Where Cowards Tread

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did she speak to a man?”

  “We don’t listen to calls.”

  That was a blatant lie. Operators listened to make sure the connection held and checked on calls to see if they had ended. And when an operator was bored, she just outright listened.

  “Of course not. But surely you heard who answered?”

  “I can ask the operator who took the call.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a pause, then, “She’s not working today.”

  Isobel made a sound of frustration. “What is her name?”

  “Ma’am, I can’t give out that information. If I can have your address, or…”

  “Which telephone exchange is this?” Isobel demanded.

  The line went dead.

  Isobel stared at the box. Maybe girls weren’t much more courteous than the ‘Ahoy’ boys after all.

  If this John Bennett left The Popular at six o’clock and Ella placed a call to her brother at six-fourteen, that left plenty of time for the two to have met on the street. But was this John Bennett involved, or had Ella Spencer simply used the opportunity to run away from home?

  Isobel started for the cable car, but the moment her foot touched the runner, she remembered she had a partner. Riot, of course. This would take some getting used to. But when she headed back to the Popular to fetch her husband and partner, she discovered he had already left. At least, she thought, in this they were of like mind.

  8

  Menke's Grocery

  A scarecrow of a man wearing round spectacles and a green apron was stacking apples on an overturned crate. He was meticulous about their placement. Isobel stopped in front of Menke’s Grocery, and waited for the man to place the crown on his apple pyramid. Through the windows, she saw a young man inside sweeping the floor.

  She’d wager everything in Riot’s billfold that this was the proprietor. Only a German would place an apple with so much precision. “Herr Menke?”

  The man straightened. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her before answering. “I am he. Do I know you, Fräulein?” His accent was thick and his words sounded like mush. Isobel switched to German to practice her Bavarian accent. His eyes lit up.

  “Do you know Ella Spencer?” Isobel asked. Pleasantries were lost on Germans. They appreciated a blunt approach. Ask what you want; don’t circle around it.

  “I do.”

  “Does she come here regularly?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is something the matter?”

  Ella’s brother had asked for discretion, but that was difficult when asking after the whereabouts of a young girl. “She’s missing.”

  Menke made a pained sound, giving Isobel his full attention. “Missing?”

  Isobel nodded. “Did she come by Saturday?”

  “I was not here. One moment.” Menke hurried inside with the springy step of a man who defied his age.

  A moment later, Menke came out with a stocky lad. Swarthy and black-haired, he had the look of a footballer. But instead of a ball, he clutched a broom.

  “Answer her questions, Leo.”

  Leo gave Isobel an apologetic look. Clearly the young man thought his boss was on the rude side.

  “Isobel Amsel.” She thrust out her hand to the boy.

  “Leo,” he said quietly. A blush turned him red when he met her eyes.

  “You were here Saturday?”

  He nodded. “Did a girl around your own age come in? Ella Spencer. Dark hair. She’d have been wearing a golf cap and a red capelet.”

  The boy took a moment to sort through her words.

  “He does not speak English so good,” Menke said.

  “I speak it fine,” Leo said with a thick Italian accent. “Yes. I have seen her.”

  “She came Saturday?”

  “Maybe five o’clock. Maybe five thirty. I do not remember exact time.”

  “What did she do?”

  A customer rang the service bell from inside and Herr Menke excused himself, but not before instructing Leo to tell the Fräulein everything.

  The boy shrugged. “A little girl came in with her. That is Ruby. The older girl… you say her name is Ella? I see her many times. She bought a few things, then went outside. There was a man there,” he pointed to a spot on the sidewalk some ten feet away, “Ella gave the things to Ruby. Then they went away.”

  It was difficult to make sense of his words, but if she switched to Italian now, the boy would be insulted. “The little girl went with the man?”

  Leo shook his head. “Ruby walked away down the street, then the man spoke with Ella some more. I don’t know where they went. I had a customer.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “He had a long coat and a derby hat.”

  Leo was not as observant as she’d like. But still. What could one see from inside the grocery store?

  “Did he have a mustache?”

  Leo thought a moment. “No.”

  “You said you didn’t know where they went. Did Ella start walking with the man?”

  Leo spread his hands.

  “Did Ella appear worried?”

  Leo shook his head. “Happy, I think. I always see her here. But she and her friend never talk to me.” The last was said sullenly, and Isobel could well imagine the shy young man casting eyes at a girl his own age.

  “Her friend? Do you mean Ruby? The little girl?”

  “No. Her friend has red hair. They are the same age, I think. They use the telephone. They are always whispering and giggling when I work.”

  “Do you know who they telephone?”

  The boy shook his head

  “Do you remember if the telephone rang on Saturday? Around six thirty.”

  Leo nodded. “The caller hang up when I answered it.”

  “No one else was here?”

  “Only a few customers.”

  Isobel pressed him further, but she got nothing more out of the boy. Finally, she produced an agency card. “Thank you, Leo. If you think of anything at all, telephone my agency or send a telegram.”

  Isobel mulled over the facts as she walked towards Fulton Street. So, Ella stopped by Menke’s Grocery on her way to the Popular, purchased candy and a bow for the little girl, then talked with a man in front of the store. A neighbor? It could be anyone. Isobel tucked the information away. She needed a more complete picture of Ella Spencer.

  Wagons trundled past, and horses and bicycles. So many shops and homes. A sea of faces to disappear into. It was like searching for a cork in the ocean. Of all the times Isobel and Lotario had run away, how many times had they been tracked down? Once. After six months, when a detective finally saw through their false trail and tracked them to a circus. And that was only because Lotario had broken down and sent a note to their father letting him know they were alive.

  Isobel turned onto Fulton Street and headed towards Ella’s home. It was a scant three blocks from the grocery. A cable car rattled past. It had taken Isobel twenty-five minutes to ride the cable car from the Popular Restaurant. If Ella had left Menke’s Grocery at five-thirty as Leo said, she would have had plenty of time to meet John Bennett at six o’clock as specified in the letter. Nearly twenty minutes between getting off the cable car and telephoning her brother. Had she met Bennett on the sidewalk, interviewed, accepted a job, and mistaken the address? Or had this John Bennett given her the wrong address on purpose and taken her somewhere else? As far as Isobel knew, no child ever ran away from home without a suitcase.

  She’d need to track down that postal box—

  Footsteps were keeping time with her own. Isobel spun. A man tipped his fedora at her as he strode past. “Just enjoying the view, ma’am,” he drawled.

  Isobel uncurled her fist and glared at her husband’s back. When she realized he wasn’t stopping, she jogged to catch up. Riot glanced at her, a smile in his eyes. He switched his walking stick to the other side and caught up her hand, tucking it through his arm.<
br />
  “It’s a good thing I didn’t bring my umbrella,” she said, leaning into him.

  He gave his stick a skillful twirl. “I always come prepared to meet you.”

  Isobel snorted. “More like, sneak up on me.”

  “We do have a way of finding each other.”

  “Where did you run off to?” she asked.

  “You ran,” he countered. “I only meandered out of the restaurant.”

  “I came back for you,” she defended.

  “I assumed you picked up a trail and forgot about me.”

  Isobel ignored the last comment. She’d neither confirm nor deny that assumption. “It didn’t lead anywhere.” Isobel told him the gist of what she had learned, and he relayed his own discoveries.

  Isobel shook her head at Mr. Krone’s claim of knowing Bennett. “What a difference between town and country. Country folk won’t claim to know someone till they’ve met the whole clan and held your firstborn.”

  “I didn’t realize I married a country gal,” Riot said with a distinct drawl.

  “All the way from Sausalito.” She pronounced it as Sau-sa-leeetoe. “You know Laura didn’t mention the clerical collar,” Isobel mused.

  Riot tapped a thoughtful finger on his walking stick. “It’s interesting how the mind will fill in blanks. Or cover up inconvenient details.”

  Isobel well knew Riot’s own troubles of the mind. His own had created void-like gaps in his memory. Although he’d managed to fill in most of the gaps, it had been a painstaking process, and Isobel suspected he did not entirely trust his mind after its betrayal.

  She looked away from the streak of white at his temple. It slashed through his raven hair. There was a deep rut in his skull under that white hair. A mark of death, as Jin so eloquently called it.

  “Mr. Krone noticed that Bennett usually crosses the street whenever he leaves the restaurant,” Riot continued. “There are a number of boarding houses and hotels across the way, so I went around to them. A man answering to John Bennett was staying at the Graystone Hotel. He fit the description that Krone and Laura gave us. He was there for a few days but checked out on the fourth.”

  “Did you search the room?”

  Riot nodded. “I didn’t find anything. Someone else had taken up residence.”

  Isobel frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a man with a small daughter needing care. Was he meeting women there?”

  “According to the staff, Bennett never entertained a lady while he was staying.” Riot sounded doubtful. Hotel staff were paid to be discreet.

  “Miss Marshal said Bennett left at six o’clock and paced out front. If Ella got on the cable car straight away, she’d have arrived at the Popular at six.”

  “It’s possible Bennett and Ella met on the sidewalk,” Riot said. “Was anyone with her on the cable car? That other man from the grocers, perhaps?”

  Isobel shook her head. “Neither the conductor nor the brakeman remembered her. They were both on duty Saturday.”

  “I’d like to find out who she talked to in front of Menke’s,” Riot said.

  “But if our unknown man at the grocery had something to do with her disappearance, why did Ella take the Fulton line all the way down to the Popular only to place a telephone call at the Western Union? And why call Menke’s grocery after talking with her brother?”

  “Maybe Ella expected someone to pick up the line.”

  “Her redheaded friend?” Isobel suggested.

  “Could be.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Isobel said.

  He gave her hand a squeeze. “I don’t like it either.”

  9

  Hidden Depths

  A row of single-sticks lined Fulton Street. Isobel and Riot stopped in front of Ella’s home. Ten steps led up to the front door, and six steps led down to a basement. It was a classic design in San Francisco. Tall, narrow houses that looked cramped on the outside, but stretched back along the property—narrow but deep and nearly sharing a wall.

  “Care to take the lead, since this was your first choice?” Riot asked, ever the gentleman.

  Isobel did not trust that glint in his eye. “It occurs to me that this is my first official case, Riot. I’d like to see how it’s done properly. From a master. Besides, distressed women find you reassuring.”

  “You could always practice your bedside manner.”

  Isobel snorted. “Hardly the time to practice.”

  Before he could answer, she took the stairs two at a time and rapped her knuckles on the door. A dog immediately began yapping. She thought it came from around back though.

  Riot joined her on the doorstep, his hands casually folded over the knob of his gentleman’s stick. For all his apparent ease, Isobel knew he rarely let down his guard. His body was a spring always on the verge of leaping to action. Atticus Riot was quick. Quicker than any man she had ever met. It was the reason he was still alive, and she intended to keep him that way.

  Inevitably, Isobel grew impatient when no one answered the door. She knocked again, hard enough to send the dog into a frenzy, then she leaned over the railing to peer through the front bay window. The curtains shifted, fluttering slightly from movement.

  Isobel stretched to knock on the window. This time the door opened. She straightened and looked into empty darkness.

  “Hello there, young man,” Riot said warmly. He crouched by her side, and Isobel dropped her gaze. A jam-covered toddler with a bulging diaper stood in the doorway. Bright blond locks bounced around his innocent eyes. He grinned widely, pulling back his lips to display two front teeth, and waved a jam covered wooden spoon at Riot.

  “Phurdy!” the toddler burst with excitement.

  Riot shook the boy’s spoon in greeting and Isobel recoiled. “I’ll take the mother,” she said, then thrust her head into the doorway. “Hello!”

  The toddler hiccuped, then stared up at her and froze. One blink later and he was all mouth, tears, and wailing. Isobel ducked back outside, but the child did not go silent.

  “Oh, hell,” she muttered.

  Riot didn’t hesitate. He plucked the child up, jam and all, and caught the child’s eyes. “Is your mother home, Bertie?”

  The child quieted, and pointed upstairs with his spoon

  “How did you know his name?” Isobel asked.

  “He told us.”

  Isobel gaped. Another faint wail came from upstairs. Alarmed, Riot stepped inside and called, “Mrs. Spencer. I’m Atticus Riot. A detective. Your son hired my agency to find Ella.”

  “I’m ill,” came a weak reply from above. There was movement in the dim lamplight. These homes were deep and dark and residents tended to keep the gas lamps dim, because of the expense. “Have you found my daughter?”

  Bertie buried his jam-covered hand in Riot’s beard and squealed with delight. Riot didn’t seem to mind, but Isobel inwardly cringed. Both of them would need a bath now.

  “My partner and I have questions. May we enter your home?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s no need to come down, Mrs. Spencer. I’ll just clean this little fellow up first.”

  “Oh, Bertie, I…”

  The woman trailed off and Isobel silently filled in the vacancy: I forgot about him. Isobel caught Riot’s eye, then plunged into the foyer. Coats were scattered around a coat rack. The umbrella stand was overturned, and a trail of jam led down the hallway. A pale woman leaned on the banister above. Her eyes were sunken in a once plump face.

  Isobel feared Mrs. Spencer would topple down the stairs. She raced up the steps, caught the woman under the arm, and propelled her back into a room that contained a screaming infant.

  The bedroom was dark and cramped, full of unwashed clothes and an untouched tray of food that looked two days old. The source of the wailing came from a cradle by the bed—a red-faced bald creature with flailing arms and legs.

  Isobel sat the woman down, then threw open the curtains and lifted the window. The rattling squeal turned th
e infant’s scream into a frenzied howl.

  Isobel stared at the baby. An unfamiliar feeling rose in her breast. Panic. “Mrs. Spencer,” Isobel said sharply. “What are you supposed to do with… that?” Was it male or female? How old was it?

  “James has colic,” Mrs. Spencer said weakly. “Ella helps me.” And from the smell emanating from the thing, it had a dirty diaper as well. Mention of her daughter turned into silent tears. They dripped down Mrs. Spencer’s cheeks, splashing onto her sweat-stained nightgown. Isobel doubted she was even aware of the tears. Mrs. Spencer’s eyes simply started leaking. “Have you found Ella?” It was a desperate, quivering question.

  “No,” Isobel said bluntly. She stepped forward, plumped the pillows, and helped Mrs. Spencer under the covers. “Have you seen a doctor? Has the child been examined?”

  Mrs. Spencer looked to the bedside table, where an array of tinctures and vials sat. “It hasn’t helped,” she said, the tears still leaking. “He says I have melancholy.”

  Isobel looked from the mother to the infant. She could not take the screaming anymore. There was something pathetic and pleading in that cry. Isobel picked the baby up under the arms and held it at arm’s length. Its head flopped back and she quickly caught it with a finger, propping the head up.

  “What’s wrong with it? It can’t even hold its head up.” Isobel placed the baby in the mother’s arms. “Perhaps it’s hungry?”

  The suggestion stirred Mrs. Spencer. Moving weakly, she undid her robe, and exposed a breast. The child latched on immediately, and started sucking with a desperation that left it squirming, but its nose was clogged and it seemed to have trouble feeding and breathing at the same time.

  Isobel picked up each tincture, reading their labels. They were prescribed by a Doctor Limon, and had names like ‘Miracle Cure All’ and ‘Soothing Cure.’ Isobel uncorked a vial and sniffed at it. Laudanum.

  “I’ll be right back,” Isobel said softly.

  Isobel found Riot in the kitchen. Bertie was splashing in a pot of water on the floor. “Mrs. Spencer and her infant need help. She claims the doctor is treating her for melancholy, but from the looks of it the doctor is a snake oil salesman. She says the infant has colic. But it’s so weak it can’t even hold its head up.”