He looked at me, confused. “You seemed to feel strongly that Remy would never harm anyone.”
“That’s right,” I agreed. “Nor have I changed my mind. But that wouldn’t rule out someone taking it upon himself to do it for him. Say, one of Remy’s friends or associates? An individual who objected to Aleric’s attempts to put the San Francisco Weekly out of business, perhaps.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted. “Can you think of anyone who might do such a thing?” He paused, then said with some excitement, “Wait a minute! What about Tull O’Hara? He was skulking around outside Dunn’s house the night he was killed. And if I remember correctly, he works for Remy’s newspaper.”
“Yes, he’s employed there as a typesetter. And you’re right, George, he was certainly behaving strangely that night.”
“And he ran away when I tried to speak to him. I was too busy to follow up on him yesterday, but I think I’ll pay him a visit at the newspaper.” He thought for a moment. “Didn’t you say that O’Hara lives in the first house at the top of the Filbert Steps?”
He hardly waited for me to nod my head in agreement before rushing on, “By gum, he just may be our shooter. Samuel was fired upon not more than thirty yards from that shack. And so were you.”
“That’s right, but don’t forget that O’Hara wheeled Mrs. Montgomery to her home, while her man Studds led our group down the hill.”
“Dang it all! I forgot about that. Sorry, Miss Sarah, but I thought I was on to something.” Still, he seemed reluctant to let go of this theory. “How long do you suppose it would have taken O’Hara to see Mrs. Montgomery home?”
I thought back to my hike up the hill the day before. I had not gone all the way to Mrs. Montgomery’s mansion, but I judged the distance from Remy’s house to hers to be the equivalent of two or three city blocks. Of course the narrow road was unpaved, but it had been a clear, cold night, and I doubted that O’Hara would have tarried along the way. We already knew, of course, how fast he could run.
“I think he might have reached her house in less than five minutes,” I estimated.
“And he could have hightailed it back down the hill much faster.” He considered this. “Give him a minute to grab his rifle, and he just might have been able to ambush your group as you reached the Filbert Steps.”
“Perhaps,” I said uncertainly.
He stared at me, an abashed look appearing on his handsome face. “Miss Sarah, you’re the one who brought up this O’Hara fellow. Now you’re pouring ice water on my theories.”
“I agree, George, you present a feasible case against the typesetter.”
“Then why are you shaking your head like that? I’m just ashamed I didn’t put it together sooner. As you yourself pointed out, O’Hara is a cold, even hostile, individual. He might well have decided that the only way to save his employer’s newspaper—and his own job—was to kill Remy’s major competitor.”
“That would all be well and good, but why would he turn around a week later and shoot at me? I pose no threat to the San Francisco Weekly.”
He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it without uttering a word.
“It just seems illogical,” I continued. “And I didn’t mean to single out Tull O’Hara as a probable suspect. I merely offered the suggestion that one of Mortimer Remy’s friends or associates might have decided to champion his cause.”
“Without his knowledge.”
I nodded. “I truly do not believe that Remy has a violent bone in his body. And I consider myself to be an excellent judge of character.”
Did his lips twitch as I said this? I could not be certain, for he quickly cleared his throat. “Well, you have certainly given me a great deal to consider, and I appreciate it. I’m glad you came in to report yesterday’s attack, Miss Sarah, as well as your conversation with the Flattery girl.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “Yes, of all the people I spoke to, what young Clara told me seems the most promising. You know, George, her testimony supports your theory that Claude Dunn was murdered.”
He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then placed them palms down on his desk. “I only wish that it did. The truth is, in the end it doesn’t matter what the girl told you, Miss Sarah. Lieutenant Curtis has closed the Dunn case. He insists he committed suicide and that’s all there is to it. It’ll take a good deal more than the word of a young girl to change his mind.”
“But you must at least try,” I persisted. “Surely he’ll want to be informed of this latest development.”
He shook his head dolefully, and there was a strong note of frustration in his voice. “Lieutenant Curtis is an obstinate man. Once he makes up his mind on a case, he’ll hear no more about it. It would be worth my job to even bring up Dunn’s death again. I promise you I’ve tried.”
“I believe you, George. But it’s a deplorable state of affairs. I look forward to the day when you are promoted to lieutenant. This city needs more clear, honest heads in positions of authority.”
He laughed, but his face held no humor. “You’ll be waiting a long time for that, Miss Sarah. There are some people in the department who still object to my having been promoted to sergeant last year.”
“My point exactly,” I exclaimed, angered as ever by the corruption, present to one degree or another at every level of city government. “Advancement on the force should not be dependent on politics or whom one knows, but solely on ability and experience. When was the last time Lieutenant Curtis personally investigated a case—other than walking into a crime scene, jumping to a hasty and frequently erroneous conclusion, then turning and walking out again?”
“You know that I cannot comment on my superior officers.” He glanced at his open office door and lowered his voice. “Particularly not here in the station.”
I gave him a rueful smile, then sighed and rose from my chair. “It is a shameful situation. With men like Curtis in charge, I hold out little hope that the villain who shot at Samuel and me will ever be apprehended.”
* * *
“At least not apprehended by the police,” I added beneath my breath as I boarded a cable car that would convey me to within a block or two of Sutter Street.
It was ten thirty when I reached my office. After removing my wrap, I used my small brazier to brew coffee in my back room, then set to work on the arguments I would present when I delivered the SPCA petitions to City Hall. I had barely commenced work when my office door flew open and Ricardo Ruiz stormed inside. He was followed by the two heavily muscled men who had accompanied him on his previous visit. Not bothering with a greeting, he marched across the room and slammed a paper on my desk.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his dark eyes flashing.
Ignoring his rude tone, I picked up the paper and saw at once that it was one of the society’s petitions. Mr. Dinwitty was as good as his word; he had wasted no time in sending out his volunteers. The sheet I held bore about half a dozen signatures.
“Well?” Ruiz pressed when I did not immediately reply.
“Well what, Señor Ruiz?” I inquired, keeping my own voice civil. “The purpose of this petition seems to be perfectly clear. I cannot understand why you would require an explanation from me.”
His finely sculpted face darkened, and an unwelcomed part of my mind registered that he was even more handsome than I remembered. Perhaps anger enhanced the appearance of some individuals.
“I do not need you to explain this ridículo document, Señorita Woolson,” he thundered. “I want to know why it was handed to me this morning at the restaurant where I was eating my breakfast?”
I smiled up at him. “Since I was not present to observe the incident you describe, Señor Ruiz, I cannot be expected to answer that question.” I ran my eyes down the list of names entered on the page. “It appears that some of your fellow diners considered the petition worthy of signing. Perhaps your proposed bullring will not be as popular in the city as you seem to thi
nk.”
I looked up to find him staring at my face, as if noticing it for the first time since barging into my office.
“What have you done to your face, señorita?” He leaned across my desk to peer closer. “It does not appear as it did before.”
“I scratched myself on some bushes yesterday, Señor Ruiz,” I said, wishing he would stop gaping at me as if I were a circus oddity. “It is nothing, I assure you.”
To my alarm, he reached out as if to touch my face. I sat back in my chair and out of his reach. Appearing a bit flustered, he jerked his arm away. In doing so, he caught sight of the petition lying on the desk and picked it up, his expression once again irate.
“You know nothing about the corrida de toros,” he declared, waving the document around as if it were a flag. One of the men standing behind him took a hasty step backward to avoid being hit by his employer’s flying hand. “Neither do the imbéciles who signed this—this worthless paper. You cannot understand the spectacle, the bravery, the magnificence of the fiesta brava!”
Ah, but I could understand, I thought with an inward smile of satisfaction. I had done my homework the previous day during my productive time at the library.
“The corrida de toros is performed with strict ritual,” I told him as if instructing a neophyte. “After the opening parade, the matador studies the bull while an assistant uses his cape to test its ferocity and how it moves. Then two picadors enter the arena mounted on horses. They use lances to stab the bull’s neck, weakening the animal and causing it to lower its head and horns when it eventually faces the matador.”
I stared hard at Ruiz. “The bull often injures or kills one or both of the horses during this stage.”
He had stopped pacing and was regarding me disdainfully. Before he could launch the diatribe I saw forming on his lips, I pressed on.
“Next, more assistants plant barbed sticks into the bull’s shoulders, further damaging the animal’s neck and shoulder muscles. Finally comes the tercio de muerte. Alone now, the matador reenters the ring and engages the bull in a series of passes. When the bull is so weak he can barely charge, he attempts to thrust a sword through the animal’s heart. If the matador fails in this estocada, the bull will be stabbed with a dagger. Either way, the creature will be killed.”
I waited for Ruiz to respond to my portrayal of his magnificent corrida. I could not deny a feeling of satisfaction as I watched him sputter in an effort to locate the right words.
“Well?” I asked.
“You describe the fiesta brava in scientific terms, señorita, not in the language of legend and tradition.” His black eyes flashed with a passion I could not doubt was genuine. “You mock a proud spectacle with hundreds of years of history. It is one man’s dance with death. It is the arena where the matador’s courage and artistry are tested. It runs through our veins like the blood of life.”
“What about the blood of the bull, señor?” I countered. “While your matador’s courage and artistry are being tested, the bull suffers a slow, torturous death. I cannot comprehend how people can consider killing an animal in this way to be sport.”
He threw up his hands in exasperation, mumbling a string of words I couldn’t understand. Their general meaning, however, was all too clear.
“This is imposible!” he declared, pointing an accusing finger in my face. “You are a woman, how can you understand? You cannot know what it is like to be caught up in a moment of such exhilaration and raw fear.”
I shivered, remembering the bullet that had narrowly missed hitting my head the previous afternoon. Actually, I thought I did know what it was like to experience raw fear.
“Señor Ruiz,” I said, growing weary of the man and his arguments, “if you have come here hoping that I will stop the SPCA from circulating these petitions, you have wasted your time. I have agreed to represent the society, and I intend to honor this commitment to the best of my ability. Now if you will please—”
“But you are a woman!” he protested, once again pointing out the obvious and waving the petition in my face. “I will not allow my plans to be thwarted by a woman who pretends to be an attorney. Where is your father? I need to speak to him at once. He must do his duty and return you to your home.” He leaned across my desk. “If necessary, he must lock you in your room until you forget all this nonsense and behave like a proper young lady.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I rose from my chair and faced this insulting man with a fury I could no longer control.
“You will leave my office at once, Señor Ruiz,” I demanded. “You will take your two henchmen with you, and you will never return. Do I make myself clear?”
He drew himself up to his full height, forcing me to look up into those dark, fuming eyes. “You cannot order me from this room. We have business to discuss, and I am not yet finished.”
“Oh, but you are finished. There is nothing left for us to discuss.” I rounded my desk and, pushing past the two men standing guard behind my unwanted guest, I threw open my office door, then stood there waiting for the trio to depart.
Ruiz stared at me in outrage, as if no one had ever dared treat him in this manner. Then he grabbed his hat and stormed across the room until he stood face-to-face with me in the doorway.
“You will regret this, Señorita Woolson,” he said, his voice dark and threatening. “I will make it my business that you do. I have powerful friends in San Francisco. They will ensure that you can no longer practice law in this, or any other, city.”
He drew so close that his baleful eyes filled my vision. “Moreover, I will instruct the first matador who steps into my new arena to dedicate his kill to you!”
The men stormed down the stairs, practically knocking aside my neighbor as she was ascending to my office. Fanny clutched at a covered plate she was carrying, barely preventing it from crashing to the ground. I heard Ruiz cry out an apology as he passed, “Dispénseme, señora.” Then, thankfully, they were gone.
I hurried down to her. “Are you all right, Fanny? It’s a wonder you weren’t sent flying down the stairs!” After taking the plate from her hands, I led the way into my office.
“Good heavens, Sarah, who were those men?” she asked a bit breathlessly, following me inside. “I began to worry when I heard shouting up here. They didn’t hurt—” She stopped and stared in horror at my face. “Sarah, what did they do to you? Those scratches!”
“It’s all right, Fanny,” I said quickly. “These scratches aren’t new. I fell into some bushes yesterday, that’s all.”
She peered more closely at my abrasions. “Yes, I see now that they’re not fresh. But however did it happen? Were you pushed?”
“I, ah, was just careless, I’m afraid,” I told her, doing my best not to embellish the lie. If she knew what had really happened, it would merely cause her unnecessary worry. “It’s nothing, Fanny, really.”
She subjected me to one last, penetrating look, then ticked her tongue that I had allowed such a thing to happen. Obviously not satisfied with my answer, she nonetheless seemed disinclined to press me further and uncovered the plate, which was filled with her delicious ginger cookies.
“It’s almost lunchtime, but I thought a few of these would do no harm. More often than not, you don’t take time for your midday meal anyway. At least this way you’ll have something in your stomach.”
She continued speaking as I went into the back room to pour her a cup of coffee and refresh my own.
“Who were those men, Sarah?” she pressed as I reentered the room.
I carried a tray containing the cups of coffee, sugar, and a pitcher of cream that I kept fresh in a small icebox. “That was Ricardo Ruiz, the man who is planning to build a bullring here in town.”
She very nearly dropped the cookie platter for the second time. “Did you say a bullring? Dear Lord! You mean like the ones they have in Spain?”
Belatedly, I realized that I had been so preoccupied with Samuel’s recovery, and the frightening event
s which had occurred on Telegraph Hill, that I had not spoken to her in several days. She evidently had not heard of Ruiz’s planned construction, but then it had not yet been featured in the newspapers.
“Unfortunately, yes, Fanny,” I answered. “Just like they have in Spain. And in Mexico as well. Mr. and Mrs. Dinwitty asked me to represent their group, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, in fighting the arena. And I agreed.” I picked up the petition Ruiz had dropped on the floor after waving it in my face. “Their office has already started circulating a petition opposing the construction.”
“I see. And that is why he was ranting at you as I came upstairs,” she said, taking the paper and reading through the names. Without a word, she crossed to my desk, dipped my pen into the inkwell, and signed her name to the document. “There. One more person opposed to such an atrocity. I expect you to let me know if there is anything else I can do to help in this fight.”
“And what fight is that?”
The familiar voice came from the door, which my neighbor had left open behind her. We both looked up as Robert entered the room. He was studying us curiously, obviously awaiting an answer to his question.
“Fanny and I were discussing Ricardo Ruiz’s bullring, Robert,” I told him, lowering my head in the hope that he would not observe my battered face. Naturally, that was the first thing he noticed.
“What happened to your face?” he asked, walking close enough to lift my chin with his fingers. His turquoise eyes studied every one of my cuts and abrasions.
Clinging to my previous lie, I explained, “I fell into some bushes yesterday. Don’t make a fuss, Robert. They aren’t serious.”
He glanced at Fanny and then back to me, saying, “I came to see if you wanted to have lunch with me, Sarah. We haven’t talked since Sunday night, and I wondered if there was anything new on Claude Dunn’s death.”
“I read about that in the newspaper,” Fanny put in, unable to mask her excitement. “Do you know what happened to the poor man? The article mentioned that he has a newborn son, and that his wife died in childbirth.”
Death on Telegraph Hill Page 20
