The chamber might have been an office in any building in San Francisco. There was a long, high desk, a safe, stools, a round table set with a tea service. The only Oriental touches were a red silk wall tapestry embroidered with threads of gold, a statue of Buddha, and an incense bowl that emitted a rich, spicy scent. Lamplight highlighted the face of the man standing behind the desk — a man of no more than thirty, slender, clean-shaven, his hair worn long but unqueued, western-style, his body encased in a robe of red brocaded silk that didn’t quite conceal the shirt and string tie underneath. On one corner of the desk lay a black slouch hat with a red topknot. Quincannon said, “You’re not Mock Don Yuen.”
“No, I am Mock Quan, his son.”
“I asked for an audience with your father.”
“My father is not here, Mr. Quincannon.” Mock Quan’s English was unaccented and precise. “I have been expecting you.”
“Have you now.”
“Your reputation is such that I knew you would come to ask questions about the unfortunate occurrence last night.”
“Questions which you’ll answer truthfully, of course.”
“Truth is supreme in the house of Hip Sing.”
“And what is the truth of James Scarlett’s death?”
“It was arranged by the Kwong Dock and their cowardly leader, Fong Ching. You must know this.”
Quincannon shrugged. “For what purpose?”
“Fong is vicious and unscrupulous and his hunger for power has never been sated. He hates and fears the Hip Sing, for we are stronger than any of the tongs under his yoke. He wishes to destroy the Hip Sing so he may reign as king of Chinatown.”
“He’s the king now, isn’t he?”
“No!” Mock Quan’s anger came like the sudden flare of a match. Almost as quickly it was extinguished, but not before Quincannon had a glimpse beneath the erudite mask. “He is a fat jackal in lion’s skin, the son of a turtle.”
That last revealed the depth of Mock Quan’s loathing for Little Pete; it was the bitterest of Chinese insults. Quincannon said, “Jackals feed on the dead. The dead such as Bing Ah Kee?”
“Oh yes, it is beyond question Fong Ching is responsible for that outrage as well.”
“What do you suppose was done with the body?”
Mock Quan made a slicing gesture with one slim hand. “Should the vessel of the honorable Bing Ah Kee have been destroyed, may Fong Ching suffer the death of a thousand cuts ten thousand times through eternity.”
“If the Hip Sing is so sure he’s responsible, why has nothing been done to retaliate?”
“Without proof of Fong Ching’s treachery, the decision of the council of elders was that the wisest course was to withhold a declaration of war.”
“Even after what happened to James Scarlett? His murder could be termed an act of open aggression.”
“Mr. Scarlett was neither Chinese nor a member of the Hip Sing Company, merely an employee.” Mock Quan took a pre-rolled cigarette from a box on his desk, fitted it into a carved ivory holder. “The council met again this morning. It was decided then to permit the American Terror, Lieutenant Price, and his raiders to punish Fong Ching and the Kwong Dock, thus to avoid the shedding of Hip Sing blood. This will be done soon.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“The police now have evidence of Fong Ching’s guilt.”
“Evidence?” Quincannon scowled. “What evidence?”
“The Kwong Dock highbinder who shot Mr. Scarlett was himself shot and killed early this morning, during a police raid on Fong Ching’s shoe factory. A letter was found on the kwei chan bearing the letterhead and signature of the esteemed attorney.”
“What kind of letter?”
“I do not know,” Mock Quan said. “I know only that the American Terror is preparing to lead other raids which will crush the life from the turtle’s offspring.”
Quincannon was silent for a time, while he digested this new information. If anything, it deepened the piscine odor of things. At length he asked, “Whose idea was it to leave the job to the police? Yours or your father’s?”
The question discomfited Mock Quan. His eyes narrowed; he exhaled smoke in a thin jet. “I am not privileged to sit on the council of elders.”
“No, but your father is. And I’ll wager you have his confidence as well as his ear, and that your powers of persuasion are considerable.”
“Such matters are of no concern to you.”
“They’re of great concern to me. I was nearly shot, too, in Ross Alley. And I’m not as convinced as the police that Little Pete is behind the death of James Scarlett or the disappearance of Bing Ah Kee’s remains.”
Mock Quan made an odd hissing sound with his lips, a Chinese expression of anger and contempt. There was less oil and more steel in his voice when he spoke again. “You would do well to bow to the superior intelligence of the police, Mr. Quincannon. Lest your blood stain a Chinatown alley after all.”
“I don’t like warnings, Mock Quan.”
“A humble Chinese warn a distinguished Occidental detective? They were merely words of caution and prudence.”
Quincannon’s smile was nothing more than a lip-stretch. He said, “I have no intention of leaving a single drop of my blood in Chinatown.”
“Then you would be wise not to venture here again after the cloak of night has fallen.” His smile was as specious as Quincannon’s. So was the invitation which followed: “Will you join me in a cup of excellent rose-petal tea before you leave?”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps. Ho hang la — I hope you have a safe walk.” “Health and long life to you, too.”
As he made his way out of the building, Quincannon felt a definite lift in spirits. The briny aroma had grown so strong that now he had a very good idea of its source, its species, and its cause.
Your hat, Mock Quan, he thought with grim humor. In your blasted hat!
Sabina said, “Mrs. Scarlett has taken to her bed with grief and the comfort of a bottle of crème de menthe. It made questioning her difficult, to say the least.”
“Were you able to find out anything?”
“Little enough. Her husband, as far as she is aware, had no incriminating documents in his possession, nor does she know where he might have put such a document for safekeeping. And she has no recollection of his ever mentioning Fowler Alley in her presence.”
“I was afraid that would be the case.”
“Judging from your expression, your visit to Fowler Alley proved enlightening.”
“Not Fowler Alley; that piece of the puzzle is still elusive. My call at the Hip Sing Company.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You went there? I don’t see a puncture wound anywhere. No bullets fired or hatchets or knives thrown your way?”
“Bah. I’ve bearded fiercer lions in their dens than Mock Quan.”
“Who is Mock Quan?”
“The son of Mock Don Yuen, new leader of the tong. A sly gent with delusions of grandeur and a hunger for power as great as Little Pete’s. Unless I miss my guess, he is the murderer of James Scarlett and the near murderer of your devoted partner.”
Sabina’s other eyebrow arched even higher. “What led you to that conclusion?”
“His hat,” Quincannon said.
“His— Are you quite serious, John?”
“Never more so. The gunman outside Blind Annie’s Cellar wore a black slouch hat with a red what-do-you-call-it on top—”