Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “I do that, as well,” put in Samuel. “When you’re on a story, there’s often little time to write words out properly. George, let me see that pad, will you?”

  His friend handed it over, and Samuel thumbed through the pages. “Here are his notes on the Stockton Street bank robbery last week,” he said. “And on this page he mentions Claude Dunn. Ha! And the fact that he gave him twenty-five dollars.” He looked at me. “That must be the money you saw him hand Dunn when you were on Telegraph Hill.” He continued turning pages. “He’s written Dunn’s name several more times, but I can’t make out the details. You’re right, Sarah, a lot of this is all but impossible to make out.” He handed the notebook back to George. “Maybe someone at the station can make sense of it.”

  George didn’t look hopeful. “I’ll try, but I doubt that any of my men will have better luck than you.”

  “Well,” Papa said after a short silence. “Whatever that notebook reveals, if anything, one thing seems clear. Someone was worried about what Foldger was going to write in his article this evening.” He regarded George with approval. “Looks like you were right all along about Dunn’s hanging not being a suicide.” At the policeman’s surprised expression, Papa explained, “Sarah mentioned your suspicions about his death being staged to look as if he killed himself. Don’t worry, I haven’t mentioned it to anyone else.”

  George gave my father a rueful smile. “I informed Lieutenant Curtis, but he had already made up his mind.”

  “To tell the truth, I’ve never been overly impressed with your lieutenant, George.” Papa once again took up his pipe, reached for his tobacco pouch, and began filling the bowl. “He was only promoted because he has relatives at City Hall. As far as I’m concerned, a good leader is a man who has proven his mettle in the field. Curtis lacks experience and sound judgment.”

  When George regarded him in silent discomfort, Papa went on, “I realize that you can’t afford to speak ill of your superior, George, but I’m free to speak my mind. Two or three of Curtis’s cases have ended up in my courtroom, and I can attest firsthand to his incompetence. I don’t envy you your job, my boy. Not one jot.”

  “Even if Curtis was a first-rate officer, I doubt he could have done anything to prevent Foldger’s murder,” I said. “For once, I think Foldger was telling the truth when he claimed to have evidence that Dunn was murdered. That leaves us with only one course of action. If Lieutenant Curtis refuses to listen to reason, it’s up to us to discover the nature of that evidence.”

  I’m not certain who protested loudest at this perfectly reasonable statement.

  “There is no us, my girl,” exclaimed my father.

  “Are you insane?” Robert shouted at the same time.

  Lewis seemed taken aback by the fervor of these cries. To my annoyance, Samuel regarded me in amusement.

  “That seems to settle that,” he said. “It appears that you are to stay out of the affair, little sister. And for once, I must say that I concur.”

  “Not you, too, Samuel,” I objected.

  “Sarah, two men are dead, and you have been shot at, as have I,” my brother said reasonably. “Robert is right. It would be reckless of you to involve yourself any further in this matter.”

  “Then we are in agreement,” Robert said with finality. “We must leave this to the police. At least to Lewis here,” he added. “And hope to heaven that Lieutenant Curtis keeps his nose out of this business before someone else is killed.”

  “Amen to that,” agreed Samuel.

  Papa gave his son a skeptical look. He had lit his pipe and was puffing at it thoughtfully. “Foldger’s death is certain to be a high-profile case. You can bet tomorrow night’s dinner that Curtis will be drawn to the publicity like a moth to a flame.” He looked at George. “You’ll have to do some fancy dancing to get anything worthwhile accomplished with that scalawag in charge.”

  Lewis nodded unhappily. “You’re right, I’m afraid. It won’t be easy.”

  My father gave an abrupt laugh. “That’s a considerable understatement. You’re going to be on your own hook, my lad. One way or the other, this murdering scoundrel must be brought to justice before he strikes again.”

  “I’d give a good deal to know why Foldger gave Dunn twenty-five dollars,” said Samuel. “That’s a lot of money for a story.”

  “Perhaps Dunn had information to sell,” Papa speculated. He drew on his pipe, producing a great puff of smoke. “As you’ve said more than once, son, Foldger was not above buying, stealing, or even making up a story if it would sell newspapers. Either he suspected Dunn of being privy to valuable information, or he was buying the man’s silence.”

  George Lewis started, almost spilling his coffee. “Buying his silence? You think Foldger committed a crime of some sort, and he feared Dunn would expose him?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Papa smiled benevolently at the eager policeman. “I’m just trying to allow for all the possibilities. I can’t see Ozzie Foldger handing over a packet of money because he was feeling generous.”

  Samuel gave a sarcastic little grunt. “Hardly. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Foldger was as tight as a tick.”

  “Even if those speculations are correct, what do they have to do with Samuel and Sarah being shot at?” Robert regarded each of us in turn. “As far as I know, they had nothing to do with either Claude Dunn or Ozzie Foldger.”

  “Samuel and Foldger were rivals, of course,” I said. “And Samuel, you knew Dunn because he was a member of the writers colony on Telegraph Hill, didn’t you?”

  “That’s how I initially met the man, yes, but we were hardly friends,” my brother said.

  “Didn’t he work as a reporter?” asked Lewis.

  Samuel smiled. “It’s true that he was forced by financial circumstances to sell an occasional newspaper article, but Dunn generally looked down his nose at reporters. He considered us inferior to more serious writers. Meaning purists like himself, with little money but a lot of hope.”

  “Did he have any talent?” Robert asked. “I never heard of Dunn until he died.”

  “I believe he was working on a novel of some sort,” Samuel answered. “But then a number of us are. I have no idea what it was about, though, or if it was any good. His newspaper articles were all right, but not first-rate enough to allow him to make his living in journalism.”

  “Be that as it may,” Lewis interjected, “I still don’t see how those murders can have had anything to do with Miss Sarah or you, Samuel. If only we had some idea of what Foldger planned to put in tonight’s article.”

  “Yes, all roads lead back to that question, don’t they?” Samuel said, sounding as frustrated as we all felt. “He bragged to Sarah that the story would result in a scandal. He was determined that it would make his name famous.”

  “And so it has,” Papa said dryly. “For the next week or two, at any rate.”

  Since there seemed to be nothing more to say, we were forced to let the matter rest, at least for that evening.

  * * *

  Despite the events of the day, or perhaps because they had left me exhausted, I slept well that night, awakening refreshed and ready to take on whatever the new day might bring. As my father had so succinctly put it, there was a mystery to be solved. And no matter what anyone said, I had no intention of playing spectator while others set out to unravel it.

  Not surprisingly, Papa had different ideas. After breakfast on Monday morning, I was not happy to learn that I was expected to share a cab with him on his way to the courthouse. He promised to drop me off at my office, claiming with an admirably straight face that this was an invitation. However, I believe I know a command when I hear one.

  As we rode downtown, my father took the opportunity to reiterate his warnings of Saturday night. He had discussed the situation with Robert after I had bade the men good night and retired to my bedroom, and my friend had promised to escort me home this evening. In the meantime, according to Papa I was to remain in my office
all day. There were to be no outside excursions, and under no circumstances was I to set foot on Telegraph Hill.

  “In fact, I’d feel infinitely better if you would remain at home until the shooter is apprehended,” he added. “I don’t believe for one moment that you were mistaken for a fox or a raccoon. Nor do I think you were shot at by accident. If someone wants to see you dead, they’re not going to stop at just one attempt.”

  This was too much! I was twenty-eight years old and a licensed California attorney with my own law practice. True, I continued to live with my parents—as did many unmarried women of my station—but the vast majority of them did not work outside the home. I deeply appreciated my parents and understood that they loved me and were concerned for my safety, but not for the first time I chafed at still being under their roof and, consequently, under their control. Although I feared it might break my mother’s heart, I did not waver in my determination to find a modest flat of my own as soon as my financial situation improved.

  “I assure you there is no need for a man to escort me home from work,” I informed him calmly. “I’ve already promised to be careful. And I must go to my office today. I’m working on a case.”

  “Yes, defeating the bullring,” he commented dryly. “A case that will be all but impossible to win. When City Hall smells money, my girl, they can be dashed ornery.”

  “Which is all the more reason why I cannot remain idly at home.”

  My father sighed. “You’re as obstinate as a mule, Sarah, have been since you were knee-high to a mosquito. More than once I’ve thought of taking your brother Frederick’s advice and locking you in your room.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “But I suppose you’d just climb out the window.”

  Or Samuel’s window, I thought, deciding not to mention this aloud. My brother’s room, located at the rear of our home, overlooked a large old oak tree that was very handy for leaving the house unnoticed. He had employed this method of silent escape since childhood. I must confess that I had accompanied him on more than one occasion, shinnying down those sturdy, thick limbs, all the while fearful that my mother would catch me in this extremely unladylike exercise.

  As our coach turned onto Sutter Street, Papa patted my hand. “The Lord knows I’m not a sentimental man, Sarah, but I have grown extraordinarily fond of you. For my sake, if for no other reason, do be careful.”

  “I will, Papa,” I assured him. “Please don’t worry.”

  My father reluctantly deposited me in front of the building I shared with Fanny Goodman. I alighted to find her standing outside her shop, scrubbing her windows clean with a large pail of soapy water.

  “Sarah, you’re just the person I’ve been waiting to see,” she greeted me, dropping her washing rag into the pail. “Have you heard the news about that reporter, Ozzie Foldger? He was stabbed to death Saturday morning in broad daylight. Can you imagine such a thing?”

  “I fear I can, Fanny. In fact, I was there when it happened.”

  She looked at me in astonishment, and I watched thoughts of clean windows vanish from her mind.

  “You need a hot cup of coffee,” she declared. Before I had time to respond, she had picked up her pail and was motioning me inside her shop. “I want to hear every detail of what happened.”

  Several minutes later we were settled in her kitchen, hot coffee and a selection of fresh doughnuts placed on the table before us. The pastries looked and smelled delicious, but since I had partaken of breakfast not an hour earlier, I limited myself to coffee.

  Once she was seated in the chair across from me, I briefly described the scene at the train station on Saturday morning. I recounted my discussion with Ozzie Foldger, along with his newspaper article that was to appear in Saturday evening’s Tattler. Finally, I told her of finding the reporter dead in an alley hardly more than a block from the depot.

  “Heaven help us!” she declared when I finished the story. She gave a little shiver. “Did his article appear in the Tattler?”

  “No. Either he hadn’t turned it in yet, or for some reason the editor decided to hold it back for a day or two.”

  She took a sip of coffee, then regarded me over the rim of her cup. “Seems to me that newspaper of his would want to capitalize on Foldger’s death and print the story as soon as possible.”

  “I agree. But since we have no idea what the article contained, it’s impossible to speculate.”

  “Surely someone must have witnessed the murder,” she said, looking bemused. “You said Wilde’s departure attracted a large crowd.”

  “That’s true, but Foldger was stabbed in a filthy little alley behind a warehouse. I don’t think many people used it. It would have been easy enough for the murderer to slip away unnoticed.”

  “And the police have no idea who did it?”

  “Apparently there’s little to go on.” Even I could hear the note of discouragement in my voice. “Sergeant Lewis is doing his best, but I’m not sure how much help he’s getting from his lieutenant.”

  “Is it possible…” She hesitated, seemingly fearful of expressing a sudden thought. “Do they believe that the man who murdered Mr. Foldger could be the same person who shot at you and Samuel?”

  “It’s certainly occurred to George, as well as to Samuel and me. Unfortunately, there are a great many pieces to this puzzle which don’t seem to fit together.”

  “Your parents must be beside themselves with worry,” she said, rising to refill our cups. “I’m surprised you even came into your office today. If someone was brazen enough to stab Mr. Foldger on a public street, what would stop him from trying to harm you here?”

  “Not you, too, Fanny,” I said with a soft groan. “I cannot live my life in the constant fear that some madman will attack me if I step a foot outside my house.”

  Her face was more serious than I had ever seen it. “I’ve grown to love you and Samuel like the children I was never blessed with, Sarah. If I could, I would sit you both down in this kitchen and watch over you until that predator was caught.”

  I couldn’t stop the smile that curled on my lips. “You sound just like my father, dear Fanny. He would like to lock me away in my room. But we dwell in a world filled with risks. We can’t allow them to rule our lives.” After drinking the last of my coffee, I stood. “I must get upstairs if I’m to accomplish any work today.”

  “You haven’t had any more bother from that Mr. Ruiz, have you?” she asked. “Have you told the police about him and his thugs? What if he comes back here to badger you?”

  “There’s little the police can do, Fanny.” There was no sense adding Ricardo Ruiz to her list of concerns. “He blusters a good deal, but I’m certain he’s more of a nuisance than an actual threat.”

  She did not look convinced. “I hope you’re right, dear. I’m not ashamed to admit that the man frightens me. He acts like he owns City Hall and that they’ll do anything he asks them to.”

  “That may be true, but I have more important things to worry about right now than Señor Ruiz’s foul temper.” I picked up my briefcase and walked to the door. “Perhaps I’ll see you again before I leave. Papa has asked Robert to escort me home. I cannot imagine why he agreed to such a silly request.”

  Fanny’s expression appeared to be a strange mixture of amusement and pity. “Despite that quick mind of yours, Sarah, you are remarkably naïve about men and the ways of the heart, Mr. Campbell is in love with you, silly girl. He’d do anything to ensure your safety.”

  Upstairs, I settled down to work at my lovely cherrywood desk, but I found it impossible to concentrate. Only then did I realize that I had been trying for several days to put Robert’s declaration of love out of my mind. Now, Fanny’s words unleashed a flood of emotions, feelings I hardly understood, much less knew how to deal with.

  Was it possible that Robert had misread his feelings for me? I wondered. We had been through so much since we’d first met. Together, we had faced danger—indeed, life-and-death situations. Could he have mistaken
the thrills and excitement of those experiences for love? Did being devoted friends necessarily equate with being in love, romantically in love? I was forced to admit that I did not know.

  Restlessly, I stood and walked to the window. Sutter Street was crowded as usual at this time of day. Carriages of various sizes and designs, drays, a horsecar, and even a somber black-and-silver hearse passed below my second-floor rooms.

  Standing there, I became conscious of the nearly constant clamor and congestion of downtown San Francisco, noise that I was ordinarily able to ignore: the man driving the dray was cursing at a hansom cab, a drummer’s wagon had stalled in front of the butcher shop across the street, causing a landau, his brass horn blasting loudly away, to swerve in an effort to avoid a collision. Two young boys appeared to be fistfighting over a dog, while their mothers screamed at each other as they attempted to separate their offspring. I could not help but smile, thinking that perhaps Oscar Wilde was correct in calling America the noisiest country in the world. In some strange way, it reminded me of the conflict going on in my mind, and in my heart. I wished I could come up with one of the Irishman’s easy platitudes to put everything in perspective. But then I was not a poet.

  I had finally settled down to working on the written argument I would present to City Hall, outlining the SPCA’s objections to Ruiz’s bullring, when I heard someone hurrying up the stairs to my office. There was a quick knock, then the door opened to reveal a somewhat disheveled-looking Jane Hardy standing in the doorway. She was breathless and clearly upset.

  “Please, Miss Woolson, we need your help,” she managed to say after taking in a gulp of air. “Señor Ruiz is at our office with a police constable. He is demanding that we turn over all of our signed petitions to him, or he will have us arrested and taken to jail!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mrs. Hardy and I were fortunate to find an unoccupied cab and made our way speedily to the SPCA’s Merchant Street headquarters. We were halfway there when I suddenly remembered Papa charging me to remain in my office all day until Robert came to escort me home. Had I agreed to this command? I wondered, searching my memory. No, I decided, I had not actually promised him that I would not go out, but rather had given him my assurance that I would be careful. And I certainly was being cautious. Sharing a cab with a proper, middle-aged matron must be considered conscientious behavior by anyone’s standards.