Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “I’m sorry, Eddie,” I told the boy, regretting that he had been unable to arrive earlier. Though even if he had, the stolid matron who guarded my brother like an avenging angel would undoubtedly have forestalled yet another visitor to the already crowded room. Especially, I thought, this ragamuffin of a boy. “Samuel is resting now, and no one is allowed in,” I went on. “But he did awaken earlier, which is a very good sign.”

  Eddie heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m mighty glad to hear that, Miss Sarah. He didn’t look none too good when I seen him last night.” Such had been his apprehension that he appeared to notice the men for the first time. He nodded a brief hello to Robert and then focused intense brown eyes on George. “Have you caught the bloke what shot Mr. Samuel yet?”

  I shuddered at the boy’s massacre of the English language, but before I could correct it, George answered. “Not yet, son, but we’re sure to find the man soon.”

  “They oughta have a necktie sociable and string the rounder up, that’s what they should do,” Eddie proclaimed, his eyes blazing. “That bast—” He shot me a sheepish look. “I mean, that blasted idiot blame near killed Mr. Samuel.”

  “Eddie!” I exclaimed, horrified that he would espouse such an unlawful act, particularly in front of a police officer.

  “Don’t be too hard on him, Sarah,” Robert said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He’s very fond of Samuel, and it certainly was a close thing. The shooting has shocked us all.”

  Eddie, who perhaps because of Robert’s imposing size and abrupt demeanor invariably treated him with wary respect, beamed up at his benefactor. “That’s right, Mr. Campbell. I surely thought he was a goner. The sooner the leatherheads catch the ornery devil, the better.”

  Good heavens! Before I could berate the boy for uttering such profanities, George inquired whether we would be kind enough to drop him off at the police station before Eddie took us to our own homes. Naturally, I was happy to oblige, and the three of us were soon seated in the brougham.

  I was amused to note that having a policeman as a passenger aboard his carriage was accomplishing what Samuel, Robert, and I had tried unsuccessfully to achieve for over a year: Eddie was actually driving at a moderately sedate speed. We even took the first turn on all four wheels. Amazing!

  * * *

  Once we had dropped George off at the station, Robert turned in his seat to face me, his expression too grave for my liking.

  “This has got to stop,” he began without preamble, indeed without my having the least idea of what he was going on about.

  My face must have reflected my confusion, for he continued solemnly, “You might have been killed, Sarah. That could be you lying in that hospital instead of Samuel. Or worse,” he went on, his voice breaking slightly, “you could be lying in a pine box.”

  For a moment, I could think of nothing to say. The first words that came to mind were overly harsh. I could see that he was serious. He truly feared for my life, and I was touched, even if such fears were unfounded.

  “Robert, don’t you think you’re overreacting? I’m perfectly fine, after all.”

  “Yes, but another few inches and that bullet could have hit you.” An uncomfortable silence stretched into several minutes. “I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you, Sarah,” he said at length, his voice so soft that I had to strain to hear him over the noise of traffic outside. Once again I was at a loss for words, wondering if I had even heard him correctly.

  “Sarah?”

  “Robert, I—I don’t know what to say,” I answered uneasily.

  “You need say nothing.” Underlying his words I detected embarrassment, as if he had said more than he’d intended. “Just promise me that you’ll be careful. I know you too well. You can leave no mystery unsolved, no questions unanswered, even if it puts your life in danger. And now with Samuel injured, I’m afraid you’ll stop at nothing until this villain is caught.”

  He reached out to take my hand in his. “Please, my dear, leave this matter to the police. You heard Lewis, they’re doing everything possible to locate that madman. There’s no need for you to become involved.”

  This surprised me. “I’ve said nothing about becoming involved, Robert. I have my doubts about the police department in general, but I’m sure George is doing his best to find the shooter.” I hesitated, not wanting to make a promise I might not be able to keep. “On the other hand, I cannot turn a blind eye, or ear, for that matter, to any information that should come my way.”

  He dropped my hand as if it had suddenly caught on fire. “I knew it! You have every intention of getting involved in this.”

  I felt my temper rising. “I said I could not ignore any evidence I should happen upon. And neither should you. It is every citizen’s duty to aid the police in their inquiries.”

  “Every citizen’s duty—!” He broke off as if too angry to go on. His eyes were reflected briefly in the light of a lamppost, the deep blue-green color appearing nearly black as we quickly passed back into darkness. “If your behavior weren’t so bloody dangerous, I’d laugh at such an absurd statement. Ugh!” he exclaimed, sliding hard against me as our carriage took a sharp right onto Pine Street. Now that we were alone in the brougham, the lad was back to his hair-raising two-wheel turns.

  “You worry too much, Robert,” I told him, mildly annoyed that he remained pressed against me instead of moving back to his own place on the seat. I decided it was time to change the subject and told him about the visitors to my office that afternoon.

  “A bullring!” he exclaimed. He was regarding me as if I were pulling his leg. “In San Francisco?”

  “Yes, outrageous, isn’t it? According to Mr. Dinwitty, it would not be the first structure of its kind in the city. He says one stood across from the Mission Dolores in the 1840s and early ’50s.”

  “But that was over thirty years ago, when San Francisco was little more than an oversized mining town. Surely City Hall would never allow such a barbaric scheme today.”

  “That’s what I thought after learning of the plan. But according to the Dinwittys, Ricardo Ruiz has most of the city council in his pocket. Evidently he comes from an old and very wealthy Mexican family.”

  “Even so,” Robert protested, “no one would sell him the land needed for such a structure.”

  “He already owns the land, I’m afraid. I’m not entirely sure what structures occupy the property now, but I gather Ruiz has no problem tearing everything down.”

  “It’s insanity,” he proclaimed. “Why haven’t I heard of this scheme before now? You’d think it would be plastered on the front page of every newspaper in town.”

  “The Dinwittys said that Ruiz and his associates have gone to a great deal of trouble to keep the matter a secret. Now that the SPCA has learned of the proposal, though, I’m sure it will soon become public knowledge.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sarah, but why did those people come to you? There are many prominent firms in town, with far more influence than you possess when it comes to City Hall.”

  “I appreciate your high opinion of me,” I said dryly.

  He sputtered an apology, but I cut him off. “Never mind, I know exactly what you mean. As it turns out, the Dinwittys have already visited a number of larger firms. They were turned down by one and all. I presume no one is willing to take on city government.”

  He shook his head. “This is bizarre. I cannot imagine a bullring being constructed in the center of San Francisco.”

  “Neither can I, Robert,” I agreed. “Neither can I.”

  * * *

  After spending the morning with Samuel, Celia, and my mother at the hospital the next day, I arrived at my office in the early afternoon. There were some odds and ends I wished to attend to before Robert and Eddie arrived to return with me to the hospital. I had hardly settled behind my desk, however, when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I replied, wondering who it could be. I was expecting
no visitors, although the idea that it might be a new client was a welcome thought.

  I left off further speculation when a darkly handsome gentleman entered the room. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and was obviously of Latin heritage. He was dressed impeccably in dark brown trousers and a tan day coat, with a colorful cravat tied flamboyantly about his neck. He was nearly six feet, I judged, and was possessed of a slender but well-toned build. His curly black hair was unfashionably long but neatly combed and worn beneath a stylish top hat.

  After little more than a cursory inspection of these details, however, I was drawn to the man’s eyes: they were very dark and intense, and heavily framed by long black lashes. His eyebrows were thick and gently arched, his nose slightly hooked, which gave it a roguish look and prevented it from appearing too feminine. His lips were well shaped and full; indeed, I blush to say this, but the only term that seemed adequately to describe them was “sensual.”

  But my gaze kept returning to his eyes. They were intelligent and almost disconcertingly piercing. Good Lord, I thought with an involuntary little chill, my visitor was altogether too handsome for his own good. And dangerous? I wondered, although I wasn’t sure why that thought should have entered my mind.

  As I was examining him, he was looking boldly about my office, as if judging whether or not my rooms were up to his standards. He then took a long moment to subject me to the same rude scrutiny, after which he nodded, turned his head, and called out something in rapid Spanish. Immediately, two more men followed him into my office, closing the door behind them.

  Still regarding me speculatively, the impertinent fellow finally removed his hat, performed a stiff little bow, and said in a precise, if accented, voice, “Buenos días, señorita. I am Ricardo Ruiz. You have heard of me?”

  Perhaps it was because I was put off by his haughty manner, but I found myself loath to admit that I had indeed heard of him, in fact only the day before. And since he was standing here in my office, I assumed he must already know my name.

  Instead of answering his question, I adopted my most professional air and inquired, “How may I help you, Señor Ruiz?”

  If anything, the man drew himself up even straighter, trying, but not quite succeeding, to hide his annoyance that I refused to play his little game. Almost insolently, his all-too-direct eyes raked me over.

  “Señorita Sarah Woolson? But you are una mujer bella! I must ask myself why a lovely young woman like yourself would make a claim so imposible. An attorney, of all idiocies! When I was informed of this, I vowed to see for myself. Now that I behold your beauty, I find the charade even more atroz.”

  With a great deal of effort, I reined in my temper. Ignoring this chauvinistic folderol, I said with measured courtesy, “You are correct, I am Miss Woolson. However, I do not merely claim to be a lawyer, Señor Ruiz. I am, in point of fact, a licensed attorney in the state of California.”

  “Ah,” he said, raising one dark eyebrow. He did not bother to hide a smile. I did not bother to hide my annoyance.

  From beneath those long black lashes, his eyes burned into mine. I was certain that this practiced look was calculated to turn my emotions into mush, as they undoubtedly had many women before me. I am ashamed to admit to experiencing a small flutter in my bosom. Despite my body’s involuntary betrayal, however, I succeeded in keeping my face impassive.

  “What may I do for you, Señor Ruiz?” I once more inquired levelly.

  His full lips curved into a suggestive smile, causing me to instantly regret my choice of words.

  “Sí, but I understand, señorita,” he purred, his velvety voice encircling me with an uncomfortable wave of heat. He leaned across my desk until his face was but a few inches from my own. His eyes glistened, and up close I noticed a small white scar that ran from his left temple nearly to his patrician nose.

  “It is but a silly game you play until such time as you are married, is that not correct, señorita? To amuse yourself?” He shook his head, making a little clicking sound with his tongue as if to indicate that I was behaving like a naughty little girl. Again, he gave me that syrupy smile. “You modern American women. In Mexico such a thing would be unheard of.”

  “What may I do for you, Señor Ruiz?” I repeated for the third time, not bothering to hide my impatience. I was growing weary of the taunts and skepticism I had experienced since becoming an attorney. Occasionally, I was forced to ignore these gibes due to professional considerations. This was not one of those times, especially not when they issued from a man who obviously expected me to flutter my eyes and swoon over him with desire.

  “I presume you have come to discuss the bullring you are planning to construct here in San Francisco, señor,” I said matter-of-factly. I moved as far back in my chair as was possible, to allow more space between our faces. “If so, I have no interest in debating its merits or its obvious shortcomings with you.”

  “Ah, you come directly to the point, señorita,” he said, appearing not the least put off by my stern tone. “And I see that you are also well-informed.” He gave a little sigh, as if finally resigned to the fact that I did indeed possess all the unfortunate characteristics of the American woman. “Yes, you speak your mind. I have heard that said of you. On the other hand, I have also been told that you are a fair woman. The Dinwittys will have given you their opinion of my plan. But I said to myself, surely this independent Señorita Woolson will be willing to hear my side of the undertaking—if only for the sake of justice.”

  “Since I am not representing Mr. and Mrs. Dinwitty, I fail to see how justice comes into it, Señor Ruiz. I suggest you discuss this matter with the attorneys they have engaged.”

  I pulled some paperwork from my desk drawer—the month’s budget, which I had been studiously attempting to avoid—and laid out the ledger before me as if it revealed something other than the unhappy fact that my practice was losing money.

  I looked back up at him when he didn’t move. “I’m sorry, Señor Ruiz”—a last vestige of courtesy prompted me to utter this untruth—“but I’m afraid there is nothing I can do to help you.”

  To my intense annoyance, he flicked his hand over the seat of one of the chairs in front of my desk, as if brushing aside invisible flecks of dust; then, uninvited, he took a seat. Without being told, his two men shifted their positions until they stood facing us, backs against the opposite wall.

  Ruiz reclined in his chair and crossed one immaculately pressed trouser leg over the other, regarding me with that same frank appraisal. His demeanor was that of a man confident that he was in charge of the interview, not the other way around. And in my own office!

  “In that regard you are incorrect, Señorita Woolson. As a matter of fact, I look forward to spending a great deal of time discussing this matter with you. My people are rarely wrong, and they tell me that you will soon receive a second visit from the Dinwittys. This time they will come with the intention of offering you the position as their attorney.”

  I regarded him in surprise. “How can you, or your people, possibly claim to know Mr. and Mrs. Dinwitty’s plans?” I demanded. “They seemed intent on finding other representation. However, even if they did hire me to represent their case, what leads you to believe I would discuss the matter with you?”

  Again that smile, an expression I was rapidly coming to abhor. Short of outright insolence, I wondered how I might get this arrogant man, and his two overmuscled guards, out of my office.

  “Oh, I think you will be more than eager to go over the finer points of the project with me, my dear Señorita Woolson. You are a native of this city, are you not?”

  “Yes, I am, but I fail to see—”

  “Then as a daughter of San Francisco, you must understand that this project will bring a great deal of money into the city coffers.”

  “In view of the violence which will take place in your arena, I am hardly concerned with the question of profit, no matter how large that might prove to be.”

  “I see y
ou are also a woman of principle, señorita,” he said. “In fact, it is that very quality which will endear you to my cause. Your dealings with the Chinese are very well-known, you see.”

  “The Chinese?” I said, now totally confused. “What do the Chinese have to do with your plans for constructing a bullring in our city?”

  “As I say, you are well-known for being a fair woman,” he replied. “That lack of prejudice extends to women and individuals of other races, as demonstrated by the Chinese cook charged with murder you defended in court last year. Just before Christmas, I understand you represented two young Chinese boys also accused of murder. And of course there are your dealings with the powerful tong leader Li Ying.” He made a tower with his long fingers. “Yes, I would say your reputation for protecting the oppressed is richly deserved.”

  I did my best to hide my astonishment that he knew so much about my professional and personal activities. Li Ying in particular would be considerably annoyed to discover that our dealings—indeed, our friendship—had been so well documented.

  “Clearly the sources you referred to earlier have been actively engaged in prying into my affairs,” I said with acerbity. “However, I cannot imagine what my past cases can have to do with your project.”

  He rested his chin against the steeple he had constructed with his fingers, as if considering his words carefully. “Are you aware, Miss Woolson, that San Francisco’s SPCA is not the only group contesting my bullring?” When I did not reply, he went on, “I thought not. Perhaps you would be interested to learn that Denis Kearney and his band of sandlotters are violently opposed to the construction.”

  This took me by surprise. Ruiz was referring to the leader of California’s Workingmen’s Party. During the 1870s, Denis Kearney had called for the expulsion of Chinese immigrants from the country, arguing that they were willing to work for lower wages, thereby taking jobs away from Americans. He was one of the leaders of a mob that attacked and set fire to a number of Chinese immigrants living in tents. I admit I held Mr. Kearney and his cohorts, now generally referred to as “sandlotters,” in utter disdain.