“A mow-yung,” Sabina said.
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
“And why shouldn’t a woman know something you don’t? A mow-yung is a symbol of high caste in Chinese society.”
“That much I do know,” Quincannon growled. “Coolie food sellers don’t wear ’em and neither do the boo how doy. That’s what has been bothering me about the assassin from the first. He wasn’t a highbinder but an upper-class Chinese masquerading as one.”
“How do you know it was Mock Quan?”
“I don’t know it for sure. A hunch, a strong one. Mock Quan is ambitious, foolhardy, corrupt, and ruthless. He covets Little Pete’s empire in Chinatown. He as much as said so.”
“Why would he risk killing Scarlett himself?”
“If my hunch is correct, he’s working at cross-purposes to those of his father and the Hip Sing elders. It’s his plan to let Lieutenant Price and the flying squad finish off his enemies and then to take over Little Pete’s position as crime boss — with or without the blessings of his father and the tong. He has allies in the Hip Sing, certainly, but none he trusted enough to do the job on Scarlett. He’s the sort to have no qualms about committing cold-blooded murder.”
“For the dual purpose of stirring up the police and silencing Scarlett? Mock Quan is behind the body snatching, too, if you’re right.”
“I’d bet five gold eagles on it,” Quincannon agreed. “And another five he’s at least partly responsible for the letter of Scarlett’s found on the Kwong Dock highbinder who was killed by the police this morning.”
“That’s fresh news,” Sabina said. “Tell me.”
He told her.
“I wonder how Mock Quan could have managed such flummery as that?”
“I can think of one way.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, “so can I. But proving it may be difficult. The case against Mock Quan, too.”
“I know it. But there has to be a way to expose him before the kettle boils over. His plan is mad, but madder ones have succeeded and will again.” He began to pace the office. “If we only knew the significance of Fowler Alley... Did you manage to have a look around the Scarlett lodgings?”
Sabina nodded. “Scarlett kept a desk there, but it contained nothing revealing. I did learn one small item of interest from Mrs. Scarlett before she fell asleep. It answers one question, while posing another.”
“Yes?”
“She was followed when she came to see us yesterday. She intended to mention the fact but she was too upset about her husband.”
“Followed? Not by a Chinese?”
“No, a Caucasian. A stranger to her.”
“What did he look like?”
“She wasn’t able to get a clear look at him. A man in a blue suit was all the description she could provide.”
Quincannon muttered, “Blue shadow, eh?”
“Evidently. Another Caucasian on the Hip Sing payroll, one of Mock Quan’s allies. And the explanation of how Mock Quan was able to follow you on your rounds of the opium resorts.”
“Mmm.” Quincannon continued to pace for a time. Then, abruptly, he stopped and said, “Perhaps not such a small item of interest after all, my dear.”
“Have you thought of something?”
“Been bitten by another hunch is more like it.” He reached for his coat and derby.
“Where are you off to?”
“Scarlett’s law offices. My search last night was hasty and it’s possible I overlooked something of importance. Or rather, spent my time looking for the wrong thing.”
No one else had passed through the portal marked J. H. Scarlett, Attorney-at-Law since Quincannon’s nocturnal visit. Or if anyone had, it’d been without any further disturbance of the premises.
With a close curb on his impatience, he set about once more sifting through the lawyer’s papers. He examined each document carefully, some more than once. The hunch that had bitten him had plenty of teeth: One name kept reappearing in similar context, and the more he saw it, the more furiously his nimble brain clicked and whirred. When he stood at last from the desk, his smile and the profane oath he uttered through it had a wolfish satisfaction.
He was certain, now, that he knew most of what there was to know. The only piece of the game he didn’t have, in fact, was the one that had eluded him since last night: Fowler Alley.
A sharp, chill wind blew along the alley’s close confines. Litter swirled; pigtailed men and work-stooped women hurried on their errands, not half so many as there had been earlier. Quincannon sensed an urgency in their movements, an almost palpable tension in the air. Word had spread of the flying squad’s planned raids and the law-abiding were eager to be off the streets before dark.
Quincannon walked slowly, hands buried in the pockets of his Chesterfield, his shoulders hunched and his head swiveling left and right. The buildings in the first block, with their grimy windows and indecipherable calligraphy, told him no more than they had earlier. He entered the second block, frustration mounting in him again.
He was halfway along when he noticed a high-sided black wagon drawn up in front of some sort of business establishment. A small cluster of citizens stood watching something being loaded into the rear of the wagon. Quincannon moved closer. He was taller than most Chinese; he could see over the tops of the watchers’ heads as he neared. One clear look at the object being loaded and he fetched up in a sudden standstill.
Casket.
Hearse.
Undertaking parlor!
He turned swiftly,ran back on that side of the alley until he came to an opening between the buildings. A tunnel-like walkway brought him into a deeply rutted dirt passage that paralleled Fowler Alley. He counted buildings to the rear of the one that housed the undertaker’s. The door there was neither barred nor latched; he pushed it open with his left hand, drawing his Navy Colt with his right, and entered the gloomy corridor within.
The sickish odor of formaldehyde dilated his nostrils, set him to breathing through his mouth as he eased along the hall. From the front of the building the singsong of Chinese dialect came to him, but back here there was no sound.
The lantern-lit chamber into which he emerged was empty except for rows of coffins, most of them plain, a few of the lacquered teakwood favored by the high-born and the wealthy. A tapestried doorway opened to the right. Quincannon went there, pushed the covering aside.
Here was the embalming room, the source of the formaldehyde odor. He crossed it, past a metal table, an herb cabinet, another cabinet in which needles, razors, and other tools of the mortician’s trade gleamed, to where a row of three slender storage vaults were set into the wall. The first vault he opened was empty. The second contained the body of a very old Mandarin whose skin was so wrinkled he might have been mummified. Quincannon opened the third.
The body in this vault was also an old man’s, but one who had lived a much more pampered life. It was dressed in an intricately embroidered robe of gold silk; the cheeks had been powdered, the thin drooping moustaches trimmed; a prayer book was still clutched between the gnarled hands.
“Bing Ah Kee,” Quincannon said under his breath, “or I’m not the master detective I believe I am.”
He closed the vault, retraced his steps to the doorway, pushed the tapestry aside. And came face-to-face with a youngish individual wearing a stained leather apron over his blouse and pantaloons. The man let out a startled bleat and an oath or epithet that threatened to escalate into a full-fledged cry of alarm. As he turned to flee, voice just starting to rise, Quincannon tapped him with the barrel of his Navy at the spot where queue met scalp. Flight and cry both ended instantly.