Scandal On Rincon Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “You mean because you lack interest in his store?”

  “He cannot understand why I wish to become a scientist. He claims that is no way for a gentleman to earn his livelihood.”

  I regarded him sympathetically. “Yes, I remember him saying as much the night your family dined with us.”

  “Father feels the same way about my singing,” lamented Melody. “He claims that if he ever saw me performing on a public stage, he would die of mortification.”

  “That's unfortunate,” I said with true regret. “You have a marvelous voice, a rare gift.”

  “Yes, she does,” David agreed. He regarded his sister fondly. “All Father and his wife can think about is seeing Melody settled down with a husband. But surely she's too young for that, not yet eighteen! And she has too much talent to be trapped in a loveless marriage.”

  “It needn't be loveless,” I pointed out, again a little surprised by this comment. “When she's older she may find someone she cares enough about to marry.”

  “Yes, if she's allowed to wait until she's ready. And if she's permitted to choose her own husband.” David's voice was startlingly bitter, although I thought his irritability might be due to the onset of a headache. I noticed that he had been rubbing his right temple since we had sat down, and his eyes had taken on a somewhat glassy look.

  “I can't even imagine getting married for years yet,” Melody proclaimed. “Before I settle down I want to sing—on a stage, in a real theater.” Her lovely blue eyes shone with passion. “I know that isn't the life my father envisions for me, but it's what I dream of doing above all else.”

  I thought of Pierce's promise to speak to his friend who owned the Tivoli Theater, but felt it would be premature to mention this until we knew if she would be invited to audition. And, of course, whether her parents would allow their daughter to sing for Mr. Kreling.

  “When we were very young,” Melody went on, “I remember our mother—our real mother—taking David and me to a theater in Sacramento. I can still picture the singers and dancers, all the bright colors, and especially the wonderful music. I think that's when I first made up my mind to go on the stage.”

  “It doesn't seem fair that Melody is to be deprived of doing what she wants with her life,” proclaimed her brother. “Why does society insist that girls marry so young, while men can wait until they're thirty, or even older, before settling down?”

  “When we were children, David and I used to say that when we grew up we would travel all over the world,” Melody said with a little laugh. “I would be a famous singer, and he would be a brilliant scientist and make great discoveries.” Her lovely eyes grew somber. “Truly, Miss Woolson, I have no desire to marry before I have experienced life.”

  I didn't know how to respond to either of them. Since I had suffered the same pressure to get married from my parents, particularly my mother, when I was Melody's age, I could well understand her frustration. On the other hand, I knew better than most the alienation and scorn a woman was all too likely to receive if she followed her dream to pursue a career outside the home. It was a steep price to pay for one's freedom.

  As if reading my mind, Melody said, “You don't know how much I admire you, Miss Woolson. You had the courage to stand up to your family, and even society, in order to become an attorney. It can't have been easy for you.”

  “At times it has been difficult,” I admitted, “and it isn't a path I would suggest a woman follow unless she is very determined.” My thoughts went to Pierce and the feelings he aroused in me. “It necessitates making a great many sacrifices, Melody. Some of which can be painful.”

  She looked at me for a long moment, then asked with blunt curiosity, “Is that why you've never married?” Belatedly realizing she had overstepped the boundaries of good manners, she flushed and hastened to apologize. “Do forgive me, Miss Woolson. That was unpardonably rude. What must you think of me?”

  “I think you are splendidly forthright in speaking your mind, Melody,” I told her. “It is an admirable quality, if it is judiciously utilized. I have often been accused of the same offense.”

  I sighed and sat for several moments watching the rain hit the windowpane. “you're correct, you know,” I went on at length. “My desire to become an attorney is the reason I have not married. It wouldn't be fair to my husband, nor to any children we might have, if I attempted to divide my time between a career and my family. It's not always been an easy route to follow, my dear. You should give it careful thought before you decide upon your own course in life.”

  Just then the waiter arrived with our lunches. When we had all been served, Melody gave a sad smile and continued. “I understand what you're saying, Miss Woolson, especially about the time and dedication that is required to raise children. I have often helped our stepmother care for Reggie and little Carrie. It is a great responsibility.”

  “You were very young when your own mother passed away, were you not?” I asked.

  “Yes, barely five years old. I still remember the series of nannies and housekeepers our father hired to care for us while he was at work. They were good women, but they could never take the place of our dear mother.”

  She paused as David touched her hand. His eyes, too, were wistful, as if he were reliving those unfortunate days along with his twin sister.

  Sighing, she went on, “I would not willingly permit my own children to suffer such a loss. That is why I want to live out my dream before I settle down to raise a family. I know that David and I could manage quite nicely on our own, he with his bugs, while I establish a name for myself in the theater. A few years on the stage, that is all I ask.”

  All she asked, indeed, I thought. Melody claimed she understood the sacrifices she would face if she chose a life in the theater, but looking at her innocent face I had to wonder if she had any true notion of how difficult this fantasy would be to achieve. I had been fortunate to have a judge as a father, one, moreover, who was willing to school me along with my three older brothers. Melody, on the other hand, had no one to support her aspirations, other than perhaps her grandfather, Zachariah. But did he wield enough influence over his son and daughter-in-law to sway their objections to Melody's performing on stage?

  By the time we had finished our lunch, the rain had let up enough for Melody and David to make their way to the nearest cable car line, and for me to dash the several blocks back to my office. Only when I was inside my two small rooms did I belatedly realize that, other than picking up the shirts I had ordered, I'd completed no Christmas shopping at all.

  Using the storm as an excuse not to attempt any more errands that afternoon—and loath to continue with Robert's tedious paperwork—I soon departed my office to return home. When I arrived in the mid-afternoon, it was to find the entire household busily preparing for the Christmas party we were hosting the following Saturday.

  Promising to join them as soon as I had changed out of my damp clothes, I hurried to my bedroom. I had no sooner come back downstairs, however, than Edis announced that George Lewis was at the door asking to see Samuel. Curious, I invited him in out of the rain, and informed him that my brother was spending the weekend in the country.

  He declined my offer, continuing to stand outside the front door. Something in his expression caused the muscles in my stomach to tighten.

  “What is it, George?” I asked. “What has happened? Don't tell me there's been another murder!”

  “No, no, Miss Sarah, nothing like that. Fact is, we've arrested a couple of Chinamen for the killings.”

  I regarded him in surprise. “you've arrested two Chinese men? I thought you were questioning the guests at the Tremaines' party the night Mr. Logan was killed.”

  “We were, but we've come up with some witnesses willing to swear they saw two Johnnies skulking around the Harrison Street Bridge when Deacon Hume was beaten to death Wednesday morning. They've identified the men.”

  I could hardly believe my ears. “But I thought you agreed that
the same man who killed the deacon also murdered Nigel Logan. Now you're telling me that two Chinese men have been arrested for killing one of the victims, but not the other?”

  George looked uneasy. “I'm afraid so, Miss Sarah. At least for now.”

  “What does that mean—‘for now’?” I asked suspiciously.

  He looked around cautiously, as if fearing someone might be eavesdropping on our conversation.

  “I shouldn't be telling you this, Miss Sarah. But there's talk at the station that they're going to try to pin Logan's murder onto the two Chinese fellows, as well.”

  “But the men who witnessed Mr. Logan's death claim they saw only one man running from the scene of the crime,” I protested. “I heard them say that myself. And neither of them mentioned anything about the man being Chinese.”

  “I know, Miss Sarah. But the captain says they might not have seen the man all that clearly, seeing as how it was such a dark night. He claims it would have been easy enough to miss a second man, say, if he was hiding behind a bridge stanchion, or maybe was faster than his partner, and had already run out of sight.”

  “This is ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “It was just as dark the night Deacon Hume was murdered. Why should the police believe one set of witnesses and not the other?”

  I put up a staying hand before he could answer. “No, don't bother telling me, George, I understand what's going on here. It's much easier to credit witnesses who claim to have seen Chinese men commit the murder than to suspect a white man of the crime.”

  To his credit, George did not attempt to defend his captain's dubious reasoning.

  I gave a frustrated sigh. “Oh, for heaven's sake, George. All right, then, when did this arrest take place?”

  “About an hour ago. We haven't made a formal announcement about the arrest yet. Since I just got off duty, I thought I'd drop by and tell Samuel.”

  “I see.” I wondered if I should send word to Samuel, or simply wait until he returned home on Monday.

  George made my decision for me when he went on, “It's nothing that can't wait until he gets back, Miss Sarah. We've locked up the Johnnies and they aren't going anywhere, at least for the time being. And the captain didn't seem too eager to tell the reporters before he had to. They're going to swarm the station soon enough when they find out.”

  “You say these witnesses positively identified the two Chinese men?” I asked skeptically. “But we both know it was a cloudy night. How can they be certain these are the same men they claim to have seen? Most white men have a difficult time telling one Oriental face from another under ideal conditions. Much less in the dark.” I regarded him thoughtfully. “Or, if they were drinking.”

  Reluctantly, he nodded. “They admit that they'd had a few drinks before they started home.”

  “Oh, for heaven's sake! I don't see how anyone could possibly pick out any particular Chinese under those circumstances.”

  He hesitated, as if weighing his words, then admitted, “To be honest, I don't think they can be sure. But our department's been under a lot of pressure to catch whoever's responsible for the killings.”

  “So the police jumped at the chance to accuse the Chinese of Hume's murder.”

  He nodded unhappily. “The two Chinamen are very young, and neither of them can speak a word of English. I don't think they have the least idea why they've been thrown into city jail.”

  “They must be terribly frightened,” I said, incensed that any individual, no matter his race, should be treated so shamefully.

  “Hasn't anyone provided them with an interpreter?”

  “No. I suggested it to the captain, but he said it could wait until Monday, or, more like it, when he had a chance to get around to it.” He appeared embarrassed.

  “That's inexcusable! When will they be charged?”

  He gave a helpless shrug. “I don't know. I shouldn't be saying this, but I think the captain's holding off as long as he can, hoping we'll uncover more concrete proof linking them to the murders.”

  “I see.” I watched in thoughtful silence as he placed his hat back on his head. As usual, a tuft of sandy-brown hair swept untidily across his forehead, making him appear younger than his thirtyone years.

  “you'll tell Samuel I was here, then?” he asked.

  “Of course. As soon as he returns on Monday. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me informed on the case, George. Especially any news about the two Chinese men you've arrested.”

  “Of course, Miss Sarah, if that's what you wish.”

  He started to say something else, then seemed to change his mind. Silently, he tipped his hat and departed the house.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I spent the next quarter hour thinking about the unfortunate Chinese men who had been arrested for Deacon Hume's murder. The sad fact was that the Chinese had become so hated for “stealing” (Dennis Kearney and his Workingmen's Party's constant accusation!) jobs from other immigrant groups, that they were regarded as easy scapegoats for any number of crimes committed in San Francisco, even those for which they had no possible motive.

  The way these hardworking people had been mistreated by virtually every other race in the city was appalling. Over the past few years a number of Chinese had been attacked by unruly mobs and their meager dwellings had been burned to the ground. Discrimination against them was so acute that they were largely restricted to Tangrenbu, the dense ten-block area more commonly known as Chinatown.

  Having once defended a Chinese chef arrested for murdering a white man, I knew better than most how vicious prejudice against the “celestials” had become. My client had been depicted as a “yellowskinned devil” by nearly every newspaper in town. To make matters worse, the epitaph was often accompanied by a drawing of a demon, complete with a pitchfork and forked tail. At the start of his trial, I doubt I could have found even a handful of individuals willing to concede the possibility of his being innocent.

  This train of thought inevitably led me to Li Ying, the tong leader who had asked me to represent the accused cook. I wondered if he had any idea that two of his countrymen had been imprisoned. Li was always extremely well informed, but if, as George said, the police hadn't publicly announced the arrest, there was a possibility he did not know.

  It took me only a moment to make up my mind. Reaching for my cloak and reticule, I slipped out of the house and, for the second time that day, walked to the horsecar line. My destination this time was the Yoot Hong Low restaurant on Waverly Place, the address I'd been given in the event I needed to reach Li Ying. Although I had visited Li's home on several occasions, I had no idea where it was located, other than it certainly must be somewhere in Chinatown. Each time we'd met, I had been kept blindfolded until I was inside his house. Upon leaving, I had once again had my eyes covered until his carriage left Tangrenbu. This subterfuge, he had explained, was as much for my protection as it was for his own. If his many enemies suspected I knew where he lived, he explained, my life would be in danger.

  Arriving half an hour later at Yoot Hong Low's restaurant, I asked to see Kin Lee, the man I had been instructed to contact. The waiter, who was wearing the customary loose white cotton tunic and black trousers, listened respectfully to my request, then escorted me to a table where he indicated that I should wait. Bowing low, he disappeared behind a painted screen at the back of the dining room. A moment later, a second waiter arrived, carrying a tray which he silently deposited before me on the table. Pouring steaming hot tea from a China pot into a cup, he, too, bowed low and departed.

  I had taken but a single sip of the light green brew, when an older man, whom I recognized as Kin Lee, emerged from behind the screen. He bowed, then stood as still as a statue waiting for me to speak. When I explained that I would like to see Li Ying, he bowed yet again, and without asking any questions, slipped back behind the screen.

  It was not an unpleasant wait. I enjoyed my pot of excellent tea, as well as a dish of some sort of Chinese dumplings which I found to be qu
ite delicious. Most interesting, however, was watching the human beehive of people hurrying up and down the street. Every available inch of Chinatown seemed to be taken up with small shops and restaurants announcing themselves with gold, red, and black signs, and displaying crates of vegetables, hanging chickens, ducks, fish, hams, and vast numbers of vibrant lanterns of various shapes and sizes. The unusual aromas, strange customs, and rapid patter of an unintelligible language always made me feel as if I had left San Francisco and entered an exotic foreign land.

  Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes after Kin Lee's departure, he returned and beckoned me to follow him through the bustling kitchen, a crowded storeroom, and out into a back alley. There, pulled up behind the restaurant—and taking up very nearly all the width of the narrow alley—was a hansom cab. The driver, who was dressed entirely in black, sprang lightly down from his elevated seat in the rear of the vehicle, and politely opened the carriage door.

  Before I could step up, however, he bowed and said, “Missy, please forgive. Must wear this.”

  Since I was no stranger to this procedure, I was not surprised or offended when the man produced a brightly printed silk scarf from a pocket, and handed it to me. With a polite nod I accepted the blindfold and placed it over my eyes, tying it into a knot at the back of my head. When the scarf was securely in place, the driver carefully assisted me into the cab and closed the door.

  The cab moved and, as always, I experienced a surge of excitement. My visits with the tong leader always triggered a feeling of exhilaration, as if I were embarking on an exotic and possibly dangerous adventure. Which in the truest sense of the word, I was. For all his brilliance and flawless manners, Li Ying was undeniably one of the most ruthless leaders of Chinatown's underworld.

  As was invariably the case, we drove about for some little time—executing a good many twists and turns—before the driver finally reined his horse to a stop. Since we had commenced our journey on Waverly Place, which was situated in the heart of the ten-square-block area known as Tangrenbu, so-named after the Chinese goddess of heaven, I knew the cab driver had deliberately prolonged the journey, undoubtedly to further impede me from pinpointing the exact location of Li Ying's residence.