When Eddie reined up in front of our house, Samuel assisted me down from the coach, then followed after me.
“I'm going to have Eddie take me to see George. Hopefully, he has more information about O'Hara's murder. I also want to talk to him about that police officer who was grilling Kerry Murphy at the ice cream parlor. I don't for one minute believe Kerry had anything to do with his cousin's murder, and I hate to see him harassed like that.”
With a reassuring smile, he gave me a fierce brotherly hug. “We'll find a way to deal with this, Sarah. We spent our childhood going from one scrape to another. We managed to live through them and we'll live through this one, too. I promise.”
With that, he hopped back into the carriage. Giving me a broad smile and a jaunty tip of his cap, Eddie pulled back into traffic.
We had two unexpected visitors to our home that evening. Samuel had returned after dinner, accompanied by George Lewis. The three of us had just settled ourselves in Papa's library, when Robert appeared at the door, claiming he was worried about the “madman” who, according to the news spreading like wildfire throughout the city, was running amuck on Rincon Hill.
My heart did a kind of leap when Robert walked into the house. I had not seen him since the night before, and in view of our unexpected kiss I had no idea how to behave toward him.
The moment he saw me, Robert's ruddy face seemed to grow several shades lighter, and I thought I saw his Adam's apple move rapidly up and down. He must be suffering the same discomfiture as I was. Thankfully, before either of us could think of something to say, Samuel showed our unexpected guest into the library.
After we had reestablished ourselves around the fireplace, which now included my self-conscious colleague, Edis carried in a large pot of coffee, four cups, and, naturally, a plate overflowing with cookies and cakes from Cook's kitchen. I noticed that Robert was doing his best to avoid looking at me, and I sighed inwardly. Obviously, we could not go on like this. Sooner or later we would have to discuss this new development in our relationship. But it most definitely would not be in front of my brother and a police sergeant!
I watched George and Robert for signs that they had read Ozzie Foldger's article in this evening's Tattler. To my relief, I could see they obviously had not. Nor had anyone in my family, so for one night at least I could breathe easy. Tomorrow, of course, would be a very different story!
When we had filled our cups with Cook's excellent brew, we turned our attention to George, hoping he could provide further enlightenment concerning this latest tragic death. Our expectations were quickly dashed, when George informed us that he knew little more about Patrick O'Hara's murder than we did.
“The department is treating the boy's death as an isolated incident,” he told us, stirring sugar and cream into his coffee. “By that I mean they've decided that his murder is in no way connected to that of Mr. Logan or Deacon Hume.”
“So they believe that my clients killed Dieter Hume, and someone else murdered Logan and O'Hara?” I asked, not bothering to mask my incredulity. “That's absurd!”
“So it's true that you're representing the two Chinamen we arrested over the weekend,” George said, looking dismayed. “I was hoping the newspapers had gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick.”
“Those ‘Chinamen’ have names, George,” I informed him a bit sharply. “They are Fan Gow and Lee Yup. Neither of whom can be older than eighteen or nineteen. They speak virtually no English, and have been in San Francisco for less than a month. What possible reason can either of those poor boys have for killing Deacon Hume? Keep in mind that he wasn't robbed, which suggests a more personal motive, and therefore eliminates my clients.”
“Not necessarily,” argued George. “Our eyewitnesses might have interrupted the two Johnnies before they could empty Hume's pockets.”
“Oh? And what about Nigel Logan and Patrick O'Hara?” I asked. “If you recall, neither of them were robbed, either.”
Before George could formulate a good argument, Samuel picked up several newspapers lying on a side table—none of them the Tattler, thank goodness, since Papa would not allow the rag sheet in our house—and waved them at us. “Have any of you read these? The public is clamoring for Fan and Lee to be strung up from the nearest trees, never mind a trial.”
“I've seen them,” said Robert, who had thus far been listening in silence. He glanced once in my direction, turned a bit red, then cleared his voice and continued. “While I have no truck with lynchings, we would do well to remember that those ‘poor boys’ were identified by eyewitnesses.”
“Who had been out on a toot, and were so liquored up they probably wouldn't have recognized their own mothers at that time of night, much less two Chinamen,” put in Samuel, before I could express much the same opinion.
“I admit that it was dark,” Robert persisted, a bit defensively. “Still, those Chinese lads appear to have no legitimate alibis for the time Deacon Hume was murdered. Put together with the witnesses' account and you have—”
“Balderdash!” I was so incensed by this ludicrous statement that all thoughts of the night before flew from my mind. “Fan and Lee told me through the interpreter that they didn't even know where the Harrison Street Bridge was, much less deliberately walk there in the middle of the night.”
“Of course that's what they'd say,” said Robert heatedly. Obviously, memories of our intimate embrace had vanished from his thoughts, as well. “They'd hardly admit to being there at the same time a murder was being committed.”
“I don't know, Robert,” put in my brother. “I find it unlikely that two young Chinese boys would wander so far from Chinatown at night, especially when they're ignorant of the language and the city. I find it even more difficult to believe that they could be positively identified by a couple of intoxicated white men.”
I turned to face Sergeant Lewis. “Answer me truthfully, George. Do the police honestly suppose that my clients, for no apparent reason, battered to death a church deacon they just happened to pass on a dark bridge?”
George flinched, as if I had just come at him with a baseball bat. “I, ah, actually I think that's what they believe, yes, Miss Sarah.”
“Incredible!” I pronounced, throwing up my hands in disgust. I turned to Robert and Samuel. “Mind you, these are the very imbeciles whom we have entrusted to safeguard our city.”
“There is no need to take out your frustration on George,” said Samuel, coming to his friend's defense. “In all fairness, you asked him what the police thought, not for his own personal opinion.”
“You're right, of course, Samuel. I stand corrected.” I turned back to George who had begun fidgeting in his chair. “All right, then, George, what do you make of this farce?”
The poor man looked at me, stricken, then glanced at Samuel and Robert as if hoping to be rescued.
“I don't know, Miss Sarah, and that's the truth. At first the department thought maybe the rector of that church, you know, the Reverend Mayfield, might be involved. Because of all that nonsense Mr. Logan spouted about us having come from bugs, or fish, or something.”
“Charles Darwin's Origin of Species,” I put in.
George nodded. “Yes, that's it. Then we got an order to stop questioning the minister, and look amongst the Johnnies for the killer.”
Samuel and I exchanged a quick glance, both of us wondering, I was sure, where this sudden order had originated.
“Not long after that, we pulled in those two Chinese fellows.” George nodded to Robert. “And they were properly identified by eyewitnesses, just like Mr. Campbell said.”
I shook my head, not bothering to hide my disdain for the police department's so-called eyewitnesses.
Perhaps in an effort to play peacemaker, Robert broke the uncomfortable silence following George's unconvincing elucidation.
“No matter how you look at it,” he said reasonably, “these murders have the city in an uproar.”
“That's one thing on which we can
all agree,” said Samuel quietly. “Illogical as it seems, I actually heard rumors this evening that your clients killed Nigel Logan and Patrick O'Hara, as well as Hume, Sarah.”
“Good Lord!” This was becoming more bizarre by the moment. “This despite the fact that Fan and Lee were in jail when O'Hara was murdered,” I said, throwing George a censuring look.
“Again, Sarah, it's not George's fault,” pointed out my brother. “People are frightened. As they have every right to be. Three men have been killed in ten days—practically in our own backyard! As if the Second Street Cut weren't bad enough, San Franciscans are now declaring Rincon Hill to be the murder capital of the state.”
I could only nod unhappy agreement. “I realize people are in a panic. Have you noticed how empty the streets are after dark? And not just on Rincon Hill.”
“That's how it is where I live, as well,” commented Robert. “Oh, you can still see some men coming and going, but precious few women or families.”
I sighed. “Our mother is so afraid, she's begged Papa not to go out alone at night.”
“She's asked me to stay at home, too, as well as Charles,” put in Samuel. “Which, in Charles's case, is a waste of breath. Can you imagine our dedicated healer not responding to a sick call? The Rincon Hill murderer would have to be waiting outside our front stoop, to keep our noble brother from ministering to the ill, no matter the time of night.”
I felt a bit sick at the thought of our gentle and compassionate brother walking the streets of Rincon Hill at night, his only concern the welfare of his patients. Who was going to protect him? The police? I almost laughed aloud. Now that they had two Chinese scapegoats in jail, I feared they would no longer bother to search for the real killer.
Without pausing to consider the wisdom of my words, I blurted out, “Oh, for heaven's sake! It seems there is nothing for it but to find the killer myself. That is the only way to free my clients, and to render Rincon Hill once again safe for its residents.”
George looked startled, while Robert gave a rude snort. “And just how do you plan to do that?” my colleague asked sarcastically. “Especially if the police already have the killer, or should I say killers, in custody.”
“Robert, please,” I said in frustration. “Enough of these ridiculous assumptions. Let's examine the facts as we know them, logically and in order. Fact number one,” I began, using my fingers to count off each point. “Three men have been murdered. Fact number two: Nigel Logan and Dieter Hume were good friends. The third victim, Patrick O'Hara, probably never even met Logan and Hume. Fact number four: None of the three victims was robbed.”
I looked around, but none of the men seemed eager to interrupt this treatise. “All right,” I said, and went on, “fact number five: Although two different weapons were used to commit the murders—in Logan's and Hume's cases, a section of two-by-four, in O'Hara's case, an ice pick—they have one thing in common, they were to hand at the scene of all three crimes. In other words, they were chosen opportunistically, not brought to the scenes by the killer.”
The three men remained mute, apparently waiting for me to continue. “Although Patrick O'Hara most likely was not acquainted with Logan and Hume, I refuse to believe that more than one person committed these murders. As I pointed out in fact number four, none of the three men were robbed. So, what then was the motive? Are we to believe that two or more separate killers, acting independently and within ten days of each other, chose three arbitrary victims to kill for no obvious reason? The likelihood of that happening defies the laws of probability.”
“Yes, but—” George began.
“I have done some research, George, a simple study I would have expected the police to perform, had they but taken the time. There have been exactly four murders committed in the Rincon Hill area over the past five years. Five years, gentlemen! Now we suddenly have three men killed in our neighborhood in ten days.”
Samuel appeared impressed. George's round face was screwed up in concentration, as if he were trying to come up with arguments to challenge my theory. Robert was regarding me with quiet speculation.
“Well?” I said, looking at each of them in turn. “Don't you have anything to say?”
“Your arguments are sound, Sarah,” Robert commented. “As far as they go. However, there is not one grain of proof in the lot of it. Even more important, it leaves no room for the unpredictable, and life is full of events we can't anticipate. Or always understand.”
My eyes flew to his face. Did those words hold another, more private, meaning? I wondered. Was it a veiled reference to what happened between us last night?
“Robert's right, Sarah,” Samuel put in, before I could respond. “You and I may discount those eyewitnesses, but unless you can break their story you know as well as I do who the jury is going to believe.”
I sighed. He was right. Logic would get me nowhere as long as two white men swore they had seen Fan and Lee by that bridge. It was so unfair. Even if they had seen my clients in the vicinity of the crime scene—which I didn't believe for one minute—they had said nothing about actually witnessing the attack. Guilty by being in the general area of a murder was what it boiled down to. No, it was worse than that: guilty by reason of being Chinese!
When Robert and George left, Samuel and I sat in front of the dying fire, each of us lost in our own bleak thoughts. The reality of Patrick O'Hara's death was finally sinking in, and I found myself disconsolate. As was not the case with Nigel Logan and Dieter Hume, I had been personally acquainted with the cheerful young Irishman. In the five or six years I had known Patrick, who had gone to work in his cousin's ice cream parlor when he was fourteen, I had rarely observed him without a grin on his broad, jovial face. He called everyone by name, teased and flattered the girls, and played games of chuck-a-luck and checkers with the boys when business was slow. He was as much a fixture at the ice cream parlor as was the bright orange, yellow, and blue sign that hung above the door. Compared to the loss of poor Patrick, even my problems with Ozzie Foldger seemed to pale by comparison.
After I had endured several minutes of these sad remembrances, I looked up to find my brother watching me, his blue eyes sympathetic.
“You're thinking of Patrick, aren't you?”
I nodded, taken aback to find my eyes filling with tears. “It's such a loss. I simply cannot imagine why anyone would want to harm that boy.”
“Nor do I.” He gave a long sigh, then looked at me seriously. “Sarah, please tell me that you don't really mean to look for this madman yourself. I understand that you want to clear your clients, but it's not worth putting your own life in danger.”
“Don't worry. I promise not to do anything foolish.”
“I've heard that promise before, so you'll forgive me for not finding it much of a consolation.”
As he rose from his chair and went to the hearth to poke apart the final remains of the fire, I suddenly remembered his meeting that morning at Cunningham and Brill's law firm.
“Samuel, you promised to tell me how your appointment with Arthur Cunningham went this morning.”
He placed the fireplace poker back in its iron stand, and turned his back to the hearth. Resting his hand casually on Papa's bronze bust of Abraham Lincoln that stood on the mantel, he gave me a rueful smile.
“It was worse than I expected. Despite my best efforts, it turns out they like me. Depending upon the results of my bar examination in February, it seems that I am to be Cunningham and Brill's newest associate attorney.”
I wasn't sure whether to congratulate him or offer my condolences. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don't know, I haven't had time to give it much thought.” He stood silently for a moment, looking down at Lincoln's bust. “Good old honest Abe would know what to do, Sarah, but I admit that I'm stymied.
“I've spent so long trying to avoid a career in the law, I can't seem to wrap my mind around the fact that someone actually wants to hire me as an attorney. I knew it
would come to this sooner or later, but I became so adept at pushing the day of judgment to the back of my mind, I somehow forgot it was still there.”
“And now the day of judgment has arrived,” I said, deciding that commiseration was the proper response after all. “It takes courage to follow your heart, Samuel. That was what I decided to do, and in many ways it's cost me dearly. Still, I admit I wouldn't have it any other way.”
He smiled. “I know I tease you, Sarah, but the truth is I admire your courage in defying society and blazing your own path through life. I realize how much you've had to give up. But at least Father approves of your choice. He's going to be extremely disappointed to learn what I've been doing since law school. He loathes popular journalism.”
“I know. But this is your life, and you have to follow your heart.” I smiled with genuine sympathy. “In the end I know you'll make the right decision, Samuel. Just don't allow anyone, including Papa or me, to influence you one way or the other.”
He bent over and kissed me on the cheek. “What would I do without you, little sister?” Taking my hand, he pulled me to my feet. “It's getting late, and you have an important day in court tomorrow.”
“Oh, Lord, don't remind me, Samuel.” During our discussion I had briefly forgotten Fan and Lee's arraignment proceeding the following morning. Now, all my earlier apprehension came flooding back, nearly drowning me in a tide of frustration. “I feel so powerless to help those poor boys. No matter what I say, the authorities have already made up their minds about their guilt. As matters stand, they're being railroaded to the gallows.”
“All you can do is your best, Sarah,” he said, walking with me toward the door. “That's all any of us can do.”
I had hoped that Fan Gow and Lee Yup's arraignment the next morning might be held without attracting undue attention. Unfortunately, the date of the hearing had leaked out to the newspapers, and the courtroom was filled to overflowing.
Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 27
