allowed to partake of stupefactants, many of Hop Alley’s clientele were white women, and many of them middle class and respectable. Several papers that had previously ignored the storyof the shooting enthusiastically ran articles relating cursorily the facts of the case, followed by lengthy editorial rantings over the Yellow Threat to Labor, Morality, and White Rule.
The boy and I did not discuss the matter while we worked that morning, and after lunch I sat up on the roof printing the previous day’s portrait sittings. They were an eclectic mix: a homely debutante with her enormous mother, the latter poised to marry a penniless associate of her late husband’s and the former bitterly opposed to the union (I gleaned this from their dialogue during the sitting, not one word of which was directed to me); an emaciated old miner who wanted a picture to send his brothers and sisters back in Pennsylvania; a newly married couple setting out for one of the mining towns where he was to make his fortune; and the elderly Chinese launderer. I imagined Hop Alley was in for a rough time of it tonight, with revenge-taking for the death of the pressman by men who never met him, with no concern for whether that vengeance was being visited upon Cowan’s killers or their blameless compatriots. I wondered about Dr. Marcy’s account of the theft of his morphine, for I had never heard of a Chinese hypo fiend; my understanding was that they used only opium, taken strictly by the pipe, and there were many hundreds more white morphine addicts in Denver than Chinamen altogether. I suspected he’d taken advantage of the incident to invent a theft that would cover his selling of morphine to hopheads, and I suspected further that the newspapers all knew this to be the case but didn’t want to give up a chance to stir things up.
Upon descending to the gallery at one o’clock I found a man in a policeman’s uniform seated in a stuffed chair there, smoking a cheap-smelling cigar. A more-than-usually sullen Mrs. Fenster, engaged in cleaning the glass cases, introduced him to me as Patrolman Heinecker of the Denver Police. I thought I had seen him a time or two, rousting drunks and harassing streetwalkers.
“I just had some inquiries for Mrs. Fenster regarding her brother’s death,” he said, looking quite pleased with himself.
“Brother-in-law,” she corrected sharply, plucking at the hem of her apron.
He was clean-shaven and ruddy of complexion, though whiskey may have accounted for the latter. Two of the brass buttons of his blue tunic were undone, and his cap sat crooked on his head. “Mr. Sadlaw, do you know where this lady went last night?”
“She was here, as she is every night.” I didn’t quite understand why I felt compelled to lie, but it came out as naturally as the truth might have; I hoped Mrs. Fenster hadn’t already contradicted me, and she raised her head and sniffed as though vindicated.
“Because you see, one of Doc Marcy’s tenants downstairs from his surgery seen two old ladies come to call, both of ’em stout and short of stature, shortly after the arrival of the Chinee. The doc didn’t see ’em, but the dead man’s widow says to us, that sounds like my sisters, short and fat.” He licked his lipsand looked over at Mrs. Fenster, who stood with her plump arms crossed over her broad, shapeless bosom. “Just wondering if Mrs. Fenster had any thoughts on the matter.”
“None at all,” she said.
My imagination began to feed me little ugly thoughts about Mrs. Fenster’s nocturnal outings, and her involvement with the old Mandarin, and I thought it best to distract the policeman from the similar thoughts that must have been percolating in his head. “Mrs. Fenster, I hope you haven’t neglected to offer Patrolman Heinecker a little drop of something.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, carefully separating each word in an exclamation of contemptuous disbelief rather than an apology or request for
The boy and I did not discuss the matter while we worked that morning, and after lunch I sat up on the roof printing the previous day’s portrait sittings. They were an eclectic mix: a homely debutante with her enormous mother, the latter poised to marry a penniless associate of her late husband’s and the former bitterly opposed to the union (I gleaned this from their dialogue during the sitting, not one word of which was directed to me); an emaciated old miner who wanted a picture to send his brothers and sisters back in Pennsylvania; a newly married couple setting out for one of the mining towns where he was to make his fortune; and the elderly Chinese launderer. I imagined Hop Alley was in for a rough time of it tonight, with revenge-taking for the death of the pressman by men who never met him, with no concern for whether that vengeance was being visited upon Cowan’s killers or their blameless compatriots. I wondered about Dr. Marcy’s account of the theft of his morphine, for I had never heard of a Chinese hypo fiend; my understanding was that they used only opium, taken strictly by the pipe, and there were many hundreds more white morphine addicts in Denver than Chinamen altogether. I suspected he’d taken advantage of the incident to invent a theft that would cover his selling of morphine to hopheads, and I suspected further that the newspapers all knew this to be the case but didn’t want to give up a chance to stir things up.
Upon descending to the gallery at one o’clock I found a man in a policeman’s uniform seated in a stuffed chair there, smoking a cheap-smelling cigar. A more-than-usually sullen Mrs. Fenster, engaged in cleaning the glass cases, introduced him to me as Patrolman Heinecker of the Denver Police. I thought I had seen him a time or two, rousting drunks and harassing streetwalkers.
“I just had some inquiries for Mrs. Fenster regarding her brother’s death,” he said, looking quite pleased with himself.
“Brother-in-law,” she corrected sharply, plucking at the hem of her apron.
He was clean-shaven and ruddy of complexion, though whiskey may have accounted for the latter. Two of the brass buttons of his blue tunic were undone, and his cap sat crooked on his head. “Mr. Sadlaw, do you know where this lady went last night?”
“She was here, as she is every night.” I didn’t quite understand why I felt compelled to lie, but it came out as naturally as the truth might have; I hoped Mrs. Fenster hadn’t already contradicted me, and she raised her head and sniffed as though vindicated.
“Because you see, one of Doc Marcy’s tenants downstairs from his surgery seen two old ladies come to call, both of ’em stout and short of stature, shortly after the arrival of the Chinee. The doc didn’t see ’em, but the dead man’s widow says to us, that sounds like my sisters, short and fat.” He licked his lipsand looked over at Mrs. Fenster, who stood with her plump arms crossed over her broad, shapeless bosom. “Just wondering if Mrs. Fenster had any thoughts on the matter.”
“None at all,” she said.
My imagination began to feed me little ugly thoughts about Mrs. Fenster’s nocturnal outings, and her involvement with the old Mandarin, and I thought it best to distract the policeman from the similar thoughts that must have been percolating in his head. “Mrs. Fenster, I hope you haven’t neglected to offer Patrolman Heinecker a little drop of something.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, carefully separating each word in an exclamation of contemptuous disbelief rather than an apology or request for
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