10
The Vagrant
The beast is too powerful. Omnipresent.
—Z.R. Journal Excerpt
Monday, March 19, 1900
SURVEILLANCE WORK WAS THE most tedious of pastimes. But it was something—something to do, to distract, to occupy her restless mind. And just now, damned uncomfortable.
Isobel shivered in the dark. It was cold, yes. But she had started shaking after the inquest, and that chill hadn't left her bones.
A faint pool of light illuminated fine droplets drifting in the air. The fog seemed alive, the breath of San Francisco, rising and falling in the early morning hours. She shifted in the filthy doorway, and adjusted her tattered coat. One more vagrant huddling for warmth on the street. Unmoored and hiding from life, from her memories and her failures, Isobel had fled the inquest, the graveyard, and even Atticus Riot. But unlike the other vagrants, she had her eye on a man. On a building, to be exact.
William Punt. He seemed a safer bet than Parker Gray. The latter was keen-eyed and dangerous, while William Punt had been easily overtaken in the brick building the night they had rescued Mei.
Isobel's near-nightly surveillance of the brick building on Ocean Beach had revealed an occasional patron to follow home. Slowly, while Riot was investigating Ravenwood's death, she had been building a list of men who frequented that building. The question she needed answered was, whether every one of those patrons possessed a red token.
Sadly, Alex Kingston had not turned up at the brick building. Yet.
The door to the house across the street opened. It was a quaint home, a single-stick sandwiched between a cigar shop and a barber. Light burst onto the street, and a man whistled his way down the steps. The man stopped to light a cigarette, his shoulders tilted at an angle. It wasn't William Punt. The Englishman carried an umbrella rather than slicker.
William Punt had disappeared inside the house, and had yet to reappear. Isobel might have suspected this was Punt's home, but it wasn't the address that Mack had given her, and there were an inordinate number of men coming and going. A classy boudoir, if she was any judge. And it just so happened she was. But why would Punt be here when he belonged to an elite gentleman's club? But then, she might as well ask why men went to cheap whores when they could afford better. Reason and thought were hardly involved.
She raised a bottle to her lips, and shifted again, as if searching for a better position, which was exactly what she was doing. The cobblestones were freezing, her backside was hurting, and her stomach ached from the stitch in her side that had tightened to a knot during the coroner's inquest.
The thought of Alex, along with the smell of gin, made her queasy. As much as she hated to admit it, Alex was an excellent attorney. He had spoken plainly, amiably, and had given the jurors a front page-worthy performance. Her husband had defended her lover with skill. The irony of the situation was not lost on her.
Alex could be charming when it suited him. He donned that guise as easily as she switched personas. He had certainly been charming to her last summer. As far as husbands went, blackmailing aside, he had not been deplorable. Gentle, no. But then, neither was she. A bully, yes. Demanding, certainly. But never an outright blackguard—not as bad as the stories she heard from other married women.
Isobel had tolerated his attentions in the bedroom, just like every other woman who married for money, and not love. Thankfully, he had been unimaginative and quick about the business.
Another society woman might have considered him a catch. But not Isobel. He had sabotaged her father, and blackmailed her when she'd confronted him about it. Thinking that she could uncover his secrets from the inside—as a blushing, simpering Trojan Horse—Isobel had walked willingly into his trap. Only it hadn't worked out the way she'd planned. Isobel had discovered just how human she was after all.
The cool logic and the emotional detachment she'd prided herself on had failed. She could lie through her teeth with the best of them, but could not maintain that intimate deception. Worse, she had no proof of Kingston's manipulation. He had won, forcing her into retreat. In a word, Alex Kingston was her failure. And for a woman like her, that was hard to stomach.
Isobel hunkered down for an uncomfortable wait. An hour later, another man exited the house. An umbrella hung from his forearm, and his back was as straight as a British boarding school could whip it. There was her man.
After pausing to don his gloves, William Punt started down the street, but then stopped. He looked directly at her. It was too dark to see his expression.
Perhaps he was the charitable sort? Optimism hardly ever worked.
With brisk steps, Punt walked across the street. Isobel tensed, but if she ran her cover would be blown. She held her breath, hoping he'd pass her by, but no luck. His shoes halted directly in her line of sight, and he struck with his umbrella. A tip jabbed her ribs.
"You, there. I thought I told you to leave." Each word was emphasized by a thrust of his umbrella. She curled up into a ball, trying to protect vulnerable areas. No use.
Isobel grunted and swiped at the umbrella with her gin bottle. "I'll leave," she rasped.
"I won't pay you this time."
Hunched over, she used the doorway to help her upright. He hit her on the back once more, and she dropped to her knees. "If I see you again, I'll do far worse than summon the police."
Turning on his heel, he left, his shoes clicking on the boardwalk. Isobel clenched her jaw, and waited. With a groan, she picked herself up, and staggered. It wasn't an act. There would be new bruises to add to the faint yellow and black ones from two weeks before. Adjusting her rags, she limped forward, supporting herself on the wall until blood returned to her legs.
Apparently she hadn't been the first vagrant to huddle in that doorway. Why had it angered him so?
Keeping to the shadows, she stayed hunched, letting the gin bottle dangle from her fingertips. Punt strolled far ahead, nearly a block. He was headed towards Chinatown. She made sure to keep a safe distance. Limping along, she let him get farther ahead, and then he disappeared.
"Damn," she breathed. Isobel shot ahead, and stopped where she had lost sight of her quarry. Dim light from a seedy saloon leaked onto the planks. She peeked around the corner, down a narrow lane as black as pitch. She listened for faint footsteps. Nothing.
"Where did you go?" she muttered.
Isobel waited, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. When nothing moved, she reached into her pocket for her tickler. She eased the blade open, and kept it in hand as she shambled into the alley. Trash and rotting vegetables littered the narrow lane. A rat glanced up at her—too bold to be bothered with running.
Isobel stopped at the end of the lane, looking right, and then left. A single hack rolled through the fog, but it was headed towards her, not away. Had Punt sensed her pursuit and ducked into the saloon?
Isobel glanced back down the alleyway. A few doorways led off into the dark, but not many. She worked her way back through the alley, peering into each doorway. Most were filled with trash. She stopped at the last doorway, the one closest to the saloon. A grocer's entrance, she surmised. She tried the knob. It didn't budge.
He must have ducked into the saloon. With gin bottle in hand, Isobel shambled through the saloon doors. The interior was dark and moody.
It wasn't crowded, but all eyes traveled to her. There were dives that opened their doors to everyone, and others that catered to a group of regulars. This did not feel like the welcoming kind.
The bartender confirmed her suspicion. "We don't want your kind."
She placed a nickel on the bar.
He recoiled. "Git out of here now. You smell like a donkey's ass."
Isobel snatched up her nickel. No matter, she had seen what she needed to. William Punt was not in the barroom, and it hardly looked like a place he would frequent. But where had he gone?
As she contemplated that question, she turned to leave and ran right into a large man. Pockmarks scarred
his skin, and his nose was red and crooked.
"You should know better than to come in here," he rumbled.
Isobel tried to move around the big man, but he grabbed her shoulder. His fingers clamped down like a vice. Pain zipped down her arm, and propelled her into action. She swung her bottle. It shattered against the side of his face. Blood and glass, shouts, and scraping chairs filled the saloon. The big man reeled, and she twisted to the side, bolting towards the exit. A patron beat her to it, blocking the doorway.
Isobel didn't slow. She put her shoulder into her charge, and sent the man staggering backwards. She flew past, but a blow caught her lower back, dropping her to her knees. With a groan, she scrambled forward. Police whistles pierced the night and shouts flew at her back. She skidded over muck and cobblestone.
She glanced over her shoulder. A policeman was closing in fast, boots thudding on the planks. She turned into the alleyway and shot towards the opposite end, weaving between garbage cans and hopping over splintered crates, nearly slipping on rotting vegetables.
A figure appeared at the end, billy club in hand. "Stop! Police!"
Isobel turned on her heel, skidded, and raced to the middle of the alleyway. Both policemen slowed, approaching cautiously from either side. There was only one way to go. Up. She reached for a protruding brick.
A shadow shifted in a garbage strewn doorway. A pale face in the night, a sudden movement, and a hiss. She lost her grip and fell into muck as smoke filled the alleyway. Someone brushed past her. Swift footfalls echoed between buildings.
"Here he is!" a voice shouted. "Over here!"
Isobel sucked in a breath, and coughed. She scrambled to her feet, leapt for the brick and climbed. Her fingers had locked on a second handhold when a heavy weight knocked her from the side. She fell, arm blazing. A billy club hit her on the back, and more blows followed, one after another.
"Got 'im!"
The voice drove her into a frenzy. Her foot connected with a knee, her fist with a crotch, and then her feet left the ground as a policeman rammed her into a brick wall. The impact stunned her. Pain raced up her arms, and cold iron clamped around her wrists. And still she fought, until a fist knocked the wind from her lungs. Isobel went limp, fighting for air.
"You best stay still or we'll beat you there," a rough voice snarled in her ear. "Gah, he stinks. Your turn, Bill."
"Why do I have to search 'im?"
"Because you're the junior officer."
"Shit." Bill stepped up and roughly ran his hands over her, searching for weapons. He stopped at her chest. "Uhm." He squeezed again, just to make sure.
"How dare you assault me!" she gasped in her plummiest tone.
"Oh, shit!" Bill jumped back. "I mean. Blast. Erm…"
"What the hell?"
"The vagrant's a woman."
"Impersonating a man."
"No," she corrected. "I'm with the Morning Call. You can either release me now, and I'll forget about your assault on my person, or I'll plaster your names all over the papers."
Bill reached for her handcuffs, but the other policeman growled. "I don't care what you do. But what you're doing is illegal. Take her in and book her."
11
A Cold Trail
I had wondered how a man like Mr. Jones Sr. came to own a lumber yard—property in San Francisco is as good as a gold mine. —Z.R. Journal Excerpt
Tuesday, March 20, 1900
ALL TRAILS LEAD SOMEWHERE, even if that somewhere is a dead end. Atticus Riot found himself at such an end. Unwilling to risk the living with a reckless investigation, he decided to backtrack to the beginning—to Ravenwood's investigation.
From the outside, Mr. Abe Jones's home hadn't changed in three years, but the person who opened the door had. Instead of an elderly Chinese woman, a silk-clad gentleman with a pristine queue answered Riot's knock. He bowed in greeting, which Riot returned.
"Is Mr. Jones Sr. still in residence?"
"No, sir. He died nearly three years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear. Are you the resident now?"
The man shook his head. "I am the butler for Mrs. Jones. Charles Wong."
Riot presented his calling card. "Might I speak with her, Mr. Wong?"
The man showed him into a fine sitting room. The oriental decor had been replaced with a more modern style—curving metals, ornate filigree, colored glass. The butler left him to his thoughts.
From what Riot remembered, the elder Jones's wife had died. Had he remarried, or was this his son's wife? Given the modern decor, he'd place a wager on the latter.
A handsome, middle-aged woman marched towards the parlor with a swish of skirts. Blonde, pale, and blue-eyed, she possessed the kind of classical beauty that artists love. She stopped just inside the doorway, lips pressed into a thin line, her fine hands clenched until they were white. A chill radiated from her.
"Mrs. Jones, I'm afraid we haven't met. I'm Atticus—"
"Don't touch me," she bit out. He froze, his hand half-extended. "You're the man who murdered my husband."
Riot withdrew his hand. "I beg your pardon?"
"You don't even know." Her lip twisted. "You meddle, and then you wash your hands and move on to the next life to ruin. He was a good man. He had nothing to do with those murders. He was trying to help those Chinese girls." It took a moment for his mind to catch up to her accusations. Mr. Jones Jr. had run the lumber yard where his night watchman was abducting and killing Chinese slave girls. The Broken Blossom Murders.
"I never accused your husband of any involvement, Ma'am."
"Of course you did! His name was in the newspapers. He was so heartbroken, so distraught, that he—" She cut herself short and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. "He took his own life," she finished in a whisper.
"I am sorry to hear that."
She laughed—a bitter sound that was at odds with her angelic appearance. "Get out of my house. Take your meddling elsewhere!" Her hand snaked upwards. He reacted, catching her wrist before her open palm connected with his face.
He met her blazing eyes.
"Unhand me!"
"If I hadn't meddled, more girls would have been slaughtered." He released her hand.
"You should have informed him privately. He would have put a stop to it."
"Would he have, Mrs. Jones?"
"Get out of my house. Wong!"
The butler immediately appeared, and Riot gave him a nod as he slipped on his hat, and showed himself out.
12
An Inch of Gold
Jones Jr. was a different matter. Raised in Canton. University educated. Moderately religious. Why, I wondered, was a man such as he continuing the work of his father in rescuing the odd slave girl? —Z.R. Journal Excerpt
RAILROAD MAPS COVERED THE office walls, and the dull, much abused furniture appeared better suited to a newspaper editor's office than to the Imperial Consul General of the Chinese Empire.
Riot's eyes were drawn to a single decoration. Chinese characters filled an unfurled banner hanging on the wall. He worked through the translation: One inch of time is equivalent to an inch of gold. With an inch of gold it is hard to buy an inch of time. Should you lose your gold, somebody will find it. Should you lose your time, nobody can find it.
Those words hit him right in the gut. He could not regain lost time nor could he fix the past. If only it were as simple as finding something that was lost. How many enemies and widows had he made?
An adjoining door opened, and a trio of men exited. Two of them wore skullcaps, long queues, silk blouses, and the third was dressed in a tailored suit.
Two of them bowed and left, and the third turned to Riot. He was in his early thirties, short-haired and sporting a bushy black mustache. There was a cheerfulness to his countenance.
"I'm here to speak with the Consul General," Riot said, producing his card.
The man scrutinized the card. "What has he done now?" He had a distinct British accent, the kind that universities produce.
>
"I beg your pardon?"
The man nodded at the card. "It says you are a detective. I assume he is being investigated for something?"
"Not to my knowledge."
The man gestured towards the open door. "Would you like some tea, Mr. Riot?"
"No, thank you." He walked into the office, which was similarly decorated, only a red-gold dragon banner hung on a wall instead of a proverb. Aside from a well-used desk and four chairs, the office was empty.
The man walked behind the desk, and smiled, a mischievous look in his eyes. He extended a hand. "Consul General Ho Yow."
Pleasantly surprised, Riot shook his hand. The consul's grip was strong, and heavily calloused. "Forgive me, Consul General, I knew your predecessor, and I was expecting someone…"
"Queue, skullcap, and silk robes? I only wear traditional attire when I'm standing in front of a photographer."
"I was going to say older. I hardly expected a harness-racing enthusiast."
Ho Yow paused. "How very Holmesian of you, Mr. Riot. Since you did not immediately recognize me on sight, I must conclude you knew very little of me before coming here, and yet you have deduced this last by my…?" Ho paused, and then gave a satisfied smile. He held up his hands. They were as leathery as a mule driver.
Riot inclined his head. "Your musculature as well. I do apologize for failing to do my research."
"Nonsense. That gives me the advantage. I've heard of you, and I have done my research, but in the rare case, I find it best to form my own opinion. This is one of those occasions. Please, sit." Ho Yow gestured towards the chair opposite. "You are not the first man to assume I'm the secretary to the Consul." He smiled, amiably. "I have been expecting you to visit at some point. I've heard the rumors about you, and I'm greatly looking forward to discovering if they are true."
Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4) Page 6