A glint of amusement shone in his eyes. “I’m still recovering from the Amsel family Oktoberfest. We can head to Ella’s house and return later.” Going to Ella’s home had been Isobel’s idea.
A booming laugh rose above the din of conversation. She winced slightly. “We’re here now. Let’s get it over with.”
Riot wound his way upstairs, but the farther they moved into the restaurant the more oppressive the air became. Sound was hitting her like crashing waves—a loud, overwhelming jumble of noise all running together. Her mind did not have a switch. It dissected and processed everything at once in a rush of stimuli that left her drained.
Riot pulled out a chair for her, but Isobel didn’t take the offered seat. Her heart was pounding and she was finding it hard to breathe.
“I need air,” Isobel murmured. She touched his arm briefly, then nearly collided with the waitress as she flew down the stairs.
Riot started to follow, but stopped. He searched the crowd for anyone who might have alarmed her, but decided it was simply the noise. As high-strung as Isobel was, he suspected she was always trying to pick apart every detail in a crowd.
“Is something the matter with your chair, sir?” an out-of-breath waitress asked. She was balancing a heavy tray on one hand.
“Nothing at all.” He smiled easily, and took a seat, his back to the wall.
“Can I get something for you?”
“Tea, please. Is it always this busy?”
“For lunch, but the crowd will die down soon enough.” The waitress smiled and turned on her heel in a neat pirouette to deposit a plate on a nearby table.
Riot checked his watch. Twelve forty-five. Lunch was nearly over. He hoped Saturdays weren’t as busy. It would be difficult for the staff to recall a specific patron in a crowd this size.
A few minutes later the waitress set down his tea. “Can I get you something to eat?” she asked, taking out a notepad and plucking the pencil from her ear.
“Just tea for now. But when you have a moment, I have some questions. It won’t take long.” Riot glanced to one side. A graying man with a stoop hurried over and touched the waitress’s arm. The pair looked to another woman—a blonde with puffy red eyes, who was tying on an apron as she walked from the kitchens.
The first waitress sighed with relief. “I’m due for a break. Mr. Krone will help you.” She gave Riot an apologetic smile before hurrying downstairs.
“Poor Miss Marshal’s been on her feet all day. What can I get you, sir?” Mr. Krone asked.
Starched collar, tie, and suit, the graying man wasn’t dressed for waiting tables and he didn’t bother with a notepad. Not a clerk, then. Nor a new manager. “You’re the proprietor of the Popular,” Riot said instead.
“I am. Mr. Krone, sir.”
“Atticus Riot.” He produced his card. “I have a few questions for your staff. They have nothing to do with your establishment, but your answers may help save a girl’s life.”
The man softened immediately. It was clear from the way he’d allowed Miss Marshal a break that he had a heart. And Riot was playing to that heart.
“Of course. One moment.” Mr. Krone went to speak with Miss Marshal’s replacement, then returned and pulled up a chair. “I’ve been on my feet most of the day, too. But the rush is nearly over and the orders are in. It’s nice to have an excuse to sit.”
“Your restaurant certainly lives up to its name,” Riot noted.
Mr. Krone chuckled, a dry bit of amusement. “Trust me. There were some nerve-wracking months that had me questioning what sort of fool I was for getting ahead of myself. But yes, it all worked out in the end. I suppose this is about that girl and Mr. Bennett?”
“You know him?”
“I know Mr. Bennett, but like I told Mr. Fletcher when he came by, I never saw his sister. On Saturday, Mr. Bennett came for lunch at one o’clock and then returned for supper at five. He told Miss Marshal to send up any callers, but no one came.”
“How long have you known Mr. Bennett?”
Mr. Krone’s gaze turned inward. He rubbed his chin as he thought. “Oh, for years now. But only on and off, mind you. I only learned his name three weeks ago.”
Riot waited for an explanation. A statement like that begged for one, and Mr. Krone obliged.
“Years ago, Mr. Bennett was a regular for about three weeks. I remember, because I had only just opened and I was appreciative of the business—he ate lunch and dinner here every day, then he just up and disappeared. He started coming again last year, and he told me he had given up his job as a printer to become a minister. Had a clerical collar and all. He comes every few weeks or so.”
“Do you know where he went when he left on Saturday? Where he lives?”
Krone shook his head. “I’ve always assumed he’s from the country, coming to the city on business. He has that look about him. A great strong fellow. Maybe your age, thirty-five or so. Has a reddish-brown mustache and wears clerical clothes. But I didn’t see him meet a girl. I’d have remembered that.”
A narrow hallway caught Isobel’s eye. She shot down it, walked past the noisy kitchen, and shoved opened a back door. She stepped into a narrow alley and took a deep breath.
The noise had hit her worse than usual. Far worse. Between jail, months at a country asylum, and a week of sailing with Riot, she’d not had a great deal of contact with the world.
Isobel leaned against a brick wall and continued to breathe. Her sense of smell came back first. Garbage. Rotting food. Mildew. She opened her eyes to find an army of alley cats perched on various surfaces, staring at her. They were all fat. There likely wasn’t a rat left alive in the alley.
Minutes passed, with only a faint din of noise spilling out from the restaurant. Deep breaths, she reminded herself, as she counted to ten in every language she knew. Eventually, her heart rate slowed, then picked right back up again as she clenched her jaw in anger. With herself. It was her first official day on the job, and she’d fled a restaurant in front of her boss. Never mind he was her husband, too. That made it worse somehow. Riot couldn’t even fire her.
Isobel squared her shoulders and prepared to reenter the fray. Then the back door opened and a burst of noise filled the alley. It cut off when the door slammed shut. A thin woman wearing a starched apron leaned against the closed door with a long sigh. It was the harried waitress from inside. The woman glanced to the side, surprised to find a diner studying her. She gave Isobel an uneasy smile, and moved over a bit to rest a foot on the brick wall.
Isobel offered her a cigarette, but the woman shook her head.
“Not keen on the gentleman you came with?” the waitress asked. Although she had voiced the question, she sounded doubtful.
“It was the noise in there.”
The waitress reached down and started massaging her ankle through her boot. “Don’t I know it. Always is, this time of day.”
“I’m surprised you got a break,” Isobel said, tucking away her cigarettes.
“It’s already dying down, and Amanda finally came. I worked through most of lunch without her, and she can darn well do the rest.”
“How’s the crowd after lunch, around one o’clock?”
“It’s a lot quieter.”
That was telling to someone like Isobel. One o’clock was the time Mr. Bennett had arranged to meet Ella, which meant he was familiar with the Popular Restaurant. The lunch hour would hardly be the time to conduct an interview.
The waitress was staring at Isobel intently. “Do I know you?” she asked.
“Isobel Amsel.”
The woman’s eyes flew wide. “I’ve heard of you!” She caught herself and flushed, embarrassed by her outburst.
“And yet you’re still standing here with me.” Isobel gave the woman a wry smile.
“I loved that you didn’t back down from that Kingston fellow. Putting up with that kind of slime isn’t worth any money in the world. By the way, I’m Laura Marshal,” she said, offering her hand.
Miss Marshal had an easy way of talking, confident and sure of herself, like someone who has grand plans for life. But then that could be said of most people in San Francisco. It was a city of dreams. All that wild ocean tended to inspire the heart.
“Is that fellow at the table Atticus Riot?”
“He is.”
Laura beamed. “I’ll have a story for the boarding house. Mr. Riot… he’s your husband now, isn’t he?” Isobel nodded. “I saw him fall into conversation with Mr. Krone. He’s the owner. I was worried it was something I said. Gosh, the newspapers didn’t lie about him.”
Isobel had written a number of those articles; she’d kept up writing while she was serving time in the asylum. A little positive publicity never hurt a business. Unfortunately, it had inspired a number of women to seek him out.
“Most of the time papers do lie. But not in this case.” Isobel studied Miss Marshal for a moment. She had the look of an eager amateur sleuth, so Isobel decided honesty would work best. “We’re searching for a missing girl,” she explained. “Her brother came by yesterday. Lewis Fletcher. Black hair, thin mustache, has a stormy look about him.”
“I didn’t talk with him, but Mr. Krone did.”
“No one asked you about a fellow named John Bennett?”
Laura smirked at her. “Do men ever ask us women anything?”
Isobel laughed. “I don’t suppose you saw the man? He would have been here Saturday, possibly for lunch and dinner.”
Laura thought a moment. “I remember that fellow. Both times he asked me to direct any callers to his table. I’ve seen him before, too. Fair tipper. Polite. He always brings a book or newspaper to read. But I didn’t know his name until now.”
“Did anyone meet him?”
Laura shook her head. “He ate lunch and left. Then later on he came back for dinner. It did seem like he was expecting someone, though. I saw him pacing out in front of the restaurant after he finished his dinner.”
“What time was that?”
Laura shrugged. “I’m sorry, I can’t be certain. Just before six, maybe?”
“Does he ever dine with friends?”
Laura shook her head. “Not that I’ve seen. And I practically live here.”
“What does he look like?”
Laura tilted back her head and looked at a slice of gray sky between buildings. “He’s a great strong-looking fellow. Nice hands. I don’t think he’s ever done a day’s hard work.” Laura held out her own hands to study them. Cracked skin, callused palms, strong fingers and short nails. Much like Isobel’s own.
“He has nice teeth. Brownish hair and a mustache, maybe on the black side. But there’s a certain droop to his eye.” She gestured to her right eye. “He was wearing a long topcoat, a dark cutaway coat, and trousers of the same cut. A black derby hat. I think he fancies himself a sharp dresser, but nothing like your husband up there. If you don’t mind me noticing.”
“Not at all.” Riot wasn’t vain, but he dressed the part of a gentleman—a childhood of deprivation made him appreciative of finer things.
“You said his name was Bennett?” Laura asked.
“As far as we know.”
Miss Marshal dropped her foot from the wall, a glint of excitement in her eye. “He had a diamond ring, too. Not on his wedding finger. And a gold watch with a gold chain. Personally, I thought his chin was too long for his face. He could do with a beard to hide it.”
The comment struck Isobel. Was that why Riot wore his? To hide some deficiency in his jaw? She tried to picture him without his beard, but failed. Black but peppered with gray, it was soft and trimmed, and felt like a caress against her skin. She rather liked it.
“Accent?” Isobel asked.
“Not anything unusual. With his book though, he looked a studious type.”
“Did he talk with anyone on the sidewalk while he was pacing?”
Laura shook her head. “Not that I saw. Of course, I was busy with customers.”
Isobel handed over an agency card. “If Mr. Bennett returns can you send me a telegram? Immediately. And if you’re feeling daring try to discreetly get more information out of him. Such as an address.”
Laura smiled. “Like a detective?”
“Yes, but please be careful about it. I can’t vouch for his character.”
Laura gazed at the Ravenwood Agency card. There was glee in her brown eyes. “Oh, I know my way around danger. You can’t be too careful in this city. I only wish more young women understood just how dangerous it can be.”
Many did, eventually. Too many. Usually far too late.
Isobel walked back into the restaurant. It was much quieter, but she wasn't there to eat. She headed out the front door, and paced the front of the restaurant, imagining John Bennett doing the same.
A cable car rattled past, dinged its bell and pulled to a stop. The Geary line ran along Market and connected with Fulton, the street where Ella’s family lived.
Isobel took off towards the cable car, past a general store, a laundry, and a law firm, then stopped. A Western Union office sat in front of the cable car stop.
Had Ella really telephoned her brother from Mr. Bennett’s home? Miss Marshal confirmed that Mr. Bennett hadn’t met the girl inside the restaurant, and even if they’d met on the street, they’d hardly have had time to travel to his home. That meant Ella had lied to her brother.
A bell tinkled overhead as Isobel shoved open the door. Two people stood in line, and a third leaned against a paneled wall, shouting through the paid telephone line.
A telegraph agent, message in hand, turned from the counter and sat at a desk. Isobel stepped up to the counter, smiled at the first man in line, who appeared to have come straight from a ranch, and casually reached over the counter. She turned the logbook towards her. Keeping one eye on the agent’s back and another on the pages, she flipped through to Saturday and searched the history of telegrams for the names E. Spencer or J. Bennett.
“Miss!” The cry told her she hadn’t kept an eye on the agent. He burst from his chair in alarm.
“Sorry, but you seemed so horribly busy,” she said in a flighty voice. Isobel shifted her shoulders to seem unsure of herself.
“That’s government property, Miss.”
Isobel’s eyes flew wide. “It is? But I didn’t… I mean… You won’t summon the police will you? I’ve heard such awful stories.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“He’d best not,” muttered the cowhand.
An older lady behind him narrowed her eyes. “And just what were you doing, Miss?”
They all looked at her, save the man on the telephone. Leave it to a woman to see through her act.
“It’s my friend. She was here on Saturday, you see, and was supposed to get a telegram from me. Only she said it never got here, but I didn’t believe her. The Western Union is reliable, isn’t it?” Isobel fluttered her lashes. “Surely it’s a more respectable means of communication then that infernal device on the wall.”
The old woman began nodding in agreement. The agent looked perplexed. There was nothing like challenging the integrity of a business to rile a professional. The agent walked to the logbook and opened it to Saturday.
“Bennett is my last name,” Isobel lied, and leaned over the counter to look at the list. “E. Spencer is my friend. Ella’s younger than me. Dark hair. She’d have been wearing a golf cap with a little bob on top and a red capelet.” Isobel gestured over her own head.
Light entered the clerk’s eyes. “She did come in. I thought it too late for a young woman to be out alone. I’m afraid she didn’t ask me about a telegram. She just used the telephone there.”
“Was she alone?” Isobel asked.
“Yes,” the agent said.
“Well, I hope her father came to fetch her. He did, didn’t he?”
“No, she just left. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Isobel moved to stand directly in front of the man on the telephone. She s
tood very close, and stared. Hard.
The man straightened from the wall. If there was one thing she appreciated about her mother—it was the Saavedra eyes. Cut from steel, that stare flayed a person to the bone.
The man quickly said goodbyes to his sweetheart and fled. Isobel plucked up the receiver and clicked the lever.
“How may I direct you?” came a pleasant voice over the line. Not so long ago, rude boys had been employed by the telephone agencies. They had all answered the telephone with a demanding ‘Ahoy!’ With the boys’ social skills lacking, the telephone agencies had quickly turned to women. A small part of Isobel missed that foul-mouthed band of telephone operators.
“Who is this?” Isobel demanded, channeling her mother.
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like to know who my daughter was speaking with.”
“I’m Miss Clark. A telephone operator.”
“A what?”
“I connect telephone calls.”
“Who did you connect my daughter to?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My daughter, Ella, placed two telephone calls on Saturday. The first was to her brother at 1747 Fulton Street at around six o’clock.”
“Ma’am, I’m not allowed to give out that information.”
“This is precisely why I won’t install a telephone line in our home. They’re the work of the devil himself. My daughter is fifteen. I’m having a time with her. Please.”
A moment’s silence. “Yes, of course, let me check the toll ticket.”
Isobel leaned against the wall and waited, while the elderly woman in line huffed at her.
“There was a call placed to that address at six fourteen. It lasted ten minutes. And then, directly after, another call was placed to Menke’s Grocery at Central and Golden Gate Avenue.”
“A grocery store?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did she speak to a man?”
“We don’t listen to calls.”
That was a blatant lie. Operators listened to make sure the connection held and checked on calls to see if they had ended. And when an operator was bored, she just outright listened.
Where Cowards Tread (Ravenwood Mysteries #7) Page 5
