Marcia Muller - The Body Snatchers Affair

Price said, “Are you saying he attempted to frame his own father?”

“I am. I had the document translated and it purports to link Scarlett with Mock Don Yuen and Little Pete. Mock Quan is as vicious as they come, with no scruples whatsoever.”

“That’s nothing but wild speculation,” Gentry said. “I still say Pete’s the man we’re after. Mock Quan is sneaky and ruthless, sure, and he probably does hate his old man, but he’s not clever enough to plan a takeover on his own.”

“Agreed,” Quincannon said. “The plan wasn’t his alone. He had help in its devising.”

“If he did, it was from Little Pete.”

“No, Pete had nothing to do with it.”

Crowley snapped, “Well, then, dammit? Who do you say was in it with him?”

“A blue shadow.”

“A... what? What the devil are you talking about?”

“James Scarlett said two things to me before he died outside the opium resort. One was ‘Fowler Alley’; the other was ‘blue shadow.’ The plain truth is, he was as afraid of a blue shadow as he was of Mock Quan. His wife, though she had no knowledge of it when she came to me, had just as much to fear.”

“His wife? Now what’re you saying?”

“An attempt was made on Andrea Scarlett’s life at her home two nights ago, for the same reason I was targeted in Ross Alley — apprehension that she had been told something damning to the plotters.”

The chief sat forward, frowning. “Mock Quan tried to shoot her, too? Why weren’t we told about it?”

Quincannon answered the first question, avoiding the second. “It wasn’t Mock Quan who fired the shot at Mrs. Scarlett.”

“Then who did?”

“His partner in crime, the blue shadow. That is the other thing Scarlett knew that signed his death warrant — the identity of the blue shadow, the man with whom he conspired to cheat justice for accused members of the Hip Sing and who in turn conspired with Mock Quan to establish a criminal empire in Chinatown.”

“What partner?” Crowley demanded. “What does ‘blue shadow’ mean?”

“It means,” Quincannon said, “a figure dressed in blue, one whose shadow looms large and has the power to strike fear into the hearts of fools and knaves like James Scarlett. Not a plain blue suit, as the partner wore in the attempted murder of my client, but a blue uniform — a policeman’s uniform.” He paused dramatically. “One of the men in this room is Mock Quan’s accomplice.”

All three officers came to their feet as one. Gentry aimed a quivering forefinger as if it were the barrel of his sidearm. “Preposterous nonsense! How dare you accuse one of us—”

“You, Sergeant. I am accusing you .”

The smoky air fairly crackled. Price and Crowley were both staring at Gentry; the sergeant’s eyes threw sparks at Quincannon. The cords in the short man’s neck bulged. His color had become a shade less purple than that of an eggplant.

“It’s a dirty lie!” he shouted.

“Cold, hard fact.” Quincannon shifted his gaze to Price. “That’s the real reason Gentry wanted time alone with Mock Quan downstairs, Lieutenant — not to make him talk, but to make sure he didn’t talk.”

Price said sharply, “Can you prove this allegation?”

“I can, to your and Chief Crowley’s satisfaction.” Again Quincannon paused for dramatic effect. Sabina was of the stated opinion that the stage had lost a splendid mustache-twirling ham actor when he decided to become a detective. Nonsense, of course, but he forgave her.

“It was Gentry, you’ll recall,” he said at length, “who constantly urged you and Chief Crowley to crush Little Pete and the Kwong Dock. Gentry who convinced the chief to order the raid on Little Pete’s shoe factory. Gentry who killed the highbinder during the raid.”

“Yes, by God. Right on all counts.”

“He tried to put a knife in me!” Gentry cried. “You were there, Lieutenant, you saw it—”

“I saw nothing of the kind. I took your word for it.”

“Gentry shot the highbinder,” Quincannon said, “for the express purpose of ‘finding’ the bogus letter that implicated Pete. Didn’t you tell me, Lieutenant, that the letter alludes to both Scarlett and Pete knowing the whereabouts of Bing Ah Kee’s corpse?”

“That’s right, it does.”

“Scarlett did know, and so did the sergeant. You’ll also recall him saying that night that Little Pete had ‘stashed old Bing’s bones in cold storage.’ Yet for all any of us knew at that point, the body might have been burned, or buried, or weighted and cast into the Bay, or been subjected to any of a dozen other indignities. Why would he use the specific term ‘cold storage’ unless he knew that was what had been done with the corpse?”

“Lies! Don’t listen to him!” Gentry started toward Quincannon with murder in his eye. “Damn you, you’re trying to railroad me!”

Price stepped in front of him. “Stand where you are, Sergeant,” he said in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

“Then there’s the attempt on Mrs. Scarlett’s life,” Quincannon said. “She had a reasonably good look at the man who tried to kill her and may well be able to identify him.” Another stretching of the truth, this, but one that had the desired effect on Price and Crowley, if not on Gentry. The sergeant continued to bluff and bluster.

“It wasn’t me!” he cried. “She’s another liar if she claims it was!”

“The shot aimed at her was fired at approximately nine P.M. I’ll wager you weren’t here at the Hall at that time. I’ll also wager that you can’t provide credible witnesses to your whereabouts. Other than Mrs. Scarlett, that is. Am I correct, Lieutenant?”

“Yes,” Price said, “you are. He was away on unspecified business and returned not long before you arrived.”

“Lawless business that also included the search of Scarlett’s office, so as to remove and destroy any incriminating material that the lawyer might have kept there. And also to filch a sheet of Scarlett’s letterhead stationery and some sort of item containing his signature — the tools with which he composed the bogus letter.”

The chief stalked around his desk, took a tight grip on Gentry’s arm. “A damned highbinder no better than Little Pete or Mock Quan — is that what you are, Gentry?”

“No! No, I swear—”

“Because if so I’ll see your mangy hide strung from the highest flagpole in the city.”

Gentry shook his head, sweat glistening slickly on his forehead and cheeks. “I tell you, this damned flycop is trying to frame me. There’s no real proof of any of his accusations—”

“Ah, but there is,” Quincannon said. “All the evidence needed to, ah, hang your mangy hide from the highest flagpole in the city.” What he said next was partly speculation, though he was reasonably sure it was grounded in fact. “When you searched Scarlett’s office, you failed to notice and remove several of his case files — cases in which your name is mentioned as a witness in his defense of members of the Hip Sing accused of gambling. In some, it was your testimony, no doubt false or distorted, that resulted in acquittal. In others, it shouldn’t be difficult to prove that you suppressed evidence, suborned perjury, or both.”

Crowley said grimly, “Are those files still in Scarlett’s office?”

“No. They’re safely locked away in my office safe. I’ll turn them over to you as soon as—”

Gentry called him a vicious name, fumbling his sidearm free of its holster. Price and Quincannon, in rapid consort, prevented him from using it. The lieutenant struck the weapon from his grasp with a fisted thump on the wrist, and Quincannon, with considerable pleasure, fetched the blue shadow a solid blow to the jaw.