S Hockensmith - H03 - The Black Dove

by Steve Hockensmith

  “I figured it would,” I said. No way my brother could talk this long about a deduction without roping Holmes into it somehow.

  Gustav didn’t even slow down to growl at me.

  “ ‘When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ ”

  “Which could mean Fat Choy stuffed the Dove in a basket and flew off the roof in a hot-air balloon,” I said.

  My brother did growl now.

  “Hey, I’m just sayin’—that has got to be the dumbest pronouncement ol’ Holmes ever made.”

  “It got us here, didn’t it?” Old Red snapped.

  “But how?” Diana asked. “I still don’t see it.”

  And she did dearly want to see. I could hear it in her voice. She wanted to learn, and she thought my brother, of all people, could be the teacher.

  He seemed inclined to agree.

  “First off, you gotta think back to this morning,” he lectured in a pontifical sort of way. “We was told both the front and back doors of this place was left open when Chan killed himself. Now, as suicides by stinkygas go, that makes no sense on the face of it. It was almost as if someone wanted the gas to be noticed. Wanted someone to come inside, find the body, and get the gas shut off. Well . . . why?”

  “Because he’d still be hiding inside,” Diana dutifully said, the star pupil finishing the schoolmarm’s thoughts.

  “Exactly. Then there was the willy-nilly way all the boxes was stacked up back here. Upstairs, the place was packed solid, but neat. The doc was an orderly man. So why would his storage room be like a damn corn maze? Could be there was something bein’ hid. But I didn’t put it all together till Charlie said he hoped he could pass for white at night. Got me to thinkin’ maybe Fat Choy was waitin’ for nightfall, too. He’d have Dr. Chan’s clothes to pick through. And remember—”

  “Chan’s spectacles were missing,” Diana said.

  “Yes, indeed. From here on in, we gotta figure Fat Choy’s in disguise.”

  “He’s more than that,” I said. “Doc Chan’s chest armor and gun was gone, too. The man’s ready for trouble.”

  “And he’s gonna get it,” my brother said.

  “But, Gustav . . . .”

  Diana sounded hesitant, and I knew what was coming next—the student was about to question the teacher’s sums in front of the whole class.

  “Doesn’t all this strike you as a rather sophisticated plan for an opium-addicted street thug?”

  “Low-born don’t mean no-brain,” Old Red replied, giving the lady a taste of the vinegar he usually bottles up just for me.

  “No, she’s right,” Charlie threw in. “Fat Choy’s no moron, but to come up with something this tricky . . . ? I mean, it seems so—”

  “Scientific,” I finished for him.

  “Actually, I was going to say ‘clever,’ ” Charlie said.

  But it was my answer that hung in the air for a long, silent moment, dangling like the proverbial other shoe. I couldn’t help thinking it was going to drop sooner rather than later—on us. And maybe squash us like bugs.

  “Is there a reason we’re still standing here in the dark?” Charlie finally said.

  “Sure,” I told him. “We don’t have the slightest inkling where we oughta go from here. Am I right, Brother?”

  “That’s what I was tryin’ to ponder on a minute ago!” Old Red protested. “But nooooo. You two had to start jabberin’ and—”

  “You don’t have to ‘deducify’ anything,” Charlie cut in. “I can tell you where Fat Choy’s gone.”

  “Oh?” Gustav, Diana, and I said in chorus. We were even in tune.

  “Yeah. He’s out looking for opium. That’s why he turned this place upside down before he left.”

  “Hold on,” Old Red said. “Why would he think Doc Chan would have opium lyin’ around?”

  “Because half the pharmacies in Chinatown sell it. More than half. It’s just another herbal remedy, right?” Charlie grunted out a sour chuckle. “But Chan wouldn’t have any. He was too respectable for that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I groaned. “Don’t tell me we’re off to the damn opium dens again. Only thing that finally got the stink of ’em outta my nose was comin’ back in here.”

  “No—no more opium dens,” my brother said. “Fat Choy’s movin’ now. Runnin’. He ain’t gonna lay low all day just to let himself get cornered in one of them pits tonight.”

  “I agree,” Charlie said. “He’ll want to buy his supply—or steal it—and take it with him. So the thing to do now is—”

  “Yeeeeee Lock!” Old Red called out like a “Yeeeeeha!” “The old man! He’s a doctor, too. Only on the seamy side, am I right, Charlie?”

  “He’s not just on the seamy side—he’s all seamy. And yeah . . . he sells opium, if that’s what you’re thinking. Keeps the sing-song girls sup-plied when he does his rounds. Perk of the job.”

  “That settles it, then,” Gustav announced. “We lost Yee Lock’s trail way back. About damn time we picked it up again. He got him a shop, like Chan?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “Over near Waverly Place.”

  “Well, lead on.”

  “Wait,” I said before anyone could start groping their way toward the door. “We were lucky to get here, what with that chunk-hunk the Ducks put on us. If we’re gonna do more runnin’ around Chinatown, shouldn’t we oughta make like Fat Choy and try masqueradin’ ourselves up somehow?”

  “What are you talking about?” Charlie asked. “The Kwong Ducks haven’t posted a chun hung on you. They wouldn’t dare. Madam Fong and Big Queue wouldn’t mind seeing you dead, sure. But no tong’s going to admit to that on paper. Not with whites. Something like that could bring the axe down on all of Chinatown.”

  “That’s not what Sgt. Mahoney told us,” Diana said. Not like she was challenging Charlie—more like she was inviting him to challenge her. Which is exactly what he did.

  “Mahoney?” he sneered. “You haven’t seen through him yet?”

  “Not all the way,” Gustav said. “What’s there to see?”

  “The Anti-Coolie League.”

  Charlie said the words the way a farmer says “banker,” an old rebel says “Yankee,” or a cat, I imagine, says “dog.”

  “The Panic’s the best thing that ever happened to those . . . those . . .”

  “Assholes?” Diana suggested.

  Charlie cleared his throat. “Ummm . . . yeah. I was trying to think of a polite way to say it.”

  “I don’t think there is a polite way,” I said.

  “What about those assholes, Charlie?” Old Red prompted.

  “It’s just that you whites look to the League every time the economy takes a turn,” Charlie fumed. “ ‘Oh, it’s the heathen Chinee! They’re the reason we’re broke!’ Like we’ve got anything to do with the price of silver.”

  “Nobody in this room ever said you did,” my brother said, his voice low.

  Charlie took a deep, calming breath.

  “Yeah, right, anyway . . . the League’s got enough money now to buy a couple city supervisors, and that was enough to get their man put in charge of the Chinatown Squad. And believe me—the ‘Coolietown Crusader’ isn’t there to crusade against crime. Lie’s there to crusade against the Chinese.”

  “I do believe you,” Diana said, “We’ve seen what Sgt. Mahoney’s crusading can look like. It’s not a pretty sight.”

  There was a sudden, sharp clap—Gustav slapping his hands together.

  “Alright, we done gabbed enough,” he said. “The hare’s on the run. This is our last chance to bag him.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one, Brother. Practically poetry,” I cracked, but my heart wasn’t in it. Chun hung or not, I didn’t relish a return to the streets of Chinatown—not with Mahoney, Scientific, Big Queue, and who knew how many other hatchet men out there on them already.

  Once we’d stumbled outside into the murky light of the moon, Charlie l
ed us up the alley. The closer we drew to the street, the more I found I actually missed the oblivion of Chan’s darkened shop. There was a comfort in not seeing—and, more so, in not being seen. The second we were back on the sidewalk, I felt a thousand eyeballs on me. Never mind that the streets were nearly deserted.

  There was a streetlamp maybe once to a block, and a working one more rare even than that. Yet still it felt like we were walking in the look-at-me! glare of a music hall spotlight. It took us five minutes to get to Yee Lock’s place, and by the end of it I feared folks would have to start calling me “Big Ivory,” for surely my hair had gone chalk-white from fright.

  “There. That’s it,” Charlie finally said, pointing ahead at a dingy little shop much akin to Chan’s. There was even the same big, stringy tuber in the window.

  Flickering somewhere beyond it was the low glow of a lit candle.

  Somebody was home.

  “That place got a back door?” Old Red asked.

  “Of course,” Charlie said.

  “Alrighty, then. You and me, we’re gonna circle around and go in the back.” Gustav looked at me, then the lady. “You two stay out front. But well away from the window. Don’t want you gettin’ spotted.”

  “Are you trying to keep me out of harm’s way?” Diana asked. “Because if you are—”

  “What I’m doin’ is settin’ me up some pickets in case whoever’s in there tries to hightail it,” my brother said. “Does that plan meet with your approval?”

  “Yes. Of course,” Diana replied, abashed.

  “Good. Now, come on, Charlie.”

  The street was lined with businesses that had closed for the night, and when Old Red and Charlie turned the corner, Diana and I were alone at last.

  “Just when I think I’ve won your brother over . . . ,” the lady sighed, still staring off after Gustav though he’d disappeared from view.

  “Oh, he’s won over, miss. He just don’t know how to show it.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets, slumped my shoulders, and did my best to affect a heart-melting pout. “It’s me you oughta be worried about.”

  “Oh?” Diana said without even turning to look at me.

  “Sure. You been doin’ so much droolin’ over my brother’s big of brain, it’s got me wonderin’ if I’m even included in this detectivin’ deal you’re workin’ on.”

  At last, the lady turned and offered me a reassuring smile.

  “Of course, you’re included, Otto. You’re a very brave and resourceful young man.”

  I’d been fishing for a compliment, but this wasn’t quite the kind I’d hoped to land. “A resourceful young man”? It sounded like something an old maiden aunt would say about you. Diana may as well have patted me on the head.

  “And anyway,” she went on, “I can’t imagine your brother doing anything without you. For all your bickering, you two seem very close.”

  “We do?”

  I couldn’t help but think of that chippy down in Texas Old Red had never gotten around to telling me about. I’d been on the drift with my brother five years, and only today had I learned he’d once been in love . . . and the girl had been murdered? Sure, he and I were close—as in never able to escape each other’s company—but were we close?

  For a moment, I was too lost in these thoughts to even attempt more flirting. Then my brother returned, and the time for flirting was through.

  “Get in here,” Gustav said, leaning out the front door of Yee Lock’s store. “Come on. Quick.”

  We hustled into a shop that was Chan’s reflected in a fun-house mirror: the same but more squat, dense, and grimy.

  “So,” I said as Old Red closed the door behind us, “the old man here?”

  “Yup. Right back there by them bushels.”

  I turned—and saw no one but Charlie looking grim in the dim light of a candle set on a countertop nearby.

  “Awww, hell. Are you kiddin’ me?”

  Four more steps toward the back of the store—that’s all I needed to peer around the bushels and see what I knew I’d see.

  A man on the floor, his long beard soaking in the blood that pooled all around him.

  33

  FACE OFF

  Or, We Make a Gruesome Discovery—and Are Discovered Making It

  Diana moved up behind me.

  “I ain’t tellin’ you not to look,” I said, “but I can’t say as I’d advise it. Not if you ever wanna sleep again.”

  “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen, Otto.” The lady stepped around me. “And I sleep just fine.”

  Then she saw the body.

  “Oh.”

  She turned away. Slowly, though. In control. But admitting that she hadn’t been quite ready for that.

  The body, that wasn’t so bad. Just curled up, knees drawn in, spindly arms clutching across the stomach.

  It was the face that made it a nightmare—the fact that there wasn’t one anymore. The old man’s nose, eyes, teeth, and jaw had been crushed back into his skull, mashed into one gaping, red maw. It would’ve looked like nothing so much as sausage if not for the whiskers trailing out from the fresh-ground flesh.

  I looked at Charlie, grateful to have anything to fix my eyes on other than that mess on the pharmacy floor.

  “You sure that’s Yee Lock?”

  “Oh, yeah. I must’ve passed the old man in the street a million times. That’s him, alright.” Charlie allowed himself a brief, sneering, almost gloating glance down at the body. “I always figured he’d end up like this.”

  The store had blinds over the front door and windows, and Gustav drew them down.

  “Well, if it was Fat Choy killed the geezer, he surely got him his opium,” he said.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  My brother turned and waved a hand at the room around us. I tried to take it all in quick, as I knew I’d be racing Diana to the right deduction—and, to be honest, I was growing a little weary of her always winning.

  There was a sort of corridor up the middle of the store leading to a counter and, beyond that, a back door. On either side of the center aisle were tables laden with the same strange assortment of “medicines” Chan had stocked: nuts and pods and roots, most of it in faded shades of yellow and brown. The shop was dingy, dusty, and stuffed wall to peeling-papered wall with merchandise, but you couldn’t call it cluttered, exactly. The little trays of herbs and whatnot were arranged just so, with no space wasted, and the floor was clear of—

  I had my answer.

  “The place ain’t been messed with—not like Doc Chan’s was,” I said. “Ain’t been no searchin’ here.”

  Old Red nodded—while Diana didn’t so much nod as dip her head, conceding that I’d reached the finish line first, for once.

  “Yee Lock would’ve kept his opium stashed away somewhere,” Charlie said. “Fat Choy must’ve beaten the hiding place out of him.”

  “Well, somebody beat something out of him, that’s for damned sure,” Gustav said, stepping away from the window. “But that don’t—”

  He froze mid-stride.

  “You hearin’ or thinkin’?” I asked him.

  “Hush,” he shot back—which answered my question well enough.

  I would’ve had my answer without asking had I waited just a moment longer. The sidewalks thereabouts were lined with planks of rotten wood that squeaked like mice when you trod on them. And just then someone was stepping on a mighty big mouse with what sounded like mighty big feet.

  More mice got squished with each passing second. Rats, they could’ve been, they screeched so. And then the sound stopped—right outside the door to Yee Lock’s shop.

  There was a rap on the glass.

  “Hide,” my brother whispered.

  He needn’t have bothered. Charlie, Diana, and I were already ducking for cover—ducking slow, though, lest we kick up any telltale squeals from the floorboards. Charlie ended up behind the counter, while the rest of us wormed our way under one of the l
ong display tables.

  There was another knock—a quick, hard tap-tap that rattled both the glass and my nerves.

  “Who do you think it is?” I whispered into the bottoms of Old Red’s boots.

  “All I know is it ain’t Yee Lock or Doc Chan,” my brother answered, voice low. “Other than that, it could be just about—”

  The door rattled again, but different this time, not from more knocks. Whoever was outside was trying the doorknob. Trying and succeeding, of course, since the thing wasn’t locked.

  The door swung open.

  Diana was squished behind me, on her side, back to the wall. I could feel her go stiff, hear her breathing stop. It was only then that I noticed I’d stopped breathing.

  I didn’t give myself good odds for ever starting up again, either.

  If I saw baggy black pant legs and dark slippers moving past my nose, I’d know Scientific or Big Queue or some other hatchet man had tracked us down—and we were getting the chop at last. If it was tweed trousers and brown brogans, on the other hand, that meant Mahoney was about to catch us in the company of a freshly murdered man, and it was just a question of whether he’d wait for us to be hung or speed things up and shoot us on the spot.

  The footsteps started up again—inside now. The door creaked closed.

  And then there they were: plump legs in wrinkled white seersucker moving with a shuffling, worn-out waddle.

  It was either Wong Woon or an overweight bear that had borrowed his suit. My money was on the former.

  “Yee Lock?” he said as he lumbered down the aisle. “Yee—?”

  Woon took in a sharp breath and stopped just a few feet into the store. He’d either spied the old man’s battered body or one of us.

  He muttered something in Chinese then started moving again, faster now, hurrying past us.

  “Stop him,” Gustav hissed.

  So I did the only thing I could—stretched out a leg and tripped the Chinaman as he toddled by.