“You could rescue the girls, set them free, and let the tongs kill each other.”
“That’s not really preventing a tong war, is it?”
Anna made a sound of frustration. “And so you’re just going to sell those poor girls?”
“Sherlock, it isn’t just the tongs who get killed in a gang war. Innocent people are caught in the crossfire.”
“Well, tell them to duck.”
Joe threw back his head and laughed. “I’ll tell Dixon you said so.”
Anna hissed. “If you don’t stop, you’re going to go to hell.”
“I’m in hell.”
“You know something? I don’t care. I can’t believe I ever even liked you, much less loved you. In fact, I didn’t. I take it all back. And you were right. I never was going to marry you. Ever.”
Joe flinched at her words. “You know what, Anna? For once I believe you.”
Anna took Joe’s lunch pail, opened the lid to his food and spit in it. She wasn’t good at spitting, and it dribbled down her chin. Joe’s lunch was a rice dish.
Joe cried out, “Hey!”
She set it back on the floor just beyond his reach, spun about, and stomped out of the cellblock, through the doors of the reception area, and out onto the street. She put her fist to her mouth and uttered a single, empty sound of despair.
As Anna descended the stone front steps of the county jail, a slender woman in a neat blue suit ascended, her thick, wavy hair peeking from beneath a feather hat. The woman closely watched the hem of her skirt as if to avoid tripping. She carried a basket covered with a green cloth, and Anna could smell the enticing scent of fried liver. The girl raised her head as she passed, nodding to Anna, and for the first time, Anna saw her face.
It was the piano girl, one of Joe’s sweethearts. Her father owned the music store. She wasn’t the prettiest of Joe’s girls—her nose was a bit too large—but she sang the best and played the piano almost as well as Joe. Anna herself had neglected to practice.
“Hello,” said the piano girl, and smiled, brightening her brown eyes. Her smile was warm, intelligent, and awful.
“Hello.” Anna couldn’t muster a smile.
The day felt very, very cold, and there was nothing in Anna’s heart to warm her. Just a tinkling of hope that she could find the singsong girls on her own and help them to escape, and that Joe Singer did not like liver. But Anna had no idea where to look. And who did not like liver?
Was Joe so cozy with the piano girl that he would send for her when his father had him arrested? Apparently so. The piano girl would understand the allure of Madam Lulu’s two Steinway grands.
He had not sent for Anna.
The idea of him putting his hand on the piano girl’s bottom made Anna’s blood freeze. And the piano girl wasn’t the only lady in Los Angeles with a bottom. Joe’s hands could be on many ladies’ bottoms, all at the same time. Anna’s brow wrinkled. She wanted Joe’s hands on her bottom.
She clutched her leather purse, which contained the laundry ticket and the picture of Leo Lim. She clutched it as if it were her life because, in a sense, it was.
She felt more determined than ever to find herself a killer. Her limbs were weak with disillusionment, and Chinatown gave her the chills. But it was daylight now, and she knew what she must do. She would go back to Most Lucky Laundry. It was the likely place for Leo Lim to have his clothing cleaned because it was only three blocks from his apartment. She would confirm Mr. Lim’s patronage with the old woman by showing her Lim’s picture. She’d ask if the lady had seen the missing suspect and if she would alert Anna if Lim presented himself again—even if Anna had to pay a price. She would cross that bridge when she got there. Then she would find the missionaries and interview them, and then go to the train station to try to get hold of Elizabeth’s luggage. She’d have to come up with a lie to explain her absence to Wolf, as her work was piling up, and she had failed to catch Jane Godfrey, the shoplifting fifteen year-old treat girl.
CHAPTER 14
Most Lucky Laundry’s windows were opaque with steam, and its sign still hung at a precarious angle. Anna parked her bike and swept through the door, causing a string of brass bells to jingle. The spic and span room was barely the size of a chicken coop. A curtain hung over a doorway that led deeper into the building. Damp heat made Anna’s sleeves limp. The wrinkled crone counted out money from a cash register, which rested on a surprisingly fine, carved wooden counter. A lantern burned at the end of the counter, bolstering the light that seeped in through the mist.
Anna inclined her bruised, veiled head. “Good morning, Ma Yi-jun.”
The woman said, “Good morning, sei gwai por. Go home.”
“I am Assistant Matron Blanc,” she said with emphasis. “I am very much alive. Not a ghost.”
“Not yet a ghost.” Ma Yi-jun pushed the cash register closed and cackled. Anna wondered if the lady were laughing at her. “I’m here to pick up my laundry. This ticket is for Most Lucky Laundry, is it not?” Anna slowly handed over the laundry ticket. “Unless my, um, servant already picked up the clothes. Have you seen my servant?” Anna produced the picture of Leo Lim, watching the crone’s eyes for a telltale sign of recognition.
The old woman tilted her head and peered at Anna with a questioning brow. Then she hobbled to the brass lamp at the end of the counter, put on a pair of reading glasses, and held the ticket up to the light. Under the glow, the ticket became translucent. Anna could see a faint outline of red words on the paper—words she had not noticed before.
Ma Yi-jun’s face became unnaturally flat and bland, like the face of a card sharp. Anna stretched her neck to see. “What does it say?”
The lady returned the laundry ticket to Anna. “Your errand boy already came for his clothes, but he didn’t pay. Broke in after dark eight days ago.”
Anna lit up. “That’s grand.”
Ma Yi-jun extended her hand palm up. “You pay now. One dollar.”
For a moment, Anna’s good breeding directed her. Her fingers hovered over the latch to her leather purse, and her mind reached for something of value that Anna could give the woman—her fountain pen? Her empty billbook? Anna stopped her hand and collected herself. If she were to be poor, she was going to act the part. “I think not.” She bobbed a curtsy and sashayed out of the shop to the tinkle of bells, rather pleased with herself for resisting the woman.
She turned and examined the lock on the outside of the door. Scratch marks on the rusty metal suggested that someone had, in fact, picked the lock.
Anna had been right. Leo Lim had collected his clothes eight days ago, at least three days after the murder. He could still be hiding in town. She needed to find the missionaries. They might know something about Leo Lim and where she might sniff him out.
Anna reasoned that if she were a missionary, she wouldn’t live on Alameda Street, Juan Street, or any of the seedier roads. That would be too dangerous. She’d live as far from the heart of Chinatown as possible. Thus, she began on the outskirts, peddling her bike down Los Angeles Street. She encountered the mission on the block between Arcadia and the Plaza. It lay southwest of Chinatown, on the very edge of the red-light district. There were Congregational and Presbyterian churches, the Sun Wing Wo General Store, and a tidy brick building with a sign posted high above the door that read “The Chinatown Society for Christian Evangelism.” A Chinese school tinkled with the voices of children—the sons and daughters of prostitutes and wives.
Anna trudged up the stone stairs to the landing and knocked. A young white lady holding an orange kitten opened the door. She had round spectacles, pink lips, and a necktie, and looked nowhere near as courageous as she truly must be to work in Chinatown. She also looked vaguely familiar. The girl’s attention flitted from Anna’s veil, to the homemade bloomers peeking from the slit in Anna’s skirt, and back again. She smiled bemusedly.
Anna flipped her veil and lifted her chin. “Good morning, I am Assistant Matron Blanc. I’m here to s
ee Mrs. Puce.”
The girl’s eyes widened in a look of undisguised shock. Anna imagined this reaction was due to Anna’s identity and not just her pantaloons or black eye. This saintly missionary likely read the newspapers and knew of Anna’s unconventional crime-fighting measures. Anna braced herself for a reprimand, but the young lady simply stood aside so that Anna could enter.
The room resembled the living room at the convent where Anna had attended school, plainly but comfortably furnished with an organ, rocking chairs, and an afghan draped over the back of a settee. An arrangement of dried seedpods sat on the mantle below a painting of Jesus. He was not hanging on a cross in his underwear—bloody and beaten—like most Jesuses Anna had seen. He looked pretty, like a girl, only with a beard. Anna crossed herself.
A middle-aged woman dressed in mourning reclined on a chaise, smiling beatifically. A plain silver tea set lay before her on the table, along with a dish of lemon and a plate of fancy shortbread cookies. She did not rise, but must have overheard the conversation at the door because she addressed Anna by name. Her words were languid, and her eyes were a dazzling amber with small pupils that made them look like sunflowers. “Welcome Assistant Matron Blanc, I am Eunice Puce.”
Anna extended a hand, but the lady still did not rise. Anna let her hand drop. “Mrs. Puce, are you unwell?”
“Quite. Did you by any chance bring honey?”
“No. I’m sorry.” Apparently, Mrs. Puce was not merely odd but completely cuckoo. If this was what having a husband beheaded did to a woman, Anna must avoid it at all costs—one more reason not to marry Joe Singer and put herself at risk. Anna tried to reproduce the woman’s beatific smile. “Mrs. Puce, I must ask you a few questions.”
Mrs. Puce closed her eyes, smiling. Anna looked to the bespectacled girl for help.
The girl cradled the orange kitten. “I’m sorry. You won’t get answers from Mrs. Puce this afternoon.” She lowered her voice. “I’m afraid afternoons aren’t good for her.”
Anna wrinkled her brow. It was barely eleven o’clock.
“I would offer you tea, but I think she’s finished it.” The girl sat down in a rocking chair and stared at Anna dumbly.
Manners among the lower classes weren’t what they could be. Anna should try harder to be rude and fit in. So she slouched.
Another young woman appeared at the top of the staircase, the light from a window falling on her golden hair. She quickly descended the steps, as if hurrying to Anna’s aid. “Perhaps I can help? Miss . . .”
For a few seconds, Anna did not speak. In fact, she had forgotten her own last name. The young woman on the stairs was the very same golden-haired girl who had made eyes at Joe Singer, and whom he had leaned toward in the soda fountain. They no doubt had met in Chinatown. A lump formed in Anna’s throat, like she’d swallowed a bust enhancer. Finally, she managed, “Assistant Matron Blanc. I’m with the LAPD.”
If the missionary noticed Anna’s bruise, she was too mannerly to stare. Anna threw back her shoulders. The girl reached the bottom of the landing, smiling a warm and genuine smile. Her teeth had a holy glow. She was as graceful as a fluttering angel and smelled like fresh laundry, baked cookies, and clean babies. She offered her hand for Anna to shake. “I’m Miss Robins. I’m so pleased to meet you, Assistant Matron Blanc. I followed your adventures in the Herald.”
Anna shook the proffered hand limply. All the strength had drained out of her. The pretty girl squeezed Anna’s fingers like a best friend and let go. Anna wanted to wipe her hand off on her skirt. “I’m interested in your mission work.”
Miss Robins gestured to a settee near the coffee table. “Please sit down. And have a cookie.” She pointed to the plate of shortbread cookies, which were shaped like perfect little thistles. “I made them.”
When Anna sat, Miss Robins perched beside her, knees congenially tilted toward Anna, face bright and open. “What an exciting job you must have, Assistant Matron Blanc.”
Anna closed her eyes to collect herself, but images of Joe leaning toward this beautiful stranger swirled inside her head. She shoved the thoughts down. She shoved them, and shoved them, and shoved them. He was a slave trader. She took deep breaths until she didn’t care. When her eyes finally flashed open, Anna was all business. Joe Singer could break her heart, stomp on her belief in the faithfulness of men, crush her hope that love could ever be true or that men could ever be good.
But she would not let him cock up her detective work.
Miss Robins waited attentively. Anna sat up straighter. “It must be very dangerous. It would be a shame if something terrible happened to you.”
“The angels guard us, Matron Blanc.”
“Tell me about your work.”
“I teach Chinamen English—not just the language, but literature as well, for advanced students who want to learn. It’s a means for understanding our culture.”
“So you’re well-read.”
“I read, and I went to Vassar for a year. The mission provides me with an opportunity to use my head. Mrs. Puce has been teaching me Chinese, which I use every day. And the men teach me about Chinese culture. Did you know they burn paper offerings in the form of money, clothes, books, horses—anything really. They believe their ancestors can then use those objects in the afterlife. The paper objects are very beautiful. You can buy them here in Chinatown.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“We have a school for Chinese children, but I don’t teach there. We also preach the gospel. We hold services right out in the streets. Some of the men have converted.”
The girl with the pink lips and glasses chimed in. “I teach the children.”
Anna nodded. “How many ladies work with you?”
Miss Robins answered, “Seven, including Mrs. Puce, although we don’t all live here. We were eight. One girl has left Chinatown.”
“When?”
“Three months ago. Her home church pressured her to leave because of the violence. Even some of the Chinese are leaving now with the tongs so active.”
“Where are they going?”
“Who knows? Back to San Francisco to rebuild? So many people came down after the earthquake. That’s one of the reasons things are so unsettled with the tongs. They’ve moved their headquarters here.”
Mrs. Puce began to snore.
Anna scratched in her notebook. “I see. Where are the other ladies?”
“They’re teaching the Chinese men at the English school on Marchessault. In Chinatown.”
“How interesting.” Anna held up the picture of Leo Lim posed with the brunette in front of the Chinese theater. “Do you know this man and this girl?”
The girl with the pink lips and glasses leaned forward to look at the photograph. She shifted the kitten in one arm and took the picture from Anna. “Yes. He’s one of our students. Leo Lim, and that’s Mary. She moved back to Chicago. We were singing in front of the theater that day.” She handed the photograph back to Anna.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“It’s been weeks,” Miss Robins said.
“Do either of you know where I could find him?”
Miss Robins laughed. “Honestly, Assistant Matron Blanc. We don’t follow the men home. The world is scandalized by our presence here in Chinatown already. Although I can say I’ve been to his shop. He sells imported goods—furniture and things. He has a good head for business. He helped us balance our books.”
“I have to get ready for an appointment,” said the kitten girl, her curiosity about Anna apparently satisfied. She removed herself from the conversation and scampered up the stairs.
Anna turned to Miss Robins. “Which shop?”
“Canton Bazaar. Down the street.”
Anna nodded. She knew the place. She walked past it every time she came to Chinatown. It was always closed. “Does he have any friends?”
“He didn’t have any friends at the school. Men . . . how do I say this? The men didn’t care for
him.”
Women, Anna knew, did. White women. They had posed with the man in half a dozen photographs, which she’d seen on his mantle. “But he was friends with the missionary ladies.”
“Yes. He’s a very good man. He’s a convert.”
This was interesting. “What did his family think about that?” Anna could only imagine what her family would say.
“I don’t believe he had any. Not in America. He wasn’t a member of any family association.”
“Family association?”
“They’re like mutual aid societies for people related somehow—by their home towns, their surnames. Los Angeles is a hostile place for the Chinese. The members look out for each other, help each other find jobs, get settled, bury their dead.”
“And what if a Chinaman has no family in LA?”
“Sometimes, they join a tong. Very few make their way alone.” Miss Robins’ big, blue eyes looked concerned. “Assistant Matron Blanc, is Leo Lim in trouble? Is he mixed up with the tongs? The Bing Kong were pressuring him to join because, like I said, he wasn’t a member of any family association and he’s good with business. But he always said no. I pray for Leo Lim.”
“I just want to speak with him.”
“I’m relieved, because the tongs are dangerous. He’s very brave to stand up to them.” This idea seemed to sober her. “I wish I could help you.” She lit up. “Won’t you come over for dinner after church? I’m making roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, and ambrosia salad, and marshmallow cake. I’m afraid the other girls won’t be there. But Detective Singer is coming. Do you know Detective Singer?”
Anna, who had been reaching for a cookie, knocked the dainty porcelain sugar bowl, which shot like a bullet clean off the table. It landed on Mrs. Puce’s pillowy lap, tipped, and spilled a mountain of sugar. Mrs. Puce didn’t move. She didn’t seem to notice her sweetened middle.
Anna said, “Yes.”
“Have you been acquainted for long?” Miss Robins asked, graciously ignoring the sugar pot, as did Anna.
“Forever.” Truly Anna hadn’t. She’d known Joe for less than a year, and he was still full of surprises. She had thought she knew his heart, having briefly possessed it. She knew that as a boy he had loved a girl named Eve. That his mother was dead. That he liked enchiladas. That he would run into a burning building to save a girl, if he loved her. But that he could stop loving her. Now she’d discovered that he would sell slave girls for money. She had never really known Joe Singer at all.
The Woman in the Camphor Trunk Page 11