Tears of the Dragon

by Holly Baxter

“Oops,” said Drew.

  ***

  Moran’s men had been ruthless, shooting every man they met. The bodies lay in log jams in the corridors, mostly Chinese, but not all. The Chinese only had knives, and they had been easily picked off. It had ended here, in a large room decorated in the Chinese manner, but sparsely. Symbols painted on the walls were in Chinese, writ large, emphatic. One large decorative sword, highly polished, hung above a low table on which were candles and other objects, like an altar.

  Here, too, were Harry Lee, two other Chinese men, Father Anselm and General Two-Gun Cohen. Harry appeared icy calm, but his eyes glittered with a kind of cornered madness, and he actually snarled as his father came through the door of his lair.

  One of Moran’s men, the one who had been first into the big ground-floor area, turned to Archie. “That him?”

  “Yes.” It was Mr. Lee who spoke.

  “Then we’re done.” Moran’s man gestured to the others and one by one they left the room, silent when before they had borne the thunder of machine guns before them.

  Harry Lee’s face was twisted in fury. “You will die for this, father. I will see to it.”

  “No.” Mr. Lee’s voice was soft, sad. He seemed to have grown older with every step he had moved further into the warehouse, following the killers, stepping over the dead.

  Harry hissed vituperatively in Chinese, words obviously meant to wound. Mr. Lee’s face remained impassive.

  Archie and Hugh, who were holding guns on Harry and his henchmen, waited. Eventually Harry simply ran out of breath. Hugh thought he was an ugly little snipe and felt the hatred emanating from him like some kind of smell. Hugh was almost deafened from the noise of the guns, dazed by the killing and the inexorable advance of Moran’s men. His legs were weak, his vision blurred by sweat and tears of despair. He held his gun as a threat he knew he could never carry out. But Archie Deacon was in control. Archie would fire long before he did.

  Where the hell was Drew?

  ***

  Ellie and Mrs. Logie ducked into a room when they heard Moran’s men coming back toward them. They stood behind the door and listened to the shuffle of their feet passing. Nearly all of them had gone by when one of them grunted.

  “This ought to put a spoke in Capone’s Chinese cartwheels.”

  There was a general mutter of agreement and some laughter.

  Then they were gone, clattering down the stairs and out into the dawn. The room the two women were in faced the street, and they heard the engines of the cars starting below them, heard them driving away one by one. For a moment there was silence.

  And then, far far away, the sound of sirens.

  Chicago music.

  Again, Mrs. Logie pushed Ellie ahead of her. They followed the sound of voices. They came to the room where the others stood. When they entered, Archie and Hugh turned, but Archie quickly returned his attention to Harry Lee. Ellie could see he was angry, but he wasted no time expressing what he felt to see her there.

  Hugh did.

  “God dammit, Ellie—” he began. Then he saw Mrs. Logie behind her, saw the gun in her hand, and was silent.

  Mr. Lee saw her, too, and stepped forward as if to protest, for he recognized the look on her face.

  Harry did not. “Mother,” he said, as if pleased to see her, looking for a distraction, hoping for a way out. Only two guns against three, he saw there was still a chance.

  “No,” Mr. Lee said, loudly.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Logie said, and fired before anyone could move or stop her.

  She missed.

  Ellie had known in her heart that she would.

  But Harry, enraged by the situation, the noise, the betrayal, jumped onto the low altar and wrenched the sword from the wall—the Shining Sword. He raised it above his head and prepared to charge. Archie’s finger tightened on the trigger, but before he could fire a short sharp shot rang out. Harry Lee stood there for a moment, poised like a ballet dancer, the sword high over his head, and then he crumpled and fell, the sword clattering uselessly onto the floor beside him.

  General Cohen straightened up from where he had bent over to retrieve a ridiculously small revolver from his ankle. A thin spiral of smoke rose from its barrel. He smiled shyly at their startled expressions.

  “Three-Gun Cohen,” he said.

  Father Anselm crossed himself.

  Mrs. Logie dropped her own gun and covered her face, weeping. Mr. Lee stared at her and then moved to her side, awkwardly patting her shoulder, offering what comfort he could. Father Anselm came over to her, too. He glanced at Ellie, horror and dismay in his eyes. “I knew you would think of something, but…” He gestured toward the open door through which could be seen some bodies, bleeding still.

  “Not her decision,” Archie said, quickly. He would have said more, but there was the sound of running footsteps. Drew leapt over the last body in his path and stopped in the open doorway. His eyes were wild and he was stone cold sober. One lens of his glasses was spiderwebbed with cracks, and there were ashes in his hair.

  “I think everybody should leave right—”

  Above their heads there was a brief explosion, followed by another. Cracks appeared in the ceiling and some plaster fell. There was a strong smell of burning.

  “—now,” Drew panted, gesturing them out.

  The two Chinese men who remained looked up, suddenly terrified, and gabbled something desperate to one another. A whoosh like dragon’s breath was heard, and sounds of windows breaking and glass falling to the street below. They gabbled faster, and then, totally ignoring Archie’s gun, which was still aimed their way, they bolted for the door.

  “I think they agree,” Drew said.

  ***

  All Moran’s cars were gone. No trace of their presence remained. Flame poured like liquid down the sides of the burning warehouse, licking and sucking its way through each successive floor. The roof had blown off in one massive burst, and black viscous smoke rose into the pink dawn sky.

  The fire engines arrived a few minutes after the police cars, but there was little they could do. Firemen and policemen milled around the street, watching the show. People had arrived, seemingly from nowhere. Although it was not a residential area, quite a crowd had gathered, and a rich mixture of Chinese, Italian and American chatter rose with the smoke. Many of them were in robes and slippers, excited enough by the spectacle to ignore convention.

  “What the hell was in that place?” one fireman asked another, who shrugged.

  “Beats me. Supposed to belong to a tea importer.”

  “That don’t smell like tea to me. Don’t burn like it, either.”

  In a doorway opposite, Archie, Hugh and Drew stood beside Ellie. Mr. Lee and Mrs. Logie had disappeared, as had the two remaining Chinese men—with luck all that were left of the ming dao. Buried in the blazing rubble, the dreadful sword was no longer shining.

  Father Anselm and General Cohen had stayed a while, then bid them goodbye. There was nothing to say, nothing more to do. T’zu-hsi’s treasure was still for sale. They would continue their activities on behalf of Chiang Kai Shek, and who could tell whether they would or would not make a difference? But China was far away, and that was up to them. What Mr. Capone would make of his lost investment was yet to be discovered. No doubt he would suspect Bugs Moran’s involvement, but there was no proof. None at all. The fire was too hot for that.

  “Mrs. Logie made me come.” Ellie shivered despite the heat radiating from the burning building.

  “Sure she did.” Drew believed her. Hugh scowled.

  Ellie was silent for a while, then spoke again.

  “At least we don’t have to worry about heroin getting Americans hooked. It’s all going up in smoke.”

  Archie did look at her, then.

  “Is it?”

  She met his eyes and saw no triumph there.

  He gestured toward the fire. “You think that’s all there was? W
e’ve slowed it down, but we haven’t stopped it, Ellie. The Syndicates won’t stop because one shipment or even twenty were burned up. They’ve got the idea. They’re bound to use it.”

  “You have to do something, then.”

  He sighed. “What do you suggest?”

  Tears came into her eyes. Just the smoke, she thought. It’s just the smoke.

  “You’re an idiot,” Archie said, affecting a stern voice. “You let your curiosity get the better of you, you didn’t think ahead, you risked lives—especially your own.” Then he smiled, took her chin in his hand, and kissed her, gently. “Just the kind of girl I like.”

  “But—”

  “Go home, Ellie. Go home now. I have work to do.”

  She considered him; his red hair, his soot-streaked face, his green eyes, his weariness, the sound of his voice, the weight of his responsibility.

  For the first time in a long time, Elodie did as she was told.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Elodie slept all that day and all the following night, rising very early the next morning. Only Marie was awake, as usual, getting breakfast in the kitchen.

  “The coffee’s ready, but you’ll have to wait for oatmeal and there are muffins in the oven, out in five minutes.” Marie poured her a cup from the percolator and watched as Elodie sank down beside the big kitchen table. “You look a lot better.”

  “I’d have to.” Elodie had caught sight of herself in a mirror on her arrival home, just before she fell into bed. They’d all been waiting for her.

  Drew took Sal home in a taxi, Hugh had fallen asleep on the living room couch, and her family had had to be content with a few quick words of explanation. Archie—she still didn’t know what had happened to Archie. A patrol car had brought her home. After that it had pretty much been a blur.

  Now, one by one, the family appeared, eyeing her with great relief and some apprehension. It was clear whatever Ellie had been through, it had changed her a lot. Even Alyce was subdued and seemed almost afraid to speak, but eventually she did.

  “You have to tell us what happened. You have to.”

  “If Ellie doesn’t want to talk about it—” Mrs. Browne began, protectively, but Ellie raised her hand.

  “I waited until you were all here. I only wanted to tell it once because…” She stopped. Images poured through her mind: Webster being shot, the jade butterflies, Bernice’s big eyes and quick smile, Mr. Lee and Mrs. Logie, Father Anselm and General Two-Gun Cohen, the dreadful Harry Lee, the sound of the machine guns, the explosions and fire, the running…

  “…because I want to forget it.”

  She looked at each one in turn. Her family—still innocent, still kindly and real, still worried about her, still uncomprehending of the evil and wickedness outside their contented little world. Even Maybelle, more sophisticated than the others, didn’t realize how terrible it could be. If she had even glimpsed Moran’s men with their impassive faces, most of them spattered with the blood of their victims, talking to Archie as if what they had done, the sheer slaughter of it, was no more than a company outing, a Fourth of July picnic, fun and games with the guys—even Maybelle might not understand. A lot of it Ellie didn’t understand herself, because it had seemed so simple in the beginning, and then things happened faster and faster—

  “It all started with Mr. Webster,” she finally began. She told it in an even and fairly steady voice. They listened without interrupting her, as if they were standing around someone being sick, waiting for it to be over, waiting for the fever to break.

  She stumbled over telling them about Mrs. Logie. “She…was so…”

  “Wicked?” Alyce burst out.

  “No!” Ellie protested. “So sad. So very sad.”

  “But she made you drive her, made you take her to kill her son…her only son.” Mrs. Browne’s voice cracked a little. The concept of wanting to kill your own child was anathema to her, even though, in the end, the housekeeper had been unable to do it.

  “You didn’t see him.” Ellie tried to encompass Harry Lee’s viciousness. “He was nobody’s son anymore. She said he was a cancer and she was right. He was the driving force behind ming dao. It was his idea to come to Chicago after the jade, because he knew it would be his father who would probably be selling it. He wanted to destroy his father, first, and then the rest of America. I think he actually believed he could do it. A man like that, a personality like that—” She shook her head. “It’s amazing what they can make other people do. They can talk the weak and poor into believing anything by just stirring up hate, encouraging them to blame someone else—anyone else—for their troubles. And they can convince the intelligentsia with their so-called ideals, because ideals are a perfect cover for viciousness. If he’d gone back to China with the money from T’zu-hsi’s jade there’s no knowing what he could have brought about.”

  “I hope nobody like that ever happens to America or anywhere else.” Marie put a plate of hot blueberry muffins in the center of the table, went around and topped up their coffee cups, and then sat down to join them. She had been listening as she moved around the kitchen. Quiet Marie, who saw so much and said so little. Ellie drew in the sweet rich scent of the muffins and felt herself begin to relax. Marie’s magic, she sometimes called it.

  “So then Drew set the lab on fire—”

  “I don’t understand about the lab,” Maybelle said.

  Ellie explained what Drew had told them about how cocaine was processed and how he thought the heroin was being distilled from the opium. “It was the ether and other inflammable stuff used for the cocaine that exploded. Processing heroin needs just mostly water…and anyway, he didn’t set it on fire deliberately. I’m afraid Drew was a bit…”

  “Tipsy?” Maybelle was amused. She had liked Drew. His fear had dissipated on the drive to the Browne home, but the alcohol had remained in his blood, and she had recognized its return in his blurred eyes and shaking hands. “He’s an interesting man.”

  Mrs. Browne scowled. “He obviously drinks to excess,” she said, giving Maybelle a reproving look. Maybelle just grinned. She had a penchant for lame ducks.

  “And we all got out before the roof fell in and that’s all.” For a moment Elodie felt it all sweep over her again, felt tears burn behind her eyes, and she quickly reached for a hot muffin and broke it open.

  “Your clothes are ruined,” Marie observed. “All that smoke and soot will never come out.”

  Ellie kept her eyes on her hands as she buttered the steaming muffin. Butter dripped onto her thumb and she licked it off, biting into the muffin at the same time. She spoke around it, tried for a jaunty tone. “I never liked that dress anyway.”

  Marie sighed. “I’ll make you another one.”

  “No. I am going to buy a dress.” Elodie licked more butter off her fingers, and glanced around. They were all staring at her, aghast. Buy a dress? None of them had had a store-bought dress since October, 1929.

  “With what?” demanded Alyce.

  Ellie smiled. Marie never bothered about the morning mail or paper. By coming down early, Ellie had been the one to pick up what lay outside the front door. The morning paper, with—she noticed—a picture of the fire on the front page. The mail. And a small box with her name on it. Mrs. Logie couldn’t drive, so Mr. Lee must have brought it himself, or sent the guard from the vault.

  She put the box on the table and opened it. Inside was a cheque for a ridiculous amount with a note suggesting she could use it to “replace her burned clothing.” More like get the roof fixed, she thought. Beneath the note was a small translucent carving that seemed to have an inner glow—a delicate white jade figure of a young girl bending to pick up a lotus blossom.

  “With my ill-gotten gains,” Elodie said.

  ***

  Elodie was late for work, having gone to the bank and then to Marshall Fields, where she bought two new dresses and a hat. Encumbered by her packages, she stepped out of the el
evator and looked around the tenth floor reception lobby.

  Today’s blonde with the marcelled waves was at the central desk. Men were sitting in the leather chairs with briefcases on their laps while others passed to and fro carrying papers or talking to one another. Secretaries hurried past on errands for their bosses.

  Normal.

  Smiling to herself, Elodie went down the long marble hallway to the familiar glass door, and opened it. Sal looked over her shoulder from where she was filling the percolator. Today her dress was white and patterned all over with huge red peonies. Her shoes matched, and her stocking seams were slightly crooked. Drew looked over the toes of his shoes from where he lay on the sofa, looking hungover and still a little red-eyed and sooty. The table in the middle of the room was filled with papers, both handwritten and typed. A box of doughnuts had been dropped on top of them.

  Normal.

  Elodie came in, closed the door behind her, dropped her packages under the hatstand and grinned at them.

  “Hey,” she said. “Have I ever got a great idea for a new show.”

  ***

  Announcer: There are a thousand stories in the big city. Bix Benedict, ace Crime Reporter, knows them all—the secret sorrows, the lies, the dangers, the cruelty and the kindness, the hatred and the love that fills these streets. And he reports them all…

  Author’s Note

  This is a book of fiction, but it required a great deal of research, for which I would like to thank the Chicago Historical Society and the many authors who have gone before me. I also owe a great debt of gratitude to Jax Lovesey, who led me through the complexities of Chinese languages. None of the mistakes in this book should be attributed to any one of the above. I made all of them myself and no doubt will continue to do so on a regular basis.

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