No Comfort for the Lost (22 page)

Down at the street, Officer Taylor hunched in the gray oilskin cape all policemen wore in bad weather. He glanced at the door when he heard Celia’s footsteps on the front porch and tipped his hat in greeting, sending a cascade of water down his front. His gaze followed Madame Philippe, who murmured a quiet greeting and glided past him.

“Dinna tell him who she is, ma’am. I dinna wish to hear his opinion again,” whispered Addie.

She spotted the deliveryman from the butcher’s stall across the road and shot Officer Taylor a quick glance before smiling broadly. “Hullo!” Addie called to the man, who was hurrying up their neighbor’s stairs with an armful of paper-wrapped meat.

“Howdy, Miss Ferguson,” he called back, grinning.

“You’ll catch your death in this rain.”

“Why, thanks, miss, for thinkin’ of me!” he said. “And don’t forget about the Willows. Maybe next Sunday?”

“Maybe next Sunday. Good day to you.”

Addie gave Officer Taylor, who’d been watching the proceedings with lifted eyebrows, a parting glance and, with a toss of her head, retreated into the house.

Celia bit back a smile.

“Thank you for coming, Officer Taylor,” she said. “I hope you have good news.”

“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he said, climbing the steps. Rain dripped off the roof, splattering mud onto his legs.

“But we cannot stay in town. Barbara shall be frantic.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He joined her on the porch. “Was that a patient?” he asked, looking down the street toward the receding form of Madame Philippe. “She doesn’t look like she needs a free clinic, the way she’s dressed.”

“No, she is not a patient,” replied Celia. “Tessie Lange came to her for help in locating a man she was afraid of. A man who had suspicious late-night meetings with her father.”

“Why’d she think that woman could find him?”

“Madame Philippe . . . can be very knowledgeable about such matters,” Celia prevaricated, honoring Addie’s request. “But she could tell Tessie only that he worked near water.”

“Water, eh?” he asked. “Mr. Greaves and me think we’ve heard about this fellow. He’s an opium smuggler who goes by the name of Roddy.”

“Mr. Hubert Lange was involved with smuggling?” He was not at all the man she’d believed him to be.

“Seems so, ma’am.” Taylor pulled out his ever-present notebook. “So, Miss Lange wanted to know where she could find this fellow?”

“Yes.”

“That confirms our suspicions about what happened to her,” said Taylor, jotting an entry in his notebook before putting it away.

“You mean that she did go to look for this smuggler, and he is responsible for her disappearance?” said Celia.

Officer Taylor turned pale. He had freckles like Owen, which she had not noticed before. “There was another fire last night . . . ,” he began.

“I heard the tocsin.” But since the fire had been far from Chinatown, Celia had been less concerned. She’d also felt she could not leave Barbara and investigate. Not that Addie would have let her step a foot outside the house, anyway.

“Was it bad?” she asked.

He scratched nervously at his neck with the edge of his notebook. “The firemen found a body.”

Celia felt a chill like the coldest wind. “It was Tessie Lange, wasn’t it?”

The inclination of his head was nearly imperceptible, but Celia required no greater validation of her dreadful guess.

Taylor descended the steps of city hall alongside Nick. “The beat cop says he’s certain the saloonkeeper’s at his boardinghouse right now.”

“Then let’s see what the German has to say for himself.” They strode across Kearney. “Did Mrs. Davies ask to leave town again when you saw her?”

“That rat left on her doorstep upset her pretty bad. And now with Miss Lange dead . . . Do you think it’s this Roddy fellow who’s behind all that?” asked Taylor.

“I don’t understand why a smuggler would be after Mrs. Davies,” said Nick. “Unless he killed Li Sha, then learned Mrs. Davies was friends with the girl and got scared of what she might know. Although I don’t see how he could’ve learned of their relationship, unless Lange told him for some reason.”

“Hmm,” grunted Taylor.

“Any luck at all finding him?” Nick asked.

“There aren’t any Roddys in the city directory,” said Taylor. “And no one on the force has heard of him, either, so he hasn’t been to the station for any reason.”

“He wouldn’t be the first smuggler to use an alias,” said Nick. “He might not be the man who killed Li Sha or who is threatening Mrs. Davies, but he’s our best lead for who killed Tessie Lange. We have to find him.”

“But what about Mrs. Davies and her cousin? Any chance they can leave town until we close this case?”

They turned up Pacific. “I’ll talk to the magistrate and see what he has to say about letting her be questioned by the attorneys before Tom Davies’ trial,” said Nick. “It’s irregular, but given the situation, maybe he’ll bend the rules.”

“I’ve asked the cop who makes the rounds in her neighborhood to keep a lookout. But you know if there’s trouble in the Barbary, he won’t be bothering with her house, sir.”

“We should move them someplace safer, like a hotel in town, until she can give her testimony and leave the city,” said Nick. “I’ll suggest that to her when I see her tonight.”

“You’re planning on seeing Mrs. Davies tonight?” asked Taylor, the ghost of a grin on his mouth.

“It’s business, Taylor. I’m taking her to the anti-coolie meeting to see if she can identify the person who’s been watching her house,” Nick replied. “And while you’re teasing me about Mrs. Davies, I thought you were interested in that housekeeper of hers. You talked about her quite a bit afterward. Maybe you can stop by the house today to see how she’s doing.”

“Me, sir?” Taylor sounded affronted. “Me interested in a woman who goes to astrologers? Not a chance. Nope. Besides, she’s sweet on a delivery fellow from a butcher’s shop.”

“Well, then it’s good you’re not interested,” said Nick. He didn’t think Taylor noticed his smile.

They arrived at the lodging house where the German saloonkeeper, Uhlfelder, lived with his wife, on Pacific, around the corner from his ruined business. The woman who answered the door showed them into a dark and musty parlor and went to fetch the man.

The saloonkeeper entered the parlor. He wore a heavy traveling coat over his suit of clothes and a nervous expression on his thick face.

“Going someplace, Mr. Uhlfelder?” Nick asked.

“Why do you want to talk to me?” he asked. “Is it the fire?”

Taylor took the lead. “We’ve been told the fire was started as a warning. To you. Is that why you’ve been in hiding?”

“I have not been hiding,” said Uhlfelder. “I have been away from town. Business matters.”

“We’ve also heard you’re associated with some less-than-decent types,” said Nick. “Smugglers, in fact. Is that true?”

“I am an honest businessman,” he insisted. “I do not open my saloon outside the legal hours. I pay my rent on time. I do not make trouble.”

“Do you know a Joseph Palmer? Or a Hubert Lange?” asked Nick, trying to draw connections among a group of men he was beginning to dislike more each day. “How about a Mr. Douglass? Or a Captain Eagan?” he threw in for good measure.

Taylor’s pencil made a scratching sound as he blacked out that last name as soon as he’d written it.

“I do not know any of them,” said Uhlfelder, shaking his head. “They are not customers of my saloon.”

“I didn’t ask if they are customers. I asked if you know them,” Nick pressed.

Uhlfelder swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his collar. “I may have heard one or two of their names. They are well-known, I believe.”

“I think maybe you meet with them every Monday night at the Men’s Benevolent Association,” said Nick.

“
Bitte?
The what?”

“What about a man with the last name of Roddy?” asked Taylor, looking up from his notebook.

“My shop,” Uhlfelder murmured.

“What about your shop? Do you think Roddy set fire to it?” Nick asked.

“He would.” The saloonkeeper frowned. “I knew it. I would not help him and this is what he’s done.”

“Help him with what?” asked Taylor.

“He is a smuggler and a dangerous man. I don’t wish to be involved,” said Uhlfelder.

“Where can we find him?” Nick asked.

Uhlfelder’s frown deepened. “You do not find Mr. Roddy. He finds you.”

• • •

C
elia and Mr. Greaves were late to the Anti-Coolie Association meeting, arriving at the American Theater among other stragglers who were pushing through the front doors.

“I confess, Mr. Greaves, that I did not realize the sort of man Mr. Lange was,” said Celia as he held the door open for her. “‘God has given you one face and you make yourselves another.’”

“What’s that?” he asked. “Another quote from that Pope fellow?”

“A quote from Shakespeare expressing how we are not always what we seem.”

But perhaps all people wore impenetrable facades, the faces they showed to the world, while behind the exteriors swirled dark longings and terrible secrets. She hated that she may have been misled by Lange, a man she’d trusted. However, she had also misjudged Patrick and Tom—and she had misjudged her own heart.

“We haven’t established the extent of Mr. Lange’s association with smuggling yet, ma’am,” said Mr. Greaves as they climbed the sweeping stairs to the second floor. As was usual for him, he scrutinized every person they encountered. “He might be as innocent as he claims. Just another victim of this tragedy.”

They crowded into the rear of the upper circle, taking seats on chairs with fading upholstery. The gas lamps along the walls flickered, their light dancing off white walls embellished with gilded carvings. Undoubtedly at one time the theater had been quite grand, but now the velvet curtain surrounding the stage looked worn, and the parquet floor was scuffed and dirty.

Celia arranged her skirts and looked around her. The air was warm and humid from the crush of men—and some women, she noted—seated in the gallery and the upper circle, hats in hands, nodding as the speaker expounded his points against the Chinese. She felt the first trickle of sweat beneath her collar.

“By the way, I spoke to the judge this afternoon,” said Mr. Greaves in a low voice. “He wants you in the courtroom during the trial and won’t budge.”

“Barbara will be distressed to hear that.”

“I think it best that you and your cousin move to a hotel in town as soon as possible, Mrs. Davies,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, first thing. You’ll be safer where there are a lot of people around.”

“I suggested to Barbara that she go to Healdsburg with Mrs. Palmer and her daughter, but Emmeline is too ill to travel.”

“Then your cousin will have to stay in town with you.”

Celia preferred to keep Barbara, as anxious as her cousin had been lately, close at hand anyway. “As soon as I return home, I will tell Addie to pack our things.”

He nodded. “Now, let me know if you see anybody you recognize.”

Celia scanned the audience. Beneath her, all she could see were the tops of heads. How could she ever hope to identify the person who’d been watching the house in this mass of red-faced, angry people?

“Not yet.” Celia searched among those occupying the upper levels that curved around the walls, their faces hidden in shadows. “I may have been overly optimistic to think I might spot the watcher. This seems rather pointless.”

“Let’s try anyway, okay?” he encouraged her.

Celia examined the people seated nearest to them, but none looked familiar. Although she did recognize a man halfway along the back row; he was the son of her grocer and employed at the Mission Woolen Mills. Or perhaps, if he was here, he was no longer employed and blamed the Chinese.

“As the Chinaman progresses, the white man will retire before him. One by one, three by three, men from each of the living branches of California employment will go!” said the speaker, whose name was Mr. Mooney. For added emphasis he pounded a fist on the podium. “This vast and fair country will be handed over to the Chinese—will become a colony of the emperor of the Celestial Empire!”

Audience members jeered and hooted, cheering him on. Mr. Mooney was dressed like a banker in his dark suit, a watch suspended from a fob chain. He had paused to mop his brow with a handkerchief. She doubted his occupation was endangered by the Chinese.

“Admit the Chinese to take possession of your vocations, labors, and business, and those who now are wedded to California will soon change their mind, finding that they must leave!” He’d been well chosen for the task—he had a carrying voice and no end of arrogant self-confidence.

There was more jeering and stomping of feet, hundreds of boot heels thudding against the worn floor.

“Are your men in attendance, Mr. Greaves?” she asked, searching for anyone who might be a police officer.

“Mullahey’s up against the left wall,” he said with a jerk of his chin. “And Taylor’s sitting beneath us on the aisle there.”

Neither of them wore their uniforms.

“Why, there is one of the boys who attacked Barbara,” she said. “Standing very near Officer Mullahey with a man whom I suppose could be the boy’s father.”

Mr. Greaves signaled to Officer Mullahey, who had been watching for the cue. “Mullahey will wait until they leave to arrest the kid. If he confronts them here, we’d probably have a riot on our hands.”

“Is Mr. Ahearn here?” she asked. She wondered, too, if Owen was hidden among the throng.

“Taylor would’ve pointed him out if he’d seen him in the gallery.” He looked around. “Ahearn must be lying low.”

The speaker took a drink from a glass of water at his elbow and continued. “But is there any remedy for this threatened pestilence? Yes! Let us all unite—every white man of every creed and political hue! Send a deputation from this meeting to the Chinese merchants, intimating our warning to them against bringing any more of their countrymen!”

A man off to one side of the gallery stood and shouted his support.

“And there’s our Mr. Wagner singing out,” said Mr. Greaves. “He must’ve decided he’s not fine with the Celestials after all. Does he look familiar?”

She squinted. “No. Not really.”

Just then, the man turned toward them. He glared at Mr. Greaves. “Who is he?” she asked.

“He’s the man who found Li Sha’s body,” he explained. “A customs officer and a tough customer.”

“Oh.”

“I wouldn’t mind having another conversation with him, though.” Mr. Greaves repeated to Officer Taylor the signal he’d given to Officer Mullahey. “It’s going to be a busy night at the station.”

“We must make a vow against employing them in any shape or way,” Mr. Mooney continued. “A vow against dealing with any establishment that employs them or any one of them!”

People jumped to their feet and punched fists into the air. Others grumbled, their discontent flowing across the rows of seats like a wave.

The speaker was winding up his address. “We shall not surrender this vast, fertile land—the richest prize of the Caucasian family—to a nation of serfs whose presence is a nuisance, a pestilence, a calamity, and a curse!”

Men bellowed their assent. The crowd poured into the aisles and pushed toward the stage to congratulate the speaker on his rousing talk. Against the far wall, Officer Taylor had cornered Mr. Wagner and a middle-aged woman who clung to Mr. Wagner’s arm.

Mr. Greaves let out a breath. “We should go.”

“Mrs. Davies!” called a male voice. “What are you doing here? Have you come over to our side all of a sudden?”

Oh no.
It was the grocer’s son, descending on her like a frigate bearing down on an enemy ship. He glanced at Nicholas Greaves, who had taken a protective stance in front of her.

“Why, hello,” she responded, feeling the detective’s pressure on her arm, tugging her toward the exit. “It was a most interesting speech, but I am afraid I do not have time to talk. We are expected elsewhere.”

Celia turned and Mr. Greaves propelled her toward the doors leading to the stairs that would take them to the ground floor.

“Are you and him spying on us or somethin’?” The man’s voice echoed off the walls.

“A friend of yours?” the detective asked, shoving through the crowd of people clogging the steps. A burly man with auburn hair grumbled at them to watch where they were going.

“He is the son of my grocer.” She gathered her skirts higher to avoid tripping over them in their mad rush to leave the theater. “Is he following us?”

“I’m not stopping to find out,” answered Nick as they reached the theater’s entry hall.

“Hey! Wait!” He
was
following them, pushing people out of his way. “You support the Chinese, don’t you? Don’t you?”

Nicholas Greaves cursed, seized Celia’s hand, and picked up the pace. He plunged through the front doors and pulled her out onto Sansome Street. They dashed across the road, splashing through puddles.

An empty hack waited across the street, the driver slouched beneath a turned-down hat. Mr. Greaves reached the carriage and threw open the door.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” protested the driver. “I’m taken.”

“Not anymore. Unless you like trouble with the police.”

Mr. Greaves shoved Celia through the doorway. She clambered onto the seat and dragged her skirts out of the way. He climbed in behind her and slammed the door. The driver whipped the horses, flinging Celia back against the cushions. It wasn’t until they were two blocks distant that Mr. Greaves appeared to relax.