1906: A Novel

by Dalessandro, James

  "Greasy hands make better fingerprints," he said.

  He sliced inch-wide slips of white stationery paper and rolled each one onto the prints, then examined them with a magnifying glass. He compared them with the bloody impressions from the boiler room of Byron's launch.

  "This really works?"

  "The Persians and Chinese have been using fingerprints for centuries. An Englishman named Galton, Charles Darwin's cousin, developed this system ten years ago. Last month, the Army started fingerprinting soldiers to identify them if they're killed in battle. That's how backward we are in San Francisco."

  He abruptly put the magnifying glass down.

  "I got 'em. Scarface was in the boiler room; he probably helped Gamboa with the seal suit and then left. Someone was trailing in another boat, they picked Gamboa up after he killed my father, took him to Angel Island and killed him to cover their tracks."

  "How do you know there was another boat and he didn't just swim to Angel Island with that seal suit on?"

  "The inside of my father's portfolio was dry. If Gamboa had swum any distance, it would have been soaked and the papers ruined. Rolf wanted those papers; he'd never risk a man having to swim San Francisco Bay.

  No. Gamboa hid below, and then he came up top and hit my father with a blackjack and cut his lifeline. He probably used an Eveready to signal a chase boat, swam a few strokes with the portfolio overhead to keep it dry. He would have killed Anthony as well, but Anthony never saw Gamboa anyway. This was Adam Rolf’s doing. Shanghai Kelly could never concoct a plan like this on his own."

  "What about the blood samples you took from your father and the boat?"

  "Every part of us is unique: hair, teeth, fingerprints. One thing you find at crime scenes is blood. I just took it for future reference, in case we make a breakthrough and I can use it for evidence. What we have to worry about now is who knows your identity."

  "Scarface and Kelly obviously do, but I still don't think Rolf does. Your father told me Kelly kept a man locked in his basement for two weeks once, a clerk who was supposed to testify against Rolf for extorting money on some big sewer contract. Kelly kept raising the price. When Rolf agreed, Kelly cut the man's head off as a present. That's why Scarface brought that big knife."

  "We need to catch Kelly passing those papers to Rolf if we're going to pin the murder on them," Hunter said.

  "Preferably with my head intact." I don't know why, but I smiled. If I had any doubts about my feelings toward Hunter, they had vanished.

  I walked over and kissed him.

  Chapter 31

  TELEGRAPH HILL

  APRIL 17, 1906. 6:30 A.M.

  I passed the night in Hunter's old room, across the hall from where he slept in his father's bed. It was a restless night for both of us. Barking dogs and agitated horses had kept up a frenetic chorus that lasted until sunrise.

  We were not the only ones who spent a troubled night. At his flat on Union Street, Christian had endured his most torturous dream yet, with the entire city engulfed in flames. When he tried to help firemen battle the blaze, he saw his own uniform on fire.

  We ate a solemn breakfast, after which Hunter dressed quietly for his father's funeral, the pain seeping into his stoic face.

  I kissed him good-bye and left, heartsick at being unable to attend the service lest I reveal my allegiance to the Fallons.

  Outside, the sweet morning air failed to lift my spirits. I descended the Filbert Steps on the east side of Telegraph Hill, turned south on the Embarcadero and headed toward the Ferry Building.

  A short while later, on the upper deck of the paddle-wheeled Alameda—San Francisco Ferry, Lincoln Staley leaned on the railing, sandwiched between dapper Enrico Caruso and scholarly Alfred Hertz.

  "Is beautiful, yes? I hear many peoples say is beautiful city," Caruso said as they prepared to dock.

  "Yes. I guess it is." Lincoln had other things on his mind.

  The ferry bumped against the wooden pilings and Hertz led Caruso down the gangway and into the Ferry Building.

  Near the portal leading to Market Street, a dozen men dressed in splendid morning coats hurried in their direction.

  "Signor Caruso! Signor Caruso," a beaming man cried, extending his hand. "I am Adam Rolf, President of the Opera Association. I am the man who made the arrangements to bring you to our beautiful city."

  "Ah! So you are the one I must blame. If I travel two more hours I think maybe I am back in Italy again."

  "I understand your reticence, Signor Caruso, but you will find my San Francisco as beautiful a city as any in America. And our hospitality second to none."

  I stepped forward and extended a gloved hand.

  "Buon giorno, Signor Caruso. Benvenuto a San Francisco. Io sono qui per asistenza. Scrivo per un periodico, chiamato ‘Il Bulletin.'"

  "Bella città. Bella donna."

  The group laughed. I recognized the man behind him as Metropolitan Opera conductor Alfred Hertz, conversing quietly with a tall man in duster and Stetson who resembled a Ned Buntline cover drawing of a Western sheriff.

  Once outside, Caruso stared about the Ferry Plaza as hundreds of fans exploded in shouts and cheers, waving signs offering greetings in English and Italian. Placards bearing his likeness hung from poles and wires.

  On a makeshift stage, Eugene Schmitz launched the San Francisco Orchestra into "March of the Toreadors" from Carmen.

  The great tenor walked gingerly up the ramp, the horn section playing with such vigor it made his mustache quiver.

  Schmitz waved his baton dramatically and stopped the band in mid-flight.

  The crowd cheered wildly, tossing hats in the air and screaming, "Bravissimo Enrico! Bravissimo!"

  Schmitz offered his hand to Caruso, addressing both him and the crowd. "This is a glorious day. The most glorious day in the most glorious city in all America. Signor Caruso, as Mayor of San Francisco, let me offer our warmest welcome to you and the Metropolitan Opera."

  "Thank you, Signor Mayor. Thees San Francisco I think must be a great city, yes, if they are a' have as mayors a maestro."

  The crowd cheered.

  Caruso walked to the edge of the platform and bellowed from his baritone depths. "I hear many times thees San Francisco is a wild place full of wild persons, but tonight, we make great music for thees wild place, no?"

  Caruso removed his bowler hat and waved it at the crowd. The response was deafening.

  "Signor Caruso," someone shouted. "Signor Caruso. What do you think of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius a few days ago?"

  "I am very paura, 'ow you say, afraid for my peoples in Napoli who lives at the piedi, the . . . foots of thees volcano. I am believe God has sent me to beautiful San Francisco so I am safe from thees terrible thing." The crowd roared again.

  Caruso waited for them to settle. "I am hope I can make some concerto to make monies to help my peoples in Napoli before I am leave." The applause, led by Italian compatriots who comprised more than half the crowd, shook the platform on which he stood.

  "Signor Caruso," a reporter called. "Do you think that a volcano is more frightening than an earthquake?"

  "I am never before see a' thees earthquake, but I no think thees is so much terrible as volcanoes. Now," he bellowed, "if you can please to tell me where in this San Francisco I am to find the best piatto of roast beef and macaroni?"

  It sent the onlookers into frenzy. Schmitz launched the orchestra back into "March of the Toreadors."

  Caruso descended the platform, tugged his mustache, and extended his arm to me.

  I grasped the crook of his elbow and smiled.

  "You are my traduttrice, sì, Annalisa?"

  "It does not appear to me that you need a translator, Signor Caruso. Your English is most impressive."

  "Grazie, grazie. Is some time difficult for me. Also sometimes I prefer to say somethings, in private. Tutte delle personne non sono di fiducere."

  I nodded. Caruso was not alone in finding some of those around
him suspect. I noticed the man in the Stetson hat—I would not learn his name was Lincoln Staley until almost two days later—following behind and scouring the crowd intently.

  Rolf climbed behind the wheel of his Phaeton while Schmitz held the back door for Caruso and me, as Tommy guided Lincoln and Hertz into the Rolls Royce behind us.

  Rolf slipped the car into gear and the procession started down Market Street, weaving through cheering pedestrians, honking drays, and clanging trolley cars. Caruso leaned his head back and the tall buildings swam past in dizzying montage.

  "Io ho sentito molte volte che questa città e pelicolosa. È, come si dice? The Wild West."

  "It is the last of the Wild West," I replied, "but the parts that are most perilous are sotto terra. Below the surface."

  Caruso leaned over, the throb of the Rolls Royce's engine masking his words. In Italian, he said, "I visit many places, and I have never seen a politician who is not full of . . ."

  He trailed off, not wanting to offend, but I understood full well. I nodded toward Rolf and Schmitz. In Italian I told him, "these two here will not disappoint you."

  He smiled and patted my hand. "I think I am like this San Francisco, Annalisa. I will be safe here."

  A minute later, he caught sight of the Palace Hotel. He stood, hands on the back of Rolf's seat, mouth agape. Rolf wheeled down New Montgomery and through the two-story arched entryway into the circular Grand Court, cleared of traffic for our arrival.

  Caruso stared upward at the seven tiers of balconies that surrounded the Grand Court. Hundreds of bronze torches, lit especially for him, adorned the marble columns, reflecting off the massive stained-glass dome a hundred feet above us like a thousand kaleidoscopes.

  He was so enraptured of the dazzling sight his foot missed the running board and he stumbled forward. Two porters caught him beneath the arms.

  "Be careful there, sir. You might hurt yourself," Andrew Tavish said. Schmitz and Rolf hustled to assist, but Caruso raised his hand to signal that he was fine.

  "Signor Caruso, I regret that we must leave to attend an important civic function," Rolf said, turning his eyes to me. "The services for Lieutenant Fallon."

  "A terrible tragedy," I said, leaving off you murdering bastard.

  "We're planning a small celebration for you at my home on Nob Hill after the performance tonight, Maestro," Rolf said. "Some of our famous Dungeness crab, a little champagne. I'd be honored if you and Mr. Hertz would join us."

  "Grazie."

  I spotted Alexander Sharon, the suave and charming manager of the Palace, walking swiftly toward us. I took Caruso by the arm and led him toward Sharon, away from the group.

  Alfred Hertz turned to Rolf and Schmitz. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness. It has already eased Enrico's apprehensions. May I ask a small favor? This is Sheriff Lincoln Staley. Sheriff Staley joined us in Kansas City and agreed to help us with security for Mr. Caruso."

  "I'm sure you won't find that necessary," Rolf said, sizing up the rough-hewn Lincoln. "We don't see a lot of shootouts here in San Francisco, despite the rumors."

  "Sheriff Staley's daughter is missing, presumably a runaway. She's only fifteen. If there is anything we could do to help locate her?"

  Schmitz beamed broadly. "Sheriff Staley, have you a photograph?" Lincoln handed over the sepia-toned school photo he had shown to the ticket clerk in Kansas. "Her name is Kaitlin, with a K."

  Schmitz examined the photo and handed it to Rolf, who perused it with quiet interest.

  "A beautiful young lady," Rolf said. "You must be very proud. If you can spare this photo, I'll have Police Chief Donen post it on the Missing Persons board."

  "It's my only one. Perhaps I might introduce myself to Chief Donen."

  "I'll telephone and tell him to expect you," Rolf offered. He returned the photo and climbed into the Rolls with Schmitz.

  Near the front desk, Alexander Sharon was pumping Caruso's hand. "This is such an honor to have you as a Palace guest, Signor Caruso. Such an honor indeed."

  "Pleased to meet you, Signor Sharon, thees is my new friend, Signorina Annalisa Passarelli."

  "I know Miss Passarelli well," Sharon replied. "She's our finest opera critic and a regular guest at Palace suppers."

  He led Caruso and me through the marble entrance and into the tropical garden with its Roman fountains and statuary.

  "Our architect, Mr. John Gaynor, studied all the great palaces of Paris and Vienna before he made a single sketch for the Palace Hotel. The property covers two-and-one-half acres and took more than a thousand craftsmen five years to build. Every piece of furniture was custom made in our own factory nearby."

  In the Palace Grill, Caruso stopped to examine the mahogany bar and gilded mirror that stretched a city block. Exotic plants and hand-carved mahogany tables dotted a floor of polished marble.

  "It takes thirty men to tend bar here," Sharon stated. "Our pantry holds twelve thousand specially made Haviland place settings, twelve pieces each, plus silverware. We have one hundred solid gold settings for special guests. Fred Mergenthaler, our chef de cuisine, has cooked for European royalty. I think you will find the food quite palatable."

  "I am singing in many fine places; Buenos Aires, St. Petersburg, London, but I am never see something like thees."

  "The original owner, Mr. Ralston, one of the Mother Lode's most prosperous silver barons, had a single objective in mind. To build the largest and finest hotel in the world. Every recent President has stayed here, including Theodore Roosevelt. There is more official business conducted in the Palace Garden Room than in the State Capital building in Sacramento."

  "Signor Sharon, peoples ask many times about earthquakes in San Francisco. Is happen very often?"

  "The Palace was built to be the safest building in San Francisco, virtually immune to earthquake and fire. The foundation is sixteen feet thick. We have thermostatic fire detectors in every room, a one-hundred fifty-thousand gallon water reserve and more steam-driven water pumps than any building in the world. There is a saying, Signor Caruso, 'If the Palace goes, so goes San Francisco.' You could not be safer in your mother's arms." Sharon's enthusiasm was infectious.

  Caruso's apprehension had all but disappeared by the time we took the brass and mahogany elevator en route to suite 622.

  Caruso entered the room and perused the redwood paneled walls and heavy brown drapes.

  "William Tecumseh Sherman, one of the great Civil War generals, stayed in this room after the war ended," Sharon said.

  "Is too dark. Is look too much, 'ow you say? A place where they are make bodies for funeral?"

  "Let's try another then," Sharon said, his ever-present smile in full bloom.

  In short order, Sharon displayed suite 580. "Another of our war heroes, General Grant, who later became President, stayed in this one."

  "Maybe after sleep in tent so many years, thees generals is happy to sleep in some bed."

  "You're a man of candor, Mr. Caruso. We don't get that often."

  Caruso strolled through the double parlors, examining the canopied bed, sandstone-colored carpeting, maroon satin curtains and sashes. Cut-glass chandeliers hung in every room and each parlor sported its own marble fireplace. "I am like very much," he stated.

  Over the next two hours, Caruso's valet, Martino, directed the hotel bellhops in unpacking thirty-eight steamer trunks. Their contents included one hundred tailor-made shirts, fifty silk dressing gowns, a trunkful of hand-tooled boots, four trunkfuls of dress suits, forty topcoats and six racks of Borsalino hats. They hung more than fifty self-portraits Caruso had sketched on his journey through America: Caruso greeting the Mayor of New York, Caruso visiting the animals at the Central Park Zoo, Caruso practicing his quick-draw from the Pullman car.

  Above his bed, Caruso fixed a photograph taken with President Theodore Roosevelt on opening night at the National Opera in Washington, D.C. "He is my friend, President Roosevelt. Is very much love the opera."

  Throughout the ac
tivity in suite 58o, I occupied a peach satin armchair, pondering the somber event in progress in the Mission District.

  Yet, whenever my thoughts drifted to Hunter, my spirits lifted. I was becoming so smitten with him that it was overcoming my fear.

  Chapter 32

  MISSION DOLORES

  APRIL 17, 1906. 9:00 A.M.

  Several miles from the Palace Hotel, at the entrance to Mission Dolores—the squat, adobe "Mission of Our Lady of Sorrows"—Hunter and Christian Fallon were greeting mourners. A half hour earlier, with only The Brotherhood present, Hunter had explained his findings. Christian had listened impassively, his head hung in shame, the pain so palpable that Hunter was unable to chastise him. An unspoken peace between the Fallon brothers had begun to settle in.

  Tommy jerked Rolf's Phaeton to a halt at the curb. Hunter and Christian watched, tense and angry, as Rolf and Schmitz strode up the steps with Tommy close behind.

  Schmitz extended his hand. Christian and Hunter ignored it.

  "We are very sorry about the passing of your father," Schmitz professed, lowering his hand self-consciously.

  "I'll bet you are," replied Christian.

  Rolf fought a grin and looked inside, where the small crowd of Byron Fallon supporters on the left side included The Brotherhood and perhaps a dozen other police officers.

  On the right side, the rows were crowded with a sea of brass stars and heavy blue uniforms.

  "We'll be over on the right side if you boys need us," Rolf said. Tommy traded glares with Christian as he passed.

  "Someday soon, you and me," Christian whispered to him. "Chrissake, your Mayorship," Donen said as the party arrived at a center pew, "don't look so glum. You look like somebody died."

  Donen's smugness dimmed as he looked across the church, where Charlie McBride and the Chinatown Squad took seats near The Brotherhood.

  "Relax, Jessie," Rolf offered. "They're making it easy to flush out the troublemakers."

  A stir swept through the church. All heads swiveled toward the entrance as Rudolph Spreckels, Prosecutor Charles Feeney, former Mayor James D. Phelan, Fire Chief Dennis Sullivan, and Fremont Older strode in. They were followed by Brigadier General Frederick Funston. Funston stopped, pulled himself up to his full five-foot-two-inch height and sent a withering gaze toward Donen, Rolf, and Schmitz. Fearless Freddie let his stare drift to the supervisors, judges, and police officers spread out around them, until one by one they looked away.