I stopped to dip a fried shrimp into the tomato-mustard sauce and see how Yat Sing was taking it.
His eyes were bright with attention, his face merely a round frame for eyes, nose and mouth.
I said, “The police will cover the hotels, the rooming houses, keep an eye on the outgoing buses and trains. All that is routine, as you probably know.” My chopsticks scooped up the chicken-almond chop suey.
Yat Sing said nothing.
“Daphne Strate,” I said, “worked for the Crescent City Chemical Manufacturing & Supply Company. She is supposed to have been short six thousand dollars in her accounts. Let us suppose she was. What did she do with the money?”
Yat Sing might not have heard the question.
“There is,” I said, “one answer, and only one answer. When a girl of that type is short six thousand dollars in her accounts, the money has gone to some man — either a ne’er-do-well brother or a glib-tongued lover who is short of cash and gets her to sacrifice everything in order to get him money.
“If, on the other hand, the girl is not guilty, then why did she run away? Why would the New Orleans chemical company feel that it had enough evidence to go to the police?
“Now then, in either event, she came to San Francisco. She had some reason for coming to San Francisco. I want to find out what that reason is. I want very much to find Daphne Strate before the police do.”
I poured a little of the dark Chinese soy-bean sauce — which the Chinese call shee yeu but which is known virtually in every Chinese restaurant as “bettle juice” — over my fried rice.
The police are not dumb. Yat Sing, no matter what people may say about them. They will search for the reason Daphne Strate came to San Francisco. The obvious assumption is, of course, that Daphne was running away from the New Orleans police, that she learned in some way of Betty Crofath’s death and, by taking possession of her purse, thought she could assume the dead girl’s identity. As far as the baggage is concerned, having acquired a purse containing a trunk check, Daphne Strate had the trunk delivered.
“But suppose there is another explanation. Suppose, before Betty Crofath went to bed that night, she arranged to change identities with Daphne Strate. Suppose Daphne Strate was asked to come to San Francisco in connection with Betty Crofath’s mission. Suppose her pretense on the train was not merely a coincidence but the result of carefully laid plans.”
I stopped talking and looked intently at Yat Sing.
He slowly blinked his eyes.
I said, “I want to know all about the background of Betty Crofath in Buenos Aires. I want to know about a Karl Wilkers. I want to know who is the Ramon and who is the Jose in her life. I want to know all about Numatsu Kamchura. And,” I went on, “the hell of it is, I want to know all of this before the police can possibly find Daphne Strate. I want to know it by tomorrow evening.”
Yat Sing merely picked up the empty dishes. “All right,” he said. “Can do. Maybe-so, can do.”
I put in the biggest part of the night and most of the next day getting acquainted with Betty Crofath through her diary. Not only did I have the things she had written as a measure by which to gauge her character, but I had the things she had not written. For instance, I noticed there was never a word of complaint in the diary. On New Year’s day, she had apparently been suffering from pretty much of a hangover, but she had made no complaint. She had made whoopee the night before and was paying the price. She paid it without comment other than one humorous line.
And there was a certain whimsical philosophy which ran like a thread of gold through the entire diary, connecting all of the incidents — a thin thread on which the events were strung into a necklace draped around the personality of a dead girl.
Then, abruptly, realization dawned on me that I might have in my hand a possible key to some of the problem I propounded to Yat Sing.
I ran through the diary, locating the date the coffee ship had docked in New Orleans. The entry was innocent enough on its face, yet, in the light of after events, it became significant:
“Docked at New Orleans at one p.m. Some trouble getting through customs. Hot and sticky, but New Orleans ever remains the incomparable city, the queen of them all. Bathed and changed at hotel then went out to wander through streets of the French Quarter. Had warned D. Not to meet me at boat. Once more am having peculiar sensation of being followed. Ate bouillabaisse, shrimp, good old Southern cornbread, chicken and Spanish rice. Bill for the two of us only $2.20, including wine with meal and cocktail before. Truly, there is no other city in the States quite like New Orleans. Leaving on train tomorrow night. In meantime, plan to keep very much to myself. As ticket is already purchased, will not do anything about that. Walked around until after midnight soaking up the atmosphere, dropping in at little bars. Had a wonderful time all by myself. Let a few of the boys buy me a drink but got rid of them afterwards by saying I was going to meet my husband. Afraid I was a bit crude about it, but they seemed to take it in good part. I have often noticed that about New Orleans. A girl can let herself get picked up for the evening and then go home alone if she wants to without making a scene. There is a certain give-and-take tolerance in the French Quarter that makes for good fellowship in the best sense of the word. Yet what is this feeling of nervous apprehension which is settling over me? D. laughs at me. It will be a relief when I am safely aboard the train and can enjoy a long sleep.”
I debated over that entry. She had settled into a long sleep all right, poor girl. She had been apprehensive. Yet she had anticipated safety when she was once on the train. Why? Why would the train with its swaying, crowded Pullmans have offered more safety than her locked room in the New Orleans hotel?
She had gone to dinner with a certain D. That could have well been Daphne Strate. Some agreement had been reached — perhaps an agreement to switch identities. When I had first glanced through the diary, I had thought her statement that, since the ticket had already been purchased, she would do nothing about it, meant she had decided it was not necessary to secure any validation. It was, however, quite possible that if she made some agreement to switch identities with Daphne Strate, she had decided not to do it until after they were on the train.
Yat Sing showed up at eight o’clock with roast-pork chow mein, spareribs with bittersweet sauce, tea, almond cakes and rice. He had information to impart so he talked — a peculiar combination of Chinese words, pidgin English and motions.
“Numatsu Kamchura velly impo’tant. Die already.” And Yat Sing clinched his hand as though holding a knife, and drew it rapidly across his abdomen from left to right.
“Same thing, Jee saht. Karl Wilkers alla same German man. Him boss send for him come back home, chop-chop.”
“How go home?” I asked.
“Chiemm soey taung.”
“You’re certain he go by submarine?”
Yat Sing repeated with dogged persistence, “Am certain for sure. He go chiemm soey taung.”
I waited for more.
“Betty Crofath alla same catchum one cousin, liv’em apartment house tai fow. I write ’em down paper.”