The curtain was drawn shut again. They picked up their chopsticks. Mai-lin started to speak, but Spade stopped her with a tiny shake of his head. He made sure their conversation was limited to the niceties observed among people who have been thrown together for a common cause but are essentially strangers.
As they were finishing, the skinny waiter appeared to clear the table and bring a fresh pot of tea and delicate almond cakes. He left the curtain open. A slender, muscular Chinese man about Spade’s age appeared. The family resemblance to Moon-fong Li was unmistakable: high cheekbones, a well-shaped mouth, an almost aquiline nose, piercing jet-black eyes under heavy brows. He was handsome in the way that his sister was beautiful.
“I am Yee-chum Li. Welcome to my eating establishment.” He nodded slightly to Pastor Zhu. He slid in beside Spade; the curtain was pulled closed by unseen hands. Yee-chum fixed Mai-lin with an almost hypnotic gaze. “I revered your father. He was one of the few great men I have known in my lifetime.”
“Your sister said that you met with him when he returned to Chinatown in nineteen ten,” said Mai-lin.
“Yes. What do you know of his activities at that time?”
“I know my father was involved with two men, Charles Boothe and Fritz Lea. I know Boothe was a banker and Lea an adventurer. I know they were trying to raise money for an army. Beyond that I know very little. I seek knowledge.”
“I warned your father about Boothe and Lea, but I was only eighteen and my voice was not heard.”
Mai-lin poured tea for all of them. Reverend Zhu asked, “Warned Sun Yat-sen about them why?”
“Lea at first was a ‘general’ in the entourage of Kang Youwei, Sun’s rival, and inspected and trained cadets across the United States. He dreamed of bringing down the government of China, taking over, and dividing the spoils. So when Kang’s fortunes began to wane in nineteen oh nine, Lea co-opted Sun Yat-sen.”
Spade leaned back, took out papers and tobacco, raised his eyebrows. Yee-chum nodded. Spade started making a cigarette.
“Sun Yat-sen couldn’t see that for himself?”
“His idealism blinded him. Their plan was simple — on paper. ‘General’ Fritz Lea and ‘President’ Sun Yat-sen brought in a retired banker named Charles Boothe because he had links to military circles in New York whose members had weapons.” He focused on Mai-lin. “These arms would be stockpiled in western Guangdong Province until the insurrection occurred. Lea would be commander in chief; Boothe, ‘exclusive financial agent for overseas,’ would raise the money as loans from his banker associates in New York.”
“How much money?” asked Spade.
“They calculated a budget of three and a half million dollars American.”
“On what collateral?”
“A special role for investors would be reserved in the economic reconstruction of China. They would be rewarded by the future republican regime as customs commissioners and postal administrators, by concessions of commercial monopolies, and with mining rights in Manchuria.”
“And they all lived happily ever after,” grunted Spade.
Mai-lin was confused. “But if they had it all set up—”
“Boothe couldn’t raise the money,” said Yee-chum. “After that he just disappeared.”
“What about Fritz Lea?” asked Mai-lin.
“He turned up in London after the revolution, when your father was seeking the support of America and the European powers so he would have Western backing to impose his own authority on his compatriots. Lea acted as an intermediary between Sun and the International Banking Consortium to divert funds intended for the Manchu dynasty to the new republic.”
“Did it work?” asked Spade.
“No. They remained neutral. But just the rumors that Sun had been in touch with Western leaders was enough to get him elected president, and he proclaimed a new government, the Republic of China, on January first, nineteen twelve. For forty-five days he headed the provisional government at Nanking, then stepped aside for the former imperial general Yuan Shikai.”
“And Fritz Lea?”
“He too dropped out of sight.” He turned to Mai-lin. “Your father’s republic was all too soon replaced by a military dictatorship, then by Chiang Kai-shek. That was the end of your father’s dream. I hope that I have been able to help you understand him better, Miss Choi.”
“I feel more confused than ever.”
They departed Yee-chum Li’s restaurant and the three of them stood on the corner of Waverly Place. Reverend Zhu offered his hand to each of the other two in turn, said, “I must return to my pastoral duties.” He headed up Sacramento, leaving them alone.
After dark Chinatown wore a different, slightly sinister aspect. The fog was swirling, the wind cold; the streetlights were haloed, their illumination dimmed. Only the sound of heels on the pavement betrayed the presence of hurrying pedestrians. A group of adventurous tourists, overcoats clutched about them, was being told lies by their guide, about the mysterious labyrinths below the Chinatown streets.
Spade said, “I’ll walk you back to your room.”
Mai-lin walked slowly, watching her feet. “Why did you not want us to talk about Lea and Boothe while we ate?”
“Did you notice the old waiter came to whisk our plates away just when we were finished eating? There’s a narrow passageway behind the booths. Someone can stand there and hear things you might not want him to hear.”
A few drops of rain splatted down. A blue-denimed waiter hurried by with someone’s hot dinner from some restaurant.
“Tell me again how Zhu got in touch with you,” said Spade.
“He heard from the Methodist church in Hawaii that I was coming to look for Boothe and Lea and asked if he could help me in any way.” She looked over at him. “Why do I trust you even when you’re trying to turn me against Moon-fong Li and Yee-chum Li and even Reverend Sabbath Zhu himself?”
“Maybe it’s because you trust everyone. Or maybe it’s because I don’t trust anyone,” said Spade. “Good night, Mai-lin.”
38
I’m Working for You, Remember?
Spade doglegged over to Green from Sansome in the rain. As he turned into the Green Street stub, a car swooshed by, splattering him with muddy water. Miles Archer’s sedan was parked on Green, empty. Spade climbed up to the warehouse loading dock. The wind-danced streetlight skittered his shadow in shifting praying mantis shapes against the red brick wall. Just at midnight Archer’s dark, heavy shape materialized from the shadows to trudge up the concrete steps.
“You had to pick the worst damn storm of the year for it,” Archer complained in his rather hoarse voice.
“I have a list of the stolen goods from Toomey at Matson,” said Spade. “We’ll do an inventory of whatever we find in the warehouse. Hold the light.”
Archer shone the hand torch on the heavy brass padlock on the overhead door. The third key Spade tried worked. He laid the open lock on the concrete.
They heaved the overhead up enough to slide underneath it, let it drop back. Inside was utter blackness and relative silence. Archer swept the torch around. The warehouse was crammed to the rafters with cartons, crates, boxes, and barrels.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he chortled in coarse delight.
Spade gave half the list to Archer, tossed his raincoat over a barrel of molasses, compared the numbers on the barrel with those on his list; made a check mark. Seventy minutes later he had checked every item on his list. Archer emerged from behind a tall stack of wooden crates of industrial nuts and bolts, flush faced and with a rip in the knee of his trousers.