Chapter 12

Wade assured Malik he would return later that day to get an account of the incident from Nate Vargas, and would interview his sister tomorrow.

Unexpectedly, Wade and Tremaine returned within an hour, with the coroner’s wagon following them.

Malik answered the door and Tremaine told him, “The third man is dead.

Malik stood aside and Tremaine entered the foyer. Tremaine said, “The coroner’s here. Wade’s with him.”

“So, what happened?”

Tremaine’s face showed his own disbelief at developments. “We were going through the business district on our way to the depot, and we passed an alley where the coroner’s wagon was parked and where several coppers were standing about. On instinct, we stopped to see what was going on.”

Just then, Wade came up the steps to the door.

Tremaine said, “Davy, why don’t you tell him what we found. I’ll put the horse up.” Tremaine turned back to the buggy and walked away.

“Give her a scoop of oats, Frank, if you please,” Malik called.

“Will do, boss,” Tremaine said, as he strode toward the buggy, raising his hand in a fleeting wave of acknowledgment.

Malik focused on Wade. “Won’t you come in, Detective Sergeant? We have fresh coffee, or tea, if you’d prefer.” Malik stepped back, indicating the way to the kitchen.

“That’s very kind, Mister Malik. Some hot coffee would be good, after our ride.” He followed Malik into the house.

In the kitchen, Zou Lei was at the stove and Nate Vargas was at the kitchen dining table, eating a bowl of soup.

Malik said, “Here’s your man, now, Detective Sergeant. If you’d like, you can interview him right here.” Then looking at Vargas, he asked, “Is that won-ton soup?”

“It sure is.” Vargas replied, between spoonsful.

Malik said, “Mister Zou, do you have more soup?”

“Have plenty soup, boss,” Zou replied.

“Detective Sergeant, could we interest you in a bowl of really delicious won-ton soup?”

“Won-ton soup? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it.”

“It’s everyone’s favorite, in this household. I think Frank’s had it before. If so, I’ll guarantee he’ll want a bowl when he comes in.”

Grinning, Wade said, “Then I better get mine, now. Put my name on the waiting list.”

“Not waiting long, Detective Policeman,” Zou said, already approaching the table with a bowl on a service plate. He set the bowl in front of Wade and produced a spoon from a pocket in his apron. Zou said, “Chi hao he hao.” (Diacritical marks have been removed.)

“That means, ‘Eat hearty,’ or sentiments to that effect,” explained Malik. “Mister Zou, could we have some coffee, please? And I reckon Frank will be in and wanting some soup, in a few minutes.”

“Coffee come right up,” Zou said. “Boss, you want soup?”

“Sure, Mister Zou, like you had to ask.” A grinning Zou brought him the bowl he had ready.

Wade said, “This is delicious. I can see why Frank likes it. I like these big noodles. Or are they dumplings? And what’s this little thing?” He asked, indicating a bright reddish crescent on his spoon.”

“That is a shrimp,” Malik said. “They come sun-dried, from New Orleans. Then the soup softens them up again. The won-tons are a type of dumpling with a filler of meat. Mister Zou likes to use ground chicken. And the pieces of meat in the broth are smoked pork.”

“So, it’s a Cathay soup?”

“Cantonese, more specifically, from southeastern China,” Malik informed him.

“Sure, I’ve heard of Cantonese, and that other one, uh ... heck, all I can think of is Mandrake, and I know that ain’t it.”

“Do you mean Mandarin?”

“Mandarin, yeah, and Cantonese.”

“Well,” Malik said, “then there’s another region whose cooking I’m partial to: Szechuan. Their dishes tend to be spicy.”

“You mean hot, like some Mexican food? Our step-ma knows lots of those.”

“Spicy from chili peppers, yes, but different in flavors and ingredients.”

At that point, Tremaine walked into the kitchen and asked, “What do you think about that third man, boss?” Then his head turned abruptly toward the stove, where Zou was ladling soup into a bowl. “Mister Zou, is that won-ton soup I smell?”

“Sit, sit, Mister Frank,” Zou said. “I bring you soup.”

As Tremaine took his place at the table, Malik asked Wade, “So, what is the story about the other kidnapper.”

“Well, like Frank was saying, we passed this crowd of coppers and the meat wagon -- uh, sorry, I mean the coroner’s wagon -- and we decided to see what was going on. As it turned out, a storekeeper had found a body in the alley behind his store. The man’s throat had been cut, but he also had some shotgun pellets in his right buttock and thigh.

“So we figured we had found our man and we talked to the sergeant who was supervising the scene. They’d found no money on the body, so at first they thought it was a mugging. When we explained our case to the sergeant and the likely source of his victim’s gunshot wounds, he let us see what they’d found in his pockets.

“He had been carrying a round-trip ticket from Kansas City. He’d arrived on the same train that Horvat had taken.”

Tremaine looked inquiringly at Malik, and asked, “Do you reckon this might have been connected to the uh, incident last month in Arenoso when Tommy and Miss Wren...?” The question faded into an uncomfortable silence

Malik looked startled, and, after a moment, replied, “I wouldn’t have thought so. Those two were ... No,” he said, shaking his head, “this seems different, somehow.”

Wade asked, “What incident? What happened?”

After another moment of silence, Malik said, “Two men killed one of my wives and kidnapped my four-year-old twin sons, killing Tommy in their wanton disregard.” Wade’s eyes showed surprise at the mention of wives, but the remainder of the explanation brought a more subdued expression to his face.

Wade said, “Forgive me for disagreeing, sir, but It does seem quite beyond a coincidence, two kidnappings directed at your children by armed men in broad daylight, within a matter of weeks.”

“Yes, but what happened in Waypoint was in the Wichita papers, because we have a home here, and the Kanzona offices are here,” Malik protested. “I’m sure it just gave these men the idea.”

“But these men were from Kansas City, not Wichita,” Wade pointed out.

Malik just looked at him with an uncertain expression, shaking his head. Tremaine had his soup spoon poised above the bowl, but was watching the byplay.

Tremaine said, “He’s got a good point, boss.”

Malik turned toward Vargas, and said, “Nate, would you please find Yan and ask her to come hear this?”

“Yes, sir. I think she’s up in the playroom.” Vargas hurried out of the kitchen.

Malik looked toward Zou, who was standing, arms folded, a dishtowel over his shoulder, his backside propped against the kitchen sink, attending to the conversation. Malik said, “Do you still have soup, Mister Zou?”

Zou nodded. “Enough for Miss Beatrice, Miss Yan, and the children, and more for all. I make much, maybe some left for tomorrow, but okay if gone tonight.” He shrugged. “I make more tomorrow. Or make egg flower soup, tomorrow.”

“If you could make some sandwiches, too, please, I think that should suffice for supper.”

“Have ham in refrigerator. I will slice ham and slice bread.”The refrigerator was an ice box, chilled by a large block of ice.

“That’ll be great. Thanks.”

Peng came through the door, followed by Beatrice and Vargas. Beatrice asked, “What’s this about, Emil?” The men stood up.

Malik sighed. He said, “Come, sit. Mister Zou is making sandwiches to go with the won-ton soup. I told him that would be our supper.”

“That’s fine,” Beatrice replied, “but the children will have to be fed, though they’ll probably only want the soup and some saltines.” She turned toward Zou. “With extra won-tons, if your would, Mister Zou, They all relish your won-tons.”

“Of course, Miss Beatrice.”

Malik said, “Let’s talk for a few minutes, before we bring the children down.” He moved behind Beatrice to hold her chair, then he looked up to see Wade, across the table. “My apologies, I have neglected introductions. Beatrice, Yan, this is Detective Sergeant Davy Wade. Detective Sergeant, this is my wife, Beatrice, and my intimate companion, Peng Yan.”

Greetings were exchanged and everyone sat down.

“I have yet to interview you, Missus Malik, but I don’t think it will take long,” Wade said.

Beatrice asked Malik, “What was it you wanted Yan to hear?”

Malik said, “Before we get to that, has anyone spoken to Doctor Matthews about Consuela?”

“Yes,” Beatrice replied. “I spoke with Dixie. They were still working on Consuela, though Doctor Matthews had been saying encouraging things.”

Sighing, again, Malik looked at her and said, “Good then.

“In response to your question, Detective Sergeant Wade has raised the possibility that the attack in Waypoint and the one today may not be isolated incidents.”

Beatrice, disconcerted, said, “But I thought those men in Waypoint were just some vengeful vagabonds who had been dismissed from the railroad for drunkenness.”

Peng said, “I had some difficulty obtaining consistent information from them. They seemed offended when I asked if they were acting on someone’s behalf.”

Wade asked, “Where are those two?”

Malik said, “They’re dead. Deputy Marshal Peng was alone when she took them into custody. After a while, they apparently thought they could overcome her, and they found out otherwise.”

Wade looked dumbfounded. He looked at Tremaine and asked, “Does that mean that a wo --, ah, ahm ... Is he saying she’s a Deputy US Marshal?”

Tremaine was grinning at him. “Yup. And the boss is a US Marshal, for the eastern federal district in Arenoso.”

‘Well, I’ll be damned,” Wade said, sotto voce.

Malik said, “To return to our discussion, the Detective Sergeant’s speculation that the assaults might be linked seemed worthy of consideration, though I am, myself, far from convinced.”

Peng said, “Master, I must beg forgiveness. My mind has been on the safety of the children and not this problem in more general terms. Now that I have refocused my attention, I believe the notion of coincidence must be held in suspicion rather than in probability.”

Malik looked at her in puzzlement. “You said that those two in Waypoint were working in their own interests.”

Looking at him, she replied, “That is what they insisted. I did suspect that, at the time, but what I said was that they had claimed to be working on their own, but they were too intoxicated to provide a consistent account of their planning. On reflection, it is possible that their state of inebriation may have allowed their personal pride and self-aggrandizement to cloud their judgment in claiming to have initiated the plot.”

Her gaze dropped to the table’s surface, and she said, in a quieter voice, “It is also possible that, in my grief and rage, I did not question them carefully enough, before the interrogation was terminated.”

Wade had watched the exchange pensively, and now he looked at Tremaine, who gave a barely perceptible shrug.

Malik said, “No, that’s alright, Yan. You’re not alone in this error. Based on the timing, alone, the dubious probability of coincidence should have been apparent to me as well, but I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.” His own eyes were downcast, and he was shaking his head, his bent neck and sagging shoulders a posture of a suddenly heavier burden.

Straightening up with a sigh, he looked at Wade and said. “I learned this years ago from my mentor in the marshal business, US Marshal Connor Lonegan: Apparent coincidence in dealing with criminal matters is itself suspicious. So I think we should lend the benefit of the doubt to your suggestion, Detective Sergeant, and work from the premise that there is a connection, until it is shown otherwise.”

The increasing resonance of children’s voices brought everyone’s attention to the doorway, through which, a moment later, came Aspen and Paul, each, in turn, with Robin and Gunnar in hand. “We’re hungry, Mister Zou,” Aspen announced. “Would you give us something to eat, please?”

Smiling broadly, Malik looked at Wade and Tremaine, “Let’s hold this until after the children have eaten.”

“Miss Wodehouse said the doctor believes nothing vital was hit,” Nate Vargas reported. He had just returned from Malik’s study and the telephone there. “It was apparently a small caliber bullet and it passed between the two bones in her forearm. He believes the muscle damage will heal, in time, and she still has sensation in all her fingers.”

Aspen, while scraping her bowl with a spoon, pursuing the last remnants of custard pudding, asked, “We have two bones in our forearms?”

“Quite,” replied Peng. “The radius and the ulna.” She took Aspen’s hand and placed it on her own arm. “Feel here? If I stopped eating for a month, you would be able to feel both bones.”

Aspen looked up at Peng’s face and the hint of a smile that played there. The six-year-old squeezed firmly on Peng’s forearm and said, “Oh, Mama Yan, I think I can feel them now.”

Peng grabbed for her, allowing Aspen to slip away and run laughing from the kitchen. The other children had already gone upstairs with Beatrice to get ready for bed. Once in bed, they were allowed to play quietly with soft dolls or other soft toys, or to read, or look at picture books, until sleep naturally overtook them. It was a practice Wren had introduced. For all practical purposes, it eliminated the typical protests of children being sent to bed. It was rare that any of them were still awake after fifteen minutes.

Grinning, himself, at the byplay, Vargas finished his report by adding, “We can bring her home tomorrow afternoon, if there are no signs of infection.”

“Is she in much pain?” Malik asked.

Miss Wodehouse said they will give her laudanum overnight and switch her to acet-a-something acid in the morning.”

“Likely acetylsalicylic acid,” Peng filled in.

“I think that’s it. She said a pharmacy chemist can provide some for us, or there’s a commercial brand called Doctor Olin’s.”

Wade added, “The pistol we found next to O’Reilly’s body was a thirty-two caliber. Horvat’s was the same -- same caliber, same manufacturer, same model, Foundry Armament model eighteen-eighty-eight.

“Foundry Armament?” Malik asked, shaking his head. “Never heard of them.”

Tremaine said, “They’re in Gary, Indiana, near Chicago. They make low-quality weapons. They offer shotguns with rolled steel barrels and some parts of their pistols are stamped, rather than forged. The main appeal is a lower price.”

“What sort of weapons were those two in Arenoso carrying?”

Malik, eyebrows raised, looked toward Peng.

She said, “Each had a large kitchen knife and a noticeably light-weight thirty-two caliber revolver.”

“Kitchen knives?” Wade echoed. “Seems someone is trying to do this on the cheap. Did you notice the manufacturer of the pistols, ma’am?”

“I did not.”

Wade observed. “Those guns add to the likelihood of a connection.”

“I would agree. Will you go to Kansas City, Detective Sergeant?” Malik asked.

He looked embarrassed and his eyes dropped, momentarily. Looking back up, he released a heavy sigh and said, “Probably not. The department can’t afford it, anymore. I’ll send a letter of inquiry to the Kansas City PD, give them the names and details of the crime. But, for our purposes, this case has been resolved.”

Tremaine said to Wade, “What about that, ah, artist you were telling me about.”

“Artist? What’s that about?” Malik asked.

‘Another new thing we learned from our New York detective,” Wade replied. “In New York, they have an artist on staff who makes drawings of faces, sometimes from witness descriptions, sometimes from dead bodies.”

“Why dead bodies?”

“I should have said, unidentified dead bodies. They draw them so they look alive, then they show the drawing to people who might have known the deceased, or they distribute posters.”

“Ah,” Malik said, nodding. “Very clever.”

Peng said, “He can draw a face from a description?”

Wade said, “The way they do it, the witness sits down with the artist who draws the face as the witness describes various details of its features. That way, the witness can suggest corrections as they go along.”

“And you say the Wichita Police employ such an artist?”

“Well, no, not exactly. There’s this artist we’ve used a few times, but, again, I’m not sure the captain will go for it. The artist doesn’t work for free and money is tight.”

Beatrice returned at that moment, looking just a but harried. The men all rose.

“I finally got them settled. They were still excited from the events of the day, and they were missing Consuela. So I took them to the study and we called the clinic and Carla was persuaded to bring Consuela to the telephone so the children could wish her well and a good night. I think they simply needed to be reassured that she was going to be fine, especially after..., well, after Wren and Tommy.” Beatrice’s face constricted and tears came to her eyes. Bowing her head briefly, she sniffed once, then took a deep breath and, looking toward Wade and Tremaine, said, “Excuse me for that. I am still distraught.”

“Nothing to apologize for, my darling,” Malik said, in a soothing voice., while stepping close to touch her cheek. “That still happens to me, once or twice a day. I think I’ve been keeping busy at work partly to hold those feelings at bay.” He held her chair as she sat once more at the table; the men followed suit.

“I’m sure, dearest. It remains hard for all of us,” she said, patting his hand which rested on her shoulder. Then she brightened. “But the children await your good-nights.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, grinning. “If you’ll all excuse me for a few minutes? Detective Sergeant, maybe you can bring Beatrice up to date on what we’ve been discussing.”

“Of course, Mister Malik,” Wade replied.

As Malik walked from the kitchen, Beatrice called after him, “Now don’t get them all stirred up, again.”

“Who, me?” was his response, the words a bit muted, as Malik was walking away, down the central hall.

A few minutes later, Wade’s summary account of the leads and speculations was interrupted by the muffled thumps of either a bouncing bedstead, heavy footfalls, or possibly the thuds of a metal prosthesis banging against the carpeted floorboards -- or, most likely, a combination of such events -- accompanied by the indistinct sounds of children’s laughter and tickled screams. Knowing looks were exchanged around the table, with most suppressing smiles at the sounds emanating from the second floor.

Beatrice looked toward the ceiling and muttered, with a note of exasperation, “That man,” while, at the same time, the barest hint of a smile could even be seen tugging at Peng Yan’s lips.

Some time later, Beatrice was explaining to Malik: “Davy says that it is less the allowance of his time than it is the expense of the train tickets and the per diem stipend.” Then, her face and posture showing her determination, she added, “I think we should pay for the artist’s services and I will describe the men we encountered in Arenoso. Toward the same end, we should provide Detective Sergeant Wade the price of the train and his room, board, and other expenses in Kansas City.”

His own visage set in a speculative frown, Malik had attended his wife’s conclusions following his return from the children’s bedrooms. Looking past Beatrice with unfocused eyes, he stroked his stubbled chin with his finger.

Vargas went to the stove and brought back the coffee and tea pots, setting them in the middle of the table. There were some quiet exchanges as people asked for and passed various items. Beatrice refilled Malik’s coffee mug.

At last, Malik turned his gaze toward Wade and asked, “Do you reckon this artist is available and do you know how to get ahold of him?”

“It’s a her,” Wade said. “I mean to say, the artist is a woman. Her name is Eline Hofste. She and her family are from Holland.” He paused and shrugged. “She’s probably available. She knows that when we call, it’s often a matter of some urgency. But I can’t be sure. Her father runs a cheese dairy and has a shop on the west edge of town called the Kaasmaker. We telephone there to contact her.”

Beatrice said, “Yes, I’ve been to the Kaasmaker dairy shop. It is filled with the most delicious aromas, and the walls are painted with scenes from the Netherlands. It’s quite charming.”

“Do you know what she charges, Davy?” Malik asked. Beatrice had insisted that given names be used during their discussion. As it turned out, Davy was the Detective Sergeant’s given name, not a nickname.

“Last I knew, she was paid forty cents an hour, plus a dollar for each completed drawing, including her copies of the original. If it’s to be transferred to a half-tone print plate for printing multiple copies, that’s a cost I don’t know, bur I can’t imagine it’s cheap.”