No Comfort for the Lost (17 page)

Barbara released Celia’s wrist. “It might.”

“We can discuss a possible trip to Healdsburg tomorrow,” Celia said, conceding in order to calm her. “Besides, who knows? Perhaps Madame Philippe will have an insight for us that will resolve all our questions.”

“You’re not really expecting that, are you? They’re all charlatans.”

“No, Barbara, I am not expecting an astrologer to reveal what actually happened to Li Sha,” said Celia. “But it
is
possible Madame Philippe will say something that will spark an idea and help me understand what I’ve learned so far about the murder.”

And maybe, just maybe, the woman would have important information about Tessie Lange.

“We’re going there just so you can outwit that detective,” Barbara said curtly.

“My goal is to help find Li Sha’s murderer by whatever means possible,” said Celia. “Not to ‘outwit’ Detective Greaves.”

Her cousin’s expression turned dubious. “You might have convinced yourself that’s true, Cousin Celia, but you haven’t convinced me.”

• • •

“
B
et the other fella looks worse than you, sir,” said Taylor, eyeing Nick’s sling.

They passed Portsmouth Square. The midday sky was clear, and it was good weather for a stroll to the Barbary. For once, Briggs had been in the detectives’ office. Nick didn’t like having Eagan’s toady spying on his every move. Next, Briggs would be rifling around in Nick’s desk, reading his case notebooks.

“He’s hobbling like an old geezer,” said Nick, frowning. The whiskey he’d drunk last night to numb the pain had left him with a worse headache than what the blow to his skull had caused; he was in no mood to explain to Taylor how easily the assailant had gotten away. “He might never walk straight again.”

“That’s what I figured!” chirped Taylor.

They turned up Dupont. The wind carried the smell of damp, burned wood down the road. At the end of the block, two groups with shovels and brooms—one Chinese, one white storekeepers—were at work cleaning up the debris, tossing soaked and blackened timbers and chunks of brick onto the bed of a hired wagon. The laundry owner and his wife picked through the remnants of their business, salvaging what they could. The German saloonkeeper was still missing.

“Got to work quick, didn’t they?” observed Taylor.

A man in a heavy apron, his long queue swinging, was setting crates of vegetables on the sidewalk in front of his grocery. He glanced at Nick and Taylor as they walked by, taking particular notice of Taylor’s uniform. His scowl seemed an accusation.

“No love lost, eh, sir?” Taylor asked once they’d gone past.

“Besides the boy I saw in the alley last week and that servant you heard about, I’ll bet there have been other Chinese people attacked by white folks recently,” said Nick. “They’ve probably been expecting all sorts of violence. And they also probably blame the police for not preventing the fire.”

They came to a stop a dozen yards from the rubble that spilled into the street.

Taylor plucked his cigar, smoked down to a stub, out of his mouth. “I’ve heard the Anti-Coolie Association’s planning a big meeting tomorrow night. Bet there’ll be more trouble after that.”

Good God, Nick hoped not. “Talk to anybody who speaks English to get a better description of the man the Chinese laundry owner saw. We need to figure out who he is and if he’s associated with the anti-coolieites. Track down that German saloonkeeper, too, and get a statement from him.”

“You’d think he’d be tracking
us
down, itching to get ahold of the arsonist,” said Taylor.

“Then we’ve got even more reason to find him.”

Taylor studied the people clearing the debris, the
plink
of salvaged bricks being stacked for reuse joining with the thump of burned timbers being tossed into the wagon bed. “I can’t see that this fire has anything to do with Li Sha’s death, though.”

“It might not, Taylor, but I want to be thorough,” said Nick. “And if there
is
a connection between the fire and the murder, then all the Chinese in San Francisco should worry they’ll be next.”

“Don’t rightly see how we’re gonna be able to contain all the anger, if it gets out of hand.”

“I don’t, either,” Nick said. “When you’ve finished here, go to Lange’s to find out if he’s heard from his daughter. He gave me the name of a few friends who might know her plans. I’m not expecting much, but talk to them if she hasn’t returned.” Nick gave Taylor their names. “Also, I need you to question Ahearn again and find out what he was doing in Chinatown recently looking for Li Sha. I’m off to the Douglasses’ house.”

“Who are they?”

“The woman heads the Ladies’ Society of Christian Aid and knew Li Sha,” he said. “Mr. Douglass is Joseph Palmer’s business associate. Palmer suggested at the funeral yesterday that I might want to ask Douglass about Li Sha and her search for money.”

“Is Mr. Douglass also a friend of the captain’s?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised to find out he is,” said Nick.

“But I thought we were focusing on Ahearn, sir.”

“I’m keeping all my options open, Taylor.”

“I’ll get on those inquiries, then, sir . . . Mr. Greaves,” said Taylor, his cigar stub teetering between the fingers of his left hand while he fished in his coat pocket for his notebook with his right. “But I thought we’re supposed to be finished with this case. I mean, Davies was indicted by the grand jury this morning.”

“I’m taking until Wednesday, and that’s tomorrow. Which leaves us the rest of today to get answers.” Nick scrutinized his assistant. “And for God’s sake, Taylor, whatever you do, don’t drop that damned cigar butt onto anything flammable.”

• • •

“
N
ow then, we’ll have to ask a specific question so Madame Philippe can draw her astral chart specially,” Addie explained as she, Celia, and Barbara descended the incline of Montgomery Street on their way to the astrologer’s lodgings, where she conducted her business. Barbara had surprised Celia by asking to accompany them to Madame Philippe’s, even though Celia had given her cousin the option of staying with the Cascarinos instead. Perhaps she was more curious about what they might learn than she wanted to acknowledge.

Celia’s stomach grumbled. She hoped the woman wouldn’t take long. They’d had to wait to make their visit until after Celia had finished her appointments for the day, and in their haste to leave the house, Celia had forgotten to eat lunch.

“At least,” said Addie, looking abashed, “that’s what I understand from Miss Lange.”

“Addie, have you already been to see Madame Philippe?” Celia asked.

“Weel, ma’am, maybe once.”

Likely with the intention of inquiring where to find a husband, thought Celia, concealing a smile. “Our primary question is to ask Madame Philippe where the killer can be found.”

“We also have to ask what the man who left us those awful warning notes looks like, so we can tell the police,” said Addie. They made their way past the Broadway cut and the houses that had been left stranded high above the roadbed, all in a desire to level the street in the name of progress. The same sort of work that had been done by those Chinese laborers who’d been attacked last month, the first outward manifestation of a hatred that had been long simmering, ready to boil over like a froth of too-hot milk.

“The police won’t listen to anything an astrologer has to say,” said Barbara.

“The police might listen to her,” Addie said defensively, since the visit had been her suggestion.

“I doubt it,” said Barbara. “Besides, shouldn’t we be worried that Madame Philippe might make us think the wrong person’s guilty?”

“Let us simply see what she has to say,” said Celia. “A visit to Madame Philippe is no great effort.”

They waited at the curb for a horsecar, clipping along the rails at a rapid pace, to rattle past. Barbara was scrutinizing the people on the street, her brow creasing.

“Are you searching for those boys who bothered you last week?” Celia asked her.

“I don’t see them anywhere,” answered Barbara. “And please don’t suggest I ask Madame Philippe about
them
, too.”

“I shan’t. How much farther is it, Addie?” asked Celia. She dodged a newspaper boy dancing about on the corner, trying to attract attention to the daily he was peddling. Last night’s fire in Chinatown was front-page news.

“She’s just down the road a wee bit more, ma’am.”

Addie pointed out the astrologer’s lodgings. Madame Philippe had third-floor rooms in a stucco-fronted building with arched windows and pediments. The building was part of a long line of similar buildings that filled the entire block, all of them far more respectable looking than Celia had anticipated.

They reached the entrance and stopped. Celia looked at Barbara, pale and anxious, and at Addie, high color pinking her cheeks.

“Shall we?” Celia asked, and started up the front stairs.

• • •

“
I
’m sorry my husband isn’t here to speak with you, Detective,” said Lena Douglass, gesturing for her Chinese servant, a bony kid barely into his teenaged years, to depart. She’d been doing needlework in the light of the tall parlor window when Nick had been shown in, and she sounded none too happy to have been disturbed. “But perhaps you can explain to me why you’ve come.”

The servant tiptoed out of the parlor. It was a fine room, if a person liked lots of fringe and floral chintz. Nick didn’t.

He cradled his injured right arm with his left, his war wound aching in sympathy. “I have some questions about Li Sha’s murder.”

“It’s my understanding that Mrs. Davies’ brother-in-law is being held for that crime,” she said. “I don’t see what I or my husband can say that could help free the man, Detective Greaves.”

“I’m here because of a conversation I had with Joseph Palmer yesterday,” said Nick. “I’ve learned that Li Sha was looking for money the night she died. She hoped to secure enough to leave town. Did she approach either you or your husband?”

“Did Joseph Palmer suggest she had?”

“He thought I might like to ask.”

“How dare he accuse Robert of having anything to do with that girl’s murder,” Mrs. Douglass said, her voice rising. Out in the hallway, somebody drew in a quick breath. Probably one of the woman’s servants, eavesdropping.

“He didn’t actually accuse your husband, ma’am.”

“You are here making queries, aren’t you?”

He couldn’t deny her logic. “Back to that question—did Li Sha ask you or your husband for money?”

“No. She did not,” she answered. “This is insufferable.”

He smiled as if he’d heard the comment a thousand times. “That’s how the police are, Mrs. Douglass.”

“That may be so, but not in my house.”

“Can you account for your husband’s activities Monday of last week?” Nick pressed. “And last night as well.” Was Robert Douglass the man who had taken such pains to conceal his identity before thwacking Nick with a bludgeon? Or the person who’d gone to Chinatown and set a fire?

“Why should I account for my husband’s activities? He’s done nothing wrong.”

“How about you just humor me?”

She was a handsome woman except when she frowned, which she was doing right then. “I shall speak to Police Chief Crowley about this.”

Stand in line.
“You have the right to do so, ma’am.”

Satisfied she’d be able to get Nick in trouble, she told him what he wanted to know. “Robert was at the Men’s Benevolent Association meeting last evening and last Monday. He came home from the meetings at the time I expected. He was not out murdering Chinese girls, or whatever he is supposed to have done last evening that you’re so interested in.”

“He attends the meeting every Monday?” asked Nick.

“Yes. He’s there along with Joseph Palmer. They’re both members. Of course, last Monday Joseph was away on business, I understand, and didn’t attend that night. It was probably the only Monday he’s missed in months.”

“Can you provide me with the names of other members who can vouch that your husband was in attendance both Monday nights?” he asked.

“Really,” she huffed, but offered up the names. Nick recognized a few of them. Prosperous men. Important men. Men who’d protectively huddle around Douglass and Palmer.

“Anybody else?” he asked.

“One of your police captains. A Captain Eagan,” she answered, and appeared amused to see the shock on his face.

They were absolutely as thick as thieves, the bunch of them.

• • •

M
adame Philippe greeted them in a soft voice with an even softer French accent and took their wraps. She was a small, brown-haired woman with an honest expression and intelligent eyes, nothing like the wrinkled crones who inhabited bad novels and penny dreadfuls.

“Do come in, please,” Madame Philippe said, ushering them into her suite of rooms.

The astrologer had converted her parlor into a consulting room. It smelled of rose petals and candle wax, scents that reminded Celia of her family’s church back in Hertfordshire. The space was tastefully furnished, the spindly-legged fruitwood chairs and settee upholstered in burgundy toile and, to Celia’s eyes, very French. The astrologer had arranged four chairs around a circular walnut table, and candles were lit upon the fireplace mantel and on a compact corner table. They could have been in a boudoir in Paris, if not for the framed posters of astrological signs and the sets of books with titles in English that filled a bookcase.

“Thank you ever so much for seeing us,” said Addie.

“You require my assistance, and I will help,” Madame Philippe answered. She wore an old-fashioned gown of simple black bombazine, which whispered like the soothing rustle of springtime leaves as she guided them to their chairs. “You do not need to thank me.”

Barbara mumbled something Celia could not make out, but the girl sat at Celia’s left and managed not to appear too dour or too incredulous.

As they settled in their seats, Madame Philippe produced a piece of paper and spread it upon the table. A circle was drawn in its center and split into twelve equal segments, the twelve astrological signs imprinted around its perimeter.