Time of Fog and Fire

by Rhys Bowen

  “May I be of assistance, ma’am?” he asked.

  “You may. I wanted to know whether my husband might have stayed at this hotel a couple of weeks ago.”

  His expression changed. “I’m sorry, but we cannot divulge the names of our guests,” he said. “It goes against our policy of discretion and privacy.”

  “But this is my husband I’m inquiring about,” I snapped.

  “All the more reason, ma’am.” He gave me an annoying smirk. “You have to understand that there are occasionally husbands who would not like their wives to know that they have stayed here.”

  “Really,” I said, my annoyance now boiling over. “My husband summoned me to join him in San Francisco and you can’t tell me whether he was a guest at your hotel?”

  “If you are about to join him, then I suggest he tell you himself,” the man said. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s hotel policy. We have some very important guests staying here. Guests who would not want their presence to be generally known.”

  “This is most frustrating,” I said. “Very well. I don’t suppose it’s important. I’m sure Mrs. Rodriguez will know where he is. He may even be staying with her.”

  “Then I wish you luck,” he said. I was being dismissed.

  I was just about to cross the foyer to the glass doors when I heard a loud laugh coming from my right. It was almost as if that moving picture I had seen in New York was being played over again. The same shot of the foyer and then the camera sweeping across to the bar where I had glimpsed my husband. I spun around, a hopeful smile on my face. But my husband was not among the smartly dressed men who stood there, with whiskey glasses in their hands. Complete strangers. I was tempted to go and ask them if they remembered sharing a drink with Daniel but it seemed too improbable. In a hotel like this people came and went and, as the porter had said, half the world was in town for Mr. Caruso. Also, as I’d just learned from the desk clerk, men stick together on such occasions and would not confide to me if they had met Daniel. I gave the bar one last glance and realized that I did recognize someone after all. Surely that was Mr. Endicott, standing at the far end?

  I hesitated, not sure whether I should seize this chance and go up to introduce myself to him. But I had more pressing things on my mind at this moment. I had to find Daniel. Mr. Endicott could wait. At least I knew where I might find him, when things were not so chaotic and when I had located my husband. I gave a satisfied nod as I passed through the glass doors. I came out onto the street and stopped in amazement. We had arrived to bright sunshine at midday. Now a dank fog hung over the street, turning the tower of the ferry building and the tall skyscrapers along Market Street into indistinct shapes. It had become colder and I wished I had brought my shawl with me. But I wasn’t going to risk going back and having Liam wake up. Besides, I couldn’t expect Mr. Paxton to watch him for too long.

  As I crossed Market Street, dodging out of the way of a trolley car, I was still in a state of indecision about what to do next. Logic told me there was no reason not to go straight to Bella Rodriguez. Mr. Hicks, who as a reporter should know all about his city, had spoken of her as a respected citizen. He had warned me about other matters. Would he not have warned me if there had been anything suspect about Bella Rodriguez? And Daniel had mentioned how well she was looking after him. Was I being too suspicious not to take that statement at face value? I could go to the bottom of Powell Street, a hop, skip, and jump away from where I was standing, and take a cable car to her residence and might find myself reunited with my husband immediately.

  On the other hand there was still that nagging doubt that I might be walking into a trap. I tried to think what Daniel would have done when he arrived in the city. He was the sort of man who did everything by the book. That would mean he’d introduce himself to the local chief of police. There could be no harm in my going to Portsmouth Square and seeing what they knew about Daniel and where he was staying. So I walked along Market Street, noticing the smartly dressed women and handsome, rakish men. Trolley cars clanged as they ran along Market Street, but there was also a procession of fine carriages and even automobiles. This was clearly a city of money and progress. The shops I passed were full of exotic merchandise—silks imported from the Orient, champagnes from France. And there were also many bars, oyster houses, and even French restaurants. Lots of money and plenty of ways to spend it, I thought.

  To begin with, Kearny Street also had an elegant feel to it. A large jewelry store. A department store similar to the ones we’d find in New York. But as the road climbed gently uphill the atmosphere of the street changed and I realized I was on the fringes of Chinatown. Smells wafted toward me, smells that I recognized from my own adventure in New York’s Chinatown. But that was just a tiny area, comprised of three city streets. And in New York, Chinatown had a distinct absence of women. When I looked up the side streets I passed on my left I saw a true Chinese community: newspaper vendors on the street, hawking Chinese newspapers; women with baskets over their arms haggling at a vegetable stall; and above all children—little girls with long black pigtails, wearing baggy, colorful trousers and little boys with strangely shaved heads. It looked like a place that was full of life, not danger. I would have liked to explore but I had more pressing things on my mind.

  Portsmouth Square was a wide expanse, newly laid out with gardens and young trees. Spring bulbs were blooming in the flower beds and children were playing, just like they did in New York. Only some of these children were Chinese, being kept by a watchful mother or nursemaid well apart from their European counterparts. The Hall of Justice was an impressive brick building on the far side of the square. I went up marble steps and into a central foyer.

  “I’m afraid the chief is in a meeting at this moment, ma’am,” the constable at the reception desk said. “Might one of our lieutenants be able to assist you?”

  “When might your chief be available?” I asked

  He shook his head. “He’s in with Mayor Schmitz and Abe Ruef, the city attorney. When those three get their heads together it would be more than my job’s worth to interrupt them. What might this be about? Are you reporting a crime?”

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “My husband is a captain with the New York police and he was sent out here. So I assumed he would have paid a courtesy call on your chief when he first arrived. And I thought that someone here might know where he was staying.”

  “What was your husband’s name, ma’am?”

  “Sullivan. Daniel Sullivan.”

  “Oh, here comes Lieutenant Addison,” the desk clerk said at the sound of footsteps coming down tiled stairs. “This lady was inquiring after a Captain Sullivan, sir. Do we have any knowledge of someone by that name? Daniel Sullivan?”

  The older man paused and gave me the strangest look that I couldn’t interpret. “You’re too late, I’m afraid,” he said. “The funeral was two days ago.”

  Twelve

  The world stood still. There was no sound. Nothing moved. I wasn’t even breathing anymore.

  Then I blurted out, “There must be some mistake. I’m talking about a Daniel Sullivan recently arrived from New York.”

  “That’s the one,” the man replied. “He was from New York. They found something in his wallet indicating that he came from New York.” I must have swayed because he put out a hand to steady me. “Are you all right, ma’am? Here. Sit down. Get her some water, Hanson.”

  I wasn’t conscious of sitting or even of taking the water glass from the constable. “You’ve had a shock, ma’am,” the officer said. “Was the gentleman related to you?”

  “My husband.” The words came out as a whisper.

  “I’m truly sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said.

  “When did he die?” I asked.

  “It would have been five days ago now, on the eleventh.”

  “Why wasn’t I notified?” I demanded, realizing as I said it that any message would probably have arrived after I left
New York. All those days sitting in a train, looking forward to seeing Daniel when all the time he was already dead. I pressed my lips together. I was not going to cry.

  “I don’t believe a home address was among his possessions,” the man said. “He had some form of identification linking him to the New York police and I think a telegram was sent to them.”

  I sat there, staring down at a tiled floor, not knowing what to say next. Then I forced myself to ask, “How did he die? Was he murdered?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. A tragic accident. He was standing at the edge of a cliff, out at Lands End, when the ground crumbled and he fell with it down to the rocks below. Clearly he didn’t appreciate the fragile nature of our local sandstone. It simply isn’t stable, especially after the rains we’ve had recently.”

  “An accident,” I repeated. “You’re sure of that?”

  “No, we can’t be sure. It was late at night and nobody actually saw the fall. But someone was close enough to have heard a cry and called a constable to investigate. They saw where the land had given way and when a flashlight was shone down, they could make out the shape of a body on the rocks below. Of course there was no way of reaching him in the darkness but next morning a boat was launched to retrieve the body.”

  I sat like a statue. “And he was definitely alone? There was no possibility that he was pushed over the edge?”

  I looked up to see his expression waver. “As a matter of fact a witness did come forward to say that he saw two guys together near the edge of the cliff around that time. But he didn’t witness your husband falling. So whether there was someone with him, whether the other man was responsible for his demise, I couldn’t say. As you probably know your husband was a guest of Mrs. Rodriguez and naturally we interviewed her afterward. Most cut up about it, she was, and couldn’t think of anyone in the city who’d want to harm Mr. Sullivan.”

  “It was Captain Sullivan,” I said proudly. “He was the youngest captain in the New York police.”

  “A tragic loss,” he said. “But you’d probably know more than we do. What brought him across the country to our city? Was he on the trail of a dangerous criminal? Can you think of why he’d go to a remote cliff top site at night?”

  “I wish I could tell you,” I said, “but in truth he told me nothing. He only sent me a cryptic letter, indicating that he might be in danger and that I should come out to join him.”

  “Why would he want you to join him if he knew he was in danger?” The lieutenant looked troubled. “Wouldn’t a man usually want his wife to remain safely at home?”

  “This is what I’ve pondered about all the way across the country,” I said. “All I know is that he was sent out here on some kind of secret assignment. But what it was, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “That is strange in itself, wouldn’t you say?” Lieutenant Addison said. “You don’t send a man cross-country unless it’s to snag a pretty big fish. And if the guys on the East Coast knew we had a big fish swimming in our pond, why not let us do the apprehending? At least come to ask for our help, which Sullivan obviously didn’t.”

  “I agree,” I said. “None of it makes any sense. But it doesn’t even matter now, does it? My husband is dead and buried. I’ll have to take my son home again and try to figure out what to do with my life. But first I’d like to see his grave.”

  “Of course you would. And I expect it can be arranged. But it’s a good way out of the city. We’d need to have the use of an automobile.”

  “Why was he buried so far away?” I demanded, my suspicions rising again.

  “They passed a law a couple of years ago forbidding any more burials within the city limits,” he said. “So they’ve created these big new cemeteries way down to the south. We’ll have to ask the officer who arranged the funeral and the burial. I don’t think he was put in the paupers’ field, seeing that we knew who he was and could expect payment eventually.”

  “You’d no right to bury him!” I heard myself shouting. My voice echoed in the tiled hallway and policemen passing looked around to see where the noise was coming from. “I don’t want my husband buried here, so far away. He has to be buried near his home, where his father is buried.”

  The lieutenant looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I had no part of the decision. They don’t like to keep bodies around more than a couple of days. And as I said I don’t believe he had a home address on him.”

  I stood up again, not sure what I was going to do but sure that I no longer wanted to see the officer’s concerned face looking at me with sympathy. “If I wanted to get his body retrieved and have his coffin shipped home, how would I go about that?” I asked.

  A worried frown crossed his face. “It’s a lengthy process, having a body exhumed,” he said.

  “I don’t want the body exhumed. I just want his coffin taken out of the grave and shipped home,” I said, my voice rising again. “That can’t be hard if he’s only been in the ground a couple of days.”

  “It would be up to the coroner, I suppose.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, Mrs. Sullivan. You’ve had a horrible shock. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Palace Hotel tonight,” I said.

  He smiled then. “Well, you can’t do better than that, can you? I’d say go back there, have a good meal, a good rest, and take time to let things sink in. In the morning I’ll try to arrange for an auto to pick you up and drive you out to the grave. All right?”

  “I suppose so,” I answered mechanically. He escorted me to the door and down the steps, leading me like a blind person, which, essentially, I was. I walked into the middle of Portsmouth Square and stood among the new flower beds. Daffodils were blooming and something that smelled sweet. An accident, the lieutenant had said. A tragic accident. But my husband was a highly trained policeman. He would not have stood in the dark, alone, on a crumbling cliff top, in a place where he didn’t feel safe. We had been right all along, I thought. Daniel knew he was in danger and had written to me. But had the letter not been to summon me here, but to say good-bye?

  I started to walk back down Kearny Street toward the Palace Hotel, and tried to make myself think clearly. So it seemed now I had two options. Liam and I could take the train back to New York, where we would be safe, or I could stay here and try to find out who killed my husband. It only took me a few seconds to opt for the latter. Daniel was not going to have died in vain. He had come here to solve an important case, to catch a dangerous person, to stop a dangerous plot, and had come close enough that he had to be silenced. And if I started to delve into what brought him here, I’d also be putting my life in danger. Liam only had one parent now. Could I risk his future?

  I stepped back hurriedly at the sound of a bell being rung furiously, and a cable car went past me, going up Clay Street toward the hilly part of the city. I made a decision. I would not return to the Palace, not yet. Liam was safe in the care of Mr. Paxton and I had not been away long. If I was going to find out more about what happened to Daniel I had a place to start. And that was Bella Rodriguez, who had a mansion on top of Nob Hill.

  California Street, Mr. Hicks had said. And I remembered crossing California Street as I came along Kearny. With luck there would be another cable car line going up the hill as it had looked long and steep and in my current shaky state I didn’t think my legs would carry me that far. I passed Sacramento Street and came to California with a cable car line conveniently going up the hill to be swallowed into swirling fog. A car arrived, bell clanging, and I hauled myself onboard. It was quite full and I had to join those hanging on to the step outside. On any other occasion it would have been an exhilarating experience, but in truth I hardly noticed as the hill got steeper and steeper and the cable beneath us whirred and groaned.

  I stepped down when we reached the crest and stood looking around with awe. Below me was a sea of whiteness with green hills and even the tallest buildings rising out of the fog. And around me were the finest mansions, just as impressive as those on Fifth Ave
nue in New York. The cable car had moved away, disappearing into fog again as it went downhill and I was left alone in silence. The street was empty. No sign of anyone to ask and I certainly didn’t feel that I could go up one of those flights of steps to a pillared front entrance and inquire about Mrs. Rodriguez. After the burst of energy needed to get me onto a cable car and up the hill, I felt completely drained, like a deflated balloon. If a cable car had shown up heading down the hill again I would have taken it, fled to my room in the hotel, and curled into a tight ball on my bed.

  But no cable car came. Instead I heard the clip-clop of hooves approaching through the mist and a carriage came into sight. It stopped outside one of those mansions and a driver climbed down, going around to stand beside the horse’s head. I crossed the street and went over to him.

  “Pardon me, but I’m looking for the house of Mrs. Rodriguez,” I said. “Can you tell me which one it is?”

  “Further down the street, miss,” he said. “She might be rich but she’s not in the same league as the folks who live here at the top of the hill. These here are the railroad barons and the silver barons—Stanford and Hopkins over there and on this side you’ve got Flood and Huntington and Crocker. Bella Rodriguez is a lesser light. Go past the Crocker mansion and hers is the redbrick with the white trim you’ll come to in a hundred yards or so.”

  “Thank you,” I said and set off in the right direction. As I began to descend the fog crept up to meet me. I could hear the mournful hoots of boats down on the Bay. My footsteps echoed unnaturally loudly. It was like being in a world of unreality. Actually my life had become unreal when I first received that letter. Nothing had made sense since. Presumably nothing ever would again.