Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “What is it, Sarah?” my companion asked, breaking into my thoughts. “I can just about see smoke coming out of that overworked brain of yours.”

  I was spared the need to answer him as the object of my deliberations walked to center stage and faced the audience. He was dressed nattily in evening clothes and a bright blue-and-gold cravat. I was pleased to note that he no longer seemed afflicted with a toothache.

  Before my companion could ask, I said, “That’s Mortimer Remy.”

  A tightly corseted woman seated to my left whispered for me to be quiet, and I shook my head slightly as Robert started to ask another question.

  “I’ll explain more later,” I told him in a hushed tone, which nonetheless earned me another admonishing glare from my neighbor. I responded with an innocent smile and friendly nod.

  The room gradually grew quiet as Mortimer Remy announced Oscar Wilde’s second appearance at Pratt’s Hall, his introduction including a great many overblown adjectives to describe the Irishman’s North American tour as well as his recently published volume of poems.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he finished with a broad flourish of his hand, “I present to you the young author of Poems, and one of the leading advocates of the Aesthetic Movement, Mr. Oscar Wilde.”

  There was a smattering of applause as Wilde took the stage. Robert gave a grunt of disapproval as he scrutinized the poet’s clothing. This evening he was attired in a purple coat that had been left open to reveal a lining of lavender satin. As before, he wore knee breeches, black silk hose, and shoes with polished silver buckles. Over one shoulder he carried a bright yellow velvet cloak, adding a jarring flash of color to an already gaudy ensemble.

  Although Robert had met the poet when he visited Samuel in the hospital, he still stared at him in disbelief as the Irishman strode with an air of majestic nonchalance to the center of the stage.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “The man looks like a full-plumed peacock. Has he no idea how ludicrous he appears?”

  “I think he cares very much about his appearance, and is generally well pleased with the effect it achieves. Its very absurdity has brought him priceless publicity, and has served the goals of the Aesthetic Movement he champions.”

  “Shh,” shushed the woman to my left.

  Once again I favored her with an innocent smile, saying quietly, “I’m sorry. My friend and I were just commenting on Mr. Wilde’s, er, unusual apparel.”

  To my surprise, the woman responded with a fawning smile. “Yes, it is unique, is it not? If only more gentlemen were inspired to dress with such distinction and flair.”

  As the applause died, it was replaced by a few hisses from the audience. The woman immediately turned her aristocratic face to glare at several nearby offenders, then turned to voice her indignation to the amused-looking man seated to her left. I received the impression that he and other men in the auditorium had been dragged there against their wishes by wives eager to behold Wilde in person. I felt a stab of guilt as I realized that by insisting Robert escort me to Platt’s Hall that evening, I could be regarded as having behaved like one of them.

  Before Wilde could commence his lecture, there was a thunder of footsteps coming from the rear of the hall. Looking around, I saw a number of late arrivals marching noisily down the center aisle. They were attired in velvet coats, knee breeches, satin shirts, and black hose, presenting a jarring array of pink, blue, violet, yellow, and purple in an obvious parody of Wilde’s costume. As they took seats in the front rows of the auditorium, the audience instantly erupted in laughter, whistles, and cheers. Demonstrating their appreciation of this reception, the men—whom I assumed by their age and demeanor to be students of the nearby University of California—gave low bows and raised their arms to wave on their admirers.

  “I have a feeling this is going to turn ugly,” I said to Robert, only to find that he had risen halfway out of his seat and was smiling at the rowdy young men. “Robert!” I admonished, tugging him down by the coattail. “Do not encourage the scoundrels.”

  “Come now, Sarah, you must admit that they’ve perfectly taken the man’s measure. Wilde is nothing but an overdressed coxcomb, strutting about and speaking a lot of twaddle.” He gave a derisive snort. “How can any intelligent person take the popinjay seriously?”

  As if agreeing with this pronouncement, a young man in the front row stood up and screamed, “Nancy boy!”

  “Fop!” yelled out one of his companions.

  “Disgrace to the Irish,” called yet another.

  An abashed and red-faced Mortimer Remy hurried out onto the stage from the wings, glowering at the troublemakers and trying rather ineffectively to put a stop to the heckling, which by now had been taken up by a number of other men in the audience.

  “Please! Please!” Remy said, shouting in order to be heard over the din. “Remember that Mr. Wilde is our guest. I insist that you treat him with respect.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that three or four police officers had slipped into the auditorium and stood quietly watching and holding billy clubs in their hands. I was surprised to see Sergeant Lewis among their company. He did not brandish a club, but his sharp brown eyes were carefully taking in the members of the audience. As heads turned toward the uniformed men, the commotion gradually subsided.

  On the stage, Wilde gave every appearance of not being in the least put out by the jeering. He had, in fact, seated himself comfortably in the chair that had been provided for him, casually lighting a cigarette and then taking a sip from a glass of what appeared to be absinthe. He viewed the more outspoken members of the audience with amused disregard, as if they were the objects of derision and not himself.

  When all was quiet, Wilde put down his glass and walked to the lectern, facing his audience as if he had been greeted with cheers of enthusiasm rather than catcalls of derision. A moment later, he was forced to duck when one of the young men stood to chuck an overripe tomato at him.

  Although the tomato had missed its mark, the poet took a long sip of his drink before once again taking his place behind the podium. With an air of outward calm, he executed a little bow and faced his hecklers.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he drawled with a self-aggrandizing smile. “Your behavior has proven my observation that America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.”

  This, of course, aroused more taunts, and several more pieces of rotten produce flew onto the stage. Before he could drop behind the lectern, a decaying orange splattered onto his purple coat. With a disdainful curl of his full lips, Wilde nonchalantly swept out a graceful hand and brushed the offending fruit onto the floor.

  “Clearly you propose to intimidate me with overripe projectiles,” he said, rather bravely squaring off once again to face the young offenders. “However, I think you will find that these efforts are doomed to failure. It is a simple fact, you see, that a poet can survive everything but a misprint.”

  This comment was met by more taunts, and several students stood up with arms pulled back, ready to pummel the poet with another rash of verbal and physical abuse. As if suddenly jolted out of their shock at this crude demonstration, a number of women in the audience rose from their seats to voice their disapproval at the university men. This was instantly rebutted by several dozen men. Robert shot me a quick glance, as if eager to add his own voice to the din, but at my disapproving expression he thankfully remained silent in his chair.

  Before pandemonium could break out, the police in attendance made their way down the aisles, nightsticks raised as if to reinforce their shouts for everyone to settle down and stay in their seats. A few insults were directed at the advancing men in blue, but finally the auditorium fell silent, and Wilde was able to commence his lecture.

  “Dear people,” he began, “some of you no doubt would like to put me to death. You would send me to the gallows on clearly proven charges of having written poems entirely composed of
three wonderful things: romance, music, and sorrow.”

  These words elicited a fresh explosion of whistles and jeers, which were instantly silenced by the angry police and the more outspoken women in the audience, many of whom were now brandishing umbrellas and canes at the students, and in some instances at their male companions.

  Wilde’s voice cut through the ruckus. “And to those of you who are so loud, let me say that you’re wonderfully tolerant. You forgive everything except genius.”

  To my relief, this comment, delivered in a dry, mockingly humble tone, elicited a wave of laughter, even from a few of the young men seated in the front rows. Now that the police had taken up positions throughout the auditorium—and the students were evidently satisfied that they had made their point—Wilde went on with his talk.

  Which, unfortunately, was every bit as boring as it had been at Mortimer Remy’s house. The evening—which had, however distastefully, begun with some excitement—rapidly deteriorated into monotony.

  Catching a movement to my left, I saw Eddie slip into a row across the aisle from our own. Robert and I had not reserved a seat for the lad, since we were not sure if he would be able to secure a parking place where he might leave the brougham unattended. Never one to miss a spectacle, he had apparently found a suitable spot and was now here to see for himself the man satirically touted only days earlier in the San Francisco Wasp as being “the Modern Messiah.”

  I nudged Robert, and together we watched the lad lean forward in his seat and stare wide-eyed at the tall, slightly overweight man on the stage.

  I was smiling at his reaction when I noticed another familiar figure hurry down the center hall to take a seat almost directly behind Eddie. It was Samuel’s writer friend Emmett Gardiner, looking as amused as Eddie by the spectacle taking place on the stage. Evidently feeling my gaze on him, Gardiner met my eyes, smiled, and gave me a little wave of his hand.

  I was acknowledging his greeting when I caught Eddie’s eye. He was grinning from ear to ear as he pointed to the stage and mouthed, “Is that him?” I inclined my head, thinking it was just as well that he had arrived after the earlier demonstrations. I feared the students’ behavior would have had a negative influence on the polite civility I was attempting to instill in the boy.

  I could sense that Robert was growing restless. “How long is he going to babble on about furnishing houses that will live in ‘song and tradition’?” he grumbled, gazing wistfully at several men who had risen and were departing the hall.

  “Hopefully not much longer,” I answered, sharing his sentiments.

  I studied Stephen Parke and his lovely young neighbor Isabel Freiberg. From the way their heads bent toward each other, I suspected that they were no more enamored with Wilde’s lecture than were Robert and I. If either was guilty of trying to kill Samuel, Jonathan Aleric, or me, neither one appeared to be suffering any pangs of conscience.

  My gaze went to Aleric, who was absently stroking his bristly mustache as he listened to Wilde from his front-row seat. How could he appear so absorbed in such a tedious discourse? I wondered. However much I had been put off by the man’s poetry, I found his current topic to be infinitely worse. If Wilde was the personification of the Aesthetic Movement, I for one wanted nothing to do with it! Frankly, I found it disappointing that so few Telegraph Hill residents had come to Platt’s Hall tonight. Given her age and physical health I was not surprised that Mrs. Montgomery was not in attendance. And her man, Bruno Studds, was surely at her hilltop home attending to her needs. Remy’s typesetter, Tull O’Hara, had demonstrated little enough interest in Wilde at his employer’s home; I should have guessed that he would not be in attendance. Claude Dunn, of course, had just lost his wife and was left with a newborn son to care for, and Isabel’s father, Solomon, hadn’t displayed much interest in the Irishman, either. I smiled, thinking this was probably why Stephen and Isabel had taken the opportunity to come here tonight. They appeared so deeply in love, they would undoubtedly jump at any chance to be alone and away from her disapproving father.

  When the long evening finally came to a close, Wilde bowed to very modest applause, lit yet another cigarette, and picked up his drink, which had been refilled during his lecture. Mortimer Remy started to step out from the wings, but Jonathan Aleric was quicker, racing up the stairs located on either side of the stage. Pushing Remy aside, he grabbed hold of Wilde’s arm and faced the audience.

  “A stirring talk, Mr. Wilde,” he exclaimed. “I’m sure everyone present here in Platt’s Hall has learned a great deal about the exhilarating Aesthetic Movement, as well as how to best incorporate it into their own lives.”

  A visibly angry Mortimer Remy pulled Aleric’s hand off Wilde’s shoulder. “Yes, yes, we are all very grateful to Mr. Wilde for visiting our fair city. Now if you will please—”

  “In honor of the occasion,” Aleric interrupted, “I have planned a reception for Mr. Wilde at the Baldwin Hotel. You need only present your ticket for tonight’s lecture to gain admission. Food and drinks are compliments of my newspaper, the Bay Area Express. Copies of my record-selling book, An Uncivil War, will also be available at the hotel for purchase.”

  This was received with enthusiastic shouts from the audience. The Baldwin was one of San Francisco’s premier hotels, designed in the style of the French Renaissance, with a mansard roof and Corinthian columns. Few of San Francisco’s working class had ever stepped a foot inside the grand edifice, much less been wined and dined there. Shouts of approval filled the hall as everyone present, whether a fan or a heckler, raced to join the party. Jonathan Aleric had suddenly become one of the most popular men in town.

  “Wait! Please…” Remy’s words were lost in the cacophony of noise as the auditorium quickly emptied of people. “I’ve arranged for refreshments to be served here in the hall. There is no need to rush off.”

  Even as he spoke, I could see waiters entering the auditorium bearing trays laden with food. Departing members of the audience snatched at slices of bread and meat from the platters, barely pausing before continuing their exodus out of the hall.

  I tried to make my way through the crowd toward Stephen Parke and Isabel Freiberg, but the mass departure was going against me. By the time I reached the row where they had been sitting, I was disappointed to see that they were no longer in sight. I did catch a glimpse of Emmett Gardiner making his way out of the hall, but there was obviously no way I could reach him through the throng.

  “Now what?” Robert asked, elbowing his way between two protesting men to my side. “Don’t tell me you plan to go to the Baldwin.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m not hungry. Besides, I’ve had enough of Mr. Wilde for one evening.”

  “Praise God,” he said, looking relieved. “I can’t remember the last time I was forced to listen to so much pure hokum.”

  I took a hasty step back from the center aisle as the last party of students rushed past us. “I had hoped to speak to Mr. Parke and Miss Freiberg before we left, but I was too late to catch them.”

  “And even if you had, what did you expect to learn?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “Probably not much. It’s so frustrating, Robert. We are no closer to uncovering the identity of the scoundrel who shot Samuel now than we were last week.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect Parke or the Freiberg woman to be the culprit, do you?” he asked, taking my arm and leading me toward the doors.

  “That’s the problem, I can’t imagine why any of the people present at Mortimer Remy’s house would want to harm Samuel. Yet someone did shoot that gun, and I will enjoy no peace of mind until I have identified the villain.”

  We exited the hall to find that it had started to rain. Pulling up my collar, I looked around for Eddie and was surprised to find him standing on the curb, watching Sergeant Lewis speak to a constable who had pulled up in a police wagon. It required but a brief glance at George’s grave face to realize that something was wrong.

&nb
sp; I hastened forward, but George had already climbed inside the wagon, which was hitched to a pair of sturdy brown horses.

  “Did Sergeant Lewis say where he was going in such a hurry?” I asked Eddie, reaching him as the police wagon, bells clanging, took off at a rapid clip up Montgomery Street.

  “I didn’t talk to him, Miss Sarah,” the boy replied, eyes fixed excitedly on the departing wagon. “But I heard the roundsman tell him that a bloke had gone and hung himself on Telegraph Hill.”

  I knew Eddie was referring to the young patrolman who had been speaking to George. My heart skipped a beat, however, at the mention of Telegraph Hill. “Did the constable say who the victim was?”

  The lad thought for a moment. “He was in a hell of a—” He stopped, realizing what he’d said. “Sorry, Miss Sarah, I mean the leatherhead was in a powerful hurry, so I ain’t sure I got the name right. But I think he said it was a feller called Down or Dunn, or somethin’ like that.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  This was one time I could not fault Eddie for pressing his horse to breakneck speed in order to keep up with the police wagon we were following. It was a weeknight and just after ten o’clock. Theaters and many restaurants had not yet let out their late-evening trade, consequently the lighter traffic enabled us to reach Telegraph Hill in good time.

  We had gone but part of the way up Sansome Street, however, when Eddie’s dappled-gray began to struggle under the weight of the brougham. His head went down as he strained against his harness, and I could hear his breathing grow labored. Ahead of us, the police wagon was experiencing far less difficulty climbing the hill, since it was being pulled by a span of horses rather than just the one. When Eddie’s poor dappled-gray lowered his head even farther and began to snort in protest, I could no longer bear to see the animal pushed beyond his endurance. I pounded my umbrella on the roof of the carriage, then poked my head out the window and shouted for the boy to immediately cease this inhumane treatment. Reluctantly, he pulled the brougham to the side of the road, set the brake, and with a series of mumbled complaints about “ole Joe bein’ a good deal tougher than he looked!” jumped down from his perch.