“You’ll take a cab, of course,” Papa said, making this a statement and not a question. I knew that for the time being, public transportation was out of the question as far as my father was concerned, and I nodded.
“We’ve arranged for Eddie to take us,” I told him.
“Excellent.” He eyed his youngest son warily. “Just make sure this brother of yours doesn’t overdo it.” He gave Robert a friendly wink. “I swear, these two have always been two peas in a pod. Can’t keep them down for love or money. I could tell you stories of the shenanigans they got up to as children that would—”
“I’m sure you could, Papa,” I said, rising from my chair before my father could expound on this embarrassing subject. “But it’s late and Robert must be getting back to his rooms.”
My father consulted his pocket watch, looking surprised to realize that it was nearly eleven o’clock. “My goodness, I had no idea it was so late. It’s high time we called it a night.”
Samuel clapped Robert on the back, bade us good night, and headed up the stairs, giving us one last smile over his shoulder as he ascended.
My father put a companionable hand on Robert’s shoulder and led him out of the library, then down the hall toward the front door. Robert threw me an entreating glance over his shoulder, indicating that he wished to speak to me privately before he departed. I nodded my agreement, but Papa had already opened the door and was ushering him out onto the steps and into the cold night air.
Left with little choice but to take his leave, Robert shook my father’s hand and wished me a pleasant good night. Since Papa was standing beside me, I could do no more than thank him again for his help that evening. He nodded to me, then turned and walked down the street to the corner, where it would be easier to find a cab at that late hour.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I awoke the next morning to hear a bustle of activity going on outside my bedroom. A glance at my bedside clock told me that it was barely seven o’clock, yet I heard the lusty cries of Celia and Charles’s baby, people calling out to one another, and footsteps treading up and down the stairs.
After pulling on a robe, I opened my door to find Celia standing there, hand poised to knock. She held her squirming seven-month-old son in her arms.
“Sarah, I’m so glad you’re awake,” she said, sounding a bit breathless. “Can you please take Charlie for me? He’s been fed, but seems reluctant to settle down. I’m trying to help Mama prepare to leave, and Mary is busy with Tom and Mandy,” she added, referring to the children’s nanny.
I happily reached out for my nephew, then looked questioningly at Celia. “Leave? Leave for where? They said nothing about going away last night.”
“That’s because they just found out,” she explained, chucking a finger beneath her son’s chubby chin, causing him to stop crying long enough to laugh. “A telegram arrived about half an hour ago. Papa’s sister Flora has taken ill. Your parents hope to board the nine o’clock train this morning for Williamsport.”
“Oh, dear,” I said rather inadequately, bouncing little Charlie in my arms as he appeared to be gearing up for another wail. I had met my aunt Flora only twice, once when we made a trip to Pennsylvania when I was a child of eight, the second time when she traveled to San Francisco shortly after her husband’s death ten years ago. I hardly knew the woman, but she had seemed nice, and I understood that she was my father’s favorite sister. “How seriously ill is she?”
“According to the telegram, her condition is dire.” My sweet, caring sister-in-law looked near tears herself. “I pray they will reach her in time. She and Papa are very close.” She brushed moisture from her cheeks and kissed her tiny son’s cheek. “I must help them, Sarah. Thank you for minding little Charlie.”
I started to speak, but she had already hurried back to my parents’ room. I saw my father carrying bags down the stairs, assisted by my brother Charles. As I stood watching, thinking there must be more I could do than just hold the baby, Samuel poked a sleepy head out of his bedroom door.
“What in the name of all that’s holy is going on out here?” he asked, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes. “It sounds like a herd of elephants is tramping through the house.”
I walked over to him and explained the telegram that had arrived describing Aunt Flora’s illness.
“I hope they reach her in time,” he said, looking worried and fully awake now. “Poor Aunt Flora. She used to tell me really spooky ghost stories, then give me cookies, although sometimes I was so unnerved by her scary monsters I’d be too frightened to eat them.”
“I remember now,” I said, thinking back to the time we had visited Flora at Williamsport. “She thought I was too little to hear her tales, so I’d hide under your bed and listen to them without her knowing.”
He smiled at the memory. “Then you’d insist on sleeping with me, because you’d be too scared to go back to your own room.”
Papa came up the stairs and saw us. “I suppose you’ve heard about Flora,” he said, running a hand over the baby’s fair head. Immediately, Charlie held out dimpled arms, leaning toward his grandpa and demanding to be taken from me. It made me feel a bit jealous and at the same time touched that the child had grown so fond of my father.
“That baby is besotted with you,” Samuel said, laughing.
“So were you at his age, son,” said my father, giving him a sad smile. “Then you grew up, far too fast.”
“Children have a tendency to do that,” Samuel said. “Fortunate that you have three grandchildren. Well, four if you count Freddy Jr.”
“It’s difficult to forget Freddy, son.” He regarded us seriously. “Now listen to me, you two. I know you’re going to present your case to the city council tomorrow, Sarah. You’ve prepared well, and with any luck they’ll rule in your favor. But I want you both to promise me that you’ll stay out of trouble while I’m gone.” His gaze went from Samuel to me. “Do I have your word on it?”
My brother and I both nodded. Papa continued to regard us thoughtfully for a long moment, then sighed and shook his head. “I don’t like the way you’ve both been behaving for the past few days. I know you’re up to something, but I don’t suppose you’d tell me what it is if I asked?”
He made it a question, looking so hopeful that one of us might give him an honest answer that I felt a stab of guilt. But if I revealed that I had agreed to defend Mortimer Remy—and would therefore be forced to revisit Telegraph Hill—it would only exacerbate a journey already fraught with apprehension.
Samuel started to blurt out an excuse, but Papa stopped him with a raised hand and a rueful look. “Don’t bother, son. I have no time now to listen to a litany of clever half-truths. I’ll find out soon enough. I just hope the two of you can steer clear of any serious danger while I’m gone.”
He heard Mama calling his name from downstairs and picked up the last bag. “We had better be off if we’re to catch that train.”
“Give Aunt Flora my love, Papa,” I told him.
“As well as mine,” my brother added.
“I only hope that will be possible,” Papa said. He stooped to kiss little Charlie’s rosy cheek and then mine. His brown eyes twinkled for a moment. “Mind you, don’t burn down the house while we’re gone.” He turned and hurried down the stairs, where Mama waited with their cabbie.
* * *
Eddie collected Fanny and me at my office three hours later. Samuel had left the house to interview a “source,” who might have information about Jonathan Aleric’s past. George Lewis and his men hoped to commence a house-to-house search on Telegraph Hill that day, looking for witnesses who might have seen Remy at his house Wednesday night. For our part, Fanny, Eddie, and I would start our own investigation by questioning the staff at the restaurant where Aleric and his friends dined the night of his death.
Our intrepid young driver once again assumed his detective persona, this morning wearing dark clothing and pulling his cap so far down on his forehead
that it nearly covered his eyes. As he helped us into the carriage, he looked covertly up and down the street, then proudly displayed a worn pocketknife that he had polished to a fine sheen. He also carried his trusty cosh, which consisted of various coins and rocks stuffed into an old sock and tied off at the ankle. Fondly, I remembered this as the same weapon he had used to save the day during the Cliff House investigation. I fervently hoped that these weapons would not prove necessary but informed the lad I was pleased that he had come prepared.
The restaurant where Aleric was last seen alive was located on Bush Street, not far from the California Theatre, where they had attended a play that evening. We arrived as the establishment was preparing to serve its luncheon trade. I had brought with me a picture of Aleric that had appeared in one of the newspapers. It was a fair likeness, and I hoped it might help jar people’s recollections of seeing him on that fateful night.
I started by showing the picture to the restaurant manager, while Fanny set off to question the waiters. He was a stocky Italian man, with a bald head and busy eyes that kept darting about the dining room as we spoke.
“Yes, yes, what can I do for you, signorina?” he asked with a slight Italian accent. He seemed to be paying more attention to his employees than to Aleric’s picture, I thought, but I pressed on with my inquiries.
“I wonder if you remember seeing this gentleman in your restaurant late last Wednesday night,” I asked, holding the photograph a bit higher. “He would have been dining with friends.”
For the first time he looked down at the picture, tilting his head to one side as if considering. “The man with the big mustache, the one who was murdered? The police were already here.” He gave me a suspicious look. “Who are you? Why do you ask me these questions?”
I was prepared for this inevitable question and handed the man my card, which he read with obvious skepticism.
“I am an attorney, signore,” I told him, “and I’m attempting to learn where Mr. Aleric might have gone after he left your restaurant that night.”
He spread out his arms in a gesture of futility, and I heard him mutter the word stupido. “How can I know where he went? I do not follow my diners outside.” After saying something in rapid Italian to one of his staff, he turned away. “I am busy. You go now.”
Realizing there was nothing more I would get from him, I gazed around the restaurant, looking for Fanny. I finally spied her by one of the front windows, speaking to a short young man dressed in a waiter’s uniform. I was encouraged to see him nodding his head as if in agreement, then pointing a finger out toward the street. Catching the manager’s baleful eye on me from across the dining room, I decided it would be best if I waited for her outside the restaurant.
She soon joined me, appearing excited. “That young man saw Mr. Aleric last Wednesday night,” she told me, nodding at the waiter, who seemed to be receiving a heated reprimand from the manager, probably for speaking to my neighbor.
“What did he say?” I asked eagerly.
“As it happens, Mr. Aleric forgot his hat when he left the restaurant. The waiter hurried outside to return it to him.” She turned in the direction of Kearny Street. “He says he finally caught up with him at the corner over there. Mr. Aleric was apparently trying to hail a cab.”
“Did he actually see him get into a taxi?” I asked.
“No, he just handed him the hat, and ran back into the restaurant. He says Mr. Aleric gave him a nice tip for his efforts.”
“All right,” I said, starting to walk toward Kearny and Bush Streets. “Let’s question the shops and cafés on that corner.”
Upon reaching the intersection where the waiter had seen Aleric, we took a moment to decide which businesses to try first. I was startled when Fanny took hold of my arm.
“Look,” she said, motioning up the street.
Following her gaze, I spied Eddie’s brougham parked halfway up the block on Kearny Street. Parked, I might add, so that it was blocking traffic. Seemingly oblivious to the clanging carriage bells and cries of disgruntled drivers, Eddie stood talking to a group of young roughs who were laughing and slapping one another on the back. When he saw that Fanny and I were watching him, he shook his head slightly, the gesture clearly indicating that we should stay away from the group.
“I don’t like the look of those boys,” Fanny said, sounding worried.
“Nor do I, but he’s playing the great detective today. I suppose we must leave him to conduct his investigation the way he sees fit.” I nodded toward a grocery store on the west side of the corner. “Let’s start there. Hopefully, some of these stores stay open late on Wednesday night to take advantage of the theater trade and saw Aleric.”
No one had. Not in the café, the bookstore, the laundry, or the dry goods store. Fanny and I made our way down one side of Kearny Street, then up the other. What few people we found who had been present at that late hour worked in either saloons or restaurants and had been too preoccupied with the late-night crowd to notice a lone man attempting to hail a cab.
By two o’clock, Fanny and I had visited every shop, store, restaurant, café, grog shop, and saloon along Bush, Kearny, and Dupont Streets. Weary and hungry, I suggested that we take our lunch in one of the cafés we had visited. We were searching for Eddie so that he might join us when he pulled up in the brougham, appearing excited and very pleased with himself.
“I found some buggers what seen him,” he called out. He practically flew off his perch atop the carriage, words tumbling out of his mouth like rows of falling dominoes. “The poor bloke dang near got hisself sandbagged by some knucks I met who are out on hocus-pocus and were lookin’ for a mark in order to pull a swartwout and—”
“Eddie, please. Stop,” Fanny cried, holding out a pleading hand. “Sarah, dear, have you any idea what the boy is prattling on about?”
“Only vaguely,” I said, feeling nearly as befuddled as she looked. “Let’s go inside and order lunch, then Eddie can tell us all about this remarkable piece of detective work. Preferably in English!”
This was the first time since I had met the boy that he seemed more interested in talking than eating. He gave the waiter his order after barely consulting the menu, then squirmed impatiently in his chair while Fanny and I took rather more time making our own selections.
“All right, Eddie,” I said when we were once again alone at the table, “please start at the beginning and tell us what you discovered, only this time use words that Mrs. Goodman and I can understand.”
“It’s clear enough, Miss Sarah,” he insisted, looking a bit offended. “I come across some fellers I knew, is all. Last I heard they was in jail, but now they’re out ’cause of some shyster lawyer. The buggers, er, pickpockets, said they’d seen that Aleric feller lookin’ to find a cab.”
“Excuse me, Eddie,” I said, breaking into his account. “How do you know that the man they saw was actually Jonathan Aleric?”
“They said he had an almighty big mustache, and was dressed like a dandy,” he explained. “When I showed ’em the picture you gave me, they said that were him no doubt about it. Right off they pegged him as an easy mark, and were gonna hit him over the head with a sandbag.”
At Fanny’s bewildered expression, he pulled the cosh from his pocket. “They was gonna hit him with a sandbag, Mrs. Goodman, kind of like this only filled with sand, then nip his watch and wallet, and whatever else they could find.”
He paused in his narrative to look meaningfully from one of us to the other. Lowering his chin, he peered up at us through squinted eyes for added effect. “Afore they could get to him, though, a carriage came barrelin’ down the street and pulled up right beside the bloke. Bud—that’s the feller I’ve known since we was no bigger’n gallnippers—told me the driver hopped down from his box, hit the mark over the head with somethin’—Bud weren’t sure what he used—then picked him up and threw him inside the rig. He said they was off and runnin’ faster’n you could swat a fly.”
F
anny and I stared at him in astonishment.
“Eddie, you clever boy!” I exclaimed. “You managed to learn more in one conversation than either of us did in four hours. I’m extremely proud of you.”
Fanny reached a hand across the table to pat his arm. “I always knew you had a fine head on your shoulders, Eddie dear. What a fine policeman you’d make.”
The lad seemed a bit embarrassed, but it was easy to see from the gleam in his bright brown eyes that he was basking in this praise.
“Did your friend recognize the type of carriage the man was driving?” I asked.
“He said it were a Dearborn, you know, one of them real light buggies,” Eddie answered. “Black, with some kind of fancy design on the sides. It was dark, but Bud said it carried two oil-burning lamps, which was why he could see it pretty good.”
“A Dearborn carriage,” Fanny repeated. “Sarah, you can find those all over the city.”
“I know,” I said thoughtfully. “Did Bud mention what the design looked like?”
“He said it was two long, wavy lines, purple and gold, that ran back and forth through each other. Bud said the buggy looked really old, but that it had been kept up good.”
“What about the driver?” I asked. “Was your friend able to describe him?”
Eddie started to speak but stopped as the waiter delivered our meals. As soon as the man left, he looked around cautiously, then rested his arms on the table and leaned forward.
“Bud said the feller was dressed in black, even his hat, and didn’t seem to be real tall, but not real short, neither. Says he couldn’t see the bloke’s face all that good, ’cause he mostly kept it down.”
I tried not to show my disappointment. Without some sort of description, almost any man in town could have been driving the Dearborn, which, as Fanny pointed out, was a common enough vehicle in San Francisco. The man could even have been Remy, I thought despondently. He did not own a Dearborn that I knew of, but he could have borrowed or rented one from any number of carriage dealers in town.
Death on Telegraph Hill Page 30
