Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  Celia’s smile faltered just a bit as she attempted to understand this curious statement.

  Oblivious to her dilemma, Wilde continued, “While I was there, I descended to the bottom of a silver mine in a pail. I, of course, remained true to my principle of being graceful even in a bucket.”

  Vaguely aware that this was meant to be amusing, Celia laughed a bit self-consciously. “I am happy to hear that you have been well received on your journey, Mr. Wilde. I have never left the state of California myself, but I’ve been told that visiting a strange country can be daunting.”

  “Ah, madam,” the poet replied, “we really have everything in common with America nowadays except, of course, for the language.”

  Once again, Celia looked a bit baffled, while Papa blinked and Robert’s face displayed renewed annoyance. Both, however, remained silent. Apparently satisfied that he had succinctly summed up his travels to date, Wilde turned back to Samuel.

  “Now that I have seen for myself that you are on the road to recovery, I confess that the events of last night may turn out to be the highlight of my American tour.” Wilde smiled as if struck by an idea. “In fact, I may immortalize this adventure in a book. I’ve long had the desire to write a novel. Indeed, Mr. Woolson, it may well be I who am in your debt.”

  Before any of us could find words to respond, Oscar Wilde bowed to the assemblage, and with a dramatic swirl of his oversize coat, he jauntily departed my brother’s room.

  Robert was the first to speak. “Good Lord, what a supercilious fop. And what a lot of dribble comes out of his mouth. I don’t care if he’s the finest poet in the world, he looks a complete buffoon who—”

  He was cut off in midtirade as the matron returned to send everyone on their way. I crossed to the bed to bid good-bye to my brother, but during Wilde’s leavetaking, he had once again lapsed into sleep. He still appeared far too pale for my liking, but at least he seemed to be resting more naturally now. I kissed him lightly on his forehead, then followed Celia and Robert to the door. After a few private moments with their sleeping son, Mama and Papa followed us out of the room.

  Relieved to see my parents at last departing for home and, I trusted, some well-deserved rest, I was left alone with Robert. He was complaining that he still knew next to nothing about how Samuel had gotten himself shot and was demanding to hear the story. I led him into the room where we had spent so many long hours the night before. Once we were seated, I related the events of the previous evening, starting with the reading at Mortimer Remy’s cottage and ending with Bruno Studds leading Wilde, Jonathan Aleric, Samuel, and me down the hill.

  “That is the most bizarre story I’ve ever heard,” he said when I had finished. “Why would anyone want to shoot your brother?”

  “Those are my thoughts exactly,” came a familiar voice.

  Robert and I looked up to find Sergeant George Lewis, walking over to where we were seated.

  “George,” I exclaimed as both Robert and I rose from our chairs. “Is there any news on the shooter?”

  Lewis motioned for us to resume our seats and then pulled over another chair for himself. He sank onto it wearily, and I wondered how much sleep he had been able to snatch since I’d seen him the night before. As one of Samuel’s best friends, I could well imagine his determination to find the villain who had nearly taken his life.

  George gave a sigh of frustration. “I wish I could report that I had news, Miss Sarah, but I’m afraid we’re no closer to an answer than we were last night. We’ve questioned everyone who was at Mortimer Remy’s house, and they all claim to have gone directly to their own homes after the poetry reading.”

  “What about the residents who live near the road leading down the hill?” I asked. “Perhaps one of them saw or heard something.”

  “We interviewed them as well,” George said. “They all claim to have seen nothing out of the ordinary. Several people who live close to the Filbert Street Steps admit to hearing a gun go off, but it’s not all that unusual on Telegraph Hill, so they thought nothing about it.”

  Robert gave a little snort. “Yet someone took a shot at Samuel. Do you know if he has any other acquaintances living there who might wish him harm, Sarah?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. A small colony of writers and artists live there, and Samuel knows most of them. But I can’t imagine why they would want to see him dead.” Just saying this awful word made my blood run cold, and once again I shuddered to think how close I’d come to losing my brother.

  “I hoped to see him tonight to ask him those very questions,” George put in. “But the matron was adamant that he’d had more than enough visitors for one day, and that he needed to rest.”

  “She’s right, he does,” I said. “At least he finally woke up this evening, if only for a short while.”

  George looked immensely relieved. “Thank God for that. I’m going to try to speak to him again tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” I replied vaguely, distracted by a sudden thought. It must have been a sign of my shock that I hadn’t considered the possibility earlier. “George, what if Samuel wasn’t the intended target last night? Granted the moon had risen, but the trees along the path blocked out a good deal of the light. What if the shooter intended to hit someone else in our group?”

  George sat up straighter in his chair, suddenly more alert than he had seemed only a moment ago.

  Before he could reply, however, Robert exclaimed, “There you are, Lewis! That’s a much more logical explanation. You need to change your focus and concentrate on the other individuals who were walking with Samuel. Sarah’s right, I’m sure one of them was the intended target.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Robert,” I protested. “I only offered the idea as a possibility. It’s just as likely that someone was shooting at a gray fox, or a possum, which I understand is not uncommon.”

  “Miss Sarah,” George said, holding up a hand to prevent Robert from once again offering his opinion, “I know we’ve been over this before, but could you please tell me again exactly what happened on your way down the hill from Mr. Remy’s house? You say Bruno Studds led you along the path.” He consulted his ever-present notebook. “Let me see … he’s Mrs. Katherine Montgomery’s handyman, is that right?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “As I told you, despite the moon, the path was dark in places. Mr. Studds was in the lead, carrying his lantern. Mr. Wilde, Jonathan Aleric, Samuel, and I followed.”

  “Did the four of you walk in any particular order?” George asked. “Close your eyes and try to imagine it again for me, if you would. It’s very important.”

  It was on my lips to snap at him for insulting my excellent memory when, to my surprise, I comprehended that I would be forced to do just that. Although I clearly remembered Samuel falling to the ground, the events leading up to the gunshot retort were a bit hazy. Obediently, I closed my eyes and attempted to bring to mind every step of that walk down the hill.

  At length I said, “I am sure that Mr. Wilde was directly behind Mr. Studds. I recall his complaining of the hazardous going, and he seemed to scuttle as closely behind the handyman and his lantern as possible. Samuel and I followed, as did Jonathan Aleric, the author of An Uncivil War and publisher of the Bay Area Express newspaper.”

  “The three of you walked together?” Lewis asked, scribbling in his notebook. “In what order?”

  “Let me see … I walked to Samuel’s right, and Aleric to his left,” I told him, confident now of my recollection.

  “Good, that gives me a much clearer picture,” George said, noting this in his book. “At what point did you hear the shot ring out, then?”

  This memory required no hesitation. “The gun went off just before we reached the Filbert Street Steps,” I told him with an involuntary shudder, then suddenly recalled a detail I’d forgotten until that very minute. “Wait, George, we had nearly reached the top landing of the steps when Mr. Aleric stumbled. I remember Samuel reaching down to help him. That�
�s when we heard the gunshot, and my brother fell to the ground.”

  The two men silently considered this last piece of information. For my part, I chided myself for forgetting such a vital detail. I knew, of course, that witnesses to a crime all too frequently gave muddled accounts of what they had seen, but I had not expected my own memory to fail me in such a way.

  “What do you know about Mr. Aleric?” George asked, breaking into these unhappy musings. “Is there any reason to believe he has enemies who might want to see him dead?”

  Once again I was struck by my failure to think more clearly, especially when clarity was of such importance. Only now did I recall the hostility I’d witnessed between Aleric and Mortimer Remy.

  “What is it, Sarah?” Robert demanded, watching me with narrowed blue-green eyes. “You’re obviously chewing something over in that busy brain of yours.”

  I glanced at Lewis, who was also watching inquiringly, pencil poised above his notebook. “Yes, Miss Sarah,” he urged quietly. “What is it you’ve remembered?”

  Realizing I could not withhold such a potentially vital piece of information, I reluctantly described the animosity that existed between Mortimer Remy and Jonathan Aleric, along with the angry scene between them the night before.

  “It’s no secret the two men have a long-standing dislike of each other,” I said, doing my best to put the feud in the proper perspective. The publisher of the San Francisco Weekly had been good to Samuel over the past five years, not only printing his articles, but also assigning him as an independent reporter to cover special crimes and other pieces that paid generously. Moreover, competition among the city’s newspapers was hardly unusual. As far as I knew, no one had been killed over such rivalry.

  “George, Samuel has known Mr. Remy for years,” I went on. “He’s always been treated fairly and with respect. Neither my brother nor I have ever known him to be a violent man. Quite the contrary.”

  “Tell me, Miss Sarah,” George said, refusing to be sidetracked by my assessment of the publisher, “why didn’t Mr. Remy see his own guests down the hill? How did it happen that Mrs. Montgomery’s man led you instead?”

  “Mr. Remy was suffering from a toothache,” I told him. “Mrs. Montgomery realized that he was in pain, and insisted that he remain in his cottage and treat it. She volunteered Mr. Studds to show us the way with his lantern.”

  “That would give Remy a good excuse to stay behind and take a shot at Aleric,” Robert put in, much to my dismay. “The lantern probably provided him with a good target.”

  I shot Robert an angry look. “Pay no attention to him, George. That’s a wild theory at best. Mortimer couldn’t know ahead of time that Mrs. Montgomery would notice his toothache or, even if she did, that she’d offer her man to escort us down the hill.”

  George did not immediately reply as he scribbled busily in his notebook. “That’s as may be, Miss Sarah,” he said, closing the pad. Absently he pushed back the lock of brown hair that habitually fell across his forehead, giving him the appearance of a man younger than his thirty-two years. “But Mr. Campbell makes a good point. As I see it, either the shooter was aiming at a fox, or some other small animal, and the shot went wild, or he intentionally aimed at Samuel or Jonathan Aleric. You indicated that Bruno Studds and Oscar Wilde were walking in front of you, so in order to hit one of them, he would have had to shoot through the three of you, which would have been risky. I’m assuming, of course, that the bullet came from the grove of trees to the rear. Because of the way the bullet entered Samuel’s chest, he could not have been shot from down the hill, and there was little cover to either side of the grade.”

  Robert, who had been listening attentively to George’s reconstruction of the crime, rose to his feet in obvious agitation.

  “Wait a minute! We’ve been assuming that Samuel or Aleric was the intended victim. But what if the shooter was aiming at Sarah? She was standing as close to Samuel as was this Aleric fellow.” He looked at me in horror. “Good God, Sarah, who have you annoyed sufficiently enough that they might want to see you dead?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Robert,” I exclaimed. “That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone want to shoot me?”

  I looked to George for support, only to find him shaking his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Miss Sarah. As unlikely as it seems, we must take all possibilities into consideration. Unless it really was a shot gone wild, we must assume that Samuel, Aleric, or yes, even you, were the intended victim.”

  I rose to my feet, refusing even to discuss such a nonsensical idea. “Don’t be foolish, George. There is a potential killer on the loose. You can ill afford to waste your time on absurd speculation!”

  “Sarah, sit down, and for once stop being so dashed stubborn,” Robert said. “You just told us that Mortimer Remy wouldn’t hurt a fly, even if he can’t stand the sight of Aleric. And you can’t name a single person who might want to murder Samuel. So, who is left?”

  I was spared having to come up with a rejoinder when a short, tubby little man came through the hospital’s front door. He started across the lobby, then spied Robert, George, and me talking in the waiting room.

  Oh, no, I thought in dismay. It was that pesky reporter Ozzie Foldger. I required no crystal ball to know why he was here.

  “Aha, Miss Woolson, what a stroke of luck finding you here,” he said, whipping out his notebook and pencil as he walked toward our little group. “I tried to see your brother this afternoon, but some bear of a nurse refused to let me in.”

  For a moment, I was tempted to simply ignore him and walk out of the hospital. But of course that would be cowardly and in the end would solve nothing. Better to face him now and be done with it.

  “You were sent away on doctor’s orders, Mr. Foldger,” I told him, doing my best to keep my voice civil. A hospital was hardly the place to tell the irksome reporter what I thought of him. “Samuel is far too ill to see you, of all people.”

  Foldger gave me an ingratiating smile as false as his words, and I felt my hackles rise. The man was no better than a troublesome toad, and I had yet to forgive him for writing a number of disparaging articles about me several months ago, as I sought to bring the Rincon Hill murderer to justice. Naturally, my actions during that case had been completely justified, considering that a ruthless killer was terrorizing our quiet San Francisco neighborhood. However, the nasty little reporter had twisted my motives, generating a spate of disagreeable publicity not only for me, but for my entire family. My brother Frederick was still complaining about Foldger’s disclosure that I had paid several visits to one of the city’s high-end brothels. Frederick claimed that these inflammatory stories were weakening his credibility as California’s newest state senator, an assertion I found laughable. As far as I was concerned, my eldest brother required no outside help to weaken his credibility.

  Beside me, Robert took a step closer to the reporter, fists clenched at his sides. At well over six feet tall, he towered over Foldger.

  “Even when Samuel recovers, you’ll be the last man in this city he’ll want to speak to,” he snapped.

  Foldger flinched as he stared up at the muscular Scot, but he was nothing if not persistent. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Campbell,” he said in that irritatingly saccharine tone he employed when he was after a story. “I wouldn’t dream of disturbing Mr. Woolson. I simply wish to verify one or two facts about the incident.”

  Robert snorted. “And why would you want to do that? You wouldn’t recognize a fact if it hit you square in the face.”

  Foldger opened his mouth to retort, then seemed to think better of it. Turning his back on Robert, he tried the same smile on George Lewis. “Sergeant, you’re in charge of the case. Surely you can spare me a few minutes of your valuable time.”

  I gave George a meaningful glance, which Foldger caught, but the policeman required no prompting. He cared no more for the little weasel than did Samuel or I.

  “The matter is under investigation, Mr. Fo
ldger,” George told him. “I have no information to give you at this time.”

  Foldger shot me a glaring look, all pretense of affability now gone from his sharp face. “Dad-blast it!” he spat. “You Woolsons think you’re the biggest toads in the puddle. But I’ll fix your flint, just see if I don’t.”

  “Watch your language, Foldger,” Robert exclaimed, somewhat ironically, I thought, considering his own fondness for expletives. “There’s a lady present.”

  The reporter looked me over derisively. “Ha! That’s a rich one. No lady snoops around like a bloodhound, poking her nose into men’s affairs. And she sure as hell doesn’t visit brothels and befriend strumpets.”

  George gasped and took a step toward the little man, but Robert reached him first. He grabbed the scruff of Foldger’s collar with one large hand and pulled him nearly off his feet.

  “Listen to me, you little guttersnipe,” my colleague hissed. “You aren’t good enough to polish this lady’s shoes. Miss Woolson’s methods may not always be conventional, but she’s done more to help the poor and downtrodden citizens of this city than you could do if you lived to be a hundred.” Abruptly, he released the reporter, giving him a hard push toward the door. “Now get out of here. And don’t come back!”

  Foldger stumbled and nearly fell before catching his balance. “You may have won this time, Campbell,” he snarled when he was safely out of my colleague’s reach. He looked defiantly at each of us in turn. “But upon my oath, I’ll get answers about this shooting one way or the other!”

  Before any of us could react to this threat, Foldger was out the door and disappearing into the night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By a stroke of luck, Eddie was just reining up in front of the hospital as Robert, George, and I came out onto the street. The boy hardly brought his dappled-gray to a stop before hopping off his seat like a jack-in-the-box.

  “How is he, Miss Sarah?” he asked, his expression creased with worry. “I came here right after my last fare. Ken I go in and see him? Mr. Samuel, I mean?”