A Barricade in Hell (34 page)

Something in Sung Wing's voice made Gabe hesitate. He thought about leaving without saying Fontaine's name, but he'd already gone too far to back away. “Do you know if your brother had any business dealings with a woman named Effie Fontaine or her associates?”

Mr. Sung turned his chair to face Gabe again, anger glittering in his eyes. “Business dealings? No, Captain, but I know her name. This is the person you think murdered Mr. Wells?”

For an instant, Sung Wing's scrutiny pushed Gabe back into his chair before the intensity eased and let him breathe again. He didn't want this man for an enemy, but he wouldn't compromise his case either. “All I can say is that Miss Fontaine and her organization are under investigation, Mr. Sung. What do you know about her?”

“She tried to take people from my streets. I sent my men to turn her hunters away.” The old man eyed him, considering. Sung Wing pulled a key tied to a satin cord from a pocket and unlocked a desk drawer. He rummaged inside before pulling out a stack of familiar-looking handbills and passing them to Gabe. “The people working for her posted these on every corner and building bordering Chinatown. My men were kept very busy taking them down.”

The handbills were like the others Gabe had seen, with Effie Fontaine's photograph in the center and dates and times of her lectures printed above. Smaller type scrolled across the bottom, written in Chinese.

Mr. Sung pointed to the Chinese figures. “These promise jobs and good wages to anyone willing to work. She offers to pay more for a day's labor than some of my people make in a month as houseboys and maids. Something else hides in the words, something that vanishes when I look closely. Her men gave up when the posters were torn down again and again and they couldn't lure my people to them.”

Gabe handed the flyers back. “How long ago was that?”

“Months now. The end of summer.” He locked the handbills back in the desk drawer. Sung Wing gestured toward the photograph of Zao's family, eyes full of regrets. “My brother and I quarreled over this woman. Liang thought I should take stronger measures to frighten her away. If I'd listened, he and Lan might still be alive.”

“You can't know that, Mr. Sung.” Gabe stopped short of saying that Fontaine might have killed more of the family, but experience and instinct told him that was true. She was unpredictable, extreme. “No one can know the future.”

“Perhaps not, but one should be cautious. Is this woman why policemen guard the lieutenant's family and Miss Bobet?” Sung Wing arched an eyebrow. “Something frightens you, Captain. It frightens you enough, you feel the need to be armed.”

“As you said, one should be cautious.” The gun didn't show under his jacket, he'd made certain of that. That Mr. Sung somehow knew didn't surprise him overmuch. Gabe stood, trying not to feel the weight of the pistol against his side. “Thank you. I'll let you know if we need more information.”

Mr. Sung nodded. Gabe turned to leave, but the tong leader called to him. “Captain, one more question to satisfy an old man's curiosity. What did your wife name the kitten?”

“Delia maintains the cat chose her own name.” Gabe smiled. “I'm not going to tell her she's wrong. The cat's name is Mai.”

“A wise and fitting choice.” Mr. Sung's solemn nod was formal and dignified, suitable for someone in his position. That didn't contradict the warmth in his voice or hide the pleased glimmer in his eyes. “Give Mrs. Ryan my best wishes. And please, Captain, be as careful with your wife's safety as you are with others'. Guard her well.”

“I will. Good night, Mr. Sung.” Gabe took a last look at the photograph of Zao's family, making sure he'd memorized Lan's face. He didn't need Sung Wing's reminder of what was at stake.

He already knew.

*   *   *

Gabe stared out the car window, relishing the relative quiet. Businesses were closing for the day, owners and customers hurrying home in the yellow glow of streetlamps. Newsies shouted the latest war headlines from corners, their voices fading almost as soon as the car passed. The continual hiss of tires on damp pavement struck him as a sound too ordinary and peaceful for a world at war.

Most people found comfort in ordinary things, but he wasn't most people, and his life was far from peaceful. He shifted in his seat, restless and struggling to hold in the anger that kept bubbling to the surface.

Feeling helpless always made him angry. What Gabe knew and what he could prove were two different things. He didn't have enough hard evidence to arrest Fontaine for murder, let alone hold her for trial. She could leave town now tonight, and he couldn't stop her.

Of all Effie Fontaine's victims, Sung Lan's death haunted him most. He couldn't forget the photograph of her, a solemn-eyed little girl holding her father's hand. The thought of Fontaine just walking away unpunished, free to go to the next town to claim more victims, and the next, left him wanting to punch something. Or someone.

Officer Bradford glowered at Gabe in the driving mirror occasionally, but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. That was for the best. They'd had another confrontation when Gabe got back to the police car and discovered Bradford had ignored his orders, a confrontation that led to him shouting the patrolman down.

His squad needed to work as a team. He didn't demand unquestioning obedience, but he wouldn't tolerate officers who thought they were above following orders or treating people decently. The paperwork necessary to bring Bradford up on charges was the only reason Gabe was going back to the station. As long as he was in the office, he'd check to see if Sal Rosen had delivered the promised autopsy report on Archie Baldwin.

Gabe slid down so that his head rested against the cold leather seat back. What he really wanted was to go home to Delia, to hold her close, surrounded by the faint scent of lilac water that always clung to her hair. A lifetime of those moments wouldn't be near enough. He didn't resent his job or duty often, but tonight he couldn't help himself.

The car jerked to a halt in front of the station, yanking him back to the here and now. Officer Bradford scowled in the mirror again, his voice grating. “Anything else?”

“What did you say, Officer?” Gabe's level stare made Bradford blanch. He could almost see the man thinking and working out what he'd done wrong. “I don't think I quite heard you.”

Bradford's fingers clenched around the steering wheel. “Anything else,
Captain
?”

“No, Patrolman. Nothing else tonight.” Gabe plucked his fedora off the seat and opened the door. “Report to Sergeant Rockwell first thing in the morning. He'll have your orders.”

He held Bradford's gaze until the patrolman looked away. Gabe got out of the car, striding into the station without a backward glance.

The front lobby was nearly deserted. Just after suppertime was too late for most citizens coming in to make a complaint about barking dogs or to report petty thefts, and too early for the drunks and rowdies that would fill the rows of benches after midnight. He nodded to the officers who greeted him, but kept his head down as he hurried toward his office.

His door was ajar and the lights on, the low murmur of voices carrying into the hall. Gabe kept one hand on his pistol and pushed the door open wide, unwilling to walk all the way inside until he saw who was waiting.

Marshall Henderson and Sam Butler, the reporter, looked up, their expressions both anxious and relieved. They didn't need to say anything. Something was wrong.

Henderson stood right away. He was dressed in street clothes and nervously smoothing down the front of his suit coat, further putting Gabe on his guard. “Captain! I was hoping you'd get back soon.”

“I wasn't coming back at all, but something happened to change my plans.” Gabe shut the door and hung his coat up. He sat across the desk from them, his old chair creaking under his weight. “What's so important the two of you are loitering in my office?”

Butler looked to Marshall, who nodded. Appointing Sam spokesman. “Captain Ryan—Gabe, this must be difficult for you. I know Doctor Rosen was a friend.”

He straightened his desk blotter, only half-listening. “What must be difficult?”

“You didn't get my message.” Marshall tugged the bottom of his suit jacket and looked away.

Gabe sat forward, hands folded on the desk, and put on the professional mask he wore while working. Hiding the wave of panic that threatened to carry him off. His voice sounded oddly calm. “If you have something to tell me, Marshall, just say it.”

“Captain … I sent Patrolman Finley to your house. I thought you came back to the station because you got my message.” Henderson raked long, skinny fingers through his hair. “Doctor Rosen and his wife are dead.”

He stared, momentarily numb. Gabe tried to talk himself into believing that Sal's death had nothing to do with Fontaine or Archie Baldwin, and that his friend hadn't been murdered. He couldn't do it.

The cop part of his mind began ticking off lists of people to check on, including his mother and Mrs. Allen.

People he needed to protect.

Gabe cleared his throat. “What happened?”

“They were hit by a car.” Marshall scrubbed his hands on his trouser knees. “Sam and I were making the rounds of the taverns together, poking around and looking for anyone talking about Miss Fontaine. We were headed down Kearny when we saw the crowd. Both Mrs. Rosen and Sal were dead before the beat cop got there. We have witnesses. At least a dozen people saw it happen.”

“Holy mother of God … Sal.” Gabe swung his chair around to face the window, struggling to keep from falling apart. He could ask questions—
do his damn job
—if he couldn't see the pity in their eyes. Sal deserved that much and more. “Did anyone get witness statements?”

“I did. Marshall and the other officer had their hands full dealing with the crowd.” Butler pulled a notebook out of his jacket, flipping through pages until he found the right one. “I spoke with two witnesses, a Mr. Brian and Mr. Lynch, who saw the car pull away from the curb as soon as Doctor and Mrs. Rosen came out of a little café on Kearny Street. The Rosens got as far as the corner and were waiting for traffic to clear before crossing the street. A car went over the curb, hit the Rosens, and kept going. Three different people told me that they didn't think what happened was an accident. No one else was on that corner. The driver meant to hit them.”

Murder was always ugly, leaving ugly things in its wake. He needed to write telegrams to Sal's son in Oregon and Pearl's mother in San Diego. Somewhere in his desk he had a Boston address for both of Sal's sisters. He was the officer in charge. Informing next of kin was his responsibility.

The guilt landing on Gabe's shoulders threatened to crush him. He'd gotten Sal involved, pushed him to dig for any scrap of evidence that might implicate Fontaine. Effie Fontaine was guilty, but he was responsible. He turned his chair back around. “Did police on the scene find the driver or could any of the witnesses give a description?”

“The driver was gone long before officers arrived. None of the witnesses saw the driver's face, but they all got a good look at the car.” Sam flipped to the next page in his notebook. “They all told me it was one of those big, black fancy cars you see on Nob Hill. A separate compartment up front for the driver, chrome trim, and a leather-covered spare wheel on the back. A woman, Mrs. Stoll, thought there was something written on the spare wheel, but she couldn't make out what.”

Something about the way Sam described the car triggered a vague memory. He chased after it, trying to remember, but gave up quickly. Nob Hill was full of fancy black cars, the new favorite toy of the very rich. The car could belong to anyone.

“Marshall, have Rockwell call the other stations and tell them what to look for. Make sure all the foot patrols get that description too. Remind them that the car will be damaged.” He dug in his top drawer for paper, pen, and ink. The paperwork bringing Bradford up on charges could wait until morning, but he wanted it done and over. “Has anyone spoken to Lieutenant Fitzgerald?”

“No, sir, not that I know of.” Marshall kept rubbing his hands on his knees over and over. Gabe suspected he was trying to wipe away the feel of death. “Do you want me to call the lieutenant too?”

“No, I'll call him.” Pain pounded over his left eye in time with his heartbeat. Gabe massaged his temple, trying to wipe away his growing headache. “Deliver those messages and then go home.”

“Gabe, this might not be the best time, but there's something else you need to hear.” Sam leaned forward, hands resting on his knees. “We ran into a man, a Bill Woodman, at McGrooty's Tavern. Mr. Woodman had been drinking whiskey all evening, which probably explains why he was so willing to talk. He was angry too. Woodman told me and Marshall some interesting stories about Fontaine and one of the men working for her, Jonas Wolf.”

Cold brushed Gabe's cheek and traveled down the back of his neck. His signal to pay attention. “What kind of stories?”

“Stories about Jonas Wolf mostly. Wolf likes to throw his weight around, intimidate people. Woodman's been a target a few times, including earlier today. That's why he was so angry.” Sam frowned. “This isn't the first time I've heard tales of Wolf bullying people who couldn't fight back. But what surprised me is that Woodman claims that Fontaine and Wolf are really husband and wife.”

“They're married?” He started scribbling on the paper he'd meant to use for Bradford's charges. Jack wasn't there to take notes; he'd have to record the conversation on his own. “What made Mr. Woodman say something like that?”

“He works at the German embassy downtown. Some kind of clerk's job they hire locals to do, filing and helping people fill out forms. Most of the low-level staff was sent back to Germany when the war heated up. That's where he ran afoul of Wolf.” Sam's face was carefully deadpan, but sly excitement glittered in his eyes. “Woodman swears he saw the paperwork. Effie Fontaine is Effie Fontaine Wolf. She's a German citizen, Gabe.”