She seemed taken aback. “My dear, are you sure you want to do such a thing? I always try to find at least one or two members of the police force brave enough to go with me, but even so, any raid is extremely risky. We’re robbing the highbinders of valuable property, and they hate and resent us. They use whatever means at their disposal to stop us.”
“Nevertheless, I should like to accompany you,” I said, not allowing myself time for second thoughts.
“You must understand that I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“I understand,” I assured her. “And I promise to do nothing to jeopardize your mission. Please, will you take me?”
She studied me closely, her eyes so penetrating I had the uncomfortable feeling they could see right through me.
“I believe you possess the necessary nerve. And you don’t appear frail or of a squeamish nature.” She smiled. “All right then, Miss Woolson. As long as you’re aware of the dangers, I’d be happy to have you accompany us on our next raid.”
“Do you know when that will be?” I asked eagerly.
“I’ve received word of a young woman—a child actually—who is being held captive in Sullivan's Alley, one of the most treacherous
bypasses of the quarter. I would prefer to help her tonight, but the situation is complicated. If all goes well, we will attempt to rescue her tomorrow night.”
My pulse quickened as I realized my opportunity was to come so soon. “What time shall I be here?”
“If you haven’t changed your mind, be at the mission by eleven-thirty. We’ll leave promptly at midnight.” She laughed. “You’re quite remarkable, Miss Woolson. Most women of your gentle birth wouldn’t even consider such an escapade.”
“I assure you, Miss Culbertson,” I said with heartfelt enthusiasm, “I relish the opportunity!”
We chatted for a few more moments, then I took my leave of this inspiring woman, promising to return the following night. In truth, the chance to visit Chinatown with an acknowledged expert was more than I had expected. Granted, it didn’t guarantee I would learn anything more about the infamous Li Ying. But, I reasoned, any information I could glean about the district where Rufus Mills had met his death would be a step in the right direction.
Outside, there was a buzz of excitement as people hurried to line the streets in time for the parade. As I made my way through the crowd toward the California Line cable car, I debated where to go next. I would have to check on Peter Fowler, of course, but since I could think of no reason why he might want Rufus Mills dead, I decided to concentrate first on Hanaford's two remaining partners. Robert Campbell's arguments to the contrary, I remained convinced that two hundred thousand dollars was more than ample reason for wishing someone dead.
Of these two men, I least trusted—no, I must be honest, least cared for—Benjamin Wylde. Had anyone bothered to ask where
he was the night of Hanaford's murder—or checked to see if he was actually in Sacramento when Rufus Mills met his death? What better disguise could a man don, I mused ruefully, than the mantle of money and success?
By the time I boarded the cable car, I had made up my mind to visit Benjamin Wylde's office on Montgomery Street. I settled back in my seat to enjoy the brief ride. Although some San Franciscans consider Andrew Hallidie's new inventions to be a public nuisance—some have gone so far as to refer to these vehicles as “Hallidie's Folly”—I must confess to a kind of fascination with the cable traction cars, notwithstanding their occasional threat to man and beast as they compete for space on the city's frequently narrow streets.
Not long after the contraptions were introduced seven years earlier, I determined to try them firsthand, and made the two-and-a-half-mile round trip from Clay and Kearny streets to Chestnut and Larkin. I found the experience stimulating, particularly the portion of the journey where we seemed to hang vertically suspended on the crest of Nob Hill. I had little patience, and even less sympathy, for the two silly women who made spectacles of themselves by swooning when we reached the most elevated portion of our journey. It is exactly this sort of behavior that perpetuates the unfortunate perception that women constitute the frailer sex!
As I walked the three blocks from the cable car to Wylde's office, I prepared the questions I wished to ask. I had no idea what I would do if Wylde himself were there, but that was no reason to put it off. I ran the risk of his presence whenever I made the visit.
I needn’t have worried. When I requested an audience with Mr. Wylde, the clerk informed me that the attorney was not expected back in the office until that afternoon.
“Well, really,” I said, subjecting the poor clerk to my best imita tion of a distraught female. “This is the second time he's let me down. I was supposed to meet with him on the tenth of last month, but he was called out of town for the week.”
The clerk looked surprised. “I fear you are mistaken, madam. Mr. Wylde was in the city trying a case during most of August.”
I drew myself up in indignation. “I suppose the next thing you’ll tell me is that he didn’t spend last weekend in Sacramento.”
“Certainly not.” The clerk's expression left little doubt that he questioned my mental faculties. “Mr. Wylde hasn’t left San Francisco in more than two months. If you have business with him, I’ll be happy to make an appointment, Miss—”
“Nuisance,” boomed a voice from behind me. “That's her name, sir. Miss Confound Nuisance.”
The clerk stared at Robert Campbell—for that, of course, was the latest lunatic to enter the unfortunate man's domain.
“Excuse me, sir?” he asked in bewilderment.
I spun around. “I don’t believe it! What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, of course. When you weren’t at Senator Broughton's office, I guessed you’d decided to harass Wylde first.”
“You’re the one guilty of harassment, Mr. Campbell!” I accused, furious that this person was hounding me like a common criminal. “I will thank you to cease doing so immediately.”
Nodding to the clerk, I marched out of the office, allowing the heavy oak door to slam closed behind me for punctuation. I hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps when I saw Benjamin Wylde's tall figure walking toward me from the stairwell. I looked quickly around, but there was no place to hide. Behind me, I heard Campbell's footsteps. I was caught squarely between two evils.
Just as the Scot caught up with me, Wylde looked up and saw us. His dark eyes narrowed.
“Miss Woolson. Mr. Campbell. What an unexpected surprise. Have you been to my office?”
I put on the brightest smile I could manage under the circumstances. “As a matter of fact, we have. I was curious to see how probate on Mr. Hanaford's will was progressing.”
Common courtesy prevented Wylde from calling me a liar, but it wasn’t difficult to see that was what he was thinking. Turning to Campbell, he raised one eyebrow.
“I’m surprised that should interest you, Campbell.”
“I’m concerned with all aspects of Mrs. Hanaford's case,” he said, looking uncomfortable with even this mild prevarication.
I made a show of consulting my timepiece. “Goodness, look what time it is. I’m afraid we’re late getting back to the office.”
Campbell seemed surprised, but before he could protest, I said our good-byes to an equally startled Benjamin Wylde and nudged my colleague toward the stairs.
“What was that all about?” he asked, when we were beyond the lawyer's hearing.
“It was necessary to get you out of there before you could make even greater fools out of us than we’d already managed. You’re a dreadful liar, Mr. Campbell.”
“Judging by the ease in which untruths flow from your mouth, I’m sure you consider that a fault, Miss Woolson. I, on the other hand, was raised to believe it a virtue.”
“I’m happy for you,” I said tartly, reaching the entrance to the building. Without a backward look, I stepped outside. “You may leave now,” I threw over my shoulder.
>
He mumbled something I was just as happy not to catch, but continued after me. I started out at a brisk pace toward Market Street, amazed by how congested the streets had become in the
short time I’d been inside Wylde's office. People brushed passed us, anxious not to miss the start of the presidential parade. Four giggling young girls went by wearing their Sunday best and carrying small American flags. A couple held tight to several small children as they hurried them through the throng. We passed two soldiers looking dashing and very young in their crisp uniforms. All about us, people ate fresh taffy and honey popcorn balls. The air was charged with a carnival-like atmosphere.
The sight and smell of so much food caused me to remember that I’d left the house that morning without breakfast. Spying a confectioner's shop on the other side of the street, I hastened to cross, determined to make amends to my complaining stomach.
“Where are we going?” Campbell called out, dodging a landau driven by a man I recognized as a physician acquaintance of Charles's. The man smiled and politely doffed his hat.
“I don’t know where you’re going,” I replied pithily. “For my part, I plan to have something to eat.”
Although he professed not to be hungry, my sullen companion did justice to an assortment of pastries and two dishes of ice cream. I contented myself with a single helping of each, followed by a cup of coffee. The shop was small and clean, with delicious smells emanating from the kitchen. Spread out on a counter was a delightful array of baked goods, artfully arranged to tempt the eye as well as the palate. All in all, the little shop presented a quiet refuge from the bustle of parade activity outside.
When he had finished his impromptu meal, Campbell ordered his own coffee, then sat back and regarded me with frank speculation.
“What did you expect to accomplish at Wylde's office?”
“I hoped to answer questions no one else has bothered to ask.” “They haven’t been asked because the real murderers are in custody.”
“That's an assumption I refuse to endorse.” “I suppose that means you plan to badger Senator Broughton as well.”
“I’ll speak to him, yes. If Hanaford and Mills were killed because of the tontine money, then one of the two survivors is in mortal danger.”
“Blast it, woman! Why do you persist in this madness?”
“My ‘madness,’ Mr. Campbell, led me to learn from Wylde's clerk that he lied about his whereabouts the night Mills was murdered. Wylde told my brother he’d be unable to attend his dinner because he was traveling to Sacramento.”
“Maybe the man simply didn’t want to attend.”
“He also told Mrs. Hanaford—in my presence, I might add— that he’d be out of the city that weekend. Why lie to her if his only intention was to avoid Frederick's party?”
“He must have his reasons. Perhaps he was protecting a client.”
“Perhaps,” I grudgingly admitted. “But I think something more sinister is going on. Then there's Li Ying's letter to Hanaford.”
“I knew you’d find some way to drag the Chinese into this!”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious about that note? What money was Li referring to? And what possible reason could a tong lord have for writing to a respected white banker?”
“Maybe he just wanted a loan.”
“From what I’ve learned about the Chinese, they keep to themselves. And they have their own banks. They’d be unlikely to receive a loan from one of our banks in any case.”
Unable to refute my logic, he grunted and drank his coffee.
“Besides, if Li were looking for a loan, he would hardly expect
Hanaford to hand deliver the money to Chinatown. And the tone of the letter is personal rather than professional. It suggests that Hanaford owed Li money. Don’t you agree?”
“I find it highly unlikely. I still say you’re manufacturing mysteries where none exist. But I can see you’re determined to go on with this. Whom do you plan to pester next?”
Ignoring his tone, I considered my next move. “Senator Broughton is probably fawning over President Hayes with the rest of the city's politicians, so I can learn little from him today. I have some questions for Eban Potter, but I’m sure the bank is closed in honor of the occasion.” I also knew, but refrained from saying aloud, that there was nothing I could do about Li Ying until the following night. My choices seemed to boil down to just one. “I think I’ll spend the afternoon looking into Peter Fowler's past,” I concluded.
Campbell's eyes narrowed. “So you admit there's reason to doubt his innocence.”
“Not necessarily. But it would be foolish not to include him on the list.”
He laughed aloud. “I don’t believe that for one minute. You’re the one, after all, who keeps insisting the two deaths are connected. Now it's occurred to you that while Mrs. Hanaford was in jail and can’t have killed Mills, Fowler may have been carrying out a plan conceived by them both.”
I looked at him in dismay. Ever since Samuel's warning, I’d been worried about this very thing. “If you believe that theory, why haven’t you mentioned it to the police?”
“Whatever else you may think of me, I’m not stupid,” he said shortly. “Nor would I knowingly compromise our client. But if the police decide to adopt your hypothesis, we’re in trouble.”
I didn’t bother answering, and before I could object, Campbell
paid our bill, saying he would expect recompense from Shepard. On that basis, I was content to let him perform the gentlemanly duty.
“Where do you propose to research Peter Fowler?” he asked when we’d left the confectioner's shop.
I was pleased to note that the crowd had noticeably thinned. Several blocks away we could hear the sound of marching bands and the shouts of the cheering crowd. Part of me regretted that I was missing the chance to see our nineteenth president. But, as I’d told Samuel, this business couldn’t wait.
“I’ll start at the Department of Records,” I told him. “You may come along if you wish. But if you do, I’ll expect you to shoulder your share of the work.”
With that, I walked briskly to the nearest cable car stop. I didn’t look back to see if my indomitable shadow would follow.
Fortunately, the Department of Records hadn’t closed because of President Hayes's visit, and we spent the rest of the afternoon poring through a mountain of records. To Campbell's credit, he uncomplainingly assumed his share of the task. Still, in the end, our search turned out to be fruitless. Nowhere could we find any mention of Peter Fowler's birth. In fact, there was no mention of his name at all.
“How do we know he was born in San Francisco?” Campbell asked at length.
I lifted my head and was surprised to realize I’d developed a dull ache between my eyes. It's rare for me to experience a headache, and I attributed it to my lack of sleep the night before. That and the strain of reading so many entries, some of them written in such a cramped hand they were difficult to decipher.
“Mrs. Hanaford mentioned they’d lived in the same San Fran-
cisco neighborhood as children,” I told him. “Before her father became a successful hotelier, of course.”
“Maybe he's using a stage name.” I could tell by his tone that he, too, was tired and unhappy to have nothing to show for the afternoon's labors.
“Yes, I’ve thought of that.” Frustrated, I closed the book I’d been perusing. “There seems nothing for it but to pay Fowler a visit tomorrow.”
“And you think he's going to smile and happily tell you all about himself.”
“He will unless he wants to end his life on the gallows.”
Campbell merely grunted. He presented a comical sight sitting across from me at the cluttered table. A smudge of dirt on his cheek gave him the look of a small boy who's been making mud pies. His tie was askew and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, displaying the most impressive set of forearms I’d ever seen. Overall, he appeared thoroughly ruffled, both in appeara
nce and in disposition. Not for the first time, I wondered what carrot our employer had extended to induce this incongruous man to agree to such a troublesome assignment.
“Why are you doing this, Robert?” I blurted, hardly noticing that in my curiosity to learn the truth I had addressed him by his Christian name. “Following me about like some overzealous nursemaid, I mean.”
My abruptness seemed to catch him off guard. “I told you. Shepard wants you kept out of trouble.”
“I’m not talking about Shepard. His motives are perfectly clear. I meant you. What are you getting out of this?”
“That is none of your concern.” With a glare, he closed the book he’d been reading so sharply that a cloud of dust flew about his head causing him to sneeze.
“On the contrary, it is very much my concern,” I retorted. “After all, I’m the one forced to suffer your company.”
He swore beneath his breath. “Damn it all, woman, do you never give up? You’re as tenacious as a terrier digging for a bone.”
He ran a dirty hand through his rust-colored hair, causing one tuft to stand out in front like the golden horn of a unicorn. Then suddenly he stood, knocking over his chair in the process. He paid it no mind, but began pacing the room like a caged tiger. I watched him with interest. Here was a man, I thought, upon whom inactivity did not sit well. Not for the first time I wondered at his choice of careers. Surely he would have been more at home in the rugged outdoors of his native Scotland.
Abruptly, he ceased his pacing and looked down at me from across the table. His height was so great that my aching head throbbed from the need to peer up at him at such an angle.
“I see you’ll give me no peace until you’ve bled me dry,” he exclaimed. “All right, then, you shall have it. In return for keeping you out of mischief, Shepard has agreed to speak to Paulson on my behalf. I wish to act as his co-counsel in Mrs. Hanaford's upcoming trial.”
I was momentarily struck dumb by the absurdity of this remark.
“But you have no trial experience. I’m not sure you even have experience in criminal law.” I gave him a challenging stare. “Well, have you?”
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