Death on Telegraph Hill Page 11

  “What?” Samuel asked in surprise. “Did you hear what they were saying?”

  “No, I was too far away. But I’m almost certain I saw Foldger hand Dunn some money. It appeared to be a fairly substantial amount.”

  “Good heavens,” Robert muttered. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

  Samuel considered this startling news. “Even if Foldger’s paper bought one of Dunn’s stories, Ozzie wouldn’t be the one to pay him.” He looked at me. “Did you see Dunn hand over an article?”

  “No, and they were behaving furtively,” I said, “constantly looking around to make sure they were alone. As I say, it was all a bit bizarre.”

  We discussed the matter at some length, but when we could make no sense of the curious exchange, we eventually returned to what little I had learned on my trip to Telegraph Hill that afternoon.

  “Everyone I spoke to either claims to have seen nothing untoward that night, or that the shooting was an accident,” I said, concluding my report. “It seems as if a great many people living on that Hill own guns.”

  “A great many people in San Francisco own guns,” Samuel commented dryly.

  “Yes, but only one of them was used to shoot at you,” Robert put in. He thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you suppose the people you talked to today are right, Sarah? Could it actually have been an accident?”

  I sighed. “I would like to think so, but it seems improbable, not to mention careless. Who shoots their gun at night, marauding foxes or no?”

  “Someone who’s had too much to drink?” Robert opined.

  Samuel thought a moment, then nodded slowly. “That’s certainly a possibility.”

  “If that’s the case, then the shooter could be anyone living there,” said Robert, “not just one of the people who were present at Wilde’s reading.”

  “If that’s the situation, we may never find him,” I said, feeling suddenly deflated.

  Samuel read my expression correctly. “If it was an accident, Sarah, we can only hope that the shooter has learned his lesson, and won’t take any more potshots in the dark.”

  “Yes,” I agreed without much enthusiasm. “That would be the most satisfactory ending to this awful business.”

  “It also means that you need not pay any more visits to Telegraph Hill,” Robert said.

  “If it was merely some fool shooting off his gun because he couldn’t hold his liquor, or because there was a stray possum in his yard, then there’s no reason why I should avoid the place,” I told my colleague reasonably. “Especially in the daylight.”

  “Why must you be so all-fired stubborn?” Robert asked, rather too loudly.

  “And why do you feel it necessary to meddle in my affairs?” I shot back more or less automatically. “May I remind you that where I go, or do not go, is none of your concern.”

  We both turned to find Samuel regarding us in amusement. “My dear little sister, for a woman of your intelligence you can be remarkably dense at times. The reason Robert meddles in your affairs is because he fears, and not without good reason, that one day you will poke your overinquisitive nose into a matter beyond your ability to control, resulting in it being lopped off.”

  I saw by Robert’s sheepish expression that my brother had accurately described his concern. He started to say something, although whether it was to confirm or deny Samuel’s assertion, I could not guess. In the end he remained silent.

  “You have an exceptionally good friend here, Sarah,” Samuel went on. The amusement on his face was gone, although I could not fathom the expression that had taken its place. Was I missing something? I wondered. Was there more to his words than I had discerned? If so, it was not like Samuel to speak in riddles. “A friend, I might add, whom you would do well not to take for granted.”

  Feeling strangely discomfited not only by my brother’s words, but by the peculiar expression on Robert’s face, I was about to change the direction of the conversation when Edis knocked softly on the door. With his usual care, he entered the room carrying a silver tray containing cups, saucers, and a fresh pot of coffee. After he had carefully set out the china on the side table, we thanked him, then waited until he had left the room to resume our discussion.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Dinwitty visited my office this afternoon,” I said, pouring out the coffee. “They’ve changed their minds and have asked me to take the case.”

  “What case?” Samuel asked, and I belatedly remembered that he’d been fighting for his life in the hospital on the occasion of the Dinwittys’ initial visit.

  I described Ricardo Ruiz’s plan to build a bullfighting ring in the city and the San Francisco SPCA’s opposition. When I finished, he regarded me in astonishment.

  “A bullring in San Francisco? Is that possible? Will City Hall even sanction such a thing?”

  “According to the Dinwittys, City Hall is very close to permitting the construction.” I went on to tell him about the earlier bullring that stood across from Mission Dolores until the early 1850s.

  My brother shook his head. “That’s news to me. But I suppose things must have been different when the California territory was under Mexican rule.”

  “Not so different if City Hall is prepared to allow a second bullring in the city,” Robert commented.

  “So, are you going to take the case?” asked Samuel.

  “I have yet to decide,” I replied. “I told them I would have to look into the matter before I made a commitment.”

  Both men eyed me suspiciously. Robert spoke first.

  “That attitude is out of character for you, Sarah. This is the sort of case you would ordinarily jump at. After all, they do kill the bulls in these places. It has always struck me as a rather barbarous sport, although I confess I’ve never actually attended a bullfight.”

  “Neither have I,” Samuel admitted. “Nor have I felt an inclination to attend one.” He sat thinking for a moment, then asked, “I take it that this Ruiz fellow is a Mexican citizen? And a wealthy one at that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “According to the Dinwittys, the Ruizes are one of the most powerful families in Mexico. And Ricardo Ruiz seems familiar with San Francisco’s city government. In fact, he implied that he enjoyed considerable influence with City Hall.”

  “What about this land he claims to own?” Robert asked. “What do you know about it?”

  “Not much, yet,” I said. “Ruiz maintains that his family has owned the property for years, and that he has a right to construct whatever he wishes there.”

  Samuel regarded me thoughtfully. “In what part of the city is the land located?”

  “All the Dinwittys could tell me was that it was somewhere in the Mission District. I will have to look it up, along with any possible impediments I might be able to use to block the project.”

  “And what if you don’t find any impediments?” my brother wanted to know.

  I hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure.”

  “All right, Sarah, enough of this,” Robert put in. “What’s going on in that devious head of yours? You’ve never allowed a little matter like an absence of facts to stop you from taking a case. I can’t imagine you passing up the opportunity to save the life of a single imperiled animal, much less an entire herd of the blasted beasts.”

  I looked from Robert to my brother, who was regarding me with an amused expression, then sighed and decided I might as well tell the truth. “I’m not well pleased with other factions who oppose the bullring. Despite my distaste for the project, I have no wish to align myself with them.”

  “What factions?” Samuel asked, looking interested. Then his face brightened. “Wait, don’t tell me. I should have guessed it straight off. There are certain groups in the city who are opposed to the bullring based on Ruiz’s nationality, am I correct?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Several groups, actually, the most prominent being Denis Kearney and his sandlotters.”

  “Oh,” my brother said, drawing out the word. “That mak
es matters tricky, doesn’t it?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “While I agree with their position on the issue, it’s been arrived at for all the wrong reasons. I want nothing to do with them, or their racism.”

  “Surely turning the case down because of Kearney and his gang of rowdies is akin to cutting off your nose to spite your face,” Robert ventured. “If you believe the case has merit, you should pursue it, no matter the reasons others give for their opposition.”

  “If only it were that simple,” I told him. “Because of my work with the Chinese, Denis Kearney has openly declared himself to be my enemy. He will take great pleasure in denouncing me as a liar and every sort of hypocrite if I give the slightest indication of backing him in this cause.”

  When neither man seemed able to refute this logic, I continued, “As I told the Dinwittys, I have not yet made my decision. I’ll be in a better position to do so after I’ve looked more closely into the matter. Until then, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Yes,” Samuel agreed at length. “Moreover, if what you say is true about Ruiz holding the deed to that land, you may find it impossible to win the case in any event.”

  Robert was shaking his head. “Still, a bullring in San Francisco. It’s outrageous.”

  “When I’m back on my feet, I’ll see what I can find out about Ruiz and his family,” Samuel promised. “Speaking of which…” He shot a hasty glance at the door and lowered his voice. “Oscar Wilde is making his second appearance at Platt’s Hall tomorrow night and I plan to be there.”

  When Robert and I both drew breath to object, he hurried on, “Please, don’t make a fuss about it. I’m sure that a fair number of the Telegraph Hill writing community will be there. It will provide the perfect opportunity to watch their reactions when they see me.” He smiled, regarding Robert and me as if the matter were settled. “All right, all right, the two of you can accompany me if that will make you feel better.”

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” I exclaimed. “You’re but a few days out of the hospital, Samuel, and can barely sit in a chair without wincing in pain. You’re not fit to go anywhere, much less to a crowded public hall. Furthermore, if you think Mama will ever agree to such an outrageous plan, whether Robert and I are with you or not, then that bullet damaged your brain as well as your shoulder.”

  My brother sat forward in his bed as if to offer a further argument, then almost immediately gasped and fell back onto his pillows. Looking at his pale, strained face, I was overcome with sympathy.

  “I can understand why you’d want to attend Wilde’s lecture, Samuel,” I went on in a calmer tone, “but if you suffer a relapse, it will only prolong your recovery.” I shot a quick glance at Robert, then came to a decision. “If you’d like, Robert and I will go to Platt’s Hall in your stead tomorrow night. But you will remain here, in that bed, gracefully submitting to our mother’s loving care.”

  Robert appeared taken aback by this offer. He started to speak, but after a moment he seemed to think better of it and merely nodded his agreement.

  “And that is that, brother dear,” I said, making it clear that I would brook no further argument on the subject.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  To my surprise, Platt’s Hall—a spacious music, theatrical, and public meeting facility located on the northeast corner of Bush and Montgomery Streets—was filled to near capacity the following night. The reason for my amazement was that the topic of Oscar Wilde’s lecture that night had been widely publicized in newspapers and emblazoned on numerous playbills posted throughout the city: “Art Decoration! Being the Practical and Application of the Esthetic Theory to Everyday Home Life and Art Ornamentation!”

  After the mixed reviews, and in several instances outright ridicule, Wilde had received upon his first visit to Platt’s Hall shortly after his arrival in San Francisco, I would have expected the citizens of our fair city to be thoroughly weary of the poet and, to my mind, his overrated Aesthetic Movement. It baffled me that so many men in particular, a good number of them residing in boardinghouses and hotels, had actually paid good money to be told how to live their lives in accordance with some artists’ and writers’ ideas of the house beautiful!

  If I looked forward to tonight’s program with frank skepticism, my companion made not the slightest attempt to mask his annoyance, moaning ad infinitum that I had coerced him into listening to a blasted fool lecture him about how to decorate a house he didn’t even own!

  He sat beside me now making desultory comments as he scrutinized a pamphlet that had been handed out to attendees upon their arrival at the hall. The paper contained a brief description of Oscar Wilde and his recently published book of poems, his American tour, and information concerning the Aesthetic Movement.

  “We are not here to listen to Wilde’s lecture,” I reminded him in a low but firm voice, weary of his grousing. If I hadn’t required an escort tonight, I would have happily attended Wilde’s lecture alone. But the unreasonable, not to mention cumbersome, dictates of society would not permit a woman—at least not a respectable woman—to venture out at night on her own. Ridiculous, of course, and a rule that I had successfully avoided on several past occasions—but there you have it. Even in San Francisco, some standards, however outdated, continued to be une affaire réglée, a matter that has been settled.

  “I’ll grant you that Samuel’s idea to come here tonight was out of the question, but he had a good point,” I went on. “It’s a splendid opportunity to see who is in attendance from Telegraph Hill, and observe their behavior.”

  Robert did not appear convinced. “That makes no sense to me. If they’ve already heard the man speak, why bother to listen to him again? You can’t really believe that if the shooter does make an appearance, he’s going to be so overwhelmed with guilt that he’ll jump up and make a public confession?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Wilde will be leaving town in a few days to continue his tour, so this is an opportunity not to be wasted. By the way, the reason writers from Telegraph Hill may come tonight is so that they can be seen by the right people, and perhaps contrive an introduction to an editor or a publisher.” I glanced about the room, hoping to see a familiar face. “I realize you don’t know any of these people, Robert, but at least try to look interested in the lecture while I do my job.”

  “Have you recognized any of your suspects yet?” he asked gloomily.

  I nodded and inclined my head toward a young couple located a row or two to our right. “Do you see that man and woman sitting across the aisle? She’s wearing a green gown with cream-colored lace framing her neck. He’s dressed in a black long-coat and dark gray trousers.”

  Robert looked where I was gesturing. “Yes, I see them. Who are they?”

  “He’s Stephen Parke, a writer friend of my brother’s who lives several houses down from Remy’s cottage. The woman is Isabel Freiberg, who also lives on Telegraph Hill. The two claim to be in love, but the match is strongly opposed by her father, Solomon Freiberg.”

  “They were at Wilde’s lecture the night Samuel was shot?”

  “Yes; however, they paid more attention to each other than to the poet.”

  “Would Parke have any reason to shoot either Aleric or Samuel?” he asked, gawking so openly at the couple that I nudged him on the shoulder.

  “Ouch,” he said, rubbing his upper arm. “Why did you do that?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Robert, you were staring at them so hard, your eyes could have bored holes through their heads.” My attention was suddenly caught by a middle-aged gentleman walking purposefully down the aisle from the back of the room. He had pale, washed-out blue eyes, a full head of graying hair, and a large salt-and-pepper mustache.

  “Who is he?” Robert asked, following my gaze as the man swept past us on his way to the front of the hall.

  “That’s Jonathan Aleric, the author of An Uncivil War. It was extremely popular following the War Between the States. He’s also the owner and publishe
r of the Bay Area Express. His newspaper and Remy’s San Francisco Weekly are bitter rivals. They had a heated argument that night at Remy’s cottage.”

  Memory sparked on Robert’s suntanned face. “I remember now. At the hospital, you and Sergeant Lewis wondered whether Remy might have been shooting at Aleric and accidentally hit Samuel instead.”

  “It’s true that there’s no love lost between the two men,” I admitted reluctantly. “Yet I cannot imagine Mortimer Remy as a killer, regardless of the animosity he might feel toward someone.”

  “Your faith in the man is admirable, yet it may be misplaced. If not Remy, who else had a motive for shooting Aleric?”

  “For all we know, he may have dozens of enemies. And just because George and I discussed the possibility that he was the target doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  Robert gave a sigh of frustration. “Then who else could have been the intended victim? Samuel insists that he can think of no one who might want to see him dead. So, if the intended victim wasn’t your brother, then it had to be either you or Jonathan Aleric. Since you adamantly deny it could be you, that leaves only Aleric. And from what you’ve told me about their newspaper rivalry, not to mention the scandal involving Remy’s late wife, he has more than enough reason to want to see Aleric dead.” With a small grunt of satisfaction, he sat back in his chair, apparently pleased that he had proved his case.

  I started to rebut this argument, then sat quietly for a moment, giving serious thought to what he had said. Why, I asked myself, was I so certain that Mortimer Remy was incapable of taking someone’s life? I was aware that Samuel held the publisher in high esteem; after all, he had been the first person to purchase one of my brother’s crime articles. In truth, however, I knew very little about the man. Had I allowed his ready smile and smooth southern charm to influence my opinion? I calculated how many times I had actually been in Remy’s company and realized that it numbered no more than two or three occasions, hardly enough to form an unbiased judgment of any individual. And as Robert pointed out, Remy had valid reasons for hating his rival. Good Lord! What if Jonathan Aleric had been the intended victim?