Schmidt would have made his way out of town immediately, had he not wanted alcohol to numb the pain of the beating. Ironically, had he not made a spectacle of himself begging for liquor so early in the day, we might never have located him.
I pulled money out of my wallet, but did not give it to Schmidt. “I promised you train fare,” I said, “but I don’t want you to spend it on drink. The man who will release you will take care of buying your ticket.”
He was insensible again, and I got no response.
“Get the man a doctor,” I said to the clerk on duty as I exited past the main office. “I believe he has a broken arm and requires medical care. You can send the bill here.” I left Alistair’s card behind. And I handed him an envelope with Mulvaney’s name on it, containing a note and money for Otto Schmidt’s train. “Will you see that Declan Mulvaney gets this? Thanks.”
I would follow up with Mulvaney later to let him know that, for our purposes, it was okay to release Schmidt. I trusted him to put Schmidt on the train.
I boarded the Third Avenue El yet again, this time bound for Chinatown. I had wasted much of my afternoon in transit, and though it was not rational, I found myself irritated that Alistair had chosen such an inconvenient spot for dinner. Yet I was the one who had agreed, largely because it would have been so convenient to the Oak Street station where Schmidt was originally held.
Schmidt’s situation continued to perplex me. How had Sarah Wingate’s killer known Schmidt was on our list of possible suspects? The only scenario that made sense was that the killer wanted Schmidt to disappear so we would be unable to talk with him. That was important—not because Schmidt knew anything, but precisely because he did not. If Schmidt remained unavailable to us, then we could not formally clear him of suspicion in Sarah Wingate’s murder. It was a calculated way to ensure our investigation remained hindered by many suspects we could not eliminate.
But Schmidt’s attacker had found him even before we did. How was that possible? I supposed that once Mulvaney began asking around in an effort to find Schmidt, a lot more people had became involved. Too many people, frankly. What troubled me was Alistair’s warning that the killer was likely monitoring our progress—either on his own, or through the guise of police or journalistic efforts. Whoever he was, he seemed always to be one maddening step ahead of us.
CHAPTER 24
I got off the El at Chatham Square and walked along the Bowery toward Doyers Street and Chinatown. It was Saturday evening, and throngs of people made their way in and out of import shops, meat and vegetable markets, restaurants, and some of the more dangerous saloons. On Doyers, Jimmy Kelly’s Mandarin Club was already packed and, across from it, the Christian Mission house had a decent turnout. Turning onto Pell Street, I saw that Mike Saulter’s place teemed with customers, as did a typical restaurant called the Oriental. I was in the heart of Chinatown, where all manner of vices, religions, and foods coexisted.
Mon Lay Won—or, as Alistair had described it, the Chinese Delmonico’s—was on the upper floor of an import house, so I climbed narrow steps that led up to a small dining room with red carpet, rice-paper decorations, and a handful of tables. After the chaos of Chinatown’s streets, it was a surprising oasis of calm.
Alistair and Isabella were already there, waiting for me at a front table. Apart from his fondness for Chinese food, I could see why Alistair chose this restaurant: It was a quiet place with very few tables, where we might talk undisturbed.
“We should order family style,” Alistair said. “Their chop suey is excellent, and the boneless stuffed chicken wings are the best I’ve tried outside of Hong Kong.”
I glanced at the menu. At a cost of $2.50—the most expensive item on the menu—I expected them to be.
“I’m also partial to the fried lobster in rice,” Alistair said.
Our waiter appeared at our table to take our order.
“We’ll begin with a pot of Lin Som tea,” Alistair said, “and the water nuts along with egg drop soup.” He went on to order a variety of dishes, thanking the waiter at the end in Chinese. Once he was out of earshot, Alistair went on to lament that there were not more Chinese restaurants in