The Dangerous Ladies Affair

by Marcia Muller

“Well? What of it? A man who doesn’t fear God and His wrath is a fool.”

  “Which means you’re familiar with the King James Bible. Much more familiar than Mr. Dobbs, I’ll warrant. The quote from Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians about wives submitting to their husbands that he is fond of reciting—you supplied him with it, I’ll warrant.”

  “What if I did?” Nervousness had replaced wariness; tiny pustules of sweat dotted Pitman’s forehead now. “What are you getting at? What’s the idea of all these questions?”

  “‘Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.’ You believe that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I believe it. It’s the word of God—”

  “‘And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever.’ That, also?”

  Pitman didn’t respond. He produced a handkerchief and mopped his forehead with it.

  “False prophets,” Sabina said. “That’s how you view women who seek and work for the right to vote. Women such as Amity Wellman.”

  He shook his head again, a loose, wobbling denial.

  “You wrote and delivered four threatening letters to her.”

  “No! I did no such thing!”

  “Threats of bodily harm are a felony, Mr. Pitman. Also a sin. God punishes persecutors the same as he punishes false prophets and other evildoers.”

  “I am not an evildoer!”

  The office door opened and the gangly black-clad figure of Nathaniel Dobbs stepped into the room. “Why are you shouting, Josiah?” he demanded. Then, seeing Sabina, “Oh, ah, Mrs. Carpenter. What is going on out here?”

  “I’ve just accused your assistant of writing those threatening letters to Amity Wellman.”

  Dobbs gawped at her for a few seconds, then came forward in a peculiar hopping gait with his arms flapping outward from his sides—movements that added to the fanciful illusion of a giant crow disguised as a man. “You, ah, you can’t be serious,” he said. His shocked disbelief wasn’t feigned; he’d known nothing of Pitman’s felonious activities.

  “Oh, but I am. Quite serious.”

  “You have proof of this?”

  “Unassailable proof. His handwriting. The printing on the notes is identical to that on this sign”—she waggled it for emphasis—“and the others here that he lettered.”

  Dobbs thrust his beak in Pitman’s direction. “Josiah? What have you to say?”

  The tubby little man had nothing to say, other than an incoherent sputter. A trapped look had come into his eyes as if he might be about to do something foolish and cowardly—bolt and run or perhaps crawl under the worktable and curl into a fetal position. He did neither. Instead he sank bonelessly onto his chair, covered his face with his hands.

  “Look at him, Mr. Dobbs,” Sabina said. “His guilt is written all over him.”

  “Yes … oh, my Lord, yes. But why? What possessed him?”

  Sabina was tempted to say that what possessed Pitman was the same sort of misanthropic beliefs that possessed Dobbs and others like him, carried to the degree of criminal persecution. But she said only, “He believes Mrs. Wellman is a false prophet leading women, all women, down the path to perdition. His misguided threats were biblical in origin and intent—warnings of God’s wrath as he perceives it from the New Testament.”

  The Anti leader’s features showed anger now, not so much brought on by the nature of Pitman’s crime, Sabina thought, as by a trusted comrade’s betrayal and its potential damage to the Solidarity Party’s platform. “Unconscionable. Outrageous. Threatening letters, attempted murder—”

  Pitman’s head jerked up. “No!” he said in horrified tones. “I wrote the notes, I admit it, but I made no effort to harm the woman, I never intended to harm her.”

  “If you’re lying, Josiah—”

  “I’m not! As God is my witness, I’m not! I adhere strenuously to His commandments, all His commandments, but the sixth above all. ‘Thou shalt not kill’!”

  He wasn’t lying, of that Sabina was certain. Josiah Pitman hadn’t fired that pistol on Sunday evening. His motive in harassing Amity was bred of deluded religious and dogmatic fervor, nothing more. Whoever wanted her dead hated her for a different, personal reason.

  Amity’s life was still in danger.

  13

  SABINA

  Before leaving the Solidarity Party’s headquarters, Sabina claimed two signs and one placard hand-lettered by Josiah Pitman as proof of his guilt. Nathaniel Dobbs made no objection. In fact, he was cooperative to a fault—either because he was a more ethical man than she had given him credit for or more likely because he feared the possibility of backlash damage to his image and that of his organization. He insisted upon making both a personal and a written apology to Amity Wellman. He also assured Sabina that he would see to it Pitman “remained available,” as he put it, should Mrs. Wellman wish to press charges against him. Even if Dobbs failed to follow through on his promise, Sabina had no concerns that Pitman would attempt to flee the city or to hide somewhere within it. He was a craven individual, for one thing, and, for another, too steadfast in his beliefs. He would accept his punishment with the righteousness of a martyr.

  From Ellis Street, Sabina went to the offices of Voting Rights for Women and tendered explanations to Amity and Elizabeth. Amity’s reaction, aside from relief that the mystery of the threatening letters had been solved, was typical of her. She, too, took the moral high road, and for less selfish reasons than Nathaniel Dobbs. She would not press charges against Josiah Pitman, nor would she make public use of his crime in their dispute over the legal and moral rights of women. The struggle would continue as it had and as it should, on the issues alone.

  The fact that her would-be assassin remained unidentified worried her, of course, but to no greater degree than it had previously. Her faith in Sabina and in Elizabeth Petrie to keep her safe remained steadfast.

  When Sabina arrived at the agency, John was once again absent and there was no indication that he had come in at all today. She hoped it was because he was hard at work on the Featherstone embezzlement case, the only open one on his docket, and not pursuing his bitter vow to make Pauline Dupree pay for flummoxing him in Gunpowder Alley and at the Gaiety Theater. His failure to prove murder and extortion against her was a blow to his pride and ego. There was no telling what he might decide to do, despite Sabina’s advice to do nothing at all and trust in the probability that one day the Dupree woman would be hoisted on her own petard. All too often he allowed his emotions to rule his judgment, rendering him deaf to rational appeals.

  But John could take care of himself. Sabina had enough on her mind without adding him to her concerns.

  There was no message from either Slewfoot or Madam Louella. If the dark-clothed figure who had fired upon Amity was a paid assassin, he was apparently not one of the usual Barbary Coast scruffs. But that didn’t rule out murder for hire, particularly since the attempt had failed. No paid assassin wanted it known that he had come a cropper; he would be extra careful to keep mum. And unless he was called off for some reason, he would try again—to save face and to collect his blood money.

  If such a hireling existed, there was nothing Sabina could do to identify him except to rely on her informants. The only investigative avenues open to her at this point were ones she had already explored. Well, then, she thought, explore them again using different tactics.

  Now that Nathaniel Dobbs and Josiah Pitman had been eliminated, the only two people she was aware of who had strong motives for wanting Amity dead were Fenton and Prudence Egan. Unless her friend had another personal enemy she was unwilling to admit to for some reason … No. She’d be a fool not to have revealed the existence of such a person at the same time she’d confessed her affair, and Amity was no fool.

  Before Sabina tackled the Egans again, there was Kamiko and whatever she
was hiding to be dealt with. It was improbable, now, that her secret pertained to Josiah Pitman’s threatening messages. But it was also improbable that it had anything to do with the abortive attempt on her guardian’s life. Some private matter, then. If Sabina could pry it out of her, it would put the bothersome issue to rest once and for all.

  She rode trolley and cable cars to the Wellman home, where she found Kamiko in the side garden cutting spring flowers—camellias, irises, daffodils—and putting them into a large wicker basket. The girl was dressed today in Western clothing; her preference for the traditional kimono was confined to the interior of the house. Although the Wellmans employed a gardener, also a Japanese emigrant, Kamiko evidently spent a good deal of time there herself. Just one of the many duties she had assigned to herself was seeing to it that flowers grew year round and that as often as possible fresh-cut blooms brightened the house on a daily basis.

  The girl didn’t seem concerned that Sabina might have come bearing more unpleasant news. Even before she was assured that all was well with her Amity-san, she seemed to take the fact for granted. Her welcoming smile was small and brief, and her large black eyes had a curtained quality, as if focused inwardly on her thoughts. Otherwise she was her usual quiet, deferential self. She continued to cut flowers, choosing each blossom with considerable care, while they conversed.

  “Do you remember our talk on Sunday evening, Kamiko, before the pistol shot?”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “You were about to tell me what it is you’ve been keeping to yourself.”

  “No, Mrs. Carpenter, I was not. I know nothing that will help you in your investigation.”

  “But you do have a secret. You admit to that, don’t you?”

  Kamiko said nothing, her face impassive. The shears she was using made clicking sounds in the fog-chilled afternoon.

  “If you tell me what it is, I promise not to share it with Amity or anyone else.”

  The girl remained silent.

  Sabina decided to try a different tack. “The man who wrote those threatening notes has been identified,” she said. “His name is Josiah Pitman, an assistant to Nathaniel Dobbs.”

  Kamiko brightened. “I am glad, very glad, to hear that.”

  “Is the man’s name familiar to you?”

  “No. I have never heard it before. He will be punished?”

  “Yes, though not as severely as he deserves. But he’s not the person who tried to kill your guardian. Her life is still in grave danger.”

  Once again Kamiko was silent.

  “You are afraid for her, aren’t you, Kamiko?”

  “Hai.”

  “And you would do anything possible to keep her from harm.”

  “Oh, yes. Anything possible. But I do not believe any harm will come to my Amity-san.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She is being well protected by you and Mrs. Petrie.” The girl’s expression brightened then, the black eyes shining. “And Burton-san will soon be home again.”

  “You’ve had word from Mr. Wellman?”

  “Yes. Last night a wire came from him. He will return from his trip on Sunday evening.”

  “This is only Wednesday. Much can happen in three days, you know—bad things as well as good.”

  “Nothing bad will happen,” Kamiko said firmly. “Now, I must put these flowers in water so they will not wilt. You will excuse me, please?”

  Her calm certainty was almost as exasperating as her reticence. Blind faith? Denial? Something to do with the secret she was harboring? There was simply no way of telling. The workings of the Oriental mind could sometimes be unfathomable. Not that the workings of the Caucasian mind were much better understood.

  Frustrated, Sabina directed the hack driver to take her to Pacific Heights. The same uniformed maid opened the door at the Egan residence. When she recognized Sabina, her reaction was odd: eyes widening and then narrowing as if she was suddenly uneasy. She said, “Mrs. Egan is not … available,” and promptly shut the door in Sabina’s face.

  Instructions from Prudence Egan to turn Sabina away if she paid another call, probably. But then why the pause before the word “available”?

  Two wasted trips, more curious behavior, and a double dose of frustration.

  By this time it was nearly five o’clock, too late to make an effort to see Fenton Egan again at China Basin. She could wait here for him, but there was no guarantee that he would come straight home; for all she knew, he was one of those who joined in the nightly bacchanal along the Cocktail Route.

  Chill wisps of mist curled around her as she reentered the hansom. Fog was moving rapidly over the city now, already hiding the waterfront and the bay beyond beneath a thickening cloak of gray; foghorns moaned and bleated their warnings on the bay. The kind of night ahead called for a warm bath, a hot fire, a decent meal, and bed in the company of two companionable cats.

  “Russian Hill, driver,” she said.

  * * *

  Thursday was also cold and fog laden. And mostly uneventful.

  Sabina spent part of the morning at her desk, but there was nothing to keep her there beyond eleven o’clock. No messages, no leftover paperwork, no new clients or visitors of any sort. And yet again, no John. The only items of interest in the mail were two checks; she made up a deposit slip, closed up the office at eleven on the dot, and went to the Miners Bank. Her destination from there was Voting Rights for Women.

  Amity was hard at work, as was Elizabeth, who had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the cause, preparing leaflets requesting donations and pledges for distribution at Saturday’s benefit rally. Last night at the Wellman home had again passed without incident, Elizabeth reported. Combined with the unmasking of Josiah Pitman, this had led Amity to wonder if there might not be any more attacks on her life.

  “It has been four days now,” she said to Sabina. “Perhaps whoever tried to shoot me has given up or been frightened off by the miss and by your investigation.”

  “Perhaps. But four days is a short time. The assassin may be biding his or her time, waiting for another opportunity to catch you off guard.”

  “Lull before the storm,” Elizabeth agreed. “A time to be extra vigilant, in my experience.”

  “But I can’t remain under guard indefinitely. Burton will be home soon. What will I tell him?”

  Since Elizabeth hadn’t been told of the affair with Fenton Egan, Sabina sent her away on an errand and then took Amity aside before answering her question. “If I’m unable to identify the assailant,” she said, “you may have to tell Burton the truth. A version of it, anyhow, if not a full confession.”

  “Oh, Lord, I pray not. It wouldn’t destroy our marriage—he’s a forgiving man—but it would make life difficult for a while.”

  Sabina refrained from stating the obvious, that Amity had no one to blame but herself. She was well aware of that and wore her regret and her shame openly, like a badge of dishonor.

  Volunteers brought in baskets of hot food for a shared luncheon. Afterward Sabina felt obliged to stay on and offer her assistance. One of the things she did was help Amity prepare a version of the speech she would give at the State Woman Suffrage Convention—a sort of trial run to be presented on Saturday evening.

  The fact that Susan B. Anthony would be in San Francisco in November to spearhead the fight led Sabina to suggest that this version of Amity’s speech make prominent mention of Miss Anthony’s impassioned comments to the judge and jury at her trial for “illegally” voting in the 1872 presidential election. “You have trampled under foot every vital principle of our government,” the well-known Chicago suffragist had declaimed. “My natural rights, my civil rights, my political rights, my judicial rights, are all alike ignored.” Her statements had been ignored, of course. She had been found guilty and sentenced to pay a fine of one hundred dollars, to which she had responded, “I shall never pay a dollar of your unjust penalty,” and had remained steadfast on this vow. Amity also added
to her speech a reminder of this shameful outcome.

  The highlight of Sabina’s day came as she was about to leave—a suggestion from Amity that she, too, serve as a delegate to the convention. Sabina would have been proud to wear one of the official campaign badges—a silky golden-yellow rectangle fringed at both ends, California gold being the adopted color of the suffrage campaigns in the state. The demands of her work, however, limited her free time, and she might be deeply involved in a case come November. She declined with sincere regrets.

  14

  QUINCANNON

  Sabina may have been right that women of Pauline Dupree’s ilk would one day suffer a harsh reckoning, but someday was not soon enough for him. Nor was the prospect that not he but another servant of the law would have the satisfaction of bringing her to her just desserts. The woman had made a fool of him, placed a spot of tarnish on his otherwise exemplary record as a private investigator; he would not rest until the spot had been removed.

  Without telling Sabina of his intentions, he had set out immediately to find ways and means. Searching the actress’s living quarters or her theater dressing room would be a futile undertaking; the ten thousand dollars she had extorted from Titus Wrixton would be well and cleverly hidden, perhaps in a safe-deposit box in a bank other than Woolworth National. Bracing her again would be just as futile. She was immune to threats. Neither tricks nor bluffs would work on her, either. What he needed in order to devise a method of ending her criminal career was more information about her and her activities.

  It took him the better part of three days to compile a sketchy but useful dossier. He accomplished this by checking public records, bribing a minor official of his acquaintance in the police department’s records department, and putting the word out to Ezra Bluefield, who still knew everything that went on in the Barbary Coast even though he no longer owned the infamous Terrific Street deadfall called the Scarlet Lady, and to others in the coterie of informants he had cultivated; by dispatching Chauncey Philpotts, one of the agency’s part-time employees, to cautiously interview the other performers and staff of the Gaiety Theater; and, once Quincannon learned that his quarry had spent several months performing in Sacramento before moving to San Francisco, by sending a wire requesting information to a fellow private detective in the capital city.