Death on Telegraph Hill Page 10

  “I pray you’re right, Mr. Gardiner. It’s all very frustrating. Not to mention frightening.”

  After Emmett Gardiner and I parted company, I wondered if Mortimer Remy might be home, then decided it was unlikely. I recalled Samuel telling me that Remy spent more time in his office than he did in his house; his newspaper, the San Francisco Weekly, was his life’s obsession. My thoughts went to Mrs. Montgomery. Confined as she was to a wheelchair, it was doubtful that she had seen anything, but you never knew. I would have to at least pay her a visit.

  As I reached the Dunn house, I was pleasantly surprised to meet the very woman I wished to see being pushed up the path leading to the front door. Mrs. Montgomery gave me a regal nod of her head as I stepped up to meet her. She was dressed much the same as the first time I had met her: severely cut black day dress, a black silk hat, sheer black gloves, and neat, well-polished black boots. She was shielding herself from the sun with a lacy black parasol.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Montgomery,” I said. “I don’t believe we were formally introduced at Mr. Remy’s house the other night, but I am Miss Sarah Woolson.”

  She accepted my outstretched hand much as a queen might greet a subject. Even through the lacy gloves I could feel her brittle, cold fingers and their very slight tremor.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Woolson.” Her voice was high, but stronger than I expected, and she spoke with perfect diction, as did so many elderly women of my acquaintance. “It was your poor brother who was shot, was it not? A dreadful thing to happen. I pray he is on the road to recovery.”

  Once again I reported on Samuel’s progress, then informed her why my mother, sister-in-law, and I happened to be on Telegraph Hill that afternoon.

  “That is the purpose of my visit as well, Miss Woolson,” she said, nodding to the box perched on her lap. The woman held up a lovely little yellow knit sweater, embroidered with tiny orange and blue flowers. Neatly folded beneath it was a matching knitted bonnet. “My sister, Mrs. Abigail Forester, was quite fond of Lucy, and spent a great deal of time making things for the new baby. Like myself, Abigail is a widow, and has lived with me since her husband passed away.” She indicated the many handcrafted items of infant clothing in the box. “She is very talented with her hands, is she not?”

  Her pale, watery eyes closed and she shook her head, sadness clouding her lined old face. “Clothing and food, a poor comfort for losing a mother. But we must do what we can for that unfortunate little boy. Lucy Dunn did for Abigail and myself, you see, and was the most conscientious child.” She lowered her voice. “I can’t help but wonder if that is why she succumbed in childbirth. Wore herself to a frazzle, I daresay, and in her delicate condition.”

  While she was speaking, the front door was opened by my mother. Celia was standing behind her, rocking the baby gently in her arms. I could see no sign of Dunn.

  I performed the introductions, then before Studds could maneuver his mistress inside, I said, “Mrs. Montgomery, I assume the police have spoken to you about the night of Mr. Remy’s salon, but I would be in your debt if you could tell me what, if anything, you saw.”

  “But my dear child, I’m sorry to say that I saw nothing. As you know, my man Studds led your group down the hill. I was considerably fatigued after the long evening, and Mr. O’Hara wheeled me up to my own home. Perhaps you should speak to him. I daresay his eyes are a good deal sharper than mine.”

  “I have already spoken to Mr. O’Hara,” I told her. “He claims that he, too, saw nothing.”

  She noticed me looking at the man behind her wheelchair and smiled. “Bruno, would you please tell Miss Woolson what, if anything, you saw the night Mr. Wilde spoke at Mr. Remy’s house.”

  The man looked at me for an uncomfortable moment, then lowered his eyes and slowly shook his head.

  His elderly mistress appeared a bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Miss Woolson, but Bruno is not a social man, and he rarely speaks. However, I fear he could have little to relate, since his back must have been turned to the shooter. I wish we might be of more help, but…” She spread her thin hands in regret.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Montgomery,” I told her, disappointed but not surprised that she could offer no information. I stood back so that Studds would be free to push his mistress into the cottage. “I think what you are doing for Mr. Dunn is most kind.”

  The woman made a deprecating sound, then looked up at me, her faded, intelligent eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I am not doing it for him, I assure you,” she stated with surprising candor. “I am doing it for that poor motherless child. And for Lucy.”

  Mama, Celia, and I departed the Dunn house some few minutes later. I was disappointed to have learned so little about the shooting, although I wasn’t sure what I had expected. But I simply could not believe that no one on Telegraph Hill had seen anything. Were they bound together in a circle of secrecy? I wondered. And if so, why? Or was it perhaps because they were afraid to speak?

  As the three of us started the long trek down the hill, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Glancing to my left, I saw Claude Dunn speaking to someone behind his house. At first I could not identify the other person, until he stepped out from the shelter of a tree and moved closer to Dunn. When he counted out some money and placed it in Dunn’s hand, my breath caught in my throat.

  The other man was none other than Samuel’s newspaper archrival, Ozzie Foldger!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Instead of accompanying Mama and Celia back to our home, I took an omnibus and then a cable car to my Sutter Street office. The journey gave me time to consider the results of our visit to Telegraph Hill, if I could pretend that I had actually achieved any results. Which, unfortunately, I could not.

  One by one, I went over the conversations I had had with Mortimer Remy’s neighbors. Granted, several of them had been so brief that they could hardly be referred to as a conversation. However, I found it difficult to imagine any of them possessing a motive for wanting to harm Samuel. Not even the appalling Claude Dunn. He might be a miserable human being, but that was a far cry from being a murderer. And according to Samuel, he hardly knew the man, so unless there was more involved here than met the eye, I could not cast him as the shooter.

  I considered Robert’s fear that I might be the intended victim, but I dismissed this notion even more quickly. While it was true that I had alienated myself from San Francisco’s more genteel society—and I was certainly resented by the male legal profession—surely I had antagonized neither of these groups sufficiently for them to wish me dead.

  Assuming, as Sergeant Lewis pointed out, that no sane shooter would attempt to hit the men walking in front of us as we made our way down the hill, that left but one potential victim: Jonathan Aleric. This thought brought me little relief, as the only person I could think of who might want to rid himself of Aleric was Mortimer Remy. And I simply could not imagine the newspaper publisher as a murderer.

  I was still mulling over the mystery when I arrived at Sutter Street. Walking up from Market, I was startled to see Mr. and Mrs. Dinwitty approaching the stairs leading to my office. I remembered Ricardo Ruiz’s assertion that they would return to request my legal representation. Could he have been right? I wondered. Hastening my step, I was able to reach the couple as they were about to knock on my door.

  “Mr. Dinwitty, Mrs. Dinwitty,” I said politely. “This is a surprise. I did not expect you to pay me a second visit.”

  They moved aside to allow me to unlock the door. “Please, won’t you come in and take a seat?”

  It was clear from Celestia Dinwitty’s expression that she was none too happy to be here again. The small dog she held cradled against her bosom somehow managed to mirror her distaste, giving me a little growl as its mistress swept past me into my office. Mr. Dinwitty removed his hat and regarded me with cautious optimism as he settled his wife and her pet into the same chair she had occupied upon the occasion of her first visit. That task attended to, he sank into
the seat next to hers.

  “How may I help you?” I inquired after hanging up my wrap. Seeing no benefit in beating about the bush, I came straight to the point. “Have you found an attorney to represent your case against Mr. Ruiz and his bullfighting ring?”

  Mr. Dinwitty cleared his throat. “Actually, that is why we are here, Miss Woolson. Our search has proved to be unsuccessful.”

  He gave his wife a nervous glance, as if to make certain that she was still in agreement, before going on. She responded with the barest nod of her head.

  “We have come to ask if you will take the case,” he continued.

  I studied my visitors for a long moment. Judging by his wife’s derisive attitude toward me, it was clear that she had agreed to return to my office because there was no other choice. Evidently, no other law firm in town was willing to go up against Mr. Ruiz and his planned bullring. I had to ask myself why. I could not believe that their reluctance was due entirely to City Hall’s curious support of the plan. Or perhaps not so curious, I decided. Money could be a powerful persuader, and Mayor Blake and his big bugs (as Papa referred to them) expected the arena to bring the city considerable income.

  “Will you accept our case, Miss Woolson?” Mr. Dinwitty prompted when I did not immediately give him an answer.

  Once again, I decided to be blunt. “I will have to look into the situation before I can give you a definitive answer, Mr. Dinwitty.”

  “Just what do you need to look into, Miss Woolson?” Celestia Dinwitty inquired acerbically. “Indeed, given the circumstances, you should be grateful to receive such an opportunity.”

  “And what circumstances might those be?” I asked, meeting the woman’s haughty gaze. As if objecting to my tone, the little dog squirmed in its mistress’s arms and uttered a series of angry yips.

  “Miss Woolson!” the woman said sharply. “You are a brazen and foolish young woman to forsake the role God has ordained for the feminine gender. You eschew husband and children in order to push yourself into a man’s world, where nature will never permit you to succeed. These are the circumstances to which I refer. You should be grateful that individuals of such high moral purpose as my husband and myself should seek your assistance.”

  “I see,” I answered simply, refusing to be baited into yet another debate concerning my life’s calling. I wholly accepted that the path I had chosen would not be easy to traverse, nor its goal speedily achieved. Inevitably, the prize would go to she who persevered.

  “Be that as it may, Mrs. Dinwitty,” I went on, “I shall have to give the matter some thought. As you have undoubtedly been told by other law firms you’ve visited, this is a highly unusual situation. And since city government appears all too ready to permit Mr. Ruiz to build his bullring, it will be a difficult case to win. I will have to examine San Francisco ordinances regarding the construction of such arenas within the city limits. That information, of course, will be vital in deciding how to construct the case.”

  Even Mrs. Dinwitty could hardly fault this plan of action and wisely said nothing. For his part, her husband seemed to take my strategy with hopeful optimism.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, rising from his chair. “I understand your reasoning. We can only hope that your inquiries prove encouraging for our cause.”

  I was somewhat surprised to find myself hoping the same thing. I found women like Celestia Dinwitty tiresome to deal with, given that they were so utterly immovable in their views. I also abhorred the notion that Ruiz might be denied his permit based on his Mexican heritage. But the thought of a bullfighting ring in the heart of San Francisco overrode these considerations.

  “I will give you my answer by the day after tomorrow if that is acceptable, Mr. Dinwitty,” I told the man.

  He appeared disappointed that I would not immediately commit myself to the case, but finally he nodded his agreement to this plan.

  “We look forward to hearing from you, then,” he said, this time not bothering to consult his wife. “I pray you will have promising news.”

  * * *

  I returned home that evening to find my mother appealing to Charles to do something about his younger brother. Evidently, Samuel had taken advantage of the time Mama, Celia, and I had been gone to move to the library and work on his book. I’m sure he’d intended to be back in bed before we returned from Telegraph Hill, but unfortunately he had fallen asleep, head lying on his arms atop the table. Which was where Mama discovered him upon her arrival home.

  Charles was arguing that as no real harm had resulted from Samuel’s time in the library, they should probably not make too much of the incident. In exasperation, Mama turned to me for help.

  “Your brothers are hopeless! Even Charles, who should know better. I want you to talk to Samuel. Perhaps he’ll listen to you. You must convince him that he needs to remain in bed until his wound is healed.”

  I agreed but doubted that anything I said would persuade him to follow our mother’s rules. We were very alike in that respect, neither of us comfortable with the necessity of having to remain idle for any length of time. I knew that my brother’s primary focus was to put the final touches to his book, and he most likely considered his convalescence an excellent opportunity to accomplish this. Still, I had given Mama my word, so talk to him I would.

  My first opportunity to speak to him alone did not present itself until after dinner that night. As ordered, he was sitting up in his bed, surrounded by a sheaf of papers, magazines, and books.

  “It was a battle to talk Mama into allowing me to have even these,” he declared in frustration. “And I know full well that you’re supposed to convince me to stay in this sodding room until I’ve healed. Well, I’m feeling better every day, and I’ll go out of my mind if I’m forced to spend all of my time in bed!”

  He grinned, obviously relieved to have vented his frustration. “So, enough of that. Tell me what you learned on Telegraph Hill. Did you come across any likely suspects?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” I said, displaying my own frustration. “I spoke to everyone on the Hill who was at Remy’s house that night, except Remy himself, who I assume was at his newspaper office.”

  I went on to describe the substance of each conversation I’d had that afternoon, including my distasteful exchange with Claude Dunn.

  “He is one of the most self-absorbed, insensitive men I have ever had the misfortune to meet,” I said by way of conclusion. “He gives no indication that he cares one whit for that poor baby, but wails incessantly about how he is to survive without his wife to take care of him and pay the bills.”

  “He actually said that?”

  “Oh, yes. He did indeed.” I felt a rekindling of the rage I had experienced in Dunn’s house. “The heartless man went so far as to say he hadn’t wanted the child in the first place. He claimed it had all been Lucy’s idea, and that she was supposed to take care of it. I think that was what annoyed me the most, how he referred to his son as an it, and the poor babe lying not five feet away in his cradle.”

  Samuel gave a soft whistle and shook his head. “I’ve never particularly liked Claude Dunn, not only because of the shabby way he treated his wife, but because he’s so unprincipled when it comes to his work. I’ve personally known him to steal someone else’s story, then lie through his teeth claiming that it was his to begin with. More than one reporter has accused him of distorting facts to make a piece more salable. All in all, he has a seedy reputation.”

  I was considering these revelations when our butler, Edis, knocked on the study door to announce that Mr. Campbell was here to see Mr. Samuel. My brother grinned, sat up straighter in his bed, and directed Edis to show his guest in.

  As usual, Robert bounded into the room with a rush of energy, and I stifled a smile at the pained expression on Edis’s well-mannered face.

  “Shall I bring coffee, Mr. Samuel?” the butler inquired. “Or perhaps something stronger?”

  “I would infinitely prefer something stronger, Edis,” S
amuel replied, looking regretful. “But I’d prefer not to do battle again tonight with my mother. So you had better make it just plain coffee, thank you.”

  Edis nodded his gray head and closed the door silently.

  “So, Robert,” my brother continued cheerfully, “to what do I owe this pleasure? Or have you come to check up on me, too?”

  Robert pulled a chair closer to Samuel’s bed and sat down. “Yes, I met your mother on my way in. I was instructed that under no circumstances were you to be troubled with anything more taxing than today’s weather or the progress of the Golden Gate Park project. By the way, have you any interest in either of these topics?”

  Samuel laughed, then winced and placed a hand on his injured shoulder. “Precisely none. I’m far more intrigued by Sarah’s visit this afternoon to Telegraph Hill. I’ve been quizzing her about who might be responsible for this,” he added, nodding to his wound.

  Robert’s face darkened and he glared at me. “Good Lord, Sarah, tell me you weren’t foolish enough to return to that godforsaken Hill! What if someone had taken a shot at you this time?”

  “Not that again!” I exclaimed, rolling my eyes. “Be sensible, Robert. There is no reason to believe that anyone, whether living on Telegraph Hill or not, would want to shoot me. I admit that I may have ruffled a few feathers since I began my law practice, but hardly to that extent.”

  “May have?” Samuel responded, chuckling softly as if mindful of not jarring his injury. “That’s an understatement.” He turned to my colleague. “She’s right, though, Robert. I know most of the people who live on Telegraph Hill, at least the ones who belong to the writing community. Except for Mortimer Remy, Stephen Parke, and Emmett Gardiner, I doubt if any of them had even met her before Wilde’s lecture. And I can think of no reason why any of them would want to see Sarah dead.”

  “I forgot to mention one of the strangest things I saw today,” I said, suddenly remembering. “It was when we were leaving to come home. I spied Dunn talking to Ozzie Foldger behind his house.”