Tears of the Dragon

by Holly Baxter

  Elodie thought it made him sound like one of Capone’s men, but didn’t say so. She felt an immediate liking for the General. He and Father Anselm seemed to be good friends. They exchanged a glance and some agreement seemed to pass between them.

  “Miss Browne, I think you deserve an explanation,” the General said.

  “I would like one.” Elodie sat back a little in her chair. “But I realize it’s none of my business.”

  “I think losing your friend makes it your business, in a way.” Two-Gun reached into his jacket and withdrew a cigar, taking his time to unwrap, clip, and light it. “But where to begin?”

  “With the jade, I think,” Father Anselm said. “I am sure Miss Browne can be discreet.”

  “You really don’t know me,” Elodie protested.

  “I am a very good judge of character.” Two-Gun gently tapped a bit of cigar ash into a glass dish on the little table beside his chair. “You were clever enough to get this far, so you deserve to know the facts, at least. “ He took another puff of the cigar, and then laid it in the ashtray. “You’ve been curious about someone named Suzy?” He explained who “Suzy” really was. “T’zu-hsi’s treasure has quite a history. It has passed through many hands since her death, very few of them legitimate. A few small pieces are antique, but most of it is modern, made to her commission. Among this latter group is a chess set, a crown, and many pieces of jewelry. Traditionally jade is not mixed with other stones, but she had her own ideas and the money to indulge them. No need to go into details, my dear, but the treasure eventually came into my hands. Or, rather, into the hands of Chiang Kai Shek. While it is extremely valuable in artistic terms, he is a realist. I was commissioned to sell it and buy guns and ammunition against the revolution which is threatening the new nationalist government.”

  “There are others who want it for the same reason but a different cause,” Father Anselm said.

  “The ming dao?”

  “Yes.”

  Elodie clasped her hands in her lap. Chicago had become bad enough as it was, but here was a whole new source of conflict and cruelty, an offshoot of a faraway struggle in a strange and mysterious country most Americans knew little about. She looked at the priest. “You condone this…purchase of arms?”

  “Not Christian?” Father Anselm had the grace to look embarrassed. “You’re right, of course. But at least the nationalist government would allow religious freedom. Communism does not. There will be time for ploughshares later on.”

  “I see.”

  Elodie was struggling to encompass it all. Last week she had been a lowly copywriter concerned with shoe polish and corn plasters. Then she had been a waitress at a party and seen a man murdered right before her eyes. Then she was a radio copywriter whose mind kept wandering. People like Father Anselm and “Two-Gun” Cohen were from another world of civil war and smuggling. Ming dao turned out to be a ruthless group of men who kidnapped and killed people. They had killed Mr. Webster and they had killed Bernice. Before she had known nothing of China beyond chop suey. Now she felt like she was in the middle of some outrageous Saturday matinee.

  Father Anselm leaned forward earnestly. “It is a time of war, Miss Browne. I can’t stand aside and see China tear herself apart. Such a great nation deserves to preserve its history and ensure its future. Morris and I are only a small part of it all, but if we can make a difference I, for one, am prepared to accept risks and even the disapproval of my religion. The Catholic Church has gone to war before and no doubt will again, should the threat be great enough.”

  “My friend the Idealist.” Two-Gun was amused. “Me. I am a practical man. I do what I can and try to stay alive. If I can make a profit along the way, so be it.” He leaned back and picked up his cigar again, watching her through the curls of smoke.

  She hardly knew what to say. Her curiosity had been satisfied. She had her answers. She had promised herself that would be enough. So now was the time to let it all go, time to leave the rest to Father Anselm and Two-Gun Cohen. Pulling her feet back, she prepared to stand up. As she did so, the door to the lounge opened and three Chinese men entered. They were well dressed and smiling, friends of Father Anselm, she assumed. The last one in turned to thank the young priest who had admitted them, and then firmly shut the door in his face.

  The smiles disappeared.

  The first man, who was wearing a grey hat and suit, drew a gun and gestured at them all with it. “You come.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Father Anselm.

  “Bloody hell,” said Two-Gun Cohen.

  Elodie opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “You come now. No fuss or we shoot.” Grey Hat paused, then turned the gun toward Elodie. “We shoot her.”

  Father Anselm stood up. “She has nothing to do with this, she is just my student. We’re discussing her term paper on China…”

  The second man scowled and spoke in rapid Chinese to Grey Hat. The third man, short and broad chested, said nothing but his eyes were beady and black, like a snake’s. He kept staring at Elodie and wetting his lips.

  “She comes, too.” Grey Hat was impatient. “Or I shoot her here and now. Might shoot more on way out. Your choice, priest.”

  They obeyed. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do. As they went toward the outer door the young priest in Reception cleared his throat. “When will you be back, Father?”

  Father Anselm hesitated, and Elodie could see he was weighing the chances of shouting for help and perhaps precipitating a bloodbath in this house of peace. He finally spoke. “I don’t know, my son.”

  Grey Hat prodded Father Anselm in the back with the gun, which was now hidden in his pocket, and muttered something. Father Anselm moved forward again. Elodie knew that the General must have a gun in his back, too, because she did. Held by the man who kept licking his lips and breathing hot garlicky air down the back of her neck.

  The young priest had only been at St. John’s House for a few months, but had become accustomed to seeing Father Anselm with Chinese people. He smiled and nodded as they went out. “Have a nice lunch,” he called after them.

  Outside they were hustled down the path and then along the sidewalk to a green delivery truck with the words Schaeffer’s Sausages painted on it. Grey Hat opened the rear doors and they were pushed unceremoniously up into it. Obviously it was not used for meat deliveries, for there were benches along each side. As they sat, the fat thug got in, too, and slammed the doors shut. He leaned against the doors and continued to stare at Elodie. With a lurch that nearly unsettled them all, the van moved away.

  Father Anselm was very distressed. “I’m sorry, Miss Browne, they should never have forced you to come with us.”

  “Is it the ming dao?” Elodie was annoyed to hear her voice quaver.

  “I fear so.”

  The General was furious. “I should have expected this. Webster gave away more than we thought.”

  She felt tears start behind her eyes, and blinked fast. “Everybody told me to stop, but I wouldn’t.”

  “Stop what?” the General wanted to know.

  “Being nosy. Imagining I could solve the mystery.” She winced. “I’ve been reading too many of Alyce’s Nancy Drew books.”

  The General looked puzzled. “Nancy Drew?”

  “I believe Nancy Drew is a character in a new popular series of girl’s adventure books,” Father Anselm said. The General didn’t seem any wiser for the explanation.

  “I’ve been in China too long,” he said, crossly. “I have no bloody idea what goes on here or in England, anymore.” He looked at Elodie. “You seem a nice young woman. I apologize for the way you’re being treated. I’ll get them to release you as soon as we get wherever it is we’re going.” He seemed confident.

  From the look on the Chinese guard’s face, Elodie didn’t think it would be that simple. She was absolutely terrified, her stomach was churning, and her heart felt like it was trying to burst out thr
ough her ribs. Despite this, she found herself fighting to suppress wild laughter that threatened to well up in her. It was so ridiculous. Here she was in the back of a van with a dancing pig on it, being guarded by a member of some dreadful murdering Chinese secret society, in the company of a politically active Catholic priest and an English Jewish smuggler and arms buyer. Quite the ethnic cross-section, she thought, and again struggled against the hysterical laughter.

  She suddenly thought of Bernice lying in an alley with her head cut off, and the rising laughter turned to rising bile. She swallowed hard and clenched her hands together to stop their trembling.

  She must be more positive. She must look around, think constructively, try to imagine a way to fight back, to escape.

  What would Nancy Drew do?

  ***

  An hour later Drew Wilson and Hugh Murphy left St. John’s House and stood on the pavement under the oak trees.

  “This is insane,” Drew said. “That young idiot of a priest didn’t even question it.” He was apparently no fan of Catholicism.

  Hugh looked up and down Addison Avenue. A peaceful semi-suburban street, nothing remarkable about it. A fairly wealthy neighborhood, judging from the houses on either side.

  “Let’s ask the neighbors.” He started toward the house directly opposite St. John’s House.

  “Let’s call the police.” Drew followed him, feeling in his pocket for his trusty flask. He realized that wanting to involve the police only proved how rattled he was. “That girl Bernice was murdered, and that guy—whatsisname—”

  “Webster.”

  Drew took a swig from his flask and offered it to Hugh, who shook his head. “Yeah, Webster. I mean, Jesus, these ming dao people are killers.”

  Hugh scowled. “If it was the ming dao.”

  Drew was exasperated. “Who else could it be? The Chinese Brass Band Marching Society? The Kowloon Balloon Company?”

  Hugh ignored that. “It’s been almost two hours, now. Either they’re already dead, in which case we can do nothing, or they aren’t, in which case we have a chance. Let’s get some facts for the police to go on, first. Then we’ll think about calling them.”

  “You’re as bad as Ellie about going your own way.” Drew was disgusted.

  Hugh stopped in the middle of the street and Drew almost walked into him. “Do you really trust the police?” Hugh demanded.

  Drew stared at him, then replaced the flask in his pocket, settled his overcoat on his shoulders, and began to walk ahead. “Point taken. What do we ask these nosy neighbors?”

  “If any of them saw the make of the car they left in. Perhaps a license number.”

  “This is not exactly a lace-curtain neighborhood. People in these houses are not the nosy type.”

  “No, but their servants are.” Hugh went straight up to a front door and pressed the doorbell.

  ***

  “Let ’em blame it all on the Chinks.”

  The words Archie had imagined coming from Capone still haunted him. All the while he was attending the homicide scene in Cicero, he had been itching to see if he could find some link between the Syndicate and the Chinese community—or, at least, the criminal part of it. He finally left his fellow officers to deal with the latest Prohibition mess. For a moment he thought he had seen Hugh Murphy in the crowd of reporters, but knew he must be with Elodie interviewing that priest. Just as well, too. She needed looking after every minute.

  When he returned to headquarters he checked out the previous night’s activities—four speakeasies raided, two beatings, and a collision between a truck loaded with beer and a fire engine on the way to a blaze. Seventeen arrests from the speakeasies; either it had been a very quiet night or a great deal of money had changed hands.

  He sighed and poured his first cup of coffee. Sitting at his desk he looked around the squad room. Four detectives were in, and there wasn’t a single one he could talk to about his worries and suspicions. Slovensky had a handicapped kid who needed operations, he was pretty sure Morgan had a drink problem, Levy had an old mother and grandmother dependent on him, and Scott had just married an Italian girl whose father was rumored to be a banker for the Syndicate. They all had pressures that might drive them to forget the rules. When his old partner had been killed in a warehouse shoot-out, he had lost the one man he trusted. He refused to have another partner, despite continuing pressure from Captain Brett. He knew what Brett wanted was to give Archie a partner who would keep an eye on him, report back, and in general rein him in. Well, he would have none of it. He went out with others in group situations, he did his duty when ordered, but he investigated on his own.

  So far.

  He didn’t know how long it would be before Brett had his way, preaching that policy required it, and attached someone to his shoulder. “Every officer needs back-up,” Brett would say. Indeed, had said many times. What he meant was every officer needed a witness to cover his actions, and what he really meant was that Archie was a loose cannon who needed anchoring.

  The men around him weren’t bad men, Archie reflected. Most of the corruption was down to the uniformed force—they had the most opportunity. But not all. He would trust most of his fellow detectives to back him physically in a difficult situation, their loyalty in that respect wasn’t in question. Nor were they stupid men. But they were underpaid, like everyone these days, and had families or bad habits to support. Little by little what reservations they had started out with had eroded. First, for a price, they had overlooked little crimes, then bigger ones, until these days they actually hired out to ride shotgun on booze deliveries, to stand guard outside the famous Syndicate “dinners,” even to moonlight as “protection” at parties, or to provide special muscle when enforcement was required at a higher level. He knew at least two of them even reveled in it, proud of their “contacts.”

  He finished his coffee and stood up. What he wanted to know was in the files. It might be recent, it might be old news. But there was only one man for the job, and he, fortunately, was another old friend of his late father’s—a man he could trust.

  At least, he hoped so.

  Archie took the stairs down to the basement and walked the gritty route to the door marked Files, his footsteps echoing in the long narrow corridors that networked beneath the building. Beyond that door were rows and rows of shelves filled with case notes, far too many for a man to just start at one end and proceed to the other. A guide was needed. And that man was Sgt. Patrick Ignatius Piper, popularly known as Pip.

  Pip was in his lair, a caged-off corner containing a big desk, a table and chair, a telephone extension, several filing cabinets, and a very large picnic basket. This contained Pip’s supplies for the day. Pip was just a few years off retirement, and these days his main entertainment was eating. Largely immobile in the Files, he had grown so fat his stomach hung over his invisible belt, and his uniform strained at every seam. Nevertheless, Pip was light on his feet and swift in motion. This was because his off-duty hobby was ballroom dancing—the only exercise he got, now that he was confined to office duties. Once considered the best marksman on the force, he had encountered someone even faster on the draw about fifteen years before, and as a result had only one ear. Considered too deaf and unsightly to go on patrol, he had been assigned to Files. Rumor was he had a celluloid ear which he attached to his spectacles and wore when he went dancing, so as not to frighten his lady partners, but nobody had ever actually seen it. On duty he never bothered, so presented a friendly if rather lopsided aspect to his fellow officers.

  “Well, if it isn’t the great Lieutenant Deacon, scourge of the underworld,” Pip said, obviously delighted to have company so early in the day.

  Archie sat down. “How’s it going, Pip?”

  Pip scratched his stomach. “Fair to middlin’, thanks. What can we do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a connection between Capone and the Chinese.”

  “The Chinese what? Laundry? R
estaurant?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s what I like—precise information.”

  “Well, it’s kind of a flyer. There may be no connection at all.” Briefly Archie sketched the situation.

  Pip reached into his picnic basket and extracted a partially opened box of cookies. He popped one into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Nothing comes to mind, except….” He slapped the box down on his desk in case Deacon was hungry and heaved himself to his feet. “But there has been a lot of minor stuff between the Chinks and the Eyeties lately. Mostly domestic stuff about property, so on, as I recall.” He went over to a file cabinet and opened the top drawer, scrabbled a while, extracted a manila folder. “This might be something. Rival applications for a limited food license over on Wentworth. You know what that means.”

  It meant that whoever got the license would run a blind pig operation behind the cover of the restaurant. Depending on the pull of the owner, he could do it behind a closed door or even up front, offering booze in teapots, knowing he wouldn’t be busted because he paid his dues to the precinct involved.

  Pip carried the file over to his desk and settled himself again with a thump and grunt. “Let’s see. Oh yeah—turned into a street fight, that’s why we got involved. I thought there was something. The Eyetie wanting the license was Jake Manotta—you know the name?”

  “Capone Syndicate—mid-level.”

  “Right. Other applicant one Wu Chien. Don’t know who the hell he is. They not only look alike, they all sound alike to me. He wanted it for a social club set-up, it says here. Good position, too…no wonder they got so het up.”

  “Social club?”

  Pip shrugged. “Could be straight, more likely one of those places for queers they run. You know about those? Must be three or four of them down there in Chinatown.”

  “I know the Chinese are more tolerant about that kind of thing.” Archie frowned. “Does it say the name of the club or group he represented?”