Oddments (5 page)

"Nor would I, if you're right," Price said. "And I'm beginning to believe you are."

The chief leaned forward. "You really think Mock Quan is capable of plotting such a scheme, Will?"

"I wouldn't have until now. He's sneaky and ruthless, yes, but not half so clever as Little Pete. Still…"

"The plan wasn't his alone," Quincannon said. "He had help in its devising."

"Help? Help from whom?"

"A blue shadow."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"James Scarlett said two things before he was killed. One was 'Fowler Alley'; the other was 'blue shadow.' And the truth is, he was as afraid of a blue shadow as he was of Mock Quan. His guilty knowledge wasn't only of the body snatching, but of the identity of Mock Quan's partner—the man who followed Scarlett's wife to my offices yesterday and who arranged for Mock Quan to follow me in Chinatown last night."

"What partner?" Chief Crowley demanded. "What does blue shadow mean?"

"It means a shadowy person in blue," Quincannon said. "Not a plain blue suit, as the partner wore yesterday, but a blue uniform—a policeman's uniform." He paused dramatically. "One of the policemen in this room is Mock Quan's accomplice."

All three officers came to their feet as one. Gentry aimed a quivering forefinger as if it were the barrel of his sidearm. "Preposterous nonsense! How dare you accuse one of us—"

"You, Sergeant. I'm accusing you."

The smoky air fairly crackled. Price and Crowley were both staring at Gentry; the sergeant's eyes threw sparks at Quincannon. The cords in the short man's neck bulged. His color was a shade less purple than an eggplant's.

"It's a dirty lie!" he shouted.

"Cold, hard fact."

Price said with contained fury, "Can you prove this allegation, Quincannon?"

"I can, to your satisfaction. After I left here last night, I went to James Scarlett's law offices. They had already been searched sometime earlier, likely soon after Mrs. Scarlett visited my offices. At first I believed the job was done by one of the highbinders, hunting any incriminating evidence Scarlett may have had in his possession. But that wasn't the case. The search hadn't the stamp of the tong man; it was much more professionally conducted, as a policeman goes about such a frisk. Gentry's work, gentlemen."

"For the same reason?"

"More probably to look for evidence of his conspiracy with Mock Quan. If there was any such evidence, Gentry made off with it. He also made off with a letter written on Scarlett's stationery and signed by the attorney—the same letter you found on the Kwong Dock highbinder who was killed last night. Killed by Gentry, wasn't he? And the letter found by Gentry afterward?"

"Yes, by God. Right on both counts."

"He tried to put a knife in me!" Gentry cried. "You saw him, Lieutenant—"

"I saw nothing of the kind. I took your word for it."

"A clever attempt to tighten the frame against Little Pete," Quincannon said. "As was Gentry's constant urging of you and Chief Crowley to crush Pete and the Kwong Dock."

"Lies! Don't listen to him—"

The other two officers ignored him. Price said, "Go on, Quincannon."

"When Gentry searched Scarlett's offices he carried off any direct evidence he may have found, as I said. But he failed to notice indirect evidence just as damning. Scarlett's legal records indicate the sergeant was in the pay of the Hip Sing, just as Scarlett himself was, long
before
Gentry and Mock Quan cooked up their takeover scheme. He was mixed up in nearly all of the cases in which Scarlett successfully defended a Hip Sing member. In some, his testimony—false or distorted—resulted in acquittal. In others, it's plain that he suppressed evidence or suborned perjury or both."

Gentry started toward Quincannon with murder in his eye. "If there are any such lies in Scarlett's records,
you
put them there, you damned flycop! You're the one trying to pull a frame—"

Price stepped in front of him. "Stand where you are, Sergeant," he said in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

Quincannon went on, "Another piece of proof: Last night, if you recall, Gentry suggested taking the flying squad to find evidence of Little Pete's guilt in Scarlett's death—the bogus evidence he later planted himself. He also said, 'Evidence to point to the cold storage where old Bing's bones are stashed.' Yet for all any of us knew at that point, the body might have been burned, or buried, or weighted and cast into the Bay, or had any of a dozen other things done with it or to it. Why would he use the specific term 'cold storage' unless he knew that was what had been done with old Bing's remains?"

Gentry called him a name and tried once again to mount a
charge. The lieutenant shoved him back,
none
too gently.

"And if all that isn't sufficient validation of his duplicity,"
Quincannon
concluded, "there is Mrs. Scarlett. She had a good look at the man who followed her yesterday and can easily identify him." A bald lie, this, but an effective capper nonetheless. "Gentry had no official reason to be following the woman, did he, Lieutenant?"

"No," Price said darkly, "he didn't."

The chief stalked around his desk and fixed Gentry with a gimlet eye. "A damned highbinder no better than Little Pete or Mock Quan—is that what you are, Gentry?"

"No! No, I swear—"

"Because if so I'll see your mangy hide strung from the highest flagpole in the city."

Gentry shook his head, his eyes rolling, sweat shining on his forehead and cheeks. He was still wagging his head as Quincannon judiciously slipped out and went to find a quiet corner where he could smoke his pipe and enjoy his vindication.

"Gentry's shell was no harder to crack than a Dungeness crab's," he told Sabina a while later. "It took Crowley and Price less than fifteen minutes to break him wide open."

"No doubt with the aid of some gentle persuasion."

"Have you ever known the blue shadows to use another kind?"

She laughed. "What was his motive? Power and greed, the same as Mock Quan's?"

"Those, and severe gambling losses. Which was why he sold himself to the Hip Sing in the first place. It seems the sergeant has a fondness for roulette and fan-tan, and little skill at any game of chance."

"Well, I must say you've plenty of skill at your particular game."

"I have, haven't I?"

"Exceeded only by your modesty," Sabina said. "Still, it's thanks to you that the crisis in Chinatown has been averted."

"For the time being. Until another, smarter Mock Quan emerges or something or someone else lights the fuse. Mark my words—one of these days, the whole Quarter will go up in flames."

"You may be right. In any event, this is one case it will be a relief, if not a pleasure, to mark closed. We'll waive Mrs. Scarlett's fee, of course. I'll post a letter to her tomorrow—Why are you looking at me that way?"

Quincannon was aghast. He said, "Waive her fee?"

"It's the least we can do for the poor woman."

"Sabina, have you forgotten that I was shot at twice and almost killed? As well as made to trek through low Chinatown alleys, prowl opium dens, and invade an undertaking parlor in search of a snatched corpse?"

"I haven't forgotten."

"Well, then? All of that, not to mention a near tarnish on our fine reputation as detectives, for not so much as a copper cent?"

"I'm afraid so, my erstwhile Scot. It's the proper thing to do and you know it."

"Bah. I know nothing of the kind."

Her expression softened. After a silence during which she seemed to be doing a bit of weighing and balancing, she said, "I suppose you should have one small reward, at least."

"Yes? And what would that be?"

"An evening out with me, if you like. Dinner at the Palace, then a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan's new opera at the Tivoli Theater. I've been wanting to see
Patience
since it opened."

Quincannon's momentary gloom evaporated as swiftly as
an ice cube in a furnace. Smiling jauntily, he said, "And after the performance?"

"You may escort me to my flat."

"And after that?"

Sabina sighed. "You never give up, do you, John Quincannon?"

"Never. For my intentions are honorable, my passions sweet and pure. No, never, as long as a breath remains in my body."

The word Sabina uttered in response to that was heartfelt and decidedly unladylike.

W
hen I got home from work, a little after six as usual, Jerry Macklin was sitting slumped on his front porch. Head down, long arms hanging loose between his knees. Uh-oh, I thought. I put the car in the garage and walked back down the driveway and across the lawn strip onto the Macklins' property.

"Hi there, Jerry."

He looked up. "Oh, hello, Frank."

"Hot enough for you?"

"Hot," he said. "Yes, it's hot."

"Only June and already in the nineties every day. Looks like we're in for another blistering summer."

"I guess we are."

"How about coming over for a beer before supper?"

He waggled his head. He's long and loose, Jerry, with about twice as much neck as anybody else. When he shakes his big head, it's like watching a bulbous flower bob at the end of a stalk. As always these days, his expression was morose. He used to smile a lot, but not much since his accident. About a year ago he fell off a roof while on his job as a building inspector, damaged some nerves and vertebrae in his back, and was now on permanent disability.

"I killed Verna a little while ago," he said.

"Is that right?"

"She's in the kitchen. Dead on the kitchen floor."

"Uh-huh," I said.

"We had another big fight and I went and got my old service pistol out of the attic. She didn't even notice when I
came back down with it, just started in ragging on me again. I shot her right after she called me a useless bum for about the
thousandth time."

"Well," I said. Then I said, "A gun's a good way to do it, I
guess."

"The best way," Jerry said. "All the other ways, they're too uncertain or too bloody. A pistol really is the best."

"Well, I ought to be getting on home."

"I wonder if I should call the police."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Jerry."

"No?"

"Wouldn't be a good idea."

"Hot day like this, maybe I—"

"Jerry!" Verna's voice, from inside the house. Loud and
demanding, but with a whiny note underneath. "How many
times do I have to ask you to come in here and help me with
supper? The potatoes need peeling."

"Damn," Jerry said.

Sweat had begun to run on me; I mopped my face with my
handkerchief. "If you feel like it," I said, "we can have that
beer later on."

"Sure, okay."

"I'll be in the yard after supper. Come over anytime."

His head wobbled again, up and down this time. Then he
stood, wincing on account of his back, and shuffled into his
house, and I walked back across and into mine. Mary Ellen
was in the kitchen, cutting up something small and green by the sink. Cilantro, from the smell of it.

"I saw you through the window," she said. "What were
you talking to Jerry about?"

"Three guesses."

"Oh, Lord. I suppose he killed Verna again."

"Yep."

"Where and how this time?"

"In the kitchen. With his service pistol."

"That man. Three times now, or is it
four?"

"Four."

"Other people have nice normal neighbors. We have to
have a crazy person living next door."

"Jerry's harmless, you know that. He was as normal as
anybody before he fell off that roof."

"Harmless," Mary Ellen said. "Famous last words."

I went over and kissed her neck. Damp, but it still tasted
pretty good. "What're you making there?"

"Ceviche."

"What's ceviche?"

"Cold fish soup. Mexican style."

"Sounds awful."

"It isn't. You've had it before."

"Did I like it?"

"You loved it."

"Sounds wonderful, then. I'm going to have a beer. You
want one?"

"I don't think so." Pretty soon she said, "He really ought
to see somebody."

"Who?"

"Jerry."

"See who? You mean a head doctor?"

"Yes. Before he really does do something to Verna."