Scandal on Rincon Hill (24 page)

Arriving half an hour later at Yoot Hong Low's restaurant, I asked to see Kin Lee, the man I had been instructed to contact. The waiter, who was wearing the customary loose white cotton tunic and black trousers, listened respectfully to my request, then escorted me to a table where he indicated that I should wait. Bowing low, he disappeared behind a painted screen at the back of the dining room. A moment later, a second waiter arrived, carrying a tray which he silently deposited before me on the table. Pouring steaming hot tea from a China pot into a cup, he, too, bowed low and departed.

I had taken but a single sip of the light green brew, when an older man, whom I recognized as Kin Lee, emerged from behind the screen. He bowed, then stood as still as a statue waiting for me to speak. When I explained that I would like to see Li Ying, he
bowed yet again, and without asking any questions, slipped back behind the screen.

It was not an unpleasant wait. I enjoyed my pot of excellent tea, as well as a dish of some sort of Chinese dumplings which I found to be quite delicious. Most interesting, however, was watching the human beehive of people hurrying up and down the street. Every available inch of Chinatown seemed to be taken up with small shops and restaurants announcing themselves with gold, red, and black signs, and displaying crates of vegetables, hanging chickens, ducks, fish, hams, and vast numbers of vibrant lanterns of various shapes and sizes. The unusual aromas, strange customs, and rapid patter of an unintelligible language always made me feel as if I had left San Francisco and entered an exotic foreign land.

Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes after Kin Lee's departure, he returned and beckoned me to follow him through the bustling kitchen, a crowded storeroom, and out into a back alley. There, pulled up behind the restaurant—and taking up very nearly all the width of the narrow alley—was a hansom cab. The driver, who was dressed entirely in black, sprang lightly down from his elevated seat in the rear of the vehicle, and politely opened the carriage door.

Before I could step up, however, he bowed and said, “Missy, please forgive. Must wear this.”

Since I was no stranger to this procedure, I was not surprised or offended when the man produced a brightly printed silk scarf from a pocket, and handed it to me. With a polite nod I accepted the blindfold and placed it over my eyes, tying it into a knot at the back of my head. When the scarf was securely in place, the driver carefully assisted me into the cab and closed the door.

The cab moved and, as always, I experienced a surge of excitement. My visits with the tong leader always triggered a feeling of exhilaration, as if I were embarking on an exotic and possibly dangerous adventure. Which in the truest sense of the word, I was. For all his brilliance and flawless manners, Li Ying was undeniably one of the most ruthless leaders of Chinatown's underworld.

As was invariably the case, we drove about for some little
time—executing a good many twists and turns—before the driver finally reined his horse to a stop. Since we had commenced our journey on Waverly Place, which was situated in the heart of the ten-square-block area known as Tangrenbu, so-named after the Chinese goddess of heaven, I knew the cab driver had deliberately prolonged the journey, undoubtedly to further impede me from pinpointing the exact location of Li Ying's residence.

The blindfold was not removed until I had been escorted inside the house, guided up the carpeted stairs, and led to a comfortable armchair. When I once again regained the use of my vision, I saw that I had been placed in the room Li always used for my visits. I was delighted to see that a lovely porcelain tea service had been laid out on a black-lacquered table next to my chair, including a plate containing Western-looking cakes and cookies. Each time I called upon Li Ying, I was served refreshments from a different tea set, each more exquisite than the one which had preceded it. At the conclusion of the Russian Hill murders, he had presented me with an exquisite hand-painted tea set which had been in his family for centuries. Much to my mother's delight, it was now proudly featured on the buffet table in our Rincon Hill dining room.

As I gazed around the lovely, and eclectically decorated, room, I was once again struck by the deep peace and sense of well-being I always experienced here. Actually, it was this unexpected tranquility which had most impressed, and surprised, me on the occasion of my first visit to Li's home. Li Ying wielded more power within Tangrenbu's ten square blocks than any other single individual, Chinese or white. Given his fearful and well-deserved reputation, I had been shocked to discover that he was also a Mandarin scholar, a connoisseur of fine art, and, most significant as far as I was concerned, a gracious and sensitive gentleman.

This private and gentler Li had managed to furnish his inner sanctuary with fine examples of American and European objets d'art, sculpture, and paintings, some by the old masters while others were decidedly avant-garde. Despite the contrasting styles, they strangely blended together in harmonious coexistence.

I was examining several new additions to his collection, when there was a small noise to my right. Turning, I saw that my host, Li Ying, had quietly glided into the room.

The distinguished-looking man sat, as was his custom, on a square-backed
kuan moa
chair which had been placed on a small raised dais. Li possessed a regal bearing, sitting with a straight back, head held high, hands resting on each arm of the chair of state, yet his smile was so genuine and welcoming it quickly dispelled any fear or anxiety I might have otherwise experienced. This afternoon he was wearing an intricately embroidered green satin tunic, with an equally impressive black satin hat which was also decorated with elaborate silk embroidery.

Li was tall for a Chinese, and very slender, with coal-black hair shaved and oiled into a long queue falling down his back. It was difficult to judge his age: his hair betrayed almost no gray, his face was unlined, and he moved with youthful grace and flexibility. His dark eyes, however, betrayed a wisdom and insightfulness that takes many years to acquire, leading me to guess that he might be a great deal older than he appeared.

“Miss Woolson,” he said, bowing his head. “You grace my humble home with your presence.” His English was very nearly perfect, his tone pleasant and well modulated. “Again, I must apologize for requiring you to wear a blindfold.”

“I appreciate the need for such a precaution, Mr. Li.” I suppressed a little shiver. “Frankly, I prefer this minor inconvenience to what might happen if your enemies decided I could lead them to your home.”

“I am relieved that you understand,” he said with a smile. “I only wish that other visitors could accept this regrettable necessity with such intelligent forbearance.”

“It is good of you to see me at such short notice, Mr. Li,” I said, pleased by the compliment. “You are a busy man.”

“I am never too busy for you, Miss Woolson.” He nodded his head ever so slightly, and a manservant appeared out of nowhere to pour tea into the two delicate cups which sat on the tray. “Let us
enjoy our tea, shall we? Then you can tell me what has brought you to my home.”

Aware that this was Li's custom, I relaxed and savored the excellent tea and cakes. We spoke of my last case at San Francisco's famous Cliff House, then went on to discuss the current political climate in the city. Inevitably, our talk moved to the pending Chinese Exclusion Act, which, if passed, would provide a ten-year moratorium on Chinese labor immigration, as well as impose additional restrictions on the Chinese who had already entered the country.

“Such legislation was inevitable,” he said in a tone of matter-of-fact resignation. “One limitation has built upon another over the years, emboldening anti-Chinese factions to grow ever more bold.” He reached out and took a small piece of cake. “I find I have developed a taste for American sweets. You see, Miss Woolson, even I am becoming Westernized.”

I regarded his long queue and very
un
-Western clothing, but said nothing. My mind boggled at the thought of Li outfitted in Western attire. It would be akin to an elephant trying to masquerade as a rabbit.

When we had finished our tea, and the ever silent servant had dutifully borne away the tray, Li settled back in his chair and finally inquired what business had prompted my unexpected visit.

“I wondered if you were aware that two of your countrymen were arrested this morning and placed in city jail?”

Li's eyebrows rose nearly to his shaved scalp. It shames me to admit it, but I was secretly pleased to have finally informed the tong lord of something he did not already know.

“You have taken me quite by surprise, Miss Woolson,” he said, eyeing me with intense curiosity. “I know nothing of this matter. Of what crime have they been accused?”

“They've been charged with killing Dieter Hume last Wednesday night. He was the deacon at the Church of Our Savior on Howard Street.”

“I am aware of the young man's death.” His long, sculpted face was grave. “However, I do not understand why the police
should suspect two of my countrymen of committing such an assault.”

“Some men have come forward and identified them as being in the vicinity of the Harrison Street Bridge the night Dieter Hume was murdered.” I did not add that I found the so-called eyewitness accounts a great deal less than convincing.

His mouth tightened. “That is all? They were simply seen in the area?”

I was embarrassed to admit that our all-white police force had acted upon such flimsy evidence. “Yes, I'm afraid so. It's very little to go on, and if they had not been—”

“Chinese?” he finished for me. “Indeed, Miss Woolson, you are correct. If the two men had not been Chinese, they would simply have been questioned and released.”

Since I could think of no response to this all too fair indictment, I remained silent.

“Do you know their names?” he went on when I didn't respond.

“No, and I rather doubt the police know, either. I've been told that they are quite young and that neither speaks any English. Unfortunately, the authorities have not provided them with an interpreter. They must find their predicament very frightening.”

Li's face remained outwardly composed. His black eyes alone betrayed his disquiet. “It was most kind of you to notify me of this unfortunate situation, Miss Woolson. I am in your debt. The two men of whom you speak must have only recently arrived in San Francisco. Otherwise, I would have received a report of their disappearance.”

He sat very still for several minutes as he contemplated the situation. “I assume there is little hope of obtaining their release on bail?”

I shook my head. “It would be virtually impossible, Mr. Li. The fact that they're foreign nationals, along with the ease with which they could disappear within the boundaries of Chinatown, makes them an extreme escape risk.”

I thought of the disturbing newspaper reports of the two murders. “Actually, their safety might be better served if they remain in jail, at least until the real killer is apprehended.”

“You fear a lynch mob.”

“Yes, I do,” I told him truthfully. “People are afraid. And Deacon Hume's murder was particularly brutal.”

“As was Mr. Logan's. I presume that at some juncture the authorities will attempt to connect my young countrymen to this prior killing?”

“They haven't done so as yet. But, yes, at some point I'm afraid that's exactly what they will do. The newspapers have been stirring up people's fears until they're afraid to venture out after dark. It's bound to come as a relief to learn that two suspects have been incarcerated. I fear their reaction if the two men were freed on bail.”

“Especially when those two men are Chinese,” Li added, his face inscrutable. Neither his expression nor his tone of voice revealed his private feelings on the matter.

“Exactly,” I quietly agreed.

He nodded. “As is your custom, you speak no less than the truth, Miss Woolson. I have missed our little chats.”

Subtly shifting his position in the thronelike chair, Li gave the impression of suddenly growing taller and, although I wouldn't have thought it possible, even more regal. He made a tower with the long fingers of both slender hands, and eyed me with unsettling directness.

“Tell me, Miss Woolson, what can we do to help these men?”

Thankfully, I was ready for this question, having thought it through on the ride over in the hansom cab.

“First, we must ensure that the young men receive a speedy arraignment,” I told him. “The police are holding them on the flimsiest of evidence. It's my guess that they'll attempt to put off officially charging them for as long as possible, hoping, of course, that they'll uncover more definitive proof of their guilt.”

“You would be willing to represent these unfortunate young men, Miss Woolson?”

I had also anticipated this request, and although this was certain to become yet another unpopular and high-profile case, I could not turn my back on two young men who might otherwise not receive justice.

“Yes, Mr. Li,” I replied, after a brief hesitation. “I will do whatever I can for them. It will be necessary, of course, to provide me with the services of an interpreter.”

“You shall have one,” he immediately agreed. As if guessing the reason behind my brief hesitation, he went on, “I am not unaware of the difficulties you will face by accepting this case, Miss Woolson, both personally as well as professionally. Once again, I am amazed by your courage and dedication to justice. I seriously doubt that I could find another attorney in this city willing to risk his career, and certainly incur private disdain, for the sake of two young ‘coolies.’ ”

I nodded, but could think of nothing to say. It would be fruitless, as well as naïve, to deny that these words were no more than the simple truth.

We spent the next quarter hour discussing the details of my visit to city jail on Monday morning, including the time and location where I would meet the translator.

When we had concluded our business, the man who had served us tea once again slid silently into the room and handed Li Ying an envelope. With a low bow, he turned and just as quietly exited. Without examining the contents of the envelope, Li Ying handed it to me.