Ralph Compton - Bounty Hunter

“Weimin told me the Tong plans on taking over the entire waterfront,” Tone said.

Langford smiled. “Here in San Francisco your friend Weimin is the Tong.”

“I’m in his debt. He saved my life.”

“Yes, I know.” Langford looked out the window, staring into the gathering darkness. When he’d collected his thoughts, he turned to Tone again. “We let the Tong get rid of Sprague, then we get rid of the Tong. It’s a simple solution to a complex problem.”

“No matter what, you’re in for a long war.”

Langford smiled. “Nothing in this city ever comes easy.” He set his glass on the table. “Look at me, Tone. What do you see?”

“Huh?”

“Describe me.”

Tone smiled. “I see a tough-looking man wearing a stained old shirt, baggy pants, and”—he bent over in his chair and glanced under the table—“a smelly pair of slippers that should have been thrown out years ago.”

“No police uniform in sight?”

“No. Just the rags I described.”

“Good. Then talking as Mr. Langford, I think I might know where Sprague is holed up.”

Now Tone was interested. “Where?”

“According to my source, and she’s reliable maybe half the time, he’s taken rooms at the Victory Hotel on Steiner Street. My source says her best friend works at the hotel as a chambermaid and she recognized Sprague and his fancy woman. He’s got no more than half a dozen men with him.”

Tone nodded. “You want me to go get him . . . Mr. Langford?”

“No. I want you to keep your hands clean on this one. Find your Chinese friend and tell him what I’ve just told you. Tell him the odds on my information being correct are about fifty-fifty.”

“You want me to do it tonight?”

“Is there a better time? Sprague is out of it for now and what men he has left are with him.”

Langford pushed his glass away from him. “Damn this rotgut. It makes a man forget things. What the hell were we just talking about?”

Tone smiled and rose to his feet. “The weather, Sergeant.”

“Ah yes, the weather. My night off and it’s raining hard. Still, I’m glad I’m not out on the street. On rainy nights the wind coming off the bay chills a man to the marrow.”

After he was dressed, his guns in place, Tone said, “Langford, I think I’ll take a stroll before bed.”

“Be careful. The streets can be dangerous at this time of night.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“One other thing, Tone: be careful around Weimin. He’s a mighty dangerous man. There’s an old Chinese proverb that says you can hardly make a friend in a year, but you can easily offend one in an hour.” Langford smiled. “For pity’s sake don’t offend him. For now at least, we need him.”

Tone picked up his glass from the table and drained it, then looked at the big sergeant. “I’ll step carefully, but Weimin is all growed up and he doesn’t offend worth a damn.”

Langford nodded. “I’d say he doesn’t scare worth a damn either. That’s good for us, bad for Sprague. Get it done, John.”

But when Tone left the house and walked into the rain-lashed street, destiny was about to take him in another direction—one that would force him to follow in the footsteps of a monster.

Chapter 37

The rain had swept Pacific Street clear of people, but every drinking den and dance hall was bursting at the seams. Six English clipper ships had come in during the week and were tied up at the docks, leaving their crews with time and money to spend.

A damp, patchy mist hung over the road, drifting in the wind. Rain ticked from the eaves of the waterfront buildings and formed wide puddles on the sidewalks that captured the blue light of the gas lamps.

The collar of his peacoat turned up around his ears, Tone stepped into Murder Alley, but it seemed that even the hardworking Chinese had taken refuge from the rain. The passageway was deserted and its tossing paper lanterns were shredding in the wind-driven downpour.

An old woman opened a door as Tone passed and he stopped and asked after Weimin. The woman shook her head, let go with a torrent of Chinese, then bent and shooed him away from her, as though she was chasing a trespassing rooster.

There were other alleys where brothels and opium dens prospered, and Tone resigned himself to trying each and every one of them.

After an hour, he was ready to give up. Weimin could be anywhere, even back in Chinatown, where it would be impossible to find him.

Irritated by a sense of failure, he retraced his steps along Pacific Street, head bent against the sheeting rain. A man stumbled from a saloon, spotted Tone and staggered directly toward him.

The man bumped into Tone and immediately launched into a string of apologies. “Sorry, Mister, real sorry. Sorry that. I didn’t watch where I was headed. . . .”

But his fluttering hands were in constant motion, now and then landing lightly on Tone’s chest and hips.

It was the oldest trick in the book, and Langford had once told him how to spot it, even from a distance. The dip’s plan was to keep the mark preoccupied with a fast string of patter while his searching hands picked his pocket.

Tone smiled, quickly reached down, grabbed the dip’s forefinger and bent it backward. The man squealed and his feet did a little jig on the wet cobbles.

“Does that hurt?” Tone asked.

“Yes! Yes! Damn you, it hurts! Let me go!”

“Sure,” Tone said. He bent the finger back until he heard bone snap.

The dip screamed and clutched at his mangled hand. Tone smiled. “Mister, I’m too old a cat to be played with by a kittlin’. Now get the hell out of here or I may take it into my head to break some more of your fingers.”

The man cast a single horrified glance at his tall assailant, then lurched back toward the saloon, groaning.

Tone’s smile grew as he watched the dip scamper. He didn’t like pickpockets. It had served the man right.

His mood considerably lightened, Tone walked along Pacific Street, his eyes searching everywhere, hoping to catch a glimpse of Weimin.

The Tong takeover of the waterfront was not apparent and every dive seemed to be doing business as usual. Drunken sailors lurched from saloon to brothel and back again, bold-eyed whores stood in doorways, welcoming customers, and gaunt, pale-faced addicts patronized the opium dens.

Most of the owners had capitulated easily, deciding that paying protection money to the Tong was better than being forced out of business.

The only holdout seemed to be Sprague, and Tone could spot his establishments easily. They were the ones with a half dozen Chinese boo how doy —hatchet men—standing outside their doors, discouraging customers from entering. Judging from the silence in Sprague’s saloons, not many had been willing to run that particular gauntlet.

The Tong takeover of the opium and slave trade was even less obvious, but Tone guessed that it was now completely under Chinese control.

He recalled what Langford had said about letting the Tong get rid of Sprague, then routing out the Chinese gangsters. He would have his hands full. The way it was now, with the Tong firmly entrenched along the waterfront, it would take a citywide fire or an earthquake to cleanse the Barbary Coast, and neither was likely to happen.

Tone made one last check of Murder Alley, saw no one, and stepped back to the street. With few people about, a movement to his right caught his eye. He turned and saw a man and a young woman walk into another alley about fifty yards away.

He wasn’t sure, but the small, frail-looking man in the long gray coat looked familiar.

Could it have been Luther Penman? With a whore, of all things?

An alarm bell rang in Tone’s head. A small, thin man in a gray coat . . . the eyewitness’s description of the Ripper.