“As a matter of fact,” I began, “Robert and I were at Platt’s Hall the night it happened, and we—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Goodman, but Sarah will have to tell you the rest of the story another time,” Robert broke in. He grabbed my wrap, which was hanging on a peg, then took hold of my arm. “I have to return to the office in less than an hour, so we had best be on our way if we’re to have time for lunch.”
Before I could object, or indeed even offer Fanny an apology, he swept me out of the room, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“That was extremely rude,” I protested when we reached the bottom of the stairs. “Fanny and I were about to have a cup of coffee. What has gotten into you, hurrying me out of my own office like that?”
“I was trying to avoid a scene in front of your neighbor,” he said. “You were lying to me. I thought you might prefer telling me the truth in a more private setting.”
He guided me across the street to a small restaurant we frequented from time to time. I was forced to hold my tongue until we were escorted to a small table toward the back of the room. The moment the waiter handed us menus and departed, I looked at my companion, not bothering to mask my anger.
“Why are you making such a fuss over a few scratches?” I demanded. “I told you, it’s nothing serious.”
“Nothing serious indeed. Do you take me for a complete fool?”
I feigned a look of innocence, or at least I tried to. Judging by his expression, I was not successful. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“Humph!” he replied. “If you’ve taken time to examine yourself in the mirror, which I’m sure you have, then you know why it’s impossible to swallow such a preposterous tale. You cannot have suffered all those scratches and cuts by simply falling into a bush. For God’s sake, Sarah, they’re on your neck and hands, even on your arms. Your right ear looks as if someone chewed on it.” His blue-green eyes bored into mine. “Now, tell me what really happened to you.”
How could I avoid telling him the truth? There must be some way. Yet even as I sought to find some explanation that might be remotely plausible, I knew it was hopeless. He was right; simply falling into a bush could not have caused so many lacerations.
“All right, I’ll tell you,” I agreed at length. “But only if you promise not to fuss that I go about naïvely stumbling into harm’s way.”
“I fuss because you attract danger to you like a magnet,” he declared. “Whether it’s through naïveté or out-and-out pigheadedness, you constantly place yourself in harm’s way. Anyone would worry.”
“Do you agree to my terms or not?” I challenged.
“All right, all right,” he said, giving me a cantankerous look. “Have it your way. Just tell me the truth.”
Knowing I would probably live to regret it, I took a deep breath and then described my visit to Telegraph Hill the previous afternoon. He seemed to forget his irritation when I related what young Clara Flattery told me about hearing Claude Dunn cry out at about the time he supposedly died.
“Good heavens, Sarah,” he exclaimed. “Have you told Sergeant Lewis about this? It lends credence to his theory that Dunn was murdered.”
“I saw him this morning, but Lieutenant Curtis has already closed the case. George claims that what Clara heard will not be enough to change the obstinate man’s mind.”
“Of all the foolish, egotistical bast— The man is an idiot!” The waiter returned to take our orders, but Robert waved him away. “Do you mean to say that Curtis does not even mean to look into the girl’s story?”
I shook my head. “As far as he’s concerned, Claude Dunn committed suicide and that’s an end to it.”
“The man should be removed from the police department.” He sat stewing over our city’s less than effective law enforcement officers, then turned his attention back to me. “You haven’t finished telling me what else happened to you yesterday on that godforsaken Hill. Go ahead, let’s hear it.”
Sighing inwardly, I told him about leaving the Flattery house, walking toward the Filbert Street Steps, and then, finally, being shot at as I walked through the copse of trees.
“Someone shot at you?” He rose out of his chair, his ruggedly handsome face suffused with rage. Several patrons seated about the room looked our way, obviously startled by my friend’s booming voice.
“Shh, Robert,” I said, leaning toward him and lowering my own voice. “You promised to listen to me calmly.”
“Dammit all, I did listen to you calmly. Until you told me someone shot at you. That I refuse to take calmly.” He picked up his hat and coat. When he spoke again, his voice was still far too loud. “I’m going to that blasted Hill right now and rout out that villain.” He clamped his mouth shut as a woman at the next table gasped and stared at him indignantly. “Come, Sarah, I’ll see you back to your office. I want you to stay there until I come back to escort you home after work.”
I didn’t budge from my seat, but took hold of his arm and refused to allow him to take another step. “You will do no such thing, Robert Campbell. Sit down this instant. You’re creating the very scene you claimed you wished to avoid.”
Seeming to realize for the first time that nearly every eye in the restaurant was on us, he reluctantly sank back onto his chair, his face still red with fury.
“I don’t care what promise you managed to wheedle out of me,” he said tightly. “I intend to find whoever took that shot at you. It’s obvious the police are too incompetent to find the shoes on their own feet, much less a would-be murderer.”
“And what if he shoots at you, Robert? What good will that do me, or Samuel? No, that isn’t the way to handle this.”
“Then what is? Are we going to allow this—this madman to continue shooting willy-nilly at people?” Some of the color drained from his face, and his eyes grew very large. “He could have killed you, Sarah. My God! Another few inches and that bullet might have hit your head instead of the tree.”
“That thought had occurred to me as well,” I said wryly.
“You must have been terrified.”
I started to refute this, then remembered being unable to control my trembling and dashing pell-mell down the hill like a frightened rabbit, unmindful of the scrapes and bruises I sustained along the way.
“Yes,” I agreed in a small voice. “I admit that it was not one of my finest moments.”
“I presume you reported this to George when you saw him this morning? What does he plan to do about it?”
Before I could answer, the waiter returned to our table yet again to take our orders. I spied several people waiting to be seated and almost at random chose an item off the menu. Robert didn’t bother consulting his own menu but simply told the waiter he would have the same.
When the man left, I said, “George assured me that the department is doing everything possible to catch the shooter.”
He did not look impressed. “Which probably amounts to bloody little.”
I nodded unhappily. “I suspect you’re right. Everyone George or his men have spoken to denies seeing anyone with a gun that night. Or even behaving strangely.”
“That does it, then,” Robert exclaimed, slapping the table so hard that our utensils went flying. Once again several diners regarded us with disapproval. “You must not return to Telegraph Hill alone, Sarah, even in broad daylight. It is far too dangerous. If there’s a new development and you feel you must go there, I’ll accompany you.”
I started to object that I would make no such promise, then realized that what happened yesterday could easily happen again. If someone really was out to kill me …
“All right. I don’t like it, but I agree to inform you if it becomes necessary to visit Telegraph Hill again.”
He looked relieved and a little surprised that I had given in so readily. His eyes narrowed. “Do you mean that, or are you just agreeing with me so I’ll drop the subject?”
“No, I’m serious. I fe
el the same way about Samuel returning to the Hill. One near miss might have been an accident, or someone shooting at a possum or fox. Two incidents in practically the same place defies coincidence. Then there’s Claude Dunn’s death to consider. No, I agree that something very dangerous is going on there. We must take all necessary precautions.”
We ate our lunch—or perhaps I should say we picked at our lunch—mostly in silence, as we were both taken up with our own thoughts. When at last it was time for Robert to return to his office, he suddenly took hold of my hand from across the table.
“Sarah, please promise me you will exercise caution whenever you’re away from your home. Especially when you’re on the street, or even in your office. God knows anyone could walk in and out of those rooms without being seen.”
I thought of Ricardo Ruiz and his men doing just that, last week and then this afternoon. I had intended to tell him of Ruiz’s anger and threats while we ate our lunch, but I changed my mind. He was already anxious enough about my safety.
“I told you I’d be careful, and I will.” I started to pull my hand away, but when he squeezed it a bit harder, I let it stay where it was. His skin was warm, if a bit rough, his fingers dwarfing mine. It surprised me to realize how comforting his touch felt.
“I—” He was obviously experiencing difficulty finding the right words. Swallowing hard, he proved my suspicions when he continued, “I’ve tried, but I have a hard time saying how I feel … that is, how much you mean—” He expelled a frustrated sigh. “Dash it all, Sarah, you must know by now that I love you. If anything were to happen to you, I just, well, I don’t know what I would do.”
The moment the words were out of his mouth, I knew they were true. In all honesty, I’d known it for some time, even before our last kiss. I just hadn’t wanted to admit it. I did not want our friendship to change; and if romantic love came into the picture, it surely would. My determination never to marry had not changed. I had chosen the law over having a husband and children. I could see no way to have both.
He was watching my face apprehensively. “Sarah, did you hear what I said?”
I nodded my head slowly, not certain how to respond. “I have taken you by surprise,” he said, starting to pull back his hand. I held fast, refusing to let it go.
“I care for you very much, Robert,” I told him softly. “But love—”
“Yes, yes,” he broke in, looking miserably self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to go sentimental on you. Just concerned for your welfare, you know. Got carried away, sorry.”
This time when he pulled his hand away from mine, I allowed it to go. He signaled the waiter for the bill. When I reached into my reticule to help pay, he uttered a curse about that being a damn insult and burst out of his chair, nearly knocking it over in his haste to reach the cash register.
As we left the restaurant, I asked him if he would care to accompany me on Saturday afternoon to see Oscar Wilde off on the train. Following a busy two weeks in San Francisco, the poet seemed ready to complete the remainder of his American tour.
Robert hesitated, still looking embarrassed by his recent declaration.
“Come now, my dear, you have given me a great compliment, and I am honored,” I said, smiling up at him in the hope that we might move beyond this awkward moment. “I would greatly enjoy your company.”
He studied me as if trying to decide if I were serious or just attempting to soothe his injured feelings. My expression must have convinced him of the former, for after a moment or two he accepted my invitation, said good-bye, and hurried back toward Joseph Shepard’s law firm.
When he had disappeared down the street, I removed a folded map from one of the pockets I had had sewn into all of my business suits. It was a grid layout of the Mission District, copied from the documents department at City Hall. On it, I had marked Ricardo Ruiz’s property, a large rectangle of land roughly bordered by South Van Ness Avenue to the east, Twenty-second Street to the north, Harrison Street to the west, and Twenty-fourth Street to the south.
This district was named after Mission Dolores, which had been standing in San Francisco for nearly a hundred years. I was aware that at one time it featured outdoor markets and lively fiestas, as well as horse racing and the bull and bear fights of the late 1840s and early 1850s. Before the Gold Rush, the area around Mission Dolores had been largely populated by ranchos and adobe homes, chosen because of its good soil and the fact that morning fog burned off there earlier than in other parts of the growing city. Since then, the neighborhood had changed significantly. Instead of the rancheros, it was now home to a few Mexicans, but mainly Irish, Italian, German, and other European immigrants who found the area hospitable. I was unhappy to see that according to the map, Ruiz’s rectangular-shaped property was more than large enough to contain a bullring, with a good deal of land left over.
Half an hour later, I exited an omnibus at South Van Ness and Twenty-second Street, then stood on the corner to get my bearings and to unfold a copy of the SPCA petition I had brought with me. Deciding that the most logical course would be to walk the perimeter of Ruiz’s property, then the inner streets, I started off down Twenty-second Street.
In contrast with a number of fashionable homes located on the higher elevations of Dolores and Guerrero Streets, the land east of South Van Ness was generally flat, well suited, I realized with a sinking heart, to Ruiz’s planned bullring. How many of these hardworking families had any inkling how drastically their lives were going to change if one wealthy man had his way? Even when they learned of his grand scheme to bring bullfighting to San Francisco, what could they do to prevent it? For that matter, what could I do to forestall what would surely forever change the character of this neighborhood—nay, of the entire city?
I spent the next few hours knocking upon the doors of the small houses and shacks situated on the eight square blocks Ricardo Ruiz claimed to own. I entered several restaurants, two laundries, a leather store, a candy store, and a surprising number of grog shops and saloons. Those residents who would speak to me appeared universally shocked to learn of the Mexican’s planned bullring—indeed, that he even owned the land upon which they lived or earned their livelihood. They were especially distressed when they realized that their homes were more than likely going to be torn down to accommodate the new construction.
The owner of the butcher shop on the corner of Folsom and Twenty-third Streets was so outraged that he demanded to meet with this Ricardo Ruiz so that he could “settle his hash good and proper!” Several saloons expressed much the same sentiments, albeit in language no lady could repeat. Nearly every individual I encountered was more than willing to sign my petition, including those who could sign only with an “x.” (I noted these entries with the signers’ names and addresses.)
I was particularly delighted to meet several Mexican families, who were not only surprised to be told of the bullring, but greatly displeased to learn that it was to be built in their neighborhood. One mother of two small children claimed that she had lived near a bullfighting arena in her native Mexico. She considered it a cruel sport that often attracted a rowdy crowd and had no desire to see one erected here in her adopted city. A middle-aged man who had moved to San Francisco from Durango a decade earlier told me that the Ruiz family patriarch, Javier Ruiz, was well-known and generally disliked in Mexico as a bully and a corrupt businessman. The man was furious to learn that one of Javier’s sons claimed to own the land he had lived on for the past ten years. He vowed not only to sign my petition, but to go out and circulate them himself.
I had reached the final block of my walk through Ruiz’s property when a familiar, and frankly unwelcome, man hurried across the street to intercept me.
“Fancy meeting you here, Miss Woolson,” said my brother Samuel’s nemesis, Ozzie Foldger. Before I could catch my breath, he had pulled a notebook and pencil from one of his pockets, obviously prepared to commit to paper any information I might be foolish enough to impart. He noticed the petit
ion I was carrying. “This must be my lucky day. Why don’t you tell me all about this SPCA business. I hear they plan to oppose the new bullring.”
“Please be kind enough to get out of my way, Mr. Foldger,” I told him, attempting to move past the annoying little reporter. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Come on, Miss Woolson,” he cajoled, blocking my path. “You could at least tell me if you’re having any luck getting people to sign your paper.”
“That is patently none of your business,” I told him, losing my patience. “Now allow me to pass.”
“Seems like that petition is showing up all over town,” he went on, ignoring my protestations. He looked around the neighborhood. “So, this is where that Mexican fellow plans to build his bullfighting arena. Poor folks around here must be knocked for six, not that I blame them.”
I suddenly remembered the article Samuel had shown me the night before. With everything that had happened over the past two days, it had completely slipped my mind.
“As long as you insist on pestering me, Mr. Foldger, perhaps you’d care to explain that story you wrote in last evening’s newspaper concerning Claude Dunn’s death. You implied that it might not be a suicide. I’d like to know what led you to such a startling conclusion.”
He gave me a sly smile, and I had the feeling that he was mentally rubbing his hands in glee. “Read it, did you, Miss Woolson? What about that know-it-all brother of yours? Did he see it, too? Bet it’s giving him a conniption fit.”
“Never mind about Samuel,” I retorted. “Tell me why you think Dunn might not have killed himself.”
“Well now, that’s for me to know and for you to find out, isn’t it?” He gave me a wink and tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “I have my sources. Inside sources, if you know what I mean.”
“And what sources are those?” I challenged. “You made some very serious allegations in that article, Mr. Foldger. The police have ruled Mr. Dunn’s death a suicide. What evidence do you possess to prove them wrong?”
Death on Telegraph Hill Page 21
