Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it?” he said, the expression on his face crafty. “But you haven’t seen anything yet. If you think last night’s story was a jaw buster, just you wait until you read Saturday’s article. I promise you the next installment is going to knock this city on its ear, just see if it doesn’t.”

  There was a feverish gleam in Foldger’s eyes that frightened me. While it was true that I heartily disliked the irksome man, I did not wish to see him burned, an outcome I very much feared given his determination to play with fire.

  “If you have information concerning Mr. Dunn’s death, you should tell the police, not publish what you think you know in the newspaper.”

  “Oh, I don’t just think I know, Miss Woolson,” he said, giving me yet another mysterious wink. “Like I said, I’ve got a damn good source for this story. It’s the real goods, I promise you that.” He wagged his head in mock regret. “Poor Samuel. Too bad he missed out on the biggest scoop of the year. I’m real sorry about that.” He slapped his knee with his notepad as if he had just made a wonderful joke. “You be sure to tell him I said so!”

  Doubling over in laughter, he finally moved out of my path, allowing me to continue my walk toward South Van Ness Avenue.

  My thoughts as I waited to board the next horsecar were, I fear, not fit to print.

  * * *

  Stephen Parke and Emmett Gardiner visited Samuel at our home that evening. As we sat in the study enjoying coffee and Cook’s excellent cake, our conversation went to Claude Dunn. I had had no opportunity to tell Samuel about my unexpected encounter with Ozzie Foldger that afternoon, but when Stephen mentioned the reporter’s article about Dunn’s death, I took a moment to describe meeting him on Twenty-fourth Street.

  “He actually told you he had proof Dunn didn’t commit suicide?” asked my brother in amazement.

  “Not in so many words,” I said, “but that’s what he implied. He claims to have an inside source.”

  “An inside source?” said Emmett. “Who might that be?”

  I shook my head. “He said that was for him to know and for me to find out. He promises that his next column will be even more explosive.”

  “The idiot,” exclaimed Stephen. “If he really knows something about Dunn’s death, why in Sam Hill doesn’t he tell the police?”

  “Come now, Stephen,” my brother said with a wry smile. “You know Foldger. How many newspapers would he sell if he shared whatever he thinks he knows about Dunn to the police?”

  “True,” Stephen agreed, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. “He hasn’t had this much attention in ages.”

  Samuel gave a little laugh, then winced slightly and rubbed his shoulder. Although he never complained, I knew he was still experiencing a good deal more pain than he would admit. I think our brother Charles had largely given up trying to convince him to rest his wound. Mama, of course, continued to fuss over her youngest son.

  “I’ll wager the little weasel is bluffing,” Samuel said. “If you ask me, he’s made the story up out of whole cloth. Since when was reporting the truth any part of Ozzie Foldger’s work ethics?”

  I wished I could be as sure of this as Samuel. That gleam in Foldger’s eyes seemed to indicate more than mere bravado.

  As I refilled our coffee cups, Emmett speculated, “Still, I wonder what he’ll write in his column on Saturday?”

  “Whatever it is,” proclaimed my brother, “you can be sure that sleazy newspaper of his will sell out the entire edition, whether or not Foldger has anything of substance to say.”

  “How is Miss Freiberg faring with the Dunn baby?” I asked, deciding a change of subject was in order. “Is she still caring for little Billy?”

  I was surprised when Stephen’s soft hazel eyes saddened at my mention of the young woman. “Not anymore. Her father made her give the baby to Mrs. Montgomery and her sister last night. Mr. Freiberg has ordered Isabel to prepare for her wedding. Under the circumstances, he doesn’t consider it suitable for her to be caring for another man’s child.”

  He stumbled to a halt, looking thoroughly miserable. I wished I could find something comforting to say, but no words came to me. Couldn’t Solomon Freiberg see the rare and beautiful affection Stephen and his daughter shared? With such a solid foundation, surely any religious differences could be surmounted.

  Neither Samuel, Emmett, nor I spoke, our friend’s pain all the more terrible since we could think of no way to assuage it. Before the silence became too uncomfortable, the study door opened and my father entered.

  “Well, here you are,” he said, eyeing the coffeepot appraisingly. “We’ll need another cup, won’t we? That is, if you young people don’t mind my joining you.” Naturally, we all nodded our assent.

  “Of course, Father,” Samuel said, making room for him on the sofa. Before joining his youngest son, Papa crossed to the pull cord to summon Edis to bring an extra coffee cup. “We were just discussing Ozzie Foldger and his recent newspaper articles.”

  I gave an inward sigh of relief that Samuel had chosen not to mention the real topic of our conversation. If we could not help Stephen, we could at least try to divert his attention. Briefly, I told my father about my chance meeting with the reporter that afternoon, including his prediction that his next article would “knock this city on its ear.”

  “He’s a gal-darn blunderbuss,” Papa proclaimed heatedly. “And a reckless one to boot. That man is a prime example of everything that’s wrong with journalism today. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. The whole bunch of them are social scavengers, making money at the expense of public awareness and debate.”

  His gaze faltered a bit as it fell on Samuel, who he had only recently discovered was a member of this offensive company. I could see paternal loyalty and pride waging war with years of conviction. “At least you’re writing a book, son,” he went on, obviously as much to convince himself as the rest of us. “That puts a different complexion on the matter.”

  * * *

  “Not so fast, my girl,” Papa said as I started to climb wearily up the stairs to my room. Stephen Parke and Emmett Gardiner had just departed for home, and I looked forward to settling into my comfortable bed for a well-deserved night’s sleep. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

  My heart sank. The promised moment of reckoning had at last arrived. “I suppose you mean my scratches,” I said, too tired to keep up the pretense.

  “Those and the cuts and bruises you think you’re hiding beneath your sleeves. That cock-and-bull story that you fell into some bushes may convince your mother, but it won’t wash with me.” He nodded toward the study, which we had vacated not five minutes earlier. “Shall we?”

  With a resigned sigh, I followed him into the room, took a seat, but declined yet another cup of coffee. “All right, Sarah, what really happened to you yesterday?”

  Steeling myself for his reaction, I told him of my visit to Telegraph Hill and finally, most reluctantly, of the unknown person who had taken a shot at me.

  His response was everything I feared it would be. He fairly leapt out of his chair, staring down at me with a horrified expression.

  “Someone shot at you, and you didn’t tell me so at once? Have you no sense at all?”

  He began to pace agitatedly in front of the sofa, for him a most unusual behavior, far more indicative of his distress than mere words. His face was so suffused with color that I feared he might suffer some sort of fit. “Your brother Frederick may be right after all. I’ve been far too lenient with you. And now you’ve very nearly gotten yourself killed!”

  “Papa, please, how could I have possibly foreseen that someone would shoot at me? I merely checked to see if Claude Dunn’s poor baby was all right. It should have been perfectly safe.”

  “Should have been?” He stared down at me as if he truly did think I had lost my senses. “After your brother was shot there only a week ago? As far as I can see, there’s nothing safe about that damn Hill.”

/>   “I agree, but the police don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Lieutenant Curtis has declared Dunn’s death a suicide, and they’ve made no progress whatsoever in catching the shooter. Surely I can’t be blamed for paying my respects to a friend.”

  Papa stopped pacing again to look at me incredulously. “Pay your respects to a friend? That’s pure bunkum and you know it! You went to that blasted place to poke around and see what you could dig up about Claude Dunn’s death. Obviously someone didn’t like it.”

  I wished he would sit down; his color darkened with every word he spoke. I was growing seriously concerned for his health.

  Attempting to keep my voice calm, I said, “I’ve been to see George Lewis, and he’s redoubling his efforts to find whoever is doing this. As much as I hate having to make such a promise, I have no intentions of visiting Telegraph Hill again without an escort.”

  “My dear girl,” he said, clipping off each word for emphasis, “you will not be visiting that Hill again, with or without an escort. And that includes the entire San Francisco police force.”

  I started to argue, but he cut me off. “No, Sarah. Not one more word on this subject. Especially not to your mother. If she found out that someone tried to kill you, as well as Samuel, I’m not sure what it would do to her. You are to remain silent. And you are to stay off that damn Telegraph Hill!”

  Rarely had I seen Papa so angry. No, I thought, it wasn’t anger. It was fear. My father was terrified of losing me!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Robert and I said little as we sat in Eddie’s brougham on Saturday morning. The atmosphere between us was strained; neither of us wished to speak of our conversation at lunch two days ago. Were my worst fears being realized? I wondered with a sinking heart. Was Robert’s declaration of love to come between our friendship? For the first time, perhaps, I found myself fully appreciating the depth of the bond we had forged since we had first met at Joseph Shepard’s law firm a year and a half ago. Was I to suddenly to lose him because his feelings had changed to something more than friendship?

  It was a relief to finally reach the train station, where Oscar Wilde was departing San Francisco. Eddie did his best to park the carriage as close to the building as possible, but it was unusually crowded. During his brief stay in town, Wilde had been mocked and criticized in a blizzard of newspaper editorials, all of which had succeeded in making him the subject of enormous interest and speculation. It certainly seemed as if half the city had turned out this morning to bid farewell to one of their most talked about visitors since President Rutherford Hayes came to town in September of 1880.

  In addition to the merely curious, a number of mostly young men mocked the poet by dressing in knee breeches, flowing cravats, silk stockings, and enormous hats with wide brims. Women as well as men waved large yellow sunflowers, which had become the symbol of the Aesthetic Movement. Unfortunately, more than a few spectators had commenced drinking earlier than usual in honor of the occasion, and they were now rowdy and ill-mannered. Members of the uniformed police force patrolled the streets in a mostly vain attempt to keep the order, but they were hardly a match for the exuberant throng.

  “This will do,” I called up to Eddie, who was seated in his perch above the brougham. He had just finished circling the block for the second time and had found no space to park the carriage. “We’ll get out here and walk to the terminal. You can meet us there after you’ve found a suitable place to leave the brougham.”

  Robert, who had been staring out the window at the milling crowd, already showed signs of regretting his decision to accompany me this morning. If he hadn’t agreed, however, I fear my father might have barred the doors to our house and stationed Edis to watch my every move. Even with the formidable Scot by my side, Papa had been reluctant to let me out of his sight until the Telegraph Hill shooter was apprehended. While I understood his concerns for my safety, I did not appreciate being treated like a child. Not for the first time, I longed for the day when the income from my law practice would be enough to allow me to rent my own rooms.

  “Tell me again why it was necessary for us to see Wilde off this morning?” Robert asked as we exited the carriage and made our way toward the train depot. He stepped aside quickly to avoid several young men who came by, wearing outlandish attire and waving sunflowers in our faces. “This is like a three-ring circus.”

  “It was the only way I could prevent Samuel from coming here himself. He’s bored to death being confined to the house, and can’t wait to be back to work, especially now that his book is finished.” I didn’t want to admit that without Robert acting as my escort, Papa would have forbidden me to leave the house.

  “That is very foolish of Samuel. It’s obvious that he’s still in considerable pain.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, dodging a man who weaved toward me, tilting a bottle of whiskey to his mouth. “But he’ll never admit it.” I gave him a sidelong look. “You’re a good one to criticize. I have no doubt that if you were treated like an invalid and forced to remain at home for over a week, you’d be just as unhappy as he is.”

  He started to retort, then stopped and offered me a contrite smile. “I daresay you’re right, Sarah. I hadn’t thought to put myself in his place. The poor man must be desperate to be out and about.”

  “Just as desperate as my mother is to keep him at home. In the meantime, I’ve volunteered to become his eyes and ears.” Looking up and down the bustling street, I had to smile. San Francisco was once again taking advantage of any reason to celebrate. “Aside from all the spectacle, however, I doubt if I’ll have much to tell him. Just see all the reporters. Wilde’s departure will be covered in every newspaper in town tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure it will,” he agreed. “Although why that peculiar young man should warrant such attention remains a mystery to me.”

  We had reached the station and were making our way inside when I spied Ozzie Foldger. He was standing on the base of a pillar inside the lobby, not many feet away from a group of dignitaries surrounding the man of the hour. Clever of the reporter, I thought, giving the little weasel his due. Taking up a stance some three or four feet above the floor of the station afforded him a much clearer view of Wilde and the various city personages who had come to see him off.

  Foldger’s sharp-featured face bore its usual look of determination, and he was calling out questions to the poet along with other reporters on the scene. I wondered if he had already filed the sensational article he had promised me would be in tonight’s paper. Several hours remained until his deadline, so perhaps he had yet to turn it in. If that was the case, perhaps it would be possible for me to inveigle some information out of him.

  Deciding this would make a much more meaningful tidbit to pass on to my brother than all the nonsense going on downtown this morning, I started to make my way toward Foldger. It was not easy. The train station was a madhouse, and Robert balked at walking any farther into the fray. But when I started to push forward without him, he moved quickly to catch up.

  “Why must we get any closer than this?” he demanded, grunting as a long feather decorating a woman’s hat poked him in the eye. “Surely you’ve seen enough of this debacle to satisfy Samuel’s curiosity.”

  “Then leave, by all means,” I called to him over my shoulder. “I wish to speak to Foldger.”

  “You mean that disreputable little reptile who calls himself a reporter? I thought that by now you would have had more than your fill of him.”

  I did not waste breath answering him as I squeezed past the gawkers and hecklers. I knew he would never abandon me in such a hubbub.

  Once I was inside, the first people I spied were Stephen Parke and Isabel Freiberg. In fact, I nearly collided with Stephen when an unsteady gentleman pushed me from behind.

  “Miss Woolson,” he said, looking startled. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “Nor did I expect to see you, Mr. Parke, Miss Freiberg,” I answered. I was not surprised to see her flush in
embarrassment that she had once again been caught with Stephen.

  The young man had observed me studying Isabel. “Miss Freiberg and I…”

  “Thought you might steal one last opportunity to be together before her engagement was announced,” I said, stating the obvious.

  He looked for a moment as if he meant to deny this, then gave a little nod. “You’re right, of course. Mr. Freiberg would be most upset if he knew we were meeting like this. But we have so little time left.”

  “You need not fear that I will betray your confidence, Mr. Parke,” I assured him. “In truth, I do not hold with arranged marriages. Perhaps I am a romantic, but I believe that love is a necessary component in any such union.”

  Isabel had been listening intently to this exchange. “You state my feelings perfectly, Miss Woolson. I am devoted to my father, but as I said before I cannot pretend to have feelings for the man he has chosen to be my husband.”

  My heart went out to the poor girl. “You are in a very difficult position, Miss Freiberg. You have my sincere sympathy.”

  Before she could reply, Robert joined us, looking red-faced and out of breath. “This is absurd,” he declared after greeting Stephen and Isabel without much enthusiasm. “It’s so crowded, we’ll be lucky if we can even catch a glimpse of Wilde.”

  Realizing that Stephen and Isabel preferred to be alone, we politely excused ourselves and moved farther into the room until we were able to make out the tall figure of Oscar Wilde. Mortimer Remy and Jonathan Aleric were standing on either side of the poet, carrying on a heated argument. Behind Remy, I spied his contrary typesetter, Tull O’Hara, who was regarding Aleric with obvious dislike. Next to him stood Remy’s nephew, Emmett Gardiner, who was watching the two arguing men with concern.

  Suddenly Remy’s face suffused with anger as Aleric held a book high over his head, circling slowly so that the volume was visible to everyone present in the station. When he turned in our direction, I saw that the book he was holding was a copy of his best-selling novel, An Uncivil War.