One Nob Hill, Hopkins Mansion, San Francisco, March 3, 1884
In order to make herself less of a target, Clara was staying inside the Hopkins Mansion. Ah Toy’s room was so large that it had two bedrooms, so it was easy for the attorney to sleep there. When she awoke from a restless dream, in which she experienced herself confronting the killer and being flayed in the manner of the previous eight victims, Clara’s mouth was dry, and she probed her body with her fingers, from the neck down, as if it might perhaps be skeletal in form. No, she was still in one piece, so she got up from the bed, dressed in her blue business frock, with a small bustle, and laced up her high black boots. As she arranged her auburn hair into its usual swirl, she heard something being dropped in the other bedroom.
Using the shouting habit, she had picked-up from Ah Toy, she cupped her hands around her mouth and let loose. “Are you all right in there?”
“It’s me, Missus Foltz. Hannigan. Miss Ah Toy’s not in at present.”
Clara picked up her handbag with the pistol inside and walked over to the other bedroom. The door was open, and Hannigan stood there, having retrieved a statue of a Chinese peasant woman that he had knocked over while dusting. “Top of the mornin’, Missus. Will you be havin’ breakfast up here?”
“It depends. Where’s Miss Ah Toy?” Clara tucked a stray wisp of hair up into her swirl.
“She’s left to do some art shopping. She said I should tell you she would return before the first interview this afternoon.” Hannigan dusted the statue before he placed it back on the wall shelf above the bed.
“Really. Do you happen to know where she’s doing this shopping?”
“Yes, I do. I brought her the telegram. It was from Mister Guan Shi Yin at the Joss House in Chinatown. He told her he would like her to see some rare Chinese artifacts he had for sale. It seems the donations have been few these days, and …” Hannigan began.
Clara’s mind froze when she heard the name Guan Shi Yin. She heard nothing more. She grabbed Hannigan’s arm, and he stopped talking. He stared at Clara’s ashen face.
“Are you ill, Missus Foltz?”
Many divergent thoughts raced through Clara’s mind at once. Ah Toy, her best friend, had, inadvertently, journeyed into the den of the murderer. Captain Lees and his partner were gone. If she told the undercover staff about this, they would certainly storm the Tin How Temple, and, no doubt, Ah Toy’s throat would be slit before they could break inside. Was Ah Toy even alive right now? Clara’s throat constricted and her mouth went dry. There was only one chance, a slim one at that. She had to go to the temple and confront the killer before he murdered Ah Toy.
“I must leave at once, Hannigan. Could you have someone drive me there by rapid means? It’s a matter of life and death, I’m afraid.” Clara squeezed the butler’s arm until his face winced.
“If you don’t mind riding a horse, Mum, Detective Tom Whitefeather has the fastest steed. He won a competition the other day between the mansion staff and the detectives on duty. His dappled gray is a swift mare, indeed.” Hannigan smiled, “I’m afraid he won’t have time to change out of his maid’s outfit.”
“I don’t care about that. I need to get over to the Joss House right now.” Clara ran out of the room and into the hall, and Hannigan followed her. “Mister Whitefeather!” she shouted. “I need you!”
A short person in a long blue and white dress, with an apron and a frilly white cap, came bounding up the stairs from the first floor. As he came running up to Clara, the attorney understood why Dutch Vanderheiden had thought the native would make a realistic woman. His dark lashes were long and flirtatious, and his hairless chin and jawline, and becoming features, were soft and appealing to the eye. When he spoke, however, his deep bass voice assured her this was no woman.
“Missus Foltz. I am at your service. What is your need?”
“I need to get to the Joss House, the Tin How Temple, as fast as possible. Mister Hannigan says your steed is swift afoot.”
“She is. I can take you right now. Please follow me.” Whitefeather began to run, and Clara tried to keep up, but she was falling behind as he leaped several steps on the stairs on his way down. When he was standing at the front door, he held it for her as she caught up to him. “Come. She is in the mansion’s livery next to the guard house.”
Clara tucked her small handbag inside her waist sash. She knew she would soon need the Derringer within. When Whitefeather jumped onto the gray, she realized there was no saddle on the back of the horse. However, the young man was very strong, and when he reached over to extend his arms, she noticed his forearms and biceps bulged against the maid’s uniform sleeves like those of a strongman she once saw as a child at the county fair. She gripped his hands, and he pulled her up quickly, until her legs were facing sideways behind him. “Missus Foltz, encircle your arms around my chest, and hold onto me. Ghost Lady likes to get her lather up when she runs. Until she’s into her full gallop, however, you will experience some amount of bouncing up and down.”
Detective Whitefeather did not lie. As they took off in a sprint down California Street, at almost a twenty-five-degree angle, it was, to Clara, what she imagined it might be like riding the mythical Greek horse Pegasus. When they galloped past the streetcar, as if it were standing still, she actually believed the gray ghost horse might sprout wings and fly into the air. Thankfully, they stayed on the pavement, and as they raced toward Chinatown, Clara could feel the wind explode in her hair, sending her skirts ballooning outward to embarrassing proportions.
A strange ancillary to this ride was the reaction of all the suffragettes, who were browsing and strolling down the sidewalks of the city. When they saw Clara and Detective Whitefeather galloping by, at breakneck speed in the middle of the boulevard, they hastily assumed the riders were both female. As a result, they began to cheer and wave, lining up along the street to get a better view.
Clara soon realized these hundreds of women believed this to be a creation of female bravado for their benefit. Never to be lacking for showmanship, Clara dared to grab onto her bonnet with her left hand, and wave it in the air at these boisterous women, and when they saw it was their heroine, Attorney Clara Shortridge Foltz, they began screaming louder, “Portia of the Pacific rides again!” and, “Clara Foltz and women’s rights!”
When they arrived in front of the Tin How Temple, there was a large group of Tong gang members standing outside. Standing in their midst was Andrew Kwong, father of Clara’s client, George. “Missus Foltz! There’s been a horrible event. My son is trapped inside the temple. And he is with Ah Toy and your two detectives. Guan Shi Yin has taken them all hostage. My men tried to overpower him, but he had weapons down in the hideout beneath Mazu’s statue.”
Clara slipped down off the Ghost Lady and stood before the leader of the Six Companies. She took his two hands into her own. “How did Captain Lees and Dutch get overpowered?”
Andrew’s eyes were wild, and his voice was cracking. “When someone heard Ah Toy’s screams, the Tongs tried to break into his temple, and the minister fought back with guns he had secretly stored inside the temple. Miss Ah Toy was there with him looking at artwork he had for sale. He had, at first, with my permission of course, allowed Lees and Vanderheiden to keep my son inside the secret room. I never … he’s the killer, isn’t he, Missus Foltz?”
Clara frowned. She was already trying to think of how to save her best friends. “Yes, I’ve known he was the murderer for some time. I didn’t want to identify him until I could trap him into revealing his evil intentions. Of course, I never thought it would come to this.”
“He’s inside the shrine with them right now. He says he’s going to kill them all unless his demands are met.” Andrew squeezed Clara’s hands. “You must save my son. He is our only child.”
“What demands? This man is mentally deranged, and we must be quite certain he has not killed them already.” Clara looked at all of the men surrounding them. “You have to get everyone out of here. I want you to translate for me. Let me talk to this man. I must get to the cause of his hatred.”
Just as she said this, Clara saw that hundreds of suffragettes were approaching Chinatown from the outer city streets. This wouldn’t do. “Get your men to cordon off the perimeter of this street. I can’t have anyone making a commotion while I try to negotiate. If the police or federal officials arrive, tell them it’s an emergency. I need to talk with Guan Shi Yin alone. I believe I can convince him to let your son and my friends go.”
Andrew Kwong moved about the square outside the temple like a man possessed. He gave orders in Cantonese to all the Tongs and other men. The men began to get rope from inside one of the buildings on Waverly Place and string it all around in front of the temple. A guard was posted at every ten feet around the cordon of rope, with a revealing hatchet in his grip.
Nobody was allowed inside Waverly Place. Andrew Kwong escorted Clara up the steps, leading to the temple on the third floor of the building. As she followed the old man up the winding stairs, Clara could smell the pungent odor of burning incense, and cooking stir fry, coming from the clan rooms on the second floor. She felt inside her handbag. The Derringer pistol that Captain Lees had given her for protection was still there, and she fondled its cold metal. She hoped she wouldn’t need it, but this man’s mental state could now be beyond reason.
“It’s right up here,” Andrew turned to look at her as they came to the final plateau in the darkened staircase. The only lighting came from holes, in the shapes of different Chinese gods, in the walls of each landing going up. Kwong was now whispering. “I hope I can translate your words so the minister understands them correctly.”
“I am certain you’ll do well. I have collected some information about your religious practices, but when somebody goes insane, the boundaries of reality and mysticism become disfigured. I’m not quite ready to approach such a task. Any mistake could mean the murder of my friends and your son.” Clara climbed the last few steps and stood with Kwong at the door leading into the temple. She could see bullet holes in it from the earlier conflict with the Tongs.
“Shall I?” Andrew asked, as he held his trembling hand on the door’s dragon-shaped golden lever.
“By all means,” Clara thrust her right four fingers in a forward motion, and she held her breath to calm her racing heart.
When Andrew Kwong opened the door to the temple shrine of Mazu, Clara at once saw the glowing light. It was coming up from the open trap door on the floor of the shrine. The giant statue of the Empress Goddess was pushed to the side, and in its place, was the figure of the minster, Guan Shi Yin. He was wearing his golden robes, but it was what he was hovering over that riveted Clara’s utmost attention.
His hands were gripping the T-shaped handle of a long metal tube that went down into a square box of some kind. The glowing lanterns from the walls of the devotional chamber were casting an eerie glow on his face, which was smiled at her as he was poised to strike, like some kind of possessed demon.
Clara attempted to keep her voice calm, but the sound still came out with a slight trembling vibration. “Hello, Minister. What are you trying to do? Can we be of any assistance?” Clara could hear Andrew Kwong speaking the translated Cantonese behind her. She then listened, as Guan Shi Yin spoke in a rambling, sing-song response.
Mister Kwong spoke in a low whisper, “He says Mazu is very angry right now. She has given him the gift of millions of years of oceanic wisdom. The dynamite has been cradled in her gift of Diatomaceous earth, so that it will not needlessly explode until he pushes down on the blasting mechanism in his hands right now. Guan Shi Yin says he worked for seven years as the digger of the graves in Oakland. It was then he learned from railroad workers that there was a much easier method of creating the burial sites in the cemetery. Before the invention of the protected dynamite by Alfred Nobel, it seems Mister Leland Stanford had forced his Chinese workers to use the black powder explosives. Stanford did not care that many of his coolies were blown to bits, as they carried the charges of Chinese-made explosives out to the mountains where caverns needed to be blown apart to create railway tunnels. But then Mazu created the granulated sea earth which now protects these dynamite charges. At first, the minister says, he was killing the women by stabbing them with his sacrificial knife—the same one he used in his tributes to Mazu inside the temple. But then, the brilliant idea came to him. He could terminate the entire prostitution business in Chinatown with one blast. This is where we are now, Missus Foltz. Guan Shi Yin has connected fifty explosive charges—one for each of our houses of prostitution—and he is going to blow them all if his demands are not met.”
Clara’s heart began to race again, her brow became wet with beads of perspiration, and her palms were also sweating. “W … what demands?” she managed to blurt out.
“He wants all the houses of ill repute shut down in the United States forever.” Kwong raised his eyebrows. “I know, his demands are insane. What can we do?”
“Ask him if I can speak with Captain Lees and Ah Toy.” Clara was thinking of a way to work around this quandary. She would need the cooperation of her friends.
Andrew spoke briefly to the minister, who then replied. “He says you can, but you must answer his demands now.”
Now? Clara didn’t know what to say. If she promised, would this deranged man even believe her? “Tell him I will contact the authorities I know in the government in Washington. If he lets my friends go, then we can see what develops. We will keep him safe until we can get the decision at higher levels.”
Kwong translated Clara’s words. The killer looked confused for a moment, but then he smiled, nodded, and spoke to Andrew.
“He says you can speak to your friends now,” Andrew told her.
Clara moved closer to the trap door’s opening. It was still glowing light from within. She could now see the face of the Asian minister more closely. There were the two physical traits she knew. The dark mole on his right cheek, and the cleft in his chin.
“Isaiah? Ah Toy? Can you both hear me?” Clara shouted. She could feel spittle inside her throat, and she coughed. “Did you hear our conversation up here?”
“Yes.” It was Captain Lees.
“Clara, I heard everything.” It was Ah Toy.
“What happened, Captain?” Clara asked.
“He had the dynamite ready when Ah Toy came into the shrine. After the Tongs tried to break into the temple, she was forced down into our room. Ah Toy opened the door, so Dutch and I couldn’t get a shot off at him. He has her outfitted as well.”
Clara was comforted by the strong voice of her friend. However, she was also confused. “Outfitted? Do you mean he dressed her up in some kind of outfit?”
“No. Not clothing. She is wearing dynamite, which is also fused with his explosive device topside.”
Ah Toy had spent many years trying to make her employment of prostitutes safer and less confining. Now, on the verge of teaching women about how to employ their natural charms in a business setting, her best friend and her prospective lover and his partner, were about to be blown apart by this monstrous religious fanatic.
“That’s not good, now is it?” Clara became suddenly very calm within. Her voice no longer trembled, her demeanor was slow and perceptive. She believed she was now channeling the millions of years of female survival inside her being. “I’m going to talk with him now. Stay right there, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry, Carrie,” Ah Toy said. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Andrew, please translate the following to our minister of the Goddess Mazu.” Clara’s voice was clear and confident.
“I will do my best, Missus Foltz,” Kwong said, and he also moved closer to the trap door and the killer.
“Minister Guan Shi Yin, I know your name means hearer of all sufferings. I am going to explain how you will now suffer if you don’t release my friends.” Clara waited until Andrew Kwong translated. She watched the murderer’s face. It became taut, and his jaws clenched. That was a good sign. “I knew you were the murderer of those women shortly after the trial of my client, George Kwong, ended. As a result, I wrote a long dissertation explaining what you had done, complete with evidence that I have gathered, and this written article is about to be sent to all the major newspapers in the world.”
Andrew translated, and the murdering minister was now staring at her, his mouth agape in disbelief.
“Oh yes. If you kill them right now, I have ordered this article to be transmitted by teletype. However, as I do realize you have the upper hands, so to speak, I am willing to make a last negotiation. I know you are a very religious man. I also know I would be the greatest sacrifice for your Goddess Mazu. Why? Because I am the one who has collected all the evidence proving your guilt in these heinous murders. Therefore, if you agree to let me replace my friend, Ah Toy, down in your pit of perdition, I will allow her to destroy my newspaper article. You see, she is the only other person who knows right now where it is. Once she destroys it, she will notify you, and you can release all of us. Is that clear?”
Andrew Kwong took several minutes translating what Clara had said. When the minister spoke, his tone sounded calmer and more deliberate. He punctuated his speech with frequent nods of his head, as he pointed at them with a free hand.
“He asks if you can also guarantee that the whore houses will be closed. If so, then he will allow you to change places with Ah Toy. We must come close to him, however, so he can show me how to affix the charges around your waist.”
Of course, Clara knew, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to attempt to place the dynamite around her himself. “Tell him we agree. Get Ah Toy up here so you can take the dynamite off her and place it around me.”
Kwong translated Clara’s instructions to Guan Shi Yin. The minister yelled instructions in Cantonese down into the trap door to Ah Toy. After several moments, Clara could hear her friend climbing the rickety wooden stairs up to the floor of the shrine. Clara whispered, under her breath, “Be careful, my sister. Don’t trip and fall, for God’s sake.”
The few minutes it took Ah Toy to climb those steps seemed like an eternity. When she finally appeared at the top step, facing them, her mincing little steps made the tension even more excruciating. She took tiny steps toward them, her silk slippers scraping along the floor of the shrine like sandpaper. Seeing her friend safe and alive was exhilarating. Ah Toy’s face was calm, under the circumstances, and Clara realized her friend had also girded herself against any danger that might assail her. Clara remembered her friend’s stories about how female infants in China were often drowned because they were seen to be of no worth to the farmers there. Only the wealthy Chinese daughters had access to dowries.
At last, Ah Toy was standing next to the minister and his insane explosive device. The shrine of the Goddess Mazu was nearby, in all her golden finery, looking down at this small Chinese peasant woman who had progressed so far in her new home country. Clara believed if Mazu could, she would have patted Ah Toy on the head.
Clara listened, as the minister instructed Andrew in Cantonese on how to take off the suicide belt from around Ah Toy’s waist. Finally, her client moved over to stand next to the Chinese woman. His two hands reached out, ever so gently, and unfastened the leather strip that was tied in the small of Ah Toy’s narrow back. The three sticks of red dynamite were in a series, and as Andrew brought the strap of leather around with his right hand, these three explosives, which could obliterate the entire Tin How Temple, were dangling in mid-air for several seconds. Clara believed she could hear the three of them as they inhaled slowly and held their collective breaths.
As Andrew was transferring the explosive belt to his right hand, the better to manipulate it so he could bring it around Clara’s waist, he dropped it! Clara instantly brought her hands up to her ears, waiting for the crushing blast. Nothing. The minister chuckled and spoke.
Ah Toy translated this time. “He says, Mazu’s protective Diatomaceous earth has saved us again. However, it failed to save his son when he was handling black powder for the railroad.”
Clara was momentarily struck with empathy. This poor man had harbored a grudge against the powers who took his son’s life. This event was the wellspring from whence his insane delusions had come forth. Still, she knew, he was not an innocent. She knew more about his motives than she let on. They were not all delusional.
As Andrew gingerly picked up the dynamite belt, and brought it up to her waist, Clara inhaled again, as if making her waist thinner could prevent any kind of disturbance.
“Carrie, don’t do that. It will be more dangerous when you exhale,” Ah Toy explained to her.
Clara let out the air. Andrew, once again, brought the belt around her back and held the two strips of leather between the index fingers and thumbs of both hands. Finally, it was around her, and when Andrew tied it off, Clara began to plan her next move.
Cantonese came pouring from the minister at his detonator.
“He wants you to move slowly toward the trap door. Don’t make any moves, or he’ll plunge down on his handle. Once you get on the top rung of the wooden steps, tell Captain Lees to assist you.”
Ah Toy was now her personal translator, as Andrew Kwong was still perspiring and breathing heavily from his earlier dangerous exercise.
“Tell him I’ll do the best I can. I don’t go strolling about the town wearing dynamite every day, you know.” Clara smiled, as Ah Toy translated. She was proud of herself that she could keep some humor, in spite of the predicament.
Clara believed it was rather ironic. As she moved toward the trap door in the floor of the Mazu shrine, she was taking the same mincing steps that Ah Toy had to take because of her bound feet. Women in North America were not physically bound, but they were, indeed, legally bound. No voting rights, no rights to own property, the list was quite binding and probably as cruel as having one’s feet crumpled up like a cow’s horn. As she walked, she slowly moved her right hand to her sash in front of her body. Inside the sash, she felt for the small blue handbag, and she opened it.
She had finally arrived at her destination. The dizziness she felt was momentary, as she looked down into the pit of the hideout room below. In its depths, she could clearly see the face of her new beau. He was looking up at her, an inquisitive expression, perhaps one of respect and care. She had always thought his veneration was what she needed most at this time in her life. Her five children and her parents in San Jose had always admired her intelligence and her fortitude to overcome obstacles that most women withstood because they believed they were powerless. Clara Shortridge Foltz, however, had never, for one moment, believed she was completely powerless.
She winked at Captain Lees. “Can you assist me, Captain? I can’t seem to get the hang of these steps.” Clara heard the voice of the killer asking Ah Toy to translate. As her friend did so, Clara knew her moment was upon her. She curved her index finger gently around the trigger of the Derringer, still in her right hand, and she turned around, took a deep breath, and she pointed the pistol at the man who had caused so much suffering in the world. He had murdered and tortured eight innocent women, in the prime of their lives, before they even had the chance to mend their ways or had become enlightened as to the ways of this cruel world. No, he had chosen to extinguish life instead of protect it, and for that, Clara thought, in the seconds it took for her to aim at his head, he was guilty. Her talking target was then looking over at the lovely Ah Toy, who was telling him what this white woman was saying. Between that moment, and the moment it took for Ah Toy to speak to the hearer of all suffering, Clara Foltz, Attorney-at-Law, pulled the trigger, twice—once for her family, and once for all women. The sound that erupted shook her, as if the explosives fastened around her not-too-thin waist had detonated after all.