The Dangerous Ladies Affair

by Marcia Muller

  Since she still had little useful information about Nathaniel Dobbs and the Egans, Sabina made her next stop the Commercial Street building that housed the Morning Call. Once known as “the washerwoman’s paper,” for it had been aimed primarily at the working-class Irish, it had since evolved into one of the more responsible general-readership sheets. While not editorially in favor of woman suffrage, at least it refused to lower itself to the level of the muckraking attacks in such rags as Homer Keeps’ Evening Bulletin.

  She spoke to two employees she knew, society page editor Millie Munson and old Ephraim Ballard who presided over the paper’s musty, dusty morgue. From Millie she learned that the Egans, while wealthy, were not members of the city’s social elite, neither having come from a moneyed background. Fenton Egan’s partner, William Bradford, was largely responsible for the success of their importing firm; he had put up much of the financing to start the business, and it was his knowledge of teas and spices and their suppliers in the Orient that had made it successful. Fenton’s contribution was public relations and shrewd salesmanship. If he had a penchant for extramarital affairs, Millie was unaware of it. Both he and his wife evidently kept their private lives private and had thus avoided any sort of public scandal. Ephraim, who knew a little about almost everything and everybody mentioned in the pages of the Morning Call, confirmed this.

  Millie disliked Dobbs and his Solidarity Party on principle, being a suffrage supporter herself, but knew nothing about him or any of the other opponents to the movement that wasn’t public knowledge. Neither did Ephraim. According to him, bachelor Dobbs was a “backward-leaning blowhard” and his minions “a pack of blustering rabble-rousers,” and Dobbs’ entire public life had been little more than a sham. His “devotion to public service” as water commissioner was the result of nepotism—his brother had been a member of the board of supervisors at the time of his appointment—and the Solidarity Party a humbug designed to provide him with unwarranted attention and a living from donations and dubious speaking engagements instead of from honest work. No public scandal had ever been attached to him, either.

  It was well past the hour for luncheon when Sabina left the Morning Call building, and her empty stomach was demanding attention. She walked to Union Square, where she bought sausage and sauerkraut in a soft roll and a bottle of soda pop from one of the food sellers. She sat on a bench, like Little Miss Muffet on her tuffet, to eat every morsel and drink every drop. A poor and not very healthy meal, one that cousin Callie would have heartily disapproved of, but Sabina had no time for leisurely dining today.

  Ross Cleghorne’s Floral Delights shop, on Geary Street a short distance from Union Square, was her next stop. Mr. Cleghorne was more than just a “florist to the wealthy and influential.” In many respects San Francisco was a small town as well as a growing city; many secrets were not long or easily kept, particularly those involving immoral and/or quasi-legal behavior among those in the upper strata of society. Gossip was rife, and gossip was Mr. Cleghorne’s passion—to an even greater degree than it was to Callie. He collected a vast storehouse of what he called tidbits and large juicy bites, and was not above discreetly sharing it with professionals such as Sabina if he deemed doing so harmless to his business and his reputation. But he demanded a price for it, firmly if delicately: it was necessary whenever she called upon him to place an order for an expensive corsage or nosegay or one of his unique floral arrangements.

  He greeted her with his usual effusive charm. No more than five feet tall and rather pear-shaped, he made up for his lack of stature by dressing in finely tailored clothing, wearing patent-leather shoes with large lifts, and combing his full head of white hair in an upswept pompadour. It was impossible, at least for Sabina, not to like the man despite his gossipmongering and his quid pro quo method of doing business.

  “Ah, my dear Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “As always you brighten my day with your comely presence. It has been much too long since your last visit.”

  The flattery, typically overdone, was nonetheless sincere and therefore appealing. “And how have you been, Mr. Cleghorne?”

  “Splendid. Business, if you’ll excuse the vulgar phrase, is booming. How may I serve you? A bouquet of red and yellow roses, perhaps?”

  “A small corsage would be more appropriate.”

  He pretended to pout, then brightened. “Ah! I have just the thing—a pair of lovely lavender-and-white cattleya orchids.”

  “How much are they?”

  “For you, dear lady, half price. A mere ten dollars.”

  Sabina managed not to wince. “I’d like the answers to a few questions before I decide.” This was another part of their little ritual. If he had no answers or did and refused to divulge them, she would make this known and not be held to the orchid purchase. In his own mildly corrupt way, Ross Cleghorne was an honorable man.

  A bell over the door tinkled as a well-dressed woman came in. Mr. Cleghorne signaled to a clerk to attend to the customer, then said to Sabina, “Naturally. Shall we step into my office?”

  His office was small, neat, and filled with potted ferns and flowering plants. Once inside with the door closed, Sabina said, “To begin with, do you know of anyone who bears a serious grudge against any of the leaders of the woman suffrage movement?”

  “By ‘serious,’ you mean—?”

  “Serious enough to attempt to inflict harm.”

  “Ah. Which leader did you have in mind?”

  “I would rather not say. Do you know of any such grudge holder?”

  “The suffrage movement engenders strong emotions in its opponents, as I’m sure you know. Enemies abound on both sides. I myself must remain neutral on this and other political issues, of course, so as not to offend any of my customers.” A self-serving statement if Sabina had ever heard one.

  “You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Cleghorne.”

  “Allow me to think for a moment.” He tugged at his pendulous lower lip, his eyelids fluttering as he cudgeled his memory. At length he said, rather wistfully, “No, I’m sorry to say that I have no knowledge of anyone who might wish to harm a suffragist leader.”

  He was dying to know who that leader was, but he didn’t press her. That was another of their ground rules: she told him only so much as she felt was necessary and he wasn’t to ask for more. Nor was he to include what information she gave him in his spread of gossip to others. So far as she knew, he had never broken that covenant.

  “May I be of any other assistance?” he asked.

  “Possibly. What can you tell me about the man who founded the Solidarity Party, Nathaniel Dobbs?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. I know who he is, of course, but he is not a customer of mine and I have never met him.”

  “There’s no unsavory behavior attached to him, then, so far as you know.”

  “So far as I know. A conservative political animal, I should say.” He added sagely, “Of course, there are secrets in everyone’s life, some of which are quite jealously guarded.”

  Not in mine. Though every now and then I wish there were.

  “Would that be the case with Fenton Egan, of Egan and Bradford, Tea and Spice Importers, and his wife, Prudence?”

  Mr. Cleghorne brightened. “Not at all. They are also not customers of mine, I regret to say, but it is whispered that neither is a pillar of moral rectitude. What exactly is it you’d like to know about the Egans? Tidbits or large juicy bites?”

  “Does that mean there are large juicy bites?”

  “Indeed. Mr. Egan is said to possess a roving eye, a very roving eye.”

  “Numerous conquests?”

  “Not as numerous as some of our lustier citizens’, but yes, I should say he has stepped outside the bounds of marital fidelity on a number of occasions.”

  “With married women?”

  “Married, widowed, divorced. Primarily, though not solely, those of the better class. His tastes appear to be catholic.” Mr. Cleghorne chuckled. “One mi
ght say that he is a social-climbing philanderer.”

  “Do you know the names of his recent conquests?”

  “One, perhaps, though I wouldn’t care to provide it. The lady happens to be the wife of a prominent political figure.”

  Which meant, to Sabina’s relief, that Mr. Cleghorne wasn’t aware of Egan’s affair with Amity. And what he didn’t know he wouldn’t be tempted to gossip about. “Would you say that Prudence Egan is aware of her husband’s infidelities?”

  “Undoubtedly she is.”

  “I understand she’s quite a jealous woman.”

  “Most women in her position are, to one extent or another.”

  “The sort who puts up with her husband’s affairs so long as they’re casual and non-threatening to her marriage.”

  “A difficult question to answer. I know the lady only by reputation.” Mr. Cleghorne tugged his underlip into a sly little smile. “Of course, one doesn’t have to passively put up with a spouse’s casual affairs, does one.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It is rumored that Mrs. Egan has indulged in a certain amount of retaliatory behavior. As a matter of fact, she is alleged to have rented a pied-à-terre in which she conducts her, shall we say, counteroffensives.”

  “Which implies her husband is unaware of these counteroffensives.”

  “Or of the pied-à-terre.”

  “Do you know where this trysting place is located?”

  “Only that it is reputed to be here in the city.”

  “I don’t know that it matters, but could you find out the address?”

  “With a little diligent effort, perhaps. I shall try.” Mr. Cleghorne rubbed his hands together briskly. “Now then. Have you any more questions, dear lady?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Then I shall go and fetch that cattleya orchid corsage for you. A virtual steal at a mere ten dollars, as you’ll soon see. And such a perfect complement to your ensemble and your lovely eyes.”

  * * *

  It was too late in the day to begin interviewing the Egans and Nathaniel Dobbs. And Sabina was tired and somewhat frazzled from the long day’s activities. The questions she asked and the answers and reactions she received from the trio would give her a better idea of whether or not any of them was a viable suspect. They were better asked in the morning, when she would be much more alert after a good night’s sleep.

  One last stop at the agency to check for messages. There were none waiting, nor had any been left for her with the Telephone Exchange. All was well with Amity, therefore; Elizabeth would have informed Sabina immediately of any new threats or difficulties with the bodyguard arrangement.

  John had been in at some point, and—wonder of wonders—he had heeded her note and made significant inroads in the pile of paperwork she had set on his desk. She felt a wash of tenderness toward him and chided herself for it because it was out of proportion to the task he’d performed. Such feelings came over her unbidden more and more often lately, rendering the (relatively minor) flaws and faults that had always nettled her in the past insignificant and excusable. She had even had a dream about him on Saturday night, a rather spicy dream in fact, the first of its kind in years. Memory of it brought warmth to her cheeks—a schoolgirl blush, for heaven’s sake.

  She quickly transferred the remaining bills, invoices, dossiers, and notes for reports to her desk and attacked them with vigor. But the memory of that naughty dream continued to linger in a corner of her mind.

  5

  QUINCANNON

  From where he sat propped behind a copy of the Argonaut, Quincannon had an unobstructed view of both the entrance to the Hotel Grant’s elegant bar parlor and the booth in which Titus Wrixton waited with the aid of a large brandy. The Seth Thomas clock above the backbar gave the time as five minutes past nine, which made the extortionist or his emissary, whichever he was, late for their appointment. This was no surprise to Quincannon. Blackmailers seldom missed an opportunity to heap additional pressure on their victims.

  The banker fidgeted, looked at the clock for perhaps the dozenth time, and once more pooched out his cheeks in that habitual trick of his. Large, red-faced rodent indeed. As per their arrangement, he continued to ignore the table where Quincannon sat with his newspaper. The satchel containing the five-thousand-dollar payoff demand was on the seat next to him, one corner of it just visible to Quincannon’s sharp eye.

  The Argonaut, like all of the city’s papers this month, contained considerable mention of two prominent news stories. First, rumors that gold had been discovered in the Klondike region of Yukon Territory, which if true would surely trigger a stampede to rival the California Gold Rush of ’49. And second, that an American named James Connolly had won a silver medal in an event called the Triple Jump at the first modern Olympic games in Athens, Greece.

  Neither of these articles, nor any others in this day’s issue, held more than a modicum of Quincannon’s attention; baseball and horse racing were the only two sports that interested him, and he considered men who succumbed to gold fever to be foolish. He pretended to be engrossed, however, while keeping watch on both the banker and the entrance to the bar parlor.

  He took a sip of warm clam juice, his favorite tipple since he had given up alcohol, and turned a page of the Argonaut. Wrixton glanced again at the clock, which now read ten past nine. He drained what was left of his brandy, a sop for his nerves but not for his sour stomach; he winced noticeably and fished out his vial of dyspepsia tablets. He was in the process of chewing two or three when the man he awaited finally appeared.

  The fellow’s entrance into the bar parlor was slow and cautious. This was one thing that alerted Quincannon. The other was the way the man was dressed. Threadbare overcoat, slouch hat drawn low on his forehead, wool muffler wound up high inside the coat collar so that it concealed the lower part of his face. This slatternly attire might have been conspicuous if the night had retained the day’s warmth; but rain clouds driven by a cold wind had darkened the sky during the late afternoon, dropping the temperature some twenty degrees by nightfall. No one except Quincannon and Wrixton paid him the slightest attention.

  He paused just inside the archway to peer around before his gaze locked in on his prey. Out of the corner of one eye Quincannon watched him approach the booth. What little of the man’s face was visible corroborated the banker’s description of him: middle-aged, small of stature, with a hooked nose and sallow complexion. Not such-a-much at all.

  Wrixton stiffened when the fellow slipped into the booth opposite him. There was a low-voiced exchange of words, after which the banker passed the satchel under the table. The hook-nosed gent opened it just long enough to determine that it contained stacks of greenbacks, closed it again, then produced a manila envelope from inside his coat and slid it across the table. Wrixton opened the envelope and furtively examined the few papers it contained—one or two but certainly not all of the indiscreet letters he had written. The rest and no doubt the most damning would remain in the blackmailer’s possession until Quincannon completed his assignment.

  While the two men were making their exchange, he casually folded the newspaper and laid it on the table, finished his clam juice, gathered up umbrella and derby, and strolled out into the hotel lobby. He took a position just inside the corridor that led to the elevators, where he had an oblique view of the bar entrance. His quarry would have to come out that way because there was no other exit from the bar parlor.

  The wait this time was less than two minutes. When Hook-nose appeared, he went straight to the swing door that led out to New Montgomery Street. Quincannon followed twenty paces behind. A drizzle of rain had begun and the salt-tinged bay wind had the sting of a whip. It being a poor night for travel by shank’s mare, Quincannon expected his man to take one of the hansom cabs at the stand in front of the Palace Hotel opposite. But this didn’t happen. With the satchel clutched inside his overcoat, the fellow angled across Montgomery and turned the far corner into Jessie S
treet.

  Quincannon reached the corner a few seconds later. He paused to peer around it, to make sure he wasn’t observed, before unfurling his umbrella and turning in to Jessie himself. Hook-nose apparently had no fear of pursuit; he was hurrying ahead through the misty rain without a backward glance.

  Jessie was a dark, narrow thoroughfare and something of an anomaly as the new century approached—a mostly residential street that ran for several blocks through the heart of the business district, midway between Market and Mission streets. Small, old houses and an occasional small-business establishment flanked it, fronted by tiny yards and backed by barns and sheds. The electric glow from Third Street and the now-steady drizzle made it a chasm of shadows. The darkness and the thrumming wind allowed Quincannon to quicken his pace without fear of being seen or heard.

  After two blocks, his quarry made another turning, this time into a cracked cobblestone cul-de-sac called Gunpowder Alley. The name, or so Quincannon had once been told, derived from the fact that Copperhead sympathizers had stored a large quantity of explosives in one of the houses there during the War Between the States. Gunpowder Alley was even darker than Jessie Street; the frame buildings strung along its short length were shabby presences in the wet gloom. The only illumination was strips and daubs of light that leaked palely around a few drawn window curtains.

  Not far from the corner, Hook-nose crossed the alley to a squat, dark structure that huddled between the back end of a saloon fronting on Jessie Street and a private residence. The squat building appeared to be a shop of some sort, its plate-glass window marked with lettering that couldn’t be read at a distance. The man used a key to unlock a recessed door next to the window and disappeared inside.

  As Quincannon cut across the alley, lamplight bloomed in pale fragments around the edges of a curtain that covered the store window. He ambled past, pausing in front of the glass to read the lettering: CIGARS, PIPE TOBACCO, SUNDRIES. R. SONDERBERG, PROP. The curtains were made of two sections of heavy muslin; all he could discern through the folds in the middle was a slice of narrow counter. He put his ear to the cold glass. The faint whistling voice of the wind, muted here in the narrow lane, was the only sound to be heard.