Miss Robins looked at Anna conspiratorially. “Tell me about him. Just between you and me.”
“Well.” Anna smiled falsely.
Miss Robins grinned and squeezed her shoulders up toward her ears in giddy anticipation.
Anna put a finger to her chin. “Lunacy runs in his family. They keep his mother locked away in the attic.”
Miss Robins blinked. “That can’t be right. His mother is dead.”
“Yes. She must smell something awful.”
Miss Robins was silent.
Anna said, “Thank you, I can’t come for Sunday dinner. But neither can Detective Singer. I’m afraid he’s in the hoosegow.”
The Canton Bazaar faced the Plaza on the edge of Chinatown. As Anna had anticipated, the shop was shut up and locked. If he were such a good businessman, his store wouldn’t flop. She looked through the window into the dark building. The bright daylight made it impossible for her to see much—just empty glass display cases and the shadows of painted letters stretching out across the floor, spelling the name of the establishment. It was as mysterious as the business-minded, lady-loving Christian, Leo Lim. She strode around to the alley at the rear of the place. An empty loading dock stood near a broad sliding door, which until recently had been locked with a chain. The cut chain now lay in a pile on the deck. She grabbed hold of the door handle and heaved it. It required all her weight to slide it on its runners. She stepped inside and let her eyes adjust to the light.
Dark, dusty rectangles marked the floor where furniture had been. The merchandise was gone, as if someone had packed it all up in a wagon and carted it away.
Anna slid the door closed and moved around to Los Angeles Street, skirt swishing against her bloomers. Surely someone in a neighboring store would have information about where Leo Lim and the contents of his shop had gone.
Vegetable sellers began congregating with their horses and carts for the market at the Plaza. Soon there would be hundreds of people and animals crowding the road. She hurried to the shop next door, which appeared to sell Chinese herbs. According to the sign in the window, the herbalist could cure everything from warts to manly weakness, like a regular doctor. A white mustachioed fellow—possibly one with manly weakness—left the shop just as Anna entered, setting a small string of bells to ringing. The scent of medicine assaulted her nostrils. Dark wooden shelves towered from the floor to the ten-foot ceiling. Bottles of mysterious brews and jars of dried who-knew-what neatly lined them. A counter with thin, built-in drawers ran the length of the room. Every sign, every label was in Chinese.
In the corner on the floor, a broad-backed man knelt, lighting incense at a small red altar decorated with gold. He was hatless, and the sides of his head were partially shaved. The rope of his braid hung enviably thick and long. Anna waited as he made his silent petition. The smoke gradually overcame the medicine smell, replacing it with jasmine. After a moment, he stood and turned around.
The man was Mr. Jones. The bones of his cheeks looked sharp and freshly shaved.
Anna flipped up her veil and gawked at him. “You’re a merchant?”
He moved to the counter and stowed a silver box of matches beneath it. “I am an herbalist.”
“So you know Leo Lim,” she accused. “His shop is right next door. You must know him.”
“I know him.” His handsome face was composed, as if Anna hadn’t just caught him in a lie. He collected a small clear bottle from the shelf and handed it to Anna. “For bruising.”
Anna ignored his offering, feeling as baffled as she was vexed. “Why didn’t you inform us?”
He met her eye. “You didn’t ask.”
Outside the window, Anna heard the buzzing of commerce as the vegetable market got underway. She put her hands on her hips, trying to muster some semblance of authority. “Mr. Jones, if you want me to tell you everything I know, then I expect the same from you.” She inhaled deeply to see if he smelled nice today, but his scent was lost in jasmine.
He laughed skeptically. “And you are telling me everything you know?”
“Lim attended the missionaries’ English classes.”
“I knew that.”
“He picked up his laundry eight days ago.”
He raised one black eyebrow. “That’s more interesting.”
“The dead girl is Miss Elizabeth Bonsor, a wonderful girl. I knew her. We were friends.”
Jones’s voice became more subdued. “Highbinders with a wagon came and looted his store.”
“There were no marks on the body, no apparent cause of death. I think Miss Bonsor might have been poisoned. There was something strange about the tea.”
“Hm. The tea. Can you bring it to me?”
“It’s your turn, Mr. Jones. Where can I find Leo Lim?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he killed Miss Bonsor?”
He looked very serious, even more serious than usual. “I don’t know.”
Anna plucked the laundry ticket out of her purse and thrust it toward him. “All right. Explain this. Why did the lady at the laundry act so strangely when I showed it to her? It’s just Leo Lim’s laundry ticket.”
Mr. Jones took the ticket from Anna’s bare fingers, and held it up to the light. Small red characters glowed on the paper. He lowered his arm, his lips flat and grim. “It’s a death threat. From the Bing Kong.”
“Against Leo Lim?”
“His name is on it.” He lowered his hand.
“Jupiter.” Anna took the paper from his palm, careful not to touch his skin, but then touched his fingers anyway. “Leo Lim must be frightened. He would be fleeing even if he hadn’t killed the girl.”
She looked up and found him staring.
It was rude, but interesting. Anna stared back. His eyes were moonless black, his pupil and iris indistinguishable.
Was it so strange that Elizabeth could fall in love with a Chinese man? Yes. No. Anna started to feel warm everywhere.
He pressed the bottle into her hands. “For that eye. How did you do it?”
Anna’s fingers closed around the bottle and she backed away. “I must be . . . I’m going to leave now. Good day, Mr. Jones.” Anna bobbed a curtsy and fled outside into the crush of horses, the discordant sounds of a tongue foreign to her, and the market where East met West.
Anna was out of breath when she reached her bicycle, but not from hurrying. It was Chinatown, or maybe the assassins, or Mr. Jones with his saturnine eyes. She quickly unlocked her bike. She had to see Joe and tell him about the developments in the case. She’d confess that she stole the tea and he’d have it tested, if he ever got out of jail. She would not tell him that Mr. Jones made her feel . . . what? Strange.
Anna peddled straight for the hoosegow.
The jailer escorted Anna through the corridor full of gawking criminals. It didn’t smell any better than before. He dragged a billy club along the bars, not caring if sometimes he clipped a finger or barely missed a protruding nose. From the cell at the end of the block, she could hear Joe’s lovely tenor voice. She found him reclining on the bench in his cell, singing to the ceiling, “Just then the limb broke; holy gee! And I broke seven bones. And half-killed Maggie Jones . . .”
Joe swung his legs to the floor and in two steps stood at the bars. “Nice of you to visit.” He flipped back her veil and took her chin in his hands, examining her shiner. He seemed relieved. “Your eye looks better, but the rest of you is a mess.”
She twisted out of his grasp.
He was fingering a paper peach blossom amulet like the one Mr. Melvin had offered Anna. Mr. Melvin had visited. Joe had chosen the love luck charm.
He said, “Every time I see you it’s like you shrank in the wash. Aren’t you eating?”
Anna ignored this rude remark. She wasn’t that thin. She simply didn’t have a roll around her tummy when she bent over in the nude. Not anymore. She produced a box of Cracker Jacks, and began to eat them right in front of him. “Well, you could stand
to skip a meal.” It was true. He wasn’t his lean, hard self. It was as if some motherly figure had been stuffing him. Probably, the piano girl had been bringing him picnic baskets of liver for months.
Joe’s stomach growled loudly and he grinned. “I skipped dinner. I found a bug in it.”
Anna pushed the Cracker Jacks at him. Then she kicked herself.
He put two fingers in the box, took out a cluster of candied popcorn, pushed his hand through the bars and popped the candy onto Anna’s lips. “You need it more than I do, Sherlock.”
“Hah!” She opened up. “When is your father letting you out?”
“Soon. Don’t go into Chinatown. Wait for me.”
He popped another popcorn cluster into Anna’s mouth. She chewed.
“I don’t want to wait for you. I couldn’t anyway. I was thinking about Elizabeth’s cause of death. She could have been smothered with a pillow, but usually it leaves the victim’s eyes red. Thus, I think she was poisoned.”
“Noted.”
“Do you know what else I discovered? Mr. Jones knows Leo Lim. Their shops are adjacent.”
Joe raised one eyebrow.
“And, Leo Lim patronized Most Lucky Laundry. I was right. He came back for his clothes. That old woman told me. Lim broke in eight days ago and stole them. Eight days ago, Leo Lim was still somewhere in Chinatown. And that laundry ticket . . . It isn’t just a laundry ticket. Hold it up to the light.” She placed the ticket in Joe’s hand.
Joe raised both eyebrows. He held it up to catch the glow of a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling outside his cell. “Hell’s bells.”
Anna’s lips parted in surprise. “You can read that?”
“Everybody on the squad knows these characters. It’s a death threat. Leo Lim is a marked man. No wonder he ran.”
“Yes, I know. Mr. Jones told me.”
“The secret messages are part of the Bing Kong’s terror tactics. Some people are leaving Chinatown because of it. They’ve gotten a death threat, or they are afraid because of the violence. And they stay gone until the tong leader who threatened them is dead.”
“Everyone runs?”
“Some Chinamen join the tong. What they don’t do is stay put. The fact that Leo Lim ran may have nothing to do with Elizabeth’s death.”
“Maybe the Bing Kong killed Elizabeth to punish Leo Lim.” Anna tapped the bars.
“Maybe. I do know this. If that laundry ticket came from Most Lucky Laundry, then Most Lucky Laundry has ties with the Bing Kong. That old lady is tong.”
“Taffy.”
“She’s tong, Anna. Stay away from her.”
Anna put two fingers to her lips. “If the Bing Kong is looking for Leo Lim, they’d happily give me information that would help me find him. It would save them the trouble. Why else would the old woman give me information without getting my money first? She charged me for directions.” Anna stopped pacing and gripped the bars, looking Joe in the eyes. She didn’t need Joe Singer. “I’m going to ask the Bing Kong.”
“That’s crazy, Anna. Absolutely not. Stay away from the Bing Kong.”
“I have a family debt to pay. The tongs are successful criminals, right? So they aren’t stupid. They won’t hurt me if they think I’m useful. And if I’m looking for Leo Lim, I imagine they’ll think I’m useful.” Anna spun about and paced, drumming her fingers on her hip. “The key will be to find Leo Lim without letting them know that I’ve found him so that the Bing Kong don’t chop off his head.”
Joe threw up his hands. “Sherlock, I’m gonna get out of here.”
“Shall I bake you a cake with a file?”
“The cops just banned cakes in the jail. Someone smuggled in a gun.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I think I can make a deal with my pop.”
“What deal? I thought you didn’t make deals with your father. Does he want you to hunt down some poor Mexican dissident or throw striking beet pickers into the hoosegow?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“He wants me to take the mayor’s daughter to an ice cream social.”
Anna frowned in disgust. “Are you courting all of the girls in Los Angeles?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Well, I hope she has a harelip.”
“You’ve got to wait for me, Sherlock. It’s even more important now that the people at the laundry know you’re hunting Lim. They might follow you. Just wait until tomorrow morning. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I couldn’t bear it.”
Anna’s lips parted. Joe put more popcorn between them. He leaned his forehead on the bars, only inches and cold steel from her face. “Promise me, Anna. Swear on . . . Vionnet of the House of Doucet that you’ll wait for me.”
Her heart beat faster. Madeleine Vionnet was Anna’s favorite designer. Anna could not swear on Madeleine Vionnet when she knew very well that she would break her pledge. It would be a sacrilege.
“You know I’m going to track the villain without you. I don’t like you.”
Joe whispered, “Sherlock. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Hm?”
The jail door creaked open, and the jailer waltzed in with a bucket for emptying chamber pots. He was whistling, but not so loud that he couldn’t hear.
Joe exhaled, and Anna got the impression that he wasn’t going to say what he had originally intended. He rubbed his brow. “When your head is being wacked off by a highbinder, remember I . . . I will always . . .”
“What?”
Joe blew out a breath. “Anna, be careful.”
La Grande Station cut the sky like an Arabian palace. The domes and turrets that marked the train depot promised adventure. Anna stood on the street looking up. Now that she had the freedom, and once she’d paid off her landlord, she thought she might save money for a trip. But there were so many things she wanted, even needed, and so little money to buy them. Anna turned her eyes to Bunker Hill, which rose in the distance. Somewhere on the crest, the Blanc mansion presided, with views of the city clear down to the sea. Her father might be working in his office or sitting on the patio eating his dinner. Now that Anna was gone, he had no one to ignore at the table. How her life had changed. She would never be able to afford a new dress by Madeleine Vionnet now. Her current wardrobe would become progressively worn and out of date. She would look like Mrs. Bonsor—a relic from a grand past. Or she’d be forced to wear new cheap, ugly clothes.
Now she had freedom, police work, and an important job to do. It had been worth it—barely.
Anna sashayed to the window where a man was selling tickets for the trains. She assumed her most innocent tone, her face hidden by the veil. “Good day. I am Elizabeth Bonsor, and I’ve come to collect my steamer trunk.”
Anna dragged Elizabeth’s steamer trunk into Matron Clemens’s office so she could plunder it in secret. It contained unremarkable things—frocks, worn and homemade, and resoled Sunday boots. Each was a sadness. Anna lifted them out one by one and piled them in a heap on the rug.
Reaching the bottom, Anna found a treasure hoard—bundles of letters. She palmed one, untied the string, and opened the top envelope. It released a sandalwood scent. The salutation read, “Elizabeth, My Heart.” Anna’s eyes skipped to the signature at the bottom. “Your Leo.”
Her heart thump thumped. There it was—confirmation that Elizabeth and Leo Lim were lovers, just like Elizabeth’s mother had said. Anna plopped into the rocking chair to read the letter through. It was full of mush and sappy rhymes. There was no reference to a favorite place, friends, or any clue that could lead Anna to Lim.
Wolf stuck his head into the office. “Honeybun.”
Anna jumped. She pretended to stretch and dropped the letter down her back.
“I’ve been looking for you. Your pretty comb still hasn’t sold, but they’re keeping it in the window. Lots of ladies stop to look at it. Personally, I would love to see it back on your pretty head. If you need a loan .
. .” He pushed open the door. “Why do you have a steamer trunk? Are you going somewhere, and can I come?”
Anna hesitated. “Nowhere. These are . . . clothes for the poor. I collect them from . . . people.”
Wolf grinned. “How charitable of you.”
“Yes, I know.”
Anna stuffed the large bundles of letters in her purse. It bulged like bullfrog cheeks. Then she piled the clothes haphazardly back into the trunk.
Wolf scratched his earlobe. “What have you been working on? I’ve hardly seen you.”
Anna avoided his eyes. “I’ve been teaching children to be wholesome and upright and such.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“There was a truant boy. I captured him and returned him to school.”
“Good.”
“He was devilish and tricky so it took a lot of time. And I’ve done filing. And other things.”
“I would hate for Matron Clemens to return to an enormous pile of work because you were trying to sleuth instead of doing your job.”
“If you’re referring to the stiff in the stinky Chinese trunk, Joe says it’s a clear-cut tong killing. He and Mr. Jones say these things take care of themselves,” Anna lied.
“The Hatfields and the McCoys.”
“That’s right.” Anna glanced at the wall clock. “It’s late.” She gestured to the messy heap of clothes spilling from the trunk. “I think I’ll tidy up here and go home.”
“Have a good night, honeybun. I’ll let you know when your comb sells.” With the wave of a hand, Wolf left.
As much as Anna would have liked to return home for a lukewarm bath and a tin of kippers, she didn’t have the luxury. The killer’s trail was growing cold, and if she didn’t catch him soon, he would likely get away. There was no time to rest. Anna pushed down on the rumpled wad of clothes and forced the trunk lid shut with a thump.
The Woman in the Camphor Trunk Page 12