Marcia Muller: The Body Snatchers Affair

“Well, somebody took it,” Gentry argued. “And Pete’s the only man in that rathole of vice who’d dare.”

“Not necessarily,” Quincannon said. “Hidden forces at work, mayhap.”

“Such as?”

He shrugged. “Merely a suggestion.”

“Yeah, well, keep your suggestions to yourself. You don’t know Pete or the Quarter like we do, flycop.”

“No, Quincannon may be right,” Price said. “I’ve had a feeling that there’s more going on than meets the eye and ear in Chinatown these days. Yet we’ve learned nothing to corroborate it.”

Quincannon said, “I take it you’ve had no word of what’s become of Bing Ah Kee’s remains?”

“None. There’s no telling without a better understanding of the purpose of its theft.”

The stubbornly churlish sergeant put his oar in again. “I say Pete’s got the corpse in cold storage and intends to use it to start a war with the Hip Sing.”

“If that’s the case, why hasn’t he produced it by now? Or demanded a ransom? It’s been four days since the snatch.”

Four days was in fact a long time without word of some sort. The body of old Bing Ah Kee, who had died of natural causes, had disappeared from the Four Families Temple near Hip Sing headquarters on Waverly Place. After a lavish funeral parade, it had been returned to the temple for one last night before it was scheduled for placement in storage to await passage to Bing’s ancestral home in Canton for burial. The thieves had removed the corpse from its coffin and made off with it sometime during the early morning hours — a particularly bold deed considering the proximity of the temple to the Hip Sing Company. Yet they had managed it unseen and unheard, leaving no clues as to their identity.

Body snatching was uncommon but not unheard of in Chinatown. When such ghoulishness did occur, tong rivalry was almost always the motivation — a fact which supported Gentry’s contention that the disappearance of Bing Ah Kee’s husk was the work of Little Pete and the Kwong Dock. Yet stealing an enemy leader’s bones without openly and immediately claiming responsibility was an odd way of warmongering... unless the delay was a deliberate attempt to ratchet up tensions and make open warfare inevitable.

But then, why hadn’t the usual gambit of instigating one or more assassinations of key figures in the rival tong been employed? And why would Little Pete, if he was the ringleader, send one of his highbinders to murder a white attorney instead?

“Well, in any case I don’t like the way the wind is blowing over there,” the chief said. “This damned shooting tonight is bound to have dire consequences. The boo how doy have always left Caucasians strictly alone. You all know that. Scarlett’s murder sets a deadly precedent.”

“Exactly,” Gentry said. “We can’t afford to stand by and do nothing about it. Once the newshounds get hold of Scarlett’s murder, they’ll whip the public up to a froth. If we don’t act soon, we’re likely to have vigilante trouble to contend with, too.”

“We damned well can’t have that,” Crowley said. “What do you suggest, Sergeant?”

“Smash Little Pete and his gang before more innocent citizens are killed.”

“James Scarlett was hardly innocent,” Price reminded him. “And we have no knowledge yet of why he was murdered, much less evidence that it was Pete who ordered it.”

“Then let’s go find some.” Gentry had lighted a cheap long nine cigar; he waved it for emphasis. “By God, the only way to ensure public safety is to send the flying squad out to Pete’s shoe factory and the Kwong Dock headquarters. Axes, hammers, and pistols will write his and his highbinders’ epitaphs in a hurry.”

“Not yet,” Price said, still the voice of reason.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, Pete’s too clever to leave evidence lying around for us to find.”

“He is, maybe, but his henchmen may not be.”

Price ignored this. “And for another,” he said, “a premature raid is liable to have the opposite effect, especially if Pete turns out to be innocent. Cause widespread bloodshed instead of preventing it. And bring the wrath of Blind Chris and his machine down on our heads.” He appealed to the chief. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

Crowley was silent. He seemed to be considering the dubious wisdom of Gentry’s suggestion.

Price realized it, too. “I strongly advise against a show of force at this time.” Then, for emphasis, he repeated, “Strongly.”

The chief made up his mind — the correct decision, to Quincannon’s way of thinking. “You’re right, Will,” he said. “We’ll hold off for the time being, see how the wind blows.”

Gentry forbore further argument, though with obvious reluctance. He gave a dissatisfied nod, saluted, and left the office.

When the door closed behind him, Quincannon said to Price, “What do you know of Fowler Alley, Lieutenant?”

“Fowler Alley? Why do you ask that?”

“Scarlett mumbled the name after I carried him out of the opium resort. I wonder if it might have significance.”

“I can’t imagine how. Little Pete operates his little empire from his shoe factory in Bartlett Alley, near the Kwong Dock Company. There are no tong headquarters in Fowler Alley, and no known illegal activity other than a fantan parlor or two.”

“Are any of the businesses there run by Pete?”

“Not to my knowledge. I’ll look into it.”

Quincannon nodded, thinking, Not before I do, by Godfrey. He got to his feet. “I’ll be going now, gentlemen. My client has to be told of her husband’s death.”

Crowley said, “I can dispatch a man to do that—”

“No, the chore is mine.” The mere thought of it knotted Quincannon’s insides, but he was not a man to shirk his duty where a client was concerned. Especially not when the slaying victim had been in his care at the time of the attack. But that was not the only reason. If Andrea Scarlett did after all possess even a scrap of information germane to her husband’s murder, he wanted to know what it was before the police did.

The chief shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll be notified if you’re needed again. Meanwhile, you’ll do well to remember that you have no official standing in this matter. Do I make myself clear?”

Quincannon said, “Perfectly,” between his teeth, and took his leave.

The law offices of James Scarlett were on the southern fringe of Chinatown, less than half a mile from the Hall of Justice. For this reason, Quincannon made that his first stop. He had briefly visited the old, two-story wooden building earlier in the day, after Andrea Scarlett had departed the agency and before venturing into Chinatown. The place had been dark and locked up tight then; the same was true when he arrived there a few minutes before midnight.

He paid the hansom driver at the corner, walked back through heavy shadows to the entranceway. Pondering the while, as he had in the cab, about the sinister incident in Ross Alley.

Why had the hatchet man waited in ambush as he had? If he’d known Scarlett was in the Cellar of Dreams, why not just enter and dispose of him there? Witnesses were never a worry to the boo how doy . Could he, Quincannon, have been followed on his rounds of the opium resorts? No. Always sensitive to his surroundings, particularly in such places as Chinatown after dark, he was sure that he hadn’t been tailed.

Then there was the fact that the assassin had fired three shots, the last two of which had come perilously close to sending Quincannon to join his ancestors. Wildly hurried shooting caused by darkness? Or, as unlikely as it might seem, could he also have been a target? There was something about the shooter that fretted him, too, something he could not quite put his finger on.