“Then they won’t mind if I look around, will they?”
“Michael, what’s going on?” an irritated voice called.
“Some copper says he needs to see you,” the fellow who claimed to be Mr. Fong called back. He stepped aside so a much smaller man could take his place at the door.
This man was clearly Chinese. He wore a blue silk robe with dragons all over it, and he kept his arms crossed and his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves. His raven-black hair was long and braided down his back. He looked Frank over shrewdly with his dark, narrow eyes.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked with far more courtesy than the first fellow had shown.
“Are you Mr. Fong, the one who owns this place?” he asked.
“Yes, I am, Mister…?”
“Malloy,” Frank said. “Detective Sergeant Malloy. I need to speak with you. Privately. About one of your customers.”
“I am sure if you speak to the captain, he will explain to you that we pay our protection directly to him. If you have any problems-”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with your arrangement with the captain,” Frank said, growing impatient. “Look, a man’s been murdered, and somebody we think might’ve done it is claiming to have been here when the man was killed. I’d like to come in peacefully and discuss this with you, unless you’d prefer that I come back with some other officers to help me force my way inside. Michael there looks like he’d welcome a fight.”
Mr. Fong’s eyes glinted as he smiled politely. “My son is very fond of fights, but I am not. Please come in.”
As he did, Frank tried to see some resemblance between Mr. Fong and the younger Mr. Fong, who was standing nearby and looking sulky. Michael was nearly twice the size of his father, and he wore his jet-black hair cut short, Western style. His tailored clothes were distinctly American. Except for the sallowness of his complexion and the distinctive slant of his eyes, he might have passed for the proprietor of a prosperous Irish bar.
Frank noticed the sickly-sweet scent of the air inside the house. Incense or something else. The furnishings were rich and expensive, the rooms dark behind heavy draperies. Every detail spoke of opulence and excess.
“This way, please, Mr. Malloy,” Fong said, and led Frank soundlessly into a room off the entrance hall that was furnished like a parlor. Another young man, even larger than Michael and with the same faintly Oriental features, stood just inside. “My other son,” Fong explained, nodding at the man. “You will excuse us, Sean.”
“We’ll be right outside if you need anything, Father,” Sean said.
Now Frank was very curious indeed. A Chinese man with sons named Michael and Sean?
“My wife, like you, is Irish,” Fong explained, anticipating Frank’s question.
“You’re married to a white woman?” Frank asked in surprise.
Fong betrayed no hint of emotion, although he had every right to feel insulted. “Your country did not allow Chinese females to come here for many years,” he pointed out. “We had no choice but to marry American women.”
Frank had known that Chinese women weren’t allowed into this country. The government didn’t want the Chinese to settle here and had assumed that without their women, the men would soon return to China. Instead they had made do by marrying American women and stayed anyway. Frank tried to recall if he’d ever seen a Chinese woman. He didn’t think he had. They must still be rare.
“I need to ask you about some of your customers.”
“Then please sit down, and let me get you some tea.”
Frank took a seat on the chair Fong indicated. “Thanks, but I don’t need anything to drink. I won’t be here that long.”
Fong took a seat in the richly upholstered chair opposite him. “You said a man was murdered. Is this man someone I am supposed to know?”
“No, he’s never been here, but his wife is apparently a regular customer. Letitia Blackwell.”
“No one ever tells me their real name, Mr. Malloy,” Fong explained kindly. “And even if they did, I would not remember it.”
“You’ll remember this lady, though. She’s young and very pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes. She comes every day, in the afternoon, and meets her lover. The lover has red hair. And she was expecting a baby.”
Fong didn’t bat an eye. “Even if I did know of such people, what do you want of me?” he asked. Frank wondered if he ever showed any emotion.
“I need to know if they were here a week ago Wednesday, in the afternoon.”
“And if they were?”
“Then they’re innocent of murder.”
Fong considered. “Mr. Malloy, you obviously do not understand how we do business here. People come and go. They do not tell us their names, and we do not ask. The women come veiled, and we may not even see their faces. They may meet someone here, and they may not. We take no notice. If they wish a private room and have the means to pay for it, we can provide one. In that case, we do not know who shares that room with them, when they come, or when they leave. One day is much like another here, and we keep no records or schedules. As much as I would like to help the police, I’m afraid that I cannot tell you if these people you described were here on that day or any other day because I make it my business not to know such things. I am sorry I cannot be of assistance to you.”
He did look genuinely sorry, but Frank wasn’t sorry at all. Letitia Blackwell and her lover had no alibi at all for the murder.
FRANK WOULD HAVE preferred being at Sarah Brandt’s house that evening, eating something her neighbor Mrs. Ellsworth had baked, instead of standing on a gaslit street corner waiting for Peter Dudley to come out of the bank where he worked. A discreet inquiry had told him that the clerks would be finished at nine o’clock.
The junior-level clerks in this establishment were scheduled to work in the mornings and then to return in late afternoon to count money and do the bookkeeping after closing. It was a schedule that left little time for amusements, Frank supposed, unless you spent your free afternoons in an opium den with someone else’s wife.
A group of young men all dressed similarly in cheaply made suits and straw boaters came out of the building as the night watchman locked the doors behind them. They started off in the other direction, on their way someplace together, probably to have a few beers and some fun. Frank called Dudley’s name, and one of the men stopped and turned.
“Who is it?” he asked in alarm. “Who’s there?”
“I’d just like a word with you, Mr. Dudley. It’s about Mrs. Blackwell,” Frank said, knowing that would draw him.
“Who’s Mrs. Blackwell?” someone asked with interest. “Some rich widow you’re romancing?”
Others joined the teasing, hooting and making fun. Dudley didn’t even acknowledge them.
“I’ll see you fellows tomorrow,” he said, leaving them and coming cautiously toward Frank.
“Give Mrs. Blackwell our love,” one of them called, and the rest of them laughed uproariously as they went on their way.
Dudley approached cautiously, drawn by the mention of Letitia but still concerned for his own safety. When he was close enough for his features to be seen, Frank stared in amazement. He’d expected someone traditionally handsome, a man who could easily attract the attention of a romantic schoolgirl. Dudley was gangly and graceless, his face no more than ordinary. In the dim light, Frank couldn’t even make out the notorious red hair, which was mostly hidden under the straw boater.
“Who are you?” Dudley demanded when he was close enough to speak quietly but still out of arm’s reach. His fear was palpable.
“Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy,” he said. “I want to ask you some questions about Edmund Blackwell’s murder.”
“I don’t know anything about Edmund Blackwell,” he said, not reassured. Policemen could be even more dangerous than crooks if they took a dislike to you. “I never even met the man. You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”