“Hmm,” he said, giving me a teasing, sidelong look. “All things considered, it promises to be an interesting evening, don't you agree?”
When I reached city jail, I was unhappy to see that Fan Gow and Lee Yup's cell was as odiferous as it had been upon my initial visit. Once again the jailers had allowed the chamber pot to overflow with waste, and the air smelled positively foul. Sun Kin Lu, who had accompanied me into the jail, wrinkled his nose and hastily covered his mouth with a piece of cloth. I did not bother. I was so angry that I marched to the cell door and called out for the guard, demanding that he immediately empty the bucket.
“And wash it out with soap and water before you bring it back,” I ordered. “How would you like to be forced to live in such filth?”
Grumbling beneath his breath, the sullen jailer shuffled unhurriedly over to the pail and picked it up. As he carried it across the cell, I thought I caught him mumbling the words “ain't like Johns are really human or nothin',” before he exited the cell, banging the door closed behind him.
Fan and Lee had sprung to their feet the moment Sun Kin Lu and I entered their cell, both indicating that I should take a seat on their respective cot. I smiled with a smidgen of reluctance, but for civility's sake chose the bunk closest to where I was standing. I noticed with relief that the bedding appeared a good deal cleaner than it had previously, and two rough wool blankets were neatly folded at the foot of each cot. I was thankful that at least these small comforts had been afforded the prisoners.
The purpose of today's call was more to reassure my clients that they had not been deserted, than to pass on news about their case, and Sun and I did not stay long. In an effort to lift the young men's spirits, I exuded more confidence than I felt. After yesterday's arraignment, I realized more clearly than ever that if I failed to locate the real killer there was little hope of proving my clients innocent.
If I'd felt discouraged upon entering Fan and Lee's cell, the guard I had berated for neglecting their chamber pot could not wait to pile on the agony upon our departure.
“I hear the coppers are gonna pin the murder of that science fellow onto those Johnnies of yours.”
I swung around to face the jailer. “Do you have news about Mr. Logan's case?”
The unpleasant man smirked, no doubt delighted at having so thoroughly captured my attention. “Seems like the gents who found his body have changed their story about seein' only one man runnin' away from the scene. Now they're claimin' they mebbe saw two blokes hightailin' it outta there.” His small eyes gleamed maliciously. “They say that mebbe it was a couple of Chinamen. Your Chinamen, I reckon.”
He moved closer, and I had to hold my breath when I was assaulted by his foul breath. He gave me a leering wink. “Say, how's about you fixin' me up with one of them fine lady friends of yours from that cathouse I read about in the papers? I hear they know how to show a feller a mighty fine time.”
Leaving the nasty guard roaring with laughter, I hurried off to locate the officer in charge. Without official verification that the disagreeable jailer was telling the truth about the new charge about to levied on my clients, I refused to believe a word he said.
I was in luck. My old friend Sergeant Jackson was on duty. The sergeant had been kind enough to help me with a former client, who had been incarcerated in this very jail during the Cliff House case several months ago. I knew I could count upon him to give me an honest answer.
“I'm afraid he's right, Miss Woolson,” Jackson told me solemnly. “The police are planning to accuse your clients of Mr. Logan's murder, along with Mr. Hume's. I expect the official charge will come sometime this afternoon.”
“But I spoke to the men who found Mr. Logan's body,” I protested. “They assured me they saw only one man running from the bridge. And they said nothing to indicate the man was Chinese.”
Sergeant Jackson's face was sympathetic. “I know, Miss Woolson, and I'm sorry. I've been to see those two Johnnies, and to tell the truth I feel a little sorry for them. I tried to ask them one or two questions, but they don't speak a word of English.” He raised his shoulders fractionally, as if to emphasize the hopelessness of the situation. “I wish I could help you, I truly do. But if a witness changes his mind, well, there's not much we can do but take his word for it.”
“Yes, I know,” I said with a sigh. “The situation just keeps going from bad to worse. The next thing you know, they'll be accusing my clients of murdering Patrick O'Hara, as well. Even though they were locked up here in a cell at the time the poor young man was killed.”
He smiled. “Well, at least you don't have to worry about that, Miss Woolson. We arrested a man this morning for O'Hara's death.”
I looked at him, shocked. “You did what?”
“We arrested one of O'Hara's customers. Seems the Irish boy had become a bit too friendly with the man's wife. The powers that be figure that in a fit of rage, the fellow stabbed him to death with the ice pick. Not much of a mystery there, after all. We see that kind of thing all too often, I'm afraid.”
“Has the man confessed to the killing?”
“Not yet, but the boys upstairs are working on it. He'll come clean sooner or later, you can be sure of that.” He appeared to have second thoughts about these words, for he quickly added, “All legal, of course.”
I exited city jail in a daze. If Patrick O'Hara had been murdered by a different villain than the one who killed Nigel Logan and Dieter Hume, then my theories were all wrong. In a way, I supposed it made more sense that the crimes were not connected. After all, Logan and Hume had been friends, had both attended the same dinner party the night of the first murder, and had both been beaten to death beneath the Harrison Street Bridge. Patrick O'Hara, on the other hand, had probably never met the first two victims, and had been stabbed to death with an ice pick inside an ice cream parlor.
Why, then, did this new arrest seem so wrong? I could not explain why I felt as I did, but I simply could not accept that a second killer had murdered the young Irishman; the pieces just would not fit together in my mind. I was going to have to give these latest developments some serious consideration.
I was mulling the situation over as I walked toward the public horsecar line, when I caught sight of a man about half a block ahead of me ducking inside a doorway. There was something about this movement that struck me as suspicious, almost furtive. I had only caught a quick glimpse of the figure, but I was certain it was Ozzie Foldger. The nerve of the man, I seethed. After the appalling article he had written the day before, the dreadful little reporter was still following me!
Hastening my step, I strode purposefully up the street until I reached the place where I thought I had glimpsed the man. It was a tobacconist's shop, and the door still stood wide open. Walking to the entrance, I looked inside and spied a short man, wearing a dark brown cap, ducking behind a display of cigars and chewing tobacco. It was the cowardly reporter, all right. Without hesitation, I marched inside the shop and directly over to the display.
“Mr. Foldger,” I said, in a voice loud enough to command the attention of every man in the store. “Come out from behind that shelf immediately.”
Instead of complying, he slipped around the end of the display, and out of my sight. I quickly followed and caught him up before he could slip outside and back onto the street.
“You are nothing but a spineless weasel, Ozzie Foldger,” I exclaimed, catching him by the sleeve of his coat, and pulling him back inside the store proper. I noticed the clerk eyeing us in some alarm, while two or three customers stopped their shopping to see what the commotion was all about.
“How dare you follow me for over a week, spying on my every move. My father is right, you are the very worst example of exploitive journalism.”
When the little sneak attempted to push by me and out the door, I quickly blocked his way by placing myself between him and his only route of escape. In order to flee, he would be forced to physically knock me over.
“
Hey,” the clerk behind the counter said, “ain't you that reporter from the Tattler? The one who's always writing about some scandal or other?”
“He is, indeed,” I informed the man, when a sulking Foldger declined to answer.
“He's the one who wrote about that woman attorney defending those two Chinamen,” declared one of the shop patrons.
“Wait a minute,” exclaimed his friend, who stood beside him holding a box of cigars. “That's you, isn't it?” He poked his friend on the shoulder and nodded at me. “You're the lady attorney. I've seen your picture in the paper.”
“I'm sure you have,” I said dryly. “However, you might want to take the time to learn more about the man writing the articles. Mr. Foldger, here, gives very little thought about whose reputation he ruins, even though the harm caused by his lies and innuendoes, once in print, often cannot be reversed. He invades people's privacy, then writes whatever twaddle he thinks will sell newspapers.”
I drew closer to the despicable reporter. We were very nearly the same height, and I was able to stare him straight in the eye. The little worm squirmed uncomfortably, pulling his head back in an effort to avert my gaze. I took hold of his coat lapel, forcing him to meet my gaze.
“I am warning you, Ozzie Foldger,” I told him in a low, resolute voice. “If I ever catch you following me again, I shall report you to the police. You might also want to keep in mind that I have three older brothers, each of whom is more than capable of teaching you a lesson you will never forget.”
I threatened him with this, knowing full well that my eldest brother Frederick would turn and run at the first mention of a fight, and that my brother Charles, as a healer, would never join in. Unless I were in physical danger, even my brother Samuel—who was a skilled pugilist—would most likely claim I had gotten myself into the fix, and now I could get myself out of it. But I did have three brothers, and Ozzie had no need to know more than that.
I continued to stare into his small, squinty eyes for another minute, then released his lapel and stepped aside, leaving the doorway clear. Without a second's hesitation, Foldger bolted out of the tobacconist's shop and into the street.
As I watched him flee down the block, I heard an unexpected sound from behind me. Turning around, I realized that the clerk and his three customers were all applauding me!
I returned to my office so engrossed in my thoughts that I very nearly ran into Fanny, who must have been keeping watch for me from inside her shop. She brushed off my apologies, obviously eager to pass on an important message.
“That nice Mr. Godfrey was here about half an hour ago,” she gushed. “I thought you might have gone to the jail before coming in this morning, so I told him you should arrive at any time. He said he would be back at noon to take you to lunch.”
Fanny uttered these words with so much deference, you would have thought Pierce was taking me to lunch at the White House. I hid a smile, amazed that he had the ability to charm a woman of fifty, every bit as easily as girls in their teens.
“Thank you, Fanny,” I said, wondering what could have prompted Pierce to visit my office. “As it happens, I did stop off at the jail.”
Fanny eyed me anxiously. “What's happened, Sarah? You look as if you've received a shock of some kind. Why don't you come inside and I'll put the kettle on for tea. You can tell me all about it.”
“Not right now, Fanny, but thank you for the offer,” I declined with a distracted smile. “I need to spend some time alone before Pierce returns. I have some thinking to do.”
“Oh, dear. That does sound grim.” She raised salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Are they still treating those poor Chinese boys like some sort of animals?” she asked indignantly.
I was surprised that she had touched so closely upon what had occurred at the jail. Once again, I was in awe of my neighbor's amazing perspicacity.
“Yes, unfortunately, they are. But, well, there's more, I'm afraid.” I patted the hand she had rested on my shoulder. “I promise to tell you all about it, Fanny, as soon as I've made sense of it myself.”
“You do that, dear.” Her kind gray eyes were regarding me with concern. “And do enjoy your lunch with Mr. Godfrey. If anyone can brighten your day, it is certainly that man!”
Once upstairs, I removed my cloak and hat and sank wearily into the chair behind my desk. It was only ten thirty, yet I felt as if I had been hard at work for hours.
Mentally, I gave myself a little shake. For the time being, I had to forget Ozzie Foldger, his troubling article, and even Brielle Bouchard's predicament. I had two bewildered and frightened boys counting on me to save their lives, a huge responsibility which required all my attention.
It was hard to believe that the men who had found Nigel Logan had changed their story about the man they spied running away. Were they only now telling what they really saw that night? Or had Jackson's mysterious “boys upstairs” somehow persuaded them to alter their original statement?
For the next hour and a half, I went over every detail I knew concerning the first two murders. As was my habit when trying to organize my thoughts, I had taken out my notebook and was listing everything—no matter how insignificant—I could remember about the crimes. Because I could not totally accept that Patrick O'Hara had been murdered by a cuckold husband, and therefore was unconnected to the other two killings, I added his death to the list.
My jottings had extended to several pages by the time Pierce arrived at my office. As is often the case when I am preoccupied, I had paid little attention to the time and was surprised to realize that it was already noon.
Beneath his unbuttoned navy blue long coat, I could see that he was wearing a dark suit and white shirt, set off nicely by an elegant gray and blue cravat. His thick, ebony hair looked to be a bit longer than he usually wore it, but as always it was carefully groomed and combed back from a tanned face. Watching him walk with casual grace into my office, I could well understand how even sensible Fanny found him irresistible.
“Hard at work, I see,” he said. He took off his hat, but did not remove his coat, or take a seat. Instead, he remained standing in front of my desk.
I put down my pencil and sighed. “I only wish you were right. Actually, I've accomplished very little.” I straightened in my chair and smiled. “Fanny said that you would like to take me to lunch?”
“I would, indeed.”
“Good, because I'm very hungry.”
“Excellent.” He helped me on with my wrap, which I removed from its customary hook on the coat tree, then started for the door.
We walked several blocks up Sutter Street to one of my favorite restaurants. Giuseppe's was not large but the food was good, and the service even better. It was not my custom to dawdle for hours over my midday meal, and I had found the waiters here to be speedy and reliable. It was possible to enjoy a full pasta meal, or an assortment of sandwiches with beer or wine, and be back to work in little more than an hour.
Pierce and I ordered, then without my having to ask, he explained the reason for his unexpected luncheon invitation.
“I've been to see the Tremaines,” he said, in obvious irritation. “Melody's father flatly refuses to allow her to audition for Joe Kreling when he returns to town.”
As this news was no more than I had expected, I simply shook my head and sighed. “I didn't think he would agree. If he or his wife had been at home yesterday, we would never have been allowed to take her to the Tivoli.”
“I didn't see the girl, or Mrs. Tremaine. Just Melody's father. I'm afraid she's going to be very disappointed.”
“Yes, she is.” I thought back to how excited she had been the day before at the opportunity to audition, and how beautiful she had looked on the stage. “I doubt that Mr. Tremaine will use a great deal of tact when he tells his daughter that her singing career is over before it has even begun. And I fear she will not receive much sympathy from her stepmother.”
“I've never met her mother, but I saw pictures of her in the dr
awing room yesterday afternoon. She looks to be an attractive woman, but hardly in the same class as Melody.” He sat apparently lost in thought for a few moments. “You don't suppose Mrs. Tremaine opposes the girl's career because she's jealous of her stepdaughter's beauty and talent, do you?”
I smiled. “The thought has crossed my mind. It can't be easy for a second wife to be so outshone by her husband's first wife's daughter.” Once again, I sighed. “I guess that is that, then. You did your best, Pierce. And Melody certainly proved she has the ability and charisma to enjoy a successful career on the stage.”
Pierce breathed slowly in and out before responding. “I wish I could take Tremaine's pigheadedness as calmly as you, Sarah.”
“You mistake acceptance for equanimity, Pierce. Don't forget I've met the man, and was forced to listen to his views on Melody's singing aspirations.”
I thought back to the night of Faith's birthday dinner. “You know, I don't believe Reginald Tremaine understands his children very well, especially the twins. He's been so preoccupied with building his business, I think he's left much of their upbringing to nannies, and then to his second wife, Faith. I doubt that he has any true idea how much this means to Melody, or how devastated she'll be at his refusal to grant her her life's dream.”
Pierce nodded his agreement. “You should have heard the man. He actually seemed surprised I'd gone to the trouble of scheduling Melody's audition. He dismissed her ambition as if it were nothing more than a silly young girl's fantasy. Which, I might add, he made clear was beneath the family's dignity.”
“I think he's proud of his daughter, and probably of her singing—but only as a pleasant after-dinner entertainment, or to show off in front of friends. The very idea that she might possess sufficient talent to perform outside the home is completely beyond his frame of reference.”
“I feel sorry for the girl.”
“Yes, I do, too. But there's little we can do about it. He is, after all, her father. Unless she cares deeply enough about a career to defy him when she comes of age, he retains the final word.”
Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 30