“Are we workin' on a new case, then, Miss Sarah?” he eagerly inquired, eyeing the items he'd just arranged with intense curiosity. “I knew somethin' was up when yer note said I was to wait fer you down the street and not in front of yer house like usual.”
I was at a momentary loss as to how to explain the situation to the boy, without explaining my mother's keen interest in my social life.
“I'm going to the theater tonight, Eddie,” I explained, as he assisted me into the carriage. “Since I won't have time to come home after work, I thought it would be easier to change my garments at the office.”
Eddie's face fell. “Dang it all, anyway. I thought maybe we was investigatin' them murders you and Mister Samuel was talkin' about the other day. You know, them two fellers what got their heads bashed in.”
“No, Eddie,” I told him, cringing at the all too vivid picture this brought to mind. “However, we do have several errands to run after we drop these things off at my office.” I refrained from explaining that if Robert were in court, he would be playing a much more prominent role in the morning events than I found comfortable. “Please take me there first.”
“Righto,” he called out, closing the carriage door and bolting up onto the driver's seat.
“Oh, and Eddie,” I called out to him. “I would appreciate it if you would deliver us there in one piece, if you please!”
As usual, the lad mostly ignored my admonition to drive in a safe and sane manner, and we arrived at my Sutter Street office far quicker than I would have liked. After we had taken the clothes upstairs and hung them in my back room library, I gathered up the papers I had completed for Robert, and instructed Eddie to take us to Joseph Shepard's offices, which were located on Clay and Kearny streets.
The rain was coming down in sheets as Eddie reined in his dappled-gray horse in front of the familiar building where I had toiled as associate attorney for the first nine months of my legal career. Instructing the boy to stay with the carriage, I made my way quickly through the downpour and entered the lobby.
Utilizing Elisha Otis's hydraulic lift, or “rising room” as they were generally called, I exited at the sixth floor and walked to the imposing oak door engraved with the name Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton, and Hall. I paused for a moment to straighten my suit, then opened the door and marched boldly inside.
Hubert Perkins, the annoying little clerk who guarded the door like a fire-spewing dragon, looked up to frown as I dared to invade his hallowed territory. Mr. Perkins and I had never seen eye to eye on a variety of subjects, including his disdain for any woman presumptuous enough to consider herself an attorney. The few times I had encountered him since terminating my employment at Shepard's firm had done nothing to improve our relationship. If anything, he invariably greeted me as if I were carrying the Black Plague with me.
“Good morning, Mr. Perkins,” I said, not bothering to summon up a smile. “Is Mr. Campbell in this morning, or is he still in court?”
“He is in, Miss Woolson, but unless you have an appointment I fear it is impossible for you to—”
Paying no heed to the man's sputtering protests, I sailed past his desk without further comment. Head held high, I marched down the hall toward the closet-sized room that had once been my office, and which now belonged to my friend and colleague.
“Good heavens,” Robert exclaimed, as I knocked once then entered the room. “Sarah, what are you doing here?”
“I'm delighted to find that you are not in court this morning, Robert,” I said, handing him the paperwork I had recently completed. “I assume that Mr. Lansing has sufficiently recovered to rejoin Mr. Shepard as second chair?”
“Yes, but why—”
“I have come to request a favor,” I interrupted, not wishing to remain in this claustrophobic room one minute longer than necessary. I removed Robert's long coat from a hook behind his desk and handed it to him. “Since Mr. Shepard is out of the office, he cannot object if you accompany me on a brief errand.”
He stared at me in openmouthed astonishment. “What are you going on about? I have been out of the office for two days. I have work to do.”
“I appreciate that, Robert, which is why I'm prepared to help you to complete it, at no charge, of course.” I crossed to his desk and began thumbing through the array of papers spread out untidily in every direction. “In return, I would appreciate it if you would give me an hour of your time, perhaps two at the outside.”
“To do what?” he demanded. “Dash it all, woman, I can't just up and leave the office because you've gotten some crazy bee in your bonnet. And for God's sake, stop rummaging through my papers!”
It took me only a few minutes to pack some of the work into a folder and tie the clasp.
“The Tanner file must be finished by the close of business today,” Robert protested. “Shepard expects it on his desk when he returns from court.”
“Don't worry, Robert,” I promised. “It will be ready by four this afternoon. Now please put on your coat. Eddie is downstairs waiting in the brougham.”
As was his habit, Eddie drove with his usual breakneck abandon, but for once I was actually grateful. It served to take Robert's mind off where we were headed. In fact, we were within three blocks of our destination before he relaxed his grip on the seat, and finally seemed to take notice of the neighborhood.
“Where are we going, anyway?” he asked, looking out the carriage window.
“You'll see in a moment,” I answered evasively. “we're almost there.”
He stared at me suspiciously. “I don't like that look in your eye.”
I pretended to gaze at the shops we were passing, and with a soft harrumph, he fell silent. When Eddie reined up in front of the address Samuel had given me for Madam Valentine's parlor house, I was relieved to see that it looked little different from other houses lining the street. Like its neighbors, it had probably been built sometime in the late sixties or early seventies. It took up much of the narrow lot, and was constructed mainly of wood, with a goodly number of slat-sided bay windows and, in my opinion, far too much exterior ornamentation. It appeared, however—at least from the outside—to be a perfectly respectable residence, and I wondered if Samuel could have inadvertently given me an incorrect address.
Looking up and down the street, Robert said, “Who lives in this house? I hope you haven't dragged me along on another of your wild-goose chases!”
Again without answering, I allowed Eddie to assist me down from the carriage. It was apparent from the eager expression on his narrow face that he had taken other fares to this house. He certainly looked as if he were well aware of its line of business.
“I know Annie Watkins, one of the maids what works here, Miss Sarah,” he told me, his thin voice rising in excitement. “Want me to go round back and fetch her? She's sure to let us in, even if it is so early in the mornin'.”
This comment took me aback, and I consulted my timepiece. It was just going on ten o'clock. For the first time since hatching my little plan, I realized that given the hours required when running a business of this sort, the, er, ladies in residence undoubtedly slept in late of a morning. Ten o'clock—which was, after all, past mid-morning—hardly seemed early by my standards. Madam Valentine's establishment, however, most likely did not follow a conventional time schedule. For a moment I considered postponing my errand until later that afternoon, but one glance at Robert's wary face made me realize the unlikelihood of prying him out of his office for a second time that day, especially if he learned I required his company to visit a brothel!
“Yes, Eddie,” I told the boy at length. “I would appreciate it if you could persuade your friend to allow us inside.”
He was off and running before the words left my mouth, and I saw Robert's expression grow ever more suspicious.
“What's going on, Sarah? You have purposely evaded answering my questions. Who lives in this house, and why are we calling on them at this ungodly hour of the morning?”
/> “It's nearly ten o'clock, Robert. I would hardly characterize that as an ungodly hour.” I attempted an innocent smile, hoping it would put him off until Eddie reappeared with someone who might open the front door.
“Oh, you think not?” His tone was derisive. “Since when has San Francisco society started paying social calls before lunch? Even I know that is hardly the done thing.”
No, it's not, I silently agreed, and felt a cold shiver run down my spine. Unfortunately, the delay in getting inside the house was causing me to entertain second thoughts about this mission. What in heaven's name was I doing here? Proper women took care to avoid being seen anywhere near establishments of this sort. Much less maneuver their way inside! What would my mother say if she knew her only daughter was visiting a brothel, with or without an escort? For that matter, what would my father say? Once again I'd allowed my fervor to help a client ride roughshod over my good judgment.
Thankfully the front door to the house was flung open before I completely lost my nerve. With a self-satisfied grin, Eddie beckoned us inside. Behind him stood a pretty, plump, and obviously apprehensive young parlor maid, wearing a spotlessly clean and stiffly starched apron and cap.
“This is most irregular, ma'am,” she said, nervously twisting the corner of her apron until it became hopelessly wrinkled. Her dark eyes regarded me as if I were a creature from another planet, who had suddenly materialized outside her door and was seeking permission to launch an invasion. “I don't know what Madam Valentine will say if I let you in.”
“Bet she ain't used to ladies like you showin' up at her door,” Eddie put in with a suggestive smirk.
“What do you mean ‘ladies like you’?” Robert asked, guardedly eyeing the boy's expression.
Eddie gave Robert a sly wink. “You know, Mr. Campbell, the kinda place where a bloke has to pay a mighty grist of Vs and Xs to, ah . . .” He glanced uncomfortably at me, then finished cautiously, “To, ah, spend time with a gal.”
Robert raised his rusty-colored eyebrows until they very nearly met his unruly hairline. “For the love of all that's holy, Sarah, what in tarnation is this boy going on about? I thought you and Samuel were teaching him to speak proper English.”
It was clearly time to tell the truth and shame the devil, as Papa was wont put it. “This is a parlor house, Robert,” I explained. Doing my best to appear confident, I quickly stepped inside before either the maid or my beleaguered friend could stop me. “It is also known as a brothel, or a bawdy house, albeit one of the higher-quality establishments of its kind,” I added to appease the maid, who appeared affronted by my explanation.
Robert opened his mouth, but seemed too dazed to speak.
“Ain'tcha gonna come in, Mr. Campbell?” Eddie asked, holding the door open wider.
“Yes, do come in, Robert,” I told him, wondering if I would have to forcibly pull him in by the coat sleeve. “You are making a spectacle of yourself standing out there huffing like a beached blowfish.” Turning to the little maid, I said, “Please be so kind as to inform Madam Valentine that she has visitors. Where would you care for us to wait?”
Appearing as taken aback by this perfectly normal request as by my colleague's peculiar behavior, the young woman reached out with a slender arm, and somewhat reluctantly pointed in the direction of a parlor leading off the entrance hall.
“Thank you,” I said, then turned to our young cabbie. “Please wait for us in the carriage, Eddie. You might want to make profitable use of your time by reading chapters eight and nine of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.”
The pleased-as-pudding smile on Eddie's face vanished, replaced by an expression of profound consternation. “But Miss Sarah, I got us in. I kin help you—”
“Yes, I'm sure you could, Eddie,” I said, calmly but firmly nudging him out the door. “However, Mr. Campbell and I have a delicate matter to discuss with Madam Valentine, and we require privacy. We should not be long.”
Before the boy could conjure up any further excuses to protest his abrupt dismissal, I closed the door firmly behind him.
“Stop gawking and come along, Robert,” I said, swallowing down my own nerves and walking determinedly across the large foyer toward the room indicated by the maid. “I believe I see a fire in the grate. We should be able to wait comfortably in there.”
I could well understand Robert's discomfort. To be honest, I felt as if I were entering a strange world, completely outside of my experience, or indeed any frame of reference I could call to mind. If I were landing on the moon itself, I doubt I could have experienced any more trepidation than I was currently suffering.
As we made our way through the foyer, my fears gradually lessened as I took notice of our surroundings. This was hardly what I had expected. The dark wood of the vestibule floor was polished until it gleamed like a mirror, and was partially covered with an elegant, and obviously expensive, Persian carpet. Overhead was an exquisitely painted ceiling which, judging by its ornate and colorful design, might have been imported from Italy. One of the walls featured a collection of antique pistols, artfully arranged inside a glass cabinet. Directly opposite the guns hung an oil painting of a beautiful nude, wearing nothing but a single gold bracelet, her lovely eyes gazing out over a peaceful lake, as if lost in dreamy contemplation. The brush strokes and skillful use of color suggested the artist might be the gifted young Impressionist Pierre-Auguste Renoir. Good Lord, I thought. Could that be possible?
To the left of the painting was an enormous, gracefully curved wooden staircase. The intricately carved balustrade led up to the second floor and, I assumed, the rooms where the resident “ladies” took their gentlemen. The door the maid indicated led off the vestibule to the left, and turned out to be a large, luxuriously furnished parlor. And indeed, as I had glimpsed from the foyer, there was a welcoming fire crackling inside an intricately carved, white marble hearth.
Following behind me as I slowly made my way past a Flemish tapestry, and a larger-than-life reproduction of the Venus de Milo, I could hear Robert muttering beneath his breath as we passed one treasure after another. Obviously, he was as surprised as I was to find a bordello this splendidly—and expensively—furnished. In fact, were it not for one too many gilded mirrors on the walls, and a preponderance of red velvet chairs and sofas, Madam Valentine's parlor house would have made any Nob Hill millionaire proud.
“This place is like a museum, or a bloody palace,” he said, standing in front of a particularly erotic painting of a generously endowed nude woman, who appeared about to be ravished by a muscular warrior. “Do you suppose any of this art is genuine?”
“I have no idea,” I answered, tracing a finger along the base of an enameled silver kerosene lamp. “They appear to be authentic, but I'm hardly an art expert.”
We were still admiring the room's numerous and unique objets d'art, when an attractive, if slightly disheveled, young woman peered in at us from the foyer, tittering like a silly schoolgirl when she spied Robert. She was wearing a flimsy—indeed, almost transparent!—nightdress, which did nothing whatsoever to hide the curvaceous body which lay beneath. A moment later, another giggling girl appeared, then another. Soon half a dozen young women, in various degrees of undress, had gathered in the foyer to stare at us, their droll expressions making me feel as if Robert and I were freaks of nature who had inadvertently ventured inside their lair.
“Hello, handsome,” the first girl chirped, licking her lips and posing seductively for Robert's benefit. “Why don't you come upstairs and I'll show you my own art collection.”
“Shut yer trap, Sally,” one of the other girls told the first one with a low laugh. “Mr. Handsome has set his cap for me, haven't you, darlin'?”
“Look at all that red hair,” teased another. “Do you have as much fire in your furnace as you do on your head, Mr. Handsome?”
The other girls seemed to find this hilariously funny. As if by silent command, they all began thrusting out their bosoms and wriggling their derrieres
playfully, as if putting on a private performance for my embarrassed companion. Robert's face had turned beet red, but he appeared strangely incapable of tearing his eyes off the tittering women.
“Robert!” I exclaimed, not in the least amused by this crude display nor, I must admit, by Robert's reaction to it.
He jumped at least two inches off the floor at the sound of my voice; it was as if hearing his name spoken aloud had awakened him from some kind of trance. He looked so panic-stricken that for a moment I feared he might be about to bolt from the room. Only the fact that he would have to pass through the gaggle of women in the doorway—who were now making wagers as to the size of various body parts, based on his height and muscular structure—prevented him from fleeing.
“Ladies! Remember yourselves,” came a commanding voice from behind the young women. There was instant silence as every girl turned as one to watch a tall, regal-looking woman approach from the back of the house. “Where is your dignity? I have trained you better than this.”
There were murmurs of, “Yes, Madam Valentine.” “We didn't mean no harm, Madam Valentine.” “It was all in fun, Madam Valentine.” Then, without being told, the girls turned and scampered up the stairs.
The tall woman cast her dark, penetrating eyes onto Robert and me, her outwardly calm demeanor betraying more than a hint of suspicion. She was on the heavy side, but was so splendidly girdled that one received the impression of a narrow waist and slender hips. She was wearing a beautiful crimson-colored satin kimono, embroidered with dragons and exotic birds.
Despite the early hour, her flaming red hair, which, judging by its unnatural shade, had undoubtedly come from a henna bottle, was stylishly coiffed and arranged atop her stately head. Her robe fell open at the bosom to reveal deep cleavage and a small black beauty mark strategically placed above her right breast. In a somewhat flashy, overstated way, she was a very attractive woman. Moreover, she possessed such self-confidence and poise, I had no doubt she would immediately take command of any room she entered.
Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 13