Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  He had finished fastening my buttons, and I turned around to face him. “You think he’d want to hurt me now, just because I’ve taken the society’s case? I don’t believe that for one minute!”

  After a brief hesitation, he said, “To tell the truth, nor do I. It was just a thought.” He studied me for a moment. “I suppose it could be someone you bested in court. An old case—perhaps someone from Chinatown? You can’t deny that you’ve tread on a lot of toes while representing Li Ying’s people.”

  “I’m sure I have. But if one of them decided to seek revenge, do you really believe they would lie in wait—twice, moreover—on Telegraph Hill, of all places? Why not just take up a position outside our house, or at my office? That seems a great deal more likely.”

  He sighed as the dinner bell rang. “The fact is that none of this makes any sense, Sarah. It was much easier to suppose that Jonathan Aleric was the intended victim, rather than either one of us. After this afternoon, that theory has flown out the window, and I don’t know what to think. The very idea of someone taking a potshot at you makes my blood boil.”

  “I don’t care much for it myself,” I said, then went to the looking glass to arrange my gown. I did not like the visage staring back at me but saw no way out of my predicament. Once again, Samuel was right: tonight was as good a time as any to face my parents’ inevitable inquisition.

  He took hold of my arm before I could open the door. “Wait, we have to talk more about this after dinner. And I have something to show you.”

  This caught my attention. “What is it?”

  “There’s no time to get into it now. If the library is available after we finish eating, I’ll meet you there for coffee.”

  * * *

  Dinnertime was as uncomfortable as I feared. The rest of the family were already seated at the table when Samuel and I arrived, and not surprisingly, all eyes turned to stare at my battered appearance.

  “Good God, Sarah!” Papa exclaimed. “What in blazes did you do to your face?”

  Mama was so alarmed by my appearance that she gaped at me in openmouthed horror, too upset, it seemed, to speak. My sister-in-law Celia obviously shared her reaction, while my brother Charles’s gaze made me feel as if I were a specimen under a microscope.

  “You look as if you waged war with a cactus bush,” Papa continued when no one else spoke.

  “Actually, I scraped my face on some tree branches while walking to the omnibus line,” I said without looking up, not for the first time that day assuring my conscience that at least a portion of this story was true.

  The explanation provoked more pointed silence, broken when Charles said, “Let me take a look at those scratches after dinner, Sarah. I can still see smudges of dirt on your face.”

  My brother firmly believed in cleanliness when it came to fighting disease and infection. He was a devoted follower of Louis Pasteur and the British physician Joseph Lister, who had performed lengthy experiments to test the germ-killing abilities of carbolic acid. Although I was not fully conversant with “germ theory,” as it was called, the liberal utilization of soap and water, particularly on an open wound, struck me as a sensible precaution.

  While it caused Samuel considerable discomfort, I must admit I was relieved when the conversation turned to his morning’s excursion. Although he had hoped to slip back into the house unnoticed after his trip downtown, he had been caught red-handed by our worried mother. Apparently she had noticed his absence not half an hour after his furtive departure, and was lying in wait for him when he returned. The fact that he looked tired and was obviously experiencing shoulder pain did nothing to support his reasons for visiting Moure and Atkins Publishing House.

  On the whole, it was an awkward dinner, and I think everyone was relieved when it finally came to an end. Although my mother rose from the table still fussing over her youngest son’s foolhardiness, she did appear somewhat mollified by my less than convincing tale about how I had come to resemble a pincushion. Papa clearly had not bought a single word of it. The sharp look he gave me as he followed Mama out of the room left me in no doubt that I had not heard the last of the matter.

  * * *

  My father and Charles retired to the library after leaving the dining room, making it necessary for Samuel and me to continue our pre-dinner conversation back upstairs in his bedroom. Edis thoughtfully delivered a tray containing coffee and an assortment of cookies, then left quietly, closing the door behind him. The moment he was gone, Samuel crossed to his desk and extracted a newspaper from the top drawer. I saw that it was a copy of the San Francisco Tattler.

  “Take a look at this,” he said, pointing to one of the lead articles on the front page.

  The first thing I noted was that it carried Ozzie Foldger’s byline, and I automatically steeled myself before reading the piece.

  “He hints that Claude Dunn’s death might not have been a suicide,” I said, looking up incredulously. “How could he possibly make such a statement? As far as I know, George is the only one who thinks it might be a homicide, and I’m certain he would never share this with a reporter, especially Ozzie Foldger.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” said Samuel. “I have no idea how he came up with this story. Even more inexplicable, he promises to reveal more information in a future column.”

  “What information?” I wondered out loud as I continued to scan the article. “Do you suppose this is simply an attempt to raise newspaper circulation, or do you think he really does possess information which has eluded the police?”

  “Knowing Ozzie, it’s most likely a ploy to sell newspapers. But who knows?”

  We were silent for a moment, lost in our own thoughts. I sipped my coffee, wishing we had thought to have Edis add some brandy to the tray. Truthfully, I was still a bit shaken by the day’s events, and my pre-dinner sips from Samuel’s flask had long since worn off. More than anything, I longed for the quiet comfort of my bed.

  But Samuel wasn’t yet ready to let the matter rest. Taking a seat in the room’s solitary chair, he indicated I should sit on the bed, then reached for a notebook and pencil on his desk.

  “Before you go to the police station in the morning,” he said, “let’s think through what happened to you this afternoon, starting with a list of everyone you met on Telegraph Hill. At least that might help us form some basis for who shot at you.”

  “If we include everyone I spoke to today, Samuel, we’re going to end up with a great number of suspects. Nearly as many people were there this afternoon as on the night you were shot.”

  He did not appear put off by my reservations. “That’s all right. As you’re always saying, it’s a place to start. Now, when you reached the Hill, did you go directly to Dunn’s house?”

  “No, I spied Bruno Studds sitting on the Freibergs’ front porch and stopped there first.”

  He jotted this down. “Good. Who was there, besides the Freibergs, I mean?”

  “Mr. Freiberg was at work, and Isabel was minding the Dunn baby. Mrs. Montgomery and her sister, Abigail Forester, were visiting. They seem quite concerned about little Billy’s future, and are trying to find him a home.”

  He looked up from his notebook. “Really. I wondered what was going to happen to the child. I was afraid he’d be placed in an orphanage.”

  “The sisters appear determined to keep him out of an institution. Fortunately, Mrs. Montgomery seems to have the financial resources to find a suitable family to take him in.”

  “That’s a relief. After such a terrible beginning in life, that little boy is lucky to have a pair of guardian angels looking out for him.” He smiled, then returned to his notes. “Now then, who did you meet after you left the Freiberg home?”

  Briefly, I went on to list everyone I had encountered that afternoon, including Annabelle Carr and, finally, young Clara Flattery, who lived on the other side of the Dunn house.

  “The girl claims she heard Dunn cry out at around seven o’clock last night, either out of
fear or pain,” I told him.

  My brother looked up, startled. “Did she tell this to the police?”

  “Evidently not. Her mother didn’t want her to get involved, and kept saying she must have been mistaken. However, the girl appears very certain of what she heard.”

  “This could be really important, Sarah. I assume you’re going to tell George about this when you see him in the morning?”

  “Of course,” I answered, a bit annoyed that he thought I might neglect to pass on such a vital piece of information. “The girl’s testimony certainly seems to indicate that Dunn wasn’t alone in his house that evening. Hopefully it will convince Lieutenant Curtis to reexamine the evidence.”

  “‘Hopefully’ being the operative word,” he commented a bit skeptically. “I’m not sure that her story will be enough to change Curtis’s mind. He tends to jump to conclusions, then digs in his heels and refuses to admit that he might be wrong.”

  “He’s a proud man,” I said.

  “He’s a stubborn man, Sarah. And not a particularly bright one from what I’ve observed. Still, he needs to know what the Flattery girl said.”

  He closed the notebook, then passed his good right hand over his brow. As he did so, he winced in pain and rubbed at his left shoulder. My brother could offer Mama all the excuses in the world as to why he had felt compelled to call upon the publishing house in person this morning, but it was obvious that the excursion had wearied him a good deal more than he was willing to admit.

  “All right, Samuel, I’ve given you my report. Now tell me what Moure and Atkins had to say about your manuscript.”

  He shrugged, then again tried to hide a sudden stab of pain. “I gave it to Atkins, who promised to look it over as soon as his busy schedule permitted.”

  “That was all he said?”

  “I hardly expected him to jump up and down with excitement,” he said dryly. “But I’m still glad I went, despite the disapproval I can see written on your face. I felt it was important to meet with the man in person—to put a face to the name. Someone told me once that that was good business.”

  “That someone was Papa,” I reminded him. Studying his wan face, I added, “You need to go to bed, Samuel. You look exhausted. I understand why you wanted to deliver the manuscript yourself, but I agree with Mama that it was too soon for you to be out and about.”

  “I knew you were going to say that,” he said gloomily. “What is it about women that they can’t resist treating men like helpless children?”

  “Because all too many men behave like foolish children,” I told him with a smile as I rose from the bed. I started for the door, then turned to face him. “Please promise me that you’ll rest in bed tomorrow.”

  “Only if you promise me not to go back to Telegraph Hill alone—night or day.” His smile had turned to a look of frustration. “I’d love to go with you to see George tomorrow. You don’t know how damn irritating it is to be locked up in this house day after boring day. And you know Mama will be watching me even more closely after this morning. Good Lord! Enough is enough!”

  “You’re not going to help your cause by overdoing it. You’ve delivered your book to the publisher. Now all you can do is await their verdict, which I’m certain will be favorable. You’ve been blessed with more than your fair share of talent, and this book is going to prove it.”

  I went over to the chair and kissed him on the cheek. “I promise to tell you what George has to say about Clara Flattery’s story. As well as his reaction to my being shot at today. And don’t worry, I have no plans to visit Telegraph Hill tomorrow, or anytime soon. That you can believe!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I was delighted to find Sergeant Lewis present at the police station early the following morning. As soon as the desk officer announced my arrival, George came out and personally escorted me into his small, overcrowded office.

  “Miss Sarah, you’ll be happy to learn that Mr. Parke has already come to the station and made a statement about seeing Claude Dunn the night—” He broke off, apparently only then noticing the sad state of my face. He stared in alarm at the scratches and bruises which, true to Samuel’s prediction, were even more visible today than they had been the night before. “Good Lord! What happened to you?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I have come to see you, George.” Without waiting to be asked, I took a seat on the other side of his untidy desk. “Someone shot at me late yesterday afternoon as I was making my way down Telegraph Hill.”

  He stared at me in shock, then stammered, “Are you—are you telling me that you were actually fired upon? Just like Samuel was only last week?”

  “That is exactly what I’m saying. Fortunately, the bullet struck a nearby tree and I was merely scratched by flying bark. I received the rest of my bruises when I stumbled in my rush down the hill.”

  He continued to look at me, thunderstruck. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to harm you?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied. Thankfully, I seemed to have recovered from the shock that had afflicted me the day before and was able to discuss the event calmly. “Suffice it to say that had the bullet’s trajectory been twelve inches closer to my head, I would not be sitting here now relating my story.”

  “But—Miss Sarah, what were you doing on Telegraph Hill in the first place?” He continued to stare at me with wide, incredulous eyes, hardly the demeanor, I thought, of a trained and seasoned investigator. According to Samuel, George Lewis had long suffered a rather juvenile crush on me, although I considered this to be a fanciful idea. I had to concede, however, that he frequently became awkward, occasionally even tongue-tied, when in my presence.

  “I visited Telegraph Hill to reassure myself that the Dunn baby was being properly cared for,” I explained. For obvious reasons, I decided not to mention that my real motive had been to interview Dunn’s neighbors. Even a good friend like George might frown upon my demonstrating such barefaced initiative. It was up to someone, however, to do exactly that. The police seemed dismally incapable of conducting a proper investigation on their own.

  “And you say you were shot while going down the hill?” he asked. He had sufficiently marshaled his astonishment to begin scribbling notes on a pad of paper. “Did you see anyone? No one called out to you?”

  “Unfortunately I saw no one, George. I wish I had.”

  He jotted this down, then raised his head and studied me. “Excuse me for being blunt, Miss Sarah, but something tells me you’re not being completely honest about your reasons for visiting Telegraph Hill yesterday.”

  I felt my cheeks flush with unwelcome heat. “I don’t know why you would think that, George,” I countered, attempting to look innocent.

  His expression made it clear that he was having no truck with this subterfuge. “Miss Sarah,” he admonished, “if I am to resolve this case, I must have the truth. While I do not doubt your concern for the Dunn baby, I cannot believe that was your sole reason for being there.”

  He watched me with disconcerting directness as I considered how best to answer him. In the end, of course, I was forced to admit that he deserved the truth, even if it made it more difficult for me to continue my investigation.

  “All right, George. I went there hoping to question some of Mr. Dunn’s neighbors concerning the night of his death.”

  His reaction surprised me. Instead of the show of anger I expected, a gleam of curiosity crossed his handsome face. Leaning forward in his chair, he asked, “Who did you visit? Did you learn anything new?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I told myself, and went on to recount everything that had happened the previous day, including whom I had spoken to, as well as their responses to my questions. As I had foreseen, he expressed interest in my talk with young Clara Flattery. When I repeated her insistence that she had heard Claude Dunn cry out at the approximate time of his death, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and pulled a sheaf of papers from a desk drawer. Thumbing through them, he chose
one and then held it out for me to inspect.

  “I had one of my men speak to the girl’s mother yesterday morning,” he explained. “In fact, they questioned most of Mr. Dunn’s neighbors.” He tapped a finger on the report in question. “Officer Miller clearly states that Mrs. Flattery denied hearing anything amiss next door the previous evening.”

  “According to Clara, her mother forbade her to tell the police what she heard for fear of getting the family involved.”

  “It happens all the time,” he said in exasperation. “People expect the police to protect them, then hold back important facts, even when it concerns a man’s death. It’s enough to make you lose faith in human nature.”

  “It’s fortunate that I was able to talk to the girl without her mother in the house.”

  He harrumphed. “Yes, although given the same circumstances she very likely wouldn’t have spoken so freely to any of my officers.”

  He put down his pencil and regarded me levelly. “Visiting Telegraph Hill on your own was extremely foolhardy, Miss Sarah. There can no longer be any doubt that a very dangerous individual is determined to do you or your brother an injury. I cannot deny that you managed to provide me with valuable information. However, you must promise me that—”

  “What did your men discover when they questioned Dunn’s neighbors, George?” I broke in, anxious to avoid the promise he was about to ask of me. “I had time to visit only a few of the houses.”

  I released my breath when he answered, “Most of the people we’ve talked to claim never to have heard of Samuel, or you, for that matter.”

  “What about Jonathan Aleric?”

  “Well, yes, of course they’ve heard of him,” he said, misunderstanding my question. “Most of the country knows Aleric. After all, he did write one of the most famous books to come out of the Civil War.”

  “I agree,” I said. “However, I wasn’t referring to his reputation as an author. What about the animosity, both personal and professional, that exists between Aleric and Mortimer Remy?”