Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “I, ah, passed a restless night.” I could not tell even my favorite brother the principal cause of my sleeplessness. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. George was at Platt’s Hall last night. After the lecture, a constable called him out to Telegraph Hill. Robert and I followed in Eddie’s brougham.”

  I had captured his attention. He sank onto his bed, watching me with keen interest. “Why? What happened?”

  “It was Claude Dunn,” I said, observing his face closely. Dunn hadn’t been a particularly close friend of Samuel’s, but I worried that any shock so soon after the shooting might impede his recovery.

  “Go on, what about him?”

  “He was dead. Presumably by his own hand.”

  “Good Lord!” He thought about this for a moment, then studied my face. “Wait a minute, you said ‘presumably.’ Is there reason to believe it might not have been suicide?”

  I recounted George’s rather lurid description of how a victim would appear if it had been a self-inflicted hanging as opposed to a homicide. “George is requesting an autopsy, although he doubts the coroner will be able to substantiate this theory.”

  “I take it Lieutenant Curtis disagreed with these observations?”

  “I doubt that George was afforded an opportunity to voice them,” I said dryly. “But I daresay you know Curtis better than I do.”

  “Yes, I do. The man is headstrong and not always willing to listen to the opinions of his subordinates. Which can be unfortunate.”

  “Which can be stupid,” I said. “If Lieutenant Curtis has his way, I fear the case will be closed without any further investigation.”

  “Leaving a possible killer on the loose.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed.

  “That’s a chilling thought.”

  He paused again, perhaps thinking the same thing that was going through my own mind—namely, that this might well be the same person who had shot at him. Out in the hall, I heard the sound of our parents’ footsteps as they descended the stairs for breakfast. A few moments later, Charles, Celia, and their two eldest children, Tom and Mandy, went down as well.

  “Samuel, listen,” I said, hoping to change his mind about going out this morning. “Why don’t you let me deliver your book to Moure and Atkins? I’m going downtown anyway, and it won’t be out of my way. It will spare you from facing Mama’s wrath later. Her well-deserved wrath, I might add. You haven’t been out of the hospital a full week yet.”

  “Thanks for your offer, Sarah, but I’d prefer to do it myself.” He tilted his handsome chin up in that attitude of determination I knew all too well. “Our dear mother is going to have to realize that her youngest son is healing nicely, and is well able to run his own errands.”

  I sighed. “You’re a fool, Samuel. But clearly nothing I say is going to change your mind.”

  He gave me a jaunty wink. “Don’t worry, little sister, I’ll be back before anyone even knows I’m gone.” Smiling, he reached for his coat and the package containing his manuscript. “I’m going to wait until everyone is in the dining room, and then slip out of the house. Frisk should be here at any moment.” He knew there was no need to ask me to keep his secret. We had been conspiring with each other since childhood, even when it wasn’t always in our own best interests.

  I helped him on with his coat, sucking in my breath as he winced when I gently guided his left arm into the sleeve.

  “You realize that this is imprudent in the extreme. I can’t believe I’m actually helping you do such a stupid thing.”

  “I’m not giving you much choice, am I?” He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I promise to treat you to a lovely dinner as soon as I’m allowed out of the house. Legally, that is. Now, go and see if the coast is clear.”

  With a sigh of resignation, I went to the door and checked the hallway. It was deserted.

  “I’ll go down first and make sure no one is about,” I told him without enthusiasm. At his smiling nod, I added, “Good luck at Moure and Atkins. And for heaven’s sake take care of your shoulder!”

  * * *

  After breakfast I went downtown, but not to my office. I had set aside the morning to examine San Francisco guidelines regarding the construction of a bullring in the city. It did not take me long to discover that under current rules and regulations, City Hall had the right to approve or disapprove any new buildings in town. It also seemed clear, as the Dinwittys had informed me, that this body was about to issue just such a permit to Ricardo Ruiz, allowing him to build his appalling arena.

  Determined not to give up so easily, I spent the next several hours making my way through a mountain of files and state law tomes, attempting to locate any city ordinances, no matter how long ago they had been issued, that might contain some clause or phrase prohibiting the construction of such a monstrosity. There were none to be found. Moreover, the fact that a bullring had previously existed in the city did not bode well for the SPCA’s case. If that earlier arena had not resulted in a law prohibiting the construction of a similar stadium, a lawyer could well argue the doctrine of precedent.

  By the end of the morning, I stretched my weary back and gave a long sigh of frustration. After four hours of searching, I had found nothing that would help our case. Our case? Good heavens. The use of this pronoun implied that I had already made up my mind to take on the society’s cause. True, I sympathized with their position, but I could ill afford to ignore the consequences should I choose to become involved. First of all, it was a litigation that very likely could not be won. Clearly, money had changed hands; City Hall had been bribed—unfortunately not for the first time—and they were committed to allowing Ruiz to build his ring. Since neither the SPCA nor I would consider paying these corrupt officials to change their minds, even if we had the funds to do so, our cause would probably be lost before it even began.

  I was ashamed of the second reason I was reluctant to accept the Dinwittys’ case: pride. According to Ricardo Ruiz, Denis Kearney and his sandlotters were trying to defeat the bullring. If I joined their ranks, many of my critics would accuse me of racial prejudice. The fact that I had previously defended members of the Chinese community would be heralded across numerous San Francisco newspapers as my “hypocrisy.”

  I continued to consider the situation as I ate a light lunch at a nearby café. Common sense dictated that I decline the Dinwittys’ case. On the other hand, could I allow my professional choices to be influenced by fear or the threat of coercion? Robert had advised me to do what I felt was right, without regard for public opinion or possible censure. In the end, of course, I was forced to admit that he was right. This was the only criterion that need guide me in reaching my decision.

  I spent a fruitful hour at the downtown library, and then, since I was not far from the office of San Francisco’s Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I decided to deliver my decision to them in person. I boarded a horsecar and disembarked at an unassuming brick building at 614 Merchant Street. The society’s second-floor offices consisted of three not overly large rooms, simply but functionally furnished.

  To my happy surprise, the first person I saw upon entering was Mrs. Jane Hardy, the kindly woman I had met while representing her neighbor Alexandra Sechrest, who had been suing her abusive husband for divorce the previous year.

  Mrs. Hardy was a tall, handsome widow in her early fifties whom I knew to be intelligent, hardworking, and ever ready to give of her time to charitable causes. Having experienced my own difficulty selecting practical yet fashionable attire for work, I quite approved of the gray cotton day dress she wore. Although the cut was out of date by several seasons, it complemented her slim figure, possessing a cuirasse bodice, a simple pleated skirt, and gray and red frills along the hem to lend a touch of color. Her brown hair, showing rather more signs of gray than it had the last time I had seen her, had been gathered into a neat bun at the crown of her head. The overall effect was feminine yet professional.

  “Miss Woolson,” she crie
d. “How very good to see you again. I have been praying that you will take our case. As have Mr. and Mrs. Dinwitty.”

  Although I frankly doubted that Mrs. Dinwitty was beseeching a deity on my behalf, I decided to hold my tongue on that issue. Instead, I replied, “That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Hardy. Is Mr. Dinwitty in?”

  “I’m sorry, my dear, but he has gone to the post office on Battery Street.” She consulted a timepiece pinned to her shirtwaist. “If you don’t mind waiting, he should return shortly. Please, take a seat.” She pulled out a chair situated at a desk where she had been working. “I do hope that you have decided to help us. We must find some way to prevent Mr. Ruiz from erecting his dreadful bullfighting ring.”

  “I agree, Mrs. Hardy, and yes, I have decided to represent the society. Of course, I cannot promise we will succeed, but I believe I’ve developed a strategy which may help us to delay, if not defeat, Mr. Ruiz’s project.”

  Despite this deliberate note of caution, the woman was so pleased by my acceptance of the case that she actually clapped her hands. “But that is wonderful, Miss Woolson!”

  “Please, it’s far too early to celebrate. As I say, we may only succeed in making the bullring more challenging to construct. Defeating it will not be easy.”

  “Oh, but I have great faith in you, Miss Woolson,” she replied, refusing to be discouraged. “What you did for poor Alexandra far exceeded our expectations. And in the end, we can but do our best, can we not? That is our motto here at the society.”

  We spent a pleasant few minutes discussing the valuable work the SPCA had achieved since opening its San Francisco office in 1868. The ill-treatment of horses alone justified the existence of the organization, not to mention the thousands of homeless and starving dogs and cats who roamed the city’s streets. Of course, it was still a relatively small group of no more than two hundred members, and it continued to encounter resistance of one sort or another throughout town. However, as Mrs. Hardy pointed out, the organization did what it could, which was a good deal better, in my opinion, than doing nothing at all.

  “We are fortunate to have a dedicated group of directors, including Mr. Dinwitty. Mrs. Dinwitty and I volunteer our time, as do a number of other concerned individuals. I’m pleased to say that every year we add more members to our group, and thank heavens the contributions continue to grow as well.”

  From talk of the SPCA, our conversation went to our mutual friend, Mrs. Sechrest, and her two small boys. “Are they still residing with you?” I inquired.

  I had not seen Alexandra since we had gone to court and obtained a divorce from her drunken and abusive husband. Mrs. Hardy had not only taken in the young woman and her two small boys, but also braved public censure by going to court and testifying on Alexandra’s behalf during the custody hearing.

  “I’m delighted to tell you that she recently purchased a home in Noe Valley,” she reported with a wide smile. “Alexandra is so grateful to you, Miss Woolson. Her ability to buy the house was only possible thanks to the generous divorce settlement you were able to obtain.”

  Our agreeable discussion was interrupted when Mr. Dinwitty returned to the office, carrying several parcels and an assortment of mail. He smiled with obvious delight to find me seated at Mrs. Hardy’s desk.

  “Miss Woolson,” he exclaimed, dropping his mail onto a table piled high with papers and hurrying over to shake my hand. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you. Does your visit mean that you have decided to accept our case?”

  “It does, Mr. Dinwitty,” I answered. “Although as I was just telling Mrs. Hardy, I cannot guarantee that we shall succeed in preventing Mr. Ruiz’s bullring. But we can certainly place a number of obstacles in his path.”

  “Excellent, excellent!” He pulled over a chair and joined us at Mrs. Hardy’s desk. “Mrs. Dinwitty will be so delighted that you are going to lead our campaign to save innocent animal lives.”

  I nodded with good grace, once again deciding not to debate Mrs. Dinwitty’s gratification at having me as their attorney.

  “It will be a difficult battle,” I told them. “And it will require a great deal of time and effort. Mrs. Hardy informed me that you have a number of individuals who might be willing to offer their services. I must be honest with you, Mr. Dinwitty. In order to achieve our objective in the limited time at our disposal, we shall require every able volunteer we can muster.”

  “And you shall have them, Miss Woolson,” he declared. “We may be a small organization, but we are determined to do everything within our power to protect God’s innocent creatures.” He reached for a pencil and some blank paper lying on the desk. “Mrs. Hardy, if you will kindly bring us coffee—or tea, if you would prefer, Miss Woolson—we shall begin preparing our battle strategy here and now.”

  Unfortunately, there was little strategy to prepare. We would first appeal to the city department in charge of construction approvals, in an attempt to persuade them to reverse their decision to allow the bullring. Frankly, I doubted that this request would prove successful, but it was a logical place to begin.

  Second, SPCA volunteers would be sent throughout the city armed with petitions opposing the construction. Once we had collected as many signatures as time and circumstances allowed, they would then be submitted to the city council, along with a list of arguments explaining why the signatories were contesting the project.

  Our third, and least likely, tack would be to argue that the bullring posed a threat to public safety. I held little hope that this argument would succeed, but it could be tried if all else failed.

  “We must start collecting names tomorrow morning,” Dinwitty proclaimed. “I will draft a letter to be delivered to all our volunteers this very afternoon. It will be short notice, but I believe we will be able to muster at least twenty to thirty individuals.” He took a clean sheet of paper and, after consulting a map of the city, began to draw a quick chart, indicating the areas each volunteer would canvas.

  After some minutes of this, he put down his pencil and regarded me seriously. “You have been straightforward with us, Miss Woolson, and I have taken your misgivings concerning this affair to heart. However, I would like you to give me an honest assessment of our chances of actually preventing the construction of Mr. Ruiz’s bullring.”

  I gave a inward sigh. He was correct; I had gone out of my way to present the situation candidly. Since opening my law office, however, I had learned that people often preferred to be given false assurances than the naked truth. The reality was that money ruled the city of San Francisco, and we possessed precious little of this valuable commodity to level the battlefield.

  “I wish I knew,” I replied honestly, as he had requested. “At the moment I can think of no better course of action than the one we are about to employ. On the other hand, I intend to continue exploring other possibilities.”

  As I departed the society office, I fervently hoped that my exploration would unearth bigger and better guns for our arsenal. I was certain that we would need them!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I had one more errand to see to before returning home. I boarded yet another horse carriage, this time exiting on Sansome Street. I felt a twinge of guilt as I walked toward the interminable wooden steps leading up Telegraph Hill. Just last night, Robert had urged me to stay away from what he had termed “that cursed Telegraph Hill,” although surely he was allowing his imagination to ride roughshod over his common sense. I truly wished that he would cease his incessant worrying. I must be free to lead my life the way I saw fit.

  I felt my pulse race and uttered an unladylike curse. Thinking of Robert reminded me of what else had happened last night. I had reached the Filbert Street Steps, but I paused, closing my eyes and forcing thoughts of his kiss out of my mind. Why could I not forget it? I asked myself for what seemed like the hundredth time. This was exactly why I had vowed never to marry, or even to fall in love. It was too disturbing, too all-consuming.

  I gave myself a mental s
hake, picked up my skirts, and ascended the stairs, determined to turn my mind to the business at hand. This afternoon I wished to interview Claude Dunn’s neighbors and anyone else who might have seen something out of the ordinary the night before, particularly now that we had narrowed the time of his death to just half an hour. Presumably, the police had already sent out officers to question the inhabitants on Dunn’s street, but I wished to hear their accounts firsthand. With the exception of George, I held few illusions concerning our regrettably corrupt police department, especially its leaders. A city the size of San Francisco should have a force led by men of intelligence, integrity, and a well-developed sense of justice for all. It was deplorable to think that our safety and welfare were under the control of such a greedy, self-serving city government.

  The first house I came to after leaving the steps belonged to Tull O’Hara, but I did not expect to see him at home during the afternoon. Just to be certain, though, I knocked on the front door. It went unanswered. His tiny cottage appeared deserted and as untidy as ever.

  Several blocks farther up the hill, I came to the Freibergs’ residence. The front door was open, and I could hear the sounds of women’s voices coming from inside. Mrs. Montgomery’s man, Bruno Studds, sat on the front porch, smoking a cigarette. He followed me with his dark eyes as I approached, then nodded silently toward the door, as if giving me permission to enter.

  Tapping lightly, I peered inside to find three women seated amicably in the front parlor. It was not a large room, but it was uncluttered and furnished simply. My eyes were drawn to the upright piano placed across from the front window. This, of course, must be where Isabel taught her students. It was an older piano, but it gleamed in well-polished elegance where it was touched by the late-afternoon sun streaming through the west-facing window.

  I had walked in upon a homey scene. Isabel Freiberg was sitting in an armchair, cradling little Billy Dunn on her lap. Mrs. Montgomery, her wheelchair pushed close to the two, sat placidly cooing and fussing over the baby. Her sister, Abigail Forester, was ensconced in a second chair set closer to the window, a straw basket containing blue yarn at her feet. She was busily knitting a garment that I assumed from its tiny size was for the infant.