Every bone in Suling’s body warned her not to go back to Thornton’s mansion. But here was Reggie, marshaling what little strength she had to climb up the streets of Nob Hill toward Hyde Street. And all because of Gemma Garland. Gemma, who Reggie cared about so much she was willing to face down Henry Thornton. Suling told herself to stop feeling resentful, there was no reason for jealousy. Didn’t she love Reggie for her fierce loyalty, her valor?
Suling had long since lost track of time. She had no way of knowing how long they’d been walking. Normally it would’ve taken no more than thirty minutes. But some streets were impassable, others littered with wreckage. They made detours and picked their way through broken pavements, careful to avoid stepping on glass and splintered timbers. No one looked twice at Reggie’s odd attire; the quake had forced people to flee from their homes unprepared, in whatever clothes they had pulled on.
They passed women cooking on the street using stoves that had been carried out of their homes. They held a little girl by the hand while her father and neighbors dug the rest of her family out. And at every intersection, they paused to look in all directions, taking in views of the ruined city. The fires were expanding. They could tell from the plumes of smoke to the east. The sounds of blasting in the distance they now knew was dynamite, being set off to create firebreaks between city blocks.
At one street corner, a woman with a baby begged them for food and water, so Suling gave her the rest of what they had: some bread, a bottle of soda water, and two oranges. “Ah, bless you, even though you’re a heathen Chinee,” the woman said. “I don’t dare go scavenging in anyone’s home, the army’s been shooting looters. I heard they shot a man climbing into his own house.”
Reggie picked up a scarf that had caught on a shrub. She gave Suling back the fedora and tied the cotton square around her head. “One look at my stylish haircut and everyone will know I came out of an asylum,” she said, “and I don’t want to be sent back to one.”
Suling ached at the determined humor, the brave front Reggie was putting on for her, just as she was putting on a brave front for Reggie. Because neither of them could afford to break down right now.
And right now, she couldn’t do anything but pray to all the gods they’d find the octagon house empty, or at least its owner absent. And that Gemma would be there so the three of them could head for the safety of the boardinghouse on Taylor Street. Every now and then Suling paused to look south and east. She couldn’t help it; Chinatown was somewhere behind that smoke. Her home, the laundry, the Palace of Endless Joy.
“Suling! Suling!” The voice was familiar and she turned around.
“Stop, Reggie, stop,” she cried. “It’s my auntie.” Then switching to Chinese, “Oh, Auntie, I’m so glad to see you’re all right.” Madam Ning was a vision of elegance in a Western-style ensemble, a jacket and skirt in moss-green jacquard, a hat decorated with dusty pink roses and a veil. In one hand she carried a bag in matching green leather, and a small leather valise with a long shoulder strap was slung across her body.
“Suling,” Madam Ning said, hugging her tightly. “Your uncle told me you’d run off when he came looking for you. But I didn’t really worry until the girls came home and said you weren’t at the party. I was going to send someone to search for you today.”
“Auntie, how is Chinatown?” Suling said. “Our laundry? The Palace of Endless Joy?”
“Still standing, but not for long.” Madam Ning shook her head. “The police and army are telling people to evacuate, leave their homes. They plan to blow up some buildings with dynamite to stop the fire from spreading. After all, it’s only Chinatown.”
Only Chinatown. There was bitterness in Madam Ning’s words.
Unexpectedly, Suling’s throat tightened to suppress a sob. Since her parents’ deaths she had felt Chinatown was too small, filled with inquisitive neighbors and obstacles to her future. But where else could she walk about in safety, bump into people who had known her since before she could walk? Where else did evening breezes pick up the familiar scents of everyday life on the streets, incense drifting out from temples, cooking oil heating up as restaurants began their dinner service, pungent aromas drifting out of herbalist shops? She knew Chinatown’s streets as well as she knew her own heartbeat.
“Where are the girls, Auntie? Where are you going?”
“The girls are in Oakland, or at least they’re on their way,” Madam Ning said. “I sent them to the ferry with two of my men. They’ll go to the House of Peerless Beauties, which a friend of mine owns. As for me, I’m heading for the Thornton mansion and then up Russian Hill to find Michael Clarkson.”
“Suling, did she just mention Thornton?” Reggie broke in.
“Heavens,” Madam Ning exclaimed. She lifted her veil to stare at the bedraggled woman, at Reggie’s shapeless indigo blue dress, the incongruous bright blue scarf around her head. “Is that your Reggie Reynolds? What happened?”
A quick explanation from Suling, and Madam Ning’s lips pressed together in a grim line. “I’ve heard rumors about that man. You shouldn’t take your Reggie to his house. Who knows what he might do.”
“Reggie wants to make sure her friend, that opera singer, is safe. I’ve said it would be dangerous to run into Thornton but she won’t listen. But why are you going to Thornton’s house?”
“He owes me money. He didn’t pay the girls last night,” Madam Ning said. “He refused to hand over cash to anyone but you or me, and I am going to need every penny to rebuild my business. Now, do you need money?” She patted the valise.
Suling shook her head. “I brought everything I’ve saved, I’ll be fine.”
“We need to go now, Suling,” Reggie interrupted.
“We’ll go together,” Madam Ning said. “If he’s there, we face him together.”
To Suling’s relief, the Rolls-Royce wasn’t out in front of the mansion. One of the stone pillars at the gate had fallen down, pulling the attached fence of wrought-iron spikes with it. From the outside, the mansion didn’t seem badly damaged. Madam Ning tried the front door. It was locked, the house silent, the doorbell unanswered.
“It’s empty,” Suling said, coming back to the street corner where Reggie stood waiting. “No one’s here. We can leave.”
Reggie shuddered, then shook her head. “Let’s try the tradesmen’s entrance,” she said. She led them around to the side of the house. There, the door to the kitchen stood wide open. Inside, the kitchen was empty, then a movement in the corner startled them. A man slowly rolled over and groaned.
“Little Fong,” Suling said, “are you all right?”
The cook’s assistant sat up, looked around. He pointed to the cast-iron skillet beside him. “It hit me on the head.”
Mrs. MacNeil and the butler had tried getting the servants to clean up. But many of the staff fled, some refusing to stay indoors, some rushing off to find their families in other parts of town. The final aftershock sent the rest out the door, including the housekeeper and butler. Little Fong, on his way to the door with a sack of purloined food, was knocked unconscious when a tremor brought the skillet down on his head.
“Don’t go home, Little Fong,” Suling said. “All of Chinatown will go up in flames soon. Have you friends or family elsewhere?”
“Oakland. There’s a Chinatown in Oakland,” he said, without hesitation. “But why are you here, Young Miss?” His eyes widened at the sight of Madam Ning, who had seated herself with great dignity on a kitchen chair. Then widened more upon seeing Reggie, her mismatched clothing, the dusty scarf.
Reggie went into the cold storage room and came out with a cold meat pie, which she ate while Suling and Madam Ning brought Little Fong up to date. Tears streamed from his eyes at the thought of Chinatown burning. He shook his head at Suling’s story about Thornton. “We hear rumors he’s involved with unsavory types, which is no surprise,” he said. “No one gets that rich in San Francisco without dirty dealings. But murder. And putting away perfectly sane people.”
“Do you know where Mr. Thornton went?” Suling asked. “And when he might come back?”
“The cook said he went downtown to rescue his money,” Little Fong said. “His new mistress, the blond singer, left almost right after he did.”
Madam Ning got to her feet. “Suling, do try and get your Reggie to see sense. Get out of here. I’m going to Clarkson’s home. Hopefully by the time I return Thornton will be back and you’ll be gone. Go across the bay to Oakland.”
“But Clarkson may not be home, Auntie,” Suling said. “The police and fire departments must be working nonstop right now.”
“Well, if he isn’t home, I can leave him a note,” Madam Ning said. “You write it for me.” She took a notepad and pen from her purse and gave it to Suling, dictated a brief message. “No matter what, I’ll come back for my money,” the brothel owner said, putting the note in her bag. “Come to Oakland, my darling girl.” She held Suling in a tight embrace, then adjusted her hat and veil before setting off.
Suling stood at the tradesmen’s entrance for a moment to watch Madam Ning stroll up the brick path as though at a garden party.
Reggie touched Suling’s arm. “Your auntie will be fine. She could survive any number of natural disasters.”
Little Fong was also on his way out the door, a sack slung over one shoulder. He had ransacked the pantry. “Young Miss, you should leave now before the boss returns.”
“I’ll be fine. Good luck, Little Fong. And if you run into Old Kow, look after him. He’s not too bright.” She felt a pang of guilt over Kow; she’d been short with the old man during their last delivery round.
“We’re from the same hometown,” he said, “we’re like brothers. Don’t you worry.”
Reggie wiped her hands on her skirt. “I feel better after that food. Let’s go upstairs and see whether Gemma took anything with her. If she did, she probably won’t come back, and we can head for Taylor Street.”
They went up the servants’ staircase and came out through the service corridor to the main floor. A quick sweep of the ground floor proved it was indeed empty. Suling started up the staircase, but Reggie stopped her.
“We don’t need to go upstairs,” Reggie said. “Gemma’s coming back.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because that damn bird is still here.” Reggie turned her head and pointed up the spiral of wrought iron. There was an indignant screeching noise, which paused, then started again. “She wouldn’t leave it behind. She’ll come back for the bird.”
“We’ll wait a bit, then,” Suling said. “But not for too long. Thornton.” She kicked away some glass. There had been attempts to sweep up broken glass and china, and the brass frame of a chandelier lay on the marble floor, an abandoned dustpan beside it. She peered into the conservatory, which she’d expected would be a mess of shattered glass, but saw only a few broken panes.
There were voices at the front entrance and a key turned in the lock. Suling and Reggie ran to the servants’ corridor and hid behind the door. Suling held her breath. What if it was Thornton? Please, let it be Gemma and we can get out of here.
The door swung open. Gemma. And behind her, Alice Eastwood.
“Sally!” Reggie leaped out and the two women rushed into each other’s arms.
“Thank God,” Gemma said, almost sobbing. “You’re safe, you’re safe. Oh, look at you, Nellie, so thin.”
“Look at you; is that a rip in your skirt? Your standards have dropped, Sal.”
“Tell me everything! Did Suling find you at the asylum?”
“Found me and hauled me out, brave as a lioness. And what’s this about you and Thornton? Don’t tell me we’ve both slept with the same man, farm girl . . .”
Laughing and hugging, they talked at top speed, both of them almost in tears from joy and relief. It was clear to Suling how much the two friends meant to each other. She berated herself for the surge of jealousy that sluiced through her body. Of course Reggie didn’t love Gemma the same way she loved Suling. The two women were former roommates, longtime friends who’d had more than a decade to learn each other’s foibles, listen to stories about their childhoods. Friends who understood each other well enough to know that Gemma wouldn’t abandon a stupid bird or that Reggie would only give her mother’s ring to someone she truly loved.
It's all right, she said to herself, as Reggie recounted to Gemma and Alice what had befallen her. When I’ve been with Reggie for a decade, we’ll know each other’s little ways and our histories. And we’ll have a history of our own.
“Dear God,” Alice exclaimed, partway through Reggie’s narrative. “The newspaper stories about the missing Pinkerton detective! Thornton killed him?”
“We have to go,” Suling said, quite loudly. “Before Thornton gets back.”
“I’ll just run upstairs,” Gemma said, “I only came back to get Toscanini and my bag. Poor birdie.”
“I’ll come with you,” Reggie offered. She went up the stairs with Gemma, the two continuing their rapid-fire conversation.
Alice gazed longingly at the conservatory. “Somehow the fact that the man’s a murderer makes me feel quite justified in stealing his plants. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” And she vanished through the conservatory door.
Suling sighed. “Does no one feel any urgency to get out of here?”
Reggie hurried down the stairs with a covered birdcage. “Suling, can you put Toscanini outside? And give me your canvas sack, darling. I need it. And then we’ll go, I promise. Stop worrying. With any luck, a wall has fallen on top of Thornton.”
Suling sighed again and picked up the birdcage, put it outside on the strip of lawn closest to the veranda. And then she froze. A horribly familiar automobile was weaving its way up Hyde Street. She ran inside and turned the lock on the front door. She called up the stairs, “Reggie! Gemma! Hurry! He’s here!”
There was an echoing reply.
Would Reggie and Gemma come down in time for them to rush through the servants’ corridor? And Alice. Where was Alice? She rushed to the conservatory, but it was too late. A key clicked, the front door opened, and Thornton entered. His face and suit were streaked with soot, one torn cuff hung down from his sleeve, and his shirt was open to the chest. His boots left grime on the marble floor. Thornton took off his jacket and dropped it on a chair.
When he saw her, he smiled. He actually smiled. “Little Susie,” he said. “Are you here to collect for Madam Ning? I won’t pay the full amount since you weren’t here last night. Just give me a minute to get some money from my office.”
“No, there’s no need,” Suling said, her mind working desperately. She couldn’t let him go upstairs, not yet. “I’m only here to tell you that . . . that Madam Ning will come herself later.”
“But I may not be around later,” he said, “and this house may not be safe later. I’ll pay you now. Wait here.” He took the stairs two at a time, humming under his breath. As though the biggest calamity of all time had not struck the city. His footsteps silenced as he crossed from the marble of the mezzanine to the thick carpet of his office.
Suling stared up through the spiral of wrought iron and saw Reggie on the third floor, leaning over the railing. Suling pointed in the direction of the servants’ corridor but Reggie shook her head, one hand mimed a key turning against the palm of her other hand.
The door to the third-floor servants’ stairs was locked.
Now, come down now, Suling gestured frantically, heart in her throat. And almost immediately, Gemma and Reggie ran silently down the circular staircase, past the second floor and Thornton’s office.
“Well, the servants are gone,” Thornton’s voice rang out, “but have you seen Miss Garland?” His footsteps echoed on the marble steps as Gemma and Reggie rushed down the flight of steps below him. But it was too late.
“Why, Gemma,” he said, looking down at them, his voice as pleasant as though greeting her at an afternoon tea. The women froze. “And Reggie. What an unexpected delight.”