The Body Snatchers Affair

3

He used a police call box to report the whereabouts of the lawyer’s corpse, left before the coppers arrived and coroner’s wagon came to claim the body, and made his way directly to the Hall of Justice.

He disliked dealing with the city’s constabulary; he’d had a number of run-ins with individuals of one rank or another who did not care to have their thunder stolen by a private investigator who was better at their jobs than they were. There was also the fact that police corruption had grown rampant in recent times. Not long ago there had been a departmental shake-up in which several officers and Police Clerk William E. Hall were discharged. Chief Crowley claimed all the bad apples had been removed and the barrel was now clean. Quincannon, however, remained more than a little skeptical.

But in this case, with James Scarlett murdered and a tong war a very real threat, he had no choice but to communicate what he knew and what he suspected. Not that he intended to work in consort with the police, even if Crowley would have allowed it. The murder of a man in his charge was not only a failure of professional responsibility but a personal affront, as was the possible attempt on his life tonight. He owed satisfaction to both his client and to himself, and that meant conducting an investigation of his own.

The Hall of Justice, an imposing gray stone pile at Kearney and Washington Streets, was within stampeding distance of the Chinese Quarter. Ten minutes after his arrival there, he was in the company of Chief Crowley, fortunately working late on this night, and two other ranking officers in the chief’s private office.

One of the men he knew well enough, even grudgingly respected; this was Lieutenant William Price, head of the Chinatown “flying squad” that had been formed in an effort to control tong crime. He had mixed feelings about Crowley, and liked Sergeant Louis Gentry, Price’s assistant, not at all. The feeling was mutual; Gentry made no bones about his distaste for flycops. But he seemed less contentious than usual tonight, evidently because of the gravity of the situation. The imminent danger of a bloody tong war was too great for personal feelings to interfere.

The three listened to Quincannon’s tersely told tale without interruption and, for once, there were no hostile comments about his involvement in a criminal matter. The chief did demand the name of his client, and while he disliked revealing confidential information, the circumstances here dictated that he continue to be reasonably candid. Openly refusing to cooperate would be counterproductive.

“Scarlett’s wife, eh?” Crowley said. He was an overweight sixty, florid and pompous. Politics was his game; his policeman’s instincts were suspect, in Quincannon’s view, a lacking which sometimes led him to rash judgment and action. “Hired you for what reason?”

“He hadn’t been home in two nights, and naturally she was concerned and wanted him found.”

“Afraid something might have happened to him?”

“Either that, or he’d gone off on a hop binge of longer than usual duration. Something had been bothering him lately, had him on edge and fearful.”

“Something to do with the Hip Sing?”

“Mrs. Scarlett doesn’t know.”

“Or does know, and is keeping the knowledge to herself?”

“Doesn’t know.” She’d been vehement in her denial and Quincannon believed her. “She’s aware of her husband’s connection with the Hip Sing, but that’s all. He never discussed his work with her, legal or otherwise.”

“That fits with what we know about him,” Price said. A big man, imposing in both bulk and thickly mustached countenance, he had a deserved reputation in Chinatown as the “American Terror,” the result of raiding parties he’d led into the Quarter’s more notorious dens of sin and corruption. “Closemouthed about his work for the Hip Sing.”

Crowley said, “Then why was he targeted for a rubout?”

“Unreliable because of his opium addiction, maybe. Or else did something to displease the Hip Sing elders.”

“You ask me, it wasn’t a Hip Sing highbinder who shot him.” This from Gentry, a bantam rooster of a man with the purple-veined cheeks of the habitual drinker. His gold-braided, gold-buttoned uniform, unlike those worn by his two superiors, was as immaculate as if he had only just come on duty. “Little Pete’s behind this, sure as the devil. No one else in Chinatown would have the audacity to order the shooting of a white man.”

“Why would Little Pete want to kill Scarlett?”

“For the same reason he ordered the Bing Ah Kee snatch. To start a tong war so he can take over the Hip Sing. That bloody devil already controls every other criminal tong in the Quarter.”

This, Quincannon knew, was an exaggeration. Fong Ching, alias F. C. Peters, alias Little Pete, was a powerful man, no question — a curious mix of East and West, honest and crooked. He ran several successful businesses, participated in both Chinatown and city politics, and was cultured enough to write Chinese stage operas, yet he had for years ruled much of Chinatown’s criminal activities with such guile that he had never been prosecuted. He had numerous enemies, however, and went about the Quarter outfitted in a steel-reinforced hat and chain-mail armor and accompanied by a trio of bodyguards. But other than his association with the Kwong Dock, his power was limited to a few sin-and-vice tongs. Most tongs, in particular the Chinese Six Companies, were law-abiding, self-governing, and benevolent.

Quincannon charged and fired his favorite briar and shook out the sulphur match before he said, “The Hip Sing is Pete’s strongest rival. Granted, Mr. Price?”

“Yes. Granted.”

“And he’s not above starting a bloodbath in Chinatown to gain control of it,” Gentry said. “He’s a menace to white and yellow alike.”

Price ran a forefinger across his bristly mustache. “Not so bad as that,” he said. “Pete already controls most of the extortion and slave-girl rackets, and the Hip Sing is no threat to him there. Gambling is their primary enterprise, and under Bing Ah Kee there was never any serious trouble with the Kwong Dock or any of Pete’s other outfits. That shouldn’t change much under the new president, Mock Don Yuen.”

Crowley said, “It could if that sneaky son of his, Mock Quan, ever takes over.”

“Also granted.”

“Pete’s power-mad,” Gentry said, continuing his argument. “He wants the whole of Chinatown crime in his pocket.”

“Yes,” Price agreed, “but he’s wily, not crazy. He might have ordered the snatch of Bing’s remains — though even the Hip Sing aren’t convinced he’s behind that business or war would have been declared already — but I can’t see him risking the public execution of a white man, not for any reason. He knows that’s one thing Blind Chris won’t stand for, and that it’d bring us down on him and his highbinders with a vengeance. He’s too smart by half to take such a risk.”

Quincannon tended to agree. Saloonkeeper Christopher A. “Blind Chris” Buckley was head of the city’s powerful Democratic political machine and so notoriously corrupt that he was regularly vilified in the newspapers. It was common knowledge that Little Pete, among others, paid protection money to the “saloon boss” in order to remain in business. But as if to balance his corruption, Buckley was also noted for charity work and other civic contributions; he would never countenance an attack on a member of the white community. Honest officials such as Crowley, and Price and his Chinatown squad, were able to act independently of Buckley’s criminal influence, but they needed clear-cut and indisputable evidence to do so without hazarding political consequences.

“Well, somebody took it,” Gentry argued. “And Pete’s the only man in that rathole of vice who’d dare.”

“Not necessarily,” Quincannon said. “Hidden forces at work, mayhap.”

“Such as?”

He shrugged. “Merely a suggestion.”

“Yeah, well, keep your suggestions to yourself. You don’t know Pete or the Quarter like we do, flycop.”

“No, Quincannon may be right,” Price said. “I’ve had a feeling that there’s more going on than meets the eye and ear in Chinatown these days. Yet we’ve learned nothing to corroborate it.”

Quincannon said, “I take it you’ve had no word of what’s become of Bing Ah Kee’s remains?”

“None. There’s no telling without a better understanding of the purpose of its theft.”

The stubbornly churlish sergeant put his oar in again. “I say Pete’s got the corpse in cold storage and intends to use it to start a war with the Hip Sing.”

“If that’s the case, why hasn’t he produced it by now? Or demanded a ransom? It’s been four days since the snatch.”

Four days was in fact a long time without word of some sort. The body of old Bing Ah Kee, who had died of natural causes, had disappeared from the Four Families Temple near Hip Sing headquarters on Waverly Place. After a lavish funeral parade, it had been returned to the temple for one last night before it was scheduled for placement in storage to await passage to Bing’s ancestral home in Canton for burial. The thieves had removed the corpse from its coffin and made off with it sometime during the early morning hours — a particularly bold deed considering the proximity of the temple to the Hip Sing Company. Yet they had managed it unseen and unheard, leaving no clues as to their identity.

Body snatching was uncommon but not unheard of in Chinatown. When such ghoulishness did occur, tong rivalry was almost always the motivation — a fact which supported Gentry’s contention that the disappearance of Bing Ah Kee’s husk was the work of Little Pete and the Kwong Dock. Yet stealing an enemy leader’s bones without openly and immediately claiming responsibility was an odd way of warmongering … unless the delay was a deliberate attempt to ratchet up tensions and make open warfare inevitable.

But then, why hadn’t the usual gambit of instigating one or more assassinations of key figures in the rival tong been employed? And why would Little Pete, if he was the ringleader, send one of his highbinders to murder a white attorney instead?

“Well, in any case I don’t like the way the wind is blowing over there,” the chief said. “This damned shooting tonight is bound to have dire consequences. The boo how doy have always left Caucasians strictly alone. You all know that. Scarlett’s murder sets a deadly precedent.”

“Exactly,” Gentry said. “We can’t afford to stand by and do nothing about it. Once the newshounds get hold of Scarlett’s murder, they’ll whip the public up to a froth. If we don’t act soon, we’re likely to have vigilante trouble to contend with, too.”

“We damned well can’t have that,” Crowley said. “What do you suggest, Sergeant?”

“Smash Little Pete and his gang before more innocent citizens are killed.”

“James Scarlett was hardly innocent,” Price reminded him. “And we have no knowledge yet of why he was murdered, much less evidence that it was Pete who ordered it.”

“Then let’s go find some.” Gentry had lighted a cheap long nine cigar; he waved it for emphasis. “By God, the only way to ensure public safety is to send the flying squad out to Pete’s shoe factory and the Kwong Dock headquarters. Axes, hammers, and pistols will write his and his highbinders’ epitaphs in a hurry.”

“Not yet,” Price said, still the voice of reason.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, Pete’s too clever to leave evidence lying around for us to find.”

“He is, maybe, but his henchmen may not be.”

Price ignored this. “And for another,” he said, “a premature raid is liable to have the opposite effect, especially if Pete turns out to be innocent. Cause widespread bloodshed instead of preventing it. And bring the wrath of Blind Chris and his machine down on our heads.” He appealed to the chief. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

Crowley was silent. He seemed to be considering the dubious wisdom of Gentry’s suggestion.

Price realized it, too. “I strongly advise against a show of force at this time.” Then, for emphasis, he repeated, “Strongly.”

The chief made up his mind — the correct decision, to Quincannon’s way of thinking. “You’re right, Will,” he said. “We’ll hold off for the time being, see how the wind blows.”

Gentry forbore further argument, though with obvious reluctance. He gave a dissatisfied nod, saluted, and left the office.

When the door closed behind him, Quincannon said to Price, “What do you know of Fowler Alley, Lieutenant?”

“Fowler Alley? Why do you ask that?”

“Scarlett mumbled the name after I carried him out of the opium resort. I wonder if it might have significance.”

“I can’t imagine how. Little Pete operates his little empire from his shoe factory in Bartlett Alley, near the Kwong Dock Company. There are no tong headquarters in Fowler Alley, and no known illegal activity other than a fantan parlor or two.”

“Are any of the businesses there run by Pete?”

“Not to my knowledge. I’ll look into it.”

Quincannon nodded, thinking, Not before I do, by Godfrey. He got to his feet. “I’ll be going now, gentlemen. My client has to be told of her husband’s death.”

Crowley said, “I can dispatch a man to do that—”

“No, the chore is mine.” The mere thought of it knotted Quincannon’s insides, but he was not a man to shirk his duty where a client was concerned. Especially not when the slaying victim had been in his care at the time of the attack. But that was not the only reason. If Andrea Scarlett did after all possess even a scrap of information germane to her husband’s murder, he wanted to know what it was before the police did.

The chief shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll be notified if you’re needed again. Meanwhile, you’ll do well to remember that you have no official standing in this matter. Do I make myself clear?”

Quincannon said, “Perfectly,” between his teeth, and took his leave.

The law offices of James Scarlett were on the southern fringe of Chinatown, less than half a mile from the Hall of Justice. For this reason, Quincannon made that his first stop. He had briefly visited the old, two-story wooden building earlier in the day, after Andrea Scarlett had departed the agency and before venturing into Chinatown. The place had been dark and locked up tight then; the same was true when he arrived there a few minutes before midnight.

He paid the hansom driver at the corner, walked back through heavy shadows to the entranceway. Pondering the while, as he had in the cab, about the sinister incident in Ross Alley.

Why had the hatchet man waited in ambush as he had? If he’d known Scarlett was in the Cellar of Dreams, why not just enter and dispose of him there? Witnesses were never a worry to the boo how doy. Could he, Quincannon, have been followed on his rounds of the opium resorts? No. Always sensitive to his surroundings, particularly in such places as Chinatown after dark, he was sure that he hadn’t been tailed.

Then there was the fact that the assassin had fired three shots, the last two of which had come perilously close to sending Quincannon to join his ancestors. Wildly hurried shooting caused by darkness? Or, as unlikely as it might seem, could he also have been a target? There was something about the shooter that fretted him, too, something he could not quite put his finger on.

The whole business smacked of hidden motives, to be sure. And hidden dangers. He did not like to be made a pawn in any piece of intrigue for any reason. He disliked it almost as much as being shot at, intentionally or otherwise, and failing at a job he had been retained to do. He meant to get to the bottom of it, with or without official sanction.

Few door latches had ever withstood his ministrations with lock picks and skeleton keys, and the one on the entrance to James Scarlett’s building was no exception. Another lawyer occupied the downstairs rooms; Quincannon climbed a creaky staircase to the second floor. He had no need to use quasi-legal means to gain access here: the pebbled glass door imprinted with the words J. H. SCARLETT, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW was not locked. This puzzled him somewhat, though not for long.

Inside, he struck a lucifer, found and lighted the gas — the building was too old and shabby to have been wired for electricity. Its pale glow showed him an anteroom containing two desks whose bare surfaces indicated that they might never have been used. According to Andrea Scarlett, her husband had intended to move to more fashionable downtown offices, and to hire both a law clerk and a secretary, but the combination of his work for the Hip Sing and his increasingly powerful opium addiction had kept him rooted here.

Quincannon proceeded through a doorway into Scarlett’s private sanctum. His first impression was that the lawyer had been a remarkably untidy individual. A few seconds later he revised this opinion; the office had been searched in what appeared to be a hurried and careless fashion. Papers littered the top of a large oak desk, the floor around it and the floor before a bank of wooden file cases. Two of the file drawers were partly open, manila folders yanked half out and askew inside. A wastebasket behind the desk had been overturned and its contents strewn about. A shelf of dusty law books showed signs of having been pawed through as well.

The work of a highbinder? Possibly, though the search struck him as a a good deal less destructive than what he was used to seeing from henchmen of any race. Done, then, by someone who wanted it to look like one of the boo how doy was responsible?

The smell of must and mildew wrinkled his nostrils as he crossed to the desk, giving him to wonder just how much time Scarlett had spent in these premises in recent weeks. The office wanted a good airing, if not a match to purge it completely. Scowling, he sifted through the papers on and below the desk.

There were several files concerning Scarlett’s recent clients, almost all of whom were Hip Sing Chinese he had defended in court, with surprising success, on gambling and other criminal charges. One bore a label with a familiar name: Mock Don Yuen, the successor to Bing Ah Kee as head of the tong. Just what Scarlett had been doing on behalf of Mock Don Yuen was unclear. The scant file contained only a pair of legal briefs that concerned gambling-related court cases in which Mock Don Yuen had been called upon to testify, and a two-page document composed entirely of Chinese characters. Written by the tong leader, perhaps? In any event it must have had something to do with him, else it wouldn’t have been in his file. Quincannon removed the document and folded it into his pocket.

The desk drawers yielded nothing of interest, and the slim accumulation of briefs, letters, and invoices in the file drawers was likewise uninformative. None contained any direct reference to either the Hip Sing or Kwong Dock tongs, or to Fong Ching under his own name or any of his known aliases.

The only interesting thing about the late Mr. Scarlett’s office, other than the document in Mock Don Yuen’s file, was the state in which Quincannon had found it. What had the previous intruder been searching for? And whatever it was, had he left with what he’d come after?

The Scarletts’ home address, in the polyglot neighborhood known as Cow Hollow, turned out to be a three-story wood-and-brick apartment building with an ornate façade. They had lived there only a short while, Andrea Scarlett had said, having moved from “a less comfortable” residence at her insistence once the Hip Sing arrangement had been made.

The windows facing the street in their third-floor apartment were all dark. But this proved not to be because Mrs. Scarlett had retired for the night. Quincannon knocked several times, loud enough to rouse even the heaviest sleeper. Not at home at this hour?

The second of his skeleton keys opened the locked door. A hasty search revealed no sign of her. Each of the four large rooms was empty and showed no signs of disturbance.

The apartment was chilly, long unheated either by gas or coal fire in the living room fireplace. The sheets on the carelessly made four-poster bed were likewise cold. Nothing in the kitchen indicated that a meal had been prepared or eaten recently. If Andrea Scarlett had been home since her visit to the agency offices late that afternoon, it had been only briefly.

Quincannon resisted the urge to conduct a more thorough search, stepped out, and relocked the door. Well past midnight now. Where was his client at this hour? Hiding out somewhere, unable to bear remaining alone in her home? Possibly. She had been most concerned about her husband during the morning’s interview, but the fact that she had seen someone lurking about the premises the night before had made her afraid for herself as well.

Her absence was worrisome, in any event. Very.

In his rooms on Leavenworth, Quincannon lay sleepless and brooding for much of what remained of the night. Bing Ah Kee’s missing corpse, Scarlett’s murder and the attempt on his own life, the search of the lawyer’s offices, Little Pete, the Kwong Dock, the Hip Sing, the potential actions of Price and Gentry and the Chinatown flying squad. Andrea Scarlett, suddenly a widow and certain to be an understandably upset client. And Sabina and her new swain.

It was the Sabina question that plagued him most into the wee hours. The others would be resolved, one way or another, in relatively short order. But Sabina’s involvement with this Montgomery gent was a mystery — one he’d only just learned about by accident, and that she steadfastly refused to discuss — that could have long-reaching implications and might not be solvable at all, depending on the seriousness of her interest in Montgomery and his in her. If it was merely an interlude, an innocent infatuation, then there was no cause for concern. Ah, but if it was serious to the point of intimacy, perhaps even engagement and marriage …

Thunder and blazes! Quincannon’s heart was hard enough when it came to the female sex, but not indestructible. His partner, the object of his unrequited desire, was the one woman who could break it.