Frank noticed the sickly-sweet scent of the air inside the house. Incense or something else. The furnishings were rich and expensive, the rooms dark behind heavy draperies. Every detail spoke of opulence and excess.

“This way, please, Mr. Malloy,” Fong said, and led Frank soundlessly into a room off the entrance hall that was furnished like a parlor. Another young man, even larger than Michael and with the same faintly Oriental features, stood just inside. “My other son,” Fong explained, nodding at the man. “You will excuse us, Sean.”

“We’ll be right outside if you need anything, Father,” Sean said.

Now Frank was very curious indeed. A Chinese man with sons named Michael and Sean?

“My wife, like you, is Irish,” Fong explained, anticipating Frank’s question.

“You’re married to a white woman?” Frank asked in surprise.

Fong betrayed no hint of emotion, although he had every right to feel insulted. “Your country did not allow Chinese females to come here for many years,” he pointed out. “We had no choice but to marry American women.”

Frank had known that Chinese women weren’t allowed into this country. The government didn’t want the Chinese to settle here and had assumed that without their women, the men would soon return to China. Instead they had made do by marrying American women and stayed anyway. Frank tried to recall if he’d ever seen a Chinese woman. He didn’t think he had. They must still be rare.

“I need to ask you about some of your customers.”

“Then please sit down, and let me get you some tea.”

Frank took a seat on the chair Fong indicated. “Thanks, but I don’t need anything to drink. I won’t be here that long.”

Fong took a seat in the richly upholstered chair opposite him. “You said a man was murdered. Is this man someone I am supposed to know?”

“No, he’s never been here, but his wife is apparently a regular customer. Letitia Blackwell.”

“No one ever tells me their real name, Mr. Malloy,” Fong explained kindly. “And even if they did, I would not remember it.”

“You’ll remember this lady, though. She’s young and very pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes. She comes every day, in the afternoon, and meets her lover. The lover has red hair. And she was expecting a baby.”

Fong didn’t bat an eye. “Even if I did know of such people, what do you want of me?” he asked. Frank wondered if he ever showed any emotion.

“I need to know if they were here a week ago Wednesday, in the afternoon.”

“And if they were?”

“Then they’re innocent of murder.”

Fong considered. “Mr. Malloy, you obviously do not understand how we do business here. People come and go. They do not tell us their names, and we do not ask. The women come veiled, and we may not even see their faces. They may meet someone here, and they may not. We take no notice. If they wish a private room and have the means to pay for it, we can provide one. In that case, we do not know who shares that room with them, when they come, or when they leave. One day is much like another here, and we keep no records or schedules. As much as I would like to help the police, I’m afraid that I cannot tell you if these people you described were here on that day or any other day because I make it my business not to know such things. I am sorry I cannot be of assistance to you.”

He did look genuinely sorry, but Frank wasn’t sorry at all. Letitia Blackwell and her lover had no alibi at all for the murder.

FRANK WOULD HAVE preferred being at Sarah Brandt’s house that evening, eating something her neighbor Mrs. Ellsworth had baked, instead of standing on a gaslit street corner waiting for Peter Dudley to come out of the bank where he worked. A discreet inquiry had told him that the clerks would be finished at nine o’clock.

The junior-level clerks in this establishment were scheduled to work in the mornings and then to return in late afternoon to count money and do the bookkeeping after closing. It was a schedule that left little time for amusements, Frank supposed, unless you spent your free afternoons in an opium den with someone else’s wife.

A group of young men all dressed similarly in cheaply made suits and straw boaters came out of the building as the night watchman locked the doors behind them. They started off in the other direction, on their way someplace together, probably to have a few beers and some fun. Frank called Dudley’s name, and one of the men stopped and turned.

“Who is it?” he asked in alarm. “Who’s there?”

“I’d just like a word with you, Mr. Dudley. It’s about Mrs. Blackwell,” Frank said, knowing that would draw him.

“Who’s Mrs. Blackwell?” someone asked with interest. “Some rich widow you’re romancing?”

Others joined the teasing, hooting and making fun. Dudley didn’t even acknowledge them.

“I’ll see you fellows tomorrow,” he said, leaving them and coming cautiously toward Frank.

“Give Mrs. Blackwell our love,” one of them called, and the rest of them laughed uproariously as they went on their way.

Dudley approached cautiously, drawn by the mention of Letitia but still concerned for his own safety. When he was close enough for his features to be seen, Frank stared in amazement. He’d expected someone traditionally handsome, a man who could easily attract the attention of a romantic schoolgirl. Dudley was gangly and graceless, his face no more than ordinary. In the dim light, Frank couldn’t even make out the notorious red hair, which was mostly hidden under the straw boater.

“Who are you?” Dudley demanded when he was close enough to speak quietly but still out of arm’s reach. His fear was palpable.

“Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy,” he said. “I want to ask you some questions about Edmund Blackwell’s murder.”

“I don’t know anything about Edmund Blackwell,” he said, not reassured. Policemen could be even more dangerous than crooks if they took a dislike to you. “I never even met the man. You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

He started to turn away, but Frank stopped him with a word. “You know his wife pretty well, though, don’t you?”

Dudley stopped and half turned back. “I don’t believe I do,” he tried, forgetting that it had been her name that drew him in the first place.

“She’ll be mighty surprised to hear that,” Frank said. “What with her having that red-haired baby and all.”

“Look, Mister…” He gestured helplessly.

“Malloy,” Frank supplied.

“Malloy. I will admit that I know Mrs. Blackwell. We met years ago, when I was teaching school in her hometown.”

“You more than know her, Dudley. She told me all about those visits to Mr. Fong’s opium den.”

Dudley gasped, his face a sickly color in the gaslight. “She told you about that? I don’t believe it!”

“I know everything except exactly how you killed Blackwell,” Malloy tried.

“I didn’t kill him!” Dudley exclaimed. “Who told you I did? They’re a liar!”

“No one had to tell me. You were the one with the most reason to want him out of the way. His wife, too. Did you plan it at the opium den? Tell me, did she talk you into it, or was it your own idea?”

“I didn’st! I swear it!”

“Are you saying you didn’t want him dead?” Frank asked in disbelief.

“Of course I did! We both did. But we couldn’t kill him, no matter how much we might’ve wanted to. That’s a sin!”

“Adultery is a sin, too, last I heard,” Frank said.

Dudley was visibly trembling. “We couldn’t help ourselves. You don’t know what it was like. We’ve loved each other for years, long before she even met Blackwell. And he was a terrible man. He treated her very badly.”

“He beat her, do you mean?” Frank was enjoying this. He hadn’t even had to lay hands on Dudley, and the man couldn’t tell him enough.

“Well, no, not beat her,” Dudley admitted reluctantly, “but he ignored her. He never took her anywhere or even spoke to her most of the time.”