And I was late.
"Annalisa!"
Rolf jumped to his feet. He looked me up and down, ostensibly examining the black lace French gown and emerald choker.
I smiled as best I could, reading his face for any sign he might be onto my ruse. His subtle leer neither confirmed nor eased my fears.
On stage, Sulamith warbled to her father, the High Priest, about her love for Assad. The elaborate stage costumes paled before the gowns and jewels arrayed in Rolf's double box, where everyone whispered softly, ignoring the dreary performance wafting from below.
"My God, Annalisa! Come, sit."
I placed a gloved hand atop Rolf's palm, lightly, in case I needed to retreat quickly, and followed him to my seat next to his.
"Eugene!" he called. "Doesn't she look stunning tonight, our Annalisa?"
"You are indeed a vision, Annalisa," the Mayor droned mechanically.
"I have to thank Mr. Rolf for that."
"I thought you were going to call me Adam from now on."
"Adam. Thank you, this is really a bit much. The gown is one thing, but this necklace. The other critics will be talking."
"You let me worry about the other critics. If they had half your charm and talent, they would be enjoying the same benefits."
"You're too kind, Adam."
"Eugene! Champagne for Annalisa," he called, his tone more dismissive and superior than usual.
Schmitz turned to Tommy, standing in the shadows nearby.
"Tommy, why don't you fetch some more champagne from the cold box in the other room?" Schmitz ordered.
Tommy bristled and moved off slowly.
"Tell me, Annalisa. How long have we been friends now?" Rolf asked. "Almost two years."
"Two years. And what wonderful times we've had, have we not?"
"We have."
"And I trust that if you knew of someone taking advantage of my generous nature you would inform me."
I raised my eyebrows in surprise, hoping the sound of my heartbeat would not betray me.
"You see, someone here has been false to me."
"After all you've done for this city?" I shifted uneasily, crinkling my face in faux concern as the tepid soprano portraying Sulamith trilled on about handsome Assad.
"Whoever it was, Annalisa, Pierre was his accomplice. Tommy found Pierre hanging in his room two hours ago. I haven't even told the Mayor. The little fop had a thousand dollars and several rather indelicate photographs in his pocket. Whoever the swine was who did this, he . . ."
Tommy handed a fluted glass full of champagne to Rolf, who held it out to me.
I clutched it with both hands and sipped, trying in vain to find some comfort in the fact that Rolf appeared to consider his adversary a "he."
Chapter 29
PORTSMOUTH SQUARE
APRIL 16, 1906. 9:15 P.M.
Kaitlin sagged onto a bench in the teeming square, hesitant to cross the street to the Hall of Justice and ask for help. She worried that her father might have discovered she had gone to San Francisco—not New York, as the note she left had claimed—and that he had telegraphed the police with her description. Her head dropped into her hands and she teetered near collapse.
"Excuse me, ma'am. May I be of some assistance?"
"Go away," she said without looking up. "I don't have anything. I've already been robbed once tonight."
When finally she did look up, the sight startled her.
He was tall and appeared even taller, thanks to the towering headpiece of a Prussian officer, topped by an ostrich plume a foot and a half high. His square-shouldered military jacket bore gold epaulets and a row of gold buttons, minus one a third from the top. It was belted at the waist, clasped with a tarnished brass buckle. The trousers bore formerly white stripes down each side, disappearing inside a pair of faded beaver-skin boots.
Kaitlin was uncertain whether to laugh or run.
"Joshua Milton, Emperor of North America and Protector of Mexico, at your service, ma'am. If you'll accompany me, I'll see that proper restitution is made for your loss."
He offered the crook of his arm in a gesture of chivalry.
Kaitlin stared into the beatific blue eyes and reassuring face, framed by a regal salt-and-pepper beard.
"I'm sorry, sir. What did you say your name was?"
"I am the Emperor Joshua Charles Milton. At your service, ma'am."
"You're the Emperor of America?"
"Emperor of North America and Protector of Mexico. Everyone you see about you are my subjects, including, I'm ashamed to say, the scalawags who robbed you. They will answer for their callous deed."
He looked like a Harper's cartoon character come to life, and his gentle nature disarmed her fear considerably.
"Kaitlin Staley. I'm from Lawrence, Kansas. My father is sheriff of Douglas County."
"Lawrence? Oh, my. It was terrible what happened in Lawrence during the war, all those innocent people massacred."
"My grandfather was one of them. One of them that was killed, I mean. He was the sheriff before my father. Now everyone tries to make heroes out of the killers."
"Well, Kaitlin, making heroes of reprobates is not new to San Francisco either. I apologize that you have not encountered the kind of hospitality that we pride ourselves upon."
"That doesn't help much right now, I'm afraid."
"You have no money left? Nowhere to rest your head?"
"No," Kaitlin answered, a heartsick look on her face.
"Then come with me, please."
She rose cautiously and accepted a gently outstretched arm.
They sauntered across the park toward Telegraph Hill, Emperor Milton pointing to the spot in Portsmouth Square where California seceded from Mexico, and where the Tongs fought a hatchet war over the infamous slave girl, Lily Foot Fong.
"A Chinese gangster version of Romeo and Juliet," he said.
Kaitlin was delighted.
They stopped at the mouth of Pacific Avenue. Milton indicated the Bella Union, "a seedy rough house," explaining it was there that Eddie Foy and Lotta Crabtree began their climb to vaudeville stardom.
They crossed into North Beach, passing coffee roasters and cigar makers, overstuffed Italian delicatessens and colorful pastry shops, Kaitlin enraptured by Milton's tales of smoking cigars with Mark Twain and sipping brandy with Ambrose Bierce.
When they reached Washington Square, Kaitlin's distress had eased. The Emperor led her down Union Street and rapped on a leaded glass door.
"What is this place?"
"Someplace where you'll be safe." The door opened and Emperor Milton bid her enter.
From the top of a long stairway, a short Italian woman with gray hair smiled at them. "Buona sera, Joshua. What I a' do for you?"
"Good evening, Francesca. This young lady has encountered some misfortune. I was wondering if you might have temporary residence?"
"Buona fortuna, my pensionero is just a move out today."
Kaitlin's discomfort returned. "I, I, I . . ."
"They stole her money, is what she's trying to say."
He produced a small pile of over-sized banana-colored currency, counting out several bills into Kaitlin's hand. In the center of each bill was a line drawing of himself, complete with Prussian hat and ostrich plume. A hundred dollars in Milton money.
Kaitlin looked at him, astonished, and then stared up at Francesca. "The room is a' five dollars a' week, incluso breakfast and supper," Francesca said. "Is good for everybodies, Joshua money."
Kaitlin climbed the steps, dazed and disbelieving, and handed over a five-dollar bill as Milton doffed his hat, bowed from the waist and slid quickly out the door.
"You are hungry, Kaitlin? I make some nice zuppa, pasta fagiole just today."
Chapter 30
GRAND OPERA HOUSE
APRIL 16, 1906. 10:50 P.M.
I excused myself before final curtain, having repeatedly declined Adam Rolf's invitations to a late supper at the Palace Hotel.
I hurried down the marble stairway as a smattering of polite applause succumbed to the jangle of hoots and catcalls over the execrable Queen of Sheba.
Once outside, I hailed a cab. "The Conservatory of Flowers."
"Lady, you sure? Ain't nothin' in Golden Gate Park this hour 'cept perverts and jack-rollers."
"Funny, I thought I just left them. Now let's go."
The horse clopped down Mission to Van Ness, and then up Fell Street toward Golden Gate Park. As we passed through the Panhandle, I looked back over my shoulder. Through the row of streetlights a motorcycle trailed behind me, a reassuring sight.
All night, I had tried to gauge Rolf's disposition. The lascivious attention he normally paid his female guests was missing, while he examined the faces of their husbands with a focused scrutiny.
Tommy, standing sentry a few feet from his boss, seemed more alert than usual, self-satisfied almost to the point of smugness. It made me wonder again if Pierre's death was indeed suicide or more of Tommy's handiwork.
Rolf knew he had been betrayed, he had made that quite clear. But he made no mention of the scope of it, offered no specifics. I was treated as almost a confidante. It was a relief, though marginal at best. I knew it could change at any moment.
I headed toward my rendezvous with Hunter Fallon, reasonably certain that wherever my affidavits were, they were not yet in the hands of Adam Rolf. I finally convinced myself that Pierre had committed suicide, the only way he could not have betrayed me before his death.
I settled back for an invigorating jaunt through the park, a welcome tonic. My thoughts turned to Hunter and I felt my poor heart, weary from all the turmoil, skip a beat.
The Hansom stopped before the glass-paneled Conservatory of Flowers, bathed in a lemonish light from the triple-headed gothic lampposts.
I paid the fifty-cent fare, and following a brief struggle with his edgy horse, the driver headed back toward the city. I pulled my wrap around my shoulders and waited excitedly for Hunter to arrive.
He started to lean the motorcycle against a lamppost, stopping in mid-motion to stare at me.
"My God, Annalisa. I don't think I've ever seen a woman more beautiful than you."
"It's the dress and jewels."
"I'm sure that's all it is."
"Officer Fallon. Are you flirting with me?"
"How nice of you to notice."
I put my gloved hand on his arm. We walked along the side of the Conservatory of Flowers, the spring air soft and perfumed.
"Does Rolf suspect you?"
"I don't think so. It makes me wonder if he really does have the papers. When his blood is up, he has difficulty masking his anger. Maybe the papers did spill out when the seal man was in the water."
"No," Hunter said. "The clasp was lying in the seal man's blood. The top was clean but the bottom was soaked in blood. That indicates they tore it off and threw it on the ground after they shot him. If Rolf doesn't have the papers, my guess is Kelly or one of his goons does."
He frowned, regretting that he may have alarmed me.
"Forewarned, forearmed, Hunter. I didn't make it this far deluding myself." I looked up at the moon, low above the firs and cedars.
"My God, you are beautiful, Annalisa."
"You said that earlier."
"I might say it a few more times."
"Sometimes that's all men see in women."
"This would not be one of those times."
Hunter looked away, the first time I noticed a touch of shyness. He was not sure what to do and neither was I.
"We better get you a change of clothes and go back to my father's place so I can keep an eye on you. I still have work to do."
I reached for his hand. "Are you sure you want me there?"
He held my gloved hand between both of his, rubbing it slowly. "I am quite sure."
I took his arm as we returned to the Waltham. Gathering my dress was a more formidable effort this time, but I managed to collect it well enough that it was not a potential danger.
I climbed on behind him, squeezing a little tighter this time.
In seconds, the park was flying by in a blur. We sped through the Western Addition and across Market Street, me in gown and jewels, he in goggles and leather, a sight even by San Francisco's standards.
In minutes, I was coughing up soot outside my building at Fifth and Folsom Streets.
"You'll have to wait outside," I told Hunter. "No men in the building with a single woman, not even the lobby, after six."
"Even a cop?"
"Especially a cop."
I stared at him for a long moment, nervous and excited about spending the night in the same house. Then I wheeled and headed quickly for the entrance.
I pushed through the creaking door and walked past the front desk, where my landlady Loretta sat reading the Police Gazette, her eyes bulging and her lips moving with each lascivious detail.
I skipped carefully up three flights of narrow steps to the dimly lit hallway, where I slid my brass key into the plate beneath the doorknob.
I crossed the cramped room, the only illumination the moonlight streaming through the single window. I pulled open the sticky sash and stuck my head outside.
"Officer Fallon! Excuse me, Officer Fallon!"
I took a flower from the vase on the windowsill, inhaled its waning fragrance and dangled it outside the window, calling down, "I would like to offer this rose in appreciation of your chivalry."
"Il fiore che avevi a me tu dato!"
"Well, now. It's not often one meets a policeman who quotes Bizet. It's so downright—operatic of you."
Hunter circled clown-like beneath the falling flower, caught it, and pulled it through a buttonhole in his leather jacket.
I turned back inside, produced a stick match from an alabaster holder and struck it. The slight flame illuminated the face of a man towering above me, bearded, cadaverous, a long scar down the right jaw. A glint shone off the keen edge of a very long knife raised above his head.
I gasped and dove away.
"Hunter!"
The knife just missed my ear, shearing the puffy shoulder of my gown. As I fell, the tip caught the edge of my dress, a foot from the hem, pinning it to my desk.
"Hunter, Hunter!"
As the man struggled to free the knife, I kicked him in the shin with all my strength. He recoiled and staggered backward.
Hunter had already bolted through the front door and was two strides from the stairwell when Loretta spotted him.
"Hey, hey, you can't come in here!"
He ignored her and charged up the steps.
I struggled to stand, my feet entangled in my clumsy gown. I ripped the dress free of the knife seconds before the intruder dislodged it. I crawled backward, kicking furiously as he advanced. He raised the blade again, his gaunt, scarred face ghastly in the moonlight. I realized who he was.
"HUNTER! HUNTER!"
My hand touched a wooden footstool as Scarface limped toward me, raising the knife. I gripped the stool with both hands and smashed his knee.
He screamed and toppled toward me like a fallen tree. I rolled away and struggled to my feet near the window.
"HUNTER!"
Hunter made the third floor and ran toward the sound of my cries. He smashed through the door, head over heels, landing on his knees to point the long barrel of the Colt at Scarface.
"Show me your hands or I'll kill you."
Scarface, his back to Hunter, turned slowly, his left hand above his head, his right hand hidden.
"Both of 'em!"
Scarface eased his body toward Hunter. In his right hand was a small revolver, the muzzle pointed at my chest. The sound of the hammer cocking froze us.
"Well, Junior," Scarface growled. "Looks like we got ourselves a Mexican stand-off."
Hunter eased to his left for a better look.
"I wouldn't be janglin' around too much, sonny. My thumb slides off'n this trigger, your sweetheart misses out
on her next birthday."
Hunter stopped in his tracks.
"There's two more cops waiting for you downstairs. Drop that thing real slow."
"Funny, I only heard one motorcycle, seen two people gettin' off.
Now, I'm gonna back out slow. My gun on her, yours on me. Real civil like. I hit that door, I'm gone. Be smart, everybody walks."
He backed away, one eye on Hunter, his gun steady on me.
Hunter moved aside slowly, his father's Colt no more than five feet from his adversary.
"Don't move, Annalisa."
"That's right, pretty lady, don't get fancy on me."
Hunter, arm extended and shoulders sideways, pivoted as the tall man stepped backward through the splintered door and into the shadowy hallway.
"I see your cherry face in the hall, sonny, I'll blow it clean off. Then I'll finish your lady friend real nice like. Understand?"
"You go ahead, run. We'll meet again soon. I promise."
Scarface offered a chipped grin and bolted down the hallway.
Hunter sprang to the doorway after him, crouched low and leaned his head out. A slug splintered the wall two feet above his head. He ducked back inside as boot heels thundered away.
"You hurt, Annalisa?"
"I'm furious."
Hunter grabbed a kitchen towel and carefully wrapped Scarface's abandoned knife.
"Grab some things, Annalisa, and let's move before he returns with reinforcements."
Within minutes, we passed through a gauntlet of cackling neighbors inquiring into the ruckus.
We emerged on Folsom and climbed back on the motorcycle, this time with me clutching a cloth sack full of clothes and balancing my gramophone, its brass horn as large as my torso.
I remember little of the ride other than clinging tightly to Hunter.
A few minutes later, we were in his wine cellar, leaning over his makeshift crime laboratory. Hunter produced a straight razor and started shaving a graphite pencil. He blew the powder gently onto the handle of Scarface's knife.
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