No Comfort for the Lost Read Online Free PDF Page A

reached a seat, she lowered the window and leaned out.
    Mr. Greaves tapped fingertips to the brim of his hat. “Good evening, Mrs. Davies,” he called out from the curb, “and good-bye.”
    “Good-bye?” She lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t be so hopeful, Detective Greaves.”
    The horsecar lurched forward before she could be sure of his response. But she thought he might have chuckled.
    • • •
    A fter he’d seen Mrs. Davies off, Nick took a detour through Chinatown before heading home. Until this case, he hadn’t paid much attention to the anti-Chinese groups. He’d expected their righteous indignation would soon burn out, once they realized they weren’t getting anywhere and the Chinese were in San Francisco to stay. But if Mrs. Davies’ half-Chinese cousin was scared . . . well, there might be more heat behind their indignation than he’d thought.
    A block shy of the police station, he turned west off Kearney. The Chinese lived and worked along Sacramento and Dupont, and they crowded the streets, mostly men in their silk tunics and wide pants, skullcaps over their pigtailed hair. They watched him as he strode past the tables they’d set up on the sidewalks to hawk their goods—unfamiliar vegetables and painted fans and oriental medicines and bits of just about everything. Red paper lanterns hung over doorways and red signs dangled from protruding balconies. A scrawny dog barked at him and a kid shouted in Chinese. A nearby man shushed the boy and sent him scurrying inside their shop. The man’s eyes followed Nick. Did the vendor seem apprehensive or fearful? Neither, it seemed. Maybe Mrs. Davies was wrong.
    But Nick wanted to be sure. He didn’t want every Chinese person in town wondering who might be murdered next, and if he could find out who’d killed Li Sha, they might begin to feel safe. He knew that’s what Uncle Asa, one of the finest detectives—hell, one of the finest policemen—Nick had ever known, would do. Because his uncle had valued justice like Nick did. And those who needed justice the most were the ones least likely to get it.
    He had almost reached Stockton when he heard a shout coming from an alley up ahead and began running toward the sound. Halfway down the passageway, a skinny Chinese laundry boy, his load of clean underclothes spilled into a dirty puddle, had been cornered in a doorway by a handful of white boys in filthy caps and torn duck pants. The kid’s lip was bleeding and there were cuts on his face.
    “Hey!” Nick sprinted forward, his hat flying off. The cowards scattered like marbles after a good strike.
    “Dirty China boy!” shouted one before vanishing around the farthest corner.
    With a sob, the little boy dropped to the ground, and Nick changed his mind about chasing the bullies and pummeling them. He returned to the kid.
    “Here,” he said, extending a hand. “Let me help you to your feet.”
    The boy looked up at him with tears in his black eyes but no sign of gratitude. He was all of seven or eight and his expression conveyed only hatred.
    “No!” a woman screeched, clattering down the alleyway in her high shoes. Angry Chinese words followed, some directed at the boy, some at Nick. She hauled the boy to his feet, gathered the spilled laundry, and thrust it into his arms. Grabbing the boy, she dragged him toward the road without looking back.
    Nick collected his hat, brushed it off, and restored it to his head. A glance around revealed faces in doorways and windows, hastily withdrawn. Mrs. Davies was right to worry. Trouble was brewing, and if they weren’t all careful, the pot might blow its lid.
    • • •
    “ C rumpets and orange marmalade this morning, ma’am?” asked Addie, leaning through the doorway into the downstairs room Celia had converted into her clinic. “With some poached eggs?”
    “Addie, that sounds wonderful,” Celia answered, glancing over from her desk. “And tea. The strongest oolong you can brew.”
    “Aye,