“I found this in his pocket,” said Abbott, holding up a pencil-sized cylinder with wires extending from it like two short legs.
“Mercury-fulminate detonator,” said Bell. “Where was the man found?”
“Floating past the Battery.”
“Could he have drifted across the river from Jersey City to the tip of Manhattan?”
“The currents are unpredictable,” said the coroner’s physician. “Between ocean tide and river flux, bodies go every which way, depending upon ebb and flow. Do you think he set off the explosion?”
“He looks like he was near it,” Abbott said noncommitally with an inquiring glance at Bell.
“Thank you for calling us, Doctor,” said Bell, and walked out.
Abbott caught up with him on the sidewalk.
“How did the Wrecker recruit a Chinese to his cause?”
Bell said, “We can’t know that until we find out who the man was.”
“That’s going to be hard without a face.”
“We must find out who he was. What are the principal sources of employment for Chinese in New York?”
“The Chinese work mostly at cigarmaking, running grocery stores, and hand-wash laundries, of course.”
“This man’s fingers and palms were heavily callused,” said Bell, “which makes it likely he was a laundryman working with a hot, heavy iron.”
“That’s a lot of laundries,” said Archie. “One in every block of the working districts.”
“Start in Jersey City. The schooner was tied up there. And that’s where the Southern Pacific lighter loaded her dynamite.”
SUDDENLY, THINGS MOVED QUICKLY. One of Jethro Watt’s railroad detectives recalled allowing a Chinese with a huge sack of laundry on a pier. “Said he was heading for the Julia Reidhead, a steel barque unloading bones.”
The Julia Reidhead was still moored at the pier, her masts shattered by the explosion. No, said her captain. He had not had his laundry done ashore. He had a wife on board who did it herself. Then the harbormaster’s log revealed that Yatkowski’s wooden schooner had been tied near the Julia that afternoon.
The Van Dorn detectives found missionary students who were studying Chinese at a seminary in Chelsea. They hired the students to translate for them and then intensified the search for the laundry that had employed the dead man. Archie Abbott returned to the Knickerbocker Hotel triumphant.
“His name was Wong Lee. People who knew him said he used to work for the railroad. In the West.”
“Dynamiting cuts in the mountains,” said Bell. “Of course. That’s where he learned his trade.”
“Probably came here twenty, twenty-five years ago,” said Abbott. “A lot of the Chinese fled California to escape mob attacks.”
“Did his employer confirm this just to make him sound good? To make the white detective go away?”
“Wong Lee wasn’t really an employee. At least, not anymore. He bought a half interest from his boss.”
“So the Wrecker paid him well.” Bell said.
“Very well. Up front, no less, and enough to buy himself a business. Have to admire his enterprise. How many workingmen would resist the temptation to spend it on wine and women? … Isaac, why are you staring at me?”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When did Wong Lee buy a half interest in his laundry?”
“Last February.”