The Body Snatchers Affair

7

Upon leaving the agency Quincannon rode a streetcar up Market to Van Ness Avenue, from where he walked the short distance to Hayes Street and St. Ignatius College. The Jesuit school had grown considerably since being granted a state charter in 1859 and had moved to this location some fifteen years earlier. It had several hundred students and a faculty that included Father James O’Halloran, whom Quincannon had had the pleasure of meeting during an investigation two years before.

Father O’Halloran, in addition to other talents, was a student of languages. Quincannon was unsure whether Chinese was among them, but if not, the priest would know someone who could translate the two-page document he’d found in the Mock Don Yuen file in Scarlett’s office.

Such was the case. Father O’Halloran’s command of the Chinese language was limited, but he knew a scholar fluent in Cantonese and other dialects who should have no difficulty translating the calligraphy. Could this be done as quickly as possible? The priest thought it could. Quincannon left the document with him, with a request that it and the translation be sent to him at the agency by messenger. Although the priest asked for no recompense, Quincannon insisted he accept a five-dollar gold piece — if not for the translation and messenger service, then for the church. Thrifty he might be, but there was also a streak of generosity in his nature that overwhelmed him every now and then.

Next stop: Chinatown.

The Quarter was twelve square blocks of wooden and brick buildings surrounding Portsmouth Square — home to some twenty-five thousand people packed into apartments and rooming houses, business establishments, temples, family associations, bagnios, opium dens, gambling halls. By day it was teeming and noisy, the incense-laden air filled with the clatter of carts and other conveyances on the narrow streets and alleys, the cries of street hawkers, the constant ebb and flow of Cantonese dialects.

Quincannon was one of the few Caucasians in the jostling throng as he made his way along Dupont Avenue, Chinatown’s main thoroughfare, named after a naval admiral when California was admitted to the Union in 1846. The Chinese called it “Du Pon Gai.” His destination: the herbalist shop owned by Mock Don Yuen.

He would not have been surprised to find the shop closed. Considering the bubbling stew created by the events of the past few days, the venerable new Hip Sing president might well have taken protective refuge in the company’s headquarters on Waverly Place. But the shop was open for business — an indication, perhaps, if the tong leader was presiding within, that tensions in the Quarter might not be running quite as high as everyone feared.

Quincannon paused for a few moments before entering. The shop was one of several in a row along one side of a narrow cul-de-sac just off Dupont, most of which had Chinese calligraphy on opaque windows that hid both wares and purpose from Caucasian eyes. Mock Don Yuen’s, however, was an exception. English words as well as Chinese characters were written on its window — MOCK DON YUEN, HERBALIST — and the glass itself was transparent enough to reveal a dozen or so varieties of exotic herbs. Each of the plates had a piece of red paper affixed to it, identifying in both languages what it contained: Old Mountain ginseng, ambergris, fossilized lizard teeth, lapis, clove bark, powdered ivory, magpie dung.

There were two doors set side by side in an alcove next to the window. One had a dusty glass pane and opened into the herb shop; the other, hanging slightly crooked in its frame, was solid except for a peephole at eye level. That one, Quincannon thought, would lead upstairs to the room where Mock Don Yuen reputedly ran a gambling parlor in which fantan, mah-jongg, and other games of chance were played for high stakes and the house took a hefty percentage. At the second-story level were three windows with louvered green shutters. No doubt there would be heavy curtains on the inside as an added precaution, and mayhap a spotter stationed somewhere outside in the alley while the richer games were in progress to warn against a possible police raid.

Quincannon opened the shop door and stepped inside to the accompaniment of a small tinkling bell. The interior was not much larger than the parlor of his Leavenworth Street flat, clean and tidy, dimly lighted by a trio of lanterns. On the left was a counter, and behind that, across the entire wall, were blue-lacquered cabinets with hundreds of little drawers. At the rear, heavy bead curtains covered the entrance to an inner room. The front part of the shop was unoccupied when he entered, but a couple of seconds after he shut the door, the bead curtains parted and an aged Chinese appeared, his hands crossed in the voluminous sleeves of a Mandarin robe.

His years numbered at least seventy-five, possibly more, his skin as finely wrinkled as old parchment. His queue was long and pewter-colored, as were the sparse and wispy strands of hair that hung down from each side of his mouth and from his chin like moss on an ancient tree. Rimless, thick-lensed glasses made his rheumy eyes seem overlarge.

He bowed and said in accented but cultured English, “Welcome, most honorable sir. How may I be of service?”

“Are you Mock Don Yuen?”

A nod and another bow.

“John Quincannon. Of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.”

Mock Don Yuen knew the name well enough, but chose not to acknowledge it. He cocked his head to one side, birdlike, and said in the same polite voice, “Have you an ailment, sir?”

“Ailment?”

“My herbs and tonics are all genuine, imported from the provinces of China. Guaranteed effective for any ailment. You are familiar with Emperor Shen Nung?”

“No.”

“He was the ancient father of plants. A thousand years past, in old China, Shen Nung examined many plants to learn their medicinal value. His wisdom, like that of Confucius, has survived the centuries.”

“I expect you know why I’m here,” Quincannon said, “and it’s not to buy herbs and tonics.”

“Ah, but they are all that I dispense.”

“Information is what I’m after. Like the police, I am investigating the assassination of the Hip Sing attorney James Scarlett last night. On behalf of my client, and as a near victim of the boo how doy hatchet man myself.”

Mock Don Yuen might have been wearing a mask for all the reaction the name produced. After a few moments he turned away from Quincannon, and without hurry went around behind the counter. He removed one clawlike hand from the sleeve of his robe and ran fingers, the nails of which were some two inches long, over a section of the blue-lacquered cabinet. They came to rest on a drawer a third of the way down. The fragrance of herbs, already strong in the shop, seemed to become even stronger when he opened the drawer.

“May I recommend some lizard tea?” he said. “Most nourishing, a boon to the digestion.”

“The police believe that Bin Ah Kee’s remains were stolen and Scarlett murdered by Kwong Dock highbinders to provoke a tong war with the Hip Sing. Is that your belief as well?”

Mock Don Yuen opened another drawer. “Gum of the Koh-liu from Sumatra? An excellent general tonic.”

“Who else might be responsible? Fong Ching?”

Another drawer. “Powdered lily? It has many fine properties. Among them the dispelling of grief, easement of the pain of piles, and the promotion of a male offspring.”

Irritably Quincannon said, “I’m not grieving, I don’t suffer from piles, and I have no interest in producing an offspring of either sex. Pay mind to me, Mock Don Yuen. No matter who is behind the fomenting of a tong war, you’re in a position to prevent it as the Hip Sing’s new president.”

“Ginseng, sir? Very fine. Ginseng soup, properly brewed, provides strength and a long life.”

“No one in Chinatown will have a long life if there’s a tong war. I’ll warrant you don’t want bloodshed any more than I or the police do. I intend to find the men responsible and see them punished. Cooperate with me, and you and the Hip Sing will both benefit.”

“Deer’s tail from Hwei Chung? Like ginseng, it is one of mankind’s greatest blessings.”

Blast the man! Quincannon tried a different approach, managing not to scowl or growl as he said, “I know Scarlett was acting as your private counsel. A troublesome legal matter, Mock Don Yuen?”

“Mint leaves? Excellent for combating fire in the human body. Lavender water mixed with ink, for the banishment of headache?”

“Or was it related to the Hip Sing? An expansion of illegal activities, such as the Kwong Dock engages in? Something to do with the disappearance of Bin Ah Kee’s remains?”

“Cinnabar, perhaps, for the increase of one’s lifespan?”

“Bah!” Quincannon could contain himself no longer. “For all I know you arranged the body snatching and Scarlett’s assassination — that you’re the one who wants tong warfare!”

Not even that caused a flicker in the venerable tong leader’s impassive calm. “No herbs, sir? No fine tonics? There are more than one thousand prescriptions in the book of Li Shih-chen, the great physician of the Ming dynasty. Those I have mentioned and many others would be of benefit, to assure you health and longevity.”

“Better take them yourself, then. You’ll need them more than I will.”

Behind his thick glasses, Mock Don Yuen’s eyes were steady on Quincannon’s face. Bird’s eyes: it seemed they hadn’t blinked once the entire time he’d been there and they didn’t blink now.

“You are familiar with Chinese folklore, sir?” he said. “Most interesting. We have sayings appropriate to all occasions. For instance there is that which states, ‘Loud bark, no good dogs; loud talk, no wise man.’”

Quincannon forbore offering up one of several pithy and borderline obscene Western sayings that crossed his mind, turned on his heel, and left the shop. The tinkling of the bell over the door as he went out was not unlike the sound of mocking laughter.