The Russian Hill Murders

by Shirley Tallman

  “I suggest we separate,” I told him. “You take that side of the street. I’ll start with the tobacco store on this corner.”

  “And just what am I supposed to ask?” he said testily.

  “Oh, for goodness sake! Describe Paddy McGuire and the other man who periodically inspected the shop. Surely someone should remember them.”

  With an irritable grunt, my crotchety companion duly crossed the street. There, after a moment’s hesitation, he entered the nearest saloon.

  I tugged at the long cuirass bodice of my dark burgundy dress and brushed at the horizontal pleating that made up the matching skirt. Then, straightening my velvet hat, I marched purposefully to the tobacconist’s shop and boldly entered. The clerk, who was waiting on a man wearing an odd assortment of work clothes, looked astonished to find a lady in his establishment. He finished with his customer, then, wiping his hands on his apron, turned to me in a fluster.

  “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you then? Some cigars for yer husband, maybe? I have some top-notch smokes over here.”

  “Yes, I see.” Examining his merchandise, I spotted the Havana cigars favored by my father. “I’ll take half a dozen of these, please.”

  The clerk beamed; these were probably his most expensive brand. “Snappin’ good choice, ma’am. Yer husband will be sure to like these.”

  I didn’t bother to correct him, since I’d only made the purchase to obtain information. While he wrapped the cigars in plain brown paper, I inquired if he knew either of the men we were seeking. He looked up when I mentioned McGuire.

  “Everyone knows Paddy,” he said, as if surprised I should ask. “He was the beatingest man on the street. Awful about the fire, wasn’t it? For a while there I thought the whole block was a goner.”

  “Do you know where Paddy is working now?”

  The clerk handed me the package. “I knew he was lookin’ for a job, but I never heard if he found anythin’.”

  “What about the other man?” I said, briefly describing what little I knew about the stout man we hoped might be the owner.

  “Don’t know nothin’ about him. Leastwise I don’t remember seein’ him in my shop.” The clerk could not contain his curiosity. “If you don’t mind my askin’, ma’am, why are you so het up to find these fellows?”

  Expecting this question, I’d prepared an answer. “I’ve heard that Mr. McGuire might be interested in doing a few odd jobs for us. I was told the other man might know where Paddy was employed.”

  The clerk scratched his head. “Sorry I can’t help. I’m sure Paddy would be glad enough to make some extra cash.”

  Taking up the package of cigars, I thanked the man and left the shop. An hour later, burdened now with not only the cigars but a fresh fillet of salmon and a box of sweets for Celia’s children, I met Robert, who was also carrying several parcels. I detected the smell of whiskey on his breath, a testament to the bars he’d visited on his side of the street.

  “Nothing, absolutely nothing,” he complained. “Everyone knows McGuire, but not where we can find him.”

  “What about the other man?”

  He shook his head. “Not a thing. What about you? Any luck?”

  “No.” It was discouraging, but I was not yet ready to give up. “Let’s try another street.”

  “Why? We’ve already wasted half the afternoon.”

  “Come on, Robert, just one more block?” I smiled, deciding a dose of honey might get me further than vinegar.

  It didn’t fool him for a moment. “I like it better when you’re biting off my head than trying to butter me up.” He grinned. “You’re no good at it, you know.”

  Laughing, I crossed Kearney Street. Robert reshuffled his packages and set off in the opposite direction.

  I was coming out of a shop midway down the block when it happened. A tall, heavy-set man stopped directly in front of me, his face so close I could see tufts of hair protruding from his beefy nose. His eyes resembled small black olives that had been poked into a plate of fat.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said, endeavoring to move past him. It was like trying to push aside an oak tree. “Please, you’re blocking my way.” I was annoyed to hear fear in my voice. Surely he wouldn’t dare harm me in broad daylight, in front of so many people. Then, looking around, I realized no one was paying us the least attention.

  “Whatcha after, missy?” he asked, nearly bowling me over with his foul breath. “Why all the questions about Paddy?”

  “I, ah, was told he’s an able repairman,” I said, wishing I sounded more convincing.

  He seemed to find this uproariously funny. “Oh, you was, was ya?” The amusement was suddenly gone. He leaned in even closer. I caught a glimpse of rotting teeth, and again his fetid breath nearly caused me to choke. I tried to move away, but I’d backed up against the shop wall and there was no place else to go.

  “And what about Killy, huh, missy? I ain’t never heard anyone call him able—unless you got a different sort of work in mind. I hear he knows how to make the ladies happy, if you take my meanin’.” His leering wink left little doubt about Killy’s special talents.

  Despite my fear, at least I’d just learned the name of the second man we were after.

  “Yes, Killy.” I forced a smile. “I’d be grateful if you could tell me where to find—”

  “The only thing I’m tellin’ you, lady, is to mind yer own bloody business. ’Cause if you don’t, you just might find a hammer comin’ at yer head instead of yer house.” He wrapped huge, filthy fingers around the lapel of my bodice, ripping the fabric as he yanked me nearly off my feet. “It’d be a shame to spoil such a pretty face.”

  With a throaty laugh, he released me so suddenly I staggered into a fruit display, knocking down a crate of apples. The man didn’t hurry but sauntered off as if he had nothing to fear. Which was probably true. Several people averted their faces as he passed, then turned and almost ran in the opposite direction.

  It was several moments before I could move. My limbs felt as if they’d turned to mush and, to my horror, I’d begun to shake.

  A small hand suddenly touched my arm and I nearly jumped out of my boots. “Don’t mean to alarm ya, ma‘am,” a voice said. “I saw you talkin’ to Bert Corrigan. You want to stay as far away from that hooligan as you can.”

  The woman who stood beside me was so tiny she barely reached my shoulder. She looked about forty but might have been much younger. A life of grueling work often aged these poor souls beyond their years. She wasn’t an attractive creature, I thought, yet there was a quality about her that set her apart. Pride, I decided, and an unmistakable air of defiance.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” she asked when I didn’t immediately answer.

  “Yes, I’m fine now,” I replied. “I admit Bert Corrigan gave me a bit of a fright.”

  “Hah! He could scare the devil himself, could our Bert.” She looked up and down the street. “I know who yer looking for. I was in the fishmongers and heard you ask.”

  “You mean you know where I can find Paddy McGuire or Killy? I’m sorry, but I don’t know Killy’s last name.”

  “It’s Doyle, but that’s all I know about him. He only shows his face around here when he has to. I know Paddy well enough, though. Got himself a job in a sweatshop on Washington Street. It’s run by a Johnny—you know, a Chinaman. I think its called Wing Yo’s. Seems our Paddy’s doin’ all right for himself.” This last was said in a bitter tone, and her thin lips turned down at the corners.

  “Why are you telling me all this, Mrs … . ?”

  “Never mind who I am. It’s enough for you to know that my husband was killed in that fire, along with four other souls. And I know well enough it was Paddy McGuire who nailed that door shut.” Her eyes burned so fiercely they seemed to gleam with orange sparks. “I don’t know why you’re lookin’ for him, but I can guess it’s to do with what happened. Somebody’s gotta pay for those five lives!”

  The fiery emotion in her ey
es went out as suddenly as it had ignited, replaced by pools of tears. I realized the courage it had taken for her to approach me. If Bert Corrigan was an example of the retribution she might expect for talking to me, she was a very brave woman indeed.

  “I’ll do everything I can to see the responsible parties brought to justice,” I said, placing my hand on her arm. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  As if she could no longer hold them back, tears coursed down her face. Unwilling or unable to speak, she nodded her head and walked away.

  I watched until she was absorbed into the crowd. Behind me, I heard a loud cry as the grocer discovered his apples rolling about the street. Ignoring the man’s curses, street urchins snatched them up and ran.

  Feeling responsible for the melee, I handed the man some money, then crossed to Robert’s side of the street. I found him arguing with a butcher over the price of pork.

  “I’ve found Paddy McGuire,” I said, tugging on his arm.”

  “This man is no better than a common thief,” he cried. You wouldn’t believe the price he’s asking for—”

  “Did you hear me, Robert? I’ve found Paddy McGuire.” Robert seemed disinclined to end his quarrel, then noticed my torn bodice. “What happened to you?”

  As I pulled my colleague away from the shop, the butcher let loose a string of profanities and slapped the pork back into the brine barrel.

  “Damn it all, Sarah, who did this to you?”

  As we walked on, I described my encounter with Bert Corrigan. Although I downplayed it as much as possible, Robert’s face darkened with fury.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded. “That ruffian could have done far worse than rip your dress. Damn it all, woman, one of these days you’re going to push your luck too far.”

  “Calm down, Robert. The man was unpleasant, but he didn’t actually harm me. And he did let slip the name of the second man we’re looking for.”

  “Humph. As if we’re ever likely to find the fellow.”

  “Oh, do try to be less pessimistic. It gets tiresome.”

  We’d reached the corner of Washington and Kearney and I wasn’t sure which way to turn. The street had taken on more of the flavor of Chinatown and less of the Barbary Coast. As I say, I’d visited Chinatown only once before—the night I’d joined Miss Culbertson to save the young slave girl—but that had been after midnight. I was struck by how different the district appeared in broad daylight. What had seemed exotic by night now looked shabby and depressing. Most people either averted their faces as we passed or darted looks of suspicion and outright dislike at us. I couldn’t blame them; we were the outsiders, members of the race who persecuted them for taking our jobs and for often doing them better and at lower wages.

  The streets were jammed with little shops, one upon the other. Tables blocked the sidewalks displaying fruits, nuts, vegetables, cigars, herbs, potions and twisted roots. From the lanes and alleys came clouds of smoke from open cooking fires.

  “Why don’t you go to the right and I’ll take the left,” I suggested. “We’re looking for a place called Wing Yo’s.”

  “Not on your life. I’m sticking to you like glue.”

  I started to argue, then thought better of it. In truth, I wasn’t anxious for another encounter with Bert Corrigan—or with any other street thug, for that matter. I nodded my agreement, and we made our way toward Dupont. Since most shop signs were written in Chinese characters, though, finding Wing Yo’s was all but impossible. It was doubly frustrating when I could find no one who spoke English.

  Soon, even I grew discouraged. Robert, who towered over the Chinese like Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians, grumbled about all the time we’d wasted. Leaving him to grouse, I stopped a young Chinese boy carrying crates of produce from a delivery wagon into a grocery store.

  “Excuse me,” I said, hoping the lad understood at least some English. “Do you know a shop called Wing Yo’s?”

  The boy shifted his crate and subjected me to very grown-up scrutiny. “Why you want to know?” The boy directed his question to me, but he was craning his neck to stare curiously at Robert.

  I understood the look; in the lad’s culture, it was men who asked questions, not mere women. The fact that the man was as tall as a giant must add to his confusion. I fought down the urge to educate the child on the injustice of such discrimination and kept silent. Robert, too, seemed to appreciate the significance of the boy’s attitude, because he said in an authoritative voice,

  “Don’t keep us standing here all day, lad.” He held a coin out to the boy, who grabbed it with alacrity. “Another of these is yours if you can direct us to Wing Yo’s.”

  The lad’s eyes lit with excitement. “One minute,” he said and he quickly carried his crate into the store.

  He was back outside in less than a minute, motioning for us to follow him. His small size allowed him to weave through the crowd with ease. We found the going more difficult, especially Robert, who negotiated the congested street like an elephant trying to make its way through a glass shop.

  After two blocks, the boy stopped before a building indistinguishable from its neighbors. “Wing’s up there,” he said, holding out his hand, palm up.

  Robert pulled out another coin but didn’t immediately hand it over. “I don’t see any sign. How do I know Wing’s shop is really here?”

  The boy muttered something in Chinese, then flung open the door to the building and took the stairs two at a time. Robert followed, while I hurried behind them. The narrow stairwell was dimly lit and smelled vilely of urine, garbage and strange cooking odors.

  “Here,” the boy announced, pointing to the only door on the uppermost floor.

  Attempting to catch my breath, I knocked. When no one answered, I slowly opened the door. Inside, a dozen men and women bent over sewing machine, ironing, cutting and fabric marking tables. I turned and nodded to Robert. He barely had the coin out of his pocket when the boy snatched it and bounded down the stairs with even more speed than he’d ascended.

  “Let’s hope this really is Wing Yo’s,” Robert said as we entered the sweatshop.

  The room we found ourselves in did not seem large enough to accommodate the workers, who were equally divided between Chinese and Occidental. Though the day outside was cool and the room’s two windows were wide open, the shop felt hot and airless. The floor was piled with partially sewn garments, while completed articles filled two tables by the door, shirts on one side, trousers on the other.

  With a little shock, I realized the room had but one door, and I could see no fire escapes. God help these poor workers if fire broke out in the stairwell; everything in this room would go up like a tinderbox. It was another disaster waiting to happen, one potentially more deadly than the fire that had killed Mrs. Mankin’s husband.

  Two women glanced up as we entered the room, but at a warning look from a Chinese man who was teaching a young boy to iron, they hastily resumed their work. The man’s eyes narrowed, as if he was not accustomed to visitors.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, smiling pleasantly. His expression remained noncommunicative. “We’re looking for a man called Paddy McGuire.”

  My eyes scanned the room to see if anyone reacted to the name. Sure enough, a worker toward the back stared at me with a wary expression. Beneath a brownish-red beard, his face was thin and angular, his eyes intelligent and a bit cocky. A bold tilt to his narrow chin announced him to be a man not adverse to downing a friendly pint or engaging in a not so friendly fight.

  “I’m Paddy,” he said almost defiantly, ignoring his overseer’s cautionary glare.

  Hoping this dour Chinese understood English, I said, “May we please speak privately to Mr. McGuire? It won’t take long, I promise.”

  The man seemed to understand well enough, or perhaps he just wanted us out of his shop. He nodded curtly toward the door we’d just entered. Paddy rose from his machine and, hitching up his pants, swaggered out into the hall.

 
“So?” he said, the instant we were out of the room. “Who the devil are ya, and whatcha want with me?”

  “I’m Sarah Woolson and this is Robert Campbell. We’re attorneys working on behalf of Mrs. Lily Mankin, who lost her husband Jack in that sweatshop fire—”

  “Sweet Jesus, a woman lawyer!” Paddy assessed me as if I belonged in a zoo. “Never seen one of them before.”

  Ignoring his rude stare, I kept my voice professional. “We’re here for information, Mr. McGuire. I understand you used to work with Mr. Mankin?”

  McGuire regarded me warily. “What if I did?”

  “In order to help his widow, we need to know who nailed that sweatshop door closed.” I held up a hand before Paddy could explode. “Mr. McGuire, we’re not here to accuse you of wrongdoing. Please, just answer the question.”

  Paddy raised an eyebrow. “What if it was me who nailed the bloody door shut? How’s that gonna help Jack’s wife?”

  “If you boarded it up it on your own, it won’t,” I explained. “On the other hand, if someone told you to do it—the owner, perhaps—it will help her a great deal.”

  “Hah!” he snorted. “That’s a good one. No one knows who owns these pigsties. Don’t give a damn if any of us live or die, long as we keep the money pourin’ into their pockets. The worthless bastard who owned the shop what burned down sure as hell never dropped in for a visit.”

  My heart felt heavy with disappointment. “So, you took it upon yourself to nail the door closed.”

  “I never said that now, did I?” he bristled. At first I thought he was trying to deny responsibility for blocking the exit. Then I realized it was quite the opposite. The guilt I saw reflected in his eyes was imbedded with deep self-reproach. Whether deserved or not, Paddy McGuire held himself responsible for the deaths of his five coworkers.

  “Killy’s the one told me to do it,” he admitted at last, his voice full of self-loathing.

  “Killy?” I said excitedly. “You mean Killy Doyle?”