by Will Rayner
By now, Sam had his pipe drawing nicely. “If there’s an on-site manager, he’d tell you,” he said.
“But I’m still expecting this bozo to show up. One o’clock and no Fenton. I wait an hour. No sign of him. So I phone again. No answer this time. I wait another hour, then take a streetcar out to his place. I ring the bell, knock on the door. He has a ground-floor flat not far from Market. Nobody home. So I say the hell with it and call it a day.”
“Scared off by somebody or something,” Sam hazarded. “So what did you come across at the California building?” He quickly repressed the fleeting vision of his son going door to door, picking locks.
“The whole floor was clean, except for that Central City outfit. I did find a leftover business card in Fenton’s old office. The home number was the same as in the book. Nothing else useful, though.”
“Did you notice any containers in the Central City office?”
T.J. reached for another cigarette to mask his surprise at the question. How did his father know what was in there? Then he realized Sam had met the client earlier in the afternoon. “No containers, but a whole bunch of crates, all of them sealed,” he said. He leafed through his notebook. “They had ‘100 Ornamental Mother of Pearl Boxes’ stamped on them, and some Chinese characters. Also, ‘Vassilis Imports Ltd.’”
“Vassilis, as in the late Vassilis Gatopoulis,” Sam said, recalling The Greek’s real name with ease. He then told T.J. about his meeting with Packy Shannon and the shipment of goods The Greek was trying to arrange. “Shannon wouldn’t tell me what the shipment was, but it’s pretty obvious,” he said.
Both he and T.J. then uttered the same word simultaneously: “Dope.”
“Opium probably,” Sam added, “which is way out of character for either The Greek or Packy Shannon.”
“And it also got The Greek and Benny the Bundle rubbed out,” T.J. said. “I wonder if anyone in Chinatown uses a .22 to do their business.” In the normal course of criminal affairs, both T.J. and Sam knew, the dope trade was controlled by the Chinese gangs.
“I guess I’d better go see Wellington Koo,” Sam decided.
*
T.J. didn’t like to leave things hanging. L’affaire Fenton was definitely unfinished business, so after a fruitless day trying to track down the other former denizens of the fourth floor, he headed back to Buchanan Street. The Essex was requisitioned this time, in case he needed mobility.
Doorbell ringing and door-thumping established the fact there was still nobody home. Nobody alive, anyway. So T.J. went to work on the neighbors. The flat above Fenton didn’t answer, either, but he struck paydirt of a sort on the top floor. He was granted entry by a thin, raspy voice and allowed to climb two flights of stairs. When he got there, panting only slightly, he was greeted by a scrawny scarecrow who, in T.J.’s view, needed both a shave and a square meal. T.J also wondered how he made it up all those steps. Probably didn’t go out much.
The old gink’s name was O’Higgins. He knew Fenton by sight, knew he went to work every day before eight o’clock and sometimes saw him return well into the evening.
“How?” T.J. asked.
“How what?” O’Higgins wheezed.
“How did he get to work? Walk down to the streetcar? Or float down? Did he drive his own car? Or was he picked up?”
“Hell, he walked, carrying that scrimpy briefcase of his. Little fellow. Could hardly make it back up the hill, sometimes.” O’Higgins coughed. “Just like me, but a lot younger. A hell of a lot younger.”
T.J. established that the old man hadn’t seen Fenton for the past several days, which jibed with his disappearing act. He then branched out to the neighbors on either side, but those who were home either wouldn’t or couldn’t add anything useful.
It was across the street, however, that he met up with the neighborhood gossip, whose name was Mavis — “no last name, sweetie” — and who apparently didn’t miss much. Wally Fenton, she said, was once married, but not anymore. His former wife had moved to Florida. The only relative Mavis knew about, a sister, lived somewhere in the Valley — Modesto maybe, around there. He didn’t go out much, except to work. He had no friends and no visitors.
“Except for you, sweetie. I saw you the other day. Could have told you he wasn’t home. You missed him by about two hours. He went out, in a real hurry, and this time he was carrying a little overnight satchel. Almost ran down the hill. It looked just like he was avoiding you.”
“Can’t imagine why,” T.J. said. “He said he wanted to meet me, invited me over.”
“Then it must have been those other two who came just before you did. They had a car, an Oldsmobile, I think. Pretty fancy, it was, anyway. They were really big guys. Tough-looking, too. They really pounded on poor Mr. Fenton’s door.”
Driving back downtown, T.J. pondered this latest intelligence. So Pat and Mike had dropped in on Mr. Wallace Fenton, too. Or as they say over on Kearny Street, Detectives Wales and Dipstick. And what were two jumped-up harness bulls doing with a fancy Oldsmobile? That wasn’t standard police issue. Fenton must have found out they were on the way. No wonder he did a bunk. Before returning the car to the garage, T.J. decided to check with the building manager on Mission.
Chapter 14
Police Inspector Wellington Koo’s ancestors were Swatownese. From their home port on the Formosa Strait, succeeding generations of this proud, intelligent clan dominated the fishing and smuggling along the China Coast — not necessarily in that order.
Koo’s Christian name was a nostalgic nod to the British missionaries who once brought Church of England values and history to Swatow. However, he was second-generation American and far removed from the piratical philosophy of his forebears. In fact, as chief of San Francisco’s Chinatown Squad, Koo was dedicated to fighting crime rather than committing it.
The inspector was short and compact. In his mid-forties, he affected a short, sharp Van Dyke. Koo’s hair was wispy across the top, but long on the sides and in the back. Sitting across from him, Sam Flood wondered whether he had ever seen a balding Chinese before. He and Koo had known each other for almost five years. In one of his last official acts as a Southern Pacific cop, Sam had assisted in shutting down a slavery ring which was shipping Chinese girls down to Los Angeles.
Flood and Koo were picking at fried yee mein and Shanghai noodles in a tourist trap on Grant Street. Both knew this wasn’t real Chinese food, but it was good security. Curious eyes among Chinatown’s criminal element were unlikely to pay attention to this joint. Sam took a sip of his tea. “I have a client,” he said, “who says there’s a shipment of ‘goods’ out there somewhere which belongs to him.” His inflection put quotation marks around the word. “He wouldn’t tell us exactly what these goods are, but I suspect it is opium.”
“He is not Chinese, your client,” Koo said. He waited for Sam’s shake of the head, then continued, “It is not unusual for North Americans to be interested in contraband of all types, of course, but…opium? You have made me a little curious.” He spoke precisely, with only a hint of the mainland in his voice.
“If something big was going on, you’d hear about it, of course,” Sam said.
“Oh yes, indeed. Not the small stuff, you understand, but a major shipment — there would be an inkling or two along the way.” Koo pushed the tourist food away. The pretense of an innocent meal between an Oriental and an Occidental did not mean he had to eat any of it. There was no one else in the restaurant, anyway. “Regrettably, the pipeline is rather quiet at the moment. The tongs...”
“Tongs?” Sam interrupted. “I thought the tongs were cleaned up in the twenties.”
Koo smiled. “That is perhaps what the San Francisco Police Department wants the public to believe. Indeed, headquarters on Kearny Street prefers to believe it, too. The tongs, however, are still here. You don’t hear much about them because they are co-existing peaceably. As I say, the tongs don’t seem to have anything major on their minds at the moment,”
/>
“Which suggests there are outside fingers in the pie,” Sam said. “If our client is not fantasizing about this.”
“He is probably not,” Koo said. “The criminal masterminds from the East Coast have discovered the addictive qualities of heroin, which, of course, is refined from opium. Louis Buchalter, Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano. The opium is processed in Tientsin or Japan and shipped to America. However, any major movement of heroin into Chinatown always comes to my attention.” He emphasized ‘always’ with the assurance of one who knows precisely what is going on. “There have been no big money transfers through the Farmers' Bank of China — our pet name for it is the Opium Bank of China — in the recent past. The Farmers launders all the contraband profits. I would suggest, then, that the opium is probably being shipped here via a private channel. A one-off shipment. We still have our opium dens in Chinatown, but the trade isn’t substantial enough anymore to attract undue attention.”
“Opium would be easier to bring in, rather than heroin, then?”
“Oh yes. It is unregulated in many parts of the world, not only in China. Legal even, in some jurisdictions. Much of it used to land here in steamer trunks. That was when there was a great deal of opium being smoked. Now, with the emphasis on heroin...”
“...It could be shipped from the Far East or wherever without going through normal channels, if that is the phrase,” Sam finished.
“Indeed,” Koo said. His thin lips twitched into an uncharacteristic grin. “In fact, your mysterious goods could be sitting in the bay right now — tied up by this longshoreman’s strike.”
Flood didn’t grin back. However, Koo’s reference to the waterfront reminded him of the two vice cops. “I suppose you know Pat and Mike?” he asked.
“Yes, I do. I know of them. Haven’t met the gentlemen, personally. There is no vice in Chinatown, as far as the vice squad is concerned, if you follow me.”
Actually, Sam did understand. Everything illicit in Chinatown was vice-related, one way or another, so it was left up to the Chinatown squad to handle. “They seem to be covering the same ground you are covering,” he said. “It appears to be connected to a character named Benny the Bundle, who was killed in our outer office. Pat and Mike haven’t been making any, um, inquiries of you along the same lines I have, by any chance?”
“That’s police business, Sam. I did hear about the Benny the Bundle homicide. Bracken’s handling it, I believe. I must also confess that your connection to it jogged my memory about Flood and Flood and reminded me of your cooperation in the past. Just let me repeat that I don’t know Detectives Wales and Piszek, so how could I have any business with them?”
If Wellington Koo is precise enough to pronounce Dipstick’s name correctly, Sam thought as he headed back to the office, then his hint about not being in contact with the vice squad is the straight stuff.
*
The Bulletin’s building manager, a morose individual named Cruickshank with a squint and a shiny suit that had seen better days, tried to interest T.J. in leasing an office for Flood and Flood. “Good, solid building,” he said with little enthusiasm. “Been here only for a decade. All the modern conveniences. The Bulletin’s owner spared no expense. That was before they went belly-up and merged with The Call.”
Regrettably, he said, Fenton had not showed up to finalize his own lease arrangements. Another lead petering out, T.J. thought. That left Fenton’s sister “in the Valley.” Mavis had thought her last name was Bryce. It was time to get back to the office, put Agnes to work checking their collection of telephone directories. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, organizing his thoughts, when he spotted a gleam of blonde hair peeking out from underneath a stylish hat.
His breathing faltered and then he was aware of his pulse racing. It was Jessica! She was alive! The woman was across the street, walking rapidly toward Fourth. She had the same bearing, the same lithe stride, the same clothes she often wore going to her job at the advertising agency. T.J. didn’t pause to think how this could be. His wife was alive! As the woman disappeared around the corner he dashed across the street to the accompaniment of angry automobile horns and the screeching of brakes. “Jessica!” he cried out loudly. “Jessica!”
By the time T.J. had turned onto Fourth, the woman was gone, but he saw the flash of a well-turned ankle as someone entered a small store. He peered in the window. Was it her? In a desperate hurry, T.J. opened the door with a loud clatter. The woman turned toward the distraction with a slight frown. It wasn’t Jessica. Not even close. No resemblance whatsoever.
Later, T.J. couldn’t remember backing out onto the street, or even what kind of store it was. Nor did he remember walking into the saloon. After a while, with three shots of rye in him, he noticed the drawn face staring vacantly at him in the barroom mirror. “Pull yourself together, Flood,” he told his image. “Grow up.” Jessica was gone. She had drowned. Her body was never found. It was foolish to think she had somehow contracted amnesia and was existing somewhere in the city. As T.J. walked carefully back to the car, however, he couldn’t help peering intently at every woman on the street.
*
“Amy called, Mr. Sam,” Agnes said as she looked up from the telephone book on her desk. “She asked to remind you that Mrs. Flood needs some more medicine. Shall I call her for you?”
“No thank you. There’s no need. I know what to pick up.” The patent laudanum which seems to soothe Margaret’s worse moments, Sam told himself. Laudanum, which contains morphine, which comes from opium. As he headed for his office, he shuddered inwardly at the coincidence. Opium for his wife, opium for the addicts who eagerly awaited it. It was a sure bet that Packy Shannon’s ‘goods’ weren’t destined for medicinal purposes. Sam paused at his door. He had noticed the clutter of directories on Agnes’s desk. “What’s going on?”
“We’re looking for Mr. Fenton’s sister,” Agnes said. “She lives near Modesto, apparently. Her name’s Bryce, T.J. thinks.”
“In his office?” Sam asked, with a jerk of his head.
“Yes, he’s helping out,” Agnes said after a slight hesitation. T.J. had seemed distracted — distant — when he had returned from the trip to Buchanan Street. And she could smell the whiskey on his breath. However, he had explained exactly what he wanted, and had pitched in to help.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” the older Flood said, and closed his door.
Sam emerged thirty minutes later with some carefully penned notes on his meeting with Wellington Koo, to find Agnes and T.J. glumly observing their pile of phone books. “Guess we’ll have to widen the search,” T.J. was saying. “That means going over to the library.”
“Having trouble finding this sister?” Sam asked, handing his notes to Agnes to type up. “What was her name, Bryce?”
T.J. nodded wearily. He was having trouble maintaining his enthusiasm for the project.
“That’s Bryce with a ‘y’?”
“Yeah, I guess, what else?” T.J. asked.
“So how about Brice with an ‘i’, as in Fanny?”
Fanny Brice! Agnes gasped and scrabbled through the pile for the Modesto book. T.J. slapped his forehead in disgust. “Boy, I’m certainly not with it today,” he exclaimed.
Sam thought it best not to comment on that one. “I’m going home now,” he said. “I have to stop at the drugstore. T.J., I’ll want to read your report in the morning, whether you find this sister or not.”
“But Mr. Sam!” Agnes wailed.
A faint frown of puzzlement creased the elder Flood’s forehead. What was the woman keening about?
“Born on the Fourth of July...” T.J. softly crooned the line from the George M. Cohan hit.
“Ah yes, tomorrow is July Fourth. Independence Day,” Sam admitted. “A holiday — for Flood and Flood as well as everyone else. I’ll expect you to be on time, Miss Wilkins, on Thursday the fifth.”
Chapter 15
It didn’t take long for Agnes to find a Mrs. Howard Brice listed in th
e Turlock directory. “Turlock, Turlock, Turlock,” T.J. said, thinking aloud. “Right. A little south of Modesto? It’s on Highway 99, isn’t it?” Without waiting for Agnes’s reply, he headed for his office. “Get her for me, please, honey,” he said over his shoulder.
It was indeed the right Mrs. Brice, and she was on a party line. The Turlock telephone system was a trifle archaic, it seemed. T.J. introduced himself and listened to the echoes on the line. “Hang up, Ethel,” Mrs. Brice said sharply. There was a soft click and the reception improved substantially. “Now Mr. Flood, if that is your real name, what can I do for you?”
T.J. assured her that Flood was a fine, old Anglo-Saxon family name dating back to the Norman Conquest and in return elicited the confirmation that she was Wallace Fenton’s sister. “I’m calling from San Francisco about Mr. Fenton’s new office,” he said, stretching the truth easily.
“Well, you missed him. Wallace was here a little while ago, just for a visit, dropped off some stuff of his and now he’s gone back, far as I know.”
“That’s the problem, you see, Mrs. Brice. We can’t find your brother. He’s missed a couple of appointments. We were kind of worried about him, wondering if he’s okay.”
“That doesn’t sound like Wallace. Perhaps he had an accident. He was upset about having to move his office. He told me that. Wallace was going to stay here in Turlock, but then he suddenly decided he had to go back to San Francisco. There was something he had to do, he said. Told me to take good care of his stuff until he came back. Important papers, he said. Oh dear, I hope he’s all right.”
You’re not the only one, sweetheart, T.J. thought, but made sure his reply was calm and soothing. “I’m sure he’s fine. Probably got tied up doing that something he had to do.”
“Well, he was insistent he had to do this thing. Meet somebody, that was it. Perhaps he’ll contact you when he’s free.”