Chapter 32

The next morning, Saturday, June twenty-third, Fu-Chun Li was scheduled to take the northbound from Dorado Springs to Texas Bend. That routing now included a temporary stage coach connection at the Rio Isabella, between the south bank of the river and the Waypoint depot, via the Wagon Road bridge.

At Dorado Springs, Fu-Chun had checked on the Chinese workers helping to finish the hotel in time for its July 1^st opening. For the prior three days he had lent a hand, himself, in the refurbishment of chairs, tables, bedsteads, armoires, and other furnishings. His plan for Saturday was to board the northbound and travel to Texas Bend. There, he would transfer to a Kylie Loop work train and catch a ride to his home in Summer Lake, on the eastern edge of the Malik ranch.

Malik and his brother proposed to waylay Fu-Chun during the transfer at Waypoint. They then would offer him transportation to Texas Bend on Malik’s business coach, to be pulled by the locomotive that had brought Malik down from Fort Birney, as that engine and its crew had been ordered to stand by in Waypoint for Malik’s use.

To accommodate the need to transfer passengers at the Rio Isabella because of the bridge collapse, the K&ASR had adjusted the passenger schedule so that the trains would meet at Waypoint at the same time. The northbound schedule was advanced by thirty minutes and the southbound schedule was delayed by thirty minutes, with both trains reaching Waypoint between eleven and half-past. The brothers were waiting on the south side of the river when the northbound arrived. The stage coaches transferring the southbound passengers were also just arriving, as that train’s schedule had it reaching Waypoint some thirteen minutes earlier.

The brothers came on horseback and had brought an extra mount for the Chinese project manager. When he saw Fu-Chun, valise in hand, come down the steps after the other passengers, Malik dismounted and approached the man, who was dressed in the neat, semi-professional clothing of a working labor boss.

“Mister Fu-Chun, my brother and I would like to speak to you. We have brought a horse which you can ride to the Waypoint depot.” As the two men drew closer to one another, Malik added, “But we’re hoping to persuade you to give us your thoughts on a problem, and we’ll transport you to the Crossing on a special train, which should get you there only a few minutes later than the northbound.”

Fu-Chun paused for a moment, then said, “Of course, Mister Malik. I will go with you.”

They allowed the three, twelve-passenger, open-air, stage coaches, rented from a Fort Birney livery, to proceed them from the temporary rail terminus onto the Wagon Road into Waypoint. They also waited another minute, allowing the dust to settle in the wake of the horse-drawn coaches, two of which would have to return for the remainder of the passengers.

While they were waiting, Malik asked, “Had you the opportunity to view the body they recovered yesterday from the Gravel Bar?”

Fu-Chun looked at Malik and said, “Because he is Chinese and I am Chinese, you mean.”

“I mean no disrespect, Mister Fu-Chun, and I realize there are more than a hundred thousand Chinese people in this country. It’s just that you seem to have a wider familiarity with the Chinese population in this region than anyone else. We would be remiss if we did not seek your knowledge and opinions in regard to the mysterious death of an apparent Chinese murder victim.”

Fu-Chun smiled. “My apology, Mister Malik. I was taking advantage of your good nature. Of course, I understand why you would seek me out. Is the body at the mortuary? Shall we go there directly?”

A half-hour later, they were in Malik’s business coach, which was being shunted by a yard switcher onto the depot siding, where the locomotive they had been assigned was waiting. Lee Jin had prepared tea. As the train got underway, the Maliks and Fu-Chun sat down. Lee Jin went to one of the bunk rooms to sleep.

“Is the tea acceptable, Mister Fu-Chun?” Malik inquired.

“Very much so. I recognize Doctor Lee’s preferred brew, with the lightest touch of licorice root.”

The labor contractor smiled. “It is Doctor Lee’s contention that licorice is both a restorative and a preventative, a notion, he tells me, that is from the pharmacopeia of Ayurveda, a traditional medicine of the Indian subcontinent. While his practice is primarily in the western medical tradition that he learned from the British, Doctor Lee has no compunction about making allowance for other practices, if they cause no harm. Plus, he just likes licorice. His preferred aperitif is Greek ouzo, an anise root liqueur.” Fu-Chun spoke with a British accent with only occasional hints of the Chinese influence on his pronunciation.

“I’ve detected that subtle flavor in the tea Lee Jin prepares,” Malik said, “I’d not recognized it, even though I am familiar with licorice candy. Now that you mention it, it becomes obvious.”

Andy said, “I’ve noticed that many things, when encountered outside their accustomed settings, can be hard to recognize. I remember the first time I encountered Joe Collins on the street in Fort Birney. Without his usual white apron and cap, I failed to recognize him when he greeted me by name. I was aware that I’d been introduced to him at some point and that his face was familiar, but could neither recall his name nor whence I knew him. He must have recognized my puzzlement, because he reminded me of his name and where we’d met. It was like a fog had lifted,” Andy chuckled, adding, “lifted to reveal my red face.”

Smiling, Fu-Chun looked around, then said, “I have ridden in this car before, when Chen Ming-teh had it. You have made no alterations, I notice.”

“No,” Malik said. “I’m not fond of the reddish hue of this woodwork, but not so much that I am inclined to do anything about it. And it is, overall, subtle. Otherwise, the arrangement suits me.”

“I think that red color hearkens to Mister Chen’s roots,” Fu-Chun said. “Red is a color of good fortune in much of China. At that, I would say he was restrained, as it could have been red carpeting, or wall paint, as in many Chinese restaurants.” He smiled, somewhat wistfully. “But you wished to speak of the bridge sabotage, did you not?”

“Sabo ... I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that word,” Malik said.

“Ah, yes. It is French and means, I suppose, to deliberately destroy, usually in an adversarial setting. It was explained to me that its root comes from the name of a French wooden shoe, pronounced SA-boo, which is spelled s-a-b-o-t. Sabotage implies kicking something to pieces.”

“Sabotage,” Andy said. “Yes, I like that.”

“Then you might also like this, Mister Malik. One who commits an act of sabotage is called a sa-boo-TOOR. That is spelled s-a-b-o-t-e-u-r.”

“Please, call me Andy, Mister Fu-Chun. And I know that, in this type of setting, my brother also prefers to be called Emil.”

“Likewise, gentlemen, call me by my given name, Li.”

“Thank you, Li,” Malik said. “To answer your question, yes, we did wish to speak of the sabotage to the bridge. But, more broadly, we would also like to talk about the recent campaign of violence that appears to have begun with my assault, from which Lee Jin rescued me, two months ago.”

“You are satisfied with Lee Jin’s services?”

“More than satisfied. He is a bright and capable young man and has even taught me a few tricks.”

“Good, good.” Fu-Chun took a sip of tea. “As to your inquiry, I have no knowledge of the causes of this campaign of violence, as you call it, only of the results. Among my countryman, the only relevant facts of which we are aware is that there was an unknown Chinese man in Buchholz at the time of Senator Aldecott’s demise, and then there was the man whose body we just examined.”

“And you said you didn’t recognize the murdered man.”

“No. As I said at the mortuary, he was not even vaguely familiar. But I assume you noticed his missing fingers?”

“Yes,” Malik said. “We thought that might indicate a history of working with explosives.”

“That was my conclusion, as well.”

Andy said, “You took a while looking at the tattoo that was on the back of his left hand.”

“I recognized it.” Fu-Chun said.

After a momentary pause, he went on. “I was assistant to the major domo of a wealthy Chinese businessman, a considerate, Christian man, who had supported the losing side in a lengthy and widespread rebellion in China. Our master saw that the rebellion’s failure was imminent, so he moved his household, and as much of his business as he could, to San Francisco, in 1863. That is where I first met Mister Chen, who frequented my master’s home. Even then, Chen Ming-teh was quite egalitarian and thought it not beneath himself to engage the servants in intelligent conversations. In fact, we shared a common interest in tea varieties and so became acquainted.

“Unfortunately for my master, the failure of the rebellion greatly reduced his personal influence in the Chinese community. His business holdings became easy prey for the dominant criminal organization in Chinatown, a group known as the Tiger Poppy Society. Realizing that it was only a matter of time before his personal household was targeted, our master made arrangements to move his family and transportable wealth to Seattle. But his move came too late.

“Even as we were boarding the ship that was to carry us to Seattle, we were attacked by the Tiger Poppy Society. Our master, his bodyguards, several other manservants, including my superior, the major domo, all joined in the defense of the wharf to which our ship was still made fast. I, too, grabbed a belaying pin from the ship and joined the defenders, but the major domo instructed me to return to the ship and to take charge of the group on board, which included the master’s son and daughter. He further instructed me to have the captain, who was also Chinese, to withdraw the gangplank and release all lines, and to stand off from the wharf, pending the results of the struggle. This I did.

“On the wharf, however, it did not go well. Our master was captured and the others all killed. The leader of the Tiger Poppy Society offered to exchange our master for the gold and jewels we were carrying. So we lowered a boat and loaded it with the master’s treasury, emptying the chests and other containers into the boat so the coins and jewels could be seen from the quay. I climbed down into the boat. It rode low in the water from the weight of the gold. I moved the oars to the water and rowed it back toward the wharf, pulling hard against the falling tide. When I reached the dock, which loomed some dozen feet above the water, I was told to throw them a line, which I did.

“They made the line fast to a cleat on the wharf, and then they brought my master, his hands tied behind him, to the edge, just above me. There, the leader of the Tiger Poppy Society pulled back my master’s head and slit his throat. Then he pushed him into the bay.

“However, I had anticipated such treachery. I took a further turn on the bow cleat, thus shortening the line even more, then stepped onto the gunwale, overbalancing the hull, which was already nearly awash from the weight of the gold. This allowed water to pour into the boat and it began to sink. I dove into the bay as the boat, hanging from the bow line, upended, dumping the treasury over the transom and into the water.

“They immediately began firing pistols at me, but only a few had recharged their weapons after the battle, and I was not hit. I was able to swim for the ship, which itself was being drawn away on the tide. That tide helped carry me along, as well, while the Master of the Tiger Poppy Society shouted threats and curses from the end of the pier.

“Moreover, while we had put all of the gold and jewels into the boat, we had reserved the silver coins. They amounted to only a small portion of the total, but it was sufficient for a start for the few of us who remained.

“Once we had passed through the Golden Gate and into the open ocean, I had the captain sail north, on a heading for our original goal, Seattle. Then, as a further safety measure, once we were out of sight of land, I had him turn about, and take us south. I felt it best to avoid Seattle, which also had a sizable Chinese population with its similar political environment.

“Instead, we sailed to Baja California. Mexico, as you know, is predominately Roman Catholic, as were we; I thought we might be better received at the Dominican mission in Ensenada. And we were.

“I paid the captain of the ship a substantial bribe to keep our destination secret, but I had little confidence that he would not try to sell the information to the Tiger Poppy Society. Meanwhile, I still had our master’s son and daughter in my care, plus the women, young men, and children of the household staff, along with the remaining silver. We could still be a target.

“So we stayed but a few days in Ensenada while I arranged, with the help of a Dominican padre, for ox carts and provisions, and we set off into the desert interior. I revealed our destination to no one.

“After two days of traveling southeast, to help throw off potential pursuers, I changed our course to northeast and eventually back into the territory of the United States, along the lower Colorado River. There, we engaged in subsistence farming for a few years, until the Southern Pacific Railroad began construction. At that time, all of the men, including myself and our former master’s son, went to work for the Southern Pacific.

“To bring the tale full circle, however, I note that the tattoo on that dead man’s hand, the striped poppy blossom in a triangle, is only worn by members of the Tiger Poppy Society.”

Andy said, “Do you think that man is here because of you?”

“I doubt it. I and my group may have held some value for the Tiger Poppy Society back then, but even that was negligible, and we certainly have no significance now. Besides, all of us changed our names and we are living quite differently than we did, then, so it would have been difficult to find us for a purpose I cannot even imagine.”

“What about your master’s son and daughter? Could they still be involved?” Malik asked.

“The son died in a cave-in during construction of the Southern Pacific. The daughter became my wife, but she died of dysentery six years ago.”

“Our sympathy,” Malik said.

“Thank you,” Fu-Chun said. “As for our dead man, it is likely he was operating on his own, just doing a job. If the Tiger Poppy Society, itself, is involved, I have no idea what their interest might be.”

“Then have you any idea or opinion about what all this violence is supposed to accomplish?”

“It seems a bit diverse to have a definable purpose,” Fu-Chun replied.

“I had thought the same thing,” Malik said, “until it was pointed out that almost all of these acts have occurred in Jackson and Sonora Counties and have involved the K and ASR or people directly associated with the railroad, like Missus Tian’s employment by me, a railroad board director. There have been, at the worst, only minor incidents elsewhere, like that conductor who made the workers ride on the caboose platform. But it all seems to involve the K and ASR and is manifest nowhere else on the system save for Jackson and Sonora Counties, here in Arenoso.”

“You do not consider the deaths of Senator Aldecott and that labor organizer, Vandeventer, to be connected?”

“Connected, yes, as they were the authors of the violence here. I suspect that their deaths were in retribution for some failure in their performance, in whatever it is that was supposed to be accomplished.”

Fu-Chun took a sip of his tea, at which he wrinkled his nose, as the tea had gone cold.

“Shall I make another pot?” Andy asked.

“No, not for me, thank you.” After a pause, Fu-Chun went on. “We, that is, my fellow Chinese and I, have a generally efficient intelligence network between here, Wichita, and a few other places along the main lines, such as at Lamy, in New Mexico Territory, and at Lordsburg, too, and at Yuma and Tucson, in Arizona Territory. But our extended group is mainly associated through our Christian faith, which is a condition that tends to isolate us from the larger Chinese immigrant population. What I mean to say is that, while we may have knowledge about the happenings along the major rail routes between Kansas City and Yuma, we do not have nearly as thorough knowledge of San Francisco, or Seattle, or Cheyenne, or Denver, where there are many more Chinese.”

Malik gave him a puzzled look and a slight shake of the head. “I’m not sure I understand your point.”

“What I mean to say,” Fu-Chun explained, “is that I may not be in a position to be all that helpful in providing a broad Chinese perspective. My sphere of knowledge has its limits and does not include the most influential population centers, as far as any Chinese political or economic concerns might be involved.”

Malik said, “Yes, I see your point.” He looked out the window, and added, “I think we may have time for another pot of tea before we reach Texas Bend.”

The Malik brothers were back in Waypoint by three-thirty that afternoon. Lonegan, who had asked Emma Watts to telephone the Old Courthouse Inn with word of the train’s return, climbed aboard as soon as Malik’s car was spotted in place behind the depot. Sheriff Sean Edwards was with him.

Andy was preparing a pot of coffee and Malik was opening more windows to the warm breezes of late June.

“Was Mister Fu-Chun able to shed any light on our dead Celestial?” Lonegan asked, settling onto a sofa, dropping his broad-brimmed hat on the cushion next to him. Sean Edwards copied those movements on the opposite couch, though Edwards preferred a bowler, while working in town.

“Not much,” Malik said, turning from his ventilation chore to find his own place on a couch. “He didn’t recognize the man, though he shared our suspicion about his missing fingers and Mister Fu-Chun was very familiar with the tattoo on the back of the man’s left hand.”

“Well?” Edwards urged.

“It’s a tattoo worn only by members of a Chinese criminal gang known as the Tiger Poppy Society.”

Edwards laughed. “The Tiger Poppy Society? That sounds like an old ladies’ garden club.”

The others chuckled, too. Malik said, “I suppose it does, at that. It’s just that I’d been familiar with such groups from my time at college and law school, in California. Their names usually had little to do with their purposes but were chosen for their symbolism. There was a group known as the Divine Earth Family that was actually a banking syndicate, though its name sounded like some proselytizing religious sect. The Chinese names had significance as cultural references, not so much as descriptive titles. The Tiger Poppy Society, for instance, is a lawless gang capable of quite bloody mayhem, according to Mister Fu-Chun.”

“Does the dead man belonging to this Poppy group suggest anything?” Lonegan asked.

“Not in any relevant way. Mister Fu-Chun had run afoul of them, or his boss had, back in the early ‘Sixties, in San Francisco. His opinion was that our dead man had been operating independently, just doing a job free-lance.”

“Yeah, I don’t like that,” Lonegan said. “There’s way too much Chinese, uh ... folderol mixed into this just to be a coincidence. I find that coincidence in such matters usually isn’t just the happenstance it appears.”

He looked speculatively at Malik. “When those Peng sisters viewed the man’s face, his hands and the rest of him was under a blanket. How about you see if they know anything about this Poppy gang?”

Malik, appearing somewhat ambivalent about the assignment, checked his pocket watch as he got to his feet. Seeing the time was just a few minutes past four o’clock, he said to Andy, “Reckon they’ll most likely be at home right now. Want to go along?”