickly covered with papers, some typewritten, some scrawled with handwriting. A typewriter was on a small-wheeled table to one side, and against the far wall was another table with coffee-making equipment. The room smelled strongly of coffee, cigarettes, and—rather surprisingly—an expensive perfume he recognized. His new girlfriend wore the same scent.
“I’m looking for Elodie Browne.” Hugh stepped into the room, holding the door partly open behind him.
“So are we,” said the supine man. “She was due here over an hour ago. She had a doctor’s appointment.”
“There’s nothing wrong with her, is there?” The woman seemed worried. Despite her odd appearance, her tone was motherly.
“Not as far as I know.”
“Who are you?” asked the man, sounding rather like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland.
“My name is Hugh Murphy. I’m—”
“Ellie’s cousin.” The woman stood up and came over to shake his hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “How do you do. I’m Sal Schwartz and that lounge lizard over there is Drew Wilson.”
“You’re the writers.”
“For our sins.” The woman sat down again, smoothing her dress over her ample thighs. “Ellie has told us a lot about you.”
Hugh smiled. “Ellie is a force unto herself. But her sister said she had come to work as usual this morning.”
Sal and Drew looked at one another and frowned. “No, she had a doctor’s appointment,” Drew repeated. “She told us yesterday. But she said she would be back by lunchtime, and she isn’t.”
“Damn.” Hugh felt his anger rising. “It wasn’t a doctor she was going to see. I told her not to go. That little idiot.”
“Hey—that’s our Ellie you’re talking about. Where’s she gone, then, if not to the doctor?”
“To see a man about a word.” Hugh felt a little sick. She couldn’t still be with Father Anselm. It was nearly two-thirty, and the appointment had been at ten.
“Uh-oh.” Drew actually sat up. “Ming dao?”
Hugh w
as startled. “You know about that?”
“We do.” Sal looked a little cross, too. “We told her to forget about it. It was beginning to affect her work. We’re up against a deadline here, and we need her full concentration. It’s her idea, after all. She has a remarkable imagination. Perfect for radio.”
“That imagination of hers may be perfect for radio, but it’s the bane of my life.” Hugh came all the way in and closed the door. “Could I cadge a cup of coffee?”
“Help yourself.” Sal was expansive. “Want a sandwich? You can have the extra one I brought for Ellie in case she forgot.”
Drew lay back down on the sofa and closed his eyes. “Sal would feed the nation if she could.”
“Thanks.” Hugh was grateful for the offer, as he had had no chance to stop for lunch on the way back from the bloodbath in Cicero. He gulped the hot coffee and stuffed the sandwich down as quickly as he could. “I have to find a phone.” He spoke with difficulty around the last of the ham on rye Sal had provided.
“You can use ours,” Sal said, pointing. “We finally got one put in yesterday.”
Hugh rang information and got the number of St. John’s House, as Ellie could have done if she had really intended to cancel her appointment with Father Anselm. He mentally cursed her stubbornness and her damned curiosity. And she had more or less lied to him on the phone that morning. What the devil was she up to?
Chapter Eighteen
Elodie looked in amazement at the man named Two-Gun Cohen. He certainly didn’t look like a military man. He was short and overweight, and his rather poor complexion was pasty. With his mild expression and kind eyes he could have been a tailor, a tobacconist, a schoolteacher. She had almost laughed aloud when Father Anselm had introduced him.
The General chuckled. “Don’t fit the description, do I?”
“Oh, but—” Elodie began.
He chuckled again and sat down with a little grunt in one of the easy chairs. “I picked up the nickname when I was running a military school in China some years ago, and it stuck. The Chinese properly call me Mah Kun, which is the closest they can come to the name I was born with, Morris Cohen. Frankly, I like Two-Gun the best. Makes me sound quite the thing.”